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This is a question Nightclubs

Thinly-disguised entrances to Hell where bad things happen. Tell us your dancefloor disasters.

(, Wed 8 Apr 2009, 12:35)
Pages: Latest, 14, 13, 12, 11, 10, 9, 8, 7, ... 1

This question is now closed.

In Balham
There used to be a dodgy bar/club not far from the railway bridge on the way up Bedford Hill.

To this day, I still have no idea what it's real name was, but it had 'Cafe Fusion Bar' painted on the window.

It had a downstairs area that had a tiny tiny dance floor and stayed open until the early hours, two single occupant toilets and a few tatty sofas.

And it was without doubt, the druggiest place I have ever been. The queues for the toilets were never less than 10 long, people would be passing credit cards to the next person in the queue, lines were left on the toilet seats for whoever was next in the queue, didn't matter if you knew the person or not. Share and share alike seemed to be the unofficial motto.

And it was here that I had, without doubt, the most uncomfortable conversation I have ever had with a woman while we were monged off our faces in a corner.

I was sat, dribbling and chewing my teeth, looking for all the world like Leonardo DiCaprio in 'What's Eating Gilbert Grape'.

Then I realised someone had sat next to me and was trying to talk to me.

I couldn't stand up to get away, but I didn't want to talk.

Still, she asked me my name, so I answered.

Then thought I better ask hers.

So I did.

Then we talked a bit. Or at least we had something approximating a conversation. I think.

Something in me must have thought we were getting on OK.

...You know what, I don't actually have a clue how to tell this story..so let me just say this:


You have never known shame until you have asked a paraplegic if she wanted to dance.

I swear, I was so off my face I didn't notice the wheelchair.
(, Tue 14 Apr 2009, 14:30, 8 replies)
Odd?
Back in the days where I lived with my mate Rob we would regularly become bored of the local clubs and decide to venture a bit further afield. As I was the designated driver, I would have to spend time sober but a night out with Rob would always be entertaining in itself.

One night Rob had a definite idea on where he wanted to go, some place near Dewsbury as he had been told that there was a few people who lived there that looked like him. We eventually reached this town and found out that it had a couple of pubs and a ‘night spot’.

After a few drinks in a couple of local spots (and no sign of anyone classed to be Robs body double) we followed a bunch of fellow drinkers to the aforementioned night spot and paid our way in. Little did I know but I was about to enter the most surreal club/night spot in my entire life.

The place was built to look like a castle, and split over two floors. The main floor was playing a random mixture of songs and had random waxworks of various movie stars scattered around the place. We sat near a figure of the Terminator for a few minutes before realising that a number of locals were giving us funny looks for looking at the exhibits so we decided to venture upstairs to see what was there.

Turned out that the top floor was a gym, not a gym themed floor but it was an honest to god gymnasium, filled with a number of treadmills, dumbbells and two blokes that would readily supply you steroids.

I looked at Rob, he finished his drink and we disappeared back to one of the local pubs.

We never did find any of his clones that night.
(, Tue 14 Apr 2009, 14:22, Reply)
Gravity’s Raincoat reminded me...
of a similar situation last summer when I was working as a cleaner at the local Chicago Rock (Not really a nightclub I know, but it's about the best my home town had to offer).

Usually the gents' was fine, maybe a toilet needed flushing and some loose change and chewing gun in the urinal. Admittedly, some days the guys went above and beyond and there'd be sick all across the toilet seat and, somehow, underneath it and all across the hinges, but mercifully it was on rare occasion.

The ladies'? I don't think there was a single day I didn't have to wash masses of make-up from the sinks, pick out tissue paper that had no structure anymore that was preventing any water getting past the plug hole. Then I'd get to the actual cubicles.
Most of them had toilet paper lying on the floor - mostly clean but still a waste and requiring a wary approach before the gloved hand would move it to the bin, just in case. About half the toilets would need flushing, and there was normally a suspicious puddle at the far end of the toilets that would need mopping before dealing with the end cubicles or mopping the tiled floor.

But the mopping actually reminds me of something almost worse, the carpet itself of the food and walking areas. I think it's the same carpet since they opened several years ago, not a crime in itself, but it has a food area. Where people will drink as well, sometimes bumping into people, sometimes knocking glasses off of tables accidently. And often, more chewing gum, which I think might have actually been in the carpet longer than the carpet had been there. If I ever end up in power, spitting chewing gum onto a carpet will be punished by being forced to watch Hollyoaks with all the women cut out of it while listening to Jason Donovan 'singing'. I think a week should make people reconsider...
But anyway, the point is that the carpet was tougher than taking on Chuck Norris armed with only a mole, and often the Hoover would just stop when you hit one of these drink saturated patches. And there were quite a few of them. Often I wondered how much quicker it would be to mop those areas instead, and I still suspect it would've been quicker to sweep and mop the carpet.

Getting back to university at the end of the summer was a fantastic change from that job, and now when I go out I try to make sure my aim's good since I know how crap it is to be the one who has to clean things up in the morning. I'd chew less gum inside clubs and pubs, but I never did anyway.

Length? A few months, but it felt like a lot longer.

