Stadium, Jakarta.
That's all really.

If you've never been, I pity you.

If you have then a nods as good as a wink to a blind man, and I'll see you on Friday night.
( The Awful Puppy Bakery is still bored, Mon 13 Apr 2009, 10:46, 2 replies)

Never believe the hype...
Well despite living in Sarf London my mates and I had heard that Shottingham was a good place for clubbing. My Mum lived in Lincoln. Bonus. Stay at hers, get ripped to the tits, only an hour's drive home. Well me and the lads (yeah all my mates are boys so what) ended up in a rubbish club in the centre of Nottingham but thanks to several tasty little pills I was feeling no pain and quite enjoying the night. Until Dani Behr got on the decks. She was pants. Think your Dad on the decks at a family wedding... missing the mix etc, and a couple of times there was total silence for a minute or two. Talk about a buzz killer. The lads said why didn't we go home as it was about 3am and things weren't improving so I said yes and, being the straightest (ie not drunk) of the four of us, I drove home from Nottingham to Lincoln. It's about 45 miles, and just outside Nottingham City Limits I started coming up on my last pill. Jesus I was driving home, monged as a fothermucker, and attempting to traverse roundabouts at 80mph. So I can honestly say that Dani Behr nearly killed me. I then had to sleep next to Mum in her bed as all the spares were full of blokes. Try not waking up your olds when you're gurning like Les Dawson. I dare you.
( Sallyrsm, Mon 13 Apr 2009, 9:56, 8 replies)

too many stories and
as there is a very good chance someone i know will read this from work i shall refrain from anything concerning me

but a story worth relating comes from my time on the door. I dint look like a proper doorman (dreadlocks and absence of suit) so folk just wen about their dodgy business in front of me, my favourite being a bloke measuring out small wraps of a white powder and passing the main supply to his girlfriend saying "can you take that" while he shuffled bits of paper around.

you can see what happened next. She had a good night, he however was less than pleased with her bombing just under 2 grams of top quality mdma :D

(and yes i shouldnt have let them in but i thought it better she was in somewhere safe for a couple of hours)
(DreddPirateBob has watched every scifi film ever on, Mon 13 Apr 2009, 9:10, Reply)

Wife on fire
My mate Darryl is a Kiwi. He's built like a Maori warrior, has a very dry sense of humour and rarely smiles. I like him as he always says exactly what he's thinking, without any varnish whatsoever. Most people fear him when they meet for the first time.

The old Wall Street bar/nightclub in Tokyo was a favourite place for Darryl and me to chug back a couple of beers, usually just the two of us on a bar crawl. On this particular evening, our ladies had tagged along too.

The venue had lots of candles precariously placed in the seating area, and Mrs chart cat has very long hair. She was leaning over, talking to a friend when her hair wafted over one of the lit candles and caught fire. She didn't notice at first, but Darryl saw it almost immediately.

He glanced at me then --somewhat perplexingly-- he just laughed instead of telling my wife that her head was ablaze. In the split second after, I shouted at Mrs chart cat, but she panicked, turned round and ran screaming straight into Darryl, spewing smoke and fire like a tiny demon. Within seconds, accrid hair smoke had created a noxious fug around the table. Darryl calmly grabbed her and smacked her round the head, extinguishing the flames in one giant-sized swipe of his hand. Dazed and confused, she span round and thanked Darryl for his act of kindness which had saved her from too much damage (she wasn't injured at all, luckily), to which he bluntly replied

"Yeah, well... the smoke was annoying me, I couldn't see my drink"

I think he meant it too. Good old Darryl.
( chart cat has an itch, Mon 13 Apr 2009, 9:04, 1 reply)

fucksocks
so this shitty little local nightclub in my hometown was doing some kind of thing where they send you out, a couple of weeks before your 18th birthday, a set of tickets, allowing you and 20 mates to get in for free, and you get a bottle of bubbly (read:the cheapest fizzy tramp urine in a bottle they can find)

so it's on (there's fuck all else to do)
we've been going there for, ooh, maybe 2 years now? id was never an issue.
so i rock up, meet a few friends in the car park. they all go in, i'm waiting for a mate to arrive. we go in, i present my golden ticket and am taken to one side.. the bouncer says 'got any id mate?'
by this time my mate has gone in.
as have my other 10 odd guests, who are now boogieing away merrily.
i was, a little surprised. fact was, i DIDN't have any ID- i was actually 18 THAT VERY DAY. but i didn't drive, or have a passport, my college ID apparently would NOT do... what could i do?

