Idiot Tax
Back in my barman day, me and some others invented the 'idiot tax'.

Anyone rude, drunk or plain stupid would get charged an extra 40p - an extra dash of fizzy drink on the till.

The boss-man was concerned as to why the money was up but the stock wasn't.

We told him.

'Oh, right. Well, that'll learn them. Teach the others.'

Good times.
(Miraclefish How appropriate, you fight like a cow, Wed 8 Apr 2009, 20:22, 4 replies)

:(
I started going out age 17 and gave up about 5 years ago, just can't stay up that late any more. Had some fun times though, and some times I just thought I was having fun. I have become boring in my late 20's, and cynical of my reasons why I was so into going out back in those days, perhaps I was looking for something; I never found it and lost a lot of sleep instead. I met a lot of lovely people that I have largely lost touch with now. I'm not a miserable person, I'm just tired. I listen to Radio 4 in the car now, and most of my vinyl is in storage.

It saddens me, but I have been many a time jaded by a pre-work Saturday breakfast being interrupted by the appearance of an old friend, clearly still drug- and alcohol-addled, and by the fact that this meeting is tarnished by our inability to relate to each other in that moment.

Did I leave the party early or did they stay too long?
(Snake (on a) Crane FKA thwack, Wed 8 Apr 2009, 20:18, 2 replies)

It's murder on the dance floor...
Dancing away to the classics such as Doop and The Grid, a sweaty and youthful 15 year old version of me had got into 5th Avenue in Portsmouth, with his 18 year old mates.

This was what being grown up was all about - buying Diamond White for 50p, staring at girls in hardly any clothes - I was in teenage heaven.

As I was coming off the dance floor I stopped to have a chat with a girl I really liked (probably to check out what she thought of my awesome moves - fear the cardboard box, stare in awe at the big fish) when the guy stood behind me fell over.

I looked round to help and noticed I had blood on me... and he had a knife sticking out of his back Jessica Fletcher style.

In the midst of the dancing, heaving bodies someone had walked up to a random person and stuck a knife in them and then walked off.

Looking back now it could easily have been me, except at the time I was annoyed that I had blood on my white shirt (new from C&A don't you know), the taxi wasn't due for 2 more hours and I'd paid a fiver to get in...
(Wooden meal is. Or is he?, Wed 8 Apr 2009, 20:18, 2 replies)

I started climbing the glorious ladder of nightclub management
I went glass collector - barman - cellarman - bar manager - trainee manager.

Then, one student night, I found a turd in a pint pot.

The next day I resigned.
(Miraclefish How appropriate, you fight like a cow, Wed 8 Apr 2009, 20:15, 2 replies)

All you cool dudes arrive at the nightclub when it is already throbbing
But have you ever thought that they don't start out the evening packed out with sweaty bodies. Somewhere in between the opening time and when you arrive there is a moment when there is only one guest in the club.

Once (only once) I WAS that nerd.
Crystals, Bury, 1979.
(karnuvap, Wed 8 Apr 2009, 20:03, 2 replies)

The reason why my mate's called Dirty Nick
is because he once was bet a tenner by the lads he couldn't get away with shagging a bird in DTMs (Downtown Manhattan's in Oxford). Oh but he did. On the dancefloor. Anyone who knows DTMs will know it's less of a nightclub, more of a corridor...how he got away with it I will never know...My friends Graham and Simon once got thrown out of the toilets because the bouncers thought they were bumming when actually Si went to see if Graham had passed out / choked on his own vomit and was standing over him in the cubicle. Oh how I miss being at uni...
(SpongyMonkey is an honorary East Anglian on, Wed 8 Apr 2009, 19:44, 4 replies)

When I was a lot younger and a lot more stupid I used to attend a rave club in Coventry.
Can't remember the name but lets just say that it was mainly packed with the less salubrious members of Coventry yoof. The music was a bit too techno for me and trying to dance to it usually ended up with me getting a stitch in my side and spend the rest of the evening leaning against a wall trying to look hard.

