Nightclubs can fuck right off.
Anywhere that won't let me in wearing my jeans, or expects me to pay for the privilege of drinking overpriced, watered beer while surrounded by pissed-up townies and being aurally raped by music I wouldn't use to torture my worst enemy can just grease themselves up and crawl headfirst up an elephant's turdtunnel.
(Big D, Wed 8 Apr 2009, 16:45, 4 replies)

I only have one which springs to mind.....
....which is surprising, when you consider that I live in Norwich, home to one of the most notorious streets in the UK.

Towards the end of a great night out with some friends I found myself half-walking half-dancing across the dancefloor, trying to locate some of the troops who were propping themselves up at the bar.

On the way I managed to stumble straight into a bloke who was holding a plastic cup of booze (you know the place is bad if they don't trust people with glass). Fortunately it tipped towards him, giving him a good soaking and completely missing me.

At this point I would have been more than happy to buy the bloke another, especially since they were relatively cheap and I'm a decent chap who was in a good mood.

But this guy had obviously had a bit too much to drink (my guess is 2 pints) and decided to grab me by the throat.

What this was meant to achieve is beyond me, but I calmly took his hand off me and, not being the fighting type, asked him what he was drinking.

"Carling" came the fairly obvious answer.

So I said "Well they're only £2 a pint. I'm sure you can afford that" and danced my way across the dancefloor and out of sight.

Not very exciting I know.
(porkinator is a Rock n Roll nerd!, Wed 8 Apr 2009, 16:38, Reply)

Wankabout...
My bestfriend lives in Rugby and I went to visit her last summer. Being a very small town there are only 2 choices when it comes to nightlife (other than old man pubs) and one of which is an Australian themed chain of pubs called Walkabout, heard of them?

We were having a great time supping £1.50 Vodka Redbulls and were pleasantly drunk enough to get on the dacefloor. My friend went up to the DJ booth and requested some crap by Britney Spears and the DJ complied, great! As the night went on and more Vodka Redbulls were had and more chart toppers were requested.

On the last request, instead of his usual compliance, he asked her if she would get her friend (being me) to come up and choose a song. So I go behind the booth to request a 'bangin choon' (which I have now forgot...you'll see why) and he opens the little gate/doory/DJcatflap thing to present me with his raging boner and slaps it in my naive hand!

Now, I was drunk, and I had never seen such a large penis in my life! I took one look at this blokes grinning face and my Beadle sized hand in comparison to his cock and spewed warm, fizzy Vodka Redbull all down the front of him.

I think I gave him what he deserved. Unless it's Rugby-Walkabout etiquette to wank off the DJ when he plays your requests?
(pinacolada, Wed 8 Apr 2009, 16:38, 3 replies)

Walked into a Bar in Leeds
on my birthday...

It was so shit they couldn't afford lap dancers so instead had some generic stripping girl videi instead...

It was Boutique if anyone knows it and I'm wondering if it's a regular occurrence?
(Fuckarma was masturbating into your handbag, Wed 8 Apr 2009, 16:36, Reply)

My first club experience
I remember more vividly than most my first trip to a club.

Actually, that’s something of a lie. I remember the aftermath but what happened in the actual pub is mysteriously absent from the dark depths of my memory. Funny, that.

It was the first week of University, before Freshers’ Week had even begun, in fact. I was off to Kingston to do me some Journalism and two days after I had bid goodbye to a tearful mum and an indifferent dad (“stop blubbing, Roz, he’s home this weekend!”) I was settling in nicely. That is, I was drinking and wanking a lot, but rarely at the same time.

So we come to Thursday and a flyer has been pushed through our door. Indie night at Works nightclub, eh? Well, I fucking hate indie but it’s better than the usual rubbish you get in clubs so it’ll do. I consult my flatmate, Dan, who I knew was a sound bloke because within five minutes of meeting me he’d made a rape joke. He agreed to come and off we trotted that night in our finest wears, having had a lager or six at the flat.

So we get into the town centre and nip in to the ‘Spoons. This of course leads to us buying numerous double JD and cokes as well as downing several pitchers of many hues. So, both totally bungalowed – to borrow a phrase from Michael McIntyre – we head into Works finally. We then spend the rest of our meagre funds on expensive drinks before deciding that indie music now really is just a bunch of cunts shouting over “chord progressions for fucktards 101” in regional accents. So we start to walk home.

This is an interesting walk home – we’re about two miles from the flat and between us we’ve consumed about a month’s worth of recommended units for ten people. We stop off for some gammy-as-fuck chicken and continue. Halfway home, disaster strikes.

We’re outside a church and I take the opportunity to drunkenly slur how religion is for cunts. This obviously pissed off someone upstairs because my right foot, seemingly independent of my brain after so much booze, slipped off the kerb and took me with it. I sprawled in the road, both of us laughing our arses off, and went to get up.

Ouch, that hurts. You know when you trip and bend your ankle, as it were? It’s a nasty shooting pain followed by a dull ache that makes you limp like a gimp for ten minutes or so. Evidently I had done this so I sat on the church wall and tried to ignore the numbing pain in my right foot.

Ten minutes or so later it had faded sufficiently for us to walk off. It still bloody hurt when we moved though and Dan, to his eternal credit, helped me home for about a mile. We got in, collapsed in bed and I was woken from drunken slumber by my mother on the phone.

“You need to get out and hand CVs,” she said. She was correct, I was jobless and needed money.

I replied in the affirmative, except my reply wasn’t so much “yes mother, you are of course right and I shall go to the printers and produce documentation immediately!” No, it was more like “… umph, yeah, ‘k, I’ll get on thaARGH FUCKING CUNT!”

For, you see, I had gotten out of bed. And immediately collapsed back onto it. I chanced a look down – I had an ankle the size of a melon and the colour of an angry bellend. Right, I thought – doctors.

So I nicked the flat’s broom and used it as a crutch to get to the bus (I had remembered to get dressed first… shoes were difficult) to the campus. I hop-hobbled into the GP there and waited in ever-increasing pain for a quack. The big poster opposite me saying that the doctor provided homeopathic services as an alternative made me dubious of their credentials but I was here now.

I hopped along into the doctors and explained how, as a silly drunken tart, I had apparently twisted my ankle. The doctor, a lovely oriental women, got me to pull up my kecks and had a looksie. She visably blanched and said I might need to go to the hospital. Right… shit.

One crutch and some painkillers later I hobbled (with greater ease this time as brooms aren’t really designed for limps) to the bus stop. Fucksocks, I’ve forgotten my Oystercard. Fortunately a pale, sweaty student shaking in pain on a crutch evoked sympathy in the driver and he dropped me off at the hospital for free.