But you know what I still wonder, to this day? Who on Earth decides during the middle of their night out that they need to straighten their hair?
(, Tue 14 Apr 2009, 13:37, Reply)
Raising the Flag on Iwo Jima
Being a notorious drunk, I have many a tale to tell in this QOTW.. Hopefully I'll get some of the better ones out the way before the Thursday deadline, but while I scour the murkiest trenches of my drink-addled mind, I shall regail what happened just last month, in a town called Thurso.

The flimsy excuse for this particular all day drinkathon was a Sevens football tournament where we had done so-so. Who cares, the fact was the season had ended and we were neither bottom of the league or first out the cup - jobs a good'un. So - to the 'Bar Bar Drinks' as I like to say...

I was feeling saucy and decided to go for as many different spirits over the course of the night as possible. Starting with JD & Coke, working my way through Morgans, Jamiesons, Southern Comfort and so on.

Surprisingly I was in decent shape up until we were going onto the final venue for the night - Skinandi's. As we spent most of our time in the various public houses of Thurso, we were getting to the club late and a large queue had formed. So we patiently waited, and waited (and could see behind us the queue had been growing ever larger). After what seemed an eternity, we got to the front where things got interesting.

Two of my "mates" who were also exceedingly inebriated and with me in the queue, pushed me over, pulled one of my shoes off me and threw it quarter-back style over some kind of shop over the road. Then they ran away into the club giggling. What were the bouncers upto? Faced with the prospect of climbing over walls and raking in gardens, getting mucky and stuff (followed by rejoining the gigantic queue) OR hobbling my way into the club to get my vengeance, I opted for the latter.

It was surprising how little people noticed that I only had one shoe on. And the floor was mostly in good shape, nice springy (read: marinated in sick) carpet, and smooth dancefloors. I was getting away with it. The floor was unkind to my plain white sock however, and this had to be discarded to the backpocket for now...

As Shylock famously said (possibly paraphrasification): "An eye for an eye, shoe for a shoe", I plotted my Jew-inspired vengeance. Not before I took a piddle however. What a strange experience to go into the man-toilets with a limp, only to feel the soft squidgy (albeit comfortable) carpet replaced by cold and slippery piss-ravaged tiles. Indeed, I got some very strange looks from my compatriots at the urinal, who I'm sure employed additional splash-back tactics to make my barefoot even warmer and wetter.

After shaking off my cock, hands and foot, I knew that I'd been got - and got good. And by God it was time to *got* the boys that had gotten me good. I prowled the upstairs balcony like a rare one-clawed eagle, spying my prey - the treacherous rats below. It didn't take me long to find them, acting all boisterous by the bar, oblivious to their betrayal - they had surely now forgotten, causing a scene like all good Weekers do. They were at the Champagne, in fact they appeared to be waiting for more glasses to toast their success no doubt.

I went in for the kill with all the grace of a shoeless man who'd just spent the last 10 minutes with his bare foot in everybody else's excrement. I took the sock out my back pocket and stuck it in the guy without the champagne's mouth. He recoiled, all grimacing and angry-faced, and backed away, dumbfounded as to what horror just breached his lips. Victim number two of my vigilantacious crusade had his back to me and was just popping the cork.

While the cork expelled along with the foam, I seized my chance and barged my way between some clingers who were waiting patiently for their share of the champagne. To their surprise I grabbed the neck of the bottle with both hands and started shaking it furiously, left and right, up and down. The foam was as relentless as my vice-like grip. John (for that was his name, perhaps a late time to introduce this revelation) had terror in his eyes. Champagne in clubs does not come cheap and at least half of it's volume was now at bare-foot level. But for £30 he wanted at least a taste and he would not let go, looking into my eyes he knew I was just as determined.

As this was by the bar, the floor was a kind of tile surface - no doubt to make sure incidents like this would be easy to clean up. By now the clingers had fled for their lives, and Kev (you know, sock-mouth) had returned to the fray. How it must've looked to the locals - me a semi-shoeless man battling for dear life with 2 other strangers for some precious champagne, white foam spraying everywhere and onlookers fleeing in all directions.

The frictionless surface of the champagne soaked floor against my baby-soft foot made the threesome collapse, yet the bottle was held aloft in the ruck - like a 21st century Raising the Flag on Iwo Jima.

It was at this point that we were ejected from the premises - soaked through and without drink. We hailed the taxi to take this ramshackle crew back to the good side of Caithness for £10-15 each.


The shoe was abandoned.
(, Tue 14 Apr 2009, 13:35, 6 replies)
A little the worse for wear by the cloakroom
It's nearing the end of the night so I go up to the cloakroom lady and say "I'm very sorry, but I've lost the ticket for my jacket, is there any chance I could get it back without the ticket.

She looked impatient and said "I've already given you your coat"

And then had the temerity to add "and you are wearing it"


I've not really been back since.
(, Tue 14 Apr 2009, 13:29, 3 replies)
The dangers of foam
Back in the late 90’s I was witness to (What was billed as) Barnsleys first foam party at the Hedonism. I was going through a pretty bad part of my life at the time and wasn’t really in the mood to venture into the foam and instead took to people watching from the sidelines.

After a few minutes of dancing in the foam I noticed a few clubbers hadn’t really thought things through. A few of the towns womenfolk had decided to go into the foam and forgot that their faces were covered in heavily layered makeup. Women were entering the foam dancing for a while and leaving it with faces that looked partially melted thanks to the fact that only parts of their concealer etc had dissolved due to the mixture of sweat and foam.