One night I was playing wallflower amongst many people all standing in a line just listening to the music. Immediately to my left stood three of the meanest looking black guys you have ever seen. They were just there to look cool, listen to the music and sell drugs. (No I'm not stereotyping, they definitely weren't there to hang out with the gurning white kids waving their arms about like traffic control police with attention deficit disorder).

So anyway to my right I see this scrawny white kid off his tits, sweating profusely and slowly working his way up the line of people trying to hug them and tell them how much he loved them. I'm not really looking forward to having this soaking wet retard slobbering over me but I figure just be nice and try to move him away, thinking there's no way he'll go near the black guys. He gets to me and I smile and brush him off.....

He only goes and tries to hug the guy next to me. The big mean black guy who could snap him in half using his little fingers. I cringe and step a little to my left so as not to get too much blood on my clothes. I gingerly look over and see the black guy grimace and ever so gently push him away saying something to him that I couldn't make out. The white kid pouted, (which I don't think is easy when your gurning), and wandered off.

To this day I think the kid had an angel looking after him that night.



Mind you the dealer offered me his spliff later on which I duly took a puff off and 5 minutes later nearly passed out.

Ah! happy times.

Edit - I think it was around Foleshill. This is also the same club my friend took a pill and then threw up. She then fished about in the vomit for the pill and swallowed it again. This is also the same club where I took too much speed and not enough water and spent 2 hours sat in the ladies loos unable to move, my whole body rigid, couldn't even speak, while my friend tried to force fluids down my mouth.

Did I mention I was stupid.
( girlinthehole, Wed 8 Apr 2009, 19:40, 1 reply)

GHB. Just say no
I worked as a medic at some of the more "interesting" clubs in the Vauxhall area. One of these (not being named) was a hotbed of GHB (and GBL) use.

Now GHB is a nasty little motherfucker. Anything that is generally used as an anaesthetic agent and an ingredient in industrial cleaner falls under the category of "a bad thing" to me. Combine that with the fact that the promoter (an American cunt) would never let me call an ambulance due to the fact that it was bad publicity, left me in what can only be called "a slight predicament" on a number of occasions.

The medic room was a curtained of area of the main dancefloor. Noisy as sin, and hotter than Satan's banjo string. This is where the bouncers (good chaps, if not a little too keen on Bolivian marching powder and Special K) would drag their twitching victims.

One particular evening, somebody must have been selling some bloody potent GHB because I had 3 patients lying on the floor of my medic room all completely fucked off their nipples. 2 were completely unconscious, and 1 was twiching every now and then and vomiting.

The problem with GHB is that when mixed with alcohol, it can put you on the floor quicker than Josef Fritzl when the bailiffs come to visit. It also has a nasty habit of knocking off your respirations, especially when combined with diazepam.

Another chap was brought to me by security. This one was conscious, but had pupils like Sophie Ellis-Bextor's face and looked seriously under the influence of Teh Fear (TM).

When he was bundled into my first aid room, he looked around, shouted "lemons and cardboard" and collapsed in respiratory arrest.

One of the problems with this club was the lack of mobile reception. So any ambulance request had to go through the promotor (did I mention he was an American Cunt?) As always, he refused "oh don't worry. They aint that bad."

"No, I need an ambulance." This bloke might die."

"Leave it 10 minutes and see how he's doing."

American Cunt then wanders off to hoover up another party bag of ketamine.

I exchange a look with the security guard. One that plainly says "FUCKCUNTCOCKWANK" We need this bloke out of here. Pronto.

So we grab his arms and legs, and drag him across the dancefloor to the fire exit, where we call an ambulance to the back alley.

Of course, we tell the ambulance crew that he was "just found collapsed here. Honest." He gets rapidly removed to Tommy's, and I go back in to zombie-sit the rest of my little clan.

The end of the night comes and I go home. Just before I leave, the head of security comes over.

"Carrot, word to the wise, don't leave any personal stuff around tonight."

Err...OK, I think. I toddle off with all my stuff under my arms.

The next morning, an "anonymous" tip-off to the police leads to a raid, finding the promoter in his office with (and I quote) "a bag of crack the size of a grapefruit."

