When you can't get to the cubicle...
I was in a local 'nitespot' between Christmas and New Year in 2003. I was out with two mates and we'd had a rip-roaring night. As we approached the 'nitespot' I saw my cousin's husband on the door. One jumped queue later and we were at the bar.
The three of us were dancing and flirting with a few girls we'd gone to school with way back when. I felt a stirring and realised I needed to have the shite I'd been baking for an hour or two. Off to the traps I headed. When I got there, the one cubicle was busy.
I gave it five minutes and still no movement.
Hearing voices in the cubicle, I banged on the door and said come on, hurry up. Silence.
I'm a big old lad with a deep voice and I wondered if the occupant(s) thought I was a bouncer.
People came and went from the urinals, and I'd been in there over twenty five minutes when the colon- crippling contractions began. Before I shat myself, I surveyed the options- shit in the bin or in the urinal. There was no bin and I took a huge dump in the trough. As I was curling it out another lad I know (Shaun) entered and started to laugh. Two lads ran from the cubicle, either ripped on coke or having freshly hommed one another up.
Thebastard cubicle was free! I waddled in, wiped my arse then headed to the bar to ask for cleaning materials.
On my way to the bar, it was clear Shaun had been far from the soul of discretion and the door staff were literally bouncing!
The men's was cordonned off (it was only a shit!) and everyone re-routed to the ladies.
I made my excuses and left.
The next morning at football I heard there had been a huge fight over the toilet queues with twelve people arrested.
I have never been barred, but the door staff did cordially invite me to return at anytime as they'd like a chat with me. Needless to say...
(johnna, Fri 10 Apr 2009, 10:31, Reply)

Working in a Nightclub
I was washing glasses at the end of night, trying to get them done as quickly as possible so I could get that sweet amber nectar they bribed me with down my throat. One of the glass collectors had deposited a pint of puke - literally, a pint glass filled with puke - which I was leaving until last. It stood at the corner, pulsating, radiating noxious fumes.

Various shambling verbally-incontinent and emotionally crippled zombies shuffled all-too-slowly towards the door. One particular specimen was spectacularly drunk, barely able to walk (the floor seemingly attempting to go vertical), but he made it over to the corner of the bar, where I was then enslaved.

"Alright mate? Can I get a pint of water?" he monged.

Bloody drunks at the end of the night. It was already half-past three, the limit of the time the owner would pay us slavelings. "Give me a minute, mate, I'll just finish these glasses," I said.

I got my head down, avoiding eye contact with rabid drunks hoping for more intoxicants. I detected some movement, and looked up.

He had necked the pint of puke. He'd mistaken it for water, and downed it.

I threw up.
(McChinaman banned, Fri 10 Apr 2009, 10:23, Reply)

Riverdance it ain't.
I was visiting some friends in London, and we decided to go to Camp Attack at G-A-Y, where we were dancing around like loonies to random 90s pop. Which was fine.

What wasn't fine was when "C'est la vie" by B*Witched came on. For those that don't know it (how?) there's a bit where it goes all Irish-jig-riverdancey, where people usually fall flat on their faces or kick the person behind them whilst trying to act like Michael Flatley after 20 pints.

Knowing this, I thought of a much safer idea, and grabbed my friend's arm to go into a Cotton-Eye Joe style spin. Unfortunately, he was halfway through something approaching a leg flick, and ended up on the floor clutching his ankle.

We spent the next morning in A&E having his ankle X-rayed. Ever since, we've sat that song out. At least you know where you are with Steps.

(apologies for lack of poo)
(moogal has eggs, Fri 10 Apr 2009, 10:10, Reply)

Nighclubs
Dont like them, never have. Id rather sit in the pub with a few mates, talking, playing cards and putting PROPER music on the juke box. Bliss.
(kitescreech still here, Fri 10 Apr 2009, 9:06, 2 replies)

The Old Lion Hotel, North Adelaide
Tuesday nights, specifically.
{Mind you this was in the late 70s, it is now quite the trendy place for the young folk to be seen.)
Used to go every week to the "30+" dance night with 2 mates from work. We were all under 20. One looked exactly like a muscular David Essex (in his heyday).
The clientelle consisted mainly of women in their late 30s - early 40s, we never had to do anything, just walk in and go up to the bar - invariably you had a drink bought for you and some pissed lady fondling your bits.
One Wednesday morning, I was doing a shift handover and a fellow student nurse burst into the office screaming and slapping me - apparently I had fucked her mum the previous evening.
(wallynothere rnot without protection, Fri 10 Apr 2009, 7:18, Reply)

I worked as a fashion and music photographer in the early 90s
and I can't work out how someone can have such a smooth, controlled voice and yet be such a terrible dancer. I can see why there were protests. I went to a few of them myself actually. You would too, if you'd seen Seal clubbing.
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Fri 10 Apr 2009, 5:32, 4 replies)

am I the only one
who found that the song 'Twisted' started them coming down?
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Fri 10 Apr 2009, 5:21, 2 replies)

my friend (honest)
went to a '30 and over night'.

