Once, whilst dancing in the style of the Monster Mash
to Rachmaninov's 3rd piano concerto on Barry Island, I inadvertently found a slightly worn polystyrene floor tile that led into the belly of Satan himself. Nice lad, bit excessive on the heating and hearty laughs, mind.
(SSSSS, Thu 9 Apr 2009, 20:51, Reply)

this weeks qotw
as a rule i dont "do" night clubs cus the arnt any for the music i like (jazz,doom metal,noise all that sort of thing)

but one place in sheffeild called dubcenteral or something which is in an old underground warehouse plays dubstep which is awesome so i go there any chance i get
(imgunnabesick rawr ^ \_/ ^, Thu 9 Apr 2009, 20:33, 3 replies)

Stiletto Heel
I was dancing in a discotheque, looking all suave, when someone stepped on my foot. I didn't glance around and seek out the person at fault. Instead, I surmised I was just dancing too close to someone, and started boogeying away across the dance floor in order to find more space.

There was a problem, though. My foot still hurt. Indeed, the pain seemed to be increasing as I continued to dance. What could it be?

Finally, I looked down, and I was shocked: a woman's shoe was attached to my own. Someone's stiletto heel had slipped into the narrow gap between my shoe and my foot. Through bumptious dancing, I had managed to wrench her shoe off of her foot, and carried it away.

I looked up, and I was shocked again: a shoeless elegant beauty was limping across the floor, frantically trying to catch up to me as I boogied away across the floor with her shoe.

I tried to ceremoniously return the shoe to the elegant beauty, but she wouldn't go for any of the Cinderella crap.
(Perv With A Dog had his eyes pecked out by scrub jays on, Thu 9 Apr 2009, 20:30, Reply)

Nightclub Nightmares
Nightclubs have always made me feel awkward.

1) I can't dance. I'm a metaller. I can do 'the twist' at weddings with Great Aunts, but I assume people just point and laugh at that in nightclubs.

2) Even at rock clubs, I kinda do the 'hands in front and slowly headbang' thing.

3) I've worn a suit whilst attending a nightclub on several occasions and have been mortally embarrassed each time. 100% of the time it was because we'd started at the pub straight after work and, for me, ended up in a club to get a few more drinks. For my 'colleagues' it was a chance to show the ladies how 'important' they were in their suits.

4) I have absolutely no idea when a girl is flirting with me until someone tells me afterwards (generally a female friend). Despite my awful dancing, I was regularly 'rubbed up against', had my bottom pinched god knows how many times, have been offered several drinks (not always by women?!) and have had many, to me, innocent slow dances.

No.4 might sound a bit like showing off, but to be honest, I wish I had the mentality to think "Wahey, I'm in here!". I just don't.

And being recently single, it scares the fook out of me that I might have to do all of the above again, even though I've never 'pulled' at a nightclub!
(Big Smurf Brush me daddy-O, Thu 9 Apr 2009, 20:22, 1 reply)

Brilliant timing...
I went to a nightclub last night. I then got in a massive fight with my girlfriend, who's since dumped me, and managed to seriously upset my best friend, who's not talking to me.

Cheers!
(Dizzy Steinway, Thu 9 Apr 2009, 20:11, 2 replies)

Kicked out
At the Rocksoc pub crawl me and my best friend Laura arrived at The Rule on South Street, both in goth gear.

We were in there for approx. 0.2 of a second before being kicked out. Why? Because Laura went to the toilets with a guy she'd been texting in order to swap her skirt for his jeans. Don't ask me why, I don't know. The bouncers saw them, thought they were doing something else *entirely*, and threw them out.

The funniest bit was when they tried to get out of each other's clothes and put their own on again. They had to do it in an alleyway in the rain, with me holding Laura's coat in front of them for modesty.
( Peapod Has returned to the fold on, Thu 9 Apr 2009, 19:37, 2 replies)

Krazyhouse
little 'metal' club in liverpool

first time i ever went there on my 16th birthday got beaten up on the 3rd floor, wasn't fun

been back every thursday since then.

cheap drinks, good music, easily girls, easy to find drugs, no dress code
free before 10, so dobbsey better hurry up and get ready
(dobbsey, Thu 9 Apr 2009, 19:29, 3 replies)