go home and drink a bottle of spirits, and pass out.
apparently, they had a good time.
fuckers.
still, you gotta laugh. right? right?
(UppityDamnPrimate LET'S OPEN THIS F*CKING PIT UP, Mon 13 Apr 2009, 3:47, 4 replies)

I gave him a chance...
Hello hello.
SarcasticBarSteward's post reminded me of the time some shrimpy little guy tried to start on me by getting about an inch from my face and spitting "Oi! Not so fookin hard without yer fookin friends are yer yer little gobshite!?!"
I'm not exactly a shit brickhouse, so instead of taking him up on his polite offer of fisticuffs I leaned around him and started to point out that there were quite a few of my friends dotted about.
"I know those two, that's Jase, that's Trev, that's Matt over there, I know the manageress, hey Jenny! Those two are Richard and Chris..."
Instead of getting the point he replied with "Yeah, where are yer fookin friends now then, eh?"
"I just told you mate, that's Jason, that's Trev, that's Matt, that's Jenny..."
At this point he looked confused and wandered off.
Unfortunately he then started on Trev, and Trev just kicked the shit out of him...
Silly sod.
(Paolo Nutini's Bikini Better than Frederick Fleet's optometrist, Mon 13 Apr 2009, 2:10, 1 reply)

so this one time right, my girlfriend was making a curry and the recipe said "cumin" and I thought it said "cum in" so we laughed at that quite a fair bit
then we went to a nightclub

she's a supermodel by the way
( Gilgamesh gazed in wonder as Frampton came alive, Mon 13 Apr 2009, 1:46, 4 replies)

Work do type thing
Not so much a nightclub as a bar, but we were having a staff do at some random bar somewhere in central London. The only trouble was, it was a free bar and on such an occasion, I decided that the only sensible thing to do in front of everyone I work with was to drink as much wine as possible.

Luckily, I held it together til we left the venue and actually didn't feel too bad. It only started to catch up with me in a big way on the tube to King's Cross. Events proceeded thusly:

I got off the tube at King's Cross, lose the ability to walk and do a funny sideways run to the platform edge, luckily managing not to fall in front of any oncoming train.

I get to the main concourse and start to feel very odd. It's 30p to use the toilets though so my boyfriend has to get change from the nice man at the baguette place.

With levels of concentration not displayed outside of the Krypton Factor, I manage to get downstairs, through the turnstiles and into a cubicle.

I want to be sicky. However, on the long journey down to the toilet bowl, I manage to lose my balance and twat my head on the toilet door. I am now seeing quadruple.

I make it back onto the concourse, sit down and promptly projectile vomit all over the floor.

My boyfriend fetches a bin bag and a bottle of water. I drink the water and throw up down the outside of the bin bag.

My boyfriend somehow manages to get me on the last train home. A man is playing awful tinny music. I bang my head repeatedly on the table, moaning at my boyfriend to make the man turn the music off. Apparently I thought the music was making me sick.

The man promptly gets off at the next stop. I am that drunk and mentally unhinged, I have scared a pikey off a train at 1am.

I throw up on the train.

We manage to get off at the right stop and make it home. My boyfriend is carrying my handbag. I have sick down the back of my coat.

I spend the next two days hungover and pretty much wreck our week off.

I did return the favour a month later when my bf got pissed on Unicum at his work Christmas do and I ended up wiping liquid shit off his leg at 2am.

And that is why you should just say no to free booze at a work do.
(claireyfairy There's a smell in here that will outlast religion, Mon 13 Apr 2009, 1:40, 2 replies)

You might want to make a cup of tea or something...
Now, as a tiny bit of background to this, you'll need to remember that at the time of this happening, I was but a mere 17 year-old virgin (and only just 17 at that), somewhat less than skilled in the art of drinking, and generally just a bit of a dweeb. I was also convinced that the "losing half of the night" thing never happened to me; no matter how pissed I got I always remembered everything the next day.

Somehow, I'd managed to get myself a girlfriend, nothing too serious but a bit of a snog here and there and that was about it.

One weekend she decided that she and I and a few of her mates were going to hit Braintree's (then) only nightclub, the Late Parrot. Being underage, we all memorised dates of birth or in the case of the more babyfaced members of the group, borrowed ID, and hit the town.

I hated it; the music was crap, I hated dancing, I didn't know most of her friends, and the beer was expensive. Didn't stop me getting monumentally pissed though, and then being coerced into a bit of a slow dance at the end of the night.