He now no longer promotes music.
( Undercovercarrot got done for gross misconduct on..., Wed 8 Apr 2009, 18:24, 6 replies)

Being silly with food
I once went into a club with my mate and a packet of cashews in my pocket, and spent a chunk of the evening handing them out to dancers, saying I worked for the Nut Marketing Board and this was a free sample of "the nut of the future".

Another time we filled our shirt pockets with bran flakes, and at a predetermined moment we ate the bran. A bouncer saw us and demanded we told him what we were eating. "It's bran," we replied, "it keeps us regular." He looked at us strangely, and surprisingly didn't throw us out.
(nasalhair The Twix guy!, Wed 8 Apr 2009, 18:14, 5 replies)

Jesus, I'm a numpty
I'm not a huge fan of nightclubs, seeing as how you have to rely on dancing and/or natural good looks to become popular, and I'm not blessed with either talent. But there are some times when they're unavoidable, and one such time was back at uni.

Sat in the union bar, I actually got approached by two lovely looking girls who asked me and my mate to take them somewhere good. Panicking, I thought of the local indie club, and so off we trot.

Once there, we have tequilas which is a problem because I sneeze at the salt bit (carefully missing my salty hand) but then when I return to it I suddenly have to sneeze again and do that great-lungful-of air thing to prepare, snorting and inhaling the damn salt in the process.

A few more drinks, and feeling a bit merry at this point, we're sat down and I cough. To my surprise/horror, I actually vomit on the table as I do this. I hadn't been feeling sick, nor did I actually vomit - I just coughed and up came a big pool of horrible clear liquid with foul-smelling black bits in it. Pretty sure it came from my lungs and not my stomach - there was no heave nor retch nor baulk afflicting my considerable guts. I panic I may be dying.

I then tried to walk one of the girls home, who had demonstrated readiness for such a thing by kissing me even after having seen me try to dance. We're walking along, me anticipating a good time, but unbeknownst to me at that point she's from another uni just visiting on some exchange thing. So she was staying at the local fucking PDSA.

Your jokes about vets, dogs etc welcome.

Sorry for the length. But as a first-timer, I feel I've drawn it out quite impressively.
(Land of Green Ginger It's dreamy weather, Wed 8 Apr 2009, 18:03, 4 replies)

Last time I was in any kind of nightclub...
... was about 5 years ago.

On that evening, I got very, very drunk. I was so drunk, I got snogging my mates (pretty fugly) girlfriend.

He seen us.

We took turns at kicking the shit out of each other for 10 minutes, then got back to the dancefloor.

Good times.
(badbob82 actually has mates called Rex and Wendy, Wed 8 Apr 2009, 17:58, Reply)

The Magical Irish Bow Tie
First of all, I have to applaud the Huddersfield University Events team for organising the most dreary, pathetic graduation ball in the history of time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I spent the next day in hospital with a huge hangover and an even worse sense of shame.
(Eggstrovert isnt patronising you...honest..., Wed 8 Apr 2009, 17:55, 4 replies)

The steamrock - Bristol
those of you who were students in bristol during a certain halcyon period will surely remember the steamrock, and probably fondly despite its awfulness

the worst part of the whole place was undoubtedly the cooling shower of moisture dripping from the ceiling in one section of the room

as it happens, this little fountain of joy caved in one day and was found to be directly below the gents bogs.....

lovely
(court escaper, Wed 8 Apr 2009, 17:48, 2 replies)

