The Bomb, Plod, and mistaken homosexuality
This starts in much the same way as all my other tales of woe and excitement... we'd decided to go out. On a big big big one. To Nottingham. 10 of us. Some who barely knew each other. There was me, Welsh Matt, Peculiar Neil, Darren, American Neil, Welsh Tim and some dudes from Leeds who were American Neil's mates and bonkers.

The group was of mixed ages, 22 (me) to 40+, American Neil. We met up early on, and sorted out who wanted what. I chuckled as I folded up all the cash from the pills, stashed it at Matt's (other than what I wanted for the night) along with the excess pills and skunk, got dressed and we were all ready to go! I was particularly excited as we had a new variety of mitsi!

We had to stop off at Jordanthorpe first of all in order to allow one of the party to get himself ready so we pulled over at a convenient green, he ran to get changed, and the rest of us stood at the roadside, tunes belting out and us in our clubbing finery. Then the police drove past; I have never seen a group of men simultaeneously put hands in their pockets, pull out plastic bags and drop them on the floor before. The police slowed to a crawl, gave us a knowing look at rolled on. We all bent over as one, picked up our bags and called American Neil, desperate for him to hurry up so that we could leave there.

We eventually left, and moved on to Nottingham. Tim, Welsh Matt and I were sharing Tim's car and following the guys from Leeds and Yankee Neil. We were discussing the erratic driving of the car in front, and as we began to do laps of the Nottingham one way system we called them. It seems that the driver had decided to eat a couple of trips rather than drop them on the floor when the filth turned up, and consequently was getting a little confused. We looked at one another and began to pray for them as they weaved from lane to lane. Eventually though, we parked safely, abandoned the cars (Tim whimpering gently as we were leaving his beloved GTI in an unlit and CCTV free car park) and did some pills before meandering down to The Bomb...

We entered, and fuck me it was ace! Sophisticated, cool, affordable with great ddep house playing and with an incredibly happy house room in a Hawaiian style, and a ferocious room of intense, paranoid drum and bass. Mega! Best of all though, was the enclosed courtyard at the back of the club. It was a balmy (and barmy) evening, and Matt and I were sitting outside on a low wall, embracing ocasionally and muttering loved up comments about how wonderful the world in general was; despite this being 6 or so years ago I remain convinced I was admiring the dragon on his trousers. In hindsight, perhas my admiration of his trousers caused what happened next.

A girl came up to us and said "Are you friends?" We replied positively; of course we were friends or we wouldn't have been out together. "Close friends?" she said. "Well, yes" we said. "OH, HOW SWEET! LOOK EVERYONE, THERE'S A QUEER COUPLE HERE!!!" she bellowed, garnering the attention of almost everyone in the courtyard. Matt and I protested, but these were drowned out by cries of admiration at our courage. We left the courtyard and went to find the others... I found Tim, and Sasha turned up and played an unannounced set. Matt found Darren, who was mid freak out, but seemed ok on the way home.

The journey home took 25 mins. Terrifying...

We got back about 4am, and a party ensued... a great time being had by all. Except Darren, who went to have some time alone. We all continued to get trashed upstairs, getting more and more caned until we heard a knock on the door at daybreak. We looked out of the window and began to panic; Dibble was here. There followed minutes of non-comprehension and people running around like headless chickens before Welsh Matt, who also lived there, displayed significant bottle (especialy seeing what state he was in) to go and investigate...

Thank God he did... Darren had let them in and they were heading our way. Peering through the ajar door, the black dude from Leeds organised us. We ate our stash, many pills and trips were done, the window was thrown open, ashtrays were hidden. This took some time, but Matt was downstairs putting all his experience of sheep-worrying to good use, and buying us enough time to do what little we could.

Soon enough though, Plod came in, and smoke wafted into their faces; they knew the score instantly from the smell of the smoke and the terrified expression on all our faces. They knew however that there would be a lot of paperwork if they nicked 10 people, and also they'd have to call vans in and left us with a warning.

I went downstairs to find out what the hell had happened. Darren, hallucinating wildly, had thought we were invading the house and called the police to help him. He was very concerned. I was amused, but this was unusual for Daz. Still, he was fine, as were we all until an hour later when the stash we'd eaten kicked in.
( disasterprone "Pyjamas caused the Holocaust", Thu 16 Sep 2010, 13:56, 1 reply)

Ah the Bomb
that place was fucking excellent.
( TheFinch is getting to grips with the complex plane on, Thu 16 Sep 2010, 18:05, closed)