"Work, said Oscar Wilde, "is the curse of the drinking classes". The great man had, clearly never been to Oxford's Park End Street (though he had spent some time down the road in Reading, I'm led to believe).

If so, he'd have known that it's not work that's too blame for getting in the way of a debauched lifestyle, but this country's still ludicrous drinking laws - which mean that instead of being able to lounge around in a lovely comfy pub, with a creamy pint of something tasty, until jumping on to a club, we are forced to hang out in one of the burgeoning crop of identikit pre-club bars.

At worse that means expensive bottled beer; even more overpriced and poorly mixed cocktails; and the prospect of sticking to the floor, while having saliva sprayed all over your face by friends desperate to be heard over the ear-splitting wall of generic chart pop and dull r'n'b.

Come on, we all know the offenders, and I'm not going to risk the ire of our hard working community of doormen by naming names. Suffice to say, the promise of a night on the tiles in the West End of Oxford fills me with fear and loathing.

Call it aversion therapy, but I've despised the street ever since being told by some excitable bouncer at the Park End club that I should have made more effort to get ready, having made the mortal sin of attempting to darken the venue's doorstep in a collarless shirt. And then being shouted at for keeping a jacket on inside the club, for all of two minutes after entering.

So, perhaps understandably, an invitation to check out relative newcomer Anuba ('a new bar' - get it?) left me with sinking heart. Alas, I needn't have worried. While hardly revolutionary, the place is actually pretty darn good. Designed as a pre-club bar for The Bridge (you get fast-track entrance to the club), it attracts a cheerful, good-looking smart set - mercifully free of chavs.

The guys on the door are great, caring not what you have chosen to wear for your night out (why so many other Oxford establishments languish in the 1980s with their small-town draconian attitude to non-leather footwear in particular, remains a mystery).

And that lack of posturing and attitude extends throughout the bar. It likes to describe itself as "sexy". And while it ain't Chinawhite, it does have a cool edge. Shorts and cocktails are its stock in trade, and are served with a minimum of fuss, without those ludicrous theatrical flourishes which way too many cocktail makers employ, and which only serve to make them look ridiculous, and slightly camp, and double the waiting time at the bar.

"Put the damn drink in the glass!" I usually find myself mumbling while biting my lip. Fortunately not here, though. These guys know the quick route from bottle to glass. It's easy. let gravity do the work.

Décor is uncluttered and reasonably stylish with glass and metal, and some effort going into the clubby painted panels, while the music is funky, housey and crowd-pleasing.

Punters are a mixed bunch, with a respectable international presence (word has obviously spread quickly), and, as usual, that means good- looking, and in some cases seriously hot - with an up-for-it Latin and Eastern European presence, (lads too, ladies!).

Stags and hens were in plentiful supply (another good sign for those looking for an uncomplicated jolly night on the tiles), and there was a good mix of ages.

And, if you need any more encouragement, there is plenty of flesh on show - all topped off with the unmistakable glow of a good-old fake tan.

Well, with a summer like this, whaddya gonna do?!