southern discomfort
so one night after a particularly messy breakup, i decided to ingest a heroic amount of southern comfort, and go for a boogie, possibly even get me some strange tail. in this vein i joined a mate on a trip to the electric ballroom in camden.
i managed to, without really thinking, put down a whole bottle en route in the car from reading- so maybe 35 mins? this was unwise. i don't even remember paying let alone going in. the first thing i remember with any clarity is my sudden jolt into wakefulness as the pavement rose up and clocked me one. i remember thinking to myself that this was rather uncalled-for. as the time passed, i started to piece together things.. it was november, i had brought a jacket but it was in the locked car... as was the phone i would have used to call the person with the keys. it was FECKING cold. after some rather emphatic, brightly coloured and chunky demonstrations of my obvious alcohol poisoning, i slumped into a wretched shivering heap outisde. periodically, a bouncer would kick me and remind me i couldn't sit there, which prompted either a slurred mumble or a further eruption of bile and half-digested chips. chips?? ahh.. yes. i remember, i bought chips, ate half a pack, fell asleep in the chair and THAT was how i woke up faceplanting- the helpful turkish kebab shop owners had seen fit to forcible eject me down the small steps outside the shop!
i sat there for four fucking hours while my mates partied inside, then when they came out they let me back in the car and i passed out.
the next day, i was informed exactly how i got to be outside.
i walked in, gobbed off at the bouncer, spent half an hour in the loo making noises like someone emptying a septic tank with a dyson, came back out, ordered a double, necked it, copped off with a tasty indian girl, tried to dance, bust out some ridiculous moves, then did my best impression of linda blair form the exorcist, and was ejected.
smoothly done loaf
smoothly done.
(UppityDamnPrimate LET'S OPEN THIS F*CKING PIT UP, Sat 11 Apr 2009, 16:49, 1 reply)

I was in Fabric the other week...
There was this guy in an anorak on the dancefloor looking real shifty, he had the hood covering his face and all. He had formed a little circle around him because nobody wanted to be standing next to this weird guy who was just nodding along.

I think it was DJ Hazard playing and as soon as he unleashed a huge drop the guy rips off his anorak and is covered in war paint. he just starts raving like a madman! It went from a stunned atmosphere to complete mayhem! Quite sick.

Also same night, saw a girl getting licked out in the middle of the dancefloor... a crowd surrounding these two people on the floor. Weird sight when you're still rushing.

Spor played a destructive set that night as well.
(neorockz :), Sat 11 Apr 2009, 16:29, 3 replies)

Medication and alcohol don't mix
Some night in October/November 2007, and it’s the Nottingham Trent University’s fresher’s ball. It’s also the most wasted I have ever been. Much of this night I do not remember and I’ve had to rely on eye witness reports.

The evening starts well, everyone is having pre party drinks whilst digging out their best formal evening wear/recycling their sixth form prom clothes, totally unaware of the terror that will soon strike the students union. Me.

I’m usually quite a good drunk. I just get a bit loud and very brummie, but tend to hold my composure quite well. Tonight however was to be a bit different. I don’t usually take pain killers of any kind unless I feel I really need to, and I didn’t want this night being ruined by a bastard headache, so opted to pop some pain pills. These were no ordinary paracetamol though. This was my mother’s prescription co-drydamol that I’d nicked, which was all I had on hand from the last time I was dying and we were out of standard pain killers. I really should have known better than to take prescription drugs whilst drinking, but I was already slightly tipsy and it just didn’t occur to me how much this could possibly amplify the effects of the alcohol.

I really should have stopped as soon as I noticed how fast this was going to my head. After leaving our flat for our mate, Ste’s flat, I was pretty drunk. By the time we got to his, I was wasted. I’d only had a few vodka and cokes and maybe a beer or two. I think the others realised how drunk I was when I threw up in his flat (leading to all his HOT flatmates hating me). This lead to my alcohol being confiscated which I must say I wasn’t best pleased about and seem to remember moaning about it for quite some time before tracking down some Strongbow (eurgh).

Now fast forward a little a bit, and we are queuing up outside the students union. This signals my last memory of the night, and thankfully so. After this is just a few flashes of entering and buying a drink... and then nothing.

The rest of the night went something like this:

• Drink a random person’s drink

• Stroke a strangers face, face off style

• Drink another random person’s drink

• More face stroking

• Try to have a conversation with security, almost getting myself kicked out but being dragged away from by friends before saying anything I’d regret

• Probably more face stroking and drink stealing

• Proceeding to whip my Jolly Todger out for a crafty wank. In the middle of the Union. With my friend Ash asking me to put it away (everyone else left us there, probably out of embarrassment), to which I replied “Oooh but I want to *sad face*”. I think some nearby girls found this quite amusing, and apparently someone threatened to call the police (But come on... is it really that bad?)

• Being refused a lift back from Chris as he didn’t trust me being in the back of his car. My lovely new Uni friends, being the kind generous souls that they are, shoved me into a taxi by myself in the vain hope that I may actually make it back to the halls. I did, at the cost of all my money and what self respect I might have had left at this point.

This story is pretty open to a length joke. But I’ll refrain.

Peace and love

Edit: As soon as I got back, I tried to cook some cheese in the microwave. Didn't really go to plan apparently.
(Poodles! MCCCXXXVII, Sat 11 Apr 2009, 15:23, 1 reply)

Nottingham Trent Union
I'll make this as quick and painless as possible. This story still makes me writhe with embarrassment and joy in equal measure.

It was while I was visiting a friend who went to Nottingham Trent University that we found ourselves in the union club there. He lived in Halls at the time which were very close to the union indeed and, naturally, we had a few drinks before heading out.

