This one time
I was going into a night club and just after I got in I heard the bouncer shout:

LAST...
(Fuckarma was masturbating into your handbag, Thu 16 Apr 2009, 16:27, 2 replies)

Needs more
New QOTW
(vibrating tuna, Thu 16 Apr 2009, 16:25, Reply)

getting tenuous now
I once took my pet salamander to a newt club.
Do I win £5?
( sandettie light vessel automatic New Twitter - @bollocksreally, Thu 16 Apr 2009, 16:19, 1 reply)

Legends (I think) in Sleaford
I think it was called Legends, many years ago - If anyone knows Sleaford, you'll know it's a Market town in Lincolnshire surrounded by villages - at the time, "coloured fellas" like me, were pretty rare...

I do remember walking in to a bar and the whole bar turning and looking at me - That particular night, I was out with my cousin (also black) and that entire night we didn't see a single other non-white face.

Anyhoo - Legends - dodgy, smelly, always fights - I'm pretty sure there's places like this everywhere. What always surprised me was the dress code - which was "anything that YOU think you look good in". But don't.

It's been a long time, but the one that sticks out is a girl in a thin, long, see through, white dress with black underwear. Classy. Of course, the obligatory skinheads.

Me, well, I looked far better - Well, looking back, I really didn't.

Pointing, laughing and loudly commenting on how bad these "locals" look - is frowned on.

It turns out......
(james_tiger_woods is going to start his killing spree on the, Thu 16 Apr 2009, 16:07, 1 reply)

Roxys. Sheffield.
This is now, I believe, a church but in my days of university, it was a nightclub.

Nightclub by name only - it was of sticky carpet greatness. Think of a rank back street club - make it bigger, in the middle of Sheffield and frequented by students and you're there.

There were many, many nights out there over the 3 years I was at Uni - but I do remember one particular night out where I was walking across a dancefloor in one part of the club (I think it was upstairs) and, classily, I had the urge, so I bent over (still walking) threw up and kept going - And it was a busy night too. I didn't stop and, that night, I didn't go back upstairs.

I'm not proud, but it was funny the next morning.

It was, however, a shit nightclub...
(james_tiger_woods is going to start his killing spree on the, Thu 16 Apr 2009, 16:02, 4 replies)

27th May 1989
Jackson's in Cardiff, where my then other half's parents lived.

My ex had travelled up to Cardiff on the Friday, I'd stayed in London to watch the most unforgettable football match ever in a pub near Highbury and travelled to Wales, bleary-eyed and not so much hungover as still pissed from the night before.

Anyway, after perking a bit in the afternoon we decided to go out for the evening and headed to Jackson's.

Still feeling high from the previous evening, I decided to go the whole hog and order a bottle of Champagne, which attracted the attention of a couple of local lads, one small and bald, the other tall and thin with a 'tache (think Hen Broon).

This being the late 80s, and since I was suited and booted, comments such as "fucking yuppies" and "flash bastard" started coming my way.

Now, I'm usually one to avoid confrontation, but I wasn't going to let those two spoil my fun, so I turned round and said:

"Do you mind? I'm trying to celebrate the fact that my team won the league last night".

At which point two things happened - the tall bloke said "Bastards!" and looked like he was about to hit me, while the small guy shouted "Gooner!" and threw his arms round me.

Turned out one was an Arsenal fan, the other was a Spurs fan, lots of drinks and male bonding over football chat ensued and my ex got a bit mad at me...
(Capo, Thu 16 Apr 2009, 13:48, Reply)

Far too many to fit in one story
but I used to work in an optician's when I was 19.
This gave me access to a lot of Fleuroscene strips, which are used to highlight eye problems when exposed to UV light.
They also have the interesting side effect of dyeing contact lenses, so that they glow in, say, a nightclub. I stole about a years' worth of the things.
For that year, I went around every Swansea meat market scaring the living shit out of people, who all thought I'd been lurking around Chernobyl.
Fun, if you like that sort of thing.
( wynoh kills threads by his mere presence, Thu 16 Apr 2009, 13:46, 4 replies)

Beluga
Is (or was) a smallish club down a side street in Sheffield. I guess I must have found it by chance; the music was generally townie rubbish, but it was at least danceable.

And that's mostly why I go to nightclubs -- to get moderately drunk and dance. Attempting to make or follow conversations with strangers while aurally assaulted by deafening music is not really my thing. Even if it's good deafening music.