Nothing much to remark on there, but a few weeks later, I was single again and was chatting to a friend at work, who was also friends with my now-ex. The conversation turned to that night at the club and what a nightmare I had been. Apparently, in addition to my memories of getting drunk, sitting grinning at everyone all night and having a crap slow dance the following had happened:

-trying to cop off with at least three of her mates.
-treading on her toes so badly during the slow dance that she stormed off the dancefloor and in fact out of the club
-trying to dance earlier in the night; so badly that she made me sit back down.

In one stroke, my illusion of "always remembering everything the next day" was shattered, and the embarrassment of that night was reborn, for my repeated enjoyment.

The next night at work, another friend was talking to me about the previous week's college disco - where I'd got very very drunk, spent the night talking to a girl I fancied very much, then tried to stand up and realised that I could barely move due to drunkenness, whereupon I walked home and was as sick as a dog.

"So, it was a good night" my friend said.
"Yeah, mostly." I replied "I was really really sick when I got home, I was so drunk!"
"I didn't see you much" said my mate
"No, I was out near the bar most of the night, talking to Stephanie" I told him.
"Oh yeah, that's right - you shagged her" he replied.
"Er, no! We just talked" I was gobsmacked
"No you didn't" he told me "We saw you, in one of the classrooms"

So, in the space of 24 hours I found out that yes I do actually forget things when I'm drunk, and that I was so drunk I didn't even remember losing my virginity.



...except that the second one of those facts wasn't true, as about a week later my friend confessed that he'd been pulling my leg about that shag, the fucker :)
(Professor Kenny Martin Hmm? What?, Mon 13 Apr 2009, 0:51, Reply)

There's one grubby little club in this town
first time I went I found myself dancing in a cage. Or so I'm told, anyway.
( Captain Tripps is your taxloss lover from Liverpool, Mon 13 Apr 2009, 0:21, Reply)

Pissed it up against the wall
On holiday in Rio, we got to experience the "real" Brazilian nightclub scene -- not the flash touristy clubs, the gritty ones where the not-so-rich locals go. Basically a giant conrete-floored warehouse with a bar erected on one side. Accepted form seems to be that once you've finished your can of Brazil's finest, cheapest mass-produced metallic-tasting beer, you crush the can and toss it on the floor. As the night wears on, the floor becomes covered in a layer of liquid that presumably has seeped out of the mostly-empty cans strewn all over the floor. I'm wearing my jandals (translation:flip-flops/Havianas) so my feet become exposed to the beery liquid on the floor as the level rises to ever-higher levels.

We had managed to befriend an English-speaking local (mainly because he wanted to cop off with our female friend), who helped us out with how to best skip the beer queues and other such practical matters. After several tins I eventually felt the need to "break the seal". I scanned around but couldn't immediately locate the toilets, so asked our local friend where to find them.

He grimaced, then said "I will show you." He lead on, and I followed as we weaved through the crowd to a non-descript door. When we got in, I looked around. The gutter-style urinal was packed, as were the cubicles. And several guys were pissing against the walls next to the sinks.

"Just use the wall," shrugged my friend, and proceeded to do so himself. So, I followed suit, and started pissing away. I then noticed that the floor, of course, was covered in piss, not just from those of us using the wall but from the overflowing proper urinal. And the piss was streaming like a river out of the door, and onto the floor of the main area of the club. My toes had been sloshing around the whole night in what ended up being a several-centimetres deep layer of mostly other men's urine.

I had a thorough shower when I got back to our room.
(tboss, Mon 13 Apr 2009, 0:10, 1 reply)

On the way home...
...with a girl (woo), live with 7 other guys and Im on the top floor so of course we meet one on the way up.

Im wasted, my friend is saying hi to the girl (we all know her) and Im getting bored and impatient for either sleep or some sweet penetration.

Me - "Hey mate!"
Him - "What?"
Me - "Look at this!" *waves cock*
Him - "AAaaaAaaAArghargh!!" *slams door*
Me to her - "Lets go then?"

Im a charmer.
(Guilt wants to get in your moist confines, Sun 12 Apr 2009, 23:28, Reply)

Well, there's been a couple of occassions...
When I've went for the slightly older woman...

My gym has 'social' nights out every now & again, and I'm one of the youngest members of my gym at the tender age of 17.