On arrival we had a few more drinks. In quick succession as I (barely) recall. On heading down to the dance floor I found myself with a friend in a massive queue for a bar selling only double vodka red bulls. This was unacceptable and I remarked upon this to a companion.

"J, this is crap mate. The queue's massive. Let's grab two, sink them, then hit the floor"

He concurred. And we did so.

If it hasn't been mentioned already I am a terrible lightweight so by this point I was getting out of my tree. I had never had a double vodka red bull before (and funnily enough have not drunk one since) let alone two in one foul sitting. After a couple of hours thrashing on the dance floor we made our way back to the flat.

I was in the sleepy stage of my drunkeness and was languishing on the kitchen table when it became clear that something was heading up the down pipe (no not my rear!). My friends looked on, aghast, as I stumbled to the window, hurled it open and unleashed a torrent of extra chunky rainbow gravy onto the open kitchen window below.

As if this wasn't bad enough it then rebounded and headed towards the street below straight onto the heads of some innocent bystanders one of whom was heard to remark (I shit you not)

"Oh no! Is it raining?"

I don't remember much from that night but that is ingrained upon my memory forever.
(vibrating tuna, Sat 11 Apr 2009, 15:09, 3 replies)

Malta.
I was in Malta with a mate when I was 16 or soo. It was my first no-parents holiday, well, kindda, they were there, but they were staying in the next town while we stayed by some harbour with loads of clubs.

So we go out, get pissed, and decide to find some girls. I went for the "Ask everyone, someone's gotta go with this poor desperate virgin" approach, and got turned down time-and-time again. That was until I got talking to a girl at a bar, I can't remember what we spoke about, but after about 15 minutes this big bloke sits down next to her. I sware he was twice my height and three times my width, in biker gear.

He turns to me in his easten-european accent and says
"You like girl?",
"yeah?",
"You like man?",
"hahha, what?",
"You like man, no?",
"haha, what?",
"This is my girl, you can watch us, when I am finished, you can play.",
"haha, you're joking, right?.

I then make my retreat and we moved onto another club.
( G/PP 💩💩💩💩💩&#128, Sat 11 Apr 2009, 15:04, 1 reply)

My 18th birthday, the Krazyhouse.
The Krazyhouse has been mentioned once or twice in previous answers, basically what the scallywags of Liverpool would refer to as a "goth nest" or something equally absurd/far off the mark. It has a reputation (deservingly so) of being fairly filthy, the toilets of floor 3 in particular.

My birthday was on a thursday night, fairly big student night in Liverpool. I was supposed to be up at 6.30 am the next morning for 6th form.

It's "241" on all drinks in there. Coupled with £1.25 pints in our starting place of choice messiness was *somewhat* inevitable.

Got to The Krazyhouse about 12.30-1 ish. Memory goes completely and utterly blank at about 2. It was supposed to shut at either 3 or 4, I can't remember which, not that it matters...

Next thing I can remember is the alarm of my phone going off at 6.30 and waking up. My first thought was that my mum had woken me up " Mum, what are doing in the Krazyhouse?" 2nd thought? "Oh shit, what I am still doing in the Krazyhouse?" 3rd thought? "Oh fuck, my mum isn't actually here. What am I supposed to do?"

I checked my phone to see dozens of missed calls and texts from my mates, who had spent most of the night searching for me before the bouncers chucked everyone (bar me, of course) out. I text a mate of mine "Where are you? I think I am still in the K." His response "at home, about to get ready for school. are you locked in?"

Yes I was locked in. Now with hindsight this could have been excellent, completely unguarded bars and except the slight headache no hang over. But I still had it in my mind that I could get to school in time for biology and therefore tried to escape. There was no way out. I even went into some sort of cellar/basement which was full of wires, clambered about in a labyrinth of a night club for a good 30 minutes to no avail, then disaster a door shuts behind me and I can't open it. I am trapped on a stairwell. But I'm in luck, there is a fire exit down the stairs. I force it open only to be met by shutters on the other side and a deafening alarm.

Here I am at about 7.30 in the morning, locked in a club that shut about 4 hours ago throwing mongy shapes around to the burglar alarm having a whale of a time. But alas, I scratch my head and then notice that my hand is now covered in blood. I didn't have a slight hangover headache I had a gash on the back of my head akin to the average female krazyhouse goer's clunge. I needed to act fast and with guaranteed results to get out. Who was I gonna call? Ghostbusters? Maureen? The men with moustaches? The police? Nah, fuck them. I was going to call my mum.

Opening the phone call with the line "Don't panic, but I am locked in a club covered in my own blood. I feel sound though, not even hungover" She was not as impressed with my ability to not feel rough after drinking as I thought she would be. True to form she came through and convinced me to call the police.

An hour later they turned up with the manager and let me out. The manager's first words to me? "Don't worry lad, you aren't the first and won't be the last"

After going to the hospital to get stitched up I stroll home around 11.30 in the morning where I was awaiting my mum's fury. Did she greet me warmly claiming to have been worried sick? Did she balls. Did she even shout at me for being such a tit? Did she balls. She just laughed in my face and said "good night, then?

No-one knows how I lost consciousness, no-one even knows where I was for the bouncers not to find me. I been back several times to try and find the magical stairwell I got locked on to no avail.

I was tempted to jump the bus into school for my english lesson/the adulation I would receive from my mates for pulling an all nighter in "the K". Nothing like studying some metaphysical poetry in the afternoon after raving to a burglar alarm in the morning.
(ste_mc_efc, Sat 11 Apr 2009, 14:38, 1 reply)

Mariscos, Woolacombe
I've been to some shit clubs in my time (think Fab Cafe, Leeds) but this shit hole in the seaside townlet of Woolacombe where we had gone surfing put an end to them all.