I walked into A&E (up a fucking hill! That’s just bad design) and explained myself to the grumpy receptionist. I was directed to the X-ray unit and I hobbled some more. The increased usage of my fucked ankle was steadily negating the painkillers and I was pretty fucking annoyed. Especially when I realised I’d been directed to the children’s X-ray ward and had to walk back to reception and go to the proper one.

Long story short, I got myself X-rayed (originally they wanted me to go back to reception again to get a form but by that point I was ready to collapse and an absolute angel did it for me) and was informed that I had fractured my ankle.

So yeah. Fuck clubs. They result in broken bones.

When I get home from work I'll post a picture of the offending joint a few days after the incident.
(MJPerry was crude but clickable at, Wed 8 Apr 2009, 16:18, 12 replies)

The perfect combination:
Now, we all have our own preferences, but like everyone else once I found a formula I liked I stuck to it until it reached mathematical perfection. To writ:

11:00 - Me and my like-minded friends head downtown. Being Austin, this is exceptionally easy as a college student (cheap cabs and free buses for students including a dedicated e-bus that made rounds around campus and the dorms, quite convenient). Being college students, at least one of my friends had a prescription to adderall. Pop a 15mg or a 20mg extended release (10 now, 10 in 4 hours) and the euphoria starts.

11:30 - Get to Sky Lounge, a fairly good night club aimed towards electronic music. Order a whiskey sour for a reasonable fee. Down it.

12:00 - DJ starts. Find my way to the best seat in the house - directly across from the DJ, on a bank of speakers - a box about six feet wide, four deep, and five tall. Just enough to comfortably seat four. Nestled between two six-foot-tall speakers and holding the subwoofers for the entire hall. The entire seat vibrates, and the view above the crowd is exceptional.

12:15 - Pop another adderall. Dose is now in the 20 to 30 mg range. Add a tab of speed-base ecstasy.

12:30 - My body is vibrating like a string. I am staring slack-jawed at the laser show, sitting with my legs crossed and my back against the wall. Bodies writhe and bounce as the DJ tears up the club. I love everybody, and the world is a dream of gyrating sound and glorious bursts of light.

1:00 - I haven't moved in 45 minutes. Most people react to amphetamines by moving - I go into exaggerated hyperfocus. Most people dance to feel the music through their body - I take it internally, and hear every single chord, melody, beat and rhythm into my mind, separate and distinct yet appreciated as a whole. Then I pop another adderall, bringing me up to 30mg or 45mg (either way, an unhealthy amount of amphetamines).

1:30 - Find someone trustworthy (and at this point, who isn't?) to watch my prized seat while I take my ritualistic piss. This is the only time I move all night.

2:00 - DJ encore. The crescendo of good feelings and happy vibes, the one last shebang before the night comes to an end and the club closes. I can't feel my legs, and when I do, they feel like iron from the tension. Nonetheless, a very pleasant sensation - my whole body is like a cello string, being plucked by the bass beat.

3:00 - The drive - often to a good 24 hour restaurant, but usually involving a great many more detours than is normally necessary. More trance music is blaring through the speakers. Excellent memory - driving back from dallas (a three hour drive) and seeing the sun come up while easing off of pills, "In Search of Sunrise" playing from the car speakers.

8:00 - I have eaten, drank, smoked, and sat around enough to successfully come off my high. Skipping this step is very unpleasant.

And there you have it, the perfect formula! A bit rambling and nostalgic, I know, but I'm new here. And as for the amounts of intoxicants and stimulants, I have been blessed with a speedy metabolism that, while meaning I can't hold my liquor past shot six, makes me an incredibly cheap drunk.

So, to summarize - an adderall, a drink, a tab, and two more adderall to keep the high. This formula has served me with Benny Benassi, Judge Jules, Armin van Buren, and every good DJ that passes through the music capital of Texas for the last four years.

Glorious memories, these.
(TheManWhoWas SlightlyKnackered, Wed 8 Apr 2009, 16:18, 7 replies)

A
seal walks into a club
(Banjax, Wed 8 Apr 2009, 16:04, 4 replies)

The last time I went clubbing...
The Underworld, Camden Town, London, England.

A favourite haunt of mine in my student days, the last time I visited I swear me and my friends were the oldest people there. We were in our late 20s.

We spent most of the evening discussing how shit the music was and how it used to be so much better, when it was probably just the fact we didn't know all this 'new' music.

Eventually, they decided to have a 'nostalgia hour', starting with some Stone Roses, when some whippersnappper beside us announced "I love this old stuff!".

I tried to reagin my youth by dancing like a loon and proceeded to knock my female friend over, covering her the lovely stale beer on the dance floor, and flashing her pants to whole club.

We left, and I vowed never to go there again... and I haven't. I just don't DO clubbing anymore.
( Joe Scaramanga with a G-double-O-D vibration, Wed 8 Apr 2009, 16:04, Reply)

This is every nightclub experience I have ever had
1) I am in a town centre pub. It is late, I appear to have spent a lot of money on nothing and I am with a large group of people, most of whom I do not know. The part of the evening I knew I would enjoy is over and I want to go home. I wont be going home tonight. I will be sleeping on the floor of the one member of the group I actually know. He promised me that we would go home after the meal and that there is no way we will be going clubbing.

2) We are going clubbing.

3) We all stand in the street while the group decides which club to go to. The streets are crowded with drunken noisy people. The streets smell of piss. This is because people are pissing in the streets. I need to piss. The group discussion carries on for about 20 minutes because some people are wearing trainers and some people have left their car somewhere and some people just like the sound of their own voice. I am not part of the discussion, partly because I have never been to any of the nightclubs being discussed.

4) Some of us need to get money. We join a large disjointed queue for an ATM machine. People are walking through the queue and there is a homeless man with a dog sitting right next to the ATM machine. I withdraw more money that I do not want to spend while ignoring the monotone pleas of the homeless man. I feel sorry for the dog.

5) We walk for more than 10 minutes. I have no idea where we are going. We finally arrive at the club only to be greeted by the sight of a long queue. The group stands in the street for 10 minutes discussing whether it is worth joining the queue. We join the queue. The group continues to discuss whether we actually want to enter this particular club. Just when we are making some headway the group decides that we will go to another club. We leave the queue.

And that’s it. That’s clubbing. Waiting around with a full bladder and an empty wallet while people I don’t know decide which overpriced noisy shit-hole to frequent.
( Colonel Dracula Two manky hookers and a racist dwarf, Wed 8 Apr 2009, 15:56, 13 replies)

Classy lads and classy ladies...
Back as a graduate trainee, me and a friend from work had been drinking since lunchtime, other than a cursory trip back to the office which had resulted in our boss telling us to get back outside as we were incapable of looking sober and there were important folk about.