Now, at the first of these social events I went to, I ended up getting rather friendly with one of the other gym-girls - who is nearly 40. Not so sure what happened between us as I ended up completely legless - however, I woke up the next day with her number saved in my phone. She now refuses to look at me in the gym.. BRILLIANT!

On another night out, at a glam-rock night, I got chatting to this hot gothic girl. Ended up 'doing stuff' with her, gave her my number and she texted me a couple of days later - friendly chat, see if I was interrested, the usual. I thought she was about 20.
So, she asks me my age, I tell her, honestly, and she makes me feel mega guilty because she told me she just turned 30! Bit of a result for me, but I bet she was absolutely gutted. I'm going back to the same night in a few weeks - she told me she was a regular.. I wonder with a hair cut and maybe a sharp dress sense I could perhaps do it again. Or maybe with her mate. Who wasn't so bad.
(ColinS needs to eat, Sun 12 Apr 2009, 23:20, Reply)

Oh dear...
As an official student (tm) I probably have a few of these filed away in my mind behind a wall of alcohol caused memory loss.

One that springs to mind.

Basically I will never, ever dance when sober unless its Drum and Bass because lets face it, every one looks like a twat dancing to D&B. However when I get drunk you can see me throwing my mishapen moves on the local nightclubs dancefloor like John Travolta possessed by some sort of retarded demon.

Another interesting fact is I tend to do whatever the songs says if possible when drunk, thinking its a great idea.

Along comes Flo Rida's 'Low' song one night, that proclaims;

"Get low, low, low, low, low, low, low."

Im sure you can guess the scene. Embarassing enough for a guy to do this but no, I had to go one better. I awoke one morning not remembering much from the night before, I put on some music and and eventually it gets to that song and a blinding flash of memory hits me from the night before.

I'd got low. Very low.
In a circle of mates in a full room.
And not one of my mates did the same.
And not one of my mates where female so I had no excuse.

I remembered their slightly worried faces, I remember girl's watching and giggling.

I turned of the song and didn't listen for a fews weeks.
(Guilt wants to get in your moist confines, Sun 12 Apr 2009, 23:18, 3 replies)

There is a club in Cambridge...
... that I can only find when blind drunk. I think its called CamBar and its near the Corn Exchange.

Found it by accident, went in to hear the strains of Soundgarden, AIC, Pearl Jam etc. An excellent night was had by all (at the time, there was no decent rock night in the fair city). Thought we'd try it again the following week. Went in. To be met by 1) fucking awful RnB and 2) two rather fetching blond girls going at it hammer and tongs at the top of the stairs.

We decided to stay.
(animal252 last activated his kitten hammer on, Sun 12 Apr 2009, 21:16, 1 reply)

Two Shudders
1) Started to night tongue in cheekly telling a woman she didn't look old. Ended it with my tongue in her cheek on the dancefloor. Whilst she was in the arms of her fiancee. She turned out to be a swinger. She was 27, had a huge scar on her neck, smelt of fish and had a clitoris the size of a cocktail sausage. He looked like an out of work paedophile. i didn't touch the man.
2) The same woman's friend, a horsey woman known as Caroline, seemed in love with me. She sang the whole of 'I will love you' by Bon Jovi to me whilst i was completely sober, in the middle of the dancefloor of the local club.

Good nights.
(joehmbunn They speak my name in silent but violents., Sun 12 Apr 2009, 20:17, Reply)

Slightly morbid
So, my first shift at my old job at a well-known club/gig-venue in King's Cross and was being given a guided tour around the venue...

"Red stairs...sound booth...balcony bar...place where that guy got shot..."

Cue double-take.

When I asked one of my colleagues later, he replied, "Thats why we don't have garage nights anymore..."


I worked there for 6 months, and loved it despite the crazy hours and the episode where some girl shat herself...
(meowmix is a voodoo child, Sun 12 Apr 2009, 19:06, 4 replies)

One time
I was at the door about to go in... The shitting door! Suddenly, three guys shanghaied me, pistol-whipped me (this is south africa where this can and does happen) took all my money and my phone, and left me on the side of the road for the police to laugh at. This was at 2 in the morning.

You could say i'd been night-clubbed.

