The Slimelight
Back in the 80s, a bunch of us left the suburbs and went up to London one saturday night. One or two of us had heard about this place in Islington. We ended up at a dark doorway at the end of a blind side street behind Angel tube around 3 or 4 in the morning. Had to get a member to sign you in. Somehow we blagged it. I didn't remember much except dry ice and punks and goths and bikers and hippies and their music were everywhere. And some AMAZING goth girl threatening to cut my mate's bollocks off with a rusty razor. The best bit? It was a legit club that stayed open until the tubes started at 7am. No alcohol sold, so you took yer own. £6 for non-members, £4 for member. A real bargain at the time.

A few weeks later I was at a loose end one Saturday night owing to my recent discovery that all my friends apparently hated my guts and wanted me to die.

I decided to go back to this club 40 miles away in North London. I worked in town so the trains were paid for. Stop at the ATM on the way to the station, and off I go. Except the Nationwide ATM was out or order. So were the other 3 in Staines that evening. Oh well, I can sort it in London. Get on the train.

Could I find a single working ATM between Waterloo and Angel? Could I buggery! I ended up getting there at 1 in the morning, all but skint, and walked straight through the door and into the club without paying.

I headed up these wide, deep stairs to the first floor. Pulsing music got louder. My 17 year old brain is being assaulted.

Through another door, and it got proper noisy. The place looked like a hastily vacated warehouse. Bits of furniture and benching and stuff. Chicken wire walls. A tyre swing. Televisions bolted all around showing the same movies and art films. Neon tubes here and there. It was like a massive squat. A dancefloor was over to the right, all dry ice and coloured lights and bass. Beyond that, somewhere you could buy a coffee and amazing banana and honey sandwiches.

The people were off the scale. Every subculture was there. Mostly Goth, but sexy goth and not miserable goth. Fuck me the women were outrageous, so were some of the blokes. There was a big fetish element to the look, because this was before the BDSM 'scene' got out of the Mansions and into the clubs. More than a few off duty strippers used to turn up for a boogie.

The Look was young, pervy and tripping, and makeup for everybody. Boots and hair were spiky. Boys and girls all got dressed up.

Mixed in were a lot of various 'alternative' types. Bikers, hippies, even a few skinheads occasionally. The music was a whole blend of uber-cool shit. Bags of attitude all the way.

I found a corner and sat down and rolled a little joint and wondered what to do for the rest of the night.

I didn't wait long. Two girls, in crushed velvet and crimped hair finery, came over and said hello, are you by yourself? There's a bunch of us, why don't you come over? So I did and met all these people and we hung out all night and went back to waterloo together the next morning to get the train home.

I was a motorbike courier mon-fri, so the mohican had to go under a helmet, and my black nail varnish would steadily chip off through the week. I was known as 'the Black Fingernail'. Every day, I would wear the same shit that I'd taken off the night before.

The following Saturday, I did my hair, did my makeup, and headed back to town to meet up with my new mates.

That was my 7 day week for the next few years.

Work, club, sleep sunday, repeat.

I probably went almost every weekend for the next 3 years. We had mad, crazy times. We took good drugs. I discovered how to dance. There was love, intrigue, drama all mixed up with the speed and the acid and the music. Not to mention the whole pretentious goth thing! Wahay! I loved all that! "If a thing's worth doing, it's worth overdoing" was our creed.

In all the years of going, I never saw any real trouble there. I hardly saw any bouncers, either. No cops, ever.

A few times I used to wander outside at 4.30 or so, daybreak and I've been sweating on the dance floor for hours tripping on the lights, the smoke, the clothes and bodies.

I'd step out the door and it felt like diving into a pool. Looking straight up at the building site cranes towering up from the other side of the small side street we are on, I watch them wave and ripple gently. Quick cup of tea and a giggle, and it's back inside for more. Makeup and hair would of course stay perfect throughout the night's gyrations.

The club would turn the fire alarm on for a few minutes at 7.30am to wake up the sleepers and we'd all shamble off to the tube, and hang out at waterloo for a few hours drinking tea and eating attrocious bacon sandwiches from casey jones while the LSD just tailed off nicely......

The scene of my hedonistic youth climaxed with meeting my future wife. (We were together 20 years this march) After a year or so, we slowly started not going so often, and it tailed off as these thing do.

We didn't completely stop going for years and years. New Years Eves were the final times we went. My 1986 membership card always getting us in, even without the leathers or the makeup.

For us, it was always the best club. Anywhere else we went was just so-so. Camden Palace, Elec.Ballroom, KitKat, yeah so what. This place was cheap and all-night and fucking great. There was nothing like it. When Acid House first hit, we'd get these guys in dayglo smiley gear arrivng cos their clubs closed at 4am!

All were welcome. That was probably the best of it.

Length? As far as I know, it's still going.
(CADmonkey rollllllllled another one, just like the other one, Thu 9 Apr 2009, 3:16, 13 replies)

Pearoast
.
I've a problem thats been with me all my life. I just can't keep my trap shut when someone offers me a good feed line. It's a kind of disability. So this is the tale of when I failed to score.