Yay! More beer time!

Go out drinking again, get bored of the pub around 7, and remember there's an indie club nearby that does pitchers of cocktail for about a tenner during Happy Hour (which is, indeed, now).

Pitcher of pina colada. Nice.

Pitcher of Long Island Ice Tea. Nice

Pitcher of Sex on the Beach. Not feeling so great any more.

Back on the pina colada. Still not good.

We decide to leave, so I go and get the coats and come back to find that in the time I've been queueing for the cloakroom my friend has taken his half-finished jug of pina colada and got chatting to this monster of a woman. I don't mean to be cruel, but -being cruel anyway- she was a beast. I fall into chatting to her friends as the two of them wander out on the dancefloor and start getting it on - him still with jug in hand.

After about ten minutes, I'm fed up of making small talk, so nip in to drag him off while she's in the loo.

'Come on mate - we're leaving.'
'No we're fucking not - I'm going home with Sarah'
(Pause)
'Are you sure?'
'Yes'

Even when HER friends joined in and tried to persuade him it was a bad idea, he wasn't having any of it. I flounced out...

'On your head be it...'

Well, I reassured myself, I've done as much as can be expected and he seems to know what he's doing so maybe he likes that sort of lady. I went home and sank into a deep sleep.

Then I got a call at half-five in the morning.

'Snowy?' (his voice breaking with tears)
'Yes, what's up?'
'What.. what..' (sniffle) 'what the fuck happened to me?'
'You went home with a huge woman'
'I know, but... (sobbing) can you just come and get me - please?'
'At half five in the morning? Pissed? Where from anyway?'
'I don't know'
'Can't you find out?'
'No'
'Why?'
'I'd have to wake her up'
'So?'
'Last night, I tried to do her up the bum and she shat on me, and I don't think I can look her in the eye.'

I hung up.
(SnowyTheWereRabbit the Leporid from Hell, Wed 8 Apr 2009, 15:52, 5 replies)

Another day, another Orbital gig at the Brixton Academy.
Elated with my previous visit, except for the rave-zombies, i decided to venture back down to The London and see Orbital perform on their, 'in the round' tour. The gig itself was a bit shit if truth be told, compared to the previous carnage

Anyway, the gig finished at 2 or so and we decided to go to Quirky at The Vox.

This underground club actually scared me, the three of us sat in the inital bar area, and didn't move from it... we planned on getting the first train back to Derby.

I had taken some MDMA i had gotten from Amsterdam a few months previously and it began to hit hard, and generally make me more paranoid.

The music i could hear all night was good, but then all of a sudden it started to get VERY fucked up.

It sounded like an analogue bomb going off.

This, i HAD to get closer to. So i walked the 20 feet or so, i was previously too paranoid to walk, and entered the 'disco' proper.

The area was long, narrow and low. I was at the furthest end from the DJ and there was a throng os about 30 people standing, it was quite crowded.

The music sounded electric as the MDMA stirred faster.

All of a sudden the small crowd parted and a guy was literally spat out of it and landed on the floor at my feet, twitching and shaking. His eyes were looking straight up, unfocussed and filled with fear.

I seriously thought he was about to die.

The music had done this. Its intensity was such that he was simply thrown from the dancefloor, not dissimilar to being spun off a fast roundabout. Centrifugal Rave

I was amazed and shocked in equal parts. The guy eventually gets up and staggers off, probably home, as fast as he could. I meanwhile fetch my pals and tell them, 'its ok, sort of'. We get down towards the DJ to see just what on earth is making this 'music'...Think teh bastard child of Pan Sonic, Aphex and Spectrum loading noises.

There is a shadowy figure on stage with a dissected piece of equipment, its innards exposed to the claustraphobic cellar. He has various crocodile clips and wires attached to it and he keeps clipping and unclipping them, and every time he does the speakers scream and wail in analogue ecstacy.

It sounds fucking amazing, i love it.

I don't mind the pools of vomit or the mash head who's eyes have gone to Butlins and who's dancing makes Bez look like Bruce Forsyth doing the waltz AND she is a girl. Completely and utterly off her head, but loving every second of it.

The music continues to cleave the air...hardly any beats, just the relentless pursuit of debilitating frequencies and drones.

It was now time to leave, and i reluctantly dodged the vomit and made my way out, into the unfriendly London streets.

What a night, what an experience. I will never forget the guys face as he landed. Fear, confusion and madness. A scary combination.

That was 15 years ago, and i have never experienced such intensity since. Yes i've kept up with Aphex Twin, traversed the glacial sine waves of Pan Sonic and went head to head with Venetian Snares, but nothing has come close to the madness that presented itself that night at The Vox.
(Cancer Joy was short lived, Wed 8 Apr 2009, 15:43, 1 reply)

Malia Red Bull
We were in one those horrid fuckwit bars in Malia, all neon lights, red furniture, sunburnt clientelle and godawful music. The sort of bar where the DJ talks over the music constantly and the playing of Wake Me Up by Wham warrants a cheer from the low expectation having crowd.

We were genuinely having a great time.

Then in walked every holiday resorts nightmare, around 10 spiky haired lads in matching T-Shirts. You know, the ones with Baz the Shagger that kind of thing. They ordered what must have been 30 glasses of Vodka and Red Bull, the Ratboy drink of choice and commandeered a table covering it with glasses. (close your eyes and picture this table of glasses. It's relevant).

One of the Blazing squad had taken exception to my friend Matt, who stood 6'4". Normally a mistake, but in their drunken state, they rightly had safety in numbers. Matt laughed along quietly before taking two of the aforementioned glasses to the toliet with him, emerging a couple of minutes later with two glasses of steaming Vodka and Red Bull which were placed on the table.

The similarity between Vodka & Red Bull and Piss is uncanny and has to be more than coincidence. We then made a swift exit, but the thought of one of them drinking this then spitting it out covering at least of his friends is enough to make me smile.
(Peacocke, Wed 8 Apr 2009, 15:34, Reply)

The poshest nightclub in town
There's a certain nightclub in Brum* which is an indie club, but underground and filth. Maybe it's the pound vodka and cokes which taste like petrol, maybe its the crumbling black walls, but the place itself is skany. And quite good fun, despite or because of the skank, its better than a lot of the megaclubs such as Gatecrasher.