He described it thus: "apparently it meant that you have to have a child who's 30 and over."
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Fri 10 Apr 2009, 5:17, Reply)

I'm doing a dirty protest against this QOTW.
That's what I'm telling the social workers anyway.
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Fri 10 Apr 2009, 5:13, Reply)

Twll dîn pob Sais
Clwb Ifor Bach in Cardiff was also known as the Welsh Club for reasons that will be appreciated by devotees of Ronseal.

But they were happy to let in non-Welsh speakers too, although it helped if you were accompanied by a native.

Somehow a custom sprang up that people from the other side of the Severn would be told that in order to demonstrate their affinity with the Welsh, and therefore get into the club, they had to give the password "Twll dîn pob Sais", which they would dutifully do.

Only once safely inside would they be told by their Welsh mates that it meant "Every Englishman's an arsehole".

I imagine the doorman found it funny the first time, less so the 2,000th time....
(Capo, Fri 10 Apr 2009, 4:09, Reply)

Just like Napoleon, Waterloo was my undoing...
I'm going to tell you about the very first time I ever got drunk.

Not tipsy, down the park with a couple of mates and some cans or vodka or something, but drunk/hammered/sozzled/wasted/pissed/wankered/blasted/ruined/arseholed/shitfaced/slaughtered: the real deal.

This moment also coincided quite neatly with my first ever experience of nightclubs.

Being as I had never a) drunk anything in absolutely vast quantities or b) sneaked into a club (I was a shy teenager - quite a far cry to where I find myself now...) I took with me my ertswhile companion Ginge, who was at that time (and still is, to this day) my very best friend, but much more importantly to the tale had become quite accomplished at both a) and b).

And so I found myself, via a number of bars and pubs that we'd somehow convinced with our unbroken voices that we were over 18, in that wonderful emporium then known as Zeus, in Cardiff (its since changed name a bewildering number of times. However it has always remained shit, no matter whats written above the doors).

And what night was it this night, you ask...?

Why, it was SEVENTIES night, of course!

And which 70's band is guaranteed to be overplayed at such joyful events?

Why, that would be ABBA, of course!

Remember how this was the very first time I'd ever gotten wankered, in my whole entire life?

Remember how you felt, the very first time you got slaughtered? After you've finished drinking and laughing, round about the time its all over and you think you've perhaps been a little foolish?

Stumbling out of a taxi, falling through the front door of my parents house, collapsing on my bed. I feel dizzy. No - I feel sick. No - I feel absolutely fucking awful. The world is spinning. Literally - I'm lying in bed and I feel as if everything is moving around me. Its horrible. I'm shivering even though I'm not cold. I'm sweating even though I'm not hot. Being as this was years before the smoking ban I stink of smoke and sweat and spilled beer and cheap alcopops.

I am become death, to steal a well known phrase.

And all this time, as I lie there teetering on the brink of unconsciousness pleading with my equilibrium to reassert itself and my bile to sink back down, and wondering how and why the hell I'd wound up like this, what do I have stuck in my head, on endless rotation to match what my eyes were seeing the world appear to do...?

"Waterloo - I was defeated at Waterloo".

Over, and over, and over again.

To this day, endless drunken nights and much worse (and many years) later, I cannot hear that chorus without feeling just a little bit sick.
(Stuffed Chimp, Fri 10 Apr 2009, 3:51, 2 replies)

How do they do it?
I was in the Opal Lounge in Edinburgh, familiar to knaves and toffs. The event was ostensibly a celebration, but I'd rather honour any given occasion by rubbing my flaccid penis on a chili than go to the Opal Lounge again (and frequently do).

In any case, I wasn't up for getting steaming that night (because I was poor, not because I'm not an alcoholic or any sad excuse like that), so I had a glass of water. Next, a woman who I can only surmise was celebrating her fiftieth birthday by having a drink for every year of life came and pointed at my glass, took it off my hands before I even had time to be confused, took a swig of it, shot me a disgusted look upon finding that it wasn't mind-altering to any degree, and shimmied off drunkenly.

Moments, literally moments later, after sharing a "what the fuck? was she hitting on me?" look with a friend, I turned around and sighted her furiously pulling a gentleman who looked younger than I did, me being nineteen at this time. It really was quite a savage tongue based assault on the gent's tonsils, and I suspect it was the quickest seduction I've ever been a witness to, and I've seen the line, "So, I hear you like sex" be deployed successfully.

It seems there just ain't no substitute for experience. Apologies for lack of entertainment value. I've never been much of a storyteller. Or much of anything really, come to think of it. It just mystified me.
(StapMyVitals wouldn't mind a bit of that, Fri 10 Apr 2009, 3:40, 1 reply)

David and Goliath
I've been lurking on here for ages waiting until I had a story worth telling. So here goes my cherry i guess... **POP**
I spent a good few years working in nightclubs a while back and this question has brought the memories flooding back (some which I wish had remained hidden!).

One such tale happened while I was working behind the bar of one of Preston's finest* late night drinking establishments.
This night in particular happened to be bank holiday Sunday, one of the busiest nights of the year.

The average punter would have spent the bulk of the day lounging in the pub beer garden getting slowly sozzled, then headed out in the evening to the bars in town. Then finally when they were booted out at closing time, despite lacking the ability to walk straight or speak without slurring, they decide they've not consumed enough alcohol yet (besides, they have a day off work tomorrow) they all pile into our club.