1) I was dancing. A tallish blonde woman walks up to me and shouts "I love you!". Say what? I am nonplussed, and, indeed flummoxed as well. Thus I just sort of stop dancing and stand there. She shouts again, but I'm still lost for words -- so she storms off, and spends the next 20 minutes scowling at me with her friends until they leave.

A week of so later she reappears, but prefers to keep to the scowl/ disappear part of her repertoire.

2) Two sexeh ladies of near-identical and attractive appearance sidle up to me and ask if I have a light. "No", I say, for indeed I do not smoke. But before my next words (there's a pattern here, I believe), they are gone. I resolve to buy a lighter forthwith, and take it out with me at all times.

No-one has ever asked me for a light since, although in Leeds once a rather gruff gentleman asked me if he could buy a cigarette (for he was, I assume, too proud to cadge one).

3) I am engaged in determined conversation by a couple, who are out for the night celebrating the birthday of their female friend who was with them. I suspect they were trying to set me/her up ... but I think the young lady's attitude was somewhat at odds with this plan. Thusly, after I make a brief but necessary trip to the gents at one point, I return to find they have vanished.

The barman, who had seemingly thought me about to pull, gave a fleetingly puzzled look, followed by a consoling smile.
(haberman is singing in the changes, Thu 16 Apr 2009, 13:44, 1 reply)

hmmmm
not enough time to tell them all, but i did once take off my dress and do 3 laps of the dancefloor in a black basque, fishnets and suspenders.
i also put a stocking on my head, one on the head of a guy next to me, tied them together and got him to run around with me, saying we were a pair of cherries.
almost got thrown out of the local dive for snogging a fella at the bar. didn't realise he had his cock out for all to see...

length? well, he went home alone that night
( Smash Monkey lowering the tone of the whole internet, Thu 16 Apr 2009, 13:39, Reply)

Ultra Violet Loving
Back in the day, back in Caversham of all places there used to stand the worlds grottiest nightclub. It specialised in ‘ladies’ nights, bizarre PA’s by third rate celebrities and a special line in mopping up the cast offs from Washington Heights and the Afterdark over the river in ‘proper’ Reading. The one thing however that is did do well was the Sunday night Indie night. Oh yes, for just £5 you too could be buying drinks for just 50p all night. In short it was underage carnage.

At the time I was going through the throes of that great self destructive break down of the relationship with my-first-true-love and in the cycle of off-on-off-revenge shag-on, we in an on stage of the relationship. However an afternoon’s drinking in Twyford, a belly full of fishunchips and a bottle of something in the Taxi there had left me somewhat lacking in the finer points of judgement.

Anyway, the usual get in, blah, drink, blah, blah blah, turn to dancefloor and BAM. And I say again, BAM. Oh my word, there she was undulating under the UV lights, a voluptuous beauty sheathed in a floor length halter neck silver dress amongst a sea of greebo girls and tatty DM’s. The men (well lets be honest, boys) were transfixed, the girls staring daggers of hate and jealousy and why? Apart from her beauty that is? Her dress under that UV light was utterly transparent, and the only underwear she was wearing was more delicate than the finest gossamer strand.

“Right chaps. I must have her”

I hit the dancefloor, I shook my thing, while the boys jumped and headbanged I made moves to the music, when they poured beer down themselves I sipped my scotch, all the time moving closer and closer. I watched these fools bounce into her, talk to her breasts and get soundly rebuffed, we made eye contact and shared a smile over these juvenile idiots. We moved closer. Fate played its hand, the perfect song to dance to with someone, I moved into her space, I looked her in the eye and we danced. She moved closer, she ran her hand down my face and held my neck, I wrapped my arm round her waist and pulled her closer. Lost in the music we writhed together perfectly in time expressing our horizontal desires in a vertical position. Over her shoulder I could see a space had cleared around us, all eyes on our display of barely controlled animal lust. At that moment we owned the dancefloor.

The song finished, we paused still entwined and she leaned in for a kiss. For the length of that song we explored each others lips, speaking unspoken promises of what would come later with our tongues and hands, still alone in our island of calm, spotlighted in the middle of the floor. We stopped, we hugged, I looked up and there at the side of the dancefloor, just 3 feet away sat a table of girls from college, girls who knew my girlfriend. My girlfriend who was sat right in the middle of them.
(voodo_kinky, Thu 16 Apr 2009, 13:32, 7 replies)

Lost in translation....
A few year back, I was 'sort-of' engaged to a local girl I met in Tenerife... the actual details of this are possibly one for a QOTW entitled "F'd up relationships, and how they ended" if it ever happens.