Anyway, a friend of mine used to work behind the bar, and saw his fair share of fights. Apparently, ever weekend without fail, someone would get their nose broken, or their face cut.

The worst fight he ever saw was between eight or so people right in front of his bar. Everyone was pissed and mardy for no reason, and everyone was going hell for leather. In the middle of this carnage, was a girl who had taken her stilleto shoes off, and was slamming the hell in a guy's face. He was trying to defend himself, but he refused to hit her back as she was a lady. The heel thus carved out great chunks of his face, narrowly missing his eyes. Every time it went in, it would gouge the flesh.

He quit after that night

*snobs for those who are interested
(Urban Hermit Exit, pursued by a bear on, Wed 8 Apr 2009, 15:33, 4 replies)

Undercover carrot has just reminded me…
I, as I’m sure you’ll be aware by now, have enough trouble staying vertical when sober. When drunk, it’s rather like strapping roller skates to a new born foal and sending them onto a floor covered in ball bearings…

To cut a long and tedious story for once down to a manageable size, whilst out for my 21st birthday in a nightclub, I took a teeny tiny tumble down the stairs. I was wearing a short skirt and a pair of fairly sturdy knickers (not daft, me). As I hauled myself up, trying to collect what was left of my dignity off the floor, I caught said knickers in a nail which was sticking up off the staircase. There was a ripping of fabric…

I ran to the toilets to inspect the damage to both my undies and my arse. It was at this point that while trying to explain what had happened to my (by now laughing hysterically) friend, I uttered the words…

“I just fell down the stairs and now I have a huge gash in my pants…”

Suffice to say, that particular comment is haunting me even now, almost 15 years later.
(Rakky (forgot her password) The muffin maverick, Wed 8 Apr 2009, 15:20, 12 replies)

The Ettiquette of Dealing With Wankers
"We're going to a club in Cardiff for New Year's Eve" my dearly beloved announces.

"OK", bit of a trek from London I think, but why not.

"By the way, it's a gay club I used to goto with the boys", my dearly beloved faghag continues.

"Um, Ok" - I'm not gay, I just don't get it, I don't emotionally understand why some blokes find other men attractive, but live and let live.



New Year's Eve arrives, and we get to Cardiff, a historic city, full of culture, and pissed up Welshmen and women, who seem very similar to their counterparts in pretty much every English city.

We arrive at the club, which is heaving, and meet up with her friends. All is good, and I easily get to the bar and grab a beer, mainly because most of the people there are off their tits on class As.

I have a few more drinks and visit the toilets, still early in the evening, no problem.

A few more beers, and an hour later I revisit to find the gents packed.

The urinal trough is fully utilised with blokes wanking each other off.

Now it's a gay club, they seem to be consenting adults, all seem to enjoying it from a cursory inspection, and it would be none of my business apart from one pressing problem. Four pints of beer are being quite insistent that I need a piss.

I'm bemused by the ettiquette in this situation, it is something 'Debrett's Guide for The Modern Gentleman' is curiously reticent about, especially given it's target audience, but I digress.

Working on the basis of discretion being the better part of valour, I return to my group of friends, and ask a club regular, Matt, where you find a loo if you actually want to use it for the intended purpose of micturition without becoming overly friendly with a group of E'd up bears.

Matt tells me to follow him, and we return to the original gents.

The scene, which would have caused heart failure in many a moral crusader, or brought back happy memories to a number of Tory MPs, hadn't changed.

Matt then bellows out:

"RIGHT YOU BUNCH OF WANKERS, GET OUT THE WAY, SOME OF US JUST WANT A PISS!"

It worked in terms of getting some room, though I did have to dodge the result of someone getting too excited next to me.

Turned out to be a top evening, but it was probably a good job I was 5 or 6 pints down at that point as I think I'd have been far too uptight sober to relax.
(Scooby Don't, Wed 8 Apr 2009, 15:11, 4 replies)

Quim! There!
I was once in one of Newcastle's classier* late night drinking establishments, of which there are many. It was a Wednesady night, which was student night. The particular special of the night was double vodka and cokes for £1.50. Now, myself and my esteemed colleagues (more about them in other posts if I can muster the courage) were not that fussy about the nature of the beverage, as long as it was cheap, so vast quantities of vodka and coke were purchased and drunk. Repeat....

Anyway, we were by no means the only people acceeding to the "let's get absolutely wankered on cheap russian falling over water". There were many ladies present, mostly being perved over by my mates. I took the opportunity to leave and have a slash. The toilets were off a short corridor from the main dancefloor. As I entered said corridor, a refreshed young lady came towards me, slipped and fell over. However...

1: Her legs went in opposite directions.
2: One heel got stuck in a crack between a floortile and the wall.
3: The other shoe went flying off.
4: She split her gusset.

So, there she was, lying in the birthing position, clunge on view to the general public, crying copiously.

So one of my mates (who had earlier been chatting her up) runs over.

...slips....

and manages to kick her clean in the flange.

We left.





*not really
( Undercovercarrot got done for gross misconduct on..., Wed 8 Apr 2009, 15:11, 9 replies)

Bad behaviour, inventive excuse...
Summer 2003, Oxford, a typical student night (in Park End, for those who know it) , £1 a pint, sweat pit, totally over-crowded, etc....

It was a friend of mine's round and he'd been queueing for ages and had got to the bar, only to be ignored by the barman for ages. He really needed to wee. He decided to subtly direct it against the bar, thinking no one would notice...

Of course, though, this was instantly picked up by people around him who reacted with disgust. Almost immediately, a bouncer spots what he's up to, grabs him, and carries him off from the first floor bar down the stairs and outside, peeing away happily all the way.

Hence me and a couple of friends following a laughing drunk's golden stream out of a busy nightclub and having to talk down a wee-covered 18 stone man out of 'taking him off somewhere quiet' and teaching him a lesson.

The excuse we used? This was the week Marc Vivien-Foe died, and my mate being African-born and looking 'footballer-ish' in terms of slightly dodgy bling-ish dress sense, we persuaded the Bouncers that he was Marc's cousin who was over in the UK having trials with lower-division teams.

He'd just heard the news and unfortunately it had sent him a bit loopy (plus he wasn't used to drinking much, being an athlete)and my mate who was also from Cameroon (well, he was also black, and they didn't question it, especially when he put on an accent) had invited him to Oxford for the night to come out for a drink and forget about it.

Obligingly, our loose-bladdered companion burst into tears at this point, perhaps realising he was in real danger of a pasting (and covered in wee) and the bouncers not only backed off, but one of them also gave him a pat on the back and commiserated with him.

'Marvellous footballer mate, marvellous... very sorry for you'.

