Fever & Boutique, which makes the tally of Exeter’s nightclubs no longer possible to count on one hand, has been described as everything from ‘the best night, man’ to ‘a dizzying labyrinth of hedonistic drunkenness’. Free wristband snug around wrist and cigarettes in bag to prepare for the much-touted smoking garden, one must queue for a grand total of thirty seconds before being ushered in on a Tuesday, yet stand in line for what feels like thirty hours on a Thursday.
Fever, which charges an affordable fee of £2 after 11 and has drinks only the most tight-pursed Exeter local would spurn, is ingeniously located beside Rosies (which has to fish signet rings and gold bracelets out of the loos nightly). Once inside, it soon becomes apparent the labyrinthine comments were true; the tipsy student is presented with five confusing doors, the ladies’ toilets are concealed behind a winding staircase, and the way to the beautifully trumpeted smoking area is shrouded in darkness.
The smoking area is made up to look like an enchanted garden, but seems more dungeon-like when coughing out the smoke of twenty strangers crammed into a small sweaty space
This was, as the bouncers soon made clear, because the club wasn’t crowded enough and only the miniature cheesy floor was open. A visitor on a Thursday, however, would experience two interconnected dance floors piping out a range from ‘Da Ting Goes’ to ‘The Daring Young Man on the Flying Trapeze.’ The smoking area is made up to look like an enchanted garden, but seems more dungeon-like when coughing out the smoke of twenty strangers crammed into a small sweaty space. If the rooftop is closed though, as it disappointingly tends to be, you’re forced to go outside and chain-smoke while staring wistfully at Rosies and wishing you too had a double-barrelled surname.
Fever is also host to a number of slightly questionable nights, such as the Chicken Nugget Party – but prides itself on being the best night out in Exeter. However, with cheap entry, questionable music and often broken promises of more than one floor, the club is more of a tribute to less competent second sons everywhere, the slightly confusing and malodorous Cain to Rosies’ Abel.