I used to be one of the DJs at Manchester University's Rock Night. It was a great job - unpaid but it meant that I could play the music I liked and was fantastic for chatting up the ladies.

Now doing this job were two of us - me and my partner in crime Denty who's featured in a couple of my stories. Nornally, he'd spin the disks and I'd be doing front-of-house dealing with requests from punters. It was an easy job. If you were female and attractive there was a chance I'd play the record you liked but if you were male you were told to fuck off.

So this one night this little rock-chick kept coming up and asking for various records. As she was stunning, I generally put on what she wanted if we had it. And when I say she was stunning she really was. About four foot ten with a gorgeous figure and long black hair. A real pocket Venus. I was smitten.

After a couple of hours I needed a pint so I took a break and headed for the bar. Pocket Venus made a bee-line for me and we were soon chatting away like we'd known each other for years.Things progressed and soon we were kissing. I was in like Flynn. Then she asked me to come home with her after the gig and my night was made.

Then it started to go wrong. Snuggling into my arm she looked up at me and said:

"With all the beautifual girls here tonight, why have you picked me to go home with?"

I couldn't help myself. It just came out.

"I've never fucked a dwarf before"

SLAP!!!

And off she stormed leaving me helpless with giggles at the bar....

Cheers
( Legless Mister Stabby - shanks for the memory, Thu 9 Apr 2009, 2:32, 2 replies)

And another one
Anyone from Sydney will know how this is going to end...
We're all out getting trollied and wind up in a Taylor Square bar called Gilligans.
One mate starts dancing with a beautiful girl and after a while, disappears with her.
She weren't no girl.
( difficultchild, Thu 9 Apr 2009, 2:19, 1 reply)

Some place in Manilla
I vaguely remember being searched for weapons at the door and when the bouncer found my small swiss army knife, he confiscated it, gave me a receipt and hung it in a locker next to pistols, clubs, knives and a pair of nunchucks. I honestly can;'t even remember what the place was like aside from that... it was a bit of a big week.
( difficultchild, Thu 9 Apr 2009, 2:15, Reply)

Siberia in New York
Google it for the full history of this amazing place, but basically this was a rolling club that shifted location a few times to avoid being busted for flagrant violations of just about every law and article of common sense.
When I first found it, the location was in a subway station, through an unmarked door.
We pounded on the door, an eye appeared to look us over and the secret "Stacy said to come" was passed... then we were in.
A few brief impressions:
Men and women, young and old, gays and straights, cops and crims, businessmen and bums, black and white, punks and yuppies, EVERYONE crammed in laughing and shouting over the music and drinking like there was no tomorrow.
Smokers were lighting up wherever the hell the liked, people were snorting lines off the pinball machine, the bar staff were serving from ice-filled buckets behind planks of wood on trestles, when I went to the toilet a couple was pants down and going at it on the floor... this was debauchery at its finest.
Needless to say we enjoyed an incredibly strange night and made a lot of new friends.
Great place, but it's probably a very good thing its gone.
( difficultchild, Thu 9 Apr 2009, 2:11, Reply)

The Pav, Matlock Bath
Legendary shitehole of a club in the heart of Derbyshire (rumour has it that it was voted 2nd/3rd worst nightclub in the country a few years back), luckily closed now.

Here are just a few facts* about the place in which I spent most of my Fridays during GCSEs/AS-Levels:

-The place routinely let in underagers (which was great for me), and the times when they got a bit strict with ID were some of their worst nights.

-The 'DJ' was called Jez Revell, a fat, permatanned, peroxide-blonde-highlighted haired imbecile with only one genre of music seemingly known to him; cheesy. Apparently he also used to take drunk underage guys home and try and have his wicked way with them too.

-They had the classic boxing machine where pissed-up chavs would compete with each other for the highest scores without having to resort to lamping each other.

-The aformentioned 'DJ' also had(has?) his own promotion company that bought such 'stars' as that twat from Hollyoaks, that twat from Emmerdale, and that singing twat from Coronation Street to the club 'FOR ONE NIGHT ONLY'. I don't remember much about the singing guy due to too many happyhappy love pills.

-The decline of the place began when a couple of out of town folks got knifed there at a private party, and when the neighbours(valley-dwellers) started complaining about the noise.

-So in a flurry of court hearings, the place was eventually shut sometime last year. The owners opened another club just down the road which lasted all of six months, closing down because of (surprise surprise) flouting licensing laws every night.


*DISCLAIMER: Some facts may be based on myths and/or lies



Apologies for lack of real funnehs, these are just good memories!
(CptFantastic stopped doing work on, Thu 9 Apr 2009, 2:00, 1 reply)

I don't like nightclubs
I've had a fair few nasty experiences, mainly because I first started going when I was quite innocent and a bit out of my depth.

One of the funnier ones happened in a gay bar we went to after the High School formal. This requires a bit of a background story... *those wavy line things I can't find on my Mac signifying going back in time*



When I was in Year 8 I went on a school trip to Paris, and as I didn't really know anyone who was going was put in a room with two girls I'll call Kat and Rachel. In our nasty suburban hostel (which deserves a whole story itself- hope School Trips comes up as QOTW!) each room had a double bed and a single bed. Anyway, we decided to take it in turns sleeping in the single bed, so I slept there the first night, and somehow ended up there the second night too. All seemed well on the trip, although Kat seemed a little strange.