Three times a week, every week
That's when we'd go out dancing. Our favourite club was always so full of people we knew it was like a house party with a cover and a proper sound system. The best bit? Free pints until midnight and (decent quality) well drinks for next to nothing all night long. If it was the doorman who fancied me I'd get in for free, and the pretty bartender often handed me a double when I'd only paid for a single. The only disaster I can recall was when I slipped on a spilled drink and re-injured my recently healed knee, but even that ended in free drinks and the attention of a rather good-looking fellow I knew. It was brilliant at the time, but there's no way I'd have the energy for it nowadays.
(louveciennes , Volvospotter, Thu 9 Apr 2009, 19:02, Reply)

Getting Totally Fucked Up
When I'd just graduated from uni, I had quite the drug habit. Nothing addictive or really unpleasant, but I took as many pills, mushrooms and tabs of acid, and smoked as much hash, as humanly possible. They were mostly fun days, with me and my group of friends all in the same boat - lots of ducking and diving and funny tales.

All the same, it was quite a downward spiral. The euphoria of taking ecstasy by itself had been diluted by taking it along with whatever I could acquire. And naturally women were nowhere to be seen around me.

So one night when going out for a female friend's birthday party, a reptillian instinct vibrated from my crotch to my viscera. But typically for those days, we all ended up going to a dingy sweatbox of a nightclub, en route necking an oddly yellow-coloured pill.

Once there I remember being there for about two minutes, enough for the thumping techno to grab me by the hand and lead me to the dancefloor. I leaped about like a madman under the low ceiling...

and I remember nothing else until we left. A bunch of us staggerred to a party nearby. I was well and truly fucked and had one of those curious times where I was surrounded by people I knew but kept getting the cold shoulder, by being the most out-of-it, wankered idiot in the house. Fortunately there was someone else in as bad a state so we babbled together.

To facilitate this I needed to sit down, and did so on a nest of glass tables, which shattered under my weight. It might have been then it was put to me that I should leave.

Worse was to come. Next afternoon, I was told that I'd being coming on to practically every female in the club, even good friends of mine, attemping to play tonsil hockey with them. The tab of acid that I'd been given by someone in the club probably didn't help the situation.
(McChinaman banned, Thu 9 Apr 2009, 18:50, Reply)

Human torch pearoast, or How I Set Myself On Fire
On a student exchange in southern Hungary a few years ago I went to a fancy dress party in one of the collective deathtraps Hungarians laughably call nightclubs.

This one was in a shop cellar, with one way in and out - a single spiral staircase - and a waist-high brick shelf all the way round, which held lots of tea lights. The place was heaving with drunkards of many nationalities.

Dressed as the Grim Reaper, complete with Scream mask, I leaned back thoughtfully to assess the risk... and touched a tea light, which set fire to the back of my costume.

I ran onto the tiny dance floor, alternately flapping my arms to put the flames out and trying to rip off the black gown, which partially melted onto my back.

Nobody can hear you scream... in a Scream mask.
Everyone thought the crazy English woman was showing off a few decadent Western dance moves. Nobody helped me. I think some clapped and tried a few steps themselves.

The fire luckily went out, leaving a big hole in the back of the costume. I returned it next day and scuttled out of the shop muttering 'sorry no speaky Magyar...'
(Juan Quar is clinging to her front teeth on, Thu 9 Apr 2009, 18:46, Reply)

Underage boozers and the delights of a shit nightclub.
They were the days.

I think we were fifteen years old and we had an amazing discovery, as one night we discovered we could get served in the local pub, usually by talking in an overtly-deep voice and trying to grow a moustache on the spot. Yeeees! Fucking hell, BEEEER!
We chipped our money together and felt like real men for the first time in our lives. We did this for the next year (or when we had pocket money left over).

But... that was just the first stage of a tough initiation test. Next stop the Plaza nightclub with it's cheesy pop and dance sets and thuggish inhabitants. It was only across the road from the boozer, but it presented a further obstacle.

Bouncers.

Our deep voiced tactics did not work on these hardy fellows, so it took a little bit of ingenuity to get past the security, namely being refused entrance, shouts of 'i'm 25 next week mate' and other shit attempts to breach the threshold to chavvy paradise.

Shit... So it left only one option. Go around the corner and smoke two cigarettes and then swap shirts. Then casually stroll around the corner and hope the security had changed.