My ability with the Spanish language is limited at best, but her English was good enough that we were together for two years, despite the occasional linguistic misunderstanding

One such occasion was when my missus informed me that a 'night club' (her exact words!) had opened opposite her mothers house on the north of the island...

"Fantastic" says I, already planning on doing my duty as an Englishman abroad, and getting staggeringly drunk on cheap lager...

"Lets go, make a night of it, and stop at your mothers after?"

...a stunned silence was soon followed by some violence and some Spanish screaming of what I assumed to be insults. Of this tirade, the only word of which I recognised was "Puta" (which I feel says far too much about me!).

As it turns out, the literal translation of whatever common slang is used in Canarian-Spanish for "Whore House" is very similar to "Night Club"...

Took a while to calm her down after that one!
( BulldogUgly Visit my profile to see what's between my legs, Thu 16 Apr 2009, 13:18, Reply)

Well, I thought it was a nightclub...
a QUICKY....

I was living on Kos and had finally wangled a date with one of the locals for whom I'd held a torch for some time. Twas way back in the days before the village bouzouki bar opened (enabling tourist-free drinking into the small hours).

I was utterly trousered and insisting I must find another drinking establishment with Greek music so I could continue my *special* Greek dancing.
"Theleis akoma na chorepseis Katerina?"
The only place I knew of that was still open was the god-awful nightclub for tourists. Nichos knew of somewhere, he said....
He spooned me on the back of his bike and drove far out of the village. To a place full of very friendly local women, all of whom preceded to simultaneously drape themselves around my "date". "What canny lasses", I thought, "now this is traditional Greek hospitality". They filled me with even more whiskey and turned the music up. I was having a brilliant night, dancing on tables, smashing plates.....

I told my only English friend (the one who's now Vice Consul for the island) of my wonderful evening. She was doubled over, pissing herself laughing for ages before she could speak.....

"He only took you to the fecking brothel, mate!"
( Tourette's ( . )( . ) has a monkey hair in her fried egg, Thu 16 Apr 2009, 12:27, 2 replies)

You did what with who?
My GF at the time nonchalantly waltzed up to me on the dancefloor and whispered in my ear "I've just been in the toilets snogging two girls". She then proceeded to tell me that the girls were keen to come back to hers and then started to tell me all the filthy things they were talking about doing.My ship had finally come in!

Fuck me I thought, this was going swimmingly well. The low lights of the dancefloor barely illuminated everyones faces and I managed to catch a glimpse of some girls moving towards us. A fleeting shard of light glinted across their faces and I almost vomited in my mouth - these girls were disgustingly ugly! No, surely these weren't THE girls. Time stood still as all my fantasies dissolved into a virtual pool of sick at my feet.
(The Archduke of South London I'm in your Girlfriend eating her organs, Thu 16 Apr 2009, 12:19, 1 reply)

Bindun?
I don't have a nightclub.

I only use my club in the day to smash seal pups faces in.
(NuffMuff fucks shrubbery, Thu 16 Apr 2009, 11:50, 6 replies)

What The Fuck did I do wrong?
OK, just remembered this one from about a month ago, which really seemed really weird, and I'm still not even sure what happened here.

So, after being at a private party for most of the night in a local town to where I live, my mates and I decide to liven the evening up with heading over to Newcastle. Well, to one place in particular, Bulletproof at the O2 Academy. At the time, I wasn't quite myself, having just broken up with my long term girlfriend, and couldn't really look forward to anything. Anywho, I digress.

So, we've been in Bulletproof for a bit, were having a great time, the beers are flowing, the music is brilliant, massive grins on our faces, and random photos are been taken due to our excessive drunkness. The night was bloody brilliant.

At this point, nature calls, and so I make the long trek to the bogs upstairs. After doing me business, I head back down in the main room, and head straight to the cocktail bar to grab a cheeky Zepplin. Drink in hand, having a good time, I head back down to the dancefloor to find me mates. Just as my foot lands past the final step, I am jumped upon my a girl. A rather stunning girl to be fair; long blonde hair, cute face, nice little body. Immediately, she grabs me by both arms, and screams "Com'on! Lets dance!". Without giving me a chance, she bouncing around, dragging me left and right, up and down, all over. This last for about 2 or 3 minutes, and I just play along with it, yet not being very happy that my new drink is currently all over the floor below me.

