I went to "the dancin'" in East Kilbride hundreds of years ago.
I'd never been to "Rundown" before though so me and Pete went in one Saturday night. The place was actually called "Downtown Miami" but it was fucking awful, hence the name.

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

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

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

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

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

And now the nightmare begins.

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

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

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

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

The nightmare continues...

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

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

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

Not so good.

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

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

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

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

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

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

*dustcloud*
( Bingowings 2011 Businessman of the Year (Watford Branch), Thu 9 Apr 2009, 14:50, 11 replies)

I don't dance much.
But with enough drinks to shed my inhibitions I'll merrily reel about the dance floor looking for all the world like the town drunk fighting an army of invisible giant bees.

I recall reluctantly accepting an invite to a friend's birthday in a bar in Chiswick. I went because the friend was a good one, and I wanted to help him celebrate becoming older. I went only reluctantly because I knew that I'd be subjected to an evening of R 'n' B and other equally atrocious aural insults that would be certain to loosen my bowels.

I don't really remember drinking sufficiently to stagger onto the dance floor, and I certainly don't remember launching a full pint of beer across the room and into the face of the DJ, but I'm assured that I did both, and that I did them with reckless abandon.

The music didn't restart for some time that evening, for I'd broken some important equipment. My protests that I was doing them all a favour by saving their ears from such an abomination weren't well received, and I was swiflty ejected into the cold night before the braying mob could tear my beer slingers off at the sockets.

I sobered up on a night bus from Trafalgar Square to Peckham without a clue as to how I'd made it that far, and promptly rang my mate to see how his party had gone. I was quietly advised that in no certain terms am I welcome in that particular bar ever again.

I still maintain that I was doing them a favour. That music really is fucking dreadful.
( Moey, Thu 9 Apr 2009, 14:49, 2 replies)

Just a few weeks ago
I'm in an indie club and there is wee inside me so I decide to go to the toilet.

The gents in this place are...not terrible, but not fantastic. The floors are damp, not flooded, there's no George Michael, and the cubicles have doors but no locks (I have an opinion on the sort of people who steal the locks from public toilets doors, but I don't want to be accused of overusing the phrase "should be raped to death" again.)

The lack of locks mean that often you'll have the sight of someone using the cubicle. I guess they think "If I can't lock the door why bother shutting it".

And so it was on this night. Someone had gone to use a cubicle and not closed the door. What was unusual was his behaviour under the circumstances, if you know what I mean. If you don't I can clarifying by saying that by 'behaviour' I mean 'shitting'.

Or so I must assume. By the time I arrived he was asleep on his side on the cubicle floor, trousers round his ankles, slowly soaking up the beer and wee, like an unwieldy, poohing mop.

Now this is a bad situation and presents a problem. A problem that does need solving. Fortunately the trough was free, so I could use that instead.

A guy walks in. As you know, the men's loos are meant to be a conversation free zone, but I feel that the situation can't go completely unremarked (*), so I mumble something, and the new guy prods the low-quality-rug guy with his foot.

Well, where are you going to find a stick in a nightclub.

I finish up and head back to the dancefloor. On the way I see a boucner walking towards the loos. Wondering when the job centre opens so he can get any job that isn't this one.


(*) On reflection this was a mistake - it would have been much funnier to pretend that this was a normal situation and if guy said something give him a "what are you talking about. And WHY are you talking. This is the gents, not a social event. Talking make you autogay."
(teebie jeebie, Thu 9 Apr 2009, 14:33, 8 replies)

well...
I'm sure I'll post a few more stories, but the one I'm about to tell put me off for at least two months...

I was working in a pub in Penge, SE London. I used to get 2 days off a week, and every now and then I'd get a weekend or a Sunday and Monday off.

One particular week I had to work the Saturday night, but had the following 2 days off, so I figured I'd leave the pub at 11:30ish and head into town.

There was a club in Crucifix Lane that'd I'd been to a couple of times which opened until 7am, so I went there.

I was on my second drink and then...

Well, then it was Tuesday afternoon and I was in hospital.

