Under Vauxhall Bridge there used to be a good trance club called Cloud Nine.
One evening, I decided to stay straight but for drinking a couple of Red Bulls.

I was chatting to an Aussie? A Saffer? Anyway, he was a lovely chap and completely off his neck, enthusiastic about everything in the world, and as such gurning away in a manner that would make Jim Carrey jealous.

As he reached his stride in praise of the DJ, I heard a sickening crunch, and he spat half a tooth into his hand.

"Oh!" he said, looking up, grinning. He had snapped one of his front teeth clean in half. "Anyway, so this DJ's fuckin' great isn't he? I mean the tunes he's been playing ... "

I don't think I've touched E without a huge wad of chewing gum since.
( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Tue 21 Sep 2010, 12:52, Reply)