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Thinly-disguised entrances to Hell where bad things happen. Tell us your dancefloor disasters.

(, Wed 8 Apr 2009, 12:35)
Pages: Latest, 14, 13, 12, 11, 10, ... 1

This question is now closed.

Quim! There!
I was once in one of Newcastle's classier* late night drinking establishments, of which there are many. It was a Wednesady night, which was student night. The particular special of the night was double vodka and cokes for £1.50. Now, myself and my esteemed colleagues (more about them in other posts if I can muster the courage) were not that fussy about the nature of the beverage, as long as it was cheap, so vast quantities of vodka and coke were purchased and drunk. Repeat....

Anyway, we were by no means the only people acceeding to the "let's get absolutely wankered on cheap russian falling over water". There were many ladies present, mostly being perved over by my mates. I took the opportunity to leave and have a slash. The toilets were off a short corridor from the main dancefloor. As I entered said corridor, a refreshed young lady came towards me, slipped and fell over. However...

1: Her legs went in opposite directions.
2: One heel got stuck in a crack between a floortile and the wall.
3: The other shoe went flying off.
4: She split her gusset.

So, there she was, lying in the birthing position, clunge on view to the general public, crying copiously.

So one of my mates (who had earlier been chatting her up) runs over.


and manages to kick her clean in the flange.

We left.

*not really
(, Wed 8 Apr 2009, 15:11, 9 replies)
Classy lads and classy ladies...
Back as a graduate trainee, me and a friend from work had been drinking since lunchtime, other than a cursory trip back to the office which had resulted in our boss telling us to get back outside as we were incapable of looking sober and there were important folk about.

Yay! More beer time!

Go out drinking again, get bored of the pub around 7, and remember there's an indie club nearby that does pitchers of cocktail for about a tenner during Happy Hour (which is, indeed, now).

Pitcher of pina colada. Nice.

Pitcher of Long Island Ice Tea. Nice

Pitcher of Sex on the Beach. Not feeling so great any more.

Back on the pina colada. Still not good.

We decide to leave, so I go and get the coats and come back to find that in the time I've been queueing for the cloakroom my friend has taken his half-finished jug of pina colada and got chatting to this monster of a woman. I don't mean to be cruel, but -being cruel anyway- she was a beast. I fall into chatting to her friends as the two of them wander out on the dancefloor and start getting it on - him still with jug in hand.

After about ten minutes, I'm fed up of making small talk, so nip in to drag him off while she's in the loo.

'Come on mate - we're leaving.'
'No we're fucking not - I'm going home with Sarah'
'Are you sure?'

Even when HER friends joined in and tried to persuade him it was a bad idea, he wasn't having any of it. I flounced out...

'On your head be it...'

Well, I reassured myself, I've done as much as can be expected and he seems to know what he's doing so maybe he likes that sort of lady. I went home and sank into a deep sleep.

Then I got a call at half-five in the morning.

'Snowy?' (his voice breaking with tears)
'Yes, what's up?'
'What.. what..' (sniffle) 'what the fuck happened to me?'
'You went home with a huge woman'
'I know, but... (sobbing) can you just come and get me - please?'
'At half five in the morning? Pissed? Where from anyway?'
'I don't know'
'Can't you find out?'
'I'd have to wake her up'
'Last night, I tried to do her up the bum and she shat on me, and I don't think I can look her in the eye.'

I hung up.
(, Wed 8 Apr 2009, 15:52, 5 replies)
In a moment of sheer unadulterated madness my dad painted the Talbot Horizon in Hammerite. Gold Hammerite. Before this it was a perfectly good shitty old black car. I think he thought it would add a layer of protection. But it made the old banger look like something a bunch of gypsies wouldn't be seen dead in.

So, it was only slightly less embarrasing when my parents dropped me off in Northampton town centre and I had to walk to the club.

Dressed as fucking Batman.

Fair play, I got a few odd looks. One person may have remarked: "Why is that spotty, weedy little teenager dressed up like The Dark Knight - he looks emaciated." But fuck it. It really was less embarrasing than having my cred completely destroyed if they'd have dropped me off in the shit-mobile just outside the club.

Forties, Northampton - a great little place. And on this particular occasion they were running a fancy dress day (not strictly speaking a nightclub as we were all sixteen and seventeen). I rolled up to the entrance, the bored looking fella asked if I was here for the fancy dress party, I said: "No, I'm the avenger of Gotham, only I got a little bit lost on my way back from fucking up The Joker," I paid my two quid, and went inside.

And once past the incredibly lax security I found my group of mates, dressed as various superheros and villians, reached into my kegs and pulled out a hipflask bottle of finest Tescos gin.

No alcohol allowed, of course, but we'd all brought something along. And the following couple of hours, bouncing off the walls like twats in tights to the likes of 2 Unlimited, we got steadily more pissed.

And then my girlfriend turned up. A beautiful girlie named Fiona who looked fucking hot in her Supergirl outfit. Unlike most of the girls there she actually had breasts! Woo! It was a sight to behold seeing her jiggle and writhe to the latest bag of old toss from Kylie Minogue.

After a while I found myself sitting on a sofa with Fiona. Batman was desperately kneading Supergirl's knockers, trying to find the secret to giving a woman (well, a sixteen year old girl) an amazing orgasm by tweaking her nips like they were the dials on a radio.

This didn't work - but the mixture of gin, rum, and Jack Daniels seemed to have loosened Fiona's inhibitions somewhat.

"Let's go to the toilets," she slobbered in my ear.

And we did. We went to the ladies bogs on account of me being the perfect gentleman. We found a booth, staggered and swayed inside and locked the door.

And I said, being the perfect gentleman and worldy about the ways of women: "Can I stick it in you?"

Fiona shook her head 'no'. "But we can do something else..." And she slid down my weedy little body, playing her fingers across my bat emblem, and unzipped my fly. And proceeded to suck me off. Thinking back now, it was fucking crap. But at the time it was the first time anyone else had put my cock in their mouth. (I don't count the time I managed to suck my own cock when I was fourteen and managed to put my back out, and Daisy was technically a female, but she was an Alsatian, so that probably doesn't count).

I remember bracing my hands against the walls of the booth and looking down at Fiona's manically bobbing head. It was ace! And, after about thirty seconds of this intense sucking action, I did something I've since learned not to do. I ejaculated a thick load into her mouth - only I didn't give her the curt "I'm gonna cum!" warning first. I simply put my head back, made my best cum face, and squirted like a fire engine spurting out flame retardent foam on a forest fire.

And Fiona gagged.

And Fiona spurted cum out of her nose as she went to stand up and deposited a load of snot-mixed-with-cum all over the torso of my lovely, pristine Batman costume.

Wipeing cum from her lips, still gagging, she advised me that was the first time she'd ever done this. Well, I just hope whoever she's with now at least gives her a polite tap on the head before he spurts.

Anyway, we sort ourselves out and leave the bogs. Having had an orgasm I had no further use for my girlfriend (I was a shit back then), so I made my excuses and went back to my gaggle of mates to show off and tell them how much of a fucking stud I was.

And in no time at all its time to go. The lights come up, the staff close the bar (selling pop and crisps), and the bloke who owns the place wonders why the hell there are shitloads of empty booze bottles littering the place.

And I stagger outside, go round the corner, and see the shit-mobile. My mum and dad inside patiently waiting for me.

I step inside, trying not to appear pissed.