Somebody had slipped something into my drink, taken me outside, then robbed me and given me a kicking.

I was found on the Sunday afternoon in an alleyway, having apparently been left for dead.

I was missing 2 teeth and covered in cuts and bruises. My right eye was swollen shut, and I still have problems with the sight in that eye.

I also still occasionally have problems with my knee, which was ruined in the beating - I had to walk with crutches for 3 months, and still have a limp now.

Did it put me off clubbing?

It put me off going to that club.

Moral of the story: You can still have your drink spiked, even if it's a bottle and you don't put it down somewhere. I'm still kind of impressed that they managed to get it in there without me noticing
(SarcasticBarSteward wants to be good at Photoshop when he grows up, Thu 9 Apr 2009, 14:29, 3 replies)

The Pleasuredome.
Residents (as I once was) of the puss-filled boil that nestles deep in the armpit of the nation; commonly known as Lincolnshire, may have ventured at some point or other to the trendy nightspot called the Pleasuredome.

By day it's home is a bastion of low rent chavdom situated in the anus of Skegness, itching away at this poor excuse for a coastal resort like a bloated haemorrhoid that's been sat on too heavily too often.

But once a month it would be transformed into an asylum for terminal gurners, and eager, drug-fuelled youths would flock from far and wide to gyrate spasmodically for hours on end to distorted & repetitive beats.

Several rooms would quickly fill with these rejects from the special school of life and white gloves and glow-sticks would cut repetitive lines through the stale sweaty air, while shivering chins would exclaim to owners of other shivering chins that they fucking loved them, man!

And it is with perhaps too little shame that I admit to having frequented this establishment throughout my youth. In it I cut my teeth (almost literally, bloody pills) in the world of clubbing and drugs, and too many hours were spent with my eyes rolled far into the back of my head and my bottom jaw chattering like a monkey on crack.

And the shameful truth is, I fucking loved the place.
( Moey, Thu 9 Apr 2009, 13:52, Reply)

One half of a conversation from a phone box in Newcastle city centre
"So that's the address of the club? No it doesn't sound like it's too far away. Me? No I'm going to meet up with some friends in Bigg Market first and I'll meet you there later. You'll be out when then? Oh hold on a second. Hi can I help... aaaaaaaaargh, don't... get off me! Jesus, help me."

The protagonist had unwittingly committed that most heinous of crimes. The southerner in question was on a night out in Newcastle... wearing a coat!

Such a shocking misdeed was quickly dealt with by a passing group of women "oot on the lash" who proceeded to strip the poor bloke in the phone box bollock naked.
( djtrialprice, Thu 9 Apr 2009, 13:45, 3 replies)

Let the Right One In
My parents were always quite good about allowing me to throw parties when I was at school; every so often I'd stick up a notice in the commonroom, and 20 or so mates'd turn up for a night of... well, I'd love to say drunken debauchery, but it was usually just drinking.

Anyway: at some point during the sixth form, a spurious reason presented itself to throw a party, so I did. This would have been some time in 1995, in the days before ubiquitous mobile phones - a detail that's important. The usual crowd turned up, and the drink began to flow. At whatever-time-it-was, we decided that it'd be good to go out. A new club had just opened a couple of miles away, so we piled into cars and taxis and set off. Being host, I was in the last car to leave; being polite, I was at the back of our crowd in the queue.

What this meant was that, by the time the bouncer had taken one look at me and decided that there was no way I was going to be allowed into his brand-new meat market and I'd tried and failed to make a case for his changing his mind, all my mates had paid and were out of hailing range.

There was nothing else to do. I flagged down a taxi, went home, and turned on the telly to while away the hours until my guests returned.

Around midnight, the phone rang. The caller was Vicky, my closest friend, ringing from a payphone in the foyer of the club.
"Enzyme! We're missing you! Where are you?"
"Um... you've just rung me at home. I'll give you three guesses..."
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Thu 9 Apr 2009, 13:35, 1 reply)

Opposite ends of the scale
The high:
The Krazy house, Liverpool (though I'm old enough to remeber when it was called Sloanes). Rock club. No dress code. Lax attitude to drugs. Great music. No fights. Mosh pit. hot teenage girls. Great fucking nights. Always.