Look, we were students, alright?
(SnowyTheWereRabbit the Leporid from Hell, Wed 8 Apr 2009, 15:02, Reply)

In which Rakky discovers alcohol and gets her first boyfriend...
In the world of science, we’re often taught not to confuse causation and correlation. But sometimes, one thing really does lead to another.

I’m at 6th form. I’m going out for the very first time to an Indie night at the Kingsway (or the KY as it was rechristened due to the amount of illicit shagging that used to happen in the toilets). I’m dressed to kill (or at least self-harm) in my best little frock, stripy tights and Doc Martens, hair freshly bleached and my nose ring polished. Up till this point, my drinking has been confined to a sip of someone else’s pint, or an Archers and lemonade that I could quite happily make last all evening. Basically I was a lightweight, both metaphorically and physically.

I enter the club, legs aquiver, wondering what joys will await me. I spot a friend at the far side of the dancefloor. My joy runs unconfined and I sprint across to greet her, with all the grace and coordination of a stunned ox.
Disaster strikes. Well, it would, wouldn’t it? I trip and fall; as I put my arm out to brace myself for the inevitable, I catch the heel of my hand on the edge of a banquette and with a sickening crunch, realize I’ve dislocated my shoulder. I grab the offending joint and wrench – it pops back in with a dull thud and I go a bit dizzy. My arm is hanging limply by my side and I suddenly discover that it’s now about as much use as Heather Mills in a three legged race. The adult Rakky would have excused herself and gone off to casualty as quickly as she could. But this is the teenage Rakky. The one who has planned for this night since she bought her first Suede album.

So, to kill the pain, I drank. In homage to Morrissey, I drank one, it became four. And when I fell on the floor I drank more.
It’s a bit blurry after that, but I do recall ending up sitting on the lap of that pretty blonde boy from my Physics class. He seemed to be looking after me and it was so comfy that I let myself relax… and… go… to… sleep…

Moments later I awoke to the awful feeling that I was in a washing machine, on spin cycle, strapped onto a roller coaster. I fixed my new found love with all the cross eyed power I could muster and whispered the words that every teenage boy who thinks he’s about to get some dreads to hear.

“Am gonna be sick…”

Like a knight in shining armor, he scooped me up (something that most men would these days find impossible) and ran across the dancefloor, straight into the ladies toilets, kicked some crying girl out of a cubicle and deposited me on the floor just in time for me to hurl like I have never hurled before. Or since.

Two of my friends came to find me and put me in a cab. I snuck into the house and passed out into a booze fuelled coma. The next morning my mum woke me and made me go shopping in Manchester. Not wanted to admit that her previously well behaved daughter had truly knackered her arm and also thrown up in a nightclub loo, I pretended that everything was okay. I pleaded a migraine when we got back and went to bed early. As I’m getting my jammies on, the phone rings. It’s the boy from last night! My mum explains that I’ve gone to bed early. He asks her to pass on his regards and he hopes that my arm is okay now. “Why?” asks my mum, “what’s wrong with her arm?”

The following 20 minute conversation was akin to what I imagine advanced army interrogation techniques must be like as my mum dragged the whole story out of a terrified teenage boy.
I was not allowed back to that nightclub for a while.

Oddly though, said boy went on to be my first boyfriend. We dated for 4 happy months before I became a hysterical neurotic and sent him screaming into the arms of a girl from my English class. And in a bizarre twist, he emailed me this morning after 15 years of no contact. I have naturally had to remind him of the incident.

My nightclub experiences have not really improved since then. Well, apart from Saturday when me and Rachelswipe managed to get a free bottle of Moet in a club on the King’s Road…
(Rakky (forgot her password) The muffin maverick, Wed 8 Apr 2009, 14:56, 2 replies)

Shockoe Bottom
Shockoe Bottom is an area in downtown Richmond that's full of bars and clubs of all sorts. It's in the lowest lying area of the city, so when the wind is from the south the smell of the sewage treatment plant permeates the area. The smell of Shockoe Bottom is a fragrant and heady mixture of sweat, perfume, cigarettes and beer, overlaid with a tinge of ass.

Saturday nights are fun if you're into people watching. (In fact, it's where this happened.) You get the hiphop crowd mixing with the chavs, middle aged couples out recapturing their youth (I've seen more fiftysomething women in miniskirts down there than I like to think about), miscellaneous college kids stumbling around, and far too many well-padded women in over-tight and over-revealing clothing shivering on cold nights or sweating on hot nights as they stumble over the uneven brick sidewalks in their heels. (In fact, one night as Richard and I were following a pair of these I commented quietly that there went five women on four legs. But that's another subject altogether.)

One of my favorite places (now closed, sadly) was called St. Somewhere, a seedy dive whose only redeeming feature was a rooftop patio where I could sit and watch the carnival below. There were picnic tables up there and a bartender with a few coolers stuffed with ice and beer- what more could I ask for?

One such Saturday night Richard and I were sitting up there after a game of pool when a woman a few years older than me appeared and asked if she and her friends could join us, as there were no empty tables. "Of course!" I replied, ignoring Richard's somewhat aghast expression. "Lotsa room, sit down."

She sat next to me, and a rather stunning brunette in a very short and tight white dress slid in next to Richard. A few moments later a rather camp guy minced over and perched next to the brunette, and a very pretty little woman with curly brown hair landed on the other side of the woman who had initially approached me. I grinned as I watched Richard getting increasingly flustered by the presence of the brunette pressed against his thigh.

Eventually the brunette had to go to the bathroom. Her friend scooted over to let her out, but she chose to swing her leg over the bench to stand rather than slide down, giving me a good look at her bright yellow smiley face thong. I think Richard could have lifted the table without using his hands at that point.

The gay guy went downstairs and returned with a round of shots for all. The curly haired woman got up and started dancing and sidled up to the railing directly behind me. As she passed I got a good look at a very pretty elfin face, and admired her slender waist and nicely rounded bottom swaying next to me. Now the table would have been raised from two sides.

The guy returned with another round for them all, and the curly haired woman danced back to the end of the table as the guy sat down. They all drank their shots, and as the dancing woman drank hers she slowly gyrated her hips lower until she was squatting down and only her hand was visible on the edge of the table. Suddenly the guy started cursing, and the woman next to me said, "Okay, come on, downstairs," as she lifted the curly haired woman to her feet. They vanished down the stairs as the guy stood, shaking his leg with a look of disgust. "Damn it, why do straight women always end up puking on me?"

Richard and I looked at each other and he made a gesture toward the street. I nodded. We got up and I said, "Sorry to hear that, dude. Got someone to take her home?"