"You ok, Spanky?" asks my mum. I nod. "What on Earth have you got all over you?" Oh, shit! I'd completely forgotten about the snot/cum combo. "Is that food? Here," and in terrible, awful slow motion my mum pulls out a hanky, dabs it to her lips and wets it with her tongue, and starts to pat me down. And as my eyes go wider she returns the hanky to her mouth, dabs it with her tonge again, and carries on patting and fussing over me.

"How on Earth do you get yourself so messy all the time?" She ponders for a moment: "Hmmm, tastes like thousand island dressing - why on Earth would they have this sort of food at a childrens disco. Don't the organisers know how much dry cleaning costs...?"

And I just laugh nervously and my dad puts the Talbot Horizon in gear and we go clunking off into the night.
(, Wed 8 Apr 2009, 14:31, 13 replies)
David and Goliath
I've been lurking on here for ages waiting until I had a story worth telling. So here goes my cherry i guess... **POP**
I spent a good few years working in nightclubs a while back and this question has brought the memories flooding back (some which I wish had remained hidden!).

One such tale happened while I was working behind the bar of one of Preston's finest* late night drinking establishments.
This night in particular happened to be bank holiday Sunday, one of the busiest nights of the year.

The average punter would have spent the bulk of the day lounging in the pub beer garden getting slowly sozzled, then headed out in the evening to the bars in town. Then finally when they were booted out at closing time, despite lacking the ability to walk straight or speak without slurring, they decide they've not consumed enough alcohol yet (besides, they have a day off work tomorrow) they all pile into our club.

The place was rammed to the hilt with rowdy, pissed up, obnoxious customers. With so many people crammed into one place this place was HOT! I don’t mean hot in "it's so hot right now!" kinda way, I mean like it was tropical jungle hot! Now when it's hot there's nothing better than an ice cold beer! (Mmmm... beer!) So you head to the bar only to find that the other 1500 people in the club have had the exact same idea!

Due to the managements tightness we were staffed at the bare minimum levels and so we were absolutely rushed off our feet, literally running up and down the bar serving punters. However, despite our best efforts the bar was still 5 deep with thirsty punters. Needless to say tempers were beginning to get frayed in front of and behind the bar!

When you are working on a bar this busy you have little time to stop and think. You're faced with literally hundreds of customers all crammed up against the bar, crying for your attention. You have absolutely no chance of telling "who got there first". The fairest thing to do is to divide the bar up into sections. Each barman then works his section from one end to the other, serving each person sequentially until you reach the end, then go back to the beginning and start again. That way it's at least fair and people tend to get served in the right order.

This night I was working with a good friend of mine called Simon. Simon was a skinny guy from Northern Ireland who was about 5'5" and couldn't have weighed much more than an Ethiopian refugee.

One guy waiting at the bar started getting a bit agitated at having to wait to be served and decided to take matters into his own hands...

First came the finger clicking... click, click, click. You ignore it so he starts clicking in your face... fucking cunt!

Next comes the money waving... Lord knows what he’s hoping to achieve with that. Does he expect to fall to my knees and start bowing at the sheer majesty of it!? "Oooh, a whole ten English pounds! I've never beheld such a princely sum!"

When this fails he resorts to shouting...
"HEY! HEY! HEY! HEY!" repeat ad nauseum until Simon finally acknowledged him.
S: "What?"
C: "Two pints of Stella"
S: "I'm busy serving someone"
C: "Yeah but I've been waiting ages!"
S: So has everyone else I’m afraid. I'm working as fast as I can."
C: "Serve me now!"
S: "Look, I already told you I'm serving someone else. I'm working my way from one end of the bar to the other. I'll serve you when it's your turn!"
C: "But I've been waiting longer than everybody else!"
S: "Ok then mate, if you can tell me the exact order that everyone arrived at this bar then I'll serve you next"
C: "Don’t you know who I am?"
S: "No and I don’t care"
C: "I play rugby for *****"
S: "Sorry, you'll still have to wait your turn"

Simon carries on working and the guy just stands there looking cheesed off. Then he decided on a crafty little scheme... he grabbed an empty pint pot from the bar top and proceeded to reach behind the bar and starts pouring himself a pint. Simon clocks this and grabs the pint pot out of his hand and tells him if he tries that again he will be unceremoniously launched from the building.

The guy is getting angrier and angrier. He continues his shouting for attention (how after all this he would ever get served I don’t know!).
Finally he snaps! He reaches out over the bar, grabs Simon's tie and attempts to pull him over the bar while yelling "YOU WILL FUCKING SERVE ME NEXT!"
Simon looking completely unflustered looks him dead in the eye and utters "If you fucking touch me again I will slit your fucking throat, so help me god!"
The guy releases Simon and we carry on working.
All of a sudden the guy picks up a glass from the bar top and hurls it at Simon. The glass whistles past Simon's head and smashes into a large mirror behind the bar sending shards of glass flying everywhere.

It's amazing how even in a busy nightclub the bar seemed to go completely quiet at that point.

Simon stops, turns around to face the guy and yells "RIGHT! THATS FUCKING IT!", then he reaches into the bottle skip, pulls out an empty bottle of bud then smashes the bottom of the bottle off on the bar. He turns to the guy and goes "Come here you cunt!!!" and then lunges at the guy. The guy leapt back through the crowd screaming like a girl, crying "He's trying to kill me, he's trying to kill me!"

Suddenly aware of a commotion the doormen rushed over and the guy practically clambered into his arms still screaming "He's trying to kill me!". The doorman suddenly started sniffing then looked at the guy in disgust and uttered "Ergh! Have you shit yourself you dirty bastard??”
The 6'6" rugby player had indeed shat himself in fear!

Simon was promptly marched into the manager’s office at that point and made to explain himself. He recounts the whole story to the notoriously nasty boss, fully expecting to be fired for this. After he finished the story the manager simply laughed and said "why don’t you go get yourself a drink then chill out in here for a bit before going back out there." That was it; the incident was never mentioned again.

The night went smoothly after that, the customers were bizarrely polite and tipped highly. One guy gave us a twenty to split and said it was one of the funniest things he'd seen in ages and the guy was a cock and deserved it!

I have many other tales which I’ll try to post if I get the time. I promise I’ll try to keep it shorter next time, but I felt this one needed to be told in all its full glory.

Here's to you Si, you're a fucking legend!


Apologies for length but it was my first time and once I started I couldn’t stop!

*It was a shithole but alas it had a monopoly
(, Fri 10 Apr 2009, 3:10, 4 replies)
There's nothing quite like a posh wank.

Its the Ferrero Rocher of masturbation, the Ferrari Testarossa, the cream cake from Waitrose (as apposed to the shit you get from Cost Cutters). The posh wank is, quite simply, auto erotic perfection.

Back when I was living with my then girlfriend, Scouse Emma, I'd finished work and was busy cleaning the flat. We'd arranged to go out to the great big fucking doompit where you had your soul ripped out and spat on, Fabric, down in Farringdon (I just don't do dance music, me. But the weekend before I'd dragged Emma out to a Dropkick Murphys gig, so it was only fair she take me some place I'd rather not go).

Bit of cleaning done and dusted, showered and dressed for the club, I settle down in front of the TV, get bored very quickly, and decide to go and thumb through my extensive porn collection.

And I decide to treat myself: I decide to have a posh wank. So, I go to the drawer and find a Durex, unroll the fucker over my pulsing wee chap, add a bit of lube, and away we go. To the unitiated a posh wank is essentially tossing off whilst wearing a johnny. Might not sound too special, but give it a go and you'll see that it just feels nnnnniiiiiccccceeeee.