The low:
oceana, Milton Keynes. Shithole. Shit music (despite the rock club thing above, I like dance music, just not middle of the road, mass-produced, chart pop with a different beat dance music). I once saw a barman carrying someone's recently-detatched finger in a glass.
(ScousersPet, Thu 9 Apr 2009, 13:28, 3 replies)

We were in this incredibly loud nightclub and
we were drinking blackcurrant hooch and I was out with some mates from work. One of these workmates was called Mike. I was bevvied out of my face, and had bashed a glass onto the top of my bottle so that the hooch fizzed all over the place.

Mike says to me "I want some of that on my £200 white t-shirt". I oblige by chucking a fair amount over him. He says "wtf did you do that for?" What he had actually said was: "I Don't want that on my £200 white t-shirt". I think I misheard him.
(thrain, Thu 9 Apr 2009, 13:26, 10 replies)

Urinal cake man.
When I was in college (Waterford, in the sunny south east of Ireland), the local hotspot was called 'The Bridge'. It was a hotel, bar & nightclub, and it was located beside the bridge in waterford. Hence the name.

On one occasion I saw someone in the Urinal (it's normal to see someone AT a urinal, not in one). It was one of those communal urinals, just a metal plate wall, really, with a drain running along the bottom, and some blue cakes fizzing away contendedly in the piss of a thousand drunks.

So this guy looked out of place lying in the drain. With blokes pissing beside him to the left and right. He was laughing, and other people started laughing at/with him, and the more they laughed, the more he laughed. It was hard not to laugh along really, because he had a manic laugh, like Woody Woodpecker.

But it was hard not to feel sorry for him too, lying in a pool of other's piss, drunk as a skunk, his shirt soaking up the moisture, His hair wet, face wet, trousers stained and being unable to do anything but laugh.

He was trying to get up, but kept slipping back, due mainly to him being drunk and wet, and trying to gain purchase on the metal wall or the tiled floor. It was pitiful.

I could have helped him, but really, there was every likelihood of being dragged down into the mire. So I waited for a cubicle (unlike the many who didn't mind pissing beside, on, or into him).

I wish I could say that the last I saw of him was as he left to hail a taxi. But no it was to get worse. and it was a sight that will haunt me to 'til the day I die.

The last I saw of him was about forty minutes later, When I saw him on the dancefloor. Slow dancing, with a girl I knew from my course. With his tongue down her throat.

I walked away - I didn't think it would help if she knew where he'd been.
( Lord & Lady Pants, Thu 9 Apr 2009, 13:26, 2 replies)

Stone the Crows…It’s the Rozzers!
Given the fact that I live in Barnsley, the place that has a new pub/club open every time a shop closes (and by my estimate the whole town will be turned into one giant theme pub by 2010) I have a number of stories that are apt for this QOTW.

This one is a more after club sort of story but meh, it fits.

I had just left the club and was starting my five mile walk homeward with a friend of mine. We had been out to celebrate the 18th birthday of one of my mates who had spent a few weeks beforehand bitching that we should go out in fancy dress. Naturally we complied and thanfully the choice of outfit was a good one as it kept us warm on the way home (Jumper and hat).

Half way to our destination and a car pulls up alongside us. It’s a police car. As I was 18 and therefore spending what money I had on beer and walking home was the norm for me (at the time) I was used to being questioned by the police. I stopped and prepared to answer the usual questions asked by the officer who finds people walking the streets at god knows what time of night (Where are you off to? Where have you been? etc etc).

This time however my smart assed mate decided to piss around and in cockney accent so bad it made Dick Van Dykes performance in Mary Poppins look Oscar winning, yelled “Stone the Crows it’s the rozzers!” and pretended to hide behind a lamppost.

The officer must have been having a bad night and therefore got out of the car and gave both me and my mate a severe dressing down about how the area we were in had been a hot spot for a number of break ins and that both myself and my mate looked like prime candidates for thieves.