Let me tell you a bit about her.
She was a bit of a goth/into witchcraft kind of girl. The sort who wore leather studded chokers with pentacles and messed around with ouija boards. I met her parents on an open night- her father was a diminutive man who looked like a wrinkly boiled egg in an ill-fitting leather suit, and her mother was what I can only describe as a blimp. She was the source of the "Your mama's so fat" jokes. I remember being amazed that such a (relatively) attractive girl was the result of these two weird looking people copulating. If you knew her, you'd understand the genes must've come out in the personality.
Her sister was well-known as the first openly lesbian sixth former in our school; she made sure everyone knew (in a scary sort of way) and pounced on people accusing them of homophobia if they so much as looked at her.


It proved that her older sister had a very big impression on Kat.

On the last night, I ended up in the double bed with her and quickly fell asleep, having run around Paris since 6am. I woke not long after to find my 11-year-old body being rather vigorously shaken. She had both legs wrapped tightly around me and was dry humping away furiously and laughing weirdly as she did so. Rach lay sleeping in the single bed, unaware of what was happening in the bed next to her. Of course I was terrified, and I'd led a very sheltered life so had virtually no idea what was going on, only that it was wrong. I cried my way through the ordeal until eventually she was satisfied and fell asleep.

She moved schools not long after and I must've blocked it from my memory. But these psychological scars have a way of creeping up on you.


Back to the night of the formal. 2am in the morning and I'm feeling a little upset because the boy of my dreams has made it clear he didn't enjoy our dance. But we're in the gay club, it's lots of fun, I have some toffee poppets from the vending machine in the toilets and my friends have cheered me up with cocktails. The regulars seem a bit bemused to find a crowd of 16-year-olds in formal gear turning up, but are taking it in their stride. I'm sitting on the sofas. All is going well.

Until.

I hear a seductive-sounding voice behind me. "Heeellllo"

I turn around, and Kat is sitting on the arm of the sofa beside me. She puts a leg over my lap and leans over, her breasts a little too close to my face.

I let out a scream and run out of the club, all the way down the street in my flapping formal dress.


I recall hearing Kat cackling away wickedly as I made my hasty exit.
(I'm not here was here on, Thu 9 Apr 2009, 1:14, 1 reply)

Eddies in Birmingham!
For anyone who remembers this legendary venue. I was there the night it burnt down!

There I am doing my best John Travolta impression to Warrant and Motley Crue. I ask the DJ for some Skid Row and he gives me the affirmative, "the next song will be Skid Row I promise!"

Then just before the song ends the DJ comes on his mic (har har)

"Please can everyone evacuate the building, there is a fire!" ( paraphrased, I was cunted )

I grab my friend and get her to the corridor.

"Hold on a second, I need a piss"

Guess where the fire was? I went into the smokey toilet, wondering why it was so smokey took my piss, tried to spit into the urinal and spat on my cock then went back out to get Jo!

I even gave her my jacket to breathe through because I'm such a gent!

Stood outside Spearmint Rhino's for bastard ages afterwards too for some reason thinking they were going to let us back in!
(Dangerous Disco Trev Isn't my real name, Thu 9 Apr 2009, 0:51, Reply)

The El Don!
A friend of mine is perfect take home to meet your Mother material. He's fantastically good looking, very well mannered and very well spoken.

Unfortunately he's an epic lush who gets out of control when drunk. He likes to jump into bushes and couldn't remember how he fractured his foot! Sober he'd never do this, it would ruin his suit!

There are minor stories like the time a lad wanted to fight him and he told him "look you might beat me up, but I fucked your Mum!" and then told the first lads very angry friend that "It's not my fault his Mum wanted to fuck me"

Or when a midget tried to mug him and he was literally bent over laughing at him until the midget ran away in shame.

Or when two women informed him that the two seats next to them were taken so he shouted at the top of his voice

"LESBIANS"

But no my favourite El Don story is when he was again trollied but this time I wasn't there to egg him on, oh no he had sensible people there to "look after him"

He was getting more and more drunk and his dancing became more and more erratic. So they sat him down and gave him a glass and a jug of water to sober him up. Quite a good idea, unfortunately they got up to dance and left him on his own.

Two minutes later there is a commotion on the dance floor and a huge circle forming around someone. One of the girls goes to look and sees the El Don in the middle dancing, with the jug in his hand soaking everyone in a ten foot radius!

It's a good job he's not a member to return the favour!
(Dangerous Disco Trev Isn't my real name, Thu 9 Apr 2009, 0:44, 2 replies)

The Roxbury
Best night ever.
(Scritty Bakerman., Thu 9 Apr 2009, 0:39, Reply)

the meat market
was the basement of a hotel in Donnybrook (Dublin), where the not-so-beautiful people went when all other options had been exhausted. The group I was with didn't know this when a barman recommended it to us, but we soon found out. The first warning was a bouncer who told me I couldn't go in because I wasn't dressed nicely enough... then changed his mind when I said "OK" and turned to leave.

