Tenuous
A tenuous link to the question, but I'll tell the story nonetheless.

I went out on Saturday night with my best mate, a rather attractive young female as it turns out, who's turned me down more times than Colleen Rooney has asked Wayne why his cock smells like fish.

We ended up in Chicagos in Chelmsford. The place was packed with pykies for some reason, and as soon as we got in there I turned to my mate and said: "It's gonna kick off in here tonight..." When you go to an Essex nightclub and the clientèle is noticeably much worse than normal, it's saying something.

Rather than worry about when, not if, someone was going to get lamped, we started on the double JD and Cokes (for me) and double Vodka, lime and soda water for the best mate.

A few hours later and the place is seemingly half empty, and we stumble on to the dance floor and dance. I say dance, but it's more a case of throwing limbs around in wild abandon as is the wont of a 32 year old pissed bloke with no rhythm. After about 30 minutes of this all a sudden a bloke strides over to me from the side of the bar, and walks straight up to me, putting his face in mine.

Oh bugger. A small part of my brain was sober enough to realise that this was unusual. As I was trying to figure out what to do when this bloke would inevitably hit me, he started dancing extremely close to me, looking into my eyes and writhing around like one of Kylies backing dancers. He ran his hands over my hips, and - being the metrosexual guy that I am - I thought "sod it" and danced with him, thankful that a) he hadn't tried to hit me and b) he hadn't tried to kiss me.

After a few minutes (which could have been thirty seconds, but felt like much longer) I manoeuvred him back to his mates and carried on dancing as before.

Thinking it a bit weird, but "one of those things", best mate and I continued dancing.

A few minutes later and the guy was back. He grabbed me again and began dancing with me once more. I was getting bored by now and decided it would be a good idea to grab his arse (looking back, I'm not sure why I thought this would be a good idea, other than it being a little funny. As I say, I was very drunk).

As I copped a feel, he pulled his head back slightly and turned his mouth to my ear, growling as he spoke:

"I'm a squaddie. Take your hands off my arse NOW or I'll fucking punch you in the head."

His tone was menancing, though he still hadn't stopped dancing. I pulled away slightly, looking him in the eye.

"But..." I started, putting on as sorrowful a look as possible, "...but YOU asked ME to dance?" before stepping back and heading back to the bar.

That was the last I saw of him that night, perhaps fortunately, as it turns out my best mate spent the couple of minutes I was dancing with the non-gay squaddie telling the blokes mates that she thought he had a small penis.

And that was my Saturday night.
( SeasonTicketless is too often the statue, and rarely the pigeon., Tue 7 Sep 2010, 9:07, 3 replies)

a...
...quality saturday night out
(slipmatt Thats sooper dooper, Tue 7 Sep 2010, 9:18, closed)

Squaddies will dance with anybody.
But they're not as bad as rugby players.

Trust me on this.
(Vigilante Man weeps because you're stupid., Tue 7 Sep 2010, 9:37, closed)

Squaddie?
Pricktease.
(Juan Quar is clinging to her front teeth on, Tue 7 Sep 2010, 10:49, closed)