The first warning sign should have come when some seedy fella sidles up to a friend of ours (who was not single) and sniffs her quite deeply from boobs to head before commenting "You smell nice". She laughed in his horrible features.

Another thing that I saw which should have warned me as to the quality of the establishment was the Fritzl-a-like who eyed up a particularly trampy looking girl across the dance floor, poured Becks into his hand, used it to slick back his already greasy hair and moved in for the kill.

I think he might even have pulled.
(vibrating tuna, Sat 11 Apr 2009, 12:44, Reply)

Best thing I overheard in a nightclub
that wasn't said by me... What? Oh.

The dancefloor of the Subway, Edinburgh Cowgate. Said to my incredibly large breasted friend (seriously, big as your head).

"Scuse me love, you've got MASSIVE tits."

"Jesus Christ, tell me something I don't know..."

*pause*

"Okay, Rhinos have a gestation period of two years. Bet you didn't know that!"

*stunned silence*


Who said the art of seduction was dead?
(Rakky (forgot her password) The muffin maverick, Sat 11 Apr 2009, 12:39, 8 replies)

Sankey's "soap"
Sankey’s Soap, in Ancoats, Manchester. Great club, in the main, great music, ecclectic crowd...

A very chilled but slighly chemically twitchy evening was unfolding, and I was glad to be in the club after the fuckwit-neanderthal-gautlet which was the way in. About half way through the night I was wandering upstairs trying to gather up the folks for a dance downstairs – DJ Shadow’s set was hotting up – when I spied a good looking but jaded girl flashing her breasts. As I was on a pill, the clumsy drunken seduction was pretty much lost on me, and many others I must say, but most of the men were nonetheless transfixed. Curiosity got the better of me and I leaned against a nearby speaker to see what would develop. You could tell by the atmosphere in the place – booze soaked heat – that something was going to happen here. Sure enough, within seconds it seemed, a bloke had risen to the bait and they were at each other’s mouths kissing vigorously. After a minute of this, as if it had been planned in advance, the woman lifted up her skimpy skirt and the willing bloke stuck it in her – right on the dance floor! I tried not to look shocked, or even move my head too quickly in any direction, as these small gestures are the ones that can earn you a beating amongst folks that fùck on dance floors. To my shame, I think I even played along with the scumbags around me, miming their jealousy. What really got me about the scene was the look in their eyes – here they were having intercourse in public and what did their eyes say? Nothing. Like the blank, twitchy stare of a wildebeest rutting away. Not human. I always think back to that when I meet the occaional hard-core clubber who goes on about clubbing being the new religion, or the potential saviour of society...
(impossibly witty twat No, YOUR Mum etc etc, Sat 11 Apr 2009, 9:51, 1 reply)

Mudd Club
Aberdeen. Legendary. If you speak to people in their late 20s-early 30s about it, a misty, faraway look settles upon them.

It was BOSS.
(McChinaman banned, Sat 11 Apr 2009, 7:29, 5 replies)

who remembers the time
griminal got bottled by tempz at eskimo dance?
(papa bouba slap your face, Sat 11 Apr 2009, 3:10, Reply)

The Leadmill, Sheffield
I used to go to the Leadmill fairly often when I was an undergrad. Interesting place. In my first year the girl I was then dating was aggressively pawed up in the ladies by a mutton chopped whiskery lesbian. In my second year I narrowly missed being sprayed with baby batter after a young gentleman received a hand shandy from a young lady on the dance floor.

In my third year things, relatively, improved. One night I was in there with some friends and we got talking to two girls.

Girl A was short and squat, with a shaven head, wearing a Chris Waddle t-shirt. She was trashed.

Girl B was tall and pretty damned attractive, aside from the ridiculous Ugg boots she was wearing. She was also trashed.

After a while of drunken shouting at each other and dancing, Girl A said to me 'Girl B likes you'. Wahey thinks I. Tonight I at least stand a half chance of deeply unsatisfactory drunken sex which tomorrow morning I probably won't be able to remember clearly.

I moved closer to Girl B, the rhythm of our dancing merging like two drunk polar bears on ice-skates skating over a glass floor covered in marbles. My hand found hers, her lipstick smeared mouth parted to give the briefest toothy smile. She gazed into my eyes and shouted at me. I shouted back, subtly manoeuvring her away from my friends and her friend, who was now doing the internationally recognised Charades move for sexy time. I moved in to kiss her, my hand brushing her hair, feeling the softness of her tongue as it brushed against mine, the taste of cigarettes, stale vodka and vomit that permeated her mouth. I pulled away, an awkward half smile on my face as I tried to remember whether or not I had eaten carrot earlier, or whether I had collected an unwanted bilious traveller. She looked at me, patted me gently on the crotch and demurely asked me if I would like to come back to hers for some coffee and a frank exchange of views. Like a gentleman, I accepted.

She then turned to Girl A to tell her she was leaving, just as Girl A was sparking up a cigarette. Girl B tripped on her Ugg boots, and headbutted Girl A right in the mouth. The sparks from the cigarette flew all over the place. Girl A staggered and then fell back, followed shortly by Girl B who collapse on top of her, and then vomited. Again.

I went home alone.
(Zapiola zip-zap-zop, Sat 11 Apr 2009, 2:16, 7 replies)

Club Araoz, Buenos Aires
Club Araoz was famous amongst the foreign (mostly American) students at the Universidad de Buenos Aires for having a relatively decent hip-hop night. I'm not a great fan of hip-hop, but at the time I was dating an American girl who was, so that meant that every Thursday night I was dragged to a battered looking building to enjoy myself watching Argentine breakdancers and dancing, after a fashion, to hip-hop.