At this point I burst out laughing too. Did I forget to mention that we were dressed as the stereotypical comic book robber (Complete with striped jumper, black mask, hat and a bag with the word swag emblazoned on it).

Bet he wouldn’t have hassled me if I were dressed as Batman.
(mon bison powered by magnets, Thu 9 Apr 2009, 12:52, 1 reply)

Aberdeen - Theiving Jock Beyatches.
In an Aberdeen nightclub with a group of navy buddies, having a few drinks and I'm approached by 3 young ladies who seem to want to get to know old el'griffo a little better.
I join them at their table, engage in witty and comical banter. I offer to buy them a drink, this will defo cement my place in history and acheive the utopia of a MFFF.
I take their order, go to the bar and get served - when it comes to paymemnt for said refreshments i reach for my wallet......hmm, not in my pocket. i look back to where i am sitting.............hmm no girls.
The theiving witches had poached me wallet and legged it.
Turns out that they spent £2500 pounds on my credit card on fags that night at various service stations. Hope they got cancer.
(GreatGriff, Thu 9 Apr 2009, 12:52, 2 replies)

Shine, QUB Students' Union, Belfast 1997, or so
A small crowd was forming in the foyer, clustering around the photobooth where, with the upper half of their bodies shielded by the tiny wee blue curtain, two people were going at it like oversexed monkeys on the swivelly stool.

We tried to sneak in and stick some coins in the slot but the bouncers got there first and hauled the dirty little pair away.
( crackhouseceilidhband Fuck off back to Mumsnet, Thu 9 Apr 2009, 12:25, 3 replies)

Well... someone was having a good time.
I've not been to a nightclub for ages, so this is a story about me going hillwalking instead.

It was a lovely crisp, frosty and sunny Sunday morning in November. I decided that a day in the High Peak was in order, so threw my stuff into the car and set off. A little later, I'd found a carpark, and began to formulate a route.

THUMP!THUMP!THUMP!THUMP!

A blue Ford pulled up, its stereo loud enough to deflect asteroids. The occupants got out. A couple of them lit cigarettes. One had a pee by the wheel.

And a third... well, a third started dancing. Well: I think he was dancing. He certainly thought he was dancing. To be honest, he looked a bit like an eccied-up Mr Tickle.

A couple of minutes passed - to my shame, I didn't want to leave my car alone in the middle of nowhere with these people. Mr Tickle kept on dancing. I made eye contact with one of the smokers as he stubbed out his cigarette. We did that slight nod of acknowledgement; the clubbers got back into the car and I set off.

As they drove away, I could, for some time, hear their four-wheeled mini-rave heading deeper into Derbyshire...

THUMP!THUMP!THUMP!THUMP!THUMP!THUMP!THUMP!THUMP!
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Thu 9 Apr 2009, 12:09, Reply)

The art of pissing
My mate Dare (he is universally known by his surname) used to have a peculiarity that surfaced when he had drunk over and above his "self control" level.

He would piss.

Wherever.

He had a track record of doing this:

* In the corner of some bird's lounge in front of a group of people.

* By, not in, by, my kitchen sink in front of my mother who was convinced that he was "on drugs".

* In our next door neighbours' porch. They didn't like us much, I'm glad they didn't look out of their window and spot me dragging him down their garden path by his collar whilst he was still pissing.

* His moment of glory, the piss de resistance, came when he got himself barred from London's Slimelight club for standing at the top of the stairs (inside the club) and pissing down the stairs onto whoever happened to be in his line of piss-vision.

Can't take him anywhere.
( stopmeandslapme Cometh the hour, cometh your mum, Thu 9 Apr 2009, 11:41, 8 replies)

FLOWER OF SCOTLAND
Now, there were two things wrong with my situation. Firstly, I wasn't Scottish, and secondly, I had a cock.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Can I buy you a drink?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The cunt.

I still, strangely, feel incredibly let down by my Scottish man friend, Stan. He really hurt my fucking feelings that night... I mean, was it something I said???
( SpankyHanky, Thu 9 Apr 2009, 11:30, 7 replies)

A shameless pearoast.....
Lorenzo's nightclub, Dunfermline, circa 1995
Picture the scene.