I remember making a joke to my mate about one of the recently departed, and now semi orange faced chavs looking like Jack Nicholson in Batman (The I’m melting part of it) when my girlfriends mate Gemma ran past me screaming with her head in her hands.

Gemma was well known to use a trowel to put her makeup on and also had plucked her eyebrows to virtually nothing- to rectify this when she went out on the town she would simply draw the things on. The problem was that she had lost one of her pencilled ‘brows off in the foam and was searching for someone who had something to draw one back on.

She eventually did find something to do it with but due to the fact that she was partially inebriated the eyebrow she drew on was a little wonky and she spent the rest of the night looking a little quizzical.

Our little group of friends called her Adam West for the next few weeks, shame she didn’t understand it really.
(, Tue 14 Apr 2009, 13:04, 1 reply)
This is a story of a young man who visited London for the first time
I heard about this party on a Sunday afternoon.
I'd been up all saturday night and I was raring to go.

They said it was in Hackney, in an old abandoned warehouse.
I said what kind of music do they play there
And they told me "Techno".

After walking for hours through the urban sprawl
I finally heard the boom of the soundsystem
And as we turned the corner we saw some strange people hanging around.

The music was swirling around my head as I wandered into the darkened building
And as I found my way to the dancefloor someone stopped me and said "Take this pill".

So I took it and said "What was that?"
And they said "Ecstacy".

And then they offered me a line, and I said
"What was that?"
And they said "Ketamine".

So I took it, and then I took some cocaine, and then some speed, and then some acid.

And then I drank 15 cans of stella, and I stayed until monday night.




Like fuck I did. I fell asleep in the mud in a field in the middle of wales after walking around tripping my face off.
(, Tue 14 Apr 2009, 12:51, 3 replies)
This one time....
I met this bird and while we were talking I sneezed so hard that cocaine came out my nose.
(, Tue 14 Apr 2009, 12:23, 1 reply)
Bogs
Cleaning up after student nights at a nightclub is not fun. Take my word for it.

I was naive: I expected when I began that the gents'd be worse than the ladies' - I thought this for all kinds of reasons. Some were anatomical, of course; some were simply that I expected male students to be loutier. (Is that a word?)

I was wrong.

The gents' was grim, but the ladies' was horrible. For some reason, the smell wouldn't go away, even though I'd mopped just about everywhere. I shrugged, picked up the bucket, and was leaving when something caught my eye. A poster on the wall was beginning to detatch itself.

It was amazing it had lasted that long. It was held on by sick.
(, Tue 14 Apr 2009, 12:10, 5 replies)
FOAM PARTY SHARK ATTACK MAN EATER
This was the closest I was gonna get to a full blown Roman orgy, so I was fucking excited.

Loads of women dressed in skimpy white t-shirts and shorts. Foam. So much foam it looked as if God almighty had just performed his best beardy-sex-grimace and let fly a holy load of godly cock goo across the dancefloor.

It was fucking ace.

Only, in my enthusiasm, I'd forgotten that there would be those pesky, annoying, irritating muthafuckers called 'other blokes' at this place.

The bastards.

I recall standing at the side of the dancefloor like a dog with two dicks, my eyes on full perv-alert as I scanned the writhing mass of arms and legs and heads in the foam, desperate for a glimpse of wet t-shirted nipple or, possibly, some waxed growler action.

My mate Greg approached me: "Fuckinell, Spanky! See that bird over there?" I look, and indeed do see a bird over there, she's standing with her arms propped up on a handy plinth on the outskirts of the foamy action. Her head seems to lol a bit. Although her lower torso and legs are hidden under the bubbling foam I can see that she is obviously enjoying... something. Greg continutes: "Sniff that!" And he jabs four, count them FOUR, fingers under my nose. Ahh, the fine bouqet and rich aroma of a lovely hot vag. "She's just standing there, pissed as a cunt, letting anyone use her as a fucking meat finger puppet!"

Hmmmm....

I watch the girl a bit longer. She does appear to be enjoying something... And then I see a blokes head appear from the foam, rising from the space between this girls legs. He bellows like a mighty warrior at his mates and fucks off deeper into the foam to seek out another pissed up girly to add to his collection.

"Greg," I say solemnly. "I'm going in."

And I do.

I wade into the foam. Make a b-line for this lovely girly (well she was pug ugly, but that really didn't matter), and as I approached her I disappeared under the foam with all the grace and flair of an Olympic swimmer diving into the pool. Well, I slipped on an empty beer bottle and twatted my face on the floor. Underterred, I stalked my lovely girly, standing at the plinth, just waiting for my gentle, delicate, loving touch.

Now, this foam stuff is weird. For a start you can't breath under it. And secondly, you can't see a fucking thing.

I don't know if it was the minor beer-bottle-related concussion or the fact that all the blood had rushed to my cock and I was feeling a little light headed...

Deep under the foam I felt infront of me and my hands made contact with lovely smooth legs. The legs parted slightly and I felt a hand reach down and play through my hair.

Ohhhh, lovely...

My hands trailed up these lovely soft thighs. I was excited. Fuck the fingering. I'm going in for a full fucking cunt lapping.