"Yeah, she lives up on Church Hill. We'll get her there."

As we got ready to go the two women reappeared, and the older one sat in my vacated seat and got the curly haired girl to lay down with her head in her lap. As we left I heard the curly haired woman slur, "But I can't be drunk- I'm a dermatologist!"

Crap. Could have hooked up with a doctor, had she not been so wasted that it would have constituted date rape. Oh well.

As we walked away Richard said to me, "Okay, don't ever invite someone to sit with us again, all right?"

Dunno what he was complaining about. It was the best entertainment I've ever had down there...
( The Resident Loon Not a demographic. Do not measure., Wed 8 Apr 2009, 14:41, 4 replies)

told this a few years back - relavant today?
I was trashed one night on a stag doo in Magaluf this summer; we ended up in this empty'ish bar on BCM square with some quite good tunes playing. With the promise of some free drinks we hung around hoping the place would fill up. It didn’t. So we made the entertainment whilst the free drinks were distributed. Dancing away on the dance floor I decided to get my camera out to video the lads. Anyway, I got chatting to a mate mid film, when all of a sudden a girl on stage right next to me slammed my face with her hand... she was bitchy little 17 yr old with her pals celebrating their GCSE's and believing the world owed them.

I was angry and demanded an explanation for her punch, BANG!! she hit me again.... now I’m not the angry type, and in my usual stupid ideas thought if I could talk to this girl I could pull her.... BANG!! Another slap/punch. I was getting angry... I couldn’t hit her, so I turned to my mates...who in turn swiveled me round and said 'dance off'...... now I’m an ok dancer, but the fact I had drunk enough, that 10 minutes earlier I was pissing all over my leg proves that I couldn’t attempt to 'dance off' with anyone. There was a push from behind me followed by chanting of Dance off from my 'mates'. It then became apparent that she was in no better shape than me as she stumbled off the stage to my left and stood in front of me. I could win this I thought.... but no, she stepped back and let her friend take charge of the dancing... if anyone is familiar with the term 'bodyguard' you will be able to picture her standing before me...bigger than me.

At this point the crowd had doubled... from the lads I was with (10 or so) and her mates ( about another 10) there were even more people flooding in to the venue... all chanting dance off... word spread fats across BCM square as more people flooded in to see what the commotion was …..with a scratch of the record player a brief silence hit the bar, all of a sudden the unmistakable beats of 'its like that' by the Run DMC came on... we were indeed in an impromptu dance off situation, with the whole bar fixated on me and the body guard. I started limbering up like a boxer before the bell, rotating my shoulders and rocking my head from side to side giving the illusion I had done this at least once before... i hadn’t.

The crowd was now at 70 or more, with the circle at least 6 people deep and 30 wide around the dance floor.

She starts... 10 seconds of easy dancing followed, which I dually equaled and exceeded. We were winning. My mates were egging me on to go a step further than her….She then upped the tempo with some unusual moves, i followed just equaling them...then, to my dismay she pulled off the caterpillar... something I cannot do...how can i better that?

I looked around for inspiration, I found none.... I looked at my mates for advice, 'take your kecks off... she doesn’t have a cock....

It was like hypnotism... I immediately did what I as told... off went the kecks ..and the underpants.....

Then there was chanting … it was a like a bad dream…

“ what the fucking... what the fucking... what the fucking hell is that ....”

I was having a 'small' day. it was damp and shriveled due to my piss soaked pants... I have never been so embarrassed. I had lost...


When I got home I realized the girl hit me was because I was unknowingly filming her crotch from approx 3 inches away from it. Something I was totally unaware of at the time as I was looking the other way...bitch

Length?… its usually about 3-4 inches when asleep… he had shrunk to about 2 inches… a little alf’s nose.... the dance off lasted about 4 minutes
(Dan dan dan They tik urh jerbs!!!, Wed 8 Apr 2009, 14:35, 2 replies)

DJ Woes 2
Addendum to last post.

I've had all the stupid requests you could pretty much imagine (bar 'There's No-one Quite Like Grandma') as a DJ.

The two that stick out most are

a) 'Have you got anything from the charts'

and best/worst of all (delivered in a pained, plaintive tone)

b) 'Have you got anything....else?'

*cries*
( Monty Boyce, My cheese game is strong, Wed 8 Apr 2009, 14:35, Reply)

NIght clubs
I was working in a tiny horrible nightclub in west wales; i was 16 and hated the place. Over a few weeks we had seen a young lady coming in who was pregnant, she gradually was getting bigger and bigger as the weeks went by and one night when she was very drunk she went into labour on the dance floor. How very classy and dignified and as she had been drinking she couldn’t have any painkilling drugs. ha.
(full of beans, Wed 8 Apr 2009, 14:31, Reply)

HOW MY MUM ATE MY CUM
In a moment of sheer unadulterated madness my dad painted the Talbot Horizon in Hammerite. Gold Hammerite. Before this it was a perfectly good shitty old black car. I think he thought it would add a layer of protection. But it made the old banger look like something a bunch of gypsies wouldn't be seen dead in.

So, it was only slightly less embarrasing when my parents dropped me off in Northampton town centre and I had to walk to the club.

Dressed as fucking Batman.

Fair play, I got a few odd looks. One person may have remarked: "Why is that spotty, weedy little teenager dressed up like The Dark Knight - he looks emaciated." But fuck it. It really was less embarrasing than having my cred completely destroyed if they'd have dropped me off in the shit-mobile just outside the club.

Forties, Northampton - a great little place. And on this particular occasion they were running a fancy dress day (not strictly speaking a nightclub as we were all sixteen and seventeen). I rolled up to the entrance, the bored looking fella asked if I was here for the fancy dress party, I said: "No, I'm the avenger of Gotham, only I got a little bit lost on my way back from fucking up The Joker," I paid my two quid, and went inside.

And once past the incredibly lax security I found my group of mates, dressed as various superheros and villians, reached into my kegs and pulled out a hipflask bottle of finest Tescos gin.

No alcohol allowed, of course, but we'd all brought something along. And the following couple of hours, bouncing off the walls like twats in tights to the likes of 2 Unlimited, we got steadily more pissed.

And then my girlfriend turned up. A beautiful girlie named Fiona who looked fucking hot in her Supergirl outfit. Unlike most of the girls there she actually had breasts! Woo! It was a sight to behold seeing her jiggle and writhe to the latest bag of old toss from Kylie Minogue.

After a while I found myself sitting on a sofa with Fiona. Batman was desperately kneading Supergirl's knockers, trying to find the secret to giving a woman (well, a sixteen year old girl) an amazing orgasm by tweaking her nips like they were the dials on a radio.