The place was rammed to the hilt with rowdy, pissed up, obnoxious customers. With so many people crammed into one place this place was HOT! I don’t mean hot in "it's so hot right now!" kinda way, I mean like it was tropical jungle hot! Now when it's hot there's nothing better than an ice cold beer! (Mmmm... beer!) So you head to the bar only to find that the other 1500 people in the club have had the exact same idea!

Due to the managements tightness we were staffed at the bare minimum levels and so we were absolutely rushed off our feet, literally running up and down the bar serving punters. However, despite our best efforts the bar was still 5 deep with thirsty punters. Needless to say tempers were beginning to get frayed in front of and behind the bar!

When you are working on a bar this busy you have little time to stop and think. You're faced with literally hundreds of customers all crammed up against the bar, crying for your attention. You have absolutely no chance of telling "who got there first". The fairest thing to do is to divide the bar up into sections. Each barman then works his section from one end to the other, serving each person sequentially until you reach the end, then go back to the beginning and start again. That way it's at least fair and people tend to get served in the right order.

This night I was working with a good friend of mine called Simon. Simon was a skinny guy from Northern Ireland who was about 5'5" and couldn't have weighed much more than an Ethiopian refugee.

One guy waiting at the bar started getting a bit agitated at having to wait to be served and decided to take matters into his own hands...

First came the finger clicking... click, click, click. You ignore it so he starts clicking in your face... fucking cunt!

Next comes the money waving... Lord knows what he’s hoping to achieve with that. Does he expect to fall to my knees and start bowing at the sheer majesty of it!? "Oooh, a whole ten English pounds! I've never beheld such a princely sum!"

When this fails he resorts to shouting...
"HEY! HEY! HEY! HEY!" repeat ad nauseum until Simon finally acknowledged him.
S: "What?"
C: "Two pints of Stella"
S: "I'm busy serving someone"
C: "Yeah but I've been waiting ages!"
S: So has everyone else I’m afraid. I'm working as fast as I can."
C: "Serve me now!"
S: "Look, I already told you I'm serving someone else. I'm working my way from one end of the bar to the other. I'll serve you when it's your turn!"
C: "But I've been waiting longer than everybody else!"
S: "Ok then mate, if you can tell me the exact order that everyone arrived at this bar then I'll serve you next"
C: "Don’t you know who I am?"
S: "No and I don’t care"
C: "I play rugby for *****"
S: "Sorry, you'll still have to wait your turn"

Simon carries on working and the guy just stands there looking cheesed off. Then he decided on a crafty little scheme... he grabbed an empty pint pot from the bar top and proceeded to reach behind the bar and starts pouring himself a pint. Simon clocks this and grabs the pint pot out of his hand and tells him if he tries that again he will be unceremoniously launched from the building.

The guy is getting angrier and angrier. He continues his shouting for attention (how after all this he would ever get served I don’t know!).
Finally he snaps! He reaches out over the bar, grabs Simon's tie and attempts to pull him over the bar while yelling "YOU WILL FUCKING SERVE ME NEXT!"
Simon looking completely unflustered looks him dead in the eye and utters "If you fucking touch me again I will slit your fucking throat, so help me god!"
The guy releases Simon and we carry on working.
All of a sudden the guy picks up a glass from the bar top and hurls it at Simon. The glass whistles past Simon's head and smashes into a large mirror behind the bar sending shards of glass flying everywhere.

It's amazing how even in a busy nightclub the bar seemed to go completely quiet at that point.

Simon stops, turns around to face the guy and yells "RIGHT! THATS FUCKING IT!", then he reaches into the bottle skip, pulls out an empty bottle of bud then smashes the bottom of the bottle off on the bar. He turns to the guy and goes "Come here you cunt!!!" and then lunges at the guy. The guy leapt back through the crowd screaming like a girl, crying "He's trying to kill me, he's trying to kill me!"

Suddenly aware of a commotion the doormen rushed over and the guy practically clambered into his arms still screaming "He's trying to kill me!". The doorman suddenly started sniffing then looked at the guy in disgust and uttered "Ergh! Have you shit yourself you dirty bastard??”
The 6'6" rugby player had indeed shat himself in fear!

Simon was promptly marched into the manager’s office at that point and made to explain himself. He recounts the whole story to the notoriously nasty boss, fully expecting to be fired for this. After he finished the story the manager simply laughed and said "why don’t you go get yourself a drink then chill out in here for a bit before going back out there." That was it; the incident was never mentioned again.

The night went smoothly after that, the customers were bizarrely polite and tipped highly. One guy gave us a twenty to split and said it was one of the funniest things he'd seen in ages and the guy was a cock and deserved it!


I have many other tales which I’ll try to post if I get the time. I promise I’ll try to keep it shorter next time, but I felt this one needed to be told in all its full glory.

Here's to you Si, you're a fucking legend!

Cheers,
K

Apologies for length but it was my first time and once I started I couldn’t stop!