The excitement building inside me, I continue to stoke these lovely soft thighs. I raise my head to crotch height and gently, delicately kiss...

...the tip of a bulging errection through an incredibly small and tight pair of shorts.

I shoot to my feet and the fella looks aghast. I look aghast. He looks at my long girly hair, I look down at his weirdly hairless legs.

And the girl I was aiming for, who's stood about five feet to my right, gives us the once over and returns to her Bacardi Breezer, waiting for the next stranger to hammer away drunkenly at her vertical pink canoe.

"Erm, sorry for that, mate," I say to the bloke who's bell end I've just snogged. He looks a bit shocked but before he can react I fuck off back to where my mate Greg's standing in safety near the bar.

"How was that?" he asks.

"Interesting..." I think for a beat. "Is it a bit gay if you kiss a man's cock?"

Greg just stares.
(, Tue 14 Apr 2009, 10:46, 15 replies)
I've told this story before - but here is it again.
I have been teargassed three times in my life. All three were on the same night.

The setting is the club to which I used to go every Friday during what I call, euphemistically, my A-Level studies. It was called, variously, The Hippodrome and The Cube, and it had a downstairs area for the mainstream music, and an upstairs area for alternative music, where the floor would be heaving with people every time "Smells Like Teen Spirit", "Sabotage" or "Suds and Soda" got played.

It was also quite a grotty place. You didn't so much stick to the carpet around the bar as get sucked into it. Oh, well.

One cold February night in 1995, I was there as usual, doing what teenagers do at clubs where the cider is cheap and the clientele is cheaper. I was having a great time. But then something strange happened. My eyes began to smart.

Odd as this was, what was odder was that other people were looking uncomfortable as well.

Someone had smuggled in a teargas canister and let it off.

You might think that this would clear the club - but I told you that it was grotty and cheap. There was a slight intermission, then the music began again. The air cleared quickly - I can only assume that the air-con was reasonable, the fire doors were open... I don't know.

An hour later, our eyes were hurting again. Again, the club stayed open.

It was only after canister #3 was let off that the club was finally evacuated.
(, Tue 14 Apr 2009, 10:15, 2 replies)
Helmet tales
At the tail end of my stag do we went into a nightclub (well late licence generic bar to be honest, this was Basingstoke after all..). Amazingly we all managed to get passed the trainer phobic gorillas, all except me.

Half way through the night, as part of my challenges, I had had make-up applied by several young ladies. Lipstick, blusher, eye shadow and whatever that painful crayon in your eye thing is called. That was fine with the doormen.

They were fine with my choice of footwear too, just not my hat. A plastic horned Viking helmet. That was deemed too dangerous to enter the club and had to stay on the little desk along with the knives and nail clippers. I had to enter sans helmet in make up, looking like a twat rather than a twat who's on his stag do.

But all their stereotyping was forgiven when I left the club and asked for my helmet back, one doorman turned to the other and to help his colleague pick out my lone Viking helmet amongst chav hats said:
"It’s the bronze one."
(, Tue 14 Apr 2009, 9:50, 1 reply)
A good outcome...eventually
3 months in South East Asia, travelling on my own had of course provided me with a whole book on clubbing stories which usually involve lots of alcohol, lots of suitably stupid actions and a few cloudy memories...

None of which I will re-tell here because a) the details are too vague and b) they have been told in some form or another so much better on here already.

I was sitting here reading and thinking that really good/terrible ever happened to me in a nightclub but then I remembered one little fact.

I had been in Australia all of 12 hours since flying in from Bali and through a series of events I was sitting opposite the woman who I would be spending the rest of my life with.

I must point out that this wasn't blatantly obvious at the time, particularly since the words that had just left her mouth wasn't exactly the phrase I was longing to hear.

"My mate's going to take your brother home with her, but I'm not interested in you".

That was 10 years ago, we're married and having a fine old time....not interested my arse.
(, Tue 14 Apr 2009, 7:01, 1 reply)
I should have hundreds of tales
considering I'm often to be found in a club at the weekend. For years I've knocked about Glasgow, and can often be found looking slightly out of place in the Cathouse, looking slightly out of place in Walkabout, or looking slightly out of place in Campus or ABC.

Years ago, however, the farthest afield I'd venture was Hamilton, to the deceptively classy sounding Palace. Being in the Palace is akin to watching Hollyoaks whilst drunk, the clientelle fall into two distinct age groups, 16-18 and 45-80, "ladies" wear as little as is possible (but enough to cover concealed weapons/drugs) and the music..... well let's not sweeten the pill, it's shit.

Now, the last time I was there was at the tender age of 22, at a mate's stag do. Four of us had been merrily necking vodka and foul little concoctions called Sidekicks in my mates local, and a quick, hair raising journey later (taxi driver steering with his knees at 110mph while on the phone and drinking coffee!) we were in the palace. My mates best friend got a round in, and supplemented it with a bottle of champagne..... the first time I had drunk champagne, asit happens. It was horrible, but then, all alcohol tasted horrible, back then, so I coped in the usual way. I necked it.