This was before the smoking ban in Ireland, so the air was blue, and so was I. I got so pissed off, so quickly, that I apparently blanked out a pretty girl who wanted to dance with me, because she was smoking. The floor was half-filled with people "dancing" in that bad party fashion, and the drink was expensive. I lasted an hour before figuring out that walking around by myself was preferable. It's gone now - not that I care.
( bnt what, me worry?, Thu 9 Apr 2009, 0:33, 2 replies)

Horizontal Dancing
Sheesh, i love the beer and quite often due to boredom hit the clubs on a weekend. Something to have happened;

Been so drunk i fell over on the dancefloor. Not realising this, i carried on dancing. People laughed at me.

Wasted shit loads of cash having a beer fight in a local club. How we didnt get the shit kicked out of us i have no idea.

Bragged to my mates i pulled a stunner in a club in Nottingham while on a stag do. When we saw the pics later, the "stunner" turned out to have a better moustache than german porn stars... Oh how i was mocked.

Went to Fab Cafe in Manchester dressed as 40s gangsters. Ace night!

Had a random night in Peppermint Lounge (Pre burning down) in Edinburgh where i ended up with all the hair and beauty girls from a department store. Didnt score thou. Fucksocks!

19th birthday, my bro and his mate comes up from London to take me out. Get into the local club, they tell me to stand still, and tell all my friends to fuck off. They then work their way down the cocktail list forcing me to down them. 4 down, puke, carry on drinking. Hungover the next day... slightly.

Watched my mates pull two girls in York, then proceed to pull their mums afterwards for a laugh.

In New York, some girls out on a beer promo. Got chatting to them, they decided we were better company that the other pissheads and they couldnt be bothered to work anymore. So they gave us all their beer and sat drinking with us until they finished.

In a latenight bar on my own in Copenhagen, getting chatted up for a 3some by two wasted local bints (one was married, the other had a boyf) trying to make my excuses and leave. The barman found this too funny, so gave me free beer to keep me there just for the entertainment.

Ahhh good times.
(Fishbone-didi, Thu 9 Apr 2009, 0:19, 1 reply)

Best/Worst (you decide) chat up line ever!
As sprightly, young, casually dressed 17 year olds, my friend and I used to head to the clubs pretty early to Thursday night Indie night (Oh yes) as not to be subjected to the whole ID fiasco.

Anyway, we walked through the door, got a drink and sat down waiting for the place to fill. There was about 12 other people in there apart from us. The majority of them belonged to a large group of 30something males loitering by one of the bars. After about oooh 6 seconds? we were approached by an extremely drunken male:

ERE! You lasses! My mate over there (points), white shirt. He wants either one of you two. He isn't arsed which. And I'll 'ave the other if you're up for it.

Unfortunately we had to decline such a gracious offer. No idea why...
(i should have joined myspace, Thu 9 Apr 2009, 0:18, 3 replies)

Not every club experience is shit
Nightclubs are hell. Oh fuck yes. Between drinking Bud in a shitty house club aged 15 while every girl I ever fancied walked past with bloke on arm, and being offered half a line of coke in a vomit-strewn khazi shortly before my would-be dealer passed out with blood leaking from both nostrils, I have all manner of bad memories.

But not all of them are bad. I got my cherry popped in a nightclub.

Not a good nightclub. Hull* had just one good club when I left, but it had turned into little more than a late-night alcopop playground by 2003. This story starts in a classically shit club: LAs. A typical generic chart-playing hellhole which had dedicated 70s and 80s nights from the mid-90s on. The very last time I was in there was a Saturday night with a couple of mates, celebrating the fact that we were all fucking off to University on the Sunday after. A night of getting plastered, dancing badly to awful music, and trying (pronounced “failing”) to pull. In other words, a typical Saturday night.

I had a lot of experience of trying to pull. See, I'd tried pretty much every evening from when I first noticed girls, and now here I was, eighteen years old and no success. Barely more than a smile. So on the one night I'm not trying, just sinking my third vodka sling because it's L's round next. I get up to siphon the python, as you do. On my way back from the khazi, a pretty girl smiles at me. Odd, but I smile back. Before I can offer her a drink, she's come over and introduced herself. Says she's just seen her ex and doesn't want to face him alone. This was around midnight.

We spent much of the remaining hours joined at the lips. I buy her drinks. L wanders by with my vodka, and just sets it down on the table in front of me. I don't notice for a good ten minutes. At some point, I got her number. Not having a mobile telephone back in 1999, I didn't have one to give her.** I managed to articulate why in between the snogging-and that’s what it was. I couldn't describe what we were doing as "kissing"; that implies a degree of tenderness that was entirely missing from our animal passion. We went our separate ways out of the door, and I got to explain where I'd been for three hours to a couple of rather annoyed friends.

I didn't get a shag that night, but it's how I met the girl with purple hair.