*It was a shithole but alas it had a monopoly
(Korrupt is shagging your food and eating your women., Fri 10 Apr 2009, 3:10, 4 replies)

Much requested poo stories, with love from me to you.
Hello hello.
Right, you asked for poo stories, so here you go. Who am I to stand between coprophiliacs and their porn...?
For those who missed my first post (where were you?) I worked in a scabby little nightclub in a scabby little town, and the majority of the tales I have to tell involve either stupid people, poo, or stupid people pooing.
I'm not sure if these are gonna be funny, but they are all true, and they all stand as a testament to the utter mankyness of some of the poor pathetic souls who have darkened my life.
I think the easiest way to do this is in bite sized easily digestible chunks, so without further ado:
POO STORY NUMBER ONE
To start you off with an easy one, I once found a pint glass full of poo in the centre of the dance floor, with a cherry perched on top. It looked like some kind of Angel Delight dessert thing, though if any angels were delighted by it they need help. Now.
POO STORY NUMBER TWO...arf... ...number two...
The club I worked in was invariably quiet in the winter, especially mid-week. On an average Thursday we'd get about 30 people in, and most of them were of the older, more respectable persuasion.
This particular night we had a silly young scruff in who, for reasons that now escape me, we had to kick out. As he was frogmarched from the building he repeatedly informed us that he was going to "shit us up", giggling like a two year old on nitrous oxide all the while.
Skip forward a few hours, it's 2am, the club is closed, and I'm just about to get a lift home with the head of security (who, contrary to stereotype, was a bloody nice bloke).
We get in his land rover, shake off the drizzle, buckle up, he flicks on the wipers and...
...shit is lovingly, tenderly smeared over his windscreen, subtly filtered so that the lumpiest bits are clinging to the wipers and the smoother, more refined discharge is spread over the whole windscreen.
No prizes for guessing who was responsible.
No prizes either for guessing what happened to laughing boy the next time he came in. I've not seen a head flushed down a toilet since junior school...
POO STORY NUMBER THREE
On my very first shift I was informed that there was a mess in the gents that needed clearing. I had a nose around but couldn't find anything, and was just about to leave when it caught my eye.
An 18 inch steamy behemoth in the urinal trough.
Now, it wasn't the fact that someone had gotten their todger and their arse the wrong way around (I've seen it several time since, only now I have minions to deal with things like that). It was the fact that it was in a perfect straight line. Whoever had done it must've shimmied along as they strained their bowels, holding up the queue of waiting wannabe pissers while he created his masterpiece. Sir, whoever you are: I salute you.
POO STORY NUMBER FOUR
Somewhat inadvisably, there was a brief time when Friday evenings played host to a childrens disco. They were well behaved little shits, mostly, and we used to enjoy selling cans of 7up and packets of space raiders to the little oiks.
One night a little girl (who looked disturbingly like a ladybird) came up and said that her 7up tasted funny, so we replaced it for her and then investigated the contents of the can. It was slightly brown, and slightly sour.
Me and Ethel (please see previous post) looked at each other and the same thought went through our minds: there would be no way of detecting that if it was in alcohol. This little girl's been spiked.
I wandered around the room staring intently at the other kids, feeling like an unsubtle Gary Glitter impersonator, but to no avail. After about half an hour I checked in the gents and found 6 (six!) empty laxative packets. Six!
One of the little donkeybonkers had been spiking the other kids with laxatives! We had a hurried chat with the manager and closed early that night to save our toilets from the inevitable splattering. I still wonder if there was a reported outbreak of direa diorh dhier the shits that week...
POO STORY NUMBER FIVE
How do girls manage to break so many toilet seats? I mean, honestly ladies, it seemed like at least once a fortnight I'd have a nose around and find one hanging off it's hinges.
I had about ten minutes to replace this particular toilet seat before we opened, so I dig a new seat out of the store cupboard, squat in front of the bowl, and set to work, reaching around to unscrew the wingnuts.
Trying to distract myself from the brown-streaked porcelain drop-off point mere inches from my face, I look away and hum a little tune.
*Humming a little tune, humming a little tune, (squeak, squeak, go the wingnuts) humming a little t-
humming a...
humm...
humming a little...*
My fingers are covered in shit.
My fingers are covered in shit.
My fingers!
Shit!
Some filthy, spiteful bint had deliberately smeared her own feces (hopefully her own feces) under the toilet seat, all over the wingnuts, right where you can't see it, right where someone's poor unprotected fingers are going to blindly probe the next time the toilet seat needs replacing.
I can think of no reason for there to be bumfudge on the underside of a toilet, other than the attempted spread of disease and unhappiness.
POO STORY NUMBER SIX
Again, another quiet night, and again, poo related carnage. Someone had presumably eaten something that disagreed with them because when the toilets were checked at the end of the night one particular cubical resembled a bowel-themed armageddon. I can understand someone not making it in time, but this seriously looked like someone had attempted to eat a prune and castor oil curry before trying out some Micheal Jackson style body popping.
There was runny, grainy pebbledashing to a height of 3 feet, with a 180 degree spread centered on the toilet, and for comedy value, there were two foot-shaped spaces on the floor that were clean and untouched.
Thankfully I had the night off, so I stood back and pissed myself while my manager and assistant manager donned latex gloves and retched and gipped for 20 minutes...
POO STORY NUMBER SEVEN
And so we reach the piece de resistance. The middle of summer, stupidly busy, the end of the night, and a toilet that smells worse that Satan's starfish. The reason? A mountain of rectal produce that reached so high it left the bowl.
It took me and Jemma (in the unlikely event that you're reading this, I still owe you a pint for your help) about 20 minutes of tag teaming to clear it up.
We compared notes after, and, judging by the strata left by the various deviants and misfits, the events unrolled something like this:
Some funny, intelligent willy dribble thought that it'd be hilarious to push their empty beer can down the bog as far as they could. Fair enough. However, someone else later came along with the urge to evacuate their bowels, and they did so on top of the can.
Obviously it wouldn't flush, so they covered it with loo roll and wandered off. Unfortunately another like-minded individual arrived later and did likewise, leading to a properly clogged loo.
So far, so normal. At around this point someone with a weak stomach entered, and decided that the sight of two friendly turds nestling side-by-side in the same bowl was too much for their delicate stomach to take, and they proceeded to yark on top of them.
By now the mountain of bodily fluids had nearly reached the top of the bowl, so obviously one dumb shitstain, in their infinite wisdom, decided to add to it. God knows how they achieved it, but achieve it they did.
When I confronted the hideous monstrosity the top was a good three inches clear of the bowl. He must've stood up as he deposited his final composition of crap, or else it would've been gently brushing his nipsy like a caring mother removing smudges from her grubby offspring's face...
I had to cover my arm in a bin bag and remove handfuls of damp shit from the bowl to another bag Jemma was holding, with two or three vomit breaks. Not something I'd like to experience again soon.
POO STORY NUMBER EIGHT
One night we had two girls come in who looked angelic. Butter wouldn't melt. They weren't heavy drinkers, one had half a shandy and the other had a cup of tea. However, no sooner had she drunk her tea than the other had dropped trou and shat in the cup!
Not to be outdone, the other girl picked up the cup and hungrily lapped it up, before projectile vomiting in the other's mouth! Then the first one...
OK, OK, so I might've made the last one up. Shut your faces, alright? Is seven poo-related stories not enough for you?