One Thursday we all piled up there and got in. The Australian guy we were friends with disappeared and shortly afterwards came back with a cricket ball sized chunk of cocaine. The American frat boy students went wild and spent the rest of the night with their eyes on stalks. My girlfriend and I stuck to vodka.

Anyway, this Argentine guy came up and started hitting on my girlfriend, I politely made it clear that she was with me, but his friends were watching so he started to make a big deal out of things. He was about 5ft 2, I'm a shade under 6t 6. After a certain amount of swearing in Spanish and English he buggered off and the girlfriend and I toddled back to the bar to get more drinks.

She then decided she wanted to dance again, whereas I didn't, so I leant over the railing holding my drink, entering into a semi-conscious drunk reverie whilst watching my lady gyrate most pleasingly.

The next thing I remember I a sharp pain in my arse and dropping my drink. The Argentine guy from earlier on had decided to get revenge, and being on god knows what concoction of drugs had spotted me leaning over and had reached down the back of my trousers and jammed his finger into my arse.

I was, to say the least, a little shocked by this, as was he when I punched him in the face seconds before the bouncers got to him and kicked the living shit out of him all the way to the door.

On the bright side I did get free drinks that night and free entry for me and my girlfriend for the next few times we went.

Not entirely sure it was worth it though.

Length? Enough to hurt.
(Zapiola zip-zap-zop, Sat 11 Apr 2009, 1:43, 3 replies)

CROSSED WIRES
Sharing a flat with a woman makes you a bit gay.

That's what I was thinking when Sarah shouted for me to come and help her in the bathroom. I went in and found her with her head bent over the sink, wet, wearing a dressing gown and looking rough as a robbers dog.

"Can you put this on for me, please?" she asked, waving a bottle round, her eyes closed shut tightly as she washed her golden locks.

"What is it?"

"A face pack," Sarah could tell I was less than enthusiatic. "Well, you don't want us to be late do you? If you put it on while I'm doing my hair we'll get there quicker."

Fair enough. I grabbed the bottle and plastered her face in green gunk then fucked off to my own room to get into my clubbing gear.

An hour later Sarah was eventually ready, the taxi had arrived, and we left. I'd already downed a bottle of sherry and was feeling really rather chipper.

When we got to the club Sarah paired off with her boyfriend - a neanderthal in a shirt named Paul. I met up with my own girlfriend, Emma.

And a fine time was had by all.

Until, rather like watching a car crash, I was compelled to watch my mate Sarah and her brutish cunt of a boyfriend have an absolute barney in the centre of the dancefloor. Sarah was pushing him, he pushed her back. Voices were raised. It was like watching an episode of Jerry Springer. Eventually the cunt Paul smacked Sarah hard in the gob. The fucking cunt. Sarah fell back hard and hit her arse on the dancefloor. She actually bounced.

I went over and gave Paul a playful smack in the gob in return, told him to pick on someone his own size, and led my mate, Sarah, away by the arm.

She was crying: "I just wanna go home, Spanky," she said.

I nodded and held her hand and we made our way towards the exit. But the cunt Paul was loitering there. Fuck. Don't want any trouble. I'd caught him off guard before but this fella was twice my size and could fucking murder me in his sleep.

"Let's go the back way," I suggest. And we do. Moments later we're round the back of the club. I lead Sarah up the narrow alleyway and back out onto the main street. I hail a cab and pack her off back home.

"Thanks, Spanky - you're a real mate," she says as I close the cab door and off she goes into the night nursing a blackeye and a bruised cheek.

I turn and stomp back towards the club. I wasn't really in the mood for going back in but Emma, my girlfriend, was inside and she'd be pissed with me if I just disappeared.

Eventually after a shitload of queueing I get back inside. I find Emma and, yep, she's pissed with me.

"Where the fuck did you disappeare to?" She asks.

And I explain:

"Sarah had a row with Paul, she was feeling pretty vulnerable so I took her up the back passage. Now she's in a taxi going home. She's feeling pretty shitty with herself... I think she really hurt her arse."

"YOU FUCKING WHAT???"

I think about what I just said: "No, I meant I took her round the back entrance."

I really wasn't helping my cause. Emma just stared at me and fumed like she was about to go volcanic and kill me with her laserbeam stare. Or just twat me.

"Oh, come on, Emma!" I plead. "Sarah's just a mate, nothing more - I mean, I even gave her a facial before we left the flat this evening..."
( SpankyHanky, Sat 11 Apr 2009, 1:25, 12 replies)

FFS
The mention of Clatty Pats below reminds me of a terrible, terrible story from my being a student many, many moons ago in Glasgow.

In mitigating statement in advance, I didn't realise that the fact that none of my Glaswegian friends were going to Clatties on a Thursday evening was for a particular reason. I'm a bit older now and don't do clubs any more (like my hearing - and like proper music, including music I could play without having to rely on a 'pooter for every second sound. Also, prefer to not be "aff ma napper"...).

Wavy lines ...

I arrive at Clatties on my own at 2300 on a Thursday evening to realise that there's no queue. In my defence (again) I thought that this was a good thing (I was young...).

Wander in to the club and realise within - ooh, whole seconds - that I'm the youngest person in there by about 20 years. Bollocks.

I've just paid the door charge of a fiver (the early 90s) and this came with a few drinks thrown in so proceeded to hold up the bar.

Notice that there are males there of roughly my age which I know to be referred to as doing a Rooney...