It's the final dance of the evening. A slow number. The dancefloor is progressively filling up with couples both longstanding and erm...more recent, i.e. that have just bagged off with each other within the last 20 seconds.

I took to the floor with the Mrs Fister of the time. As we held each other closely and moved rhythmically to George Michael (or whatever the hell it was) I noticed not 2 feet from us another couple similarly engaged.

However, there was one subtle difference. The gentleman had his hand right up his lady-friend's skirt, into her knickers, and right up her mimsy. In full view of everyone. He appeared to be indulging in what I could only describe as 'Captain Birdseye'.

Dunfermline, a quality nicht oot.
(Reverend Fister "a disciplined fuckwit", Thu 9 Apr 2009, 11:27, 1 reply)

The Bowgie… under 18’ at its best
We had the best ‘club’ for under age boozing ever. The Bowgie, situated 3 miles from the nearest town, over looking Crantock beach, beautiful surroundings, sold Tuborg for a pound a bottle.

Every Friday, everyone from school would rock up to the grunge night, get hammered mosh until we bled, drink tequila slammers and have the most awesome of times.

Met my best mate there when we were 14, he’d just been headbutted, we drank tequila, he snogged a girl on a car bonnet (being so far away and not much around, they didn’t mind us wandering in and out) and then we moshed some more.

Even lost my virginity there, well a little away in the gardens, my brother saw me, it wasn’t my most proudest moment…

Best place to go when growing up. They made it ‘trendy’ and modern a few years later, no atmosphere, no blood on the dance floor, no kids wrecked on slipper nipples… good days…
(CornishStanley can't post hyperlinks, Thu 9 Apr 2009, 11:11, Reply)

Sibling Rivalry
I am a 2nd year Student at Lboro, my brother graduated from Hull last year, when he can he comes to Lboro union with me for a exeedingly drunken night.
The last time he came was in the middle of union elections and on the entrance to the union is a bunch of people in costumes giving out sweets in an attempt to win your vote.. and a group of girls with stamps.. being a little bit drunk and thinking "this will show my manlyness" unbutton my shirt and get my torso covered in stamps! "WIN" i thought.. walk into the club by a round of drinks and head to meet my brother and house mates at the entrance.. pass around the drinks and say "guys, look at this" unveiling my stamp riddled torso.. to which my brother turns round, drops his pants, displaying his ass covered in stamps.. officially owned.. and to show his win? every girl he managed to introduce himself to got a peek at his stamps..
how privelaged i am to have a brother..
(Fluffylegend, Thu 9 Apr 2009, 10:59, Reply)

This week's QOTW has arrived early
Is that because last week's QOTW - 'Unemployment' - had its contract terminated early?

I blame the Credit Crunch.
(Capo, Thu 9 Apr 2009, 10:56, Reply)

Nights out in Newcastle
Undercovercarrot has summed up one highlight of Newcastle nightlife pretty accurately. The Boat was indeed hideous and about the only thing it's revolving dance floor ever did for us was giving my mate Dave a near Fear and Loathing-style mental breakdown on his 20th. Copious amounts of booze, herbal products and a few pills led to him sitting in the middle hugging his knees and sobbing quietly to himself as it went round and round and round.


However, The Boat was not a patch on the epitome of high class Newcastle nightlife that was Blue Bambu. Highlights of this place included:

My football captain getting a handjob from a 48 yr old grandmother on the dancefloor. How did we know she was a grandmother? She was out with her daughters at the time. ("Mum, nooo!")

Chemistry Dave pulling one of the dinner ladies from the halls canteen. Wouldn't have been too bad but her (admittedly quite attractive in a skanky way) daughter also worked there. You might be noticing a pattern here.

Big Mike downing 3 pints of snakebite and black to prove that he could and then promptly refilling 2 and a half of them without leaving the table. Bar staff were non-plussed when they came to clear them away.

Getting sworn at by the twat of a DJ every time we asked him to play The Smiths. This culminated in Ally getting chucked out after swearing at said DJ because he wouldn't play the Undertones on the day John Peel died.