Desperate to impress...
Hello hello. Long time stalker, first time talker.
I worked in a scabby little nightclub in a scabby little town for far too long, and I've forgotten more horrible things than most people would want to see. A woman bumping uglies with a random guy while her husband searched for her, pints of vomit, violent people, obnoxious people, stupid people and more poo-related stories than I care to mention (although I might dredge my memory later and tell you about them. Everyone likes poo stories).
However, I thought I'd humiliate myself here, this being my first post and all.
I was once an 18 year old glass collector with a silly beard and greasy hair, and I was desperate to impress the hot barmaid Ethel (name changed). This club had two floors, and every time I worked downstairs an annoying older couple would stand at the end of the bar, drinks on the hatchway, and lean back ever-so-slightly whenever I wanted to get past. He looked like Brian May, she had a man's haircut, and neither of them had any manners.
For this reason I used to love working upstairs. Better music, no annoying couple and the lovely Ethel's company. One night, however, it all went wrong.
I happened to glance up and see that the annoying twunt couple had migrated from their usual spot downstairs and had assumed the exact same position at the end of the top bar. I sighed audibly and frowned, and Ethel noticed this and asked what was wrong.
"Oh, there's just some people here that piss me off, that's all" says I.
"Who is it?" says Ethel. "If they're being an arse get them kicked out"
"It's not that they're being arses, it's just that they always stand in the way and they don't move when I ask them to, and, well... he always wears the same clothes and she looks like a bloke..."
"Who do you mean?" I nod in the direction of the Brian May-alike and his man-girl.
"Oh" says Ethel, "that's my mum and her boyfriend! Hey mum!"
My eyes expand to roughly the size of dinner plates, my eyebrows disappear off the top of my head and my sphincter threatens to throw open the doors and kick everyone out.
"No" I stutter, "I mean... uh..."
As I look desperately around the room I realise there's no-one else around for a good 15 feet.
By now the man-woman is waving vigourously in our direction, and the only way out is past them, so I lower my head and push past them. I hid in the kitchen for the rest of the night.
Turns out they were lovely people, and I got to see Ethel's magical private piercing. It was in a jewellery box.

Length? A good two feet and curly, but hers was short and spiky.

If anyone out there really wants the poo stories harass me in the replys
(Paolo Nutini's Bikini Better than Frederick Fleet's optometrist, Wed 8 Apr 2009, 17:40, 10 replies)

my mate stifler
A mate of mine was telling us about how somone just elbowed him in the chest when he was standing at the bar,as he was telling us also doin the actions he elbowed a girl in the nose who was walking down the stairs, sending her falling on her arse and drinks skyward, we still laugh about this even now and it happened about 6 years ago LOL
(IsaacHunt, Wed 8 Apr 2009, 17:38, 6 replies)

Out of the mouths...
On the last family holiday in Spain I woke up early-ish on the Sunday morning and went for a walk through the quiet town. Luckily the resort is full of Spanish people, not Brits or Germans, so it's a peaceful enough place.

I noticed a few young couples obviously walking back home after a long night out in a club somewhere.

Mentioning this to my 12 year old daughter when I got back to our villa, she said:

"the drugs must be good round here then".

I didn't know how to answer that one.
( I_Was_Mordred, Wed 8 Apr 2009, 17:32, Reply)

Night of the living dead.
Drum & Bass. Acid. Sleep Deprivation: a bad combination you might think, and you'd be right, it's a dreadful combination.

I discovered just how awful these things are together when, already dazed by the kind of sleep deprivation a piece of coursework can inflict on a serial procrastinator, I foolishly accepted an invitation to accompany a college friend on a trip to his local, back street, deeply underground drum and bass club. In Derby.

Apparently a friend of his was to "drop some phat choons" or however you kids describe Disc Jockeying nowadays, and I would be granted entry upon the ever-so-exclusive guest list (it quickly transpired that this exclusivity extended to about 95% of the occupants of the club, but apparently is isn't cool to suggest we might join the other, shorter queue in the interest of gaining far swifter entry).

I coughed into the club and was immediately overwhelmed by the wall of smoke that appeared to permeate from the very walls of the place. It seemed there wasn't a drug in existence that wasn't being consumed in vast quantities, but crack was certainly a distinct favourite among the party goers inside.

A tiny piece of crudely torn paper was pressed into one hand and a bottle of beer into the other. It had been a few years since I'd danced with Lucy in the sky and I eagerly slipped the tab onto my tongue and took a seat while I waited for acid's soft hands to start massaging my mind.

"Wake up, you cunt." I think it was a bouncer and I think it was barking at me, but I couldn't be sure. The acid had taken hold in my sleep and a grizzly bear seemed to be doing an angry jig in front of me.