This sometimes worked. W000T!. Into the Plaza we went. Then it came to our very first attempts to woo the ladies on the dance floor with our really naff dancing.
I have to admit, despite me being a skinny, spotty, under age twerp of a kid, i sometimes got lucky with drunken eighteen year old ladies (who would occasionally fondled my underage balls)but more usually the women i pulled were about 30-4o years of age , some of them definately old enough to be my mum. I remember vowing to myself that i would never kiss a woman older than me ever again after some foul hag took advantage of me one night (i think i'd had about three beers) and gave me a sore throat with her large, probing over-ripe tongue..... Yuuuurg.

The Plaza was also the first place i ever got punched on a night out (leaving the loo), was also the first time i ever got chucked out by a bouncer and i also lost my virginity in the alleyway behind it with a girl who i have never met since (all in the same night). It was after a rather bonny lass had seen me get punched in the mouth by some skinhead, she came over and looked after me... took me to a quiet corner and started snogging my face off... Next thing i knew, i was in the space between two set of firedoors and she had her hands down my pants (like the classy girl she was), without even seeing them, the bouncers shoved us through the fire escape into the alleyway outside and slammed shut the doors.

Her next line will stay with me forever.

'You have ten minutes to do what you want'

Admittedly it was very difficult, as you may imagine, my very first time (trying not to remove my trousers, instead choosing to poke my cock through my fly and somehow guide it into her)... It was quite painful as my cock kept chaffing on my zipper and i thought it was quite a bad experience. But it could well have been her first time too, as she was terrible. I think we just stopped in the end.

She then left and got a taxi home, leaving me to swagger round the corner to find one of my mates outside being a bit sick.
We then walked home, my balls aching, my cock stinging, but i really did feel like a REAL man.

No apologies for length, as this was a momentous occasion in my life.
(mr-lizard Hell's teeth man!, Thu 9 Apr 2009, 17:56, 2 replies)

'Twas Rock Night
Not only that, it was a Halloween fancy dress party. Ouch.

I like a bit of heavy every now and then and wanted to go. I realised that my attire, white T shirt, jeans and leather jacket was not entirely suitable. So I had a blinding idea (if you'll pardon the pun)

I have been blessed in life by only having one eye.

I walked up to the bar and boldly asked for a bottle of tomato juice, with some blackcurrant cordial in. I went to the toilets, took out the plastic appliance that disguises my monocularity , wrapped it in tissue and then (after shaking it liberally to mix in the cordial) poured tomato juice into my empty socket and dropped my head down so it ran down my face and splashed the front of the T shirt.
Hmmm, not nearly gory enough, so I repeated the trick a couple of times before just splashing the rest over the shirt.

I went back into the bar and began spending a rather enjoyable evening trying to chat gurls up whilst not wearing my eye. I felt almost naked. I failed completely.
I then had a rather strange conversation with some bloke.

“you could have made an effort” he opined
“Yeah it was the best I could do at short notice” I replied
“I mean, it’s only a bit of good eye makeup and fake blood.” He continued. I did a double take.
“No, there’s no eye in there.” I said
“Yes there is.”
“What?”
“There is an eye in there, it’s just good makeup.”
I took out my prosthetic eye and showed it to him. I pulled apart my eyelids to show the empty (except for tomato juice) socket.

It was to no avail. He refused in the face of all the evidence to believe that I had one eye and persisted maintaining that it was “just good eye makeup”

Cunt.

I should make a pun here about seeing should be believing, or I sure showed him but I can’t think of anything clever.

The moral of the story is never talk to strange men in bars. They have a disconcerting habit arguing the toss over anything.

Apologies for length, it’s about an inch long and sometimes I put it in people’s beer for a laugh.
( Occulus Swallowed, instead of spat, on, Thu 9 Apr 2009, 17:50, 4 replies)

Mirror, Mirror on the Wall
Amongst my many identikit drunken tales (drink A x N + person B + venue C = carnage) there was one particularly stupid moment from a few years ago that always sticks out, and perhaps explains why I didn't make a reappearance at the venue in question for quite some time.

Picture the scene, the slightly grubby but dubiously charming Po-Na-Nah's in Oxford, stupid o'clock and a three sheets to the wind Shifty who needs to make good on his round. I gathered myself up, made sure I had the cash and made for the bar. As I was making my way to the bar I remember thinking that it was particularly busy and there were people dancing everywhere, so I duly fought my way past them. After getting past the dancers and into some space I spotted a guy coming straight towards me, and after a few seconds I thought "That guy looks really familiar". This was followed by a SPANG, and a slightly confused look on the other familiar guys face. I simply thought "Fuck it I'll just go another way around to the bar", so I turned around, fought my way past the dancers again and got to the bar, happy-ish, albeit a little delayed.