Length? I already told you, an 18-inch steamy behemoth! And no apologies, you bloody asked for it...


Jee-zus plee-zus, I need a shower now...
(Paolo Nutini's Bikini Better than Frederick Fleet's optometrist, Fri 10 Apr 2009, 2:32, 12 replies)

80's Rave Themed Night
Okay, so it was less the actual nightclub than what happened afterwards, but... (Disclaimer: The following story may cause boredom, depression and in severe cases, death. Also, feel free to skip to the last three paragraphs for the meat of the story, most of it is poorly written waffle.)

The occasion was a mate of the girlfriend's birthday party and we started out wandering into a few pubs. I was feeling like a tit with my bright technicolour rave style cap, pac-man t-shirt and glow rings hung from my necklace, ears, on my fingers and rammed into my shoes which generally got a few odd looks from passers by. I had "Fluorescent Adolescent!" shouted at me at one stage, which I was pretty chuffed with in an odd way. Got into a club, danced with the girlfriend and made lewd suggestions as to what I'd do to her when we got back to hers later.

It gets a little fuzzy here.

I got slightly tipsy, (read: shitfaced) lost my ladyfriend, somehow ended up dancing (read: throwing shapes like a twat) with a group of slappers after I was dragged into their circle (read: molested), got found by the ladyfriend and dragged out again then managed to lose her after I stood outside with her drunk mate (bit of a goer) talking for a bit. I should mention the Guinness I'd been drinking the entire time, as it was the cause of me then feeling rather ill and deciding to go to the bogs.

Pissed like a horse, considered being violently sick but decided not to, walked out and tipped the bog-troll a quid (didn't even wash my hands, I was just feeling generous) left the toilets, get informed it was time to go by a slightly irate missus as apparently the group had been looking around for me for half an hour or so, we get into taxi and I'm looking forward to a game of hide the sausage with my disappointingly sober lady.

Get in, stagger upstairs, throw on a condom as she's forgotten to take her pill (honestly, how hard can it be?) and after the compulsory cunnilingus to lube her up, in slips little-Toynip (that's my cock and not my non-existant son). I start thrashing away, put my finger up her ring piece as I'm full of Dutch (Irish?) courage, she doesn't seem to mind too much and anyway, she only had to feign enjoyment for an hour, as opposed to the usual two (hurr hurr).

So what felt like a studly performance but in all likelihood was probably 10 minutes later I'm spent, roll over, pat her on the arse and start snoring away, job done.

I wake in the morning with a pretty thick head and stagger to the toilet for a Guinness shit that nearly destroys the plumbing, then return to bed with the intention of getting a hangover cure in the form of another good hard shag, only to find the missus doesn't want any of it. In fact she's really pissed at me. Nay, seething. It's not the shouty kind of anger either, it's the "I'm going to stay completely silent cause you've done something that should be completely obvious and until you apologise for it, you're in the dog-house" kind of anger. Cue me figuring this out and guessing along the lines of "Dancing with the slappers?", "Spending too much time outside with your drunk mate?", "Losing you for most of the night?"...