Ayethangyewverymuch.
(Tiktock Beating off flamers with a shitty stick, Sun 12 Apr 2009, 18:49, 2 replies)

Back in the day...
...before I gave up booze and drugs. I was stood at the bar at the Gloucester in Brighton (sorely missed, sort of), merrily off my face on a lot of beer, a few pills and an accidentally large dab of MDMA. Hey, it was my birthday, it was expected. I looked to my left and saw a woman I recognised. Eventually I managed to focus on her face and realised it was my new team manager who had started with us a week ago and who I'd spoken to maybe 2 or 3 times in total. Putting on my straightest face I said hi and asked her how her night was going. She must have clocked my barely suppressed gurning and inability to stand still because she came back with "well, it was crap earlier but then some random blokes gave me a couple of pills and half a gram of coke so it's shaping up quite well".

best
birthday
ever.
( yes yes yes man oi mate, someone's writtten 'bum' on your neck, Sun 12 Apr 2009, 18:48, Reply)

just last night...
A drunk guy tried to start a fight with me.

I was about as drunk as him, and in a really silly mood.

He put his face up to mine in a threatening manner.

I licked him from his chin to his ear and whispered "If you don't fuck off now, I'm gonna suck your eyeball out"

He disappeared with a look of combined fear and confusion
(SarcasticBarSteward wants to be good at Photoshop when he grows up, Sun 12 Apr 2009, 15:24, Reply)

The @rena in Middlesbrough
Just on the outskirts of town, this delightful venue was attended by people from 15-30+. Rock and goth music was played, Es were sold by the bouncer, drinks were cheap and a good time was had. They had a pub next door owned by the same guy, for pre-drink foolery. Barely any trouble, really.

Then they redecorated. And had a goth night under a chav night on the third floor. Fights were had. I remember a bouncer kicking somebody over to the other side of the road.

A few months after that, just the day before my 18th birthday, the club was shut down. Reports had it that there was a fire in the club next door.

Another rumour had it that there were far too many drugs in the establishment, and that too many dealing patrons had been kicked in by bouncers.

Still, I loved it.

On my 18th birthday, I necked a gram of MDMA by accident and was pretty much gone, but shan't talk about that.
( Methylene Blue - electrohead, Sun 12 Apr 2009, 14:25, Reply)

Satans drag strip...
Unfortunately I have the due pleasure of being born and bred in the hideous cess pit that is Costa del Croydon...

Having worked numerous anmounts of years between 3 of the 'better' clubs and pubs on the high street I've had a fair share of the nightly spectacle of free pay per view entertainment that floods the streets.

However the most amusing one (although not technically dancefloor related I was working in a club at the time on the door) includes a group of pissed up morons in one of the other local watering holes.

A group of about 7 or 8 revellers stumble into a plastic Weatherspoons to gorge themselves on *9 glasses of whitespiritandwhatevermixer for £2* offers dressed as a number of famous superheros.

Batman, Robin and Superman all bundle off to the gents to ingest a rake of drugs and get busted, when asked to GTFO of the pub (as politely asked by the landlord)they all kicked off. Wonderwoman who was Robins other half had a sh*t fit at him, Superman kicked off at Spiderman and Batman decided to have a pop at the landlord.

Imagine my and my doorstaffs amusement to hear over the CRAC Radio system that the 'remainsnameless' pub needs police assistance because they'd just seen Spiderman floored by Superman and Batman had just been floored by the Landlord.

The Landlord became a living legend afterwards and that fateful night is still a tale regaled by many of the local barstaff to new recruits.
(veekos I dont know why but you heartbeat offends me, Sun 12 Apr 2009, 11:37, 5 replies)

Damn Michael Marshall Smith.
I used to work for a fairly large company.

Right, that's set the scene. I used to work for a small department in a fairly large company. We (that is, my good self and a number of work (and clubbing) chums who enjoyed the finer things in life) had managed, somehow, to blag our way in to a new 'nitespot' in Sheffield (if memory serves) and a hotel for afterwards.

We'd said something about being from said company, and wanting to book somewhere for a Chrimble party. We'd failed to mention it was just for our department.

Anyway, we were led around the club (early doors) by a suited flunky, and eventually deposited, champagne in place, near the buffet in the VIP section.

Carlton Palmer was there. As was an ex-Eastenders 'star' (the curly headed twit with the dog, I forget). The night, in general, was shit along with the music. The company was good, as were the 'extras' and soon we were all loved up and having a moderately good time.

That's not, you may have guessed, the crux of my story.

No, we all ended up back, in the wee small hours, in the gratis hotel rooms, winding up the staff, running naked in the corridors and ended up, in bed, early in the morning.

I began to feel paranoid. I'd recently contributed to the policy covering probity, standards and acceptable behaviour, and abusing our positions to accept gifts was, obviously... a no no.