Now for those not in the know, the aforementioned venue is fairly small, with a dance floor about 6ft x 6ft, and at one end is a floor to wall mirror to make it look bigger. What I'd done was drunkenly weave a route at a tangent to the bar, fight my way to the back of the room, try to push my way past my reflection, twat the mirror with my face, turn around and bimble off to the bar.

Despite my intoxication I was embarassed, but apparently forgetful. Because the next time I tried to go to the bar, I once again tried to fight with that really familiar looking guy on the dance floor.
(ShiftyBastard won the World Cup on World Soccer Champs 2010!, Thu 9 Apr 2009, 17:42, 2 replies)

I fell down the stairs
Just a short slide, down 3 or 4 of the steps at the bottom.

I saw the girl sat on the arm of the sofa immediately in front of the stairs smirk a little.

"Can we pretend that that didn't happen"

"That's ok, loads of people have done it. I'm just sat here so I can watch"

Mykindagal. If only she hadn't just seen me buttski down the stairs.
(teebie jeebie, Thu 9 Apr 2009, 17:40, 2 replies)

What I wore on my first ever trip to a nightclub
I was quite a late starter when it came to the side whiskers and deep voice malarkey. So when my best mates started clubbing as teenagers, I was at home watching Blind Date.

But one Friday evening, as a 16 year old, my home phone rang, interrupting TFI Friday. It was my friend Chris, who informed me that he and a pal were off to the local nightclub. It was famed for letting under age kids in, so I thought, 'What the hell,' I'll give it a go.

The last thing Chris said before he put down the phone was, 'no jeans or trainers.' I didn't own a pair of trousers that weren't jeans- I was sixteen for heavens sakes! Then I went to my wardrobe, looked inside, and....FLASH FORWARD TWO HOURS...I stroll into the club with my bright green Ted Baker shirt on, two pints in my hands, the full Liam Gallagher swagger, and find Chris at the bar.

"Whitehorse!" he said, glancing down at me. "How the fuck did you get in here..."IN YOUR FUCKING SCHOOL UNIFORM?"
(whitehorse, Thu 9 Apr 2009, 17:25, Reply)

Eating the floor....
is the only way to describe what it must have looked like i was doing a split second after the inevitable slip on spilled drinks.

Out with old work mates one saturday night at local club in glasgow. Its my round, i've had a good few drinks now, feeling quite merry but far from being rat-arsed.

Being the nice guy that i am, i buy everyone a drink and carry the six wee plastic glasses of joy back from the bar on my own as said work mates continue their dancing ways.

Just as i make eye contact with the group, i start to slip on the dancefloor, try to regain my balance only to over-correct myself and end up going head first onto the nice hard wet floor. I never let go off those drinks during the whole thing and managed to save them - what a guy eh?

Well, i should have let them go and just bought another round as it would have allowed me to put my hands out and prevent what did happen - 2 of my front teeth ended up rattling around in my mouth.... bloody and very sore. Naturally i spat them out.

The next few days before seeing the dentist - as it was a weekend - was one of the most unbearable weekends of my life. Everytime i breathed, the air went over the nerve endings of my broken teeth and it hurt like hell. Eating and drinking was a challenge to say the least.

Now i have to be careful when eating ice-cream or drinking from drinks with ice in them as it can cause the now fake part of my new teeth to freeze up and crack, then when they warm up again they can fall out... very sexy in a club.

I don't like nightclubs anymore.

On the plus side, i think i invented a new dance move with the over-correcting balancing act i performed that night. Silver lining and all that.
(ADPR, Thu 9 Apr 2009, 17:23, Reply)

A tale from the other side
I'm the manager of a medium sized nightclub up north (Yorkshire) and over the years I've seen some horrendous and some amazing things.

This particular tale took place during the summer two years ago. To set the scene a little, we are a very student friendly nightclub and we have two dedicated student nights, and in all honesty, without them 80% of income would vanish.

This means that during the summer when the town is sans-student we have to allow people in who would maybe not normally be welcome in order to make some money.