...ahem. Managed to avoid a lumber that night, thankfully.
(Eds Meds Mathskillz=1,Socialskillz=0, Fri 10 Apr 2009, 20:20, Reply)

Sometimes I used to puke into empty pint glasses.
When it was too far from the dancefloor to the bogs I used to be able to curl my top lip over the edge of an empty pint pot and stealthily sick in it before propping it back, unnoticed, onto the shelf. Always just to the brim and no further, it got pretty easy after a while. But then my mate Steve took it one step too far by picking up a warm pint of it and tossing it over one of those open gas hearths they sometimes put in the quieter sofa'd areas for effect. I'm sorry if you were there, the smell was just awful. Nobody noticed him doing it either, except for one bloke two sofas away who was utterly paralyzed with laughter.
(Whizzer, Fri 10 Apr 2009, 19:36, Reply)

Glasgow club shiteness
I remember going to The Volcano in Partick Cross, I loved that place. I got barred for being underage once by the manager, an accusation I vehemently denied. I even showed him my fake ID... Ahem. So the following week I was walking up the road with my mum and there's the manager, who just so happened to be my mums neighbour. I had regaled my mum with this story (we're very liberal in our clan) and she was most put out. So what did she do? Remonstrated with her neighbour the manager, despite me telling her not to. Why was I so desperate for her not to do this? I was still in my school uniform at the time... Embarrassment? It went WAAAY beyond embarrassment. Fuck. Still it was only 6 WHOLE FUCKING MONTHS before I was 18, so that wasn't a long wait or anything! Thanks mother! Still pissed about that 16 years on!!!

A list of the worst places in Glasgow, mostly RIP now... Good because they were so bad.

Circa
The Cotton Club
Volcano
Cleopatras (Clatty Pats!)
Follies
Reds
Archaos
The Living Room
And a couple of places on Royal Exchance Square whose names I have forgotten...

To name but a few. Gone but not forgotten (for all the wrong reasons!)
( Normanator Bad case of trapped wind since, Fri 10 Apr 2009, 19:28, 4 replies)

Always wear pants.
Always wear pants when you go clubbing. If not, at least wear a good belt on your trousers.
I didnt. I normally go commando most of the time, and a rare trip to a nightclub was no exception. I didnt put a belt on my jeans either.
This meant that when some drunk type slipped and put his hands out to grab something to stop his fall, he managed to do a perfect Benny Hill impression by grabbing my jeans and yanking them down around my knees, exposing my willy to everyone infront of me and managing to ram his face into my hairy ass crack.
(dave likes cheese, Fri 10 Apr 2009, 17:17, 3 replies)

I never saw the point in going to a shit club
so I spent most of my teenage years at gigs or pubs instead. I was known to frequent whirl-y-gig and spiral back in the day though. Good times.
( fuck shit up the best you never had, Fri 10 Apr 2009, 16:47, 2 replies)

Trying to get into the Garage in Sauchiehall Street
on my 18th birthday - a friend had given me a toy dinosaur as a present, so when they asked if I had any weapons with me, I pulled dino out of the bag and shouted 'RAWR! I have a vicious man eating lizard, does that count?'.

They then asked if I had any identification to prove that I was over 5...
( ascorbate, Fri 10 Apr 2009, 15:12, 6 replies)

As seen in Oceana, Nottingham
This came to me via a friend if a friend of a friend of a friend etc. Don't worry, I wasn't actually in Oceana. Now how do I post piccytures?

EDIT: On second thoughts this may be deemed a little NSFW so I will merely pop the link in. Peruse at your will (it's not really bad at all).
If this is deemed not NSFW I will embed again.

farm4.static.flickr.com/3561/3429144514_0dba539c39.jpg?v=0


Huzzah!
(vibrating tuna, Fri 10 Apr 2009, 14:58, 10 replies)

Tales from the other side of the bar
A few years back i had the (mis)fortune to find myself in the position of manager at one of Preston's finest* night spots. During my time here I witnessed more than my fair share of sex, drugs, debauchery and violence. This tale is of the latter variety (I promise i'll get onto the smut soon!).

Every bank holiday monday we would host a hip hop night. There nights were usually pretty fun to work. Mostly because it was a change from the usual cheesy dross we played (hip hop had yet to sell out completely by this point) and there were a higher than usual amount of sexy laydees present.

The thing with Preston is that its situated about equal distance between Manchester and Liverpool. This made it an ideal location for the gangsters and drug dealers of these respective cities to enjoy a night out away from their own territories without the fear of reprisals.
For this night only an unofficial cease fire was called between these rival factions in the name of hip hop, honeys, henessy and of course the herb (sweet, sweet stinky weed in case you couldn't guess)

Now on these nights everyone was smoking weed. When i say everyone, i mean everyone! Security couldn't do anything about it except for to turn a blind eye. If they throw one person out then they'd have to throw everyone out. Besides, we've already established the type of clientele we had on these nights and throwing them out was not the smartest move!
I remember 3 large rastas stood at one of the bars at the bottom of the stairs. This bar was directly below where most of the doormen stood as it gave them an excellent vantage point with which to spot trouble brewing on the main dancefloor. These 3 rastas were stood there rolling the biggest joint I had ever seen (it was roughly the size and shape of my forearm and would have taken at least 2 people to hold). The head of security saunters up to the gentlemen and politely advises them "Erm, excuse me gents... I dont mind you smoking weed in here, but if you look above you you'll notice there is a camera pointing directly at your construction site."
"Unfortunately this camera can be monitored remotely by our head office. So if you wouldn't mind, could you skin up somewhere else?"

"no problem man!" replied the rastas who promply moved 3 inches down the bar!

