Medicinal Wank
There's this place in Leeds just opposite the City Hall; fucked if I can remember the name of it or if it still exists.

I was getting pretty frisky with a girl I worked with on a works night out. She breathed huskily in my ear that we should go back to hers...

And I replied, just as sexily: "Sounds great - I just need to go and have a piss first."

But I didn't need to piss.

No.

I needed to, well, release a few battallions of my little soldiers - my balls were so fucking heavy from not having any growler action for a while that I feared I'd ejaculate before she'd even turned the key in her flat.

So, off I trot to the bogs. Obviously, I was a bit pissed which didn't help.

But these bogs were down some spiral stairs in the centre of this fine establishment. I got to the bottom of the stairs, found a cubicle, unzipped and started wanking furiously.

A medicinal wank.

No enjoyment at all. I just needed to get rid of some excess spermy baggage.

Strange thing was that the bogs didn't dim the noise of the club any. It was, quite frankly, putting me off my stroke. I very nearly sprayed my load down the front of my trousers, I was that put off.

Then I realised the noise was getting louder. And the noise was in time with my frantic self-loving.

I look up...

And see fifty or sixty faces looking down at me from the balcony in the main club above. Cheering me on.

I hadn't actually found the bogs. In my haste and pissed up state I'd actually wondered into an anteroom just before you get to the bogs. This room had an open roof.

Now, there's not alot you can do when you're looking up at fifty or sixty strangers with your cock in your hand.

I did the only sensible thing.

I waved.

Most of them waved back...



And I didn't end up getting laid that night.
( SpankyHanky, Wed 15 Apr 2009, 17:02, 4 replies)

Remembering more now
Apologies to anybody who saw me and my friend during my second year of uni.

At one point, when Bristol's very own Thekla nightclub was refurbished, they didn't moor it properly, meaning that during the evening it slowly tilted to one side, making the whole place a bit like an Escher painting.(Did I mention the Thekla is a boat, and amazing).

It was during this evening my friend and I could be seen wearing captain hats screaming about abandoning ship and giggling like mentalists, due to the fact we had just acquired some mushroom jam off a friendly hippy, and were off our shit. Neither was quite sure if the boat was tilting, or if we managed to get some fucked up shrooms, but it was amazing....
(Scrumpy does not negotiate with terrorists,, Wed 15 Apr 2009, 16:52, 4 replies)

I once managed to convince a girl I was management
I'd been out over in Sheffield for a job interview and had gotten back to Chester in my suit and had a phone call to say I'd not gotten the job...

This was a bit disappointing (especially after being told that I was the teacher the kids liked the most) so I decided to do what any sensible adult does when they get a bit of bad news and decided on a drink or 2.

At the time I was working for BT and a supplier was in town and was hosting a nigh out. I texted a mate form home to meet me in town and met up with the people out with the supplier, this resulted in many free drinks and a trip to Rosies (all paid for by the supplier). While in there, as I was smartly dressed (still suited and booted) I got a lot of attention with a few questions asking if I was management (apparently girls like a man in power in a club, or so I've heard). As a result of this being smartly dressed up I ended up bagging off with a very tall and fit redhead, only to be so leathered as to forget her name in the taxi on the way home, lose my tie and forget her number too...

At least I did better than my mate though who was taken back by a girl to a hotel where she promptly passed out, leaving him locked between the room and the corridor and so had to spend the night in what was essentially a cell...

Great days...
(Fuckarma was masturbating into your handbag, Wed 15 Apr 2009, 16:46, 4 replies)

I thought
I might as well tell the Ritz/Rage Against The Machine story that I mentioned in a reply below.

But first I googled it to see if I could find out what happened to the guy.

The only other reference I could find to it, oddly, was this:

b3ta.com qotw31 posts - 1 author - Last post: 2 Sep 2004
yes im very accident prone and cld probably injure myself in a safety bubble. ..... I went to see Rage Against The Machine at the Manchester Ritz about ... One fella thought it would be ace to dive off the balcony that ...
www.b3ta.com/questions/embarrassinginjuries/page4/ - 44k - Cached - Similar pages
( scarpe We Stole Bikes, Wed 15 Apr 2009, 16:44, Reply)

Good old uni days
When one of your mates can take a girl in the brown canal on the side of the dance floor in the Bristol Academy.

