My first club experience
I remember more vividly than most my first trip to a club.

Actually, that’s something of a lie. I remember the aftermath but what happened in the actual pub is mysteriously absent from the dark depths of my memory. Funny, that.

It was the first week of University, before Freshers’ Week had even begun, in fact. I was off to Kingston to do me some Journalism and two days after I had bid goodbye to a tearful mum and an indifferent dad (“stop blubbing, Roz, he’s home this weekend!”) I was settling in nicely. That is, I was drinking and wanking a lot, but rarely at the same time.

So we come to Thursday and a flyer has been pushed through our door. Indie night at Works nightclub, eh? Well, I fucking hate indie but it’s better than the usual rubbish you get in clubs so it’ll do. I consult my flatmate, Dan, who I knew was a sound bloke because within five minutes of meeting me he’d made a rape joke. He agreed to come and off we trotted that night in our finest wears, having had a lager or six at the flat.

So we get into the town centre and nip in to the ‘Spoons. This of course leads to us buying numerous double JD and cokes as well as downing several pitchers of many hues. So, both totally bungalowed – to borrow a phrase from Michael McIntyre – we head into Works finally. We then spend the rest of our meagre funds on expensive drinks before deciding that indie music now really is just a bunch of cunts shouting over “chord progressions for fucktards 101” in regional accents. So we start to walk home.

This is an interesting walk home – we’re about two miles from the flat and between us we’ve consumed about a month’s worth of recommended units for ten people. We stop off for some gammy-as-fuck chicken and continue. Halfway home, disaster strikes.

We’re outside a church and I take the opportunity to drunkenly slur how religion is for cunts. This obviously pissed off someone upstairs because my right foot, seemingly independent of my brain after so much booze, slipped off the kerb and took me with it. I sprawled in the road, both of us laughing our arses off, and went to get up.

Ouch, that hurts. You know when you trip and bend your ankle, as it were? It’s a nasty shooting pain followed by a dull ache that makes you limp like a gimp for ten minutes or so. Evidently I had done this so I sat on the church wall and tried to ignore the numbing pain in my right foot.

Ten minutes or so later it had faded sufficiently for us to walk off. It still bloody hurt when we moved though and Dan, to his eternal credit, helped me home for about a mile. We got in, collapsed in bed and I was woken from drunken slumber by my mother on the phone.

“You need to get out and hand CVs,” she said. She was correct, I was jobless and needed money.

I replied in the affirmative, except my reply wasn’t so much “yes mother, you are of course right and I shall go to the printers and produce documentation immediately!” No, it was more like “… umph, yeah, ‘k, I’ll get on thaARGH FUCKING CUNT!”

For, you see, I had gotten out of bed. And immediately collapsed back onto it. I chanced a look down – I had an ankle the size of a melon and the colour of an angry bellend. Right, I thought – doctors.

So I nicked the flat’s broom and used it as a crutch to get to the bus (I had remembered to get dressed first… shoes were difficult) to the campus. I hop-hobbled into the GP there and waited in ever-increasing pain for a quack. The big poster opposite me saying that the doctor provided homeopathic services as an alternative made me dubious of their credentials but I was here now.

I hopped along into the doctors and explained how, as a silly drunken tart, I had apparently twisted my ankle. The doctor, a lovely oriental women, got me to pull up my kecks and had a looksie. She visably blanched and said I might need to go to the hospital. Right… shit.

One crutch and some painkillers later I hobbled (with greater ease this time as brooms aren’t really designed for limps) to the bus stop. Fucksocks, I’ve forgotten my Oystercard. Fortunately a pale, sweaty student shaking in pain on a crutch evoked sympathy in the driver and he dropped me off at the hospital for free.

I walked into A&E (up a fucking hill! That’s just bad design) and explained myself to the grumpy receptionist. I was directed to the X-ray unit and I hobbled some more. The increased usage of my fucked ankle was steadily negating the painkillers and I was pretty fucking annoyed. Especially when I realised I’d been directed to the children’s X-ray ward and had to walk back to reception and go to the proper one.

Long story short, I got myself X-rayed (originally they wanted me to go back to reception again to get a form but by that point I was ready to collapse and an absolute angel did it for me) and was informed that I had fractured my ankle.

So yeah. Fuck clubs. They result in broken bones.

When I get home from work I'll post a picture of the offending joint a few days after the incident.
(MJPerry was crude but clickable at, Wed 8 Apr 2009, 16:18, 12 replies)

You went to the works!!
Lucky you didnt get beaten shitless!! LOL
(scowners shagged his mum on, Wed 8 Apr 2009, 16:23, closed)

I sympathise...
This is the result of a New Year's Eve:


( snee held his breath since, Wed 8 Apr 2009, 16:30, closed)

Well steal my thunder, why don't you?
I can't compete with that, not being a part-cyborg.
(MJPerry was crude but clickable at, Wed 8 Apr 2009, 16:40, closed)

Great writeup fella! :D
*clicks*
( LemonEntryMyDearWatson This time, Moriarty, the hand is on the other foot, Wed 8 Apr 2009, 17:30, closed)

Loved the story, but
why was your mother in your student flat?
(syz, Wed 8 Apr 2009, 17:51, closed)

100% of my friends
Lived with their folks for the entirety of their uni days.

I was the only one who moved out and got my own place (with a bunch of other random students).

Then again, I was the only one to leave uni before finishing.

Ho hum. I work for IBM now.
(Scritty Bakerman., Thu 9 Apr 2009, 0:30, closed)

Via the magical medium of telephonic communication
Marvelous things, 'phones.
(MJPerry was crude but clickable at, Wed 15 Apr 2009, 10:48, closed)

A click
for your wonderful description of just how incredibly shit indie music is :D
(Petite chien is going to do science to it, Wed 8 Apr 2009, 18:21, closed)

"just a bunch of cunts shouting over “chord progressions for fucktards 101” in regional accents"
You get a click for a point well made.

And because I did something quite similar.
Only I walked into a tree after going to an awful club night at the Birmingham Barfly. Sprained it quite badly and couldn't walk properly for two months =(.
(Poodles! MCCCXXXVII, Sat 11 Apr 2009, 22:59, closed)

The Works...
...is quite possibly the shitest place on Earth, apart from maybe Oceana, next to the cinema. I met a bloke in there who had actually travelled from Harrow, which made me wonder just how bad the nightlife in Harrow was.
(claireyfairy There's a smell in here that will outlast religion, Mon 13 Apr 2009, 1:15, closed)

Pretty bad
Junction is pound-a-pint on Tuesdays but that's about it.

Also Harrow, like most places on the outskirts of London, is full of chavs.

I liked Oceana when I went there but I'm not much of a club man. Give me a pint in a glass with a table in a pub. I'm 19 going on 54, apparently.
(MJPerry was crude but clickable at, Wed 15 Apr 2009, 10:48, closed)

ooft the works!
went there last year, and oceanas too, both horrendous and yes full of chavs, except works full of black chavs and wannabe wiggas, and oceanas was full of white chavs and wannabe wiggas. Metal detectors akin to airport style security on the doors, charming, heard its shut now cos it got a bit stabby, unsurprisingly.
(Don't tell him Pike i'll probably just stay in, Wed 15 Apr 2009, 21:45, closed)