This particular night we had a group that could only be described as border line chavs in. All in standard issue stripes and questionable trainers. Their finest Elizabeth Duke chain hanging out and as was the 'fashion' at the time, sporting little lines shaved into their eyebrows.. You can imagine.

We also had a group of women who were out on a hen night. Now these women were very nice to talk to, really down to earth, but not particularly attractive. They were obviously not the richest of women, but they were out for a laugh and they were enjoying themselves.

Anyway, the inevitable happened and the two groups mingled, much joyment was had and romance blossomed.

For two involved it got a little too romantic and they retired to the toilets. Unbeknownst to them, we check the toilets at least every 15 minutes, and every nightclub worker learns within a week how to spot two people in a cubicle.

Now, as I mentioned, this was a quiet night, and the door lads were a bit bored, so rather than go in and be obvious, they decided it would be funnier to 'stealth it', they managed to get this photo ( tinyurl.com/c277sy - NSFW) which has now been passed all over the our town.

However, this is not where it stopped, the unfortunate couple had decided to use the toilet located in the back of the club, and during the excitement , one of the staff had mentioned to our DJ what was going on. So, sure enough, as the couple were escorted past the dancefloor, the DJ killed the music and asked everyone else in the club (about 200 people) to give them a cheer for being caught shagging in the toilets.

I have never seen anyone go quite so red, or scuttle out of a club quite so fast.

Length: Check the photo...
Moral: If you're gonna try something 'dodgy' in a club, don't do it in a quiet corner. That's what we expect you to do... :)
( Ril3y is a brit abroad.. bring on the Stella / Asahi, Thu 9 Apr 2009, 17:07, 3 replies)

Take me Awaaaayyyyyy
Early 90's, Dancefloor disasters were few and far between. However when they did happen they went down like Pork at a Bahmitzfah.

I aquired some really really bad speed on the way to a club in Leeds.

I then threw up in her mouth as we kissed on the dancefloor halfway through a Joey Beltram DJ Set.

Her brother leathered me.

Everywhere.

Still I got some boss pills on Charnock Services on the Way Home

Techno - BANG BANG BANG BANG - FUCK OFF
(hoogie Original Cunt Horse Author, Thu 9 Apr 2009, 16:54, Reply)

Too young to go clubbing?
Have a bag of filthy speed burning a hole in your pocket?

Well, worry no more. Simply empty the contents of your parents garden shed onto the lawn, hook up your cheap, tinny tape player to an extension lead that runs from house to shed and turn it up to its useless best.

Soon you and your mates will be dancing the night away in your very own, very exclusive club, and that bag of filthy speed will be burning a hole in your nasal cavity instead.
( Moey, Thu 9 Apr 2009, 16:43, 2 replies)

Viking in a duffle coat
When I was 15 or so my beloved drunken uncle invited me to visit his home in Haugesund in Norway to spend Christmas (oh and also be his best man) yes uncle Malcolm was getting married (again). I should offer some background on my dear, now dead from drink, uncle – always the life and soul of any given party, an irresponsible rogue with scant regard for the result of his actions and even less regard for how and where he got some action – naturally as an impressionable lad I idolised him and had no idea back then how sad and lonely he was and how his life would turn out, to me he was a handsome cad, never without a new suit, a stack of cash (north sea oil rig ROV operator) a twinkle in his eye and a drink in his hand. He taught me the joy of ‘criminal curry” as I later came to christen it, buy the veg – shoplift the meat – easy! He didn’t of course need to steal he just enjoyed the buzz – this trick fed me through college.

So there we are in a bar – a converted bank to be precise, on his wedding night to be even more precise – don’t ask, the man was a law unto himself. The old vault downstairs had been converted to a poolroom just big enough to accommodate a table, two pissed players and maybe a few onlookers. In our thick Glaswegian accents we bantered away, shootin' the shit and pool with simultaneous aplomb. My sensitive teen hormone radar array quickly detected a couple of tall shapely Norwegian girls giggling in the corner; they were older than me, maybe 19 or so and to be frank well out of my league. Shortly, Uncle Malcolm, God love him, tipped me off that the more devastating of the two had been giving me the eye and even better, he started giving me a running commentary under his boozy breath of what she was saying (in Norwegian) to her honey skinned friend about me – now either they were of the assumption neither of us understood the lingo or wily old uncle Malky was far smarter than I thought and was just giving me the necessary confidence boost required to make an approach. Either way fueled by such vital insider info that this Scandinavian sex giraffe had was ‘well up for me’ was just enough to propel me into ‘Why yesh! Of coursh I pull like James Bond in a girls school’ mode. So lo-and-behold, bit of chit chat and before you could say ‘6 foot stunner’ there I am doing my best to perform some sort of exploratory esophageal procedure using only my tongue on this (considerably taller than me I should add) vision of Nordic eroticism – they say all woman are the same height when your lying down – well it would seem both parties perched on barstools also provides a pretty level petting field.