But, just as suddenly that I had been accosted, she is accosted by another stunning blonde girl, who drags her to one side. After about 30 seconds of whispering between the two, her mate walks over to me with a face like thunder. She grabs me, and says in my ear "Erm, I dunno what you said to her, but me and my girlfriend ain't in to anything like that!!".

Completely confused by this, I lean in and say "I don't know what your on about pet, but she grabbed me and started dancing with me. I never said anything to her at all".

She replied "Well, I don't care! Don't do it again!!".

Completely baffled as to what I've done, I spy me mates, and wander off to enjoy the rest of my night.

And that is what happened when I was accosted by an angry lesbian! :-O
(ShaunyBoi has been surviving fires since, Thu 16 Apr 2009, 11:01, 8 replies)

I was out in Cornwall's only city.
Truro is not the biggest city in the world, in fact as cities go, it is pretty tiny.
So, one 'all drinks for a quid' Monday, a group of us are out in the city's only proper nightclub that wasn't a gay club at the time. A few drinks...more drinks... and I find myself sitting in on a low stool trying to talk to a friend of mine. I can't hear her so I stand up slightly and lean over the table to hear what she's saying. When I go to sit down again, I feel for the stool that should be right behind me, but it is gone! I turn to see a rather large girl (I later discovered that she is locally known as 'Nanny' due to her resemblance to the 'Duckula' character) has stolen it from under me and is sitting upon. I ask for it back, she sticks her finger in her ear. I go to the other ear, the same thing happens. I stand there looking for a few seconds and then make a drunken decision. I bend down, grip the legs of the stool and pull hard. The stool comes out, Nanny hits the floor and her little chavvy mates jump and start waving their arms around in a threatening manner. They do nothing and sit back down as I'm just watching them with amusment. I always remember the thump that shook the floor...
( The Togaboy The world will end on, Thu 16 Apr 2009, 10:41, 3 replies)

A Clubbing Tale
Before the hedonistic days of my studenthood came the hedonistic days of my year out, a year I spent backpacking around Europe this is a tale from those days.

As people with a grasp of history will know, for a while after the demise of the soviet union the geography of eastern Europe changed more often than a student changes his socks (especially a backpacking student) as countries seceeded and rejoined before splintering off because one branch of the ruling party said something nasty about the other. It was during this time that I found myself in the tiny principality of Paronomatania on the west side of the Black Sea. If this was a western setting it would have been refered to as a one horse town but it had a bar and a dingy little hotel and one single solitary nightclub where the locals used to boogy down to the latest strains of polka. Not really my sort of thing but I was staying in the hotel for a couple of nights and got quite friendly with the barman Erik who promised to show me around.

Because this was quite literally the only place in town it was frequented by everybody, from the farmers who had never heard of deoderant, their wives who had never heard of razors to the local nobility (who had heard of both but distained using them), even the younger son of the King would turn up with his cronies once the night got swinging.

The young Prince (Edwardo Augustus Phillipe to give him his full name) was very much a party animal (not unlike our own Prince Harry) and if he took a shine to you while you were out clubbing you could well be set for life.

So we were in this club, Me, Erik and his wife Astra (nice girl but still had more hair under her arms than I could grow on my face at that point) while her sister was at home looking after their 6 year old daughter. Because I was moving on the next day I didn't partake of the local distilled potato juices as Erik (I had a bus to catch and didnt want to be stranged for 2 more days waiting for the next one) but was smiling along occasionally being dragged up to dance but mostly fairly content sitting back and discussing my travel plans and trip so far with anybody who would sit still and listen.

Erik though was the life and soul of the party, he downed shot after shot of the local vodka and was soon the centre of attention on the dance floor (or the centre of a circle at any rate as his flailing limbs defined a no go area at least 7ft across).

Unbeknownst to us Price Edwardo was in that night in his private gallery overlooking the main room enjoying the company of several local farmer's daughters and quite possibly excersizing his droit de signeur and observing the antics of our drunken barman.

The night finished at around 2am in the morning and we rolled our way back to the hotel to get some sleep, I still had to pack and Erik was working the breakfast shift and had to be up again in 3 hours to clean the bar.

As I strolled down to breakfast that morning (and viewing with distaste the storm that had rolled in from the mountains, I wasnt looking forward to hiking through that much rain to the bus stop)I was met with the sight of Erik beaming like a supermodel had snuck into his bed and pulled a winning lottery ticket out of her cleavage. Not only had his dancefloor antics been noticed by the price he had been summoned to a royal audience this very morning. Erik insisted that I go along to watch rather than miss this part of his country's culture so Erik, Astra and I set off hot foot to the Castle.