It was frankly hilarious to see the entire group of 20st musclebound doormen at the end of the night giggling like school girls uncontrollably and muttering that they were "fucking starving for some reason". They disappeared next door to the pizza shop and returned with around 30 pizzas and kebabs.

Anyway, I digress...
Later on in the night at another area of the club, one of the bar staff was serving a customer with a large number of brandy and cokes. When he he came to present the guy with the bill the following conversation occurred.
B: "That'll be £££ please"
C: "No it wont!"
B: "Erm, yes it will!"
C: pulling up his shirt to display a gun tucked neatly in the waist of his jeans "No. It. Wont!"

The barman quite rightly bricks himself and hits the panic alarm. Cue 20 large doormen charging through the club knocking people, drinks and furniture flying like skittles in a bowling alley.
The doormen all congregate around this man and attempt to calm him down and avoid the threat of serious violence. At some point in the negotiations one of the doormen (a big dopey bastard who was pretty much harmless) said some thing which offended the guy with the gun. The guy retaliates by pulling out his gun and pistol whipping the doorman! An extremely unwise scuffle breaks out and luckily the doormen manage to relieve the man of his gun. The bouncers pick up the guy and charge him out of the back doors of the club using his head as a battering ram.
Once outside they discovered that the gun the guy had wasn't loaded. Rather than get the police involved and cause a load of unwanted publicity they decided to teach him a lesson and promptly kicked the living shit out of him and dumped him on the street.

However, this guy decided he wasn't done yet and proceeded to try and break down the fire doors in a cocaine induced rage. He didn't manage to get back in, however, he did manage to punch through inch thick security glass complete with reinforcing steel wires cris-crossing through the middle of it.

The next day we arrived at the club to count the money and survey the damage from the previous nights revelries when we were accosted by an extremely small, extremely angry west indian lady. This lady was absolutely irate and was spitting pure unadulterated fury at us, threatening with police action due to the fact that we had assaulted her son the previous night and stolen his property (a jacket).
It soon became apparent that the "victim" of our brutality was none other than mr pistolwhipper from the previous night. Needless to say that she found it hard to believe that her darling Clarence** would never do anything to deserve such a beating.
It was at this point that we decided it was time to enlighten her on her sons escapades from the night before, showing her the bloody hold which he had punched through the window at the back of the club. She still wasn't having any of it!
We fetched her sons jacket and she reached into the pockets to check their content. She then pulled out a rather sizeable bag of Peruvian marching powder and her expression changed. A look of disbelief washed over her face briefly only to be replaced by the now familiar rage. She turned on her heel and marched back to her car, opened the passenger door and proceeded to beat the living shit out of her beloved Clarence (who had been stealthily hiding in the car the whole time) with her purse.
"Clarence, i told you... smack... Never..."

Sending your mother to finish a fight you started (and lost) and retrieve the drugs you left behind surely has to be one of the lowest points you can sink to as a man!

Cheers,
K


Length? It was as big as your forearm!


*for those of you old/cool enough to remember this club was the legendary club (sadly now defunct) which hosted "Hitman and her" with the legendary Pete Waterman.

**it may not have been clarence but it was something equally shit and embarrassing!
(Korrupt is shagging your food and eating your women., Fri 10 Apr 2009, 14:35, 2 replies)

The Raz
Otherwise known as Blue Angel, Liverpool.

A place you don't wear nice clothes, and especially not white clothes other than ones you never want to use again due to 'Raz Juice' stains.

A place where if you're taller than 5 foot 7. your head scrapes the ceiling.

A place where sweat drips from the ceiling and seeps from the walls.

A place we know.

A place we love.

If you've ever been there, you'll know what I mean.
(Notmo, Fri 10 Apr 2009, 13:34, 6 replies)

A Scanner, Darkly.
When I was at school, I took an evening class in photography. This meant that I had access to a darkroom.

One of the other people on the course was called Brian, and he owned one of those scanning devices that picked up on mobile phone conversations and emergency services radios. He'd bring it in now and again to provide amusement while we were in the darkroom. (I think they were legal at the time. Dunno.)

This being 1994/5-ish, there would often be longeurs when noone in range was using a phone; correspondingly, the comparative rarity of the things meant that what conversations there were tended to be about THINGS rather than mere chatter. So they could be interesting - and educational.

It was thanks to Brian's scanner, for example, that we learned that the manager of the largest nightclub in town was running a secret midweek swingers' night, and was also the go-to guy for anyone who was interested in more private partner-swapping sessions with strangers.

Classy.
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Fri 10 Apr 2009, 13:15, 2 replies)

Breakups, swingers and boozery; oh my!
Now, as a principle I don't really go to clubs. The booze is too pricey, I like the music but as like a lot of men am only blessed with the ability to perform one very rigid dance. This leads to an inability to trap off with a member of the opposite sex and I instead opt to bimble off down the kebab shop rather than gyrating.

Anyway, I had broken up with the former Mrs. Cunt a few months ago and had spent the week indulging in lots of alcohol and having what's know as 'a bloody good time' because naturally, I was upset about it all. So, I gets a phone call from a buddy to see if I want to go out to Manchester's very own sticky floored venue, 42nd Street - beats sitting in wanking watching another re-run of Top Gear thinks I, so whips on some glad rags (well, it was jeans and a t-shirt really) and gets gone.

After having ingested several beers, eyeing up the ladies having a sweat and a wobble and passing the typical comments, I gets up and partakes in a dance not similar to something by C3P0. It's not going anywhere and being not the healthiest person in the North West, I start to get a bit of a sweat on and decide 'bollocks, it's time for a fag'.