This didn't work - but the mixture of gin, rum, and Jack Daniels seemed to have loosened Fiona's inhibitions somewhat.

"Let's go to the toilets," she slobbered in my ear.

And we did. We went to the ladies bogs on account of me being the perfect gentleman. We found a booth, staggered and swayed inside and locked the door.

And I said, being the perfect gentleman and worldy about the ways of women: "Can I stick it in you?"

Fiona shook her head 'no'. "But we can do something else..." And she slid down my weedy little body, playing her fingers across my bat emblem, and unzipped my fly. And proceeded to suck me off. Thinking back now, it was fucking crap. But at the time it was the first time anyone else had put my cock in their mouth. (I don't count the time I managed to suck my own cock when I was fourteen and managed to put my back out, and Daisy was technically a female, but she was an Alsatian, so that probably doesn't count).

I remember bracing my hands against the walls of the booth and looking down at Fiona's manically bobbing head. It was ace! And, after about thirty seconds of this intense sucking action, I did something I've since learned not to do. I ejaculated a thick load into her mouth - only I didn't give her the curt "I'm gonna cum!" warning first. I simply put my head back, made my best cum face, and squirted like a fire engine spurting out flame retardent foam on a forest fire.

And Fiona gagged.

And Fiona spurted cum out of her nose as she went to stand up and deposited a load of snot-mixed-with-cum all over the torso of my lovely, pristine Batman costume.

Wipeing cum from her lips, still gagging, she advised me that was the first time she'd ever done this. Well, I just hope whoever she's with now at least gives her a polite tap on the head before he spurts.

Anyway, we sort ourselves out and leave the bogs. Having had an orgasm I had no further use for my girlfriend (I was a shit back then), so I made my excuses and went back to my gaggle of mates to show off and tell them how much of a fucking stud I was.

And in no time at all its time to go. The lights come up, the staff close the bar (selling pop and crisps), and the bloke who owns the place wonders why the hell there are shitloads of empty booze bottles littering the place.

And I stagger outside, go round the corner, and see the shit-mobile. My mum and dad inside patiently waiting for me.

I step inside, trying not to appear pissed.

"You ok, Spanky?" asks my mum. I nod. "What on Earth have you got all over you?" Oh, shit! I'd completely forgotten about the snot/cum combo. "Is that food? Here," and in terrible, awful slow motion my mum pulls out a hanky, dabs it to her lips and wets it with her tongue, and starts to pat me down. And as my eyes go wider she returns the hanky to her mouth, dabs it with her tonge again, and carries on patting and fussing over me.

"How on Earth do you get yourself so messy all the time?" She ponders for a moment: "Hmmm, tastes like thousand island dressing - why on Earth would they have this sort of food at a childrens disco. Don't the organisers know how much dry cleaning costs...?"

And I just laugh nervously and my dad puts the Talbot Horizon in gear and we go clunking off into the night.
( SpankyHanky, Wed 8 Apr 2009, 14:31, 13 replies)

My first experience of clubbing - was not a happy one.
Karisma - Doncaster, South Yorkshire.. 1999 - Aged 17 :D

I wasnt really a social person when I was 17. I was working part time as a junior IT techy for an office. There was a few going out after work one Friday and I was invited along. I was saying no, but they insisted. This was to be my first time of "Going down town"

Back then, I hadn't developed my tolerance for drinking Beer. It was disgusting. So I was drinking Cider all night. The night was going well, and after a number of pubs, we ended up in the night club. But of course it hadn't take me too long to get completely and utterly wasted to the point of incomprehension. You know how it is, everything sounds weired. The place is spinning like crazy, past feeling tipsy, now just out of control, but rather unwell. I guess they call it.. paraletic!
From this point, things went a bit hazy. I remember going to the toilets. Then remember looking up at a couple of burley bouncers as I had, yes, managed to pass out on the bog! I then remember being escorted out of the club, and had sick on my shoe. Then I remember the feel of cold air hitting me and the door of the club closing firmly behind me.

I had no way of telling my friends still inside that I was now outside, and couldnt be bothered to wait, so decided to head off for a taxi home.

To be honest, I had no idea where I was going or what the hell I was doing. As Im walking along, Im becoming aware of a guy walking next to me talking to me about stuff.
He was an older guy and I was talking to him about being thrown out of the nightclub.
I became aware of him saying "Do you want to make 10 quid?" I said "err.. what?" and he responded with "Its OK, I won't hurt you."

Then it struck me.. I practically heard the sound of a record slipping, and was instantly whacked back into a sober reality. Like a light switching, I suddenly became aware of the situation I was in.

I looked around, I was heading towards a dark market place, away from everything.
Bang! 'Shit, im in trouble here' I thought to myself.
"Ahh no no! Im not into any of that mate" I said.
In an attempt to convince me otherwise, he upped the offer price to £20.
"Nahh. seriously just hang around here im sure someone will come along who would love to"
and at that moment. I ran... and ran.. all the way home. I guess I was lucky he didnt manage to grab hold of me to be honest.

And to really cap the night off, "Home" was 9 miles away - in which I actually went the wrong way making it 13 miles away.

Everyone at work the next week thought it was fucking hillarious! And to be quite honest I'm now rather offended that some guy thought my ass was only worth a tenner.
(Miggyman, Wed 8 Apr 2009, 14:31, 1 reply)

Happy Hat
When I was about 16 my best friend and I used to be regulars at a certain club in our town.
It was a very smelly place with stalagtites growing from the ceiling and floors which dissolved your shoes.
On one particular night I came across a person wearing a party hat. I thought it was a strange thing to wear in a club, then forgot about it.
A little later in the night I saw a different person wearing the same hat. Then later on a different person again.
I soon realised that this hat seemed to be passed on from person to person and also that everyone who wore it looked immensly happy.
I asked around, trying to find out more information about this magical head-wear but no-one appeared to know where it came from or why it was so special.
All they did know was its name.
Happy Hat.
From that moment I knew that I had to wear it!

I began my quest, desperately trying to grasp my prize but everytime it came within my reach, it was passed on again.
After a while I gave up hope. It was just too hard, I'd have to live with the fact that I'd never have my life fulfilled.
But as I returned to my friends I realised that they had the hat! I was overcome with joy! I would finally have this wonderful item and I knew that it would be the happiest moment of my life.

