I can't be bothered to ramble on about these two excellent clubs in Cardiff
so I will list their great points.

Clwb Ifor Bach (or Welsh Club as it was known)
My first trip there, I walked into the top floor and they were playing Led Zeppelin, and had Roger Ramjet projected on the walls. My kind of place. Beer was £1 a bottle.

Club Metropolitan (Metros)
You know the sort of place, underground, sweat dripping from the ceiling. The best kind of rock/metal club.
Stella was £1.50 a pint, vodka and redbull came by the jug, the question being "How many straws do you want?"
They used to show Transformers the movie on screens around the place.

My best experience there was that of the Heavy metal Christmas Foam Party. Fantastic fun, particularly with the step to get onto the dance floor.

Unfortunately it was in December, in Wales, and as you all know, taxis don't take kindly to people who have been to foam parties.

The awful, drunken, freezing hour-long walk home was more than made up for by all of us piling into the showers together when we got back (the ratio of sex was very much in the desirable direction)
( Vipros. clever got me this far, then tricky got me in, Wed 15 Apr 2009, 10:50, 2 replies)

The Night I Thought I would Die
Does anyone else remember skirt-wearing Brit-Rock also-rans Cecil? I saw them play a few times in 1997/8, and one of these gigs was at the Hull Adelphi, where they were supporting never-achieved-much indie types Jocasta. The Adelphi was/ is a wonderful place - an end terrace, the ground floor of which had been gutted and turned into a small venue for up-and-coming bands: everyone who's anyone has played there, from Radiohead to, er, Atilla the Stockbroker.

Anyway: there was me and about 10 other people in that night, so I got a drink, grabbed a seat, and sat down. Cecil took to the stage. Now, anyone who's seen them live knows that they could be a bit enthusiastic. The first song wasn't over before the monitors had been kicked clear across the room. Into the second, the singer was standing in the middle of the empty floor screaming.

He wandered back to the stage to grab his pint before launching into song number three, again from the middle of the floor, again screaming. By now, he was also kicking furniture about.

And then he saw me. Our eyes met - and his fixed.

He came towards me, and he had a face like murder. The band was still playing, and I was convinced that their music would represent the last sound I ever heard. I backed off. The singer got closer.

Oh, fuck. I am going to be killed by a minor musician, I thought.

He was now well in punching-range. I'd tried to look innocuous, but it obviously hadn't worked. And what made it scarier was that he was still screaming lyrics into the microphone. He was going to kill me as carelessly as he might have killed a bluebottle.

Quickly, his hand thrust forward. I flinched as it made contact with my head and his open palm gripped the back of my skull, pulling my face towards his and... and he gently kissed me on the forehead, gave me his almost-complete pint of Guinness, and returned to the stage.

I pretended to like Guinness. I didn't want to push my luck.
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Wed 15 Apr 2009, 10:36, 6 replies)

I have never set foot in a nightclub and never will. I don`t see the fun in gettin so drunk you don`t know what your doing and having to listen to some rubbish blaring out of speakers.
p.s anyone know when the QOTW will chang this week?
(Nahla, Wed 15 Apr 2009, 10:24, 43 replies)

The New World
This was a nightclub in my hometown that's now been demolished, apparently just to make the street look a bit tidier. It was in the smallest building possible, so the tiny dancefloor and tiny seating area were connected by a thin corridor alongside which was the bar. There was another small room in the attic. It was notable for three things - it was dirt cheap, anyone could get in (thinking back to my schooldays now) and they had a very laissez-faire approach to smoking the good stuff in there.

This story begins a couple of weeks after I finished university. A couple of my schoolfriends were back in town having just finished their degrees as well, and by luck or misadventure we found ourselves in the New World after the pubs closed. It was a bit crowded, but when you're partying in a corridor that probably means there are ten other people present. After finding a table we got down to the important business of the night - sinking beers and smoking skunk.

We'd been there about an hour when a girl ran in through the back door, crying, and sprinted upstairs to the tiny attic room. Thirty seconds later, about ten guys came barrelling down after her and started punching everyone and everything in sight. It was like a classic brawl from a western, right down to us (only just) ex-students sitting in the middle of it all and moving drinks out of the way of sprawling fighters, ducking to avoid punches and so on. Miraculously, by the time the police arrived (and we'd secreted the weed away again) we were still completely unscathed - though the bouncers, barstaff and most of the other patrons were carried out bleeding into ambulances and police vans.

About a week later I started working there, apparently because I'm insane. I had the arduous task of sitting by the door, taking people's money and looking after their coats. I got through a good many books during that time, and was allowed to go into the club for a spliff break every so often.

I also got on very well with the bouncers, picking up a fair bit of Jamaican patois and some awesome weed along the way. These were guys who showed up to work armed to the teeth and carring enough drugs to hospitalise an elephant. One day I timidly asked them what had happened that night just before I'd started work there.

It turns out that a bouncer from one of the pubs in town had finished his shift and gone to the New World to get leathered. Stumbling across a couple arguing vehemently, he'd tried to take them outside (even though he didn't work at the club) and when they'd inevitably both turned on him, he'd hit the girl. She'd run straight back in the back door and told all their mates that the bouncer just hit her, and they had decided to take revenge on the bouncers at the club, none of whom were involved in hitting the girl at all. One guy was so badly injured that I only saw him six months later and even then he wasn't fit to return to work. The pub bouncer got away scot free that night, but was regarded by the rest of them as a joke anyway as about three weeks later he picked up his eight year-old son who headbutted him in the mouth and knocked out his two front teeth.

I loved that job. I've probably got more stories from the year and a half that I worked at the New World than any other time in my life - the police raid when I had to hide all the bouncers' drugs and weapons, the escaped criminal who wouldn't leave the premises but of course the police didn't have a warrant to come in and get him, the glass collector who stole luxury cars to order, the reggae nights when I was the only white person in the entire building, the enigmatic manager known only as "the Sarge", the stripper nights (for "stripper" read "prostitute"), the weirdo ex-jailbird Christians that hung around outside trying to convert drunks at 3am...not to mention that my band played some of our best gigs there in the attic room.

