b3ta.com qotw
You are not logged in. Login or Signup
Home » Question of the Week » Nightclubs » Post 402051 | Search
This is a question Nightclubs

Thinly-disguised entrances to Hell where bad things happen. Tell us your dancefloor disasters.

(, Wed 8 Apr 2009, 12:35)
Pages: Latest, 14, 13, 12, 11, 10, ... 1

« Go Back

Tales from the other side of the bar
A few years back i had the (mis)fortune to find myself in the position of manager at one of Preston's finest* night spots. During my time here I witnessed more than my fair share of sex, drugs, debauchery and violence. This tale is of the latter variety (I promise i'll get onto the smut soon!).

Every bank holiday monday we would host a hip hop night. There nights were usually pretty fun to work. Mostly because it was a change from the usual cheesy dross we played (hip hop had yet to sell out completely by this point) and there were a higher than usual amount of sexy laydees present.

The thing with Preston is that its situated about equal distance between Manchester and Liverpool. This made it an ideal location for the gangsters and drug dealers of these respective cities to enjoy a night out away from their own territories without the fear of reprisals.
For this night only an unofficial cease fire was called between these rival factions in the name of hip hop, honeys, henessy and of course the herb (sweet, sweet stinky weed in case you couldn't guess)

Now on these nights everyone was smoking weed. When i say everyone, i mean everyone! Security couldn't do anything about it except for to turn a blind eye. If they throw one person out then they'd have to throw everyone out. Besides, we've already established the type of clientele we had on these nights and throwing them out was not the smartest move!
I remember 3 large rastas stood at one of the bars at the bottom of the stairs. This bar was directly below where most of the doormen stood as it gave them an excellent vantage point with which to spot trouble brewing on the main dancefloor. These 3 rastas were stood there rolling the biggest joint I had ever seen (it was roughly the size and shape of my forearm and would have taken at least 2 people to hold). The head of security saunters up to the gentlemen and politely advises them "Erm, excuse me gents... I dont mind you smoking weed in here, but if you look above you you'll notice there is a camera pointing directly at your construction site."
"Unfortunately this camera can be monitored remotely by our head office. So if you wouldn't mind, could you skin up somewhere else?"

"no problem man!" replied the rastas who promply moved 3 inches down the bar!

It was frankly hilarious to see the entire group of 20st musclebound doormen at the end of the night giggling like school girls uncontrollably and muttering that they were "fucking starving for some reason". They disappeared next door to the pizza shop and returned with around 30 pizzas and kebabs.

Anyway, I digress...
Later on in the night at another area of the club, one of the bar staff was serving a customer with a large number of brandy and cokes. When he he came to present the guy with the bill the following conversation occurred.
B: "That'll be £££ please"
C: "No it wont!"
B: "Erm, yes it will!"
C: pulling up his shirt to display a gun tucked neatly in the waist of his jeans "No. It. Wont!"

The barman quite rightly bricks himself and hits the panic alarm. Cue 20 large doormen charging through the club knocking people, drinks and furniture flying like skittles in a bowling alley.
The doormen all congregate around this man and attempt to calm him down and avoid the threat of serious violence. At some point in the negotiations one of the doormen (a big dopey bastard who was pretty much harmless) said some thing which offended the guy with the gun. The guy retaliates by pulling out his gun and pistol whipping the doorman! An extremely unwise scuffle breaks out and luckily the doormen manage to relieve the man of his gun. The bouncers pick up the guy and charge him out of the back doors of the club using his head as a battering ram.
Once outside they discovered that the gun the guy had wasn't loaded. Rather than get the police involved and cause a load of unwanted publicity they decided to teach him a lesson and promptly kicked the living shit out of him and dumped him on the street.

However, this guy decided he wasn't done yet and proceeded to try and break down the fire doors in a cocaine induced rage. He didn't manage to get back in, however, he did manage to punch through inch thick security glass complete with reinforcing steel wires cris-crossing through the middle of it.

The next day we arrived at the club to count the money and survey the damage from the previous nights revelries when we were accosted by an extremely small, extremely angry west indian lady. This lady was absolutely irate and was spitting pure unadulterated fury at us, threatening with police action due to the fact that we had assaulted her son the previous night and stolen his property (a jacket).
It soon became apparent that the "victim" of our brutality was none other than mr pistolwhipper from the previous night. Needless to say that she found it hard to believe that her darling Clarence** would never do anything to deserve such a beating.
It was at this point that we decided it was time to enlighten her on her sons escapades from the night before, showing her the bloody hold which he had punched through the window at the back of the club. She still wasn't having any of it!
We fetched her sons jacket and she reached into the pockets to check their content. She then pulled out a rather sizeable bag of Peruvian marching powder and her expression changed. A look of disbelief washed over her face briefly only to be replaced by the now familiar rage. She turned on her heel and marched back to her car, opened the passenger door and proceeded to beat the living shit out of her beloved Clarence (who had been stealthily hiding in the car the whole time) with her purse.
"Clarence, i told you... smack... Never..."

Sending your mother to finish a fight you started (and lost) and retrieve the drugs you left behind surely has to be one of the lowest points you can sink to as a man!


Length? It was as big as your forearm!

*for those of you old/cool enough to remember this club was the legendary club (sadly now defunct) which hosted "Hitman and her" with the legendary Pete Waterman.

**it may not have been clarence but it was something equally shit and embarrassing!
(, Fri 10 Apr 2009, 14:35, 2 replies)
(, Fri 10 Apr 2009, 15:12, closed)
well-told and totally believeable..
..apart from the size of the rastas' spliff; but otherwise - a great story.
(, Sat 11 Apr 2009, 22:32, closed)

« Go Back

Pages: Latest, 14, 13, 12, 11, 10, ... 1