I was in the mood for the classics that day, so I beat one out over my collection of Page 3 Stunnas of the 1980's - starring Linda Lusardi and Sam Fox in hot nipple action, fucking lovely! Even as I did the dirty deed I considered laminating those holy newspaper clippings in case of any future errant spillages.

After a brief but very frantic wank I spluff in the rubber and hear the door open at exactly the same time. Now, Emma wasn't too keen on me spending all my freetime with my pants round my ankles choking the chicken, so I quickly zipped up and hid my classical porn under the matress.

In walks Emma. I'm standing there looking a bit shifty but that's pretty normal for me. Emma comes over and gives me a hug and says we'd better go straight down to Fabric because some DJ uber god is playing and the queues will be fucking massive and she has a taxi waiting outside and she doesn't appear to want to stop talking.

So we go. Straight away. She literally drags me out the door. And all I can think is - I've got a condom on my rapidly shrinking cock, hidden away in my trousers, and the weight of my love juice contained within and the general sweatiness of the area is fucking uncomfortable.

In the taxi I start squirming like I've contracted crabs. Emma doesn't seem to notice. She's too fucking excited about going clubbing and has gone into Scouse overdrive. We meet up with several of our mutual friends in the queue when we get down there. And slowly the queue edges forward. And all the time my cock is itching like it has leprosy. I'd never kept a condom on after cumming for so long before. It just felt fucking wrong. I imagined my sperm were trying to swim back up my japs eye. I wondered if it were possible to get myself pregnant. But that was just crazy talk.

Eventually, we get in the club and I make a b-line for the shitter. Unfortunately Emma's campest and loudest and gayest mate, a lad named Dave, decides he needs a piss too. We go together. The bogs are packed. We stand and wait for a space at the urinals. One opens up. Dave offers it to me and I accept gratefully. I take my place at the pisser, look round, and realise with dread I wouldn't be able to peel off the nodder and dispose of it without half the fucking room knowing about it. Including Dave, which would mean Emma would find out too. So I have a pretend wee. And then the space beside me opens up and Dave takes his place. Aghast that he might see my rubber-clad willy, I turn away from him. He smirks at me: "Come on, Spanky - it's not like you've got anything I haven't seen before." I shuffle further away from him. "Go on, Spanky - let me see your cock!" He says jokingly.

"Will you just fuck off, Dave!" I shoot back. It wasn't his fault, I was just getting increasingly more pissed off with the situation.

After a little longer pretend weeing I zip up and go back outside to find my girlfriend. And when I find Emma she's already pretty into the 'beat' and all that bollocks. She smiles when she sees me and playfully grabs my package, as she sometimes did, and my package crinkles in her hand. She looks a little confused:

"Whassthat, Spanky?" Emma asks in pure Scouse.

"Oh, nothing..."

"No - what is it???" She starts to get louder.

"I'm wearing a condom..."


"I said I'm wearing a condom..."

And at that moment camp, loud, gayer than Elton John Dave returns from the bogs and proclaims: "Spanky - are you always so fucking protective about your cock? I mean, anyone would think I was going to bite the damn thing off..."

Emma takes a look at me: "You haven't, Spanky... Have you...?"

You know what, its really fucking shitty when your girlfriend thinks you've just fucked one of her mates in the bogs. Its even more shitty when that mate happens to be another bloke...

(That relationship was doomed to fail)...
(, Thu 9 Apr 2009, 16:28, 8 replies)
Undercover carrot has just reminded me…
I, as I’m sure you’ll be aware by now, have enough trouble staying vertical when sober. When drunk, it’s rather like strapping roller skates to a new born foal and sending them onto a floor covered in ball bearings…

To cut a long and tedious story for once down to a manageable size, whilst out for my 21st birthday in a nightclub, I took a teeny tiny tumble down the stairs. I was wearing a short skirt and a pair of fairly sturdy knickers (not daft, me). As I hauled myself up, trying to collect what was left of my dignity off the floor, I caught said knickers in a nail which was sticking up off the staircase. There was a ripping of fabric…

I ran to the toilets to inspect the damage to both my undies and my arse. It was at this point that while trying to explain what had happened to my (by now laughing hysterically) friend, I uttered the words…

“I just fell down the stairs and now I have a huge gash in my pants…”

Suffice to say, that particular comment is haunting me even now, almost 15 years later.
(, Wed 8 Apr 2009, 15:20, 12 replies)
The Magical Irish Bow Tie
First of all, I have to applaud the Huddersfield University Events team for organising the most dreary, pathetic graduation ball in the history of time.

The only reason I had decided to go was because I had been trying to get my end away with the most beautiful blonde angel by the name of Suzanne. Id stare at her in Lectures for hours on end and when she asked if I'd go to the Grad ball with her, I was never gonna miss it.

A plate of crap food and a few too many nerve calming shots of cheap vodka later, I was on the dancefloor, doing my thing.

Suzanne clearly wasnt impressed with my moves and was staring at me like I was a demented rapist on acid.

And when she left with another man, i had 2 choices. Sit in the corner and sulk or round up some troops and go to Camel Club. The latter it was.

Earlier on in the night I had closley resembled a Fine Gentleman in my hired Tuxedo but now i looked more like a pengiun that had narrowly escaped the claws of a yeti.

My kind mates, took measures to straighten me up in an attempt to get my stumbling ass past the beady eyed bouncers.

Not only did my perfectly straight bow tie, get me past the bouncers but it also seems that tuxedo's and drunk women on dancefloors are like moths and flames.

A few pints later and enjoying the female attention, out of the smoke and from deep within the club, i saw a large silloute approaching.

This huge Troll promptly walks up to me and in the prettiest of Irish accents squeaks "caan oiy weear yoour tiy?"

Until this day, i do not know why but my retort came in the most outrageous faux Irish accent that sounded more like a scottish/northern irish hybrid and in the highest tone "suuure"

We had a lenghty conversation about growing up in our respective irish towns and even though i was bought up in rural surrey, i had gathered enough knowledge and shaping of irish words from my NI flatmates; i could pull it off.

After a long tonguing session in the club we left to go back to hers. How she didnt expose my dodgy accent away from the noisy club, I still don't know

When During the act, she exclaimed she, and I quote, "Loikes t be noisy" i felt the need to join in.

I can tell you that there is no dignity in shouting "JESUS CHROIST" at the top of your lungs in a fake irish accent, still wearing a bow tie.

Unable to keep up the act, I left at the earliest opportunity and unable to escape the from under her bridge, had to scale the fence and broke my foot on the descent.

I spent the next day in hospital with a huge hangover and an even worse sense of shame.
(, Wed 8 Apr 2009, 17:55, 4 replies)
Murder on the Dancefloor
Ah, student night. An excuse for our local shambles of a nightclub to rip off a new set of customers, this time to a jangly indie soundtrack in what could only be described as a bomb shelter under a multi-storey car park. In Bracknell.

"Two pints of bitter, please"

"We don't do bitter"

"Right, two pints of lager, please"

"We don't do pints"

"Oooookay... two bottles of pils, then"

"Ten quid"

Disgusted at the prices behind the bar, we decided to throw some shapes on the dancefloor to see if we could impress any passing young ladies.

Sadly, the only lady of any description was the local fat goth, in a black leather dress made out of at least half a dozen cows. She'd do.

A request for The Smiths got me dancing like a spastic passing a magnet factory to This Charming Man (a song that invites dancing like a spastic passing a magnet factory) in my ...err... rather unique style that resembles the moving parts at a wind farm.