Queuing behind a girl/38 yr old woman who calmly dropped her keks and had a piss in the street at 10:30 on a Tuesday night right in front of the bouncers. Once she'd finished they let her in anyway ("Don't do that inside pet.")

Getting chucked out for vomiting in a sink. Fair enough but the reason I couldn't get in a cubicle was because all 5 were taken by couples either shagging or doing nose candy.


As with many places mentioned here the music was shite, the dancefloor was sticky, the clientele were aggressive chavs who were either in their mid to late teens or mid to late 40s. Why did we go there? Well it was only £1.50 a pint/shot/bottle on student nights and we were all very very poor/shallow.
(Milo Minderbinder, Thu 9 Apr 2009, 10:34, 3 replies)

Having a piss in a club in Ulverston, Cumbria.
'Hey man', I said to the chap standing next to me, 'Do you know where I can score some hash?'

'I wouldn't know about that', he replied, 'I'm a policeman.'
( Brandy_Bumwinkle, Thu 9 Apr 2009, 9:36, 7 replies)

I used to work at a lap dance club in Cambridge called The Talk of the Town.
I was then working on the door as a SIA badged door operative. On arrival at the club the patrons would get the following speech from us, "Good evening sir, no cameras, switch off your phone and hand it in, don't touch the girls, no rowdiness and have a good evening". We would stand for no nonsence and regularly had to eject drunks or groups of lads who wouldn't obey the rules. Now I don't look like the average bald giant bouncer. I'm about half the size of the big lads but I've got a bit of history and know how to deal with these kind of situations. Enough said. If I didn't like a particular person in a group I would say, "Oh and you, no wanking in the bogs this time". This used to make me smile as his mates would give him hell for a bit.

Audition night is a bit like the early shows of the X Factor. You get all the girls who honestly think they are pretty or slim enough to get a job as a dancer but are in fact, munters. Poor girls. Don't get me wrong they are usually really nice girls but the club has quite high standards. It's a rather up market club with lots of plush carpets and leather sofas, not a spit and sawdust strip joint with the smell of toilets, stale beer and the essence of Billinsgate. There are pole dancers, topless bar staff and lap dancers. It is run properly and no hidden charges, you know like paying a tenner to get in, then when you get to the bottom of the stairs there is a couple of thugs wanting another tenner and so on. It is very up market and a gentleman can enjoy sitting in a comfy chair with a bird serving you drinkies with her hooters out, another one stark bollock naked sitting on his lap poking her norks in his face and a few more doing remarkable things up poles. Now on occasion they hold 'Blue Nights'. (invite only) Now they are quite special and require a separate thread. Let's just say they are even more intimate.

One day I was in early as the club was auditioning new girls and although the club was closed, it's always best to play safe. In the lounge there was a pole dance session open to the local women to get some excercise. It is quite popular. The women are usually just in their undies and enjoy working the poles. I was always impressed how good the teacher was. It must be bloody hard and is almost like watching an olympic floor event. Anyway, at the beginning of the evening she arrived with her huge bags which contained a couple of portable poles for her lessons. They come in four lengths of tubing and a base plate and a top plate. By screwing the pole it forces the plates tight up to the ceiling and floor.

On this night the poor girl had not joined one of the sections properly and there was a small gap between two of the sections about a metre off the ground. Before the local women arrived for their lessons the auditions began. These are always good for a laugh as there is always one girl who either makes a fool of herself or a fat one or an ugly one. The first reject was quite a nice girl, very pretty, but when she took off her clothes it was obvious she had a phobia of razors. There was bunches of thick black hair under her arms and her snatch looked like a burst sofa. NEXT!

The next girl took to the other pole. The pole with the gap. She placed one hand on the pole quite high up and wrapped her legs around the pole. As she lifted herself up onto the pole, the join snapped shut causing the pole to no longer grip the ceiling but worse was she had caught her fanny lips in the now very tight join. The poor girl was screaming in pain and being a decent sort of chap I was right in there to assist. Eventually I got her clunge free from the vice like grip and she waddled off to the dressing room with her hands cupped around her twat.