Now that is a girl you can marry...
(Scrumpy does not negotiate with terrorists,, Wed 15 Apr 2009, 16:36, Reply)

When do we get a new QOTW?
We've had this one for a week now? Ive enjoyed reading all the posts but I fancy a bit of a change. Think the lights have come up and the bouncers are asking us all to leave.
(Lizard King, Wed 15 Apr 2009, 16:18, 3 replies)

SpankHanky's post below reminds me
Of a period in my life where I didnt seem to be able to go out without covering some man in my drink. Girls do not like to be letched over. Fact. And if someone even dared letching and touching they'd end up wearing a keen knee to the balls as well.
(Grrrrr Tigers, Wed 15 Apr 2009, 16:08, 8 replies)

Thai nightclubs
A few stick out in memory.

The strange one where it was a kind of kareoke, with a thai Eminem lookalike singing love songs, whilst girls (and a few guys) ran up to the stage and gave him roses. Some were crying. We had no idea why.

The one where after the music turned into some fairly bangin' choones, we decided to hit the dance floor. After ambling and pushing our way through all the tables and stools at the side of the dance floor and getting closer, we realise there is no dance floor. Just tables, full of Thai people. Who are looking at us. Wondering what the fuck we are doing standing at their tables.....

Another where we watched girls put things in places, blow things out, put things in other girls places and a lady boy do things you CAN'T FUCKING UN-SEE...

The one that takes the biscuit was the beach side night club where my friend was so drunk and lost in his asian girl fixation, he failed to realise the lady who attached herself to him had a penis.

A fact he brutally found out when it was in his palm after they went off for a quick fondle. We only found the full story of where he had disappeared to after he came back covered in mud with only one flip flop....

When he was presented with said manly bits he flipped out, being a bit of a rowdy heterosexual, he tends to do that in such situations.

After shouting at her for a bit, her/his friends came over to find out what the ruckus was all about, only to find themselves getting an ear bashing as well. What with all the friends playing for both teams, they got a full round of 'WTF!?'s' from him too.

As you can imagine, they weren't too please to see their, admittedly rather effeminate, lady-man chum crying at my mates ginger ranting and things do what they usually tend to in such times and escalated themselves...

One of them swung at him with its shoe, then another with their fake Dolce and Gabbana handbag (I'm guessing it was D&G. They looked the fashionable types). Soon it was a bit of an all out assault on him, the way he describes it makes it sound a bit like 28 Days Later, but with man-chicks. Scarier.

Anyway, the idea of having the shit kicked out of him by 4 or 5 guys with tits wasn't very appealing so he made a dash for it through the thicket. Only to stumble for about 10 minutes through the darkness, trees and mud, to return to us, scratched, covered in mud, and flopless, where he proceeded to hold his head on his knees for the rest of the night, whilst we all sang 'Dude look like a lady' and various other hilarious jibes.

Poor lad. Not only did he get a horrible shock to his sexuality, he got a clobbering for his troubles. Top that with the tests he got when he got back and you'd be forgiven for thinking his travels were two months of terror....

Great times.
(Scrumpy does not negotiate with terrorists,, Wed 15 Apr 2009, 15:52, Reply)

Never quite made it to the nightclub
were on holiday , having a lovely meal , the missus and I had been involved in some same room swinging but tonight was the night we were going that step further , apparently the swinging clubs in this part of the world rocked , I thought the missus had arranged babysitters so we would have the whole night to ourselves and our soon to be much closer friends, but it turns out she'd hadn't ,someone checked the room and a whole shitstorm started
( horace wimp needs more than 49 characters to fully express hi, Wed 15 Apr 2009, 15:34, 3 replies)

Nightclubs?
Costs less to go and see a prositute than pick up a girl in a nightclub these days.
(Errin C, Wed 15 Apr 2009, 15:10, 6 replies)

Balham (Again)
Not technically a nightclub, but The Duke Of Devonshire used to have a backroom that stayed open til 2am at weekends. I don't recall anymore if there was actually a dancefloor or not.