It was this exact moment that the captain of the college rugby club (a huge rugger-bugger with a double-barrelled surname) took out a small mortgage for a round of drinks, and carried the entire tray across the dance floor to the rest of his equally beefy chums.

Despite the music being around 150 decibels, you should still hear the "SPA-A-A-N-G-G-G!" as my windmilling arms swiped the tray out of his arms and showered him with the most expensive lager known to man.

Time stood still.

Then he punched me in the face.

Then he punched me in the face.

Then, by way of variety, he kneed me in the groin, before punching me in the face again.

Mozza sang on about not having a stitch to wear, and the fat goth laughed.
(, Wed 8 Apr 2009, 13:05, 10 replies)
Now, there were two things wrong with my situation. Firstly, I wasn't Scottish, and secondly, I had a cock.

It all started in the Bolton Institute of Higher Education SU, where I was visiting a mate. He showed me the highlights of living in Bolton - pizza and a pint for two quid. It was fucking great. Two pizzas and seven or eight pints later we decided it would be a great idea to ring up all his mates and go clubbing. It was student night at Ritzys, and I had it on good authority that the female clientel of that esteemed establishment were walking sperm banks, just ready and waiting for any strapping young lad to make a hot and gooey deposit. You probably even got a receipt afterwards.

So, we're back at my mates house getting ready and some bright spark decides it would be fucking hillarious to dress up as women. This went down like the proverbial lead balloon. "Errr... isn't that a bit.... well... gay???" said someone.

But one of my mate's housemates thought it would be a great idea. And that swayed it for me. This housemate was an Oldham girl named Kim who was about five-foot-nothing with an incredibly large and firm set of knockers. As far as I was concerned, this qualified Kim to make all my future life decisions for me. If she thought it would be a great wheeze to see a load of blokes dress up like birds, then fuck it. And you never know, I might actually get some later...

Within a few minutes, grumbling and complaining, drinking beer and smoking fags, the lads had borrowed some gear from the female housemates. They looked fucking stupid. Like a bunch of transexual miners on a night out. I, on the otherhand, looked fucking stunning. Back then I had long girly hair and I have to say I looked a wee bit on the feminine side at the the best of times. I was pretty slight and shrugged into a lovely boob tube dress thing without too much difficulty. I looked at myself in the mirror and all I could think is: Spanky, that is one fine ass you have there, mate.

A few more beers later we get a taxi and go down to the club. The bouncers look at us as if to say: 'Fucking idiot cunt-faced students.' But they let us in and we start throwing some shapes and generally arsing about in the church of noise, dancing to such classic metal hits as Waterloo by Abba (ok, the music wasn't to my taste, but fuck it, I was shitfaced).

And then I started trying my moved on with Kim. Peculiar thing, trying to chat up a woman when your wearing a dress. Sort of hotwires your brain. Basically I got absolutely fucking nowhere. Kim eventually fucked off and started snogging the tonsils off this cunt who wasn't wearing a fucking dress, the brazen hussey.

So, I fell back on plan B. I decided to get so incredibly monumentally drunk that someone would have to carry me out of the place.

Must've been about 1am, the club is banging, its packed. I'm at the bar when I hear this Glaswegian accent:

"Can I buy you a drink?"

I ignore the fucker. He couldn't possibly be talking to me. But then I felt a hand on my shoulder (bare shoulder, it was a halter neck job I had on).

"I said, can I buy you a drink?"

And I turned and locked eyes with the tallest, widest, drunkest Scotsman I have ever seen in my fucking life. And then I did something really fucking stupid in hindsight. I said: "Sure, that would be lovely." Only it came out in a weird mock Scottish accent (I have this weird minor bird thing going on when I'm pissed. If I start speaking to someone who's got a strong accent I sort of adopt it. There's been occasions where people stop and say: "Are you taking the piss, mate?" And I have to explain that I'm not, its just something that I do without any thought).

This Scotsmans eyes light up: "You're from Scotland!" He proclaims. And I nod. This bloke could fold me in half with an arm tied behind his back. "There you go, flower." And he passes me over a bottle of what I'm drinking. And then he leads me off somewhere so we can *ahem* talk.

And talk we did. In a quiet corner on a sofa. He even went off at one stage to get in a few more beers and came back with a tray full of them.

"You're trying to get me drunk!" I said. Thankfully the music was so fucking loud he didn't seem to notice my deep, manly, masculine voice (either that or I was squeaking with fear).

He sits down next to me. Watching as I take a big slurp from the bottle of Bud. He leans in close to me and says: "If you give head like you drink beer I bet your fucking amazing!"

And I realise I really am very much out of my depth.

Fastforward an hour - the clubs getting close to closing time. I think my new boyfriend, Stan, thinks he's gonna be getting lucky tonight. I really, really, really need to get out of this situation. As Stan prattles on, trying to lube my fanny with his words, I frantically scan the dancefloor for my mates. They've all fucking gone! The cunts! They probably think I've got lucky - shit, if only they knew!

Being all dainty and lady-like I turn to Stan and say: "I need to go and have a slash." And I sway to my feet and go off for a piss. Its a strange club, I don't know the layout, I'm pissed, and it takes me a while to find the bogs. The gents, of course - I might be dressed as a woman, I might be about to let a man fuck me, but I am still a man.

I stagger inside, hitch up the dress, pull down my pants and start hosing the urinal like a guddun. I'm concentrating intently on the flow - it was a nice red dress I had on and any piss splashback would show like a muthafucker.

And then I look up and see the through the mirror above the urinals the bog doors open and my new boyfriend, Stan, step inside. He does a double-take when he sees his latest conquest having a stand up piss. Our eyes meet.

I think he's gonna twat me. But he doesn't. Instead he turns and fucking legs it.

The cunt.

I still, strangely, feel incredibly let down by my Scottish man friend, Stan. He really hurt my fucking feelings that night... I mean, was it something I said???
(, Thu 9 Apr 2009, 11:30, 7 replies)
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.
(, Thu 9 Apr 2009, 3:16, 13 replies)
This was the closest I was gonna get to a full blown Roman orgy, so I was fucking excited.

Loads of women dressed in skimpy white t-shirts and shorts. Foam. So much foam it looked as if God almighty had just performed his best beardy-sex-grimace and let fly a holy load of godly cock goo across the dancefloor.

It was fucking ace.

Only, in my enthusiasm, I'd forgotten that there would be those pesky, annoying, irritating muthafuckers called 'other blokes' at this place.

The bastards.

I recall standing at the side of the dancefloor like a dog with two dicks, my eyes on full perv-alert as I scanned the writhing mass of arms and legs and heads in the foam, desperate for a glimpse of wet t-shirted nipple or, possibly, some waxed growler action.

My mate Greg approached me: "Fuckinell, Spanky! See that bird over there?" I look, and indeed do see a bird over there, she's standing with her arms propped up on a handy plinth on the outskirts of the foamy action. Her head seems to lol a bit. Although her lower torso and legs are hidden under the bubbling foam I can see that she is obviously enjoying... something. Greg continutes: "Sniff that!" And he jabs four, count them FOUR, fingers under my nose. Ahh, the fine bouqet and rich aroma of a lovely hot vag. "She's just standing there, pissed as a cunt, letting anyone use her as a fucking meat finger puppet!"


I watch the girl a bit longer. She does appear to be enjoying something... And then I see a blokes head appear from the foam, rising from the space between this girls legs. He bellows like a mighty warrior at his mates and fucks off deeper into the foam to seek out another pissed up girly to add to his collection.

"Greg," I say solemnly. "I'm going in."