We were escorted into the throne room where Edwardo sat in all his ermine trimmed splendor. At his feet lounged the diggest dog I'ver ever seen (I'm no expert at dog breeds but it looked like the offspring of a great dane and a timberwolf) clutching a long wooden stick in its jaws.

We were lead to our seats and the Prince began to speak.
(The following dialog was translated for me as while I could get by I didnt speak russian that fluently so this may not be word for word accurate)
"Erik come here and kneel before your Price, It has come to my attention they you are well known for your ability to enjoy yourself and as such I have ordered your name enscribed on the rolls of the Paronomasian Order Chivalry"
(Yes my friend the barman had just become a Knight of the Realm).

All of a sudden there was a terrific boom of thunder outside that fair rattled the windows of the castle, while the humans in the room jumped then quickly calmed down the dog at Price Edwardo's feet went crazy, it leapt up and charged straight at the kneeling Erik, stick still held firmly in its jaws. There was a resounding crack and the stick connected with his jaw and snapped his head upwards, he crashed forwards head bent at a very unnatual angle. The dog charged up the aisle wreaking havoc as footmen tried to calm him down or at least retrain him, he struggled out of their grasp and ran back down the aisle towards the prince, this time he clipped Atra's arm as she knelt beside her husband sobbing, there was another audible snap as her arm broke and the dog fled yelping from the room.

Prince Edwardo was distraught and while the royal doctors arrived and pronounced Erik dead he had a word with his ministers who produced the deed to a large house in town so that Atra and her daughter would not be made homeless and a large stuffed animal in the shape of the same dog that had just killed Erik and broken Astra's arm (rather poor taste in my opinion but he was evidently some kind of royal mascot so they had plenty on hand to sell to the few tourists who passed through).

I helped Astra home carrying both the deed and the stuffed toy (which was surpringly heavy) that was presumably for her daughter but as it was still pouring with rain outside the dog got soaking wet and started to come apart at the seams, all of a sudden there was a loud ripping noise as the stiches on the underbelly of the dog gave way and solid gold coins started falling out of its stuffing! The Prince had evidently felt so bad that he had provided enough money for Astra to raise her daughter until she was old enough to marry, it wouldn't bring Erik back but would at least mean she wouldn't be destitute or have to sell herself into prostitution to care for her daughter.

I left Astra in the arms of her sister, picked up my bags and trudged through the rain towards the bus stop out of the country and as I did I thought about Erik and Astra and reflected on the fact that for the mourning after a knight's clubbing nothing beats the bear of the dog that hit you.
(Banjax, Thu 16 Apr 2009, 10:10, 8 replies)

Just follow the beams, man! (pt 2)
Just follow the beams, man! (pt 2)

Bernie and I cruised nonchalantly into the mega-club, conscious our heightened state of awareness might look suspicious if we continued to celebrate quite so joyously.

As if a six-foot-six inch man with dyed blonde hair, red plastic blackout sunglasses, a smile so beaming it gave the strobes a run for their money and to all intents and purposes, an outfit cobbled together from a thrift store catering to golf enthusiasts and performers in the Mardi Gras parade accompanied by a highly amused Irishman endeavouring to affect earnestness wasn’t enough to arouse suspicion.

A cornucopia of earthly delights was revealed to us.

Had Hieronymous Bosch bore witness to such extravagance and debauchery, he would have cast down his paint brush, sold his soul to the devil and got his freak on (to the break o’ dawn).

We bee-lined to the nearest bar to take stock of things:

All about was eclecticism…beauties from nations far and wide.

Men devoted entirely to a look, an image, an idea.

Not a dilettante was there to be found.

It was decided, that in the absolutism of our respective choice of attire, we would fit right in and having lowered something gloriously bright and strewn with mini-garden furniture, we decided it would be best to dance.

But where?

Shall we rave it up with the gurn-jawed day-glo-ers?

Or wave our hands in the air til we just don’t care with the hipitty-hoppers in huge baggy pants and gleaming white vests?

Should we take ourselves through to the 80’s disco where men in too-short drainpipe pants, cardigans and shoes with tassles leaned on the bar gesturing to the Siouxsie Sioux-style clad covens in the respective corners?

In the distance I can hear The Cures’ ‘Close To You’. I look through the crowds to see legions of black-clad miserablists stepping back and forth with their heads hung low.

I could join them.
I’d fit right in.

I motioned to Bernie.
He hung his head like a shaggy dog.