We got through a bottle and on to another. I felt fine. Needed a quick wazz though, so I made my excuses and trotted off to the toilet. So there I am, in a queue for a cubicle. The bog-goblin sprays someone with cologne. I'm next in line. Tum-te-tum, not long nowohGodohGodwhereamI?IfeelsickohChristI'mdying!!! The champagne hit me like a ton of bricks! I had always been quite the little drinker before but champagne just destroyed me. I fell into the cubicle as soon as it was free and collapsed onto the pan.

How long I was asleep I don't know, but it couln't have been long because no-one had banged on the door. I had spewed thick brown vomit all over the floor. I somehow got back out into the club before anyone noticed but my friends were gone, and I was so disoriented I didn't know where to look for them. I staggered downstairs, finding my way into a smaller, quieter bar. I remember buying a sidekick from the bar and not drinking it, but I still couldn't find my friends. I did the only sane thing. I toddled off to the toilets, these ones pleasantly deserted apart from the bog-goblin, stuck my head down the pan and passed out.

The bog-goblin threw me out half an hour later.

I found my mates in the queue at the pizza shop, minus the best man who had also went AWOL. A bit more sober, I waited in the queue for 20 minutes, and as I approached the front, the guy behind the counter shouted "1 cheese & onion pizza and aportion of chicken pakora". Fast as lightning, the best man popped out of the crowd, shouted "that'll do me!" grabbed the bag and with a "cheers!" strode back out the shop.

It wasn't his. He didn't even pay. We found him finishing it off in the middle of the road, surrounded by half dressed girls.

He became a legend for that. My own adventure had a less glorious end. I sat in some chwing gum and ruined an otherwise (amazingly) unmarked suit.

Great days.
(, Tue 14 Apr 2009, 2:38, 4 replies)
Date Rape
While this isn't my story, I was there, and only a few feet away when it happened so I can verify it actually happened. Wouldn't have believed it otherwise, really.

My fellow trance/house enthusiast and friend Landon (name not changed, he's proud of this story) is a bit of a twunt. He's the guy who's always got an outrageous story to tell, a joke for every occasion, the kind of guy that can pull off being a SXSW talent coordinator while shitfaced and pull it off (a story for another time).

Now, this one concert we went to ended up being a bit of a drag - the organizers decided to interrupt the DJs with an amateur talent show, catwalk pulled out, shitty music, anorexic models, and "industry" girls asking what you do in the off chance either of us scruffy fellows (gurning and rolling off our tits) could be their ticket to a life of cocaine and high fashion.

Now, Landon got the bright idea of killing time during the traffic show by picking up girls a couple levels out of his league. Plastic cup in hand, he shoves his head into a crowd of four girls sitting at a table and, in a shifty, slightly foreign accent he goes,

"Excuse me, but do you know where I can get, erm, I can't remember what they're called... you put them in someone's drink when... when you want to go home with them."

At this point I remember their looks of disgust turn to one of abject horror.

"DATE RAPE!?" one of them shouts, loud enough to turn heads over the shitty music.

"I, I don't know. Is that what they're called? These pills, you put them in drinks and they get sleepy and..."

"DATE RAPE!?!" she shouts again. By this point the models are looking a bit nervous and I see a bouncer heading our way.

"I, I suppose. Do you know where to get them?"

"OF COURSE NOT!"

Then, in perfect English he replies "Thank god, watch my drink!" and walks off towards the bathroom.

The abrupt transformation from horror, to confusion, to tears-streaming-down-face laughter was truly a sight to behold.

When he returned from the bathroom, he made a show of looking at his drink, trying to see if anything had been put in it, getting the girls even further in stitches.

Of course, they were still far, far out of his league, so he didn't pull, but they bought him a drink and I've been eating out on this story for years.
(, Tue 14 Apr 2009, 0:20, 3 replies)
One persons kindness is anothers rape.
Im visiting a friend of the breasticled persuasion who happens to be a bit more than a friend but not quite girlfriend. Anyway...

This girl happens to be a -total- lightweight whereas I can hold my own when it comes to my chosen drink of double vodka red bull and jager bombs at least.

So I happen to be pretty sober as she gets steadily more wasted as we drink in the nightclub, she leans in and slurs/moans into my ear.

"Guuuuuiiiiiillllllt, I want SEX."

Huzzah! Dont worry I reply, there shall be plenty of that tonight! *supresses erection*

The night continues. More whispers in my ear along the same lines, but fastly getting more and more slurred yet Im still just tipsy. Then the inevitable happens, she needs to go home, her friends want to stay so I take her home. Problem being I dont know where the hell I am, so taxi it is!

So, 2 students in the back of a taxi, one obviously a LOT more sober than the other one, who is near passing out level.

It's at this point I suddenly become a rapist.

"Guuuiiiiiilt, please, pleaaaaaaassshhhse can we not have sex."

"Erm, dont worry, we wont."

"Please Guilt, I really dont want to have sex."

"I said..."

And more along that lines, all the way home with the taxi driver staring at me in the rear view mirror all the time, obviously weighing up if we should be dropped of at the student halls or the police station.
(, Mon 13 Apr 2009, 23:40, 1 reply)
Serves you right
After a massive all day drink-a-thon (the kind you have in your early twenties, a long time ago for me now) I ended up in a club in Chelmsford called Club Zues.

I really was twatted, and quite surprised I was let in, managed to bowl through the crowds to the front of the bar, much to everyones annoyance.