So things are bobbing along swimmingly and Uncle Malky's by now well pissed off new bride decides that watching her newly made nephew chewing the face off some elongated bint on a barstool is not her idea of a fairlytale wedding night. So big Malky, ever the gent slips me a wodge of cash – his remaining fags and a note written in Norwegian (for the taxi driver to get me home whenever that might be). So Lovise – no really that was her name, suggests we go to a local nightclub, some place called Dixieland, only a fool might refuse. It is there I meet a positively Brobdingnagian Viking in a duffle coat, yes a large man, in a duffle coat, in a club, in Norway. He looked suspiciously like some lumbering ginger giant at a Paddington Bear convention. The reason for the captious coat soon however soon became apparent – it was, as it turned out, the perfect apparel to conceal a 2-litre coke bottle filled with ‘moonshine’. Having said that I’d have been keen to see the legion of bouncers that would take this fucker on or more so relieve him of his hooch. Hagrids bigger ginger brother was very proud indeed of his moonshine – made it himself apparently, booze cost a fortune back then in Norway. As soon as he leered close enough to learn I was Scottish the clang of the drinking gauntlet tolled far and wide throughout the land. It would be fair report the beverage most kindly proferred was quite breathtaking. It also took some skin off my gums as well.

I can quite honestly say had the numerous shots of (what may well have been kerosene) from this cosy leviathan had not been forthcoming I might well not been daring/drunk enough to allow the lovely Lovise to fold her seemingly endless limbs neatly enough to fit under the table and administer the most bone shattering blow job of my young life. What with there being a couple enjoying a meal in the booth next to us the frisson of danger merely added to the effect.

And they say Norwegians are dull!
( spimf ™ is whoever you want him to be, Thu 9 Apr 2009, 16:42, 3 replies)

Best night ever.
At the tender age of 16, four little piggies drank a bottle of absinthe, acquired on a skiing holiday.

One little piggy just didn't make it.

This little piggy was thrown out for being sick on my shoes. And somebody elses.

One was little piggy got thrown out for revealing himself in the ladies'.

The last little piggy was ejected for dropping his pants and trying to shit on the dance floor. To impress the ladies....

God Bless Birmingham clubs....
(Scrumpy does not negotiate with terrorists,, Thu 9 Apr 2009, 16:38, 3 replies)

Those were te days.
Nostalgia's kicking in now and slightly off topic but there you go.

We used to go to Kinetic@Shellys in Stoke until it got raided and shut down.

But I used to live near Delamere Forest and the raves there were legendary, the police used to block the road and you couldn't get through unless you proved you lived on the other side, so you had to drive the long way round to the other side and then try and get the copper to let you through the middle.

Does anyone remember the 'Frodsham Cave Raves'?
They were on Channel 4 just around the time of the criminal justice act kicking off, well the cops showed up and tried to stop it happening but couldn't as it was on private property and they had the owners permission,

Well... My 'big' Sister organised them!

*Edit: it was Entrapy @Shellys - I think Kinetic was the name of a club in Hanley.
(Kip, Thu 9 Apr 2009, 16:33, Reply)

POSH WANK
There's nothing quite like a posh wank.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh, nothing..."

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

"I'm wearing a condom..."

"What???"

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

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

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

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

(That relationship was doomed to fail)...
( SpankyHanky, Thu 9 Apr 2009, 16:28, 8 replies)

New Year's Eve, Bagleys Warehouse, Kings Cross
A friend of mine was queuing up to go in, when a chap staggered out of the door and into him. Somewhat miffed at being manhandled in such an uncouth manner he rather roughly shoved the gentleman away, but rather than either kick off or stagger away the fellow hit the deck...where it became immediately obvious that the staggering and falling over were less drink-and-drug related than gunshot-and-death based.