But regardless, I was dancing with a rather attractive but spectacularly drunk young lady.

There was much touching and kissing before she whispered in my ear 'Do you want to come back to mine and see my canary?'

Well...

Apart from being slightly bemused by the term 'canary', who was I to say no to such an offer?

So off we went, staggered back down to the high street, stopped for a quick fumble in the entrance to Woolworths (that's the shop, not what she called the bit I was fumbling) and then on to hers.

She pours us some wine in her kitchen, we talk some more.

And again she says 'So, do you want to come and see the canary?'

'Of course' I say.

And she takes me to the lounge, where, lo and behold she finally showed me her canary.

It was yellow, in a cage and called Carrie.

Next time someone uses a euphemism I am not familiar with, I am going to check that I really understood.
( scarpe We Stole Bikes, Wed 15 Apr 2009, 14:52, 2 replies)

cringe
i cringe when i think back to some of my drink fueled attempts to pull in both of manchesters premier indie nightclubs.

i wont describe some of my classic moments as some of you may well have been the 'victims'.

i like to think that i wasnt the worst by far. but my 'dancing' probably puts me in the top 10!
(suboftheday, Wed 15 Apr 2009, 14:49, 4 replies)

Too much is not enough
After my final ever exam at university, I did what was only natural and consumed way too much cheap lager.

It was a beautifully sunny day in Yorkshire and falling into the nearest beer garden and ordering jugs and jugs of the stuff at 1pm was an amazing way to finish my university career.

By about midnight, absolutely obliterated I exclaimed to my dear friend Quincy that I had had too much beer and was feeling queasy.

Being the kind and generous lad he was, he replied " lets get you into a taxi "

Relieved that my night and my education had come to a well overdue close, I stumbled into the back of a taxi.

Before I could slur the words 'take me home kind sir' Quincy dives in and orders the taxi to take us to Visage - the resident cheese and debauchery establishment.

There was no arguing with the bastard and to the credit of my stamina (that i never knew i possesed) We had the best night EVER.

Just goes to prove that too much is never enough.

Dont you just love happy endings...
(Eggstrovert isnt patronising you...honest..., Wed 15 Apr 2009, 14:42, Reply)

Just follow the beams, man! (pt1)
Howaya?

I did an Erasmus year in Limoges, France.
A half hour or so’s drive out of town was a mega-club with seven dance floors or more catering to every imaginable type of music nightclubs generally cater to.

Goths mingled with wiggers.
Ravers shared cocktail jugs with Cure-heads.
Punks proferred Gauloises Blondes to Ben Sherman-clad admirers of Madness.

Lolo Ferrari was the special guest one evening and we clamoured in unison to brush against her beach balls.

I lived in student halls.

Therein resided quite the melting pot of Francophones and Francophiles, most of whom at one time or another found a means of travelling to the mega-club half an hour away the name of which escapes me.

I had no means of getting there but had heard tell of its’ glory and was suitably envious.

Enter Bernie: a giant hulking mass of a man with dyed blonde hair. He always wore cheap red plastic-framed sunglasses, smiled like a loon, wore golf trousers, lurid polyester shirts and flamboyant shoes.

He lived on the outskirts of Limoges having dropped out of University in the UK with a pile of debt so enormous, his egress to her majesties’ domain was not assured without a police escort.

Bernies’ love of sunglasses, his intoxicating grin, his sense of style and it transpired later, his familiarity with the British constabulary, had rather a lot to do with that most wonderful of pill-shaped evening enhancers, MDMA.

Now, I am not unfamiliar with the warm-bath-like frisson of a pill or five or seven and nor was I then.

Nor am I likely to run a mile from the odder, more abrasive elements of society.
Nutters are fascinating and great company.
I mean, just look at you lot.

