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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)
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Raising the Flag on Iwo Jima
Being a notorious drunk, I have many a tale to tell in this QOTW.. Hopefully I'll get some of the better ones out the way before the Thursday deadline, but while I scour the murkiest trenches of my drink-addled mind, I shall regail what happened just last month, in a town called Thurso.

The flimsy excuse for this particular all day drinkathon was a Sevens football tournament where we had done so-so. Who cares, the fact was the season had ended and we were neither bottom of the league or first out the cup - jobs a good'un. So - to the 'Bar Bar Drinks' as I like to say...

I was feeling saucy and decided to go for as many different spirits over the course of the night as