They would eat him alive in his polyester xmas wrapping paper ensemble.

We looked further on.

Then there it was:

An Indy club!

The final strains of ‘Smells Like Teen Spirit’ spirited away the revellers as The Smiths,

‘This Charming Man’ tuned up.

The floor was empty.

But THIS is my tune!

I leapt forward and bounded onto the dancefloor.

“PUNCTURED BICYCLE –
ON A HILLSIDE DESOLATE –
WILL NATURE MAKE A MAN OF ME?”

I am punching the breadbasket, my lips pouting coquettishly as my hips and feet twist like Chubby Checker on VHS fast-forward.

The floor remains empty.
People stare.

I am unperturbed.
I taunt them.

Bernie approaches.

Two hulking meters of quality street wrappers with a halogen lamp for a head he appears grinning.

He mimics my movement then shuttles off into his own groove - a toned down rave-up in a field in an English summer.

Then the pretty girls gravitate towards the dancefloor.

Bernie and I have become centrifugal.

The sulking men give chase.

I sing to Bernie.

“…AND IN THIS CHARMING PAST –
THIS CHA-HA-ARM – MING MAN!! –
WHY COMPROMISE COMPLEXITY –
WHEN THE LEATHER RUNS SMOOTH ON THE PASSENGER SEA-EA-EA-EAT –“

Bernie joins in.

“I would go out tonight but I haven’t got a stitch to wear”

I am in stitches at this.

I raise my eyebrows to the roof as he realises what a spectacle he is and the irony of the words to him.

He is in stitches.

We are beaming.

Pretty girls are beaming at us.

As the song fades out, they try to speak but words are beyond us.

We are eyeball deep in the throes of acid euphoria.

We hug and kiss them all then make our way to the bar for another pitcher of something so shiny, it is enthralling and we have to drag our drug-addled eyes away from it.

We do the tour.

We hang our heads and oscillate with the miserablists.
We nod in time to the obscured thumping of hip-hop anthems.
We ‘Danser Le Mia’ trying not to grin at the over-exposed pastel –coloured towelling socks but they are so very colourful as they shoot tracers across the floor.

Not a thought of danger even knocked at the door of our minds as the evening drew to its’ conclusion around 5am and Bernie, perma-grinned, drove us home where he would sleep on the tiled floor of my tiny dorm room.

In the morning, he was deflated.

He put his sunglasses on and bade me farewell until the next time.
I had no idea when that would be.

Once he showed up around 1am begging me to accompany him to the mega-club but it was porno night on Canal+ and he didn’t have any drugs so I refused and he didn’t show up for a while.

We had several nights like the one described at length above though.

Sometimes I wonder where he is now.

I hope he’s alright but I imagine he is quite mad somewhere or still trying to rave it up on an island in the east.

I can’t do that shit anymore.

It hurts too much.

Rafter
baz
(bazmorningstar efil4nat3b, Thu 16 Apr 2009, 10:06, 1 reply)

Back in the dark ages
Camelot was the best Knight club around.

It was legendary.
(toomanydecibels has bleeding ears on, Thu 16 Apr 2009, 9:05, 6 replies)

One experience....
When I was younger and therefore more impressionable, I was encouraged by my then social circle to go to a nightclub called the gallery...a pit of obnoxious twats who are willing to pay £8 to get barged into, pay extortionate prices and listen to music so loud, its difficult to define the genre...anyways.
Once we had queued for the half an hour it had taken just to get to the entrance and got some watered down beverages, we all went to the 2nd floor, where there was a bit of space to hang about and watch the idiots dancing their asses off below. This was all well and good until some bald biker guy barged into me and spilled all £4.00 of my drink alover the floor....needless to say I wasnt impressed :(
A couple of hours pass and what do you know!! Mr Big Tough Biker Guy is dancing away with some lass who's obviously wearing beer googles!! Upon seeing this, the idea struck me on how to get revenge so I fought my way to the bar....got a pint of iced water...returned to my previous spot and tipped the lot over his head!!
I got thrown out for that but it was funny seeing him slipping around in the rapidly melting ice cubes :)
(i-eat-crayons Joan of Arc heard voices too you know, Thu 16 Apr 2009, 8:33, 10 replies)

Harken back to the days before the internet...
"Oh be quiet, Grandpa! There were no such times!"

Actually little one, there were indeed such times! We used dial-up modems and connected one-at-time to a computer in order to use its message forum software.