Ah, memories.
( emvee cruor deo cruoris, Wed 15 Apr 2009, 9:51, Reply)

Not drugs
"mate, have you got any speed"
"no"
"oh come on, you've had some"
"no I haven't"
"what are you on then"
"erm, opal fruits"

also

"are you on ecstasy"
"no"
"have you ever taken ecstasy"
"no"
"do you want some ecstasy"
"no"
"we're all on ecstasy"
"oh really?"
(teebie jeebie, Wed 15 Apr 2009, 9:34, Reply)

Stevie the Wonder.
Once upon a time when the world was young and life was full of infinite possibilities, I had a friend. Now Stevie was as black as the ace of spades. Not chocolate or very dark chocolate but black. His skin had an almost blue sheen to it he was so black. He also had two lovely scars down each side of his chest, one from being glassed in a nightclub the other from falling down the stairs pissed when he came home from a nightclub ( and going straight through the glass-topped phone table at the foot of the stairs). Obviously ladies were informed that they were tribal initiation scars. Stevie was something of a reprobate and exceedingly good company if you were a good runner. Some of the scrapes he got into were legendary but this is the nightclub question.

So, after trolling around the local hostelries and having reached the point of Crufts competitiors looking good, we were off to the favourite den of iniquity. A few more drinks were had. And then a few more. It was a slow night and obviously (to Stevie anyway) in need of enlivenment. He asked me to go and pick up a girl (any girl, looks size etc immaterial) and bring her to the favoured trysting zone, a very dark corner under the stairs. Stevie had decided earlier on to try a new look. Black silk shirt with huge collars (70s, it was cool) and a black nicely cut suit – way ahead of his time. Anyway, I procured said female and she needed little convincing to join me under the stairs for a little exploration. I could see no sign of Stevie so got down to some buscatorial entanglement. At this point Stevie decided to make his presence felt. By opening his eyes, grinning and then shouting “wooga wooga wooga” while flapping his arms like a maniac. He had been standing in the dark under the stairs, motionless and with eyes and mouth closed. The young lady lost control completely. She screamed into my mouth and pissed herself. All over my best powder blue disco pants. By this time Stevie was rolling on the floor clutching his sides and pissing himself too, but with laughter.

The young lady complained to the door-apes and we were removed. Good times.
(porkylips looks better as the sun goes down., Wed 15 Apr 2009, 9:06, 6 replies)

How to get into clubs for free and skip the queue
I used to do this all the time before clubbing rendered me a confused vegetable.

1. Walk to the front of the queue and up the the bouncer;
2. Say 'you just let me out to get some more money'
3. Bouncer says 'no I didn't'
4. Say 'yes you did!'
5. Bouncer says 'oh you're right I did. I forgot to stamp your hand! There you go'.

Queue looks on in wonder and awe.

I also remember drunkenly offering people drugs confectionary. "smack biscuits!" "crack muffins!" and one man whispered "mate... did you say you had some crack muffins?"

This is the best I can do. Sorry for bothering you.
( browser still relating boring anecdotes into a void on, Wed 15 Apr 2009, 8:47, Reply)

The army
My older bro decided to seek gainful employment courtesy of Her Maj in the army. This led to many trips to various places around the world.

Anyway, one particular weekend I was due to be down in London and my bro had phoned up to let me know he'd be there as well (Life Before Interweb). So we agree to meet up.

Anyway, me being (*cough cough*) slightly underage and Ian being in the army, we decided to drink. To the point where the idea came to us to make our way to a nightclub for some good old fashioned boogying.

So off we toddle. I know of a club near Kings Cross with a refreshing attitude to underage drinking, so we head there. We get in the queue, and I notice Ian looking perturbed.

By perturbed I mean fucking terrified.

"What's wrong you flid?" I enquire.

"Well" said Ian "Last time I was here, I had something of a disagreement with the door staff. You know that broken arm I got?"

"You mean the one that needed a plate and several ounces of finest grade metalwork, and that you told your dear mother occurred on exercise in Germany?"

"That's the one. Erm. It happened here."

"Ah"

By this stage we were too late. We were nearly at the front of the queue and there was no way we could have cut out. So I told Ian to grin and bear it. The doorbears scarcely gave us a second look (it was that kind of club) and in we went.

There was quite a lack of female company, but we fell in with some chaps who also happened to be pongos (and a more depraved bunch of alcoholics I have never met). Several shots were had until I saw a very pretty young lady strutting her funky stuff on the dancefloor. (Life Before Gay)

I decided to do the manly thing, and go down to slur at her whilst dancing like a mong on acid. My surefire technique was bound to work.

As I headed downstairs, I was tapped on the shoulder.

"Carrot" Ian hissed. "Don't do it. She's the reason I got my arm broken."

"What?"

"Well, she's the owner's daughter and she's only 17...now"

Now, anyone who knows me is aware that when drunk, I am a stubborn bastard and will not under any circumstances listen to advice, least still from my well travelled and wordly wise elder brother. So down I go. My drunken lurching amazingly has the right effect. She invites me into the lady's bogs so she can play with my willy, and I , ever the gent, oblige.

2 minutes after, I hear a bang on the door. "WHATTHEFUCKDOYOUTHINKYOUAREDOINGGETOUTHERENOOOOOOOOOW"

"Oh fuck" says the girl. "It's me Dad"

At this stage, well let's just say I'm in the right room as I threaten to void myself. I am in for a right shoeing, and I know it. Anyway, the door slams open and I am grabbed by the scruff of the neck by a bloke who is literally 6 foot in all dimensions.

I start making peace with my God.

The niceties of being taken out the back for a full and frank discussion was not on offer here. I was dragged (and bear in mind I'm 6ft + and not light) straight out the front.