Distorted bass permeated my core, shaking my innards to pieces while gunshot snares pierced holes in my face with alarming rapidity. I glanced around and zombies with deep, sunset red eyes nodded at reggae pace while the undulating beats sent one drunken reveller into a fury of limb swinging delirium.

"Mih.key Finn, Mih.Key.Somethingorother.Finn" was shouted repeatedly by the emmcee and a unified roar arose from the crowded dance floor below. I had no idea where my friend had gone, or how long I'd slumbered on the sofa for, but it appeared not to matter to the gigantic zombie sat next to me, who was waiving a monstrous spliff in my face with the unlikely reassurance that "it's nah crack, ya know". I was too intimidated not to take it and puffed greedily on it before passing it along the line and slumping into a deeply stoned haze.

More sleep was soon interrupted when my sneering, wild eyed friend pushed more beer into my hand and garbled incoherently into my face. The fiend was trying to destroy my frontal lobe then throw me to the zombies below. It was clear he'd become one of them himself, but I calmly accepted the drink and pulled heavily on the reefer he offered before politely refusing the chance to go willingly into the carnage myself.

"I'll fight you all to the end" I spat at him and he grinned widely and said "yeah, it's fucking ace, aint it" before bouncing back down the stairs and into the mass of undead.

The rest of the night appeared to pass in phases as bouts of sleep were interrupted by beers and joints, and each familiar tune seemed to account for several hours at a go. The last tune was started for the 20th time before the crowd tired of requesting yet another rewind and the DJ let it go for a few hours before abruptly killing the power to his turntable. The beat came to a stumbling halt and an eerily zombified voice concluded a drawn out "bass tooooo daaaaaaaaarrrrrrrk" as the final dribbles of acid trickled out of my veins.

As I sauntered out into the late morning sunshine with the flesh seeking mob, and strolled down the road, arms dangling limply at my sides and a slack-jawed vacancy spread across my face it became all too apparent that I, too, had joined the ranks of the undead.
( Moey, Wed 8 Apr 2009, 17:19, 4 replies)

Nonce
well, almost.

Me and a mate went to visit my little brother, who is 14 years my junior, at university. We went with him to one of the popular student nightspots.

Pissed and bored, I was stood at the edge with my mate, a young lady standing just in front of us. She had a couple of fabric ties hanging around the back of her top. "Wouldn't it be amusing" I thought "if I tied her to may mate's belt loop and then waited for the hilarious outcome".

I managed to slip one of the ties through my mates belt loop without him noticing but she turned around as I was making the knot. She gave me a funny look. "I was just messing about" I said. She said something to her mate who turned around and also gave me a funny look. Then they both hurriedly walked away.

I guess 18 year old girls don't appreciate fat bald middle aged men fiddling with their clothing.
( stopmeandslapme Cometh the hour, cometh your mum, Wed 8 Apr 2009, 17:18, 1 reply)

not me but...
Back when you could smoke in nightclubs my friend got asked for a cigarette by a rather attractive, if stuck up looking young lady. When he delclined saying he only had 1 or 2 left and he needed them, she replied with "fuck you then, your fucking ugly anyway!"

you meet some lovely people in Ikon Diva.
(halloumi slowly pushing you down the board on, Wed 8 Apr 2009, 17:17, Reply)

The Ritz
Many, many great Monday nights were had here in Manchester, in the early nineties, with it's sprung dancefloor, balcony and quality music. Only a pound in and then only a pound for bitter/lager/cider - although it didn't really matter what you bought, it all looked and tasted the same, as if it had been pumped directly from the canal out the back.

Anyways - one particular Monday night I'd pulled what I thought was an attractive girl...
I was slightly worse for wear, but I assumed my eyesight was still up to scratch.
I still remember saying to my friends "Well it's about time I pulled a decent lady"

Feeling slightly smug I arranged to meet her the following Friday, on a night with pretty much all my friends.

So, Friday arrives and we're all in the pub and in walks my Monday night vision.

A vision of loveliness indeed - with a moustache to rival Lord Kitchener.