After getting a round of beer and shots (classy) I wondered back to my friends, forgettinhg the bar was at the top of a flight of stairs to the dancefloor. Down I went, spliing drinks all over the place, cracking my lip and cheekbone on the stairs. Some people laughed, some people helped, the bouncers were cunts and chucked me out.

Thanks chaps.
(, Mon 13 Apr 2009, 23:37, 1 reply)
Sheffield circa 2005
I was working at the small club under Pondsforge, 'Aqua'- formerly known as the Roundhouse for the older B3tards. We used to host a Goth themed night entitled 'Batfink' on the last friday of the month or something.

Anyway as was going about my ''duties''(standing around smoking), and I noticed a.. well what appeared to be... a woman, heading into the gents bogs, so I followed chasing her to tell her to get out, after entering the lavs I found her at the urinal stood up having a pee, she had a beard too and she/he/it was a fucking transvestite

scared me half to death, pulled off a perfect Bart Simpson scream though
(, Mon 13 Apr 2009, 21:55, Reply)
Two words...
Snobs, Birmingham.
(, Mon 13 Apr 2009, 21:09, 7 replies)
I was very, very, drunk.....
... so much so that when my mates tried to wake me from my cheeky little nap on the end of the bar and failed, they chucked a whole ice bucket over me. I woke, briefly, complained that my £95 shirt was wet, and continued to snooze.
(, Mon 13 Apr 2009, 21:02, 2 replies)
Edinburgh bash.
I went to a club on Saturday night with some B3tans.

There was me....quite tall old women trying to look cool.
Labia, nearly 6ft and sporting a kilt and a mohican.
Darklite probably over 6ft and wearing a suit.
Wookie looking like......well Wookie really.
Spakkaman wearing his tie-die brightly coloured t-shirt.
Davros in his lovely wedding coat
Tourettes wearing her sparkly wedding tiara and a lovely black dress.
Nostrobor, big rugby lad wearing his kilt and I think rugby shirt.


Those youngsters must have thought they'd been invaded by aliens trying to fit in.
(, Mon 13 Apr 2009, 20:08, 10 replies)
A warning:
Don't agree to go on a short holiday with work colleagues, just because it'll be cheap and you can't afford to go on a proper holiday with people you actually like.

An evening : Outside a club

"Hey look, Moey, it's lady's night... we simply have to go along."

"But, person that I now really wish I hadn't agreed to come to Newquay with, the very fact that it's lady's night most certainly guarantees that the place will be full of utter cockends like yourself."

"No, look: "Ladies get in free". It says so on the sign, see."

He was right, at least two "ladies" got in free. I was more right.

Another evening : Outside the very same club

"Oooooh, Foam Party. How about it, lads?"

"Oh dear, you poor, deluded cock monkey, I'd rather attempt to insert that rather large and unwieldy surf board I repeatedly failed to stand on this afternoon, into my anus. Sideways. You go, I'm going to drink elsewhere, and, if I'm really lucky, I'll forget where I'm staying and bed down in a piss-stained doorway for the next few days."

"But, it's a Foam Party, the place will be jam packed with women."

"Saying it as "Foam Party" doesn't make it any more appealing. Any women who are there will be dragging their hairy knuckles on the floor, and they still won't speak to you. I stand by my first point, now fuck off."

One of them caught a cold. Neither found a sexual partner for the evening. I failed to find a suitable doorway to stay in.
(, Mon 13 Apr 2009, 19:58, 1 reply)
The Kiez, Hamburg
"You see these people? They're fucking stupid, they're fucking idiots, look at them, drunk, vomiting, fucking stupid, but they're having fun, and to have fun you have to be like them; you have to be fucking stupid."

These are the words of the then drunk brother of a good friend of mine; I could smell the spirits on his breath. His drunken invitation, his drunken order, for me to drink the Hamburgers' preferred concotion of Vodka, Tequila, Tomato Juice and Tobasco Sauce, to embrace the night with him and his mate and to embrace his sister, my friend, "only for fun!". I had my share of Mexicaners, as I believe they are known, and my share of propositions from German slappers. The more the alcohol took hold the less I noticed the blood, the prettier the intentionally unconvincing transvestites seemed and the more acceptable the moon-boot clad whores became. I drank like a broken man for two hours and danced like a madman for five. I had the time of my life in the Kiez and learned that if you want to sieze the moment, as well as a handful of Frauleins, you have to become as fucking stupid as the best of them.

I'll never forget the Kiez.
(, Mon 13 Apr 2009, 17:36, Reply)
This one time
I was so pissed.
(, Mon 13 Apr 2009, 17:10, 4 replies)
Don't be a hero!
This is the final one from me this week (I promise).

I tried to block this one out of my mind but one of my awesome (shitty) friends reminded me of this last night. As it happens it took place exactly 5 years ago today.

We'd spent a glorious afternoon down the park drinking, smoking and generally having a dick about. As day turned to night we decided that we weren't quite ready to call it a day yet, so we decided to head out the local club.

We continued to party on into the wee hours of the morning, steadilly becoming more and more inebriated.

Then out of the smoke and flashing lights she appeared. A vision of beauty so divine it would have made even god cry (milky tears from his one eyed trouser snake).