"Right fuckhead" the manager drools. "I'm going to fucking sort you."

"Hey pal" I hear from across the carpark. "Can ye're mother sew?"

At this stage, a 5 ft nothing scottish squaddie jumps on the bloke and headbutts him in the nose (imagine the Nac Mac Feegle, and you're pretty close). Obviously, this distracts the owner, but piques the interest of the bouncers, who come flying over.

Closely followed by 6 other drunk but extremely angry squaddies, who start pummelling the shite out of all and sundry.

Me and my brother make a sharp exit.

We didn't drink there again.
( Undercovercarrot got done for gross misconduct on..., Wed 15 Apr 2009, 7:35, 1 reply)

The Rule Of Three
My brother and his mates have an agreement between them for when they're out on the pull, the 'Rule Of Three'.

They are allowed, without fear of mockery or other reprisals, to go home with females with 1 or 2 of the following attributes:

1: Fat;
2: Ugly
3: Ginger

but never, ever all three - that would result in unthinkable punishments
(SarcasticBarSteward wants to be good at Photoshop when he grows up, Wed 15 Apr 2009, 6:39, 1 reply)

Nightclubs-
When a nightstick just doesn't have that heft.
(mariam67, Wed 15 Apr 2009, 5:48, Reply)

Blind grind?
Not sure if you've heard of this and I can imagine a lot of you will consider it nothing short of deplorable, but I'll plough on regardless and tell you about the phenomenon known colloquially amongst myself and peers as the... blind grind. (It rhymes see? Very witty)

Anyway!

The event in question requires teams in excess of 2 and (unsurprisingly) a nightclub. Specifically, a nightclub with a dancefloor large enough to accommodate rapid drifting into the crowd (the reasons for this will become apparent shortly, although I predict the sharper amongst you can guess)

Basically, it involves finding a girl (or guy, lets not jump to any conclusions here) who is facing resolutely away from you and informing your friend that this will be the unwitting (and invariably unwilling) third member of your party which is their cue to take a wander round to the business end of the fortunate participant and await further instruction.

What follows is crucial to how the rest of the night will unfold; It is now your task to saunter behind this girl/uy and with all the sophistication and suavery you can muster, grind that shit. Chloroform optional. Having now passed the point of no return, you now look over to your friend, at the moment the only person who is aware of how attractive this individual is and give you the gladiatorial thumb signal of whether or not you have, to put it so poetically, bagged a hotty.

The vast majority of times this last point is a pointless one, as the only truly normal emotion that a typically level headed person should have at suddenly being accosted from behind and then (generally speaking) oh so subtly judged from in front is one of violation, objection, repulsion and a sudden interest in castration. On very rare occasion will you find the tactic successful, but this usually relies on the subject having not noticed your friend in front of them, having imbibed a copious amount of inhibition weakening substances or being violently unattractive, often all three.

Only very occasionally has the fabled blind grind resulted in me pulling girls I can claim to be proud of; I otherwise would probably have considered them out of my league and wouldn't have approached them in the first place. But yes, there was a *lot* of chaff - either me getting slapped, pushed or shouted at, or suddenly finding my plan backfire when the girl turns round and reveals her "good angle" is one that doesn't incorporate her face...

I know, I know. It is a horrifically chauvinistic and pathetic thing to get involved in, but at the same time it is:

a) A novel way to make the otherwise frustrating act of trying to dance your way into a person's pants a lot more entertaining, and makes for a good chuckle the next day with your friends.
b) Excellent for those with low confidence, lower shame and the ability to move quickly in a pickle (as I was when the game was introduced to me - you know who you are guys) who otherwise would rely on a girl to approach you just from checking out your sick shapes (you know full well that doesn't work)
c) Sometimes does result in them laughing when they realise what you're doing. I once did this to a girl in a club who turned, laughed and rejected me but then, having asked what that was all about, joined in! Didn't get any action that night, but that's not the point.
d) Teaches those mentioned in point b how ridiculous the concept of not talking to a girl on account of her being "out of your league" is. If she's out of your league, *she* will tell you. You'll never know if you don't try, and rejection very swiftly becomes something easily laughed off.

Anyway, that was my tuppence. Good luck, and god speed.

Length? Depends greatly on when they turn round.
(Jimple Fish, Wed 15 Apr 2009, 2:03, 1 reply)

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
( Risk It For A Biscuit has a helicopter and lives in space, Tue 14 Apr 2009, 23:21, 13 replies)

Nightclubs & Phone Dating
It was 1999, I'd just moved to the town where I currently reside (we like to murder prostitutes).

Having moved about the country for a few years, I'd lost contact with most of my friends and didn't know too many people in my new job and the friends I'd stayed in contact with didn't ever fancy the 15 odd mile drive for a night out with bumpkins. Quite frankly I was lonely.

The answer? Phone Dating of course! The interweb wasn't available to me at that point, so perusing through the adverts at the back of a local paper, I decided to give it a go.

I say this with little self-esteem nor pride, but I've never had sex with so many girls with nice personalities.

It also led to the worst date ever.

I met her, let's call her Bee, at her parents house. I was to go out with her and her friend for the evening.

When I arrived, I was invited in to the kitchen where Bee and her pal were drinking Moscow Mules through straws.

Bee was short & dumpy, had greasy hair, bottle glasses,a tight summer dress that showed the folds and appeared to be drinking her Moscow Mule through a plastic penis. Yes, a plastic penis. I was later informed these were purchased from Ann Summers, 'penis straw toppers' or something.

"Classy" I thought to myself, but took the offered warm Becks and struck up conversation, even though I immediately realised I preferred my dates pal to my actual date. I should have walked out then and there, but not being a git, I decided to give Bee a chance.