Bernie rubbed a lot of people up the wrong way.
Bernie was not a student but a dropout living off Mammys’ buck and didn’t mind letting anyone know it.
Bernie had a car and a petrol allowance.
Bernie had access to considerable quantities and varieties of stimulants.
Bernie craved attention and something to do.

All Bernie needed was a partner in crime.
Enter baz,

“Good evening”.

“I am not a tall man.
At the time, I was slender and half-starved with the deep set eyes, shaggy coiffure and comedy facial hair of a man deep in thrall with the mighty weed – kind of like a malnourished mini-Vipros.

Bernie and I made quite the pair.

Clad in black to counterpoint Bernies’ spectral flamboyance, we set out one night in his car, a metallic blue mid-range Renault for the mega-club a half hour or so away the name of which escapes me.

We had, perhaps, one hour earlier or so, dropped a couple of tabs of acid.
I was concerned for our, oh, say, lives but the overgrown harlequin assured me all would be well and as we made our way further along the motorway, I became increasingly complicit in this belief.

We were uncertain as to the way after a certain point.
There was meant to be a turn off the motorway down a country road to a field in which lay our destination club-topia.

The acid served to nurture both our doubt and belief in the inevitability of success.

Above the mega-club, there was a giant strobe light casting fishing lines out into the sky to hook us eager swimmers and in a flash of drug-induced inspiration, we decided that our success lay in simply following the beams.

Bernie was racked by doubt.
Despite his outward display of self-assuredness, he was hugely indecisive.
Sometimes mere seconds passed in between his repeatedly declaring,

“Are you sure we’re going the right way?”,

to which I repeatedly responded,

“Just follow the beams, man!”

We followed the beams.

The distant rifle-blast thumping of the rave part of the mega-club grew closer.

We knew we were on to something.

Our grins grew wider.

Bernie became more assured.

With rapturous outbursts of joy, we gazed upon the gaudy neon we craved and having parked, we leapt for joy at our ill-advised, map-less, drug-fuelled success.

We were, in that moment, heroes of hedonism”

INTERMISSION

rafter
baz
(bazmorningstar efil4nat3b, Wed 15 Apr 2009, 14:39, 4 replies)

Head Kicking Moment
"Ooooh, its so fucking windy me flutes whistlin'," said this incredibly lovely but foul mouthed friend of mine, Karen.

"Your what?" I ask.

"Me flute, you know, me vag."

Now, that had me raising my eyebrows. We finished smoking our fags and went back inside the club and found our lovely, amiable posse of charming mates, scholars and gentlemen to the last, sitting round trying to drink away the last semblance of responsibility and decorum.

Steve may have had his cock out by this stage.

I'm not sure how but the conversation got onto wanking. (I may have had something to do with this).

But apparently I took it too far when I declared to anyone within earshot that Karen did, in point of fact, "Gush when she cums and likes to fuck seventeen year old boys." Not that I'd know; well, she just looks like she might. Karen shot me the daggers. I knew I'd gone too far when she hinted:

"You've gone too fucking far, Spanky. You're in for it now."

And then the conversation changed and it was all forgotten about.

Later, my guard well and truly down, Karen asks me to accompany her to the bar. Its her round. Being a complete gentleman I agree to help her carry drinks back to our table if she buys me a double. She agrees. And away we go.

We get served, eventually, its busy as fuck. Loads of hard looking rugby types in tonight.

Karen pays, collects the tray of drinks, places it down on the counter and says:

"Here's your drink, Spanky," and chucks a double Bacardi and Coke in my face. Then she screams: "YOU'RE FUCKING MARRIED??? YOU FUCKING BASTARD!!! AND YOU GAVE ME THE CLAP!!!"

Then Karen collects the tray of drinks and walks off scerenely, leaving me dripping wet surrounded by angry looking rugby muscle men who all suddenly looked like they want to fucking murder me.

You could say Karen got me back.

The cunt...
( SpankyHanky, Wed 15 Apr 2009, 14:34, 5 replies)

College Bop at University
The Theme was 'Pink and Fluffy, black and bondage'

My mate Danny and I decided to go as a master and his gimp.

When we arrived at the door, we were asked for some money.