Oh, and behind him in the queue were Phil Mitchell and Ricky Butcher from Eastenders.

Must have been somewhat surreal...
( Monty Boyce, My cheese game is strong, Thu 9 Apr 2009, 16:25, Reply)

Well...
I've done my best club story before, here: www.b3ta.com/questions/pubs/post362993

Aaah, the times in that place... such a craphole (well, full of students)...

On one memorable occasion, I was stood in the cloakroom queue to leave, when a bloke next to me decided to turn TOWARDS me and vomit all over my new jeans. Red, snakebite-y vomit.
Cheers mate. At what point did you not think it would have been nice to turn away from the other people?

Oh, and once, whilst queueing for over 20 minutes for the bar and getting really pissed off, I turned to the left and saw some HUGE guy I'd not seen standing there previously. I don't know how he could have gotten there all of a sudden - the mass behind us was at least five-deep.
And then he turned to me and started screaming, absolutely bloody screaming: "YOU'VE PUSHED IN! YOU'VE PUSHED IN! GET TO THE BACK YOU FUCK! YOU CHEATING FUCKING FUCK! YOU'VE FUCKING PUSHED IN!" My protests that it would have been physically impossible for me to push my way through that many people (I'm not very well built, and people in clubs aren't prone to let you push through them towards the bar) went completely unheeded. So I turned away from him, and tried to ignore him.
A minute or so later, he seemed to have stopped, so I turned back to see if he was giving me the evil eye or anything...

and he was gone...

I have no fucking idea what happened there. No idea at all.
(HarryTheMole whatever's on my finger is going in your mouth, Thu 9 Apr 2009, 15:52, Reply)

Just a quick reaction to some of the comments on here:
It's impossible to open a barrel because they have an anti-tamper seal on them. However, if that worries you, then have a bottle, you'll see us open it right in front of you and everything, so you'll know it's not watered down.

Dress codes are bollocks. We use them as an excuse to not let in people who are
i) too pissed/off their faces
ii) look like cunts,
iii) we don't like
iv) we just want to annoy.

Doormen are generally nice people who have a shit job. Some are thugs granted, but not all.
However, anyone wearing a 'Bomber' jacket is a prick.

Most clubs have flyer staff out on the nights they are open. If you read these flyers you wil know what music is being played prior to your arrival, and it may even have the door charge printed on it. Thus, you will not have to tell me that you are 'not fucking paying that' only to come half an hour later and do just that because you've been pressured into it by your not-quite-as-tight mates.

Finally, if you have sex in a nightclub, be aware that most mobile phones have cameras, and most doormen have mobile phones. They also have people like me that will post the footage on youtube...
( Ril3y is a brit abroad.. bring on the Stella / Asahi, Thu 9 Apr 2009, 15:42, 8 replies)

The stories are coming in a little slowly for this QOTW
but I am sure that there will be some good stories of wild drinking and debauchery from The Great Big Scottish QOTW Off-Topic Bash in Edinburgh. For those of you going don’t forget: Pictures or it didn’t happen.

Or will this be one of those occasions where everyone promises not to tell stories?

(Wish I could attend but it might ruin my impression of all of you if instead of a wild bash, I find a quiet tea party.)
(MichaelS wasn't picked again, Thu 9 Apr 2009, 15:22, 4 replies)

Religious Revelation
This was the now defunct Zodiac in Oxford.

We were all going out for someone's birthday, so we'd assembled around a friend's house and brought some booze to get a cheap 'head start'.

Me and my friend Dai had brought 8 cans of Scrumpy Jack, a bottle of some sort of White-Lightening knock-off, and a bottle of vodka. Not all just intended for us but we knew other tightwads wouldn't bring enough (we were students) so fuck it - we had stuff lying about the house anyway so let's make sure we don't run out of booze.

Our friends who lived in the house provided the massive bag of weed. And it turned out people had brought booze this time as well, so we drank our cider, drank our tramp-fuel, went out in the garden for a smoke and shared out the vodka with the others, then headed off for the club. Things were a bit odd by this stage after a long summer afternoon getting pissed and stoned in the sun, but I felt good, and positive, so OK, let's go to the club.

We got in and pretty quickly the group's split up and people are off on their own. I decided to find Dai and see how he was doing, since I was a bit out of it and assumed he must be.