A brief taxi ride later and we're in the first nightclub, Brannigans. I dislike nightclubs with a passion at the best of times, but more so when I am sober. And even more so when my date is on a Monday evening AND I'm sober AND it's karaoke night. And I should also mention that my date and her pal bought along their penis straws and insisted on drinking every drink with them.

She MADE me sing every kind of couples song there was, penis straw in hand; Love Lift us up, Summer Nights, Love Shack etc. No matter how hard I tried, I just couldn't seem to get drunk enough to survive this evening. But I persevered.

Then we moved on to the next club around the corner. No karaoke here, "thank you dear lord". But they did sell pizza at the bar.

"What do you want to drink Bee"?

"I'll have a Moscow Mule and a slice of pizza please".

"Excuse me? They sell pizza in a nightclub"?

"Yeah. I'm feeling a little weak".

"Okaaaay....."

I don't want to be a git, but if you're trying to impress a date, DO NOT drink through a straw with a penis on the end all evening and do not shovel a pizza down your throat* whilst your date looks on with morbid curiosity as to how a very well built girl feels weak.

And so it came to the end of the evening. Finally the JD shots I had been necking since the karaoke are kicking in. I've got that kinda warm, fuzzy, swaying, 'everything is cool with the world' JD feeling.

We go outside for a taxi. Her slightly more attractive friend has gone already. I'm within 20 minutes stagger of home, but being a gent, I wait with her in the taxi queue to make sure she gets a cab ok.

She says she is cold and so I give her my jacket. She says she's still cold and can I put my arms around her. I'm standing behind her and wrap my arms around her. Slowly she starts to run her ample bottom against my groin. In one of my, very rare, moments I think "Hey, she likes me".

And then she farts. Not a cute, little lady, "Oops I parped" kind of fart. But a long, drawn out, almost followed through, damp kinda fart. I have no problem with these in a long term relationship BUT NOT ON A FIRST DATE! Especially when in physical contact with my groin and the vibrations travel through my jeans and undies and I feel a warm draft across my balls. She didn't even show any sign of embarrassment.

I packed her in a taxi and went home.

Did I see her again? Yes, I did.

It wasn't until our third date and I was giving her a massage and found out that she could grow a better beard on the small of her back than I could on my face that I realised things just wouldn't work between us.


*Shovelling pizza/kebab/burger/my penis down your throat at the END of the evening is perfectly acceptable though.
(Big Smurf Brush me daddy-O, Tue 14 Apr 2009, 22:32, 3 replies)

'That Dave' and Huey on the dancefloor....
Back when I was a teenager (half my age now, sob...), me and my rabble of mates used to frequent many a Newquay nightclub on a Thurs, Fri and Saturday night. Saturday night was Berties (if anyone knows it) night,and this night was just like all of the others, mild drug smoking, copious alcohol consumption and general rape/ pillage...

Me and my best mate 'That Dave' ('That' was the imposed christian name applied by my mum,to those no good friends me and my sister had that obviously lead us astray) were on the dancefloor - giving it large and trying to woo the ladies/round up cattle - delete as appropriate.Dave had decided to down his beer in a rush to get to the dancefloor, however this was a bad mistake and it was soon time to see it again. Being a true gent, he did manage to put his hand over his mouth, which unfortunately just managed to direct the projectile vomit at calf level, through 180 degrees. He then managed to pretend as if nothing had happened, leaving several girls with wet calves wondering what the fuck had just happened, and what was on their legs... One such Doris soon realised what she had been covered with, and promptly slapped me round the chops..much to Daves amusement! This story has of course been told many times since, and I would have loved to seen the look on some of the girls faces, wondering how they managed to get carrot in their shoes...

Guess you just had to be there, luckily I was....
(Hugh.G.Rection Brother to Clendrix......., Tue 14 Apr 2009, 22:19, 1 reply)

I'm only mildly involved in this one
Let's start with some background. I have 4 brothers, and one sister. This particular incident takes place about two years back, and features my eldest brother and me. My eldest brother is about 12 years older than me, and is the first alcoholic of the family, with me being the second. We also shared at one point a very similar taste in music. So we used to go to the same clubs, just not often at the same time.

One fine summery night, we're both out. Not together though. We've managed to arrange a night out in sunny Swindon, each with our own friends, had managed to plan to do the same clubs, just we approached them at different times. So we'd be with each other at times, but at different clubs at other times. We'd also chosen very different outfits. I was in a smart pair of dark jeans and a grey shirt, he was in khaki-coloured trousers and a black t-shirt with a distinctive red and white design on the front. The more observant among you will know where this is heading.

Come around midnight, I'm queuing up at this club in Swindon called The Furnace, having been drinking heavily all night. The Furnace is an alright place, caters for the "alternative" crowd, and is supposedly a metal club, but barely plays any metal. But its still better than most of the shitty dance music, so it used to be a hang-out of mine. And because my eldest brother had the same taste in music, he liked it too.

He was there too. With me.

For about 30 seconds, that is.

The reason for this short period of time will become shortly apparent, but for now, I'm going to cut to his POV, as he told me later/what I pieced together.

He'd gotten there earlier than I had, much earlier, and had been drinking too. He had also been drinking a lot of different things in many different places, including a few Guinness' in a pub or two. He felt the urge for a slash, and so, departed the dancefloor for the toilets. He managed to get to the toilets, which are right next to the front door, started to have a piss, and felt the urge for a fart.

He farted. It felt really uncomfortable. And sticky.

Cutting back to my POV quickly.

I'm stood in line. I see a man sprinting from the toilets, clad in only shitty boxers and a black t-shirt with red and white on the front. With shit smeared down the back of his legs. I start to laugh, and then my beer-fuddled brain realises something important. My laughter slowly trickles away.

Black t-shirt. With a distinctive design. Made of red material and white material.

I have, in essence, seen the aftermath of my brother shit himself in the bogs of a crap nightclub, and seen him running into the night.