And I do.

I wade into the foam. Make a b-line for this lovely girly (well she was pug ugly, but that really didn't matter), and as I approached her I disappeared under the foam with all the grace and flair of an Olympic swimmer diving into the pool. Well, I slipped on an empty beer bottle and twatted my face on the floor. Underterred, I stalked my lovely girly, standing at the plinth, just waiting for my gentle, delicate, loving touch.

Now, this foam stuff is weird. For a start you can't breath under it. And secondly, you can't see a fucking thing.

I don't know if it was the minor beer-bottle-related concussion or the fact that all the blood had rushed to my cock and I was feeling a little light headed...

Deep under the foam I felt infront of me and my hands made contact with lovely smooth legs. The legs parted slightly and I felt a hand reach down and play through my hair.

Ohhhh, lovely...

My hands trailed up these lovely soft thighs. I was excited. Fuck the fingering. I'm going in for a full fucking cunt lapping.

The excitement building inside me, I continue to stoke these lovely soft thighs. I raise my head to crotch height and gently, delicately kiss...

...the tip of a bulging errection through an incredibly small and tight pair of shorts.

I shoot to my feet and the fella looks aghast. I look aghast. He looks at my long girly hair, I look down at his weirdly hairless legs.

And the girl I was aiming for, who's stood about five feet to my right, gives us the once over and returns to her Bacardi Breezer, waiting for the next stranger to hammer away drunkenly at her vertical pink canoe.

"Erm, sorry for that, mate," I say to the bloke who's bell end I've just snogged. He looks a bit shocked but before he can react I fuck off back to where my mate Greg's standing in safety near the bar.

"How was that?" he asks.

"Interesting..." I think for a beat. "Is it a bit gay if you kiss a man's cock?"

Greg just stares.
(, Tue 14 Apr 2009, 10:46, 15 replies)
Medicinal Wank
There's this place in Leeds just opposite the City Hall; fucked if I can remember the name of it or if it still exists.

I was getting pretty frisky with a girl I worked with on a works night out. She breathed huskily in my ear that we should go back to hers...

And I replied, just as sexily: "Sounds great - I just need to go and have a piss first."

But I didn't need to piss.


I needed to, well, release a few battallions of my little soldiers - my balls were so fucking heavy from not having any growler action for a while that I feared I'd ejaculate before she'd even turned the key in her flat.

So, off I trot to the bogs. Obviously, I was a bit pissed which didn't help.

But these bogs were down some spiral stairs in the centre of this fine establishment. I got to the bottom of the stairs, found a cubicle, unzipped and started wanking furiously.

A medicinal wank.

No enjoyment at all. I just needed to get rid of some excess spermy baggage.

Strange thing was that the bogs didn't dim the noise of the club any. It was, quite frankly, putting me off my stroke. I very nearly sprayed my load down the front of my trousers, I was that put off.

Then I realised the noise was getting louder. And the noise was in time with my frantic self-loving.

I look up...

And see fifty or sixty faces looking down at me from the balcony in the main club above. Cheering me on.

I hadn't actually found the bogs. In my haste and pissed up state I'd actually wondered into an anteroom just before you get to the bogs. This room had an open roof.

Now, there's not alot you can do when you're looking up at fifty or sixty strangers with your cock in your hand.

I did the only sensible thing.

I waved.

Most of them waved back...

And I didn't end up getting laid that night.
(, Wed 15 Apr 2009, 17:02, 4 replies)
Date Rape
While this isn't my story, I was there, and only a few feet away when it happened so I can verify it actually happened. Wouldn't have believed it otherwise, really.

My fellow trance/house enthusiast and friend Landon (name not changed, he's proud of this story) is a bit of a twunt. He's the guy who's always got an outrageous story to tell, a joke for every occasion, the kind of guy that can pull off being a SXSW talent coordinator while shitfaced and pull it off (a story for another time).

Now, this one concert we went to ended up being a bit of a drag - the organizers decided to interrupt the DJs with an amateur talent show, catwalk pulled out, shitty music, anorexic models, and "industry" girls asking what you do in the off chance either of us scruffy fellows (gurning and rolling off our tits) could be their ticket to a life of cocaine and high fashion.

Now, Landon got the bright idea of killing time during the traffic show by picking up girls a couple levels out of his league. Plastic cup in hand, he shoves his head into a crowd of four girls sitting at a table and, in a shifty, slightly foreign accent he goes,

"Excuse me, but do you know where I can get, erm, I can't remember what they're called... you put them in someone's drink when... when you want to go home with them."

At this point I remember their looks of disgust turn to one of abject horror.

"DATE RAPE!?" one of them shouts, loud enough to turn heads over the shitty music.

"I, I don't know. Is that what they're called? These pills, you put them in drinks and they get sleepy and..."

"DATE RAPE!?!" she shouts again. By this point the models are looking a bit nervous and I see a bouncer heading our way.

"I, I suppose. Do you know where to get them?"


Then, in perfect English he replies "Thank god, watch my drink!" and walks off towards the bathroom.

The abrupt transformation from horror, to confusion, to tears-streaming-down-face laughter was truly a sight to behold.

When he returned from the bathroom, he made a show of looking at his drink, trying to see if anything had been put in it, getting the girls even further in stitches.

Of course, they were still far, far out of his league, so he didn't pull, but they bought him a drink and I've been eating out on this story for years.
(, Tue 14 Apr 2009, 0:20, 3 replies)
Only just remembered
Holy fuck, how did I not recall this before? This needs to be in here.

Just over a year ago I was in Cardiff's premier student spot, Solus nightclub in the student union. I was out with my newly agreed housemates on a pre-living-together outing when I spotted a girl being strangled.

Seriously, some dickhead had a belt round her neck on the dancefloor. I went over and with my customary good grace told him to "fuck off and stop being such a fucking knob".

(in another bravado-related incident a couple of months beforehand I had told a group of lairy chavs to "CALM THE FUCK DOWN" at the top of my voice. Surprisingly, they did)

Well, the girl was very grateful. And her friend was very appreciative. Her friend also had something about her that I found extremely attractive, and to wit, I spent a few minutes working my frankly resistable charm. And lo and behold, it worked, and vigorous tongueplay took place for much of the rest of the night.

I'd forgotten her name, of course. So when her friend came to the bar while we were buying drinks later and said "So.. you and Nicola blah blah blah whocaresimnotlisteninganymoreyoujustgotmeoutofahole" I was very happy. Still, I fancied more.

Now this is where it gets interesting. Anyone ever read a book called the Dice Man? If you haven't, it's about a guy who governs his life by rolling dice for every decision he makes and then does what the dice command.

Now while I wasn't going to go as far as he did (I'm not into rape and murder) I had thought it would be a good way to decide things I don't care about - which drink do I want? Which club do we go to? etc - and maybe inject a bit of spontaneity into my life, which had become rather stale and shit since a bad break-up the previous year.

So at this point, I had two dice in my pocket.

A plan formed. A few minutes later, with a mischievous smile, I laid my trap.

"So... tell me, have you ever wanted to be more spontaneous?"
"Well, of course, why?"
"I'm going to roll these two dice. Less than five, we go and have sex now. Less than ten, we wait until later. More than ten, we don't have sex tonight. Deal?"
"...yeah, okay."

In like Flynn! I am a golden God! I am the Prince Of Punani! I am flying by the pre-emptive feeling of my balls ridding themselves of 10cc of unnecessary semen. The more mathematically-minded of you may also notice that I had strategically put the odds utterly in my favour, insofar as there was a mere 1 in 12 chance of failure to get myself well and truly laid that night.