He was on the Dancefloor, dancing like a middle-aged man, with his eyes closed and tears pouring down his face.

OK.

'Dai ... Dai! You alright mate?'
'Go away'

OK. I went off, got a pint, and kept and eye on him on the dancefloor to make sure he didn't do himself any harm.

After a while of this, with a gulf clearning around him as scared people moved further away, and his dance not varying with the music, his face permanently turned to the sky and streaming with tears, he moved off to the side of the room and I went over.

'Dai - you alright?'
'Yeah'
'What happened?'
'God'
'Eh?'

He didn't say a word for the rest of the night, even when we got back to our house and he vomited up the walls in his room. We thought he'd be fine, and once he sobered up things would be cool.

Next afternoon, he emerged.

'Hey mate - you OK now?'
'Yeah'
'So what was that about yesterday?'
'God'

We laughed it off - drunken bollocks.

'No - I saw God. He chose to touch me. I saw him. This is real.'
'Erm... OK'

This lasted for three days. Now, seven years later, he accepts that it was more likely the drink and drugs than God, but still has an awed attitude to the power of the Almighty.

Who knew tramp-fuel could be that good? Maybe they're all just Holy Men....
(SnowyTheWereRabbit the Leporid from Hell, Thu 9 Apr 2009, 15:09, Reply)

Revolution, Harrogate
is the place where (apparently) all the pretty people go and I (less than pretty) was dragged in there by my girlfriend who herself was dragged in by her brother and his mates on a birthday piss-up.
I suddenly realised why I hated nightclubs.
There were two queues to get in: one for plebs such as myself and my group; the second for Harrogate's finest (apparently) who got in quicker by flashing their tits or expensive watches, depending on gender.
The obvious elitism was not deserving of the shithole within. Now I'm a gentle hippy kinda guy and I cannot stand club music (drum n bass, I believe you kids call it...) and I lasted about half an hour. Not only was it incredibly claustrophobic but just about everyone seemed to be out of their heads on Bolivian Marching Powder and/or happy pills. The girlfriend went to shake her lettuce and found a bunch of Harrogate's so-called finest snorting a few lines in the ladies. There was some high as a kite prick who asked me over and over again for about five minutes why I wasn't enjoying myself. "Because this place is a shithole and you're a tosser" didn't seem to satisfy his chemically-induced curiosity.
The girlfriend reappeared and I told her we were leaving. Like I say, I'm a bit of a hippy bloke and not into the whole fighting thing, but I could genuinely feel the aggression rising within. That freaked me out the most: the fact that I was just aching to punch someone.
Without having so much as a drink (couldn't get served), we left and hot-tailed it up to the Blues Bar where we spent the rest of the night drinking rum, listening to kick-arse blues and hanging out with like-minded souls who only wanted to have a good time and listen to proper music that made your ears bleed. A fifteen minute long drums and bongos duel is something to behold!
I hate nighclubs.
(Ghostlight, Thu 9 Apr 2009, 15:00, 5 replies)

I am quite partial to a bit of cheesy 80’s music...
...(only sometimes mind) which is why I found myself on a Saturday night at Club De Fromage in Angel (oh yes, the house of cheese). I was merrily prancing around the dance floor, having fun and singing along when the next song started… diddle diddle diddle diddle… duunnnnnn nuuuuuuh duuunnnnn nunnnnnh… it was non other than Lionel Richie’s Dancing on the Ceiling (did you not get that from my masterful dunnnn nuuuuh’s??), and I did what everyone else in the room did, threw my hands in the air and went ‘woooo’. The only problem was I went ‘woooo’ at the exact moment a girl decided to march through the dance floor holding two massive drinks in a plastic cups up near her face.

Well you know what’s coming… I managed to punch one of the drinks right into her face, the other drink she had lifted out of the way in time over her head, sadly I think the shock of one cup hitting her made her drop the other one which proceeded to land also all over her face. I did apologise (and still feel quite bad about it) but I don’t think she heard me as her ears were full of vodka and red bull and she had legged it to the toilets to do a make-up check I presume.

The moral of the tale, look before you throw your hands in the air, and also don’t carry drinks onto a dance floor when I’m throwing my arms about the place like a Whacky Waving Inflatable Arm Flailing Tube Man! Oh yes!
(Flim-Flam the Magnificent "You is talking loco and I like it!", Thu 9 Apr 2009, 14:57, 10 replies)