When I spoke to him later, apparently the sinks were crap and barely worked, so he had to throw his trousers in a cubicle, and because he'd shat himself so badly, it trickled down into his shoes and he was forced to abandon those too.

Poor bastard. He lost his dignity and a good pair of shoes that night.
(Ghost Atreides enjoying incontestable health benefits on, Tue 14 Apr 2009, 20:46, Reply)

Another one from me
As some of you already know, I spent 2 years living in the Czech Republic.

Well, I was walking through Prague late one evening after a night on the tiles, and saw a drunk guy lying in the doorway.

He didn't seem to be very comfortable, so I figured I'd best give him a hand.

I walked over to the inebriate and propped him up. No sooner had I done that, than a cop came and arrested me. I asked what the charge was. The cop replied:



“For righting a bad Czech.”


sorry
(SarcasticBarSteward wants to be good at Photoshop when he grows up, Tue 14 Apr 2009, 17:28, 1 reply)

Just this Saturday
There was this bash, see, and a jolly splendid time was had by all. There were drinks and party games and cigarettes to be had by all, but all too quickly the evening ended.

"Let's go to a club" said one especially bright b3tan, "where we can continue this evening until at least 3 in the morning, quaffing much fine ale and standing outside smoking whilst the bouncers glare menacingly at us".

And so it was, much of the contingent moved on to The Hive (other nightclubs are available, terms and conditions apply), where we had our hands stamped with the word 'bastard' (a nice touch, and one which utterly failed to rub off in the morning). We found a room playing some splendid tunes, and the alcohol continued to flow. The condensation on the walls offered much opportunity for CDCs. The bouncers continued to glare.

And then the Grammar Badger approached me, having returned from the great outdoors where she had been partaking in cigarettes with Tourette's.

"Your missus has just nearly killed me", she said, ashen faced.

I looked at her, grave concern spreading over my face, and replied, "She's just farted, hasn't she"? And indeed she had.

That's ma girl!
( Davros' Granddad a voice of calm reason in a world of spastics., Tue 14 Apr 2009, 17:19, 4 replies)

The Ballad of Nails Jim
Jim was at the opposite side of a circle of friends to myself, so I didn't know him well.

But he had a reputation as a bit of a hard man.

So much so that his nickname was (hard as) Nails Jim.

I'd heard of his exploits, but never been witness to them myself.

Until one fateful night in The Hacienda in about '93.

For once, we weren't getting up to much in the way of mischief, just a few chilled out beers and a bit of dancing.

In a crowded Hacienda, we even had the good fortune to procure a nice, hidden away seating alcove. It didn't really occur to us that it was odd that this area was available when everywhere else was packed.

I was seated away from Nails Jim, and as this was only the second or third time I had met him I didn't know much about him. Turns out he was a poncy media studies student, not what I expected given his reputation.

I was soon to be disabused of any future notions that media studies students are in anyway poncey though.

Shadows fell across our table, we looked up and four hulking great black guys were looming over us telling us in no uncertain terms to move.

I grabbed my beer and went to stand up, I wasn't about to argue.

Jim said 'No'

I gulped, hoping I had misheard.

Although i doubt I looked as shocked as the guy who clearly wasn't used to people not obeying him.

'What did you say?'

'I said no'

Now, this is probably just paranoia on my part, but one of the gang reached behind their back.

My mind said 'Gun'

My mouth said 'gu...gu...'

And the guy stepped forward, to be met square in the mouth by Jim's forehead.

A backwards step and a gap opened, I dived for it, two other friends dived for it.

And we were gone with barely a glance back, just in time to see Jim pushing another of the gang against a wall, say something that to this day I have no idea what it was and then walk calmly over to us and say 'Come on lads, I guess we better leave'

And that, my friends, was the night that Nails jim headbutted one of the leaders of Moss sides 'Gooch Gang'

It was also one of the last times I saw Nails Jim until a few years later when I saw him on the ITV news.

Marrying Kate Winslett.
( scarpe We Stole Bikes, Tue 14 Apr 2009, 16:46, 1 reply)

Golf Clubs
One Summer, when I was back in my hometown from University, I feebly attempted to chat up a stunning young lady. Although I never did get my end away, it turned out that we both attended the same university and not only that, but we lived on the very same road, she was at 145 and i was in 158. A striking coincidence! As soft as it sounds, we actually became great friends and although, I lost the battle, There was still a war to be won: She must have attractive friends I thought!

When she asked me to go and celebrate her 21st birthday, my one track mind started running away with itself.

The theme was 80's Rockstars, the format was pub golf and the destination was Tokyo club.

Although I only knew my attractive friend, after a couple of swift hole-in-one's, I was getting along with everyone like a house on fire. The only problem was, her female friends were not the beautiful creatures i has yearned for but instead were ...how can I put this gently...as attractive as a donkey with downs syndrome. All of them.

Nevertheless, getting more pissed, being dressed as Tommy Lee and being the new guy, I was receiving alot of attention from these beauty challenged creatures.

Eventually, I was on the dancefloor in Tokyo when I noticed one of them staring at me through the crowd, being as pissed as I was I gave her the good old 'come hither' look expecting perhaps a cheeky dance and a snog. I was not prepared for what was about to happen.

She waddled over to me and before I knew it she had me pinned against the wall with her tongue down my throat and her hands wandering. Before I could mutter the words 'what the fuck!', I was in a cublcle in the conveniently unisex toilets with my kaks round my ankles and a large wobbly skinned beast approaching my attentive little soldier.

A few euphoric and at the same time life-scarring minutes later she stands up, wipes down and leaves.

I didnt hang around much longer after that and went home to bed satisfied that I had a cracking story to tell the lads the next day.

In the morning, adhereing to our hangover ritual we went to the local wetherspoons for a greasy fry up.

As I sat down, and started to explain the previous nights scenario to the now engrossed lads, I only paused to give the waitress my food order.

I'm sure you can guess who the waitress was now waiting for my order as she overheard my detailed explanation that you've just read of the sordid act she had performed on me just hours earlier.