'Speak Gimp' I ordered
'Two please!' squealed Danny in his best gimp voice.
( WormuIus, Wed 15 Apr 2009, 14:22, 2 replies)

So lots of people are saying about shiteholes
but my questionis:

What are the good clubs/bars you go to? The ones with no trouble, the beer is decently priced and the music is to your taste.

And hell, where everyone knows your name.
(Fuckarma was masturbating into your handbag, Wed 15 Apr 2009, 14:10, 2 replies)

Great Yarmouth.
A long time a go in a dubious but packed Great Yarmouth 'Nitespot', a few of us were having a Friday knees-up.

Whilst I was dancing away, one of my pals who was merely bobbing up and down to the beat turned to me and said 'Oi get us a beer mate'.

'Fuck off, Why don't you get it yourself?' was my polite response.

His reply was just to look downwards. My eyes followed his, only to be greeted by the sight of a young 'lady' eagerly sucking him off.

In the middle of the dance floor.

She'd finished by the time I got back from the bar.

Lovely girl.
(toomanydecibels has bleeding ears on, Wed 15 Apr 2009, 13:58, Reply)

God Bless Cowboys
A few years ago a group of us went snowboarding in Fernie, Canada for a stag do. We got back to Calgary to find that our Monarch plane had lost an engine (again, but that’s another story), and that we were to be put up for the night in a posh hotel in the city.

As a bunch of lads with the keys to a new city we headed off to see the Concierge and asked the good fellow if there were any strip bars nearby. After dismissing Hooters as being a little light on boobs or flange we headed off to Cowboys.

The entrance was a small door leading to a flight of stairs, at the top of which was a fruit machine. Everyone spins the fruit machine and has the chance to win a prize; a rucksack, t-shirt, etc. This struck me as slightly odd – a club with no entrance fee, where they give you stuff to come in?
For the next hour or so we were served bottles of Bud for a $1 by girls in Bikini’s, although I took it easy, because in the back of my mind this still wasn’t quite ‘right’.
An hour later I’d convinced myself that this was the Canadian equivalent of some seedy SoHo sex den, and that I’d be raped of all my money when I tried to leave, so whilst I still had my faculties I sneaked out.
It turns out there was no raping, in fact no down side at all. My mates enjoyed cheap beer, a wet t-shirt contest, and girls in bikinis all night. In fact at midnight they open the doors to the club downstairs, where girls are being fed cocktails by (hunky?) men and playing sausage swingball (or something), and carnage ensues.

Still I may have left early but at least I went – my mate Tony was turned away for having white laces.
RIP Cowboys – knocked down and turned into a Walmart........
(jono_h, Wed 15 Apr 2009, 13:29, 1 reply)

As mentioned by Enzyme
Spiders in Hull is the best club in Hull. Probably because it's rock and indie rather than house and dance crap and full of people trying to avoid eye contact. The alcohol is insultingly cheap and not watered down as you'd expect.

It's also full of student age women, the likes of which wear very little. I was getting served at the bar when I felt something poking me in the back so I turned around and there was some babe wearing a short leather skirt and a black lacy bra. Brushing against my back had brought her left nipple up on prod.

"Oh sorry, they do that."

"Do you want some ice, it'll look odd without a matching pair" said I jokingly

"Nah, my top will get wet. Turn back round and I'll move across and do the other"

It was hardly a BJ in a dark corner of the club but being married I had no intention of being out on the pull. But it made me smile all the same.
( sandettie light vessel automatic New Twitter - @bollocksreally, Wed 15 Apr 2009, 13:26, 8 replies)

I'm not a fan of clubs of any variety however I have unfortunately been in a few.