Moving in was Sunday. Drive down to Stafford, meet the people I'm going to be living with for the next year, go for a drink with them. And what's this? Worthington's Creamflow for £1 a pint in the union? Surely this "Stafford" was the land of milk and honey... but for such a nice place, I really noticed the lack of girls. This was down to one core fact: the campus I was at was for computer science, engineering, and mathematics. Everyone else was ten miles away in Stoke. My chances of getting my end away with bohemian undergraduates while discussing Baudrillard were zero (at least, during the first year). On Thursday evening, I remembered that I had an ace in the hole. Better even than my intimate knowledge of free internet pornography: I had a phone number for the girl with purple hair. I arranged to meet her a week hence, on my first return visit home.

I don't remember the name of the club. It was just down from the Sugar Mill, used to do a night run by Viking FM that was notable for occasional good music. Upstairs in one of the old mill buildings, with a split-level dance floor and thick wooden beams for people to rest on. I don't remember the name, but I remember the sights and sounds and smells and even tastes. She introduced me to some of her friends. I, having re-invented myself over the past couple of weeks into someone a lot more likable than I had been***, actually talked to them rather than to my beer. And I talked to her, quite a bit. Neither of us really knew what was going on between us. But I liked her, and through sober eyes she was prettier than I remembered. And her purple hair did something to me that I was powerless to resist.

Her friends cajoled us until we went to dance. She took no time getting in close. Pulp's "Common People" started to play and she pressed into me. Pretty soon, we were doing everything but shagging in a dark corner of the dance floor, hidden from view by a speaker stack. We remained in that sticky, vibrating mess, exploring each other's bodies for the full five minutes and fifty seconds, until the sacred guitar chords had faded at last. The sick fuck DJing booth put on something by Lou Vega**** and we ran to the gents to fuck like horny rabbits.

I know it's fashionable to say that your first time is also your worst, but it remains above average in my estimation. I won't give any details of the actual deed, but every time I was back in Hull we'd go to the same club and have it off in the same gents. Tireless romantics, us.

That one night lead to three months of fun, three months of weird-but-still-fun, and three months of bunny-boiling insanity before I finally came to my senses, but that's a tale for another QOTW.

Incidentally, I boasted of this exploit to my brother when home for Christmas. In my defence, I may have been drinking. He picked the wrong club, and was ejected from LAs for having his knob out in the VIP area (they have cameras, who knew?). So that's one lesson: go into any nightclub with your eyes open.

* The city of my birth. I assume I must have been a real cunt while still in the womb.
** I, like many people, didn't have a mobile in 1999. And as of tomorrow, I'd have a new address in a new county and a new phone number.
*** If nothing else, that's why I went to university: to shake a reputation ten years in the building. I look back at myself now and shudder.
**** Or some other popular beat combo of the time. It's hard to say.
(DigitalRaven will have to make do with gin, Wed 8 Apr 2009, 23:50, 16 replies)

I can't criticise..
.. as I'm a nightclub owner
( Signify, Wed 8 Apr 2009, 23:20, 4 replies)

Presto-Change-O
I spent a year working in New York, both in the city and on Long Island. The most surreal nightclub was actually a wannabe dance club on the island.

"Coeds" had clearly begun as a neighborhood bar, what most of you would call a pub, I suppose. However at some point the horny owner had decided that staffing the place exclusively with buxom beauties and installing a dancefloor and DJ booth would class the place up.

The locals agreed whole-heartedly with the buxom beauty portion of this plan, however the techno-rave DJ dancing appealed to a totally different clientle. This resulted in a full 'shift change' of patrons late every evening when the DJ arrived.

One memorable evening I was having quite a time, chatting up the beauty behind the bar, who was having minor wardrobe mafunctions - to my great delight. The first time caught us both by surprise: she was opening a beer bottle, when her left boob spontaneously (and weirdly) swung down and away from it's matching twin, and popped out the side of her halter top. "Hello!"

Said beauty turned away and adjusted things, her cleavage reappeared and nipple disappeared. "Sorry," she said, "the tape isn't sticking well tonight." Ever helpful, I retrieved a handy roll of duct tape from my laptop case (after several other malfunctions, of course. No need to be hasty.) Things, shall I say, continued to "look up" the rest of the night.

I hung around late that evening, steeling myself against the god-awful thumping, hooting, screeching, and general noise produced by the DJ (not to mention the music). My beauty introduced me to the most excellent practice known as 'buy-backs' there and 'it's on the house' everywhere else.

Thus fortified, I found myself accepting an invite to dance from another sweet young thing, whose attention I had earned at the direction of my friend, the taped-together barmaid. Wending my way carefully and unsteadily to the dancefloor, I gurned about attempting to fit in. It was clear after a short time that I was best served by holding my arms low and close, and moving about as little as possible - lest I hurt someone. I was favored with 1 pity dance, then the sweet thing eff'd off with a group who were rythmically waving glowsticks about. Very odd.

Returning to the bar, I found all the seats taken, and my beauty gone somewhere. My head cleared somewhat, as I slowly turned and surveyed the surreal tableau now present in my favorite local watering hole: weird lights pulsing, "music" throbbing, crowd moving in odd ways, and the mean age rising by a decade merely by my presence.

I fucked off home, and never stayed late again.
(danalan Pretty good, for an amateur., Wed 8 Apr 2009, 22:37, Reply)

The 4 way that never was
Some years ago I used to frequent a goth club in town. I was married, about 22 years old. Mrs. Zupper didn't usually bother coming out with me on my weekly clubbing excursions.