All of which were incorrect. As it turned out, the condom broke during the previous night's shenanigans and I'd fallen asleep before we could talk about it. So we spent the morning with me hungover driving her around to all the family planning clinics, doctors and chemists trying to get hold of a morning after pill. Not the easiest thing to do on a bank holiday when everything is closed. Bollocks.

In the end she managed to get one the morning after the morning after. Didn't stop her doing a pregnancy test a few weeks down the line. I thought driving around on the bank holiday was a nerve-racking experience, but that five minutes of her in the loo pissing on a stick was a damn sight worse.

Thanks for reading my (frankly shite) story even with the severe lack of funnies. Evidently the evil of nightclubs had followed us home.
(AprilFool, Fri 10 Apr 2009, 1:54, Reply)

St Anton, Austria
The year was 1992 and I was 17.

I was on the last skiing trip with my Dad before I went in the army.

I was a normal Army lad, liked a beer etc...

Anyway I'll get to the point.

St Anton is a typical Skiing resort, several bars and restaurants and 1 night club.

So off I went into the night, leaving my Dad at the hotel bar.

As you can guess it's not easy to start talking to other skiers in bars when you're on your own as they're normally with groups of friends so I thought I'd try my luck in the club instead, so off I toddled.

You had to pay at the door and then walk down some steps to the dance floor then above the dance floor was a balcony with a bar going around it with some tables overlooking the main floor.

Perfect I thought, so off I went upstairs got a beer and sat down to watch the talent (probably looking very sad and sorry for myself too).

It was around the 10pm mark when this bloke came over and asked if I was a) alone and b) if I wanted a beer? I answered yes and yes please, being young and naive.

The night went on, he was French but spoke perfect English and every time I said it was my round he insisted it wasn't and went to the bar for 2 more beers.

By 12am I was fairly pissed and didn't people know it! (I get quite noisy when drunk)

He asked me if I fancied a dance, 'yeah go on then' there was a girl I'd seen earlier who I liked the look of, so we both walked down the steps to the dance floor.

I marched straight up to this girl and started trying out my best moves (epileptic on speed sums it up), but I must have been doing something right cause within 15 mins of my best display I felt a hand on my arse... Result!!! and carried on dancing about 2 mins later I started to realise something was wrong, the girl in front of me had her hands by her sides, so who was feeling me up? (with 2 hands by this point) I didn't turn around, I just thought my luck was really in, it was only when the girl mouth the words 'yuck' at me and walked off that I thought something was wrong.

I turned around and there he was, 6'0 of slightly overweight Frenchman....

I have to admit, I lost it, I hit him (something I'm not that proud of looking back), but anyway he went down and a bouncer came charging through the crowd gripped me and dragged me to the door, I was protesting my innocence all the way and at the door fair play to him he asked me why I'd hit him, I told him the story and within 30secs the Frenchman was being thrown out next to me.

I was allowed back in and seeing as I'd been given a second chance I made the most of it.

By 2am I was thoroughly wasted, so at the point of kicking out time I have little recollection of what 'actually' happened but what I do remember is walking outside and hearing a voice say 'how much would it cost me to suck you off?' the rest until morning is blurry, My Dad had to bail me out of custody and he refused to let me go out again on my own for the rest of the holiday.

But I never saw Frenchie again, not sure why?

Ho Humm.....

Regards
(Kip, Fri 10 Apr 2009, 1:38, Reply)

Can I take this seat?
In a cheesy club in Scotland a few years back with a few mates, thoroughly pissed and trying to find a seat or couch or something to avoid the constant threat of being bumped into by people with pints of diesel or b&h superking cigs or both.

We find a table with 4 seats so we sit down, however there was 5 of us and the 5th member of our ensemble was a shy ginger bloke named Tony, with a terrible stutter, which was made even worse due to him being inebriated.

We spy a table of girls next to us who happened to have a spare seat, so we told Tony to go fetch, knowing that he'd be nervous about having to speak to 3 fitties, especially in front of his mates.

"C....c....can I take this seat p..please?"

"Yeah go for it" the girls chimed back in unison, stifling a titter.

Cue Tony grabbing the seat only to find its one of those kind thats fixed to the ground
and its not budging whatsoever.

End result, roars of laughter from us, the table of girls, and a passing bouncer, plus Tony looking like he's trying to reenact a scene from The Sword in the Stone.

"Um I'll j....j...just leave it there" he whimpered before retreating rapidly, the laughter still raining down on him in floods

Did we know the seats were nailed down before we sent him over?


Of course we fucking did!
(Don't tell him Pike i'll probably just stay in, Fri 10 Apr 2009, 1:08, Reply)

In a Dance Club, far far away...
...and the next day, I awake to barely recall dancing like a manic madman to the then new sounds of techno. Though a regular dancer during the rock and roll era, this new found beat was 2x speed and caught me off guard.
Anyway, suffice to say I was drunk enough to not care but not so drunk I couldn't consciously determine that the dance floor was so crowded no one would be able to determine who was stepping on *every single persons feet within the four foot perimeter of my "moves" as I traveled back and forth across the dance floor.

