Helmet tales
At the tail end of my stag do we went into a nightclub (well late licence generic bar to be honest, this was Basingstoke after all..). Amazingly we all managed to get passed the trainer phobic gorillas, all except me.

Half way through the night, as part of my challenges, I had had make-up applied by several young ladies. Lipstick, blusher, eye shadow and whatever that painful crayon in your eye thing is called. That was fine with the doormen.

They were fine with my choice of footwear too, just not my hat. A plastic horned Viking helmet. That was deemed too dangerous to enter the club and had to stay on the little desk along with the knives and nail clippers. I had to enter sans helmet in make up, looking like a twat rather than a twat who's on his stag do.

But all their stereotyping was forgiven when I left the club and asked for my helmet back, one doorman turned to the other and to help his colleague pick out my lone Viking helmet amongst chav hats said:
"It’s the bronze one."
( Weejock, Tue 14 Apr 2009, 9:50, 1 reply)

I like
No shit or vomit, just a bit of weirdness. Made me chuckle.
( ousgg is not seeking approval, Wed 15 Apr 2009, 9:09, closed)