On this particular night I ran into a young lady of loose morals whom my wife had already had girl sex with on several occasions -- while we'd been engaged. So it seemed fair enough to end up chatting her up, buying her a drink and then buying a drink for her friend, Katherine.

Long story short, within an hour all 3 of us were on the floor underneath the DJ's table, snogging. We were all at least partially undressed and jointly decided that it was time to take this party elsewhere.

I had 2 EXTREMELY attractive bisexual women ready to have sex with me immediately. I could have taken them downtown, where I had the entire second floor of a building that I'd rented out with a group of friends that had formed a sort of artist's collective. Couches, fridge, stereo, perfect place to go for random sex.

Did I do things the safe way? No I did not. I decided to push my luck and go for 3 women at one go by getting my wife involved.

When the 3 of us arrived at my apartment, there was just one little problem. My wife and I had just returned from helping to clean out a friend's (extremely wealthy) grandparents' vacation home before selling it. We'd come back with boxes and boxes of fine, antique china and other such things.

All of this fine china and tea sets and such were spread out across the living room floor. And as soon as these 2 chicks saw it all, they went into instant 'gushing' girl mode. My wife joined in. And the 3 of them spent the next 2 hours playing with the fucking tea sets.

The hot group sex vibe was hopelessly lost. The young ladies left after much charming conversation. I never saw Katherine again.

I want to kick myself in the face every time I think of what could have been. To make things worse, I explained to my wife about a month later what my intentions were in bringing the 2 of them round. Her response? "Too bad, I definitely would have fucked Katherine."

Sigh.
(Zupper, Wed 8 Apr 2009, 22:36, 2 replies)

Oh lordy.
Anyone remember a brief lived night club in London called the Asylum? It was right near Tottenham Court Road station and lasted about two months before they got shut down for spending all the money on smack.

It had 3 or 4 levels or rock/punk/metal type fun. It was BRILLIANT.

I was there one night, being 19 and shit, with my mates (also 19 and shit) when I noticed the girl. In my memory she was the single sexiest, most beautiful, most amazing woman ever to exist. she was perfection. She was on the far side of the dance floor.

I danced with my mates, and looked at her. She danced with her mates and looked up, our eyes met. The next two songs were the single most exciting time in my young life as she and I slowly and imperceptibly went from "dancing with our mates" to "dancing with each other."

It was perfect, I was astonished, and as the song ended I leaned forwards to ask her something incredibly dashing and suave*.

She leaned in to meet me, and just then "Smells like teen spirit" came on.

The guys behind me cheered, knocking against me, causing me to lurch forward at the hips, which in turn caused a whiplash-stlye forward movement of my upper body. And my head.

I awoke to find myself being carried from the dancefloor by my friends. There was blood coming from my head. I didn't know a lot of what was going on. They sat me down at the bar, and the barman gave me a plastic cup of ice to press against my head. I sat for what I am told was 10-15 minutes, and as I pressed the ice to my head I thought "what happened?". " I was dancing, there was a song, there was a girl..."

Shit. The girl.

Being a gent, I asked for a second cup of ice, and went to find her. Perhaps it would be a funny story we could tell our kids. Perhaps I had not, in fact, headbutted her with terriffic force.

She was not on the top floor.

She was not on the third floor.

She was not on the second floor.

She was not on the ground floor.

She was not in the basement.

Just outside the entrance was a crowd of worried looking teenagers I vaguely recognised. They were her friends. They told me, in none-too friendly ways, that they had been UNABLE to wake her, and that she had departed with a friend in an ambulance. They were getting coats and preparing to follow by taxi. no, they would not tell me her name, give me her number, allow me to apologise or give my number. I could, apparently, fuck right off.

I never saw her again.

M.

_{* I was drunk and 19. Dashing and suave was probably going to be "can I get you a drink?" or "do you fancy a shag?", neither of which ever got me anything other than poorer to the tune of one drink.}
( Mockingbird Practitioner of SCIENCE, Wed 8 Apr 2009, 22:31, Reply)

I have no material
I've only been to a nightclub twice.

This is because I grew up in lily-white Surrey, cafe au lait-coloured on the outside (but with lovely purple innards, honest). Oddly, every nightclub around was mysteriously "Members Only" when my brother and I turned up. Even the one called "Splinters", where, according to rumour, if the bouncers searched you for weapons and didn't find any, they lent you some.

One famous night, twelve of us went out to the slightly less violent nightclub - guess which 10 made it in and which two didn't. We stood around in the car park for a while until one of the bouncers came over, and told us to get out of the car park before he hit us. Um, OK. We ended up in McDonalds.

So I'm going to read each and every answer this week, just so's I know what I missed out on.
(purplegod counting down for Christmas!, Wed 8 Apr 2009, 22:09, 4 replies)

Dancefloor disasters?
I think that is a description that would best be applied to me.

See, I am not really coordinated at all. I don't have poor coordination- I have virtually none at all. I can't even do a cartwheel! So getting out on the floor and dancing?...