The paranoia built up, and I wanted to wake my mate I was sharing the room with, in order to lay that particular demon to bed. I was in no way able to sleep.

I began grinding my teeth.

I was pacing the floor, opening the curtains and looking out over the city.

I would sit down, stand up, hoping my mate would come round from her slumber and put my mind to rest that no-one would ever know or care what had happened this night...

But no. She was spark-o.

I remembered a passage in Only Forward. Mr Michael Marshall Smith's little horror story, where the protagonist smokes in someone's bedroom in order to wake them up. Stating that the unconscious mind would react to the smoke and come round quietly, and calmly.

So I smoked a cigarette to wake her up.

Nothing.

I ended up with a very sore throat, still paranoid, and all alone with my worries and thoughts and fear for hours. And all because some cunt who was better at writing than me was very. fucking. wrong.
(Chickenwire social lubricator extraordinaire, Sun 12 Apr 2009, 7:11, Reply)

I visited a friend in Denmark
and we popped into the only nightclub in the town. Thursday night was the night due to the entry price being approx 5 quid and until 12 it was free beer. Dave told me the plan which was to sip a beer slowly and not go too hard on the free stuff. We kept ourselves amused holding ourselves back minding our own business
at the back of the club, avoiding the attention of the bobfocs

The place was heaving with Peter Shmeichel lookalikes throwing Tuborg gold down there necks like there was no tomorrow. At 12 they were all absolutely bladdered and as soon as the free beer they all pissed off and we had a club full of cameron diaz lookeylikeys to ourselves. The night ended favourably and I was amazed to discover that there had not been any aggro in this town for the last 2 years (a tussle between 2 men which was reported in the local paper).

I returned to Reading and was immediately invited out into town with a group of friends. At the end of the night, I was surrounded by people scrapping and puking everywhere. Finding a girl who would be civil, friendly and up for a bit of fun was not happening. It tainted my view of the UK nightclub scene forever
(gentleman mongoose the Lion, the Witch & the Robot, Sun 12 Apr 2009, 7:09, 2 replies)

Lincoln, far away from home
I live in the cheshire area, but last year was kind of blagged in to going to work for a kids activity holiday company, which has sites all over britain, a few in france and spain, and one in canada too i believe. Standing in a death metal gig, half cut, being told by my pal (who had worked for said company for several years) that I would "definately get laid", after some not inconsiderable months without said layage, went some way to helping make my mind up.
So later that year, off I go, one hundred and twenty something miles east to lincolnshire to work as a maintanence chap on an activity centre. Alls well, plenty of new friends, good weather, outdoor work. Very quickly I get invited to somebody's leaving-do; usually these are just held in the site bar, but this one was to be a full blown excursion into Lincoln, hawaiian shirts and all, if available. Hell, I only just met the fucker today, why not go off into an unknown city with no idea how to return to site and probably go into some drippy, heaving, sweaty club that is the antithesis of everything I enjoy in a night out? And off we went.
Now, call me a bore, but I like bars. I don't go out too often, but when I do, I enjoy nothing more than a place to sit, audible friends and a drink not more than twenty paces and ten minutes wait away. So you can imagine my upset when, after having spent, say, an hour in the waterfront Weatherspoons laughing and drinking and getting to know some of the activity instructors, we are bustled off to "the next place". Being what you might call an *proper* bar, with music, a dance floor, gimmicky drinks that come in test tubes, and a 30 minute wait *just* to get inside. Then what? Enough time to order a drink and neck half of it before we move to the next "absolutely ~great~ place I saw last month that does two shots for a pound and blah blah fucking blah". Don't I even get enough time to try and settle in to my newfound, dingy horrible surroundings before you charge me off to the next VD infested stinkpot that should be nuked from orbit just to be sure?
Cue about two hours of this.
NOW everyones drunk enough to go to the club. I think it was called Ritzy or something shitsimilar. Cue the wait. Cue something daft like eight quid just to set foot in the place. Cue a sudden wall of noise and beer and sweat and what I could only call a sense of total unsociability that I thought would only be reserved for some kind of ball-sport-related riot or gathering.
I stand in there for a while, observing with horrific clarity that no matter how much I drink, I am getting sober. This *place* is making me sober with the hatred that I feel for it. I can only spy about 4 seats in the whole place. Everyone else is either moving to or from the toilets, or stood on a raised area dancing to the general playlist of rather country and westernish ballads and suchlike, none of which get me in the mood for much. Exploring only makes it worse. This is one of those multi level places with a different theme on each floor, or somesuch fucktardery. R+B on one floor, absolutely heaving, very dark, and so loud I actually wonder how the electric impulses in my brain are managing to bounce to and fro. Continuing onwards and upwards brings a similar experience but for hardcore dance, trance, house, whatever, in that mix of catagories on the second floor. A quick trek around reveals to me the terrible truth; I am alone in my hatred, anyone else with a modicum of sense would have found like-minded people and *stayed the fuck where they were having fun*.
I got out. Grabbing a phone number off one of the site cooks just in case I missed the taxi, I headed outside to sit down and call a mate. We chatted for a while about my predicament, had a wee laugh, and brought it back down to earth a little. Some passing folk commented on my sour demeanour, sitting slouched on a backless bench, chin in hand, grimacing at my reflection, and I chatted back inconsequentially. Soon i headed off for a wander; half an hour in one direction ,half an hour back. Some more meandering (It can be good fun trying to find a secluded place in a strange city to have a piss) and then I came across some other workmates who recognised me and we sorted out a taxi. About half 3 in the morning we made it back to the centre, after witnessing a scantily clad female nearly get into a full fist/nail/teeth fight with a lad she accused of being all full of various STDs.

