A Guest Post by Brooke

So here’s a thought I’ve been mulling over lately—does Soho gin actually do something to us? As served at The Duck or The King of Bohemia, it has a reputation of its own, and it’s hard not to wonder. For all the usual stories I’ve seen play out here, there’s one pattern I can’t ignore: a glass of Soho gin, and suddenly, what seemed like a harmless drink turns into… well, something else entirely.

Think of it like this. You’re sitting at the bar, first sip in, just enjoying the night. The gin goes down smoothly, it’s fresh and fragrant, and you feel a slight warmth building. But it’s the second glass that begins to loosen things up, shifts something in the air between you and whoever’s sitting beside you. Maybe her hand rests a little too long on yours, maybe your fingers linger just a moment longer, and there it is—that little spark, the one you can’t ignore. By drink three, what began as a quiet drink feels like an invitation. And you, half-pretending you’re above it all, let it unfold. The gin’s nudging things along, and you’re happy to let it.

It’s not just me; I’ll bet we all feel it. Two drinks in and I feel that shift, something electric that tells me, This night could go anywhere. And if you’ve been to The Duck, you’ve seen it: the girls who arrive alone and leave as a couple, lingering glances turning into touches, laughter evolving into something bolder, more intimate. Some of them don’t even wait to leave. You’ll spot them right there in their booth, hands wandering, mouths meeting, no hint of shyness—just caught up in the moment, letting the gin take them wherever it pleases. And Beth, our landlady, she only smiles, gives them a quick look, and carries on serving gin and ales like it’s just another night in Soho.

And maybe it’s all coincidence. Maybe we’d end up exactly where we do even if it were tonic water in our glasses. But Soho gin feels different, doesn’t it? It’s a smooth sort of courage, one that doesn’t announce itself, just quietly coaxes things along. It’s subtle, the way it works—no flashing lights or loud sirens. Just a soft whisper that makes you lean a bit closer, touch a bit bolder, smile that bit longer. It doesn’t change us; it just lets us be honest, lets us be exactly who we’ve been waiting to be.

Take any night in Soho, really. The gin arrives, you settle in, and it’s all quite harmless—until it’s not. And once it’s not, there’s no going back. And this isn’t just something I see; I live it, too. I’m no stranger to the way Soho gin transforms the night. By drink two, I know things have shifted. By drink three, I’m lost in it, that thrill of knowing the night’s just begun, with no promises of where it might end.

And if that brings more girls to The Duck and The King of Bohemia, so much the better. Because a Soho night with no surprises, with no lingering looks or whispered invitations? That’s no Soho night at all.