This happened a couple of years back now but we still dine out on the story. The girl gave up her ambition to become a pole dancer and the last time I saw her, she was sitting at the checkout at the local Tesco. I no longer work there. I now do a stand up comedy act and you can probably guess where I get most of my material from.
( Captn Hood-Butter is not dead yet., Thu 9 Apr 2009, 9:28, 2 replies)

Route 66
One of only 2 clubs available at the time in Cambridge (late 80s/early 90s), it seemed like a good idea to go in there at the time but all I remember is paying too much for a drink and being soundly clubbed round the head with a MD20/20 bottle which was being held in the flailing hands of Chris Mallows (if you've spent any time near King Street you'll probably know him) it wasn't intentional fortunately.
I've never really bothered after that as it always seemed like too much hard work!
I do still like going to gigs but it can be a bit weird when the rest of the crowd are all under 20 and many have parents outside waiting to pick them up (especially when you know the parents).
(cmouse is pondering about life in other jobs, Thu 9 Apr 2009, 9:04, Reply)

Impressing your mates
I was never big on nightclubs as a youth: my preference was for classical music, and my main hobby at the time was playing in a youth orchestra. Some might have called me square, I preferred 'cultured'. I grimace at the thought of it. Anyway, friends from school were going to a nightclub near Wolverhampton, Rumours I think it was called, and sneeringly making the assumption that Ruddles wouldn't go.

Well I'd had enough of being thought square and decided to go along with them. So on the appointed night I met up with some mates, me wearing the one jacket and tie I possessed which did not form a part of my school uniform (for Rumours was so classy it had a dress code). We rolled up at the club, me feeling nervous as I had no real idea what to expect.

We lied about our age, paid and went in. Immediately my 'mates' all headed off to meet up with everyone else from school, and I was lost in a nightmarish hell of dry ice, flashing lights and loud music. But lo, a beautiful vision appeared in my sight: it was someone I know from orchestra, let's call her 'J'. She's the only girl I have ever met who was a bona fide nymphomaniac. And I'd got to know this from practical experience on a tour with the orchestra (to hear the full story you'd better hope the 'one time on band camp' QOTW gets chosen).

J rushes over to me and gives me a big hug, then takes me by the hand and introduces me to a crowd of her (female) friends, for she was at a girls' school. Suddenly I'm being introduced to a crowd of pretty young girls, all very pleased to meet me. Moments later I'm boogying with J as only a 17 year old clarinettist can, and a few more moments later we're playing tonsil hockey in the middle of the dance floor. The night's a bit of a blur but we ended up groping each other most of the evening, and I left with her instead of my school mates. Actually she more or less dragged me out of the club with a sparkle in her eye and a boner in my pants.

So next week at school I went from being Ruddles the square to being Ruddles the sex god. Didn't raise my opinion of nightclubs though.
(Smale is stuffed, Thu 9 Apr 2009, 8:53, Reply)

I was an undiagnosed autistic bouncer.
It used to be great, people used to give me drugs for beating up people because I was really hard.

Once two girls saw me do it and gave me three massive blow jobs each.
I refused, because that was their first mistake and went home and wanked off my uncle.
( Amorous Badger NAKED BEA ARTHUR PHOTOS 4U, Thu 9 Apr 2009, 8:50, 4 replies)

Bloke I used to work with
Was mild-mannered office worker by day, but thanks to his judo skills, bouncer by night at a huge Irish club in North London (which from memory I think was owned by his uncle).

The funniest story I remember (among the many he - let's call him K - told) was the time he took his monkey suit down the dry cleaners, then when he went back to collect it, they couldn't find it.

A bit of a 'discussion' followed, ending with K telling the people at the dry cleaners that they hadn't heard the last of it (he planned on sending them a stroppy letter).

So he turns up at work that night wearing a normal business suit, and explains to the other bouncers about what happened.

The next evening, walking to work, he notices that the dry cleaners is all boarded up, and relates this observation to his fellow doormen when he gets to work.

"You're welcome, K," says one of them in a strong Irish accent.