But what I didn't know at this point was that my friend who had the hat had been drinking all night.
And that she had been feeling fairly sick for a while now.
And that she was too considerate to empty the contents of her stomach onto the already grotty floor.
And that is the story of how Happy Hat became Sick Bucket.
( Mellicious is made of candy, Wed 8 Apr 2009, 14:30, Reply)

Blatant Pearoast
Binge drinking is bad.
As a former nightclub doorman i have ssen many things that could make you blush and quite a few that could mmake you hurl. This story is one of the latter and I apologise in advance

Come closing time at a very famous Australian chain bar in Birmingham, I was clearing the toilets af the straggling customers. In the ladies after everyone departed I realised that one of the cubicles was locked. So I perched myself on the adjoining toilet to enable me to see over the partition. Upon looking into the cubicel I find the following. A young lady in her early twenties asleep on the loo. Knickers round her ankles, she has also been sick, however the vomit is nicly perched in her underwear. My colleague and i decided to wake her up without knocking the door down so as to avoid startling her. So we went and got a pint of water which was mpassed to me to tip over the cubicle wall. So I clamber back onto the toilet and proceed to tip the water over the poor girl. At which point she comes too.

"Sorry hun were closed" says I

"Ok no probs" says lady.

Then the unthinkable without checking she yanks the vomit filled undies up takes two steps out of the cubicle, realises what is going on bursts into tears and runs out the front door. My colleague and I are laughing so hard that I fall off the toilet that im standing on into him breaking his wrist.

hehehehehehehe

She came back the next week.

More posts to follow.
(kickstandrich last had sex with your mum/sister/wife/daughter on, Wed 8 Apr 2009, 14:28, 1 reply)

Tiptoe through the tulips
I was once in a strange nightclub in Norwich, and very, very drunk.

I decided it would be rather nice to have a big spliff. But, alas, I discovered I was down to my last rizla! Anyone sober, at this point, would either have settled for a small reefer or given up.

I, on the other hand, decided to make a tulip.

For those unfamiliar, a tulip is formed by making a cardboard tube out of the front of your rizla packet, then sticking your rolling paper back in on itself to form a package, filling said package with dope and tobacco, then inserting said tube into said package, tying the neck with "string" made out of cigarette packet foil, and then flipping the execess paper back up round the bulb, forming a flower.

It's not an easy thing to do. And the result is pretty impressive. So I was particularly amazed by the fact I pulled it off whilst completely rat-arsed. I got a good back-slapping round of congratulations from my mates, sat back, and lit the thing up.

At that point I became aware of two things.

Firstly, most of the people in the nightclub had stopped dancing and had come to sit in a big circle round our table.

Second, there was a tremendously nervous nightclub employee hovering over me, offering the following advice ...

"The management don't really mind if you do that in here, sir, but ... could you be just a little bit more discreet?"
(MattDP (Squiggle), Wed 8 Apr 2009, 14:23, Reply)

Christ
I spent ten years DJing around London - some highs (e.g. playing to a 3000 capacity warehouse) to such terrible, terrible lows...

When I started I got a Wednesday night spot in a trendy bar on Caledonian Road, Islington. The guys whose bar it was
would routinely take bookings for birthdays. What this meant was some poor sod would basically give them £100 to bring loads of punters into the bar. No cordoned-off area, no 'closed - private party'. Nothing.

They got a DJ. Whatever style of music they asked for was greeted with a 'yes, sure, no problem'. I would then get booked.

On the night (and this happened a good few times), a few records in, the same poor sod would come over and say 'but this isn't [insert type of music here: say, gay disco]!' to which I would reply 'Well done! You are absolutely correct!'.

*EDIT: I must insert here that the owners would not tell me they'd agreed to gay disco or whatever - I'm not a spiteful cunt, I 'd just turn up with my regular records*

I've had a gaggle of about 12 pretty young women crying in front of me because I didn't have any 80s pop hits.

Ego boost that, believe me.
( Monty Boyce, My cheese game is strong, Wed 8 Apr 2009, 14:22, Reply)

A wonderful moment
After a formal(ish) dinner with my university's Physics Society, myself and a fellow student took some chemical enhancers and went out to the local dive rock club, still wearing our dinner jackets and bow ties.

On our way to the bar, we were met with many "nice suit!"s and "aren't you a bit overdressed?"s. When we got to the bar, two girls looked me up and down. They asked why I was wearing what I was, I told them. They looked at each other with expressions I can only describe as mischievious.

One said "I've always wanted to kiss someone with a bow tie on."

"Yeah, me too."

They turned back to me and before I could utter my reply (which was to be of such dazzling wit and charisma that their clothes literally flew off and exploded like the fire of a thousand suns) the first one had grabbed me by the tie, yanked me a foot downwards towards her face and wrapped her tongue round my tonsils.

After a few intense seconds of resisting my gag reflex and trying not to throw up in this girl's mouth, she let me go. I caught my breath and attempted another quip of such irresistable charm that it would cause fainting fits among male body-building champions, but before I could utter anything, the second one had grabbed me by the tie and repeated the drag-downwards-and-suffocate motion that the first had demonstrated so successfully. Her tongue traversed my mouth with the ease of a tumble-drier going through the motions, and then she broke away.

Now's my chance! thought I, and opened my mouth to deliver a line in which the magnitude of intelligence and fortitude demonstrated would immediately have convinced every woman in the room that I was the perfect father to each and every child all of them would ever have.

"So... come here often?"

Ah, fuck.
(cypherspace is not a toaster, Wed 8 Apr 2009, 14:17, 6 replies)

I'm dancing with the man in the mirror.
It was a dreadful meat market in London somewhere and I drunkenly waded through the packed dance floor in search of the toilet, scuffing shoes and fraying tempers as I stepped all over the cattle that grazed greedily on one another.

I'd received a few cuffs about the head as wayward arms were slung wildly around roughly in time to whatever gibberish was being forced through the too loud speakers. This, in combination with the copious alcohol coursing through my tiny frame conspired to push dizziness into my brain and sickness into my gut.

The dance floor looked to go on for miles and I ventured to what I believed to be the middle when some bald joker stood square in my way. Being kind as I am I moved aside and gestured him to pass, but the drunken fuckwit copied me exactly. "Fine" I thought and attempted to manoeuvre around him the other way, only for the grinning simpleton to lurch stupidly into my path yet again.

Growing quickly tired of this idiocy I looked into his half closed, bloodshot eyes and leaned in to ask politely if he'd allow me to pass and continue my quest to find the toilets. It was at this point that I head butted the mirror I'd seemingly been dancing about in front of for the past few minutes and clumsily stumbled back into the crowd of wobbly revellers behind me.

I'm such a dopey cock sometimes.
( Moey, Wed 8 Apr 2009, 14:01, 1 reply)