Needless to say, our hangover ritual changed and I never went to that wetherpoons again!
(Eggstrovert isnt patronising you...honest..., Tue 14 Apr 2009, 16:46, 2 replies)

JUNKIE
This time last year I had this done:



Took fucking ages, lost more blood and went through more pain than the average woman going through the mere trifle of a thirty-eight hour labour (probably twins with fucking HUGE heads) - but wasn't a patch on the fucking incredible bone-crunching agony of having a load of girly swallows and flowers inked on my chalk farm (that's Landan for arm; I am learning cockney and will soon be able to sell fake Rolexs and assorted stolen goods from a suitcase with the best of um).

I hadn't eaten a fucking thing all day. Passed out at Turnpike Lane tube station (thank you to the lovely young lady who gave me some of her Easter Egg to bring me round), and when I got back to the shared house I passed out again and when I woke up my arm was stuck to the duvet with blood and scabs.

Only one thing for it.

After a swift and nourishing chicken & mushroom pot noodle it was time to go clubbing with my mate Steve and his strange, strange, strange goth mate, Hans.

We ended up in a dodgy little fucking place just near Mornington Crescent tube station. After a couple of beers the rejuvinating effects of the pot noodle were, to put it technically, fucked.

I was in a bad way.

I staggered to the bogs and promptly passed out on the shitter. In doing so I knocked my arm (£550 quid that fucker cost), on the slimey tiled walls, which started the bastard bleeding again.

Now, I was out of it. So this is what I think happened. A member of staff was collecting glasses, noticed an alarming trail of blood trickling under the doorway, and called the bouncers.

"Mate..." came a voice from fucking laa-laa land. "Mate..."

Knock-knock-knock.

"I think I've lost all my blood" I whimpered.

"Stand back mate!"

CRACK!!!

And the cubicle door flew open. And they found me, blubbering away, snot streaming from my nose, my arm leaking a shitload of claret. So much so that I'd turned my white shirt red. I looked like an extra from Saving Private Ryan.

The bouncer looked down at me. I looked up at him. There were several other concerned faces peering over his shoulder.

He said: "Where's the needle, mate?" He obviously thought I was a heroin addict. I know I'm a bit fucking skinny, but fuck me... "How much have you done?"

Now, I was a bit confused. When he said needle I thought he meant tattoo needle. I said proudly: "I've had it for six hours straight today, my arm looks like a pin cushion - wanna look???"

He didn't.

When he could see I wasn't going to die imminently and was perking up a bit, he lifted me up by the scruff of my neck and tossed me out onto the street. The cunt.

And then I went home in a cab, I did really well, I only passed out another couple of times on the way.

Fast forward to a few weeks ago I'm down at this dive again with the Mrs. We're enjoying ourselves, dancing a little bit, getting pissed. When suddenly a big hand slaps down on my shoulder:

"You're not on smack tonight are you, mate?"

"Erm... No..." I say.

"Good. Keep it that way."

And I then spent a rather difficult fifteen minutes explaining to the Mrs. that I was not, in point of fact, a recovering junkie.

TIP - Although tattoos are big and clever and make you more intelligent, faster, stronger, longer, and incredibly desirable to the opposite sex, don't go clubbing after you've had a big one done. Just a bad fucking idea.
( SpankyHanky, Tue 14 Apr 2009, 16:18, 9 replies)

Typical Stag Party Shenanigans in Slovakia
The three of us were sitting in a curtained-off, well lit area at the back of the club. To be honest, as seedy east European jaunts go this place was actually pretty classy.

Myself, Jim and a bloke who was, because of some unfortunate intials, nicknamed J-Lo were about to see some naked acrobatics performed on a little table with a pole going through it.

"Aye, you picked a little stunner there" said Jim as he nudged me in the ribs.

I was uncomfortable enough already at the blatant objectification taking place without Jim providing his usual commentary on "What he'd like to do to woman X" etc. with her spread-eagled right in front of us. The guy was a good friend and a great laugh but he was also a misogynistic fiveskin who occasionally did or said something to make you cringe and whisper to the nearest stranger, "He's not with me." I was praying now would not turn into such an occasion and hoping to the ever merciful zombie Jesus that he didn't try and slap her arse 'cos he thought "she looked like a bit of a goer".

Half way into the routine and all is going well though. There's a bit of light hearted banter between the three of us and Jim seems to be staying on the right side of The Line.

"Oh baby, baby. How was I supposed to know?"

As Britney sang away in the background Jim took a swig of Corona just as our 5'0" performer twirled around upside down with her humungous rubber boots stretched out and clocked him square on the end of the bottle.

It went everywhere.

Jim ran out to deal with his pressing concern: shirt and trousers covered in lime flavoured beer and a bloody mouth. The bouncers however seeing the mess and blood jumped to an entirely different and less pleasant conclusion - certainly where Jim was concerned anyway.

"Get your hands off me, no it's a misunderstanding, I've done nothing wrong!"

A small check behind the curtain and a word with Chun Li and Jim was thankfully saved a severe beating.

"Not bad" I remarked as my jaw started to drop and all higher thought processes vacated my conscious.

"I know," agreed J-Lo. "We didn't even have to pay her extra."
( djtrialprice, Tue 14 Apr 2009, 16:07, Reply)

Surprise Talent Coordinator
This is another Landon story - which means it's full of (true!) bullshit, alcohol, and regrettable decisions.

South by Southwest (SXSW) is a yearly concert event held in Austin, Texas with dozens of shows, the big acts taking the bigger stages and the rest being spread throughout the smaller venues over several days of the concert. These include different genres of music slightly outside of mainstream, like 8-bit music - imagine the sounds you get when your instruments include a gameboy, a dot matrix printer, and several bits of a circuit board that go "ping!" and you'll have a pretty good idea.