Now the first time I went in a club was for someone I knows stag night and so over the course of the night I ended up with a bag full of the bra's these fine upstanding gentlemen had been wearing prior to my arrival, which in its self is not a problem. However when I got stopped by one of the door staff of a club where they wanted to check the contents of the bag I'm carrying and I have to explain to a huge black guy why my bag was full of bra's (the L plates had been removed from them) whilst realizing that I do not look my age and I was underage at that time. However ever I mumbled some sort of explanation and was let through the door. Only to stumble into said door man who was to say the least not very happy with me to start with. And that is why I try to avoid those retched dens of people acting like elliptic sardines.
(radial head fracture, Wed 15 Apr 2009, 12:45, 1 reply)

I'll keep this short
It wasn't really a nightclub, but more of an illegal warehouse party. Now if you've ever been to a squat party you'll know that the reason they are so called is because often they don't have toilets and people squat in dark corners to do their business. Ok, I made that up, but at this particular party I did wander down a random passage at one point to be greeted by the site of huge man doing a shit on the floor.

The usual decorum in such situations is to pretend you didn't see any of the 20 stone mass precariously maintaining a drunken equilibrium between the floor and reality while a steaming poo sends it's foul vapours deep inside your nostrils. Well unless said mass bellows in a loud Australian accent, "oi, mate! Got a fag?".

So I think you get the picture as to the sort of party this was. There also seems to be a propensity for those in attendance to consume far more narcotics than at a legal party. With this increased consumption comes a wayward sense of judgement.

[ok, i'm bored of writing this. I might finish this later...yawn]
(The Archduke of South London I'm in your Girlfriend eating her organs, Wed 15 Apr 2009, 12:32, Reply)

Nightclubs, they scar you for life.
I came in dead last in a nightclub sexy dancing contest behind a woman with chest hair. On my 21st birthday.

I think I’m cute...
(TheSnark oh, c'mon, like you didn't see me coming, Wed 15 Apr 2009, 12:29, Reply)

Anyone know of reflex?
I was out in Chester on Sunday night and they closed down the reflex and have opened up a 90's bar instead, have they done this across all the reflex's? Or is Chester just too trendy and ahead of the game?

All the did was replace the pics of the Hoff with pics of Will Smith and the posters with Oasis and the like...

Still was a good night though!
(Fuckarma was masturbating into your handbag, Wed 15 Apr 2009, 12:25, 9 replies)

big fish little fish
I used to hate going to nightclubs. The music was always pish, and the beer far too expensive. And dancing, I hated dancing. So if I was ever in a night club I would do big fish, little fish, cardboard box. Now this wasn't just for a couple of minutes. I would push my way in front of some pillock who thought they were a great dancer and stand stock still, staring straight ahead, just moving my arms: big fish, little fish, cardboard box, big fish,.. The trick was to slightly vary the timing to keep it in time with the music - very easy to do. Also you have to never be distracted. People will stare at you, poke you, dance along side you for a couple of minutes and try to distract you. I have managed to keep it up for hours.

Sometimes after about 30 mins of big fish, little fish, I would burst into a frenzied "walking like an octopus" or "watching two flies" then after about 30 seconds of that I would go back to my old favourite, big fish, little fish.

I remember once I cleared a busy dance floor using big fish, little fish by standing right in the middle for about 30 minutes, after another 10 minutes of empty dance floor I was kindly asked to leave by one of the staff.
(thrain, Wed 15 Apr 2009, 12:05, 3 replies)

The Night I tried to Kidnap Peter Andre
I used to be deputy editor of Hullfire, the Hull student newspaper; my friend Emma was editor and music editor. We spent much of our time on the phone to PR companies blagging freebies: we managed to get onto the guest list of just about every gig within travelling distance for a couple of years. Many of these gigs were amazing - some were amazing for the wrong reasons. Into the latter category goes the Viking FM-sponsored Peter Andre/ Steps/ North and South concert at Hull Ice Arena.

It was like a pre-pubescent Nuremberg rally. Emma and I made a point of getting as gothy-looking as possible, the better to scare the kids and their parents (with whom we actually ended up chatting at the back of the arena) - but the kids were scarier.

Now, in Hull there is (or was) a club called Spiders - a rock and indie type place that was a second home to me, Emma and our circle of friends. At the end of the concert, the night was still young, so Emma and I decided to go there. And then we noticed something.

We had our press passes in lanyards around our necks. Those passes had the magic words "ACCESS ALL AREAS" on them.

