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

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

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

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

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

O noes!
Something very similar happened to me once in Colchester. Which was bad enough in itself.
( Devil_In_Tights the *real* DiT!, Fri 10 Apr 2009, 11:23, closed)