Put it this way. Remember Midnight Oil, the Australian band? Have you seen footage of Peter Garrett dancing? I make him look like Fred Astaire. Seriously, I move like a cross between Al Gore and Julia Childs. Elaine on "Seinfeld" could get away with laughing at me. It's probably an Abomination Unto Nuggan.

In fact, the last time I got drunk enough to attempt it I ended up being knocked to the floor, where one guy held my shoulders down while the other forced some phenobarbital down my throat and shoved his wallet between my teeth. When the ambulance came and I told the paramedics that I was in fact not epileptic but had just been trying to be social and dance, it's hard to say who was more embarrassed...

Thanks, but I'll sit this one out.
( The Resident Loon Not a demographic. Do not measure., Wed 8 Apr 2009, 22:00, 3 replies)

live sex show
when we were about 14, the only nightclubs in stockport were moonshine (later luckys) and cocos (later volts). anyone else from around there can confirm that they sucked. hard. but they were the only options in town. and if we put on enough makeup and the bouncers weren't looking too closely, we could usually get in.

so one saturday night, my friend evie and i were giving it some on the dancefloor, when the dj announced that a live sexshow was about to begin on the stage. being 14, bursting with hormones and curiosity, evie and i fought and shoved our way to the stage through a throng of sweaty, lardy blokes. eventually, our persistence paid off, and we found ourselves right at the front, pinned against the stage by the heaving mess behind us. we grinned at each other as the curtain was heaved up.

only to find ourselves watching two grubby middle aged stockport slappers writhing around on the stage rubbing their greying knickers and bras against each other. it was about as erotic as a tax return, but we couldn't get away from it because the crowd was too dense.

although not as dense as we felt sloping back to our friends at the bar after the "show" was over...
( rachelswipe with a fork, Wed 8 Apr 2009, 21:40, 8 replies)

Not my disaster
But did you know of the tragedy across the nation: Nightclubs who have never found out, that due to recent advances in technology; it's now possible to clean toilets during the long years between installation and removal.

I'm available as a consultant to explain the apparently difficult concept of installing enough toilets for your intended occupancy. It's fascinating stuff - despite the myth, just two cubicles are rarely enough for anything beyond the smallest of backstreet pubs. Unconfirmed surveys suggest that ladies might *not* enjoy having to queue to use the facilities.

Research is underway to investigate the enduring appeal to owners of piss-lakes on the floors of said facilities.
(The Incredible Sulk Finally remembered his password on, Wed 8 Apr 2009, 21:20, 2 replies)

Ah, the glamor of the clubs!
Back in the mid 1980s I worked in a club in Rochester. We had bands come there every weekend, of course, and some during the week. Some fairly impressive acts came through there- Hot Tuna played, as did Joan Jett and a band that was an offshoot from Journey (this was back when you couldn't escape Steve Perry's nasal voice coming from the radio). During this time the glamor of the music scene wore very thin indeed- for instance, Joan Jett is not only pockmarked but has a distinctive stench about her that damn near knocked me on my ass when she went through the kitchen and passed within a few feet of me. And her fans left a fetor in the building that lasted for days.

Then one night a new performer from NYC was coming through, and the buzz was that she was an up and coming act that was hitting it big. I saw her, a diminutive redhead in jeans and flannel, and was unimpressed- and what kind of a last name is Lauper, anyway? Her soundcheck was nice enough as she sang "Time After Time", but other than that I didn't much care.

I worked the show and was not really thrilled, but what the hell, it was a paycheck. I had to come in the following morning to open the place, which meant that I had to arrive at 8:00, tired from the late night and not overly cheerful. Even fresh coffee did little to help.

Then I went to clean out the dressing room, and discovered that maybe there was a reason she hadn't been so great onstage. Unfortunately it was my job, so I sighed and got to work.

To me fell the task of cleaning up Cyndi Lauper's vomit.

I quit not long after that.
( The Resident Loon Not a demographic. Do not measure., Wed 8 Apr 2009, 21:15, 3 replies)

Balloon on a stick
I only ever went to clubs to dance.

Years ago I was in Vancouver, didn't know anyone and so went out to just boogie on down to loud music. And drink enough to give me the required Dutch Courage.

I hit the dancefloor like an adonis. I was really wigging out and, what was this? A circle of on-lookers around me? This was just like when the cool kids danced at the High School Prom in films. I was well up for throwing some shapes and kept an eye out for someone else willing to take my challenge to out dance me.

Nobody dared, it seemed. Whatever. I kept going until, eventually, knackered, sweat and beer soaked I crawled home to the shitty hostel I was staying in.

It was only the next morning that, with 20-20 hindsight, I realised that the space had opened up on the dancefloor purely out of self preservation.

Nobody wanted to get twatted by the drunk idiot flailing about like a balloon on a stick.

Still do it, mind
( chthonic, Wed 8 Apr 2009, 21:08, 1 reply)

the warehouse
now im sure wayne was the name of the ginger-wigged drag queen on rollerskates i watched fall down the stairs with a bucket of half time oranges. or it may have been the drugs.

help?
(imallamallama looking forward to llamageddon on, Wed 8 Apr 2009, 21:07, Reply)

Normally, I don't go near the damn places unless I'm pretty plastered already.
And as I get older, my tolerance for alcohol increases - so as it stands, for the prospect of entering a club to appear attractive I'd need to drink roughly enough to make a horse paralytic.