It was during these days that a number of people whom knew each other only loosely via this very primitive medium, decided to congregate in our fair city and partake of spirituous liquors.

Quite a motley bunch, only one chap who was underage and we promised to ignore him and let him try and bluff his way through the gatekeepers. We head up to Lucy's, a den of iniquity that I suspect no longer trades. The notable feature of Lucy's is that it was below street level and had a staircase that wound down through 180 degrees to take you to the entrance of the club.

*group looks at chap in the wheelchair*
*wheelchair guy looks sheepish*
*stairwell looks nonchalantly at group*
*4 beefy men including myself take one corner each of the wheelchair*
*wheelchair guy is depostied safely at the door of the club*
*crowd cheers*

5 of us got in for free \o/ Everyone else had to pay the $10 cover charge!
( Ratsta, Thu 16 Apr 2009, 5:41, 5 replies)

The Fetish Club
easily the most bizarre nights of my life were the two visits I paid to a Fetish Club in Liverpool. Let me set the scene.

I was drinking with a bunch of mates when the girlfriend of one of the lads asked me if I'd like to join them and come to a Fetish night that she was the organiser of. Well, I'm up for most things so I said I'd tag along and Martin, a mate I worked with said he'd come to. So off we trotted.


It was the most surreal night of my life. I never knew such places existed. One guy stood out. He was about six foot six with a long hair and a bushy beard. he looked like a really mean Hells Angel. Except he was dressed in suspenders and a bright pink tutu. Top bloke as well. He was a lorry driver during the day and Princess by night.

The guy in the gimp suite (ala Pulp Fiction) made me giggle. He spent the night kneeling by the stairs with a big ball-gag in his mouth and sported a sign that said "Please Hit Me!!". So I did. As I walked past him I twatted him on the side of the jaw and he fell sideways.

"Fank ewe" he mumbled.

There was also a a rack that was doing great custom. Various girls in various states of undress were queuing up to be tied onto the rack where a weird bloke dressed as a medieval torturer would drip hot wax onto them or whip them or use this strange electric gadget to give them shocks.

Like I said, this night was a revelation to me.

But the night ended and and me and Martin pissed off to our hotels.

The next day we told all, the guys at work about it and they were fascinated. So much so that they begged us to get them invites to the next one in a months time.

Well the month rolled by and me and Martin plus 4 IT geeks ended up in the Fetish Club. It was just the same as the first time - The Gimp was there crouching by the stairs and so were Princess and the Torturer. Me and Martin left the geeks at the end of the bar and went wandering to see what was new in the club.After about an hour we went back to the main bar to see how our workmates were getting on and came back to a scene of terror.

They were all huddled at the end of the bar and were pathetically grateful to see us.

"They won't let us leave" they whimpered......

Turns out that Princess and a few of the trannys were messing with their heads and kept passing notes over to them saying they were going to rape them in the corridor leading to the outside world. That, and blowing kisses and sending drinks over had totally freaked the guys out.

Me and Martin pissed ourselves laughing and then escorted the geeks to the door and waved them into the night.

Aye - they were good times.....

Cheers
( Legless Mister Stabby - shanks for the memory, Thu 16 Apr 2009, 4:28, Reply)

It's quite easy....
Just click 'I Like This' if you remember when real stories used to win instead of convoluted made-up-pseudo fetish-bollocks and crap puns.

*sigh... all this was fields... leave your doors open...people had interesting things to say... etc...*
(R. Jimlad twitter.com/sirmarkymark, Thu 16 Apr 2009, 1:27, 11 replies)

Just remembered one...
My Dad took my brother and me out to Australia to see my uncle for the first time ever. We had a couple of nights stopover in Dubai. Somewhat stuck for something to do the first evening, we nip into the hotel nightclub. There's a fairly average cover band with the girls in skimpy costumes wearing bicycle shorts over the top (local laws presumably). My Dad orders a pitcher of beer for us...

Eighty quid!

We drank that slowly. Luckily the next night we found a seedy little place just next door where crates of beer were piled around the room and about £2. Got some funny looks from the denizens but good times were had.
(Richy_T hundreds if not thousands of dollars, Thu 16 Apr 2009, 1:06, 2 replies)

Socks
Has anyone else done this one?

Several years ago i was in Jersey for a mates wedding. Post wedding a group of us head into St Helier for more boozing.
Queue up at the club, eventually get to the doorman;
"Got trainers on, cant come in"
Fucksocks.