The next day I estimated that I stepped directly on the feet of upwards of 20 people.
(OMG-Hilarious, Fri 10 Apr 2009, 1:07, Reply)

PENCIL IN THE FANNY INCIDENT
I was at a club in Manchester chatting with a young lady. Nice enough girl. Petite, appeared to have the right number of eyes, ears, and only the one nose - she passed my extensive quality control criteria.

After slamming sambucca for a fucking long while I successfully steer the conversation onto sex. This girl lights up like a fucking Christmas tree. Sex is her favorite subject, so it seems.

"I've got an incredibly strong fanny!" she extolls, and I can feel my cock instantly fall in love with her.

"Oh?" I reply. "Pray, tell more."

But instead of talking she reaches into her clutch bag and pulls out something narrow and yellow from the assorted crap she has in there - she pulls out a pencil. She squirms forward on her seat a little, grasps the pencil firmly in a hand, and I look on, a strange combination of abject horror and utter erotic pleasure playing tennis in my mind, as she slides the pencil under her rather short skirt and between her legs.

"Put your head down there," she orders.

And I lower my head a little towards her abdomen and hear a distinct CRACK!!!, and as I lift my head back up she squirms a little more and her hand returns clutching half a pencil.

"The other bits fallen on the floor - look," she says.

And I do.

Laying on the carpet just under her stool is the other half of the pencil, glistening and wet in the dull light. And, yes, my cock was definately in love.

Obviously, I'm not one to kiss and tell, but lets just say I'm glad I didn't acquire graphite poisoning later that evening when I did the gentlemanly thing and walked her home...
( SpankyHanky, Fri 10 Apr 2009, 0:48, 5 replies)

Amber Lounge
I was lucky enough to find myself in the Amber Lounge (after Grand Prix party) after the Monaco Grand Prix many (about 5) years ago.

Tickets I was assured were expensive, but drink was free. I believe the mention of 'drinking my weight in alcohol' was mentioned.

My wife was pregnant at the time so it was a tall order, but I pushed on through.

Two things I remember of the entire night was dancing (badly) on the dance floor and finding myself next to George Lucas and (what I was led to believe) was a niece of his.

Well the opportunity for the 'lightsabre dance' with sound effects loud enough to be heard over the music was just too good to pass up.

I don't think he stayed long after that.

The second thing was me at the bar asking for 1 paltry Bud when Rod Steward appears next to me and demands 18 bottles of champagne and 7 glasses.

I upped my drinking after that.

Unfortunately that is all I can remember of the night.
(Opanoid Look sweats dripping off them, Fri 10 Apr 2009, 0:33, Reply)

Grimy clubs
I promote club nights in Bristol so get to see lots of disgusting things fairly regularly. Highlights in last few months include:-

A couple getting kicked out for having sex AND snorting coke off the toilet hand dryer at the same time, Twister has a lot to answer for.

A guy with his cock out, rushing his tits off, wanking furiously in the middle of a 600+ person club.

Someone managing to crap half on the toilet seat, then apparently shuffling to the urinal mid way through to nip the rest off.

Lovely.
(WhatWhatWhat, Fri 10 Apr 2009, 0:26, Reply)

Last Night In Fact
This story is slightly unrelated, in that it happened near a dance floor rather than on it, and in a bar rather than a nightclub. But I’m going to post it anyway.

We were out celebrating our American friend’s imminent departure from our lovely country to return to his own.

After drinking most of the day, we arrived at a tequila bar, where a shot of tequila with lemon and salt costs just one British Pound.

We have a couple of them; all is going well until Yank (his slightly obvious nickname) asks us...

“Have you guys ever done an angry pirate?”

To which we reply in the negative.

We are curious, we ask him to explain.

“We do it all the time back home. Instead of licking the salt, drinking the shot and sucking the lemon, you snort the salt up your nose, drink the shot and then rub the lemon in your right eye”

I must explain, this idea sounds absurd, there can surely be no possible reason for this, the whole point of the salt and the lemon is to take the taste of the tequila away surely? But we are very drunk, it’s obviously an American tradition so why not?

So we do it.

It’s agony.

But we do it again.

And again.

And again.

And then we started getting the other people in the bar to do it.
It took some convincing, and some practical demonstration, but they do it, and soon everybody is doing it.

The bar staff are in hysterics as all these people are buying shots and then rubbing citrus fruit in their eyes.

Soon, everybody in the bar has one eye closed and are rubbing their noses.

****Wavy Lines To Indicate I have No Idea What Happened After That Bar****

We’re back in my flat, some of our party have passed out, there are a hardcore few still awake, and drinking, we decide more ‘angry pirates’ are in order.

A quick trip to the kitchen reveals we have no table salt, but we have rock salt, and we have no lemons or limes, but we do have fresh orange juice. Result!

We start snorting rock salt, and pouring orange juice in each other’s eyes.

Eventually, we ran out of tequila, and I must say, I’m glad, I’m not sure concentrated orange juice is that healthy, and if we’d snorted much more salt, we’d have sucked all the moisture out of our bodies.