Bah.
( scoshi pretending to diet since, Wed 8 Apr 2009, 17:11, 3 replies)

so there's me...
gyrating on the dance floor.
a flock of cooing maidens looking on longingly.
when all of a sudden in walks the burliest knuckle dragger known to man, orders a pint of snakebite at the bar and saunters over to me.
I embrace him, quite gruffly.
I'm afraid what came next is a bit of a blur, but I do remember 'putting my finger on the pulse' before we were politely asked to leave.
'let's all go back to mine!' I yelped and clapped my hands together, jumping on the spot.
I was wearing my 'frothing hat' for all to see.
I arched my back over as if trying to attempt 'the crab' but once bent over I strutted around the club. This was to be my finest hour.
with my pointy winkle pickers on and hair dragging on the ground I began Cossack dancing to the sublime beat. one two ha! two two ha!
It was 'popcorn' by Gershon Kingsley if i remember correctly.
all of a sudden everyone in the club began to arch backwards. legs akimbo. kicking and spinning, one by one everyone was hooked.
Suddenly a door opened and someone released around 30 or 40 chickens onto the dance floor which flapped and frolicked around sometimes being kicked sometimes just laying eggs.
soon everyone was covered in eggmess and slipping around rolling in the gunk that encapsulated us all.
then I looked into the centre of the crowd, you've guessed it. Paul Ross, bold as billy bragg hoopla'ing around a pole made of mashed up pepperami's.
blood poured from my eyes as the realisation of my predicament washed over me. I was to be Paul's bride in this demonical ceremony.
I seized the moment and made a dart for the door, still arched double but lurching at a tremendous pace, I barged the bouncers out of my way and spiderwalked down the stairs to freedom.
I've never spoken of these events before, and I never will again.
I guess I must put things from my mind to help deal with them... hell, doesn't everyone?

D HOUSER. MD.
09.03.82
(jindodsdadsdogsdead I am not stusut79, Wed 8 Apr 2009, 17:09, 2 replies)

Having..
Become increasing annoyed at being the 'invisible' punter at the ‘Ritzy’ night club on Baldwin Street in Bristol – and getting even more narked at the young bar-man who seemed to only serve ladies, I reached a point of anger.

Now, the barman was clearly on, what I suppose you’d describe as a ‘power trip’ all these thirsty revellers and him with the power to serve and deny drinkers their refreshment opportunity.

I’ve been at the front of the queue (well, leaning on the bar) for a good fifteen minutes, yes, it was quite busy, but not that busy that it wouldn’t have been reasonable to expect service by this point. I’ve tried to get his attention countless times, and he knows I’m there – waiting – and he is deliberately avoiding me. Doing all he can to serve me last.

Eventually, one of the other punters – when asked what they’d like to drink – correctly (correctly if you following the ‘good bar punter act of 1995) points out that ‘Your man there has been waiting for ages, he’s before me’.

Now, I’ve not exchanged words so far with the barman, I’m not drunk and as far as I know, I’ve never insulted the barman in anyway – but, him suddenly announcing ‘right, I’m going to the gents this bar is closed for the next 5 minutes’ drove me ever so slightly over the edge.

Yeap, that’ll be me climbing over the bar, pouring my own pint and then trying to serve a couple of customers before laughing-boy gets back from the pisser.

That’ll also be me who was pulled (using a combination of hair and shirt-collar) over the bar by two big burley bouncers, it’ll also be me who got thrown down the stairs by the same goons, the same goons who wouldn’t then let me collect my coat, despite having the appropriate ticket – and the same goons who deliberately stepped on my spectacles and the very same goons who kicked me (several times) whilst lying on the floor. My request to see the duty manager to resolve this situation was also refused, having been told that ‘they look after the customer side of things’

The following day, having called the club to see if I could get my coat back (and subsequently arranging a time when I’d be able to come in and get it) – I arrive at said destination and bang on the door to see if I can get let it.

I can’t.

Eventually, the door opens and it’s one of the bouncers from the previous nights altercation. He says to me ‘wait there’ - 10 minutes later, my coat is thrown at me and I leave. It’s on my way home that I discover loads of little holes in my coat (looking like it was caused by a blade or a dart or something).