It was at one of these 8-bit shows that my friend Landon, predictably, gets smashed. Now, he's very involved with his music, and loves to get autographs, meet artists, swap tales and buy them beer.

During the show, he meets a few artists that, although not scheduled to play, are still touring with the group. Time restrictions and all that. Well, Landon gets it into his head that it's a dreadful shame these undoubtably talented artists are denied the chance to share their vision with the world, and it's his responsibility, nay, privilege as a SXSW talent coordinator to find these lovely gentlemen a venue.

Except Landon isn't a talent coordinator.

Cue the morning after, when he wakes up with god's punishment for overdrinking and recalls telling this nice group of DJs that they have a guaranteed packed show that coming Sunday.

Cue frantic phone calls.

Landon had managed to promise the grounds of his local hookah bar, to which he had absolutely no connection except being a regular customer. Somehow, they agreed to host a concert far outside of their usual range of music - namely, punk and country.

He then had to borrow an amp and PA system, design, print and post flyers, and even buy a PSP for the artist who hadn't brought their equipment (figuring he wasn't going to get a chance to play).

Despite all this, the show actually managed to be quite successful, and this DJ has quite a following among the Austin crowd.

And Landon got to play SXSW talent coordinator.
(TheManWhoWas SlightlyKnackered, Tue 14 Apr 2009, 16:06, 1 reply)

In which Baw__Bag is in the wrong.
Ahhhh nightclubs. I do have loads of tales about them, but most of them are generic "I got drunk and lost" or "I fell over" stories which don't really stick in the mind. This one pops to mind though and, as is becoming common for my QOTW answers, it is shameful and one of my low points. Bugger.

So there I am, it is the year 2000. I've recently dropped out of college, and am on my first foreign holiday with the ex in Tenerife. Now, the ex was very pretty, but was an absolute shit of a person when she wanted to be, so two weeks in the sun, trapped and unable to escape her weird moods was...... testing, especially as her best friend was with her, and they used to try to outdo each other in the "Look how much in charge I am" stakes.

Anyway. It's nearing the end of the two weeks and, in general, the holiday has been fantastic. But tonight is going to be the culmination of the trip..... a visit to the big Cream nightclub. We have tickets. It is going to be ace. Or so I'm told, I'm not really into Cream and have never been a dancer, but I want ot go and get blitzed anyway, so, a little too excited, me and my mate start working away at our carry out early on.

Pretty soon, we have destroyed a bottle of vodka. There's still at least half an hour to go, so we set about a bottle of my missus' peach schnapps, which we soften in about 20 minutes. No worries, I am a hardened drinker, me. So off we toddle. Ooooh. I feel light headed. Haha. This is fun.

It is here that the memory of the evening takes a side road from what I am told actually happened. Here, in full technicolour, are the two versions.

My version. We arrive at the club. We make our way past the bouncers, they look at me with a slight look of fear in their eyes. We get some drinks and sit down. Immediately, my ex and her friend start bitching about me and looking at me funny, so I wander off to the dance floor. Once there, I discover that the place is absolutely huge, and I wander around for about half an hour before finally finding our table again. We have a few drinks, then my ex goes crazy at me for no reason. I calmly tell her to leave me alone before leaving the nightclub, where I am instantly attacked by a 7 foot bodybuilder. Having dealt with him, I realise my ex has followed me from the club, and after a swift argument, she storms off. I follow her back to the apartments and after a calm conversation i decide to sleep on the veranda.

Now what actually happened.

We barely make it past the security as I am almost falling down drunk. My ex, a bit taken aback at how drunk I am, helps me to my seat, and asks her friend if she thinks they should take me home (admittedly, this is out of character for her, I can understand why I thought she was bitching, she usually did.) I give them both an evil look and storm off to the small dance floor next to our table. The dance floor is circular, and I spend the next half an hour walking round and round and round it. I finally come back to the table, pull my seat into the middle of the bit where people are walking to the dancefloor and sit down. My ex comes over and says "Pull your seat in a bit", at which point I explode, call her every name under the sun and storm out. Outside, there is a small, super-mario looking Spanish fellow who is obviously promoting something (I seem to remember a camera), and he stops me to talk to me. I try to push past and he grabs me and starts trying to dance with me. I scream "FUCK OFF" as loudly as I can, push him away, stagger across the street and punch a litter bin outside a packed restaurant. My ex shouts from behind me and we get in an argument, I grab her by the arms and push her, leaving bruises on her arms, and run off, leaving her alone in the middle of Tenerife. Somehow I find my way back to the apartments where my ex has now returned to, pronounce loudly I'm only here to get the li-lo as I'm sleeping on the FU-CKING beach, and promptly fall asleep on the veranda.

I awoke next morning to my mate taking pictures of me.

I spent a sheepish 2 days with them before we flew home. I still feel utter utter shame at the way I acted, I ruined the entire end of the holiday and worse, I hurt my missus who, at the time at least, was my whole world. She forgave me the next day for some reason and I never ever drank as much again.
( baw__bag contains traces of nuts on, Tue 14 Apr 2009, 15:57, Reply)

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.
(kickstandrich last had sex with your mum/sister/wife/daughter on, Tue 14 Apr 2009, 15:54, 5 replies)

Copenhagen, 1990
I was in the Danish capital for a December "citybreak" with my brother and a mate. We'd been out on the piss all evening and ended up at a nightclub some of the locals had recommended. After queueing up for ages in the freezing cold we finally got to the front and the doorman, on taking one look at my brother's dark-coloured trainers said "I can't help you with those modern tennis shoes". That still creases me up, that one. Poor old Tom had to trudge back to the hotel alone. I remember stumbling back a few hours later and having a piss in the street that froze almost instantly. Great days.
( BobbyParadise, Tue 14 Apr 2009, 15:40, Reply)

Prague
In November 1999 myself and two good friends embarked on a boys trip to Prague. (It's unlike me to be so sure of a date, but I remember we were there for the celebrations of the 10th Anniversary of The Velvet Revolution).