I
Fucking
Hate
Clubbing.
Dot com.
(Exhumed Encounter with highly abnormal shark-like fish!, Sun 12 Apr 2009, 0:11, 1 reply)

Nothing funny
I lived in Sheffield for 8 years in the nineties and, although this is obviously a rose tinted memory, used to love going to the Headcharge night at the Arches. Everyone wore what the fuck they wanted to, took what the fuck they wanted to and everyone was chilled out, E'd up and there for the tunes. I never once witnessed any trouble or saw any sexual tension. Everyone seemed to be there for the tunes and danced the night away in blissful peace.
On the other extreme I once went to a karate competition, near Exeter, camped there for a week, during Easter, and went to a proper townie club. It was all shirts and chinos with the blokes, and as much as I was apprehensive going in there (I've always hated these fuckin' places but was there to placate a mate) I was amazed that all these townies were dead friendly and I never once felt bad vibes ( I had long hair and was wering denims and leather). I'll never forget that. Townies don't necessarily mean a bunch of aggro cunts, there are exceptions to the rule and Exeter c.1998 was one of them.

No funnies, just thought I'd share- ya lucky fucks.
(Dellamorte Dellamore Fuck it all, fuck it up, fuck it., Sat 11 Apr 2009, 23:14, Reply)

Footballers are tossers!
Apart from a football pitch, the place you are most likely to find a footballer is of course in a nightclub! (okay, maybe a strip club. But they're kinda the same thing.)

In my time i have had a fair few run-ins with these "professional" athletes. With the exception of a select few (Nobby Solano, you are a true gent!) they fully live up to their reputations of being a bunch of over-paid, over-rated twats.

I'm quite proud to say that I personally banned Steven Gerrard from every single club (300ish venues) in our company because he got his personal bodyguard (too much of a pussy to do it himself!) to drag a member of staff over the bar and punch him repeatedly. The barmans crime? Refusing to serve him a drink which we did not have in stock!

But the gold medal for twattery must go to Robbie Fowler...

On one of my rare nights off, a few mates and I decided to frequent a few of the delightful drinking establishments in Southport. We were in one bar which was absolutely packed and as such we were waiting (im)patiently at the bar to be served.
In off the street walks Robbie Fowler, who marches straight up to the bar and proclaims at the top of his voice "Oy! I'm next!"
The guy stood right next to him was quite rightly peeved and replied "No your fucking not mate! I was here before you, i'm next!"
At this point Robbie Fowler reaches into his pocket, pulls out his wallet, opens it and retrieves a crisp new £50 note, then proceeds to set it on fire with his lighter, waves it in front of the mans face and says "When you can do that, then you're next!"
Adding insult to injury he then proclaims at the top of his voice "Everyone in this bar can have a drink on me... Except for this guy!"

What a tool!

...I still took his free drink though!

Cheers,
K
(Korrupt is shagging your food and eating your women., Sat 11 Apr 2009, 20:22, 2 replies)

A post-nightclub story, if you'll indulge me...
Bar Central had two major advantages – they played rock, metal and punk instead of the puerile commercial house and trance everywhere else was playing, and the clientele were somewhat more down-to-earth than your average nightclub rude boy or slapper.