Gemma (name changed to protect the innocent) had started working in the call centre I was employed in 2 months earlier. The daughter of an italian father and a malaysian mother; Gemma had beautiful soft olive skin, long flowing black hair, deep hypnotic brown eyes and curves in all the right places. Needless to say I was smitten at first sight.

Surely, you might say, I made it my mission in life to woo this girl and make her mine... alas, you would be wrong.
I was so completely dumbstruck by her beauty that I was rendered absolutely useless in her presence.
I was unable to form coherent sentences and my jaw usually hung somewhere around my knees.

In fact, in 2 months I had said exactly 3 (yes, three) words to her.

Now my friends knew about my obsession and they took advantage of my reduced inhibitions to goad me into action. After several minutes heated discussion between us I had run out of excuses.

I stood up, took a deep breath, puffed out my chest and then strode across the room towards her in the most manly manner I could. Then just as I was about to reach her I veered off at a right angle and marched straight up to the welcoming safety of the bar.

A shot (or two) of dutch courage was just what I needed to prepare myself for the task at hand.

I slammed back my drink and turned round to see the object of my affections being chatted up by another man.
My heart sank to the floor and I cursed my lack of bravery. I was just about to slink back to my friends with my tail between my legs when I spied something...could it be?

Yes! My prayers had been answered.
The gentleman suiter's advances had been sharply rejected (judging by the ferocity of the slap he recieved). Not only that but he was persisting to try it on with her and she was evidently becoming more distressed by the situation.

This was it!

My chance to be a hero... The knight in shining armour ready to rescue the princess from the evil ogre.

She would love me for sure once i'd saved her!

Now i'm a lover not a fighter... In fact I've not had a fight since school. But this was different, I had to take action!

I marched over to her with a new-found sense of purpose.
I grabbed the guy by the shoulder and spun him round.
"what the fuck do you think you're playing at? Look, she's not interested in you so why dont you just fuck off!" I bellowed in my toughest voice.
Then something dawned on me... This guy was a hell of a lot bigger than he had looked from across the room. There was now a very good chance that I was about to get an absolute pasting at the hands of this neanderthal!

The guy squared up to me and then pulled back slightly... I knew what was coming, he was about to destroy my nose with his forehead!

Then right at the critical moment he stopped. His expression changed suddenly from one of rage to something else entirely.

Then the unthinkable happened... Instead of the bony forehead i was expecting, a golden stream of Stella Artois flavored vomit flew in an arc from his mouth and straight into my face!

For the briefest of moments I was stunned, then i smacked back into reality with a bump.

The mixture of a days worth of alcohol consumption, the stress of the situation and the fact that i was now covered from head to toe with vomit pushed me over the edge.

I started to wretch and struggled to keep my lunch down as i panicked and tried to figure out how to get out of this situation.

Unfortunately I didn't think quick enough and the inevitable happened. As the contents of my stomach travelled rapidly up my oesophagus i clamped my hand over my mouth in a vain attempt to stop it from flying everywhere.
This worked for the first heave, but the second was too much to contain and vomit squeezed through my fingers and proceeded to cover everybody within a 5 feet radius liberally with my vomit!

Suddenly very, very sober, i looked to my right.
The love of my life was standing there gobsmacked, soaked in a mixture of mine and the other guys vomit.
There she remained motionless for what seemed like an age while she processed what had just happened. Then the inevitable happened... She started to cry unconsolably. Then she turned round and ran from the club and into the night.

I never spoke to her again after that night. In fact every time we saw each other after that, embarrassed glances were exchanged and we quickly headed in opposite directions.
She left work shortly after that.

The moral of the story? Dont try to be a hero because more often than not it'll come back to bite you in the ass!

... That and dont be a pussy!

Cheers,
K
(, Mon 13 Apr 2009, 16:52, 5 replies)
The Strangest Nighclub Ever
Length=true

It was looking to be possibly the worst birthday of my life.

A few weeks previously, a random conversation with a Frenchman in Cameroon had led to a long excursion across areas that the map showed as completely blank, leading to a ferry crossing that shouldn't have existed, which took us to the middle of absolutely fucking nowhere, and with no way back as we had had a little bit of unpleasantness with the local chief of Secret Police…

We were stuck in the North East corner of Congo Brazzaville on one of the tributaries of the Congo. To the West there was an actual Ebola outbreak, so no chance of following a 'maybe' track there. The tarmac road heading south was a complete fucking figment of the imagination on the part of the Michelin cartographers, and the river was too low for boats as the rains were late. After a couple of weeks of waiting my two mates went ahead on a small pirogue leaving me to wait for the waters to rise further so that I could load my Land Rover on to a larger boat. So it was that a week or so later I found myself more or less on the equator on a barge packed with 200 Africans with not a friend for hundreds of miles.