Anyway, I’ve had enough by now and I did something I’ve never done before or since. I got the police involved.

The police couldn’t have been nicer, going to the club to request CCTV and to get verbal statements from the staff involved.

Their version of events was that I was smashing the place up, going mental and being a pain in the ass. CCTV shows me hopping over a bar, pouring a pint and doing a bit of a silly dance. They also said I resisted apprehension and that’s why they were rough we me. CCTV shows me being dragged away and beaten – including kicks, punches and stamps whilst on the floor.

It really was quite a vicious attack.

A settlement figure was offered to me via a bloke I know - £300 for me to drop the charges – I accepted, thinking that it was a good deal, I’d be able to replace my coat and my glasses, and I wouldn’t need to go through the hassle of going to court.

Two days later, there is a knock at the door.

That’ll be me arrested and charged with ‘theft of alcohol (1 pint) from the bar’ and – annoyingly ‘theft of £300 from the club.’ This whole saga went on for about 6 months, before all charges were dropped (they had no evidence of the theft of cash and – apparently – it wasn’t worth prosecuting for the theft of a 99p pint (this was a number of year back)).

So that was pretty much the end of it – only it wasn’t – there are only a few companies in Bristol providing doormen to the pubs and clubs – effectively, I was barred from about a third of the late night venues in Bristol until there had been sufficient turn-over of staff and I’d started to grow facial hair for it all to be forgotten.

Nightclubs? RUBBISH.

Mullered.
(Apols for typos - I'm writing this whilst on the move)
( JeffTheDogFucker Can you dig it?, Wed 8 Apr 2009, 17:09, 2 replies)

Madame JoJos
A few years back, my mate got married. We did all the normal things one does on a stag night (get pissed, look at porn, go see a stripper, get a lap dance) and we ended the night at Madame JoJo's.


For those who don't know it, Madame JoJos is a sort of Night club with drag acts.

We all got in the club, got drinks and sat down to watch the stage show, ordering more drinks as appropriate from the "waitresses" who were circulating.

One mate was trying to get off with one "waitress" (I put the name in quotes as the rest of the group were not sure "she" wasn't male) and carried on for quite some time before I was able to stop him and ask if he was sure.

Then, at the end of the night, we were all dancing. We had actually found some proper women to dance with (a Hen party IIRC), and were doing alright until the groom went a little loopy with his hand movements and punched a girl by accident. We ended up making sure the girl was alright (she was, just a little shocked and being hit by a complete stranger) and left quickly before her boyfriend could react.
(Ok, I'll get me coat, Wed 8 Apr 2009, 17:08, Reply)

The day I realised I was old.
I'd gone to Fabric with some friends for one reason or another and found myself constantly lost in the maze of rooms, stairwells, corridors and, at one point, what I hope was a unisex toilet as there were far too many women in there for it to be the gents.

It was as I struggled through a writhing mass of sweaty bodies in a vain attempt to find even a vaguely familiar face that I paused and took in my surroundings. There must have been several hundred drunken youths occupying just this one room and a thought occurred to me:

"What if there were a fire? By god we'd be crucified without any hope of escape".

I stuck to the edges from there on and glanced nervously about me, stamping out any carelessly discarded cigarette ends and tidying away anything that represented a potential fire hazard.

I may have taken a few too many narcotics in my youth, but I'm sure it was my relatively advanced years that were to blame for my new found caution.

I've never been anywhere even remotely similar since, and not least because I despise the music and the people and the cost of the beer and the fact that I can't hear myself think, for god's sake.......
( Moey, Wed 8 Apr 2009, 16:58, 3 replies)

Head banging to Hip Hop
A fine evening of Red Stripe and Hip Hop was been undertaken by myself and a group of friends at the ever-so-lovely-but-all-a-bit-blury Blue Mountain in Bristol.

I remember a few details, but no many - the music was good, beer was cheap, and there were ladies. Lovely ladies.