We found out this morning that it is NOT an American tradition, our ‘merkin friend has NEVER done it before, he has never SEEN anybody do it before and he will never be DOING it again.
(Notmo, Fri 10 Apr 2009, 0:21, 15 replies)

Overheard by my sister
In the ladies at Jacksons (Cardiff) about 20 years ago.
"I can't wait till I gets home and has it. My fanny's dripping."
Not my grammar, the way it was said.
I love that place.
(onefishtwofish Redfishbluefish, Thu 9 Apr 2009, 22:57, 5 replies)

Rednex - Cotton Eyed Joe
Once I was dancing to this load of old bollocks so hard, ripping the piss out of it so much to my onlooking mates, that I actually managed to shit myself.
( SpankyHanky, Thu 9 Apr 2009, 22:52, 2 replies)

After many drinks
at Corporaton in Sheffield, me and friend walked home, and for some reason he had his skateboard with him.

before my road there is a steep hill, and I thought it would speed our journey up (and be somewhat entertaining) if we 'luged' down this hill on his board.

WEEEEEEEEEEEE!! it was fun whizzing down the hill with the wind through my hair and no traffic to dodge, until...

RRRIIIIIPPPPPPPPP!!!

something didnt sound to good, I came to a stop to find that my jeans got caught in the wheel and had tore a huge gash in my bottoms nearly upto my crotch,

I ended up disposing my battered jeans in a wheely bin whilst walking home in my boxers, carrying the contents of my pockets.

luckily I didnt have far to go
(Lord Chode, Thu 9 Apr 2009, 22:51, 5 replies)

Pint o' piss
Anyone who's ever been to Southampton in any sort of student capacity probably knows about the yawning, cavernous hole that is Jesters. On a Wednesday, it was Rugger Bugger night and it was indeed a rare evening if there wasn't a forward prop, or somesuch, dancing naked on a table with a gaggle of hockey girls around him. Apart from this, it had a certain, medieval charm in its low ceilings and dank, dripping walls. Above Jesters was it's bar 'Clowns' and for a short period of the night, the two were simultaneously open. I remember being vaguely horrified (although not surprised) to see the toilets in Clowns were backed up like the queue for a boat at Dunkirk. As such, a trickle of soupy filth was dribbling out of the bowl onto the floor, where it seemed to magically disappear.
Anyhoo, later on in the Jesters, downstairs, I see a very, very inebriated sporty-type stagger over to a fruit machine and place his pint on top of it while he deciding to be sick or not. The top of his pint was rippling, much akin to the bit in Jurassic Park when the T-rex puts in a toothy appearance. Looking up, I could see a drip of yellowish water, like a wet, yellow paratrooper who's got it all wrong, freefall in the chaps pint. It dawned on me that the source of this well was indeed the toilets directly above.
( Colonel Boris "...a desperate Buzzfeed imitation...", Thu 9 Apr 2009, 22:23, 6 replies)

missed opportunity
So there's this really fat, arrogant guy i know who nobody likes, actually everyone hates him. he goes by the name Big Gay Al - 'cos he's big, he's gay (tho still in his massively oversized closet) and his name is Alex. So me, a load of mates and alex r all at our end of year uni ball. its a posh do - suits and black ties all round. Im fairly drunk, as are quite a few of the others, as i go about my rubik's cube dancing the fat twunt randomly waddles up to me and peanuts my brand new tie round my favourite shirt and my favourite neck! bastard! (theres a pic of me taken moments after he's done it and the red mist has descended like an impenetrable fog of hatred and rage.) Im a fairly fickle drunk - i have the ability to flip from regular to blinding anger then to a state of euphoric happiness in mere milliseconds. the state of euphoria was caused by me spotting a fiver on the floor between getting my tie nutted and the first punch landing(which, due to the fiver, it never did) fiverless though, it would have taken about 2.5 seconds to land it.

Thats my dance floor disaster - missing an opportunity to twat a twunt 'cos of a rogue fiver on the floor which killed my rage attack, and a short attention span. not a real disaster, but i would have loved to have landed at least one punch and take the podgy bastard down a peg or 2. damn money
(MrPokey, Thu 9 Apr 2009, 21:42, 8 replies)

The last club I was in
Was Opal Lounge in Edinburgh.

I clearly remember deciding, at about 2am, that I would rather have minor surgery than stay there on the grounds that:

Minor surgery (under local anasthetic, for example) would be interesting, not boring.

Minor surgery (on the NHS) would be free.

People actually pay you attention when you're in hospital, rather than slamming into you and spilling your beer.




But on the way out I wandered into a chip shop as it was closing and bought two battered cheeseburgers for £2, so not all was lost.
( MatJ LOOK, Thu 9 Apr 2009, 21:15, 9 replies)

Robot Wars
Chris is the boyfriend of perhaps my closest and oldest friend. On only our second meeting, when we were both still politely smiling and doing bumbling impressions of people raised well with grace and manners, we walked into the side room of the Coventry Colleseum, allowed our eyes to adjust the darkness for only the slightest of seconds when we noticed that the room is half filled with a pick and mix of invalids and their various metal accessories and appendages.

At which point the music stopped and Chris announced to the whole room 'Fuck me, it's like robot wars in here.'

/for good measure, as we slunk out of the room he dragged me up the stairs saying 'C'mon, they can't climb stairs. Like Daleks'
(I'm a schmuck, i did a schmucky thing. is unlurking thanks to unemployment, Thu 9 Apr 2009, 20:57, 1 reply)