For a moment I lamented the fact that I'd not spent more time in the green room trying to get to know Faye Tozer - but it was too late for that now. What had to happen now was to find some way to exploit an all-areas pass and yet not to waste too much time that could productively be spent getting wankered at Spiders.

A plan formed.

We would kidnap Peter Andre and take him with us.

He'd love it. And at the end of the evening, we could kill him and throw him into the docks. Or something.

We headed for a door marked "PRIVATE" and went through. Noone stopped us. Very quickly, we found ourselves backstage - not only backstage, but outside a dressing room. A dressing room on the door of which was actually a gold star and the words "MR ANDRE". We opened it, bracing ourselves for an encounter with the Greasy One. We felt that what we were about to do would be comparable to the Red Brigade's kidnapping of Aldo Moro - only with pop music.

We were not yet in the dressing room proper - just a vestibule that was empty. Empty apart from two HUGE bouncers. They encouraged us to leave. We pointed at our passes - but we knew which way this was going. They encouraged us to leave again. Attempting to salvage some dignity, Emma and I looked at each other.
"We just wondered whether Peter'd like to come clubbing with us," one of us - I can't remember which - ventured.

One of the bouncers looked at us coldly. "I doubt it," he said.

He was probably right.

Chastened, we left.
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Wed 15 Apr 2009, 11:50, 12 replies)

When I first moved to Cambridge
I had spent the night in a club in the market square. It was when the first Star Wars came out. (Yes I'm old!) We found a ladder and altered the letters around on the cinema next door and put them back with a strong glue so it spelt

It stayed there for about 3 days and made the local newspaper.
( Captn Hood-Butter is not dead yet., Wed 15 Apr 2009, 11:39, Reply)

Many's The Time...
When I've been out to one or t'other of the nightclubs in Newport (generally the Meze lounge, seeing as it was one of the few that didn't I.D. before 8 when I was 16) and come away smashed, in a bad mood with someone elses drink all over me. Occasionally bleeding.

This was about 4 years ago when I used to get dragged clubbing with my ex and all his friends, which usually resulted in me being the only girl. Inevitably, the night would go like this:

1. Go to the then-boyfriends house and get ready
2. Leave for train station in car with boyfriend and 3 of his friends.
3. Catch train, usually by the skin of our teeth
4. Get to Newport, enter club before the bouncers went on the door. (Once or twice we misjudged the timing and got there as the bouncer came on the door. Despite being the only under-age one, I never got I.D'd. Hurray for cleavage.)
5. Get in, order about 6 pitchers of Sex on the Beach (my ex did cocktails when he was out, never beer. Weeeeird.)
6. Get smashed on numerous pints of sticky, brightly-coloured booze.
7. Blazing argument with ex about how I'm flirting with his friends (while he's off dancing with randoms), chatting up the bar staff (while I'm getting him another drink) etc.
8. Ex picks up drink and proceeds to dump it over my head (ususally Sex on the Beach, that stuff is a bastard to get out if it stains)
9. Cue me storming off to the toilets to clean up and salvage my makeup, followed by phonecalls and texts in the "where are you, I'm sorry" vein.

Step 8 was sometimes replaced with having a handful of booze-filled ice chucked down my top (front or back) or similar, but that's pretty much how it went.

After about two trips of being the only girl, I managed to drag another girl-friend along, and then another with her boyfriend, so that I had someone to talk to that had never played Warhammer. This obviously led to lesbian accusations.

I have no idea why I stayed with that guy so long, I really don't. Still, I got free booze every week.

Apologies for length? You betcha.
(TuftyBee should have been working on, Wed 15 Apr 2009, 11:06, Reply)

Happy punter.
It was the end of the night. He was sitting on the kerb outside the club, looking much the worse for wear and about to be hit by a taxi.

"You all right, mate?" I asked.
He grinned.
"Yeah. I'm walking on strawberries. But it's OK. I've got my happy Tuesday shoes on..."
(Gravity's Raincoat, Wed 15 Apr 2009, 11:03, 4 replies)

SOUND & VISION
I told my mate this one in the pub last night and she looked at me like I'd just clambered onto the table, hitched down my jeans, and let loose a big steamy turd in her pint. Apparently doing this sort of thing means you are a big fucking cunt of the highest order of cuntyness.