...rolled a fucking 11.
(, Wed 15 Apr 2009, 17:22, 14 replies)
Trying to get into the Garage in Sauchiehall Street
on my 18th birthday - a friend had given me a toy dinosaur as a present, so when they asked if I had any weapons with me, I pulled dino out of the bag and shouted 'RAWR! I have a vicious man eating lizard, does that count?'.

They then asked if I had any identification to prove that I was over 5...
(, Fri 10 Apr 2009, 15:12, 6 replies)
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"


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

(, Thu 9 Apr 2009, 2:32, 2 replies)
Best thing I overheard in a nightclub
that wasn't said by me... What? Oh.

The dancefloor of the Subway, Edinburgh Cowgate. Said to my incredibly large breasted friend (seriously, big as your head).

"Scuse me love, you've got MASSIVE tits."

"Jesus Christ, tell me something I don't know..."


"Okay, Rhinos have a gestation period of two years. Bet you didn't know that!"

*stunned silence*

Who said the art of seduction was dead?
(, Sat 11 Apr 2009, 12:39, 8 replies)
We were running late already
Our destination was what our imaginative Student Union had called the 'Friday Night Disco' (or FND).

My then-girlfriend and I had quickly become notorious for turning up late to every party. Tonight was going to be no exception. She liked to get ready in my room as I had a bigger mirror, so I nipped off for a quick shower while she tarted herself up.

She was a first year, I was a finalist. We lived on the same corridor in our hall of residence and I'd been happy to show her the ropes when she first arrived. The "ropes" soon became my rope and we started dating. She had a sweet and naive personality but with my help, she'd also discovered a darker, more adventurous side. We both enjoyed exploring our fantasies whenever the opportunity arose. At Uni, that meant pretty much all the time.

The hot water beat down on my face as I daydreamed about one of our previous whirlwinds of sexual abandon. I shortly realised I was rapidly getting a massive stonk-on. This would never do, I couldn't go out with one in the chamber. It would have been a shame to waste my "one-half-of-Tower-Bridge-letting-a-big-boat-go-through" impression on a simple wank (not to mention bad form to do it in the shared shower) so I rushed downstairs to my room, my obviously-tented towel suggesting to startled corridor mates that I'd taken a rounders bat for a wash.

I dashed into my room, dripping and as horny as Satan but she was too focussed on her makeup to turn round. She'd decided to wear her new black dress which revealed far too much cleavage. This was the first time I'd seen her wearing it. "She looks sensational" I thought to myself.

My boner agreed.

"Pass me the hair straightener" she demanded, with a level of charming arrogance that further activated my mischief gland. Naturally I sidled up and placed something else hair-straightener-shaped in her open palm.

She paused and giggled, which was the green light I was hoping for with barely-concealed joy. "We'll be even later now" she said as I felt her grip tighten. She turned round to face my choice of hair-straightening products with an open and expectorant mouth.

It didn't take long for us to end up on my lumpy, unyielding single bed. I pulled her moistened panties down, slid the black dress up and gently worked myself inside what remains the tightest lady chamber my cock has been fortunate enough to breach. As we grinded and writhed about, I realised I wasn't going to last long in my overwound state. She detected this and pulled her dress down from her shoulders to reveal her sumptuous breasts, a favourite place of hers for me to finish off.

Within seconds of laying eyes upon those jiggling mounds of teenage perfection, I could hold back no longer. I pulled out and acquired my target but devilment got the better of me. At the last second I raised the trajectory slightly ensuring an even spread across her face, neck and chest.

I laughed, luckily she laughed too and I was relieved for the second time in mere seconds. She seemed to enjoy the experience, but I knew I wouldn't get away with my impromptu face painting exercise. "Lick it off, see how you like it" she said, punishing me for my 'appalling aim'. Feeling naughty and not wishing to be the first to back down from a sexual dare, I accepted and managed to quickly mop up what I'd spilled using nothing more than my tongue and a strong gag reflex.*

Impressed by my devotion to her desires, she got up, patted the residue off with a tissue and kissed me. I got dressed and we left to meet our friends.

On the walk to the Union from the halls, she mentioned that she still felt sticky, and it was turning her on. I could tell we would end up finding a dark spot in the Union building to continue the evening's experiments. It put a further spring in my step, although the lingering taste in my mouth reminded me that there are unpleasant consequences to such wanton behaviour.

We made our way inside and ordered a couple of drinks then she clawed a path to the dance floor where we'd agreed to meet our friends. As soon as we'd stepped onto it, she turned around, looking for familiar faces. Her eyes widened as she looked at me. Mine did the same as I stared at her.

Under the UV blacklights of the dancefloor, my beautiful, adventurous girlfriend now resembled a nightmarish, glowing plasterer's radio. She shouted "your mouth and chin is all lit up!". She handed me her pocket mirror from her handbag and indeed, I looked like I'd messily devoured the contents of a glowstick. I passed the mirror back so she could see the damage too. Apparently I'd also managed to get some in her hair and on her forehead, which surprised us both.

A friend staggered into me, already feeling the effects of cheap student refreshments. "Why are you late again, slag!" he shouted at me. I could see his eyes focussing in real-time. As his drunken pupils heroically co-ordinated their efforts and began to align on my face, I stammered "we got side-tracked". He stared at me for the longest time, looked over at my girlfriend and stared at her too. As his brain pieced together the forensic crime scene before him, I grinned at him and he smirked, before bimbling off in the direction of a group who we recognised to be our friends.

I grabbed her arm and said "let's get out of here before he brings the others". Away from the unrelenting glare of the UV lights and to sarcastic cheers from the queue outside the regular toilet, we retreated together into the huge disabled toilet to properly clean up. We spent at least 20 minutes meticulously and lovingly wiping each other down to remove every last trace of my slithering jizzdribbles, giggling like a pair of schoolkids.

No sooner had we finished, she looked into my eyes and gave me a familiar look. Well, we were in a very spacious toilet...


*If you were wondering, yes it tastes fractionally better when it's your own, and it's not mixed with shit...
(, Fri 10 Apr 2009, 10:57, 13 replies)
Robot Wars
Chris is the boyfriend of perhaps my closest and oldest friend. On only our second meeting, when we were both still politely smiling and doing bumbling impressions of people raised well with grace and manners, we walked into the side room of the Coventry Colleseum, allowed our eyes to adjust the darkness for only the slightest of seconds when we noticed that the room is half filled with a pick and mix of invalids and their various metal accessories and appendages.

At which point the music stopped and Chris announced to the whole room 'Fuck me, it's like robot wars in here.'

/for good measure, as we slunk out of the room he dragged me up the stairs saying 'C'mon, they can't climb stairs. Like Daleks'
(, Thu 9 Apr 2009, 20:57, 1 reply)
I went to "the dancin'" in East Kilbride hundreds of years ago.
I'd never been to "Rundown" before though so me and Pete went in one Saturday night. The place was actually called "Downtown Miami" but it was fucking awful, hence the name.

We were in for as long as it took to get to the bar and shout "Heavy! Two pints of heavy! *fuck's sake* HEAVY! Fuck, OK, two JD's then! No ic...never mind." and there's someone, propped up on the bar, looking at me. A lady!

Pete, the cunt, hears Rozalla, gets his Jack and fucks off to do his Bill Cosby impression on the pish-stained dancefloor. I never saw him again that night.

This woman was gorgeous. She looked a bit drunk but it was about midnight and so was I.