So we all pile round the corner and hatch a plan. Im wearing black socks. Sorted! just put the socks over the white trainers. I was told this works, but didnt believe i could get away with it, well, because my socks had purple toes... it looked stupid, and obvious.

So again, queue, wait, get to the front, same doorman. Looks at me "in you go"
SWEET! it worked!
I then proceed to have a great laugh and try and pull one of the bridesmaids *cough* and fail *cough* ah well. Cheers!
(Fishbone-didi, Thu 16 Apr 2009, 0:58, 5 replies)

I went to a club last thursday...
There was a rodeo bull in the middle of the floor so no one could fucking move. I got drunk, then I went home... poorer and angrier than I was when I left the house.

This pretty much sums up all my clubbing experiences.

apart from the bull, you dont see them often
(i should have joined myspace, Wed 15 Apr 2009, 23:24, 1 reply)

My understanding of nightclubs
10% of people go because they actually like really loud music.
10% of people go because they are actively out to make new orgasm friends.
And the other 80% go because they are friends with the first 20%, can bear loud music and don't mind the occasional grope.
( GarbageFan didn't know what to have as a board sig on, Wed 15 Apr 2009, 23:12, 2 replies)

Grrr
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.
(grandmasterfluffles Come to my Armageddon party on, Wed 15 Apr 2009, 21:46, 22 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.
(cypherspace is not a toaster, Wed 15 Apr 2009, 17:22, 14 replies)

I've been quite lucky
In that for most of my years I've managed to avoid nightclubs, due to having been a teetotaller until very recently and having very non-nightclub-by friends. However, on one occasion when I was at the tender age of 18, I was roped into it by my then girlfriend.

Being 18 years old, with your first *proper* girlfriend and horny as a badger rapist in a big heaping field full of badgers, you do tend to be an obedient puppy, all for just the tiniest whiff of that first, fishy twadge.

Having not been to a nightclub before, I had visions of it being some dark, sweaty room full of smelly, awful posers drinking drinks with silly names, grabbing each other's genitals, and having something or other "large".

"No no! This nightclub is ok! It's got couches and TVs and it's really classy. Honestly, it'll be fine!"

That's how I came to know the popular nightclub called Walkabout, in particular the one on Broad Street in Birmingham. The signage outside suggested some kind of Aussie themed pub, so immediately my trust in said girlfriend's description was challenged. What made this place "Aussie" as far as I could tell was that they had cricket on a small TV above the bar. And they served Fosters. Woo. But this bar area was not for us, oh no. We went down a flight of stairs to a very dark, loud, noisy nightclub full of...well, just repeat my earlier paragraph about what I thought it'd be like.

I was rather angry at being lied to, and to compound this I was used as a makeshift coathook for the girlf and all her pigs-in-makeup friends. Finding myself a wall upon which to lean with a selection of New Look's finest coats, I watch my little gaggle of female friends and girlfriend go to the dancefloor and proceed to sweatily bump and grind and jump their way through all manner of tedious, droning horseshite. Being a shy, insecure pseudo-goth at the time, I stood there stony faced, looking away every time some gelhead walked up to her and made a comment about her dress, which managed to be low cut to the point it actually just looked like she'd forgotten to do it up.

I look to my right for something to do, and see a platinum blonde shop dummy/barbie type with her bare leg wrapped round a man old enough to be her great uncle, and wished I could have unseen his freckly, hairy, pudgy fingers sliding in and out of her freshly waxed, suspiciously tanned fuck-hole.

I was later ordered to go and buy a round of alco-pops for everyone, which meant going to a heaving bar surrounded by loud, drunk men. Despite being a sizeable chap I have always had a quiet voice and have never been that good at asserting myself in a leaning-over-the-bar-to-order-drinks kind of way. As I stand there waiting to catch the eye of one of the staff, I can feel someone really, really pushing into my back, to the point I wondered if I was being anally raped by a poorly endowed man. I decide to turn round and see the causer of this pushing.

Being 6 foot 2, I am usually half a head or so taller than most blokes. What was presented to me upon turning round was a man I can only describe as a dwarf. What he was presented with was a very tall man who, upon turning round, managed to crack him on the bridge of the nose with his elbow, causing it to bleed profusely.

I immediately assumed I would be glassed and kicked to death by this midget. But surprisingly he was ok about it, told me "it happens a lot", and went on his way.

I spent the rest of the night drinking coffee on my own in McDonalds. By comparison, I had a whale of a time.
(Tiny Blindfolded Horse Kitten sound car horns would end road rage, Wed 15 Apr 2009, 17:15, 5 replies)