So anyway, here goes -

This was about three years ago when I was going through a going-to-Fabric-and-getting-wasted-phase.

I was already supercharged on the ultimate drug, the best drug in the known fucking Universe; I'd necked a bottle of Malibu in the queue outside. Not only was I a supercharged example of masculinity, my breath also tasted like coconut. I was, quite simply, an unstoppable shagging maching.

So, after a shitload of queueing we get into Fabric. Being full of Malibu and cum and being a super-fucking-human, I immediately go and find a dark quiet spot and have a bit of a sleep.

After my sleep and a helpful kick up the arse by one of my mates, I'm out on the dancefloor. By now I've had Redbull - shitloads of it. I am buzzing my tits off. Fuck pills; I'll stick to my shampoo-flavoured rum and energy drinks.

After a bit of twatting about on the dancefloor as if I'm on fire I notice there's a rather attractive and very short, munchkin short, girl dancing away just in front of me. Now, its a busy place Fabric - a bit like Kings Cross tube station at rush hour, only with slightly less molestation and sweat.

Suddenly I feel this girl cup my balls and give them a squeeze. I stop dead. Hello! This is, quite possibly, a fucking good sign. I move a bit closer to her. She's actually got her back to me and I'm trying to figure out how she *ahem* pulled off such an amazing testicle grab.

Then it happens again! Woo! And again! Double-woo! And it goes on like this for a few minutes.

I move a bit closer to her. The back of her head looks fucking lovely, long straight dark hair, but I've been in this situation before only to discover a) a man, b) a woman who looks like the elephant man, c) my sister (lets not go into that one).

Cautiously I start to edge even closer to her...

She glances over her shoulder at me.

FUCK!!! SHE IS NOT A MOOSE!!! REPEAT!!! SHE IS NOT A MOOSE!!! HOORAY!!!

Infact she was fucking lovely. A bit like Catherine Zeta Jones, only shorter.

Fuck it, I think, and I move alongside her and slip my hands round her waist and move in for a bit of a snog.

And she thumps me in the face and calls me a dirty bastard.

Confused, I assess the situation and realise she hadn't actually been groping my ballbag at all. She had on a black dress and slung over her shoulder was a black handbag. I had, in point of fact, been dry humping this handbag for the last five minutes or so. Bugger...

Now, remember that I am well and truly off my tits on Malibu and Redbull. I have to think quickly on my feet. I have to come up with a good enough excuse so that this girl and her large collection of mates don't decide to twat me. Ah-ha! Fucking perfect!

I lower my head to her level and shout in her ear: "I'm sorry! I'm blind!"

And she looks at me. And, oddly, I look back at her. But then she smiles a big beaming smile. She must've been incredibly drunk or pilled up.

"Should you be out on the dancefloor?" she asks.

And I make up some bullshit about loving to feel the beat of the music because I couldn't see anything, and that I was drawn to her because I could feel her movement next to me. My senses were heightened, on account of the blindness, apparently.

She only fucking bought it...

It was very peculiar, moments later, stood in a quiet corner snogging the arse off this girl with my hands up her top. I didn't know how to pretend to be blind so I just sort of squinted a bit more than usual.

Eventually one of my mates, Danny, found us and gently smacked me on the arse and said: "Wa-Hay!"

I turned and looked at him, pissed off at this untimely inturruption. I was getting well into this mini Catherine Zeta Jones, I was moments away from touching pubes, here.

I looked Danny up and down. My mates and I had been ribbing him all night about his choice of attire; he looked like a fucking matador. I gave Danny the once over. "You still look like a cunt in that shirt," I said. And went back to kiss the girly.

But she was suddenly incredibly fucking annoied.

Bah! Curse the gift of sight!

But apparently pretending to be disabled to get off with members of the opposite sex is a bit of a no-no...
( SpankyHanky, Wed 15 Apr 2009, 10:51, 9 replies)