Unfortunately, as I was about to descend from the upstairs to the downstairs, my concentration was more on the ladies than my feet. Now these stairs are the metal edged, beer soaked variety, and I'm quickly descending downwards in my very own re-enactment of Cool Runnings.

Eager to slow my descent, I apply my size 12s to the next step on my route - which, as Newton's laws will invariably dictate, propels me upwards at great speed, to the low, low roof. Smack.

Back down I go, returning to my Cool Runnings, this time 1/2 concious and bleeding profusely from my newly acquired head wound. Fortunately the stairs end, my journey is over - right next to some helpful bouncers. Who take one look and me, and help me on my way to the street...

I don't live in Bristol, or anywhere near, and all the people I do know are in the club. Luckily one of my friends happens to be passing, and seeing me getting thrown out, comes out to help. Which basically involves supporting & carrying me back to her place. I'm 6-4, she's 5-4 and 1/2 my weight, I'm still not sure how we made it back.

Still, she's married to me now, so must have made a good impression.
(Tinium, Wed 8 Apr 2009, 16:58, 1 reply)

Bored
I've been to plenty of dark lit places with various flashing lights and loud music playing, but only once did I go to a 'nightclub'.
Albeit my first time in such a legalised establishment, I treated it as my last, thus didn't let the evening spoil the illusion and slipped away after only an hour.
Although I mention I have been to and enjoyed other venues of loud music, I didn't like this as it was akin to a crèche, just at night and louder.

Also to mention, a designated driver is supposed to ferry the other back after the night.

Ah well.
(FunOnABun Smears lard on you!, Wed 8 Apr 2009, 16:57, Reply)

In search of a Rock night.
Does it count if you never set foot inside?
I was in Northampton for a convention and, as was my wont, fancied a pint in the evening. A bit of asking about turned up the address of a "Rock Night" that sounded promising.
An hour later I was lost, damp and trudging through somewhere that looked suspiciously like an industrial estate when I saw a queue in the distance. "Hurrah" I thought and opicked up my stride.
I came up to the doors. And heard The fucking Eurhythmics wibbling on about Sweet Dreams.
Disconsolate I turned and made my soggy way into the grim streets of Nothampton once more.
(Big D, Wed 8 Apr 2009, 16:54, 3 replies)

The anti-James Bond
One from my dad.

In 1973, him and another friend from the Welsh Valleys headed off to Paris on a whim - they'd seen a good offer and had signed up for the coach trip without thinking through the fact that it was two blokes on a long weekend in the City of Romance. Naturally, everyone else on the trip spent most of the weekend in the hotel, happily knobbing away, whilst they headed off to do a bit of boozing, as was their wont.

Biere followed biere, and then they decided that with it being Paris and all they should head off somewhere a bit more classy and see some of the high life.

They got their best flared suits and kipper ties on and went and found a classy, very Parisian nightspot, and even splashed out on some Champagne. My dad poured out two flutes for him and his friend, another two for some ladies they'd got chatting to, then put down the bottle to his right.

The way it's been described to me, it was a classic Western Movie moment - everything went quiet, there were gasps of shock... Even the piano player stopped - mainly because my dad had just dropped half a bottle of Moet in the open top of his Baby Grand.

A swift exit ensued.
(SnowyTheWereRabbit the Leporid from Hell, Wed 8 Apr 2009, 16:51, 1 reply)

Tales from DJ Booth part 1.
I still recall doing a warm up set of Funk/Hip-hop/Bouncy Breaks in Ride in Nottingham, handing over to the next bloke, who as doing a full on Ableton + Controllers & Guitar set, and finds himself confronted with a overly made up, thoroughly pissed Barbie-a-like sporting a like '21 Today' badge, who proceeds to ask him to play Brian Adams / Summer of '69.

Stu, for that was the man's name, politely decines, pointing out that he doesn't really play records, but mucks about with samples, and can't really help.

All of this was totally over the poor dears head, and the next thing I heard was her bleating 'But it's my biiiiiiiiiiirthday'. Just glad my set had finished 5 minutes earlier ...
(Teiresias, Wed 8 Apr 2009, 16:46, Reply)