It's a funny part of the world; there is no law and order to speak of, and local warlords terrorise the local population. The skippers (for there were four) did their best to avoid any signs of civilisation, usually mooring in the middle of the stream overnight. On the morning of my birthday I had wandered over to a market stall (the boat was a sort of floating market) to buy what I knew to be the last plastic sachet very bad ‘whisky’ only to find that somebody had beaten me to it. Things were looking pretty miserable. Then at dusk something strange happened. We moved away from the main navigation and nosed our way in between a group of small islands. Hidden there, well away from any chance of interference, was a small mud hut village where we disembarked. Until that point I hadn't realised that there was such a thing as a paraffin fridge, but here were loads of them and they were filled with beer. There was something hugely surreal about sitting down with an icy cold bottle of beer, and one that cost about 60p a pint to boot, when you're halfway down the Congo. It's also surprising how many good friends you can make when you’re crowded together in a small space, sharing the same food, all a long way from home. The lightshow wasn’t up to much but this club had the best music, and as clubs go – it’s one I’ll remember even if I don’t know its name... Hell - I'm not even sure what country it was in.
(, Mon 13 Apr 2009, 16:00, 2 replies)
Mad gamer skillz and teh laydeez
Once, only once and once only in my teenage years (shortly after the relief of Mafeking) did I emerge from a nightclub in the amorous company of a young lady.

The venue was Edinburgh's Cinderella Rockerfeller's - a nightclub whose ambience was considerably improved by being burned to the ground a few years later. The lassie in question was blonde and had a truly impressive décolletage.

And how did I manage my pullage. Was it my dancing? Or my recently acquired skill of "talking to women"? No, it was through doggedly making my way through a top-down, vertical scrolling WWII plane shoot-em-up. (Might have been "1942", cannae mind.) There I was, minding my own geeky business when, voila, this lady engages me in conversation.

Sod social skills, play computer games instead.
(, Mon 13 Apr 2009, 15:32, 5 replies)
a rough night
The Haloween prior to the one just gone, a young Billy had his brother's ID which said he was 19. Now we all know; to go out sober is a stupid idea ,especially when you're a young lad of 17 and you've no job, so after some pre drinking we went to the cheap ale house for more pre drinking.
Said ale house is a drug hotspot and is regularly raided by the fuzz. Yours truly had bought 20 Es to sell to his friends and took 6 out for the night. Drink must have frazzled my brain as when I saw coppers outside*, having already necked 2, I got paranoid and took the other 4. We promplty left before I blowed chunks/did something stupid, and went to a friend's house where we did some unscrupulous powder and walked into town. That's when the pills decided to hit me all at once
*spews onto the side of the road*
*is promptly taken into an alley so the police wouldn't see me*
A normal person here would have gone "No. I've done something stupid and need to go home and deal with it." but dear reader, I am not as smart as a normal person. I for some reason decided more beer was a better solution than going home to puke and curl up and die. I went into town and the first sight I saw was a poor young lass falling over in the street. Me being a gentleman and wanting to fuck her I go over do the whole chivalry thing and then hand her my jacket. She promptly fucks off with my favourite jacket.
We then went into a club and me being mr offmytits smooth I try my choice at chatting up two ladies. The barman sees I'm in a state and asks how many pills I've had. I reply in a fashion that oscar wilde would have been proud of "none, pills shrink your dick and I don't need that" thinking I was well in I bought the girls 2 drinks and then was dragged out, by the bouncer who was sleeping with one of them, given a slap round the chops for my troubles and told to "fuck off." I then am told I spent the night curled up in a grit bin until my brother's friend see me and take me home. I'm sick for a week after it.
So thanks to my brother's friends who've never let me forget that night and sorry to those two ladies for being a dick.
Apologies for luck a hummus, that's just my story.

*turns out they were just there as drinkers who'd got off their shift.
(, Mon 13 Apr 2009, 14:21, Reply)
Exmouth...
where the evenings would cause a heady mix of students, townies and Marines to descend upon the 37 pubs available to them before staggering to Sam's, the room masquerading as a nightclub.

The routine was usually the same. The students would arrive ridiculously early, already drunk having started on the snakebite and black around lunchtime. The Marines would follow, taking the piss out of the students and generally acting like cocks. Then the townies would stagger in and rountinely kick the arses of the Marines while the students melted away into the background.

One night was particularly fun. The dancefloor was a large rectangle with steps leading up from it on all sides; it was filled with performing mongs and exuberant twattery when suddenly a fight broke out in the corner. In true comedy style, this incited someone in the opposite corner to randomly throw a punch at the bloke next to him and suddenly the whole floor was at it. Girls and students climbed up and away, male townies and Marines climbed down to join in. And next to me was an immense bouncer who shouted something resembling a war cry and hurled himself into the middle. He disappeared, only to reappear minutes later with his shirt completely missing, except for the collar and the two cuffs still pristinely in position.

The fight continued until plod turned up, one of whom was Special PC Nigel Mansell (yes, really him) who seemed rather more keen on remaining outside (where he was reminded of the fact he was Nigel Mansell by everyone who left/was thrown from/was escorted away from the club).
(, Mon 13 Apr 2009, 12:07, 9 replies)
Once I went to a nightclub.
I danced for a bit, had a sensible level of alcohol, and then danced some more, before a young lady started talking to me. She gave me her number and we're now good friends.

I danced well loads, got absolutely trashed, danced like an idiot. Then some really fit bird with massive tits came up to me and said "I'm really horny" and let me grope her tits. Then I said "Let's fuck" and we went home and had sex, which was really good, due to my absolutely massive cock. And all her mates joined in. And she was actually Amanda Holden. And I spuffed on her tits. AND IT WAS AWESOME.
(, Mon 13 Apr 2009, 11:05, 15 replies)

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