Our story finds us an hour into a Saturday night event. The room was filling nicely and I sipped my San Miguel as I observed the multitude of styles and fashions the people at the rock club had to offer.

My friends and I were expecting Mark to arrive any time now. He was bringing a girl he'd met online. He'd not met her before and we took the piss somewhat, joking she'd turn out to be a twenty-stone rubber-clad man. But we were wrong.

Mark came in and waved, towing behind him a pretty, short rock chick. I was impressed but not surprised; Mark had a way with the ladies.

With introductions made, Jess did the rounds and had a shouted conversation with all of us in turn. I found her to be interesting, funny and intelligent – three major turn-ons for me, but I put that to the back of my mind as she spent most of the night sucking face with Mark.

After a few beers and many dances the night drew to a close. I'd had a good night and got a nice buzz on, but heading back to the cars I started feeling mischievous, so I started some banter with Mark and Jess.

"You guys are gonna get some tonight!" I supposed.

"Nah, my folks are home, and you can hear a mouse fart through the walls in my house," said Mark, obviously disappointed.

"Well, if you want to come back to my place, the three of us can have a joint and see what happens?" I joked, rubbing Mark's thigh for effect.

"YES!" shouted Jess, startling the collected company. Mark glared at her - if looks could kill, she'd probably have at least a broken nose and a black eye. She smiled at me, kissed Mark to placate him and squeezed his arse as she bundled him into the back seat

I could hear Mark and Jess talking over the Incubus CD playing in the car, but couldn't quite hear what they were saying. There certainly seemed to be some protest from Mark, with Jess trying to calm him down.

Jess tapped me on the shoulder and winked and nodded at me when I turned around. My trousers twitched as it occurred to me that Jess really was up for some double-team action.

We got dropped-off at my place and I cracked open some beers and rolled a joint. After a few puffs and passes we retired to the living room and sat on the sofa with Jess in the middle. She kissed Mark, then turned to kiss me, then back to Mark again. Hands started wandering as we became more aroused.

Mark wasn't happy, though. He jumped up off the sofa and put his hands to his head, blurting "This is freaking me out, man!" and running out of the room. Five seconds later the front door slammed and we heard footsteps going down the gravel driveway, and we were alone.

I felt guilty, but we laughed and carried on kissing and sharing the joint. Things moved along at quite a pace and soon enough we're naked and joined at the hip making sweet, stoned love.

I'll tell you something: I really enjoyed myself. She was fun, energetic and dirty, and we made the most of our time together. And, she was the only woman I've ever met who had an eight-inch flap-span.

During our third or fourth outing, her phone beeped a text message announcement, and I giggled. "Poor Mark," I said, kissing her gently.

"I didn't want him anyway," she said. "I've had my eye on you all night - I've always been a bit of a chubby chaser."

Now, I'll be the first to admit that I'd put on some weight over the previous year – maybe fifteen kilos – but I was a little offended at being called 'fat' while lying there, plugging away.

And that's when I realised that trying to work out your BMI in your head is an excellent delaying technique.
( Noeli overtheshoulderboulderholderthingstraplatchboobs, Sat 11 Apr 2009, 17:17, 2 replies)

I used to love the tacky clubs in Swansea (quick RP).....
...in one particularly tacky club a few years ago, meself was having a whale of a time with some particularly rough bird. Rough bird takes a liking to me and drags me into the toilets. "Classy" thinks drunken ol' me.

She sits me down on the "porcelain duvet" and drops me pants, dropping down to the floor herself with my lad in her hand, ready for some mouth-action.

Shame then that she chose that particular moment to whip her dentures out before giving me some "gummy loving" on my member.

Kinda stopped drinking there after that.
( Jeccius Steam Borderlands 2 junkie, Sat 11 Apr 2009, 16:54, Reply)

Change the name and see what happens.
As my girlfiend (I'm sure she only went out with me for a bet) at the time knew more about Swansea nightlife than me she decided where we were going. We walk down the Kingsway past the queues for Ritzy's, Mothers etc to go to Harpers. No queue. We were there about three hours and the staff outnumbered the patrons. Myself, girlfriend and a friend of hers she spent the whole evening talking to and one other couple. We came out and I walked her home miles out of my way back down the Kingsway past the queues for the other clubs. Harpers has now become Sin City and I went there a while ago for a Glas Vegas gig. Doesn't seem any different inside except it was heaving.
(jvz, Sat 11 Apr 2009, 16:51, 2 replies)