"Hiya" she screamed. I was in love. "Alright?" I bellowed back. "Aye! You're a good lookin' basturt. Whit ye dein' here?" she yelled back.

"Jist up wi' ma pal. He's err therr, dancin' aboot lik a fanny!" I pointed out the whirling dervish that was Pete, scaring away all the women with his "jack moves".

And now the nightmare begins.

"Mon we'll git a wee seat!" "Aye"

I proceed to the nearest table, beckoning her with my eyes. "Whit a total fuckin' ride," I'm thinking as I sit down, casually clearing the bottles aside. She moves slowly, sexily, all the while staring straight at me with those "fuck me" eyes, takes two steps towards me and falls flat on her face, knocking strangers aside and flinging her Bailey's everywhere.

"FUCKSAKE, MAN! KEEP A HAUD O' YIR BIRD! SHE'S FUCKIN' HUMPED!" All eyes were on me. "But..." I dragged her up from the floor and because of this everyone thought we were a couple.

I got her into a seat and we chatted for a while, her all embarrassed, me now feeling a bit protective of her. She slipped on something, she told me, but now she's fine. She seemed OK so we had a high-decibel blether and a few more boozes. It came to chucking out time and I said cheerio but she followed me downstairs and we ended up having a big winch outside the TSB.

The nightmare continues...

As we were getting tore intae each other a cry goes up (the names have been changed to protect the "innocent") "Alright, Jeanette Kranky? Gettin' a winch, ur ye?"

Ho-ho. It's her pals. A gentle ribbing is OK.

"Ah'll tell yir man, ya wee hoor!"

Not so good.

"Ah've no goat a man. Thir only takin' the piss." she tells me. Phew! I thought I was in for a pummeling, and not the good kind.

We arrange to meet later that week. "Come round ma hoose. I'll get shot of the wee brother and we can fuck like animals." She agreed.

I sent the wee fucker to the library and she turned up. Unfortunately I'd been out the night before with some friends from work and had been speeding my tits off and, sad to say, I had a genital malfunction. No amount of persuasion would make the bastard work. She didn't leave unfulfilled though so I was of some use.

We arranged to meet at hers (ooh. she has her own flat! Very impressive to a 19 year old college boy) in a couple of days. I promised to be fully functional.

I turned up ready for a good hump. She opened the door and a strange smell hit my nostrils. It smells of baby poo.

"Come in."
I did so. Then a crying sound, almost like a crying bab... It's a fucking baby!
"Do you want to get down to it? My husband will be back from work in a couple of hours?"

(, Thu 9 Apr 2009, 14:50, 11 replies)
I wasn't going to post this because nobody ever enjoys the serious ones, but what the hell, it's cheaper than therapy.

I *hate* nightclubs. I really fucking hate them. They are where all of my biggest dislikes convene under one sweaty roof. Shit music played at ear-bleeding decibel levels, crowds, meat markets, meat markets full of girls who look like models so guys only try it on with me when I've already seen them try everyone else in the room first (you really know how to make a girl feel special), strange women handing out paper towels in the bathroom (surely the worst job ever) and having to pretend to have a good time while all this is happening. I'm sure it's banned by the Geneva Convention.

I have a friend who likes clubbing. Her brother knows a lot of club owners, so she always gets VIP guest list status somewhere cool for her birthday every year. I go because I'm her friend and I want to help her celebrate her birthday. A couple of years ago I had an absolutely hideous experience at her birthday party, which took place at Punk just off Oxford Street.

So far, the evening had been going swimmingly. I was chatting to people (well, shouting) and dancing a bit and ok, so I wasn't having the best time of my life, but it was fine. I should say at this point that this girl and I actually have no mutual friends, and I am excruciatingly socially awkward at the best of times. So I was doing really, really well.

Virtually the entire birthday group was on the dance floor - me and about 20 girls I'd only just met - when another friend of hers came up to us. A few minutes earlier I'd been a bit chilly due to some overactive air conditioning, so he offered me his jacket, but since I wasn't cold at that moment I politely declined. He then saw fit to launch into the following monologue:

"I swear to God, this is the most miserable girl I've ever seen. She's not cold - she's just making it up so that she can sulk! What a miserable, mardy cow. She never smiles. She never fucking smiles! What the hell is wrong with her? Miserable cow..."

I didn't stick around to hear the rest of it. You know how in any given club there's a girl crying hysterically in the corner? Well, that was me.

I try so hard. Social stuff like this is so draining for me and I try so hard to be friendly and look happy and dance like a lunatic, and then I find out that people still think I'm a miserable cow. And that obviously people are going to side with the big loud popular guy who they know over the quiet, slightly odd girl they've only just met. Suddenly I knew how it felt to be the dim kid at school, to work your arse off to get 30% on a test and find out that everybody else did twice as well as you and they still think you're a waste of space.

I regret crying hysterically in the corner, I really do. At the time, my self esteem wasn't what it is now, and so I thought it was my fault, my problem that he had a problem with me. I wish I could go back and deal with him differently, and this is what I would like to say (of course the music will stop at this point, and all eyes will be on me):

"Actually I was quite happy before you opened your mouth. How dare you be so fucking rude? How dare you talk about me like that in front of a bunch of people I've only just met? Are you trying to humiliate me? You obviously think you're making me look stupid, but you're just making yourself look like the arsehole that you are."

Then, instead of rapturous applause, I would probably get a sea of blank looks and a few giggles, and go and cry hysterically in the corner.
(, Wed 15 Apr 2009, 21:46, 22 replies)
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
(, Sun 12 Apr 2009, 15:24, Reply)
Sharing a flat with a woman makes you a bit gay.

That's what I was thinking when Sarah shouted for me to come and help her in the bathroom. I went in and found her with her head bent over the sink, wet, wearing a dressing gown and looking rough as a robbers dog.

"Can you put this on for me, please?" she asked, waving a bottle round, her eyes closed shut tightly as she washed her golden locks.

"What is it?"

"A face pack," Sarah could tell I was less than enthusiatic. "Well, you don't want us to be late do you? If you put it on while I'm doing my hair we'll get there quicker."

Fair enough. I grabbed the bottle and plastered her face in green gunk then fucked off to my own room to get into my clubbing gear.

An hour later Sarah was eventually ready, the taxi had arrived, and we left. I'd already downed a bottle of sherry and was feeling really rather chipper.

When we got to the club Sarah paired off with her boyfriend - a neanderthal in a shirt named Paul. I met up with my own girlfriend, Emma.

And a fine time was had by all.

Until, rather like watching a car crash, I was compelled to watch my mate Sarah and her brutish cunt of a boyfriend have an absolute barney in the centre of the dancefloor. Sarah was pushing him, he pushed her back. Voices were raised. It was like watching an episode of Jerry Springer. Eventually the cunt Paul smacked Sarah hard in the gob. The fucking cunt. Sarah fell back hard and hit her arse on the dancefloor. She actually bounced.

I went over and gave Paul a playful smack in the gob in return, told him to pick on someone his own size, and led my mate, Sarah, away by the arm.

She was crying: "I just wanna go home, Spanky," she said.

I nodded and held her hand and we made our way towards the exit. But the cunt Paul was loitering there. Fuck. Don't want any trouble. I'd caught him off guard before but this fella was twice my size and could fucking murder me in his sleep.

"Let's go the back way," I suggest. And we do. Moments later we're round the back of the club. I lead Sarah up the narrow alleyway and back out onto the main street. I hail a cab and pack her off back home.