Besides, what's the point? Unless you're completely Jan'd, all you're doing is paying through the nose for sub-par drinks and flailing around like a fat spastic in a big crowd of sweaty bouncing idiots in a mystical quest to get your end away with some other moron, all the while desperately trying to convince yourself that the whole experience is in any way fun. And it's so loud you can't even talk to anyone without screaming words of one syllable only, thus nixing the social element. Get me the next ticket in, I can't wait!
( The Mock TurtIe ™ --- Thinks you are a cunt, on, Wed 8 Apr 2009, 20:59, 2 replies)

On a business trip
to Monaco, one of the 2 colleagues I was with wanted to impress us. We were there in order to schmooze rich people into investing money in our emerging markets property development company, this was last December so we weren't having much luck. DP, the colleague in question, was a typical snotty London property boy who was a regular at the Monaco grand prix and had a few rich buddies in town that we thought might give us a bob or two.
Apparently during the grand prix, the nightclub in question, Jimmy's, is absolutely rammed, entrance fee is over 100 Euro and drinks are about as much, and you can only get in if you know someone. This was what he said to recommend it to us.
It was already past midnight and I would really rather have gone back to the ludicrously swanky hotel but we ended up going to this club, the three of us plus some of the rich twats we had had dinner with. DP was going on about how amazing this place was, and that 'now we would be able to impress our friends by saying we'd been to Jimmy's'. I didn't bother pointing out that I doubted any of my friends would have heard of Jimmy's, and if they were the kind of person that would be impressed that I had been there, they almost certainly wouldn't be my friends.
So we went in, about 6 of us. The only other people in the club were the staff, who outnumbered us by 100%. It wasn't even a particularly nice club. Not to be deterred, DP and a particularly obnoxious Aussie stockbroker decided to request the DJ play Paradise City and had a dance-off on the large round dancefloor in the centre of the club. By that time one or two other unlucky people had arrived.
Once they had finished and I had sipped the last drop of my 10 Euro can of Sprite, we finally made our way out. DP still saying 'well at least you can say you've been to Jimmy's!' and seeming to think it incredibly rude of me to not be falling about with how impressed I was.
(CaraVAGgio, Wed 8 Apr 2009, 20:50, Reply)

Ecstacy ain't all bad, kids...
As most people know, ecstasy is appropriately named - while on it, you just feel like everything in the world is wonderful. I relate it to the feeling you'd get if you just won the lottery and realized you'd never have to worry about money again - ever.

Understandably, get enough people rolling in the same place and you've got a recipe for instant friends - complete strangers that you'd happily give a kidney to if they asked, and you know they'd do the same. Better than drunken comradery if you ask me, less chance of vomiting over your new best friends.

There's a certain code between rollers, slowly picked up from different experiences but instantly understood if you're on ex - mostly nonverbal, a nod and a wink. A light show from someone with glowsticks. A blast from a vic's tube. A bottle of water shared without worry between sweating dancers. Everybody wants to help everybody else have a good roll.

At one point I remember getting a light show from a guy with ten finger-lights and feeling hands on my shoulders giving me an unexpected massage - turns out the light raver's fiance would go to shows with him regularly and dazzle overstimulated rollers in a tagteam of light and sensation.

I remember playing with a girl's long, flowing hair for half an hour, the feeling of her hair between my fingers absolutely amazing.

I've even made out with a few girls, not a word spoken between us, just smiles and hugs and then kisses shared without hesitation or thought. Of course, the ecstasy meant going further was rather unlikely, but the feeling was almost as good as sex as it was.

I've had to cut back and eventually quit over the last two years, as my new girlfriend rather dislikes my next-day fugue and would rather go to shows sober and dance instead of space out...

But I still miss those carefree days, the mind-numbing explosions of light and touch, and the absolutely unparalleled feeling of complete comradery with strangers that I have rarely experienced since.

Le sigh.
(TheManWhoWas SlightlyKnackered, Wed 8 Apr 2009, 20:41, 3 replies)

Cinders.
Cinders down at Mumbles in Swansea used to be known in the early nineties for not being particularly strict on the over 18s rule. Fast forward ten years and a group of us had a little reunion and decided to go to a club. We had rarely attended Cinders while we all lived in Swansea so why as a group of 30+ year olds it was decided to trek all the way to it is beyond me. I did have to laugh when Martin, aged 32 with rapidly receding hair was stopped going in and had to produce his driving licence to prove he was over 18!
I fell asleep under a table. I had been up since 4 am. I was told I was more succesful with women whilst asleep when they woke me up to go home.
(jvz, Wed 8 Apr 2009, 20:39, Reply)

The Zone - High Street, Swansea (next door to Park Lane - 'executive club')
Great little place if you didn't mind self harmers, flooded toilets, dodgy beer and no lights. Why did it close down?
( pottybeaver is neither a potty nor a beaver, Wed 8 Apr 2009, 20:26, Reply)