This was the days before the likes of Easyjet had added Prague to their flight list, so it wasn't full on stag central as I believe it is today.

It's sometime after midnight, we find a club that is willing to let three men who had never tried Absinthe before and were now regretting drinking it (especially mixed with Red Bull) in.

The place is packed.

It's sweaty, the music is pumping, the dance floor is full of people dancing to music sang in a language we didn't understand (with hindsight that would be Czech, but it didn't filter through the green fairy soaked brain cells at the time).

I fight to the bar.

I come back with a tray of 6 tequilas.

'Wassis?' my friend slurs.

'Tequila'

'You know I can't drink that'

'Oh well, I'm not going to the bar again'.

So we each have two tequilas.

Other friend goes and get's six more.

Then, the music stops, changes to a slower, more seductive beat.

The dance floor clears and a woman (in the loosest sense of the word) shakes her ample booty, bingo wings and all, out to the middle and starts to, none too delicately, remove her clothes.

At which point my tequila hating friend remembers why he hates tequila. He clamps his hand to his mouth, turns, forces himself through the preoccupied crowd, runs across the dance floor and...

smack...straight into the back of the fat naked lady, sending them both sprwaling too the floor in a pile of tangled limbs and boobs and buttocks.

I'd like to be able to say that he then vomitted all over them both too, but sadly he managed to disentangle himself and make it to the bathroom before that happened.

Still, it was a sight to behold nonetheless.
( scarpe We Stole Bikes, Tue 14 Apr 2009, 15:23, 1 reply)

The Best Bouncer Ever...
Many years ago I used to live in Bath as I was doing my PGCE down there. While I was living there I'd have a friend over for a few beers of a weekend.

One weekend my mate Lee comes on over and a plan is quickly hatched:

To have a couple of beers on the Friday before heading out on the saturday for some serious carnage (cos we're cool like that)

Unfortunately, as we are a pair of simpletons the plan goes to pot and we end up going on a pub crawl on the Frida via various pubs and into town.

The night draws on and we decide that more booze in in order along with some dancing. For this to occur we must head to a nightclub and in my fuzzy mind I suggest T's, unfortunately it's about 10 o'clock and dead at the club, so the bouncer lets us in and we head straight for the bar, check our funds... £8 between us, this can't be good, however, it looks like Dionysus was smiling on us that night for T's were doing an offer of any spirit and mixer for £1! Hurrah thinks we and ask the barmaid for a 'lucky dip' while this is occurring we are also having a chat with the bar staff and a having a bit of a laugh.

We drink the resultant drinks and the place is filling up, however, we also need more money so I enquire of the barmaid (who happens to be from near where I live) if I can nip out for some cash. She agrees and wanders over with me to the bouncer, telling him that I'm a decent human being and that he should let me out and in again, to which he complies! (It's OK, the acts of altruism get better!)

I return with cash and more beer is had, much fun and dancing is had and then Lee decides he wants to go home but I do not, we talk for a bit Lee sits down while I continue to dance.

Lee then has the following brainwave:
'If I leave then Fuckarma will have to come out to find me and we can head home' so out he goes.

I start to look around the club and can't find him, slightly gutted I ask one of the bar staff and am told that he went out the front, I nip past the bouncer and find Lee being propped up by a large bin at which point, I, the heart and soul of concern say 'Come on you big girl! get your backside back in there!'

Then the following exchange takes place:
Lee - 'I'm tired, can we head off'
Me - 'Come on, it'll be a laugh!'

Lee then makes a fatal error in his judgement.

Lee - 'I'll come in if the bouncer lets me in then'

We both return to the bouncer like 2 hopeful puppies (well one hopeful puppy and one drunk, tired puppy) and as we approach he turns to us and says:

'In you go lads'

At this point Lee decided that just being let back in the club at 1230 for free isn't enough and so an argument with the bouncer was in order, but this argument wasn't about violence, or about the bouncers comedy evil beard, no this was about being allowed in!

Lee - 'Why are you letting me in? I'm drunk!'
Bouncer - 'It's OK mate, in you go'
Lee - 'But where I come from if I turn up at a bar in this state and asking to go in for free the bouncers would give me a hiding!'
Bouncer - 'It's OK mate, the bar staff said you two are OK'
Lee - 'but...but...but...' (I'd like to think at this point Lee was about to cry with joy at such an understanding and patient bouncer but I suspect it was more the sound of defeat)
Bouncer - 'no worries mate, in you go'

And a good night was had by all...shame the sat was a write off though!
(Fuckarma was masturbating into your handbag, Tue 14 Apr 2009, 15:22, 2 replies)

How I always preferred my clubs.
You dial a number and a voice tells you a time and place.

You pile into a car and drive out into the country, doubting just how true the voice's instructions had been.

You start to see hordes of similarly wild-eyed, confused and nervous looking individuals in their cars and you feel slightly more relaxed.

You sidle up next to a fella who seems to have the energy of an ADHD child on speed, and he jabbers directions at you.

You then join massive convoy that drives out into the middle of nowhere until, eventually, you see some lights emitting from the bottom of a quarry.

You may soon hear the dull thud of a heavy kick being forced too loudly out of a gigantic stack of speakers, but only as long as your arrival doesn't coincide with one of the many disruptions to the sound brought about by such a wide variety of reasons, it's a wonder they're ever able to find the cause.

You fill yourself up with whatever substance you prefer to kill brain cells with and gurn the night, and quite possibly much of the next day, away to intermittent tunes played through far too many second rate speakers.

And you hope the old bill don't turn up at any point.
( Moey, Tue 14 Apr 2009, 15:16, 7 replies)

"I've got a club
it's got a nail in it"

"no, he means a night club"

"still got a nail in it at night..."
( Vipros. clever got me this far, then tricky got me in, Tue 14 Apr 2009, 14:56, 1 reply)