"You what?"

"Well, I was going home last night and went past there and thought, those are the feckers who lost K's suit, so I put a bin through the window for you".

"Shit", says K, "they're bound to think it's me, angry customer, lost suit and all that".

"I wouldn't worry so much", says the window-smasher, "it's not like they know who you are or where you live is it...?"

At which point K told him about the letter he'd sent that afternoon and a lively discussion ensued.

Length? A week or two before he stopped worrying that he was going to get arrested any moment...
(Capo, Thu 9 Apr 2009, 8:31, 2 replies)

When the booooooooooattt comes in, or, The Tale of the Flying Disablist.
If any of you have been to Newcastle, chances are you may have spent a fine* evening on the Tuxedo Princess/Royale, known to locals as "The Boat". What quite possessed someone to say "hey guys, let's have a nightclub on a car ferry moored underneath the Tyne Bridge" is beyond me. Lots of horrific beer (Carlsberg apparently, but I reckon just pumped direct from the river) and the feeling that the whole room is moving....because the whole room was fucking moving with the tide.

One of the dancefloors was extra special in that it rotated, which always added an element of fun**, and the ceilings were painted red. Absolutely fine, but when things got hot and sweaty, the paint started to melt, so you ended the night with many spots of red on your nice clean shirt that looked suspiciously like blood.

The Boat was truly an atrocious night out. And the boat was the time of an unfortunate incident in my life which I will now relate to you.

For some reason, despite its atrocity, a few friends and I decided to venture onto the boat for a few sherberts and to throw down some high class dancing moves. On our arrival, the place was fucking dead. I swear, there was more life in Michael Barrymore's swimming pool. Unfortunately, we'd all bought £25 tickets that gave you 10 free drinks, so we weren't going to leave.

At this stage, a guy in a wheelchair arrives with some other mates of ours. Now this chap had quite bad cerebral palsy (we shall call him Chris, for 'tis his name), and was a genuinely nice bloke. His mum (bless her) had never let him out before on his own to something like this, so us as "responsible" friends were supposed to look after him.

That was an error.

Unfortunately, when we all bought our tickets earlier in the day, Chris's mum had refused to get him a £25 one, as "Chris must NOT drink."
Well to be fair, Chris was a bit of a beer hound, and also was good at procuring herbage. and obviously, who's going to search the guy in the wheelchair?

So, a few beers later, and we adjourn* to the deck - Chris has to go up in the goods lift, as obviously any of you who've been to The Princess will know, there were many stairs. We sit on deck and pass round a rather impressive roach. Now, I have a problem with drugs - due to a relatively fast metabolism, I always tend to feel the effects first. In this case, I had a horrific whiteout, vomited profusely over the side and sat sweating for 20 minutes, followed closely by all my mates, Chris included. We managed to pass it off to the bouncers "no no, it's just we feel a bit seasick, honest" and went back in. A few sherberts, and we were back to normal.

"Right chaps" I said. "I'm off for a dance"

"I'll come with you" says Chris and I acceede. Having a cripple as a mate is great for pulling teh ladies, so off we go.

As we get to the revolving dancefloor, the DJ announces to the (slightly busier) room "let's give a big hand for our mate in the wheelchair. Well done fella" in true patronising style. Chris, to be fair, is used to this. And also very pissed.

This might explain why he didn't see the edge of the revolving dancefloor.

This might further explain why one wheel of his wheelchair went on the dancefloor.

And the other didn't.

He got thrown from his chair like a leaping, spastic salmon and hit the dancefloor.

On his face.

That took some explaining to his mum.

Chris wasn't allowed out with us again.



*unlikely to have been fine
**not fun. Oh no. Not fun at all.
( Undercovercarrot got done for gross misconduct on..., Thu 9 Apr 2009, 8:30, 2 replies)

at a goth club in Melbourne
someone died in the toilets, and (obviously) the ambulance people brought his corpse out. The organisers didn't turn the music off or shut down that floor or anything. The club cleaned up its act though: they changed the name.
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Thu 9 Apr 2009, 8:20, 1 reply)