"Thanks, Spanky - you're a real mate," she says as I close the cab door and off she goes into the night nursing a blackeye and a bruised cheek.

I turn and stomp back towards the club. I wasn't really in the mood for going back in but Emma, my girlfriend, was inside and she'd be pissed with me if I just disappeared.

Eventually after a shitload of queueing I get back inside. I find Emma and, yep, she's pissed with me.

"Where the fuck did you disappeare to?" She asks.

And I explain:

"Sarah had a row with Paul, she was feeling pretty vulnerable so I took her up the back passage. Now she's in a taxi going home. She's feeling pretty shitty with herself... I think she really hurt her arse."


I think about what I just said: "No, I meant I took her round the back entrance."

I really wasn't helping my cause. Emma just stared at me and fumed like she was about to go volcanic and kill me with her laserbeam stare. Or just twat me.

"Oh, come on, Emma!" I plead. "Sarah's just a mate, nothing more - I mean, I even gave her a facial before we left the flat this evening..."
(, Sat 11 Apr 2009, 1:25, 12 replies)
This is every nightclub experience I have ever had
1) I am in a town centre pub. It is late, I appear to have spent a lot of money on nothing and I am with a large group of people, most of whom I do not know. The part of the evening I knew I would enjoy is over and I want to go home. I wont be going home tonight. I will be sleeping on the floor of the one member of the group I actually know. He promised me that we would go home after the meal and that there is no way we will be going clubbing.

2) We are going clubbing.

3) We all stand in the street while the group decides which club to go to. The streets are crowded with drunken noisy people. The streets smell of piss. This is because people are pissing in the streets. I need to piss. The group discussion carries on for about 20 minutes because some people are wearing trainers and some people have left their car somewhere and some people just like the sound of their own voice. I am not part of the discussion, partly because I have never been to any of the nightclubs being discussed.

4) Some of us need to get money. We join a large disjointed queue for an ATM machine. People are walking through the queue and there is a homeless man with a dog sitting right next to the ATM machine. I withdraw more money that I do not want to spend while ignoring the monotone pleas of the homeless man. I feel sorry for the dog.

5) We walk for more than 10 minutes. I have no idea where we are going. We finally arrive at the club only to be greeted by the sight of a long queue. The group stands in the street for 10 minutes discussing whether it is worth joining the queue. We join the queue. The group continues to discuss whether we actually want to enter this particular club. Just when we are making some headway the group decides that we will go to another club. We leave the queue.

And that’s it. That’s clubbing. Waiting around with a full bladder and an empty wallet while people I don’t know decide which overpriced noisy shit-hole to frequent.
(, Wed 8 Apr 2009, 15:56, 13 replies)
Just this Friday
Last weekend was at a great little rave down in Vauxhall, having the usual fun of not really having a clue which way is up.

Night progresses, and one of my mates is looking a little worse for wear on the dancefloor. This is not uncommon for him, and so I carry on having the seizure that passes for dancing while off your face.

Soon enough, he starts to retch, and I see his cheeks fill up with the good stuff. I give him the thumbs up and have a good laugh, after all, he was pilled up to the eyeballs, so the experience wasn't that bad for him.

What he did next made my night, and most probably the month. He grins as me as much as is possible with a mouthful of puke, tilts his head back, and gargles it like a particularly chunky variety of mouthwash. A good five seconds. Then a quick swallow and he was raving away like the drugged up bugger he is.

Good times
(, Tue 14 Apr 2009, 23:21, 13 replies)
Chubby Chasing Doormen
While working at the Australian theme bar on broad Street I had the pleasure to work with K. A nice enough chap who was always game for a laugh but was as thick as a whale omelette and like women who weighed about twice as much as Lisa Riley.

On one particular night at closing time he forgoes the usual staff pint and buggers off, we assume he has headed home early as he has work early the next morning.

My colleagues and I leave the pub about an hour later having unwound from a night of student excess and dodging hen parties. As we get to the car park we bump into K.

"Guys gimme a hand with the car will you" he asks.

"Yeah sure says us" thinking he needed a jump start. How wrong we were.

As previously mentioned K liked the larger lasses and this week unbeknownst to us he had excelled himself. We got to the car to be greeted by quite a shocking sight.

K had pulled a rather large lady and she had met him by his car so they could engage in a little push and pull. However she was so large she had become stuck between the front two seats so we al had to grab a limb and pull till she popped free.

The exact sight of this has been burned to my memory. Seeing a 25st woman with a fanny like a hippos yawn stuck between the front seats of a Datsun Cherry will stay with me forever.

So will the look on the fireman's face when we couldn't free her and they had to remove one of the front seats.
(, Tue 14 Apr 2009, 15:54, 5 replies)
A little the worse for wear by the cloakroom
It's nearing the end of the night so I go up to the cloakroom lady and say "I'm very sorry, but I've lost the ticket for my jacket, is there any chance I could get it back without the ticket.

She looked impatient and said "I've already given you your coat"

And then had the temerity to add "and you are wearing it"

I've not really been back since.
(, Tue 14 Apr 2009, 13:29, 3 replies)
The Leadmill, Sheffield
I used to go to the Leadmill fairly often when I was an undergrad. Interesting place. In my first year the girl I was then dating was aggressively pawed up in the ladies by a mutton chopped whiskery lesbian. In my second year I narrowly missed being sprayed with baby batter after a young gentleman received a hand shandy from a young lady on the dance floor.

In my third year things, relatively, improved. One night I was in there with some friends and we got talking to two girls.

Girl A was short and squat, with a shaven head, wearing a Chris Waddle t-shirt. She was trashed.

Girl B was tall and pretty damned attractive, aside from the ridiculous Ugg boots she was wearing. She was also trashed.

After a while of drunken shouting at each other and dancing, Girl A said to me 'Girl B likes you'. Wahey thinks I. Tonight I at least stand a half chance of deeply unsatisfactory drunken sex which tomorrow morning I probably won't be able to remember clearly.

I moved closer to Girl B, the rhythm of our dancing merging like two drunk polar bears on ice-skates skating over a glass floor covered in marbles. My hand found hers, her lipstick smeared mouth parted to give the briefest toothy smile. She gazed into my eyes and shouted at me. I shouted back, subtly manoeuvring her away from my friends and her friend, who was now doing the internationally recognised Charades move for sexy time. I moved in to kiss her, my hand brushing her hair, feeling the softness of her tongue as it brushed against mine, the taste of cigarettes, stale vodka and vomit that permeated her mouth. I pulled away, an awkward half smile on my face as I tried to remember whether or not I had eaten carrot earlier, or whether I had collected an unwanted bilious traveller. She looked at me, patted me gently on the crotch and demurely asked me if I would like to come back to hers for some coffee and a frank exchange of views. Like a gentleman, I accepted.

She then turned to Girl A to tell her she was leaving, just as Girl A was sparking up a cigarette. Girl B tripped on her Ugg boots, and headbutted Girl A right in the mouth. The sparks from the cigarette flew all over the place. Girl A staggered and then fell back, followed shortly by Girl B who collapse on top of her, and then vomited. Again.

I went home alone.
(, Sat 11 Apr 2009, 2:16, 7 replies)
Nightclubs can fuck right off.
Anywhere that won't let me in wearing my jeans, or expects me to pay for the privilege of drinking overpriced, watered beer while surrounded by pissed-up townies and being aurally raped by music I wouldn't use to torture my worst enemy can just grease themselves up and crawl headfirst up an elephant's turdtunnel.
(, Wed 8 Apr 2009, 16:45, 4 replies)

This question is now closed.

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