In I come, post cigarette and sit down to compose my thoughts and started thinking about the former Mrs. Cunt. So whilst I'm in my moment of solace I hear 'do you wanna shag me?' and look around. Now, it seemed like I was in luck as I'd already been taken out for a kebab this week by another lass. The chance to see a mimsy would have been amazing, so naturally and for the team, I say 'yes' with a slight twitch on.

We speak, I drink more, she drinks more, and then she says 'but my boyfriend wants to watch'. Ummm... thinks I. Cue another few drinks. 'He also wants you to have sex with him'. I didn't really fancy smashing someone's back doors in that night, so I politely declined, ceased the twitching and let them leave with someone who resembled a barbary ape.

There are also a few other stories regarding Canal Street on a Russian society social, and when I was banned from entering 42's by the goblin on the door for being 'fucked' and insisting "I'm fine, don't worry 'bout me!"

Length? Nah, no apologies this week. I didn't let them see!

(Does anyone know if 42's has a reputation for being a swinging hot spot, btw?)
(Mr. Cunt put the indy in kindy., Fri 10 Apr 2009, 12:57, 2 replies)

It happened last night actually...
FC is going out with his work colleagues (work bashes never go well, and thus doomed himself before it began).

Our idea of a 'works bash' wasn't the usual whole office at a pre-booked posh dressed party, oh no. It was just everyone meet up at place x a couple hours after work.


Place x ended up being the chum bucket known as Varsity. And in the West Midlands, they're especially dire. Chavvy, cheap drinks only on the sheep's piss like VK etc - and the smallest member of barstaff constantly roaming round the dancefloor either carrying, or balancing on their head, a tray of those rank tasting "Corkys shots". Thus is entertainment in the lower reaches of the Midlands.

FC is trying to make best of a bad situation and is happy whe he finds Guinness is only £2 a pint. Thus he has had four of the fuckers in an hour and a half and is starting to be happy. Where's the catch?

FC goes to the gents. As many of you will know, in late-night establishments will be a little man offering deodorants, perfumes and soforth to "help the lads pull". And it's here FC sows the seeds of his own destruction...

Random bottle grabbed, sprayed several times under armpits and on chest. Liberally applied, ahh, that smells nice...

Back to the dancefloor, and FC is "well getting in there", dancing it out, arms raised and soforth. Until oddly, his armpits start to sting. The sensation worsens until finally, it's red hot burning and agonizing pain. One that would drive a lesser (or soberer) man to tears.

"ARGH WANK"
"MY ARMS ARE ON BLOODY FIRE!"
"WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON HERE?!"
"MY ARMPITS, THEY'RE BURNING, SERIOUSLY, LIKE A DWARF'S SNUCK IN AND PUT TINDER TO MY HAIRS!"

And all that yelled above the insanely loud sound system pumping out Kid C's Day and Night, arms held high in the air, looking like FC is dancing with all limbs and geting in 'the groove'.

Cue a mad dash to the toilets and stripping off tshirt, starting to grab kitchen roll and wash off with boiling hot water whatever chemical cocktail Satan himself had prepared to curry armpit skin with.

It turns out, according to the nice man who lives in the toilets, that FC had sprayed himself with Blue Jeans mens perfume in his semi-wasted state...not deoderant.

Ouch.

Surrounded by several drunk neanderthals wondering what the hell is going on. And one of them being the work colleague who sits next to FC at work.

Double ouch.

Even worse, said workchum goes and tells his gobby girlfriend, who in turn goes and blurts it out to a)the birthday girl (woman - hub and two kids in tow), and b)the one person in the office I would class as my nemesis, or profess to hate bigtime.

Double double ouch.

And thus was FC's experience in one of the lower Layers of Hell. Thanks guys.
(FightingComet got Boost Power on, Fri 10 Apr 2009, 11:48, Reply)

High and low culture
This is more of a post-nightclub tale, so apologies for the tenuous link to the actual remit.

Back in the late-90s at Teesside University, I was a member of the Cultural Studies Society, which was linked to my course of the same name. We congregated every Tuesday evening, had some talk or slideshow; something vaguely cultural (and we all know how much bollocks can be shoe-horned in under that nebulous term). We would then relocate to a pub and then, without fail, we would end up at an absolute dive of a club named The Belmont along Linthorpe Road.

We tried to stay away from this venue, as it was one of those rough, sweaty little establishments with all the charm of Fritzl’s basement. The proprietor’s idea of atmosphere and ambience being one asthmatic smoke machine, and the clientele looked like an Elizabeth Duke ‘fashion’ show.

However, fuelled by banter and eight pints of black sheep, we would find ourselves lured in by its siren call and shamefacedly paying our £2 in. Towards the end, we convinced ourselves that we were carrying out an anthropological trek every time we went, like an intrepid pack of urban Livingstones. Essentially the same pseudo-intellectual bullshit the makers of Big Brother tried to fob us off with in the beginning.

On one particular occasion, as one evening of alcohol and chav-pointing drew to an end, my friend Scott decided he wanted to, “Go shopping on Granville Road”. This was a small back road pretty much directly next to the club where substances of a recreational nature could be procured. Another friend, Jonesey, a very clever man in his late-50s who could be considered slightly naïve in other matters, didn’t understand what could possibly be purchased at 2.30am. “There isn’t even any shops on Granville Road”.

Still, he tagged along and we stood to one side as Scott carried out his transaction with a particularly shady denizen. It just so happened that Jonesey had given a talk earlier in the evening, which had been the ‘cultural’ part of proceedings. He had then subsequently carried his large, leather briefcase, stuff with various notes and other esoterica, around with him all evening. He was then slightly perturbed to see another member of Middlesbrough’s knuckle-fucker elite sidling up to him a peculiar crab-like fashion.

“Got anything interesting in that bag, mate?” he slurred, reeking of Stella and small-scale malevolence.

Jonesey, bless his innocent cotton socks, replied in all seriousness, “Why yes. I have some Hegelian philosophy.”

While our friend’s neurones collided at the speed of tectonic plates, piecing together information in an attempt to determine whether he was being made to look a prize cunt, we decided it would be an opportune moment to shepherd a still-bemused Jonesey away from the scene.
( Boss Keloid Got your mother's maiden name tattooed on my arm, Fri 10 Apr 2009, 11:20, 3 replies)

We were running late already
Our destination was what our imaginative Student Union had called the 'Friday Night Disco' (or FND).

My then-girlfriend and I had quickly become notorious for turning up late to every party. Tonight was going to be no exception. She liked to get ready in my room as I had a bigger mirror, so I nipped off for a quick shower while she tarted herself up.

She was a first year, I was a finalist. We lived on the same corridor in our hall of residence and I'd been happy to show her the ropes when she first arrived. The "ropes" soon became my rope and we started dating. She had a sweet and naive personality but with my help, she'd also discovered a darker, more adventurous side. We both enjoyed exploring our fantasies whenever the opportunity arose. At Uni, that meant pretty much all the time.

The hot water beat down on my face as I daydreamed about one of our previous whirlwinds of sexual abandon. I shortly realised I was rapidly getting a massive stonk-on. This would never do, I couldn't go out with one in the chamber. It would have been a shame to waste my "one-half-of-Tower-Bridge-letting-a-big-boat-go-through" impression on a simple wank (not to mention bad form to do it in the shared shower) so I rushed downstairs to my room, my obviously-tented towel suggesting to startled corridor mates that I'd taken a rounders bat for a wash.

I dashed into my room, dripping and as horny as Satan but she was too focussed on her makeup to turn round. She'd decided to wear her new black dress which revealed far too much cleavage. This was the first time I'd seen her wearing it. "She looks sensational" I thought to myself.

My boner agreed.

"Pass me the hair straightener" she demanded, with a level of charming arrogance that further activated my mischief gland. Naturally I sidled up and placed something else hair-straightener-shaped in her open palm.

She paused and giggled, which was the green light I was hoping for with barely-concealed joy. "We'll be even later now" she said as I felt her grip tighten. She turned round to face my choice of hair-straightening products with an open and expectorant mouth.

It didn't take long for us to end up on my lumpy, unyielding single bed. I pulled her moistened panties down, slid the black dress up and gently worked myself inside what remains the tightest lady chamber my cock has been fortunate enough to breach. As we grinded and writhed about, I realised I wasn't going to last long in my overwound state. She detected this and pulled her dress down from her shoulders to reveal her sumptuous breasts, a favourite place of hers for me to finish off.

Within seconds of laying eyes upon those jiggling mounds of teenage perfection, I could hold back no longer. I pulled out and acquired my target but devilment got the better of me. At the last second I raised the trajectory slightly ensuring an even spread across her face, neck and chest.

I laughed, luckily she laughed too and I was relieved for the second time in mere seconds. She seemed to enjoy the experience, but I knew I wouldn't get away with my impromptu face painting exercise. "Lick it off, see how you like it" she said, punishing me for my 'appalling aim'. Feeling naughty and not wishing to be the first to back down from a sexual dare, I accepted and managed to quickly mop up what I'd spilled using nothing more than my tongue and a strong gag reflex.*

Impressed by my devotion to her desires, she got up, patted the residue off with a tissue and kissed me. I got dressed and we left to meet our friends.

On the walk to the Union from the halls, she mentioned that she still felt sticky, and it was turning her on. I could tell we would end up finding a dark spot in the Union building to continue the evening's experiments. It put a further spring in my step, although the lingering taste in my mouth reminded me that there are unpleasant consequences to such wanton behaviour.

We made our way inside and ordered a couple of drinks then she clawed a path to the dance floor where we'd agreed to meet our friends. As soon as we'd stepped onto it, she turned around, looking for familiar faces. Her eyes widened as she looked at me. Mine did the same as I stared at her.

Under the UV blacklights of the dancefloor, my beautiful, adventurous girlfriend now resembled a nightmarish, glowing plasterer's radio. She shouted "your mouth and chin is all lit up!". She handed me her pocket mirror from her handbag and indeed, I looked like I'd messily devoured the contents of a glowstick. I passed the mirror back so she could see the damage too. Apparently I'd also managed to get some in her hair and on her forehead, which surprised us both.

A friend staggered into me, already feeling the effects of cheap student refreshments. "Why are you late again, slag!" he shouted at me. I could see his eyes focussing in real-time. As his drunken pupils heroically co-ordinated their efforts and began to align on my face, I stammered "we got side-tracked". He stared at me for the longest time, looked over at my girlfriend and stared at her too. As his brain pieced together the forensic crime scene before him, I grinned at him and he smirked, before bimbling off in the direction of a group who we recognised to be our friends.

I grabbed her arm and said "let's get out of here before he brings the others". Away from the unrelenting glare of the UV lights and to sarcastic cheers from the queue outside the regular toilet, we retreated together into the huge disabled toilet to properly clean up. We spent at least 20 minutes meticulously and lovingly wiping each other down to remove every last trace of my slithering jizzdribbles, giggling like a pair of schoolkids.

No sooner had we finished, she looked into my eyes and gave me a familiar look. Well, we were in a very spacious toilet...

*sighs*

*If you were wondering, yes it tastes fractionally better when it's your own, and it's not mixed with shit...
( chart cat has an itch, Fri 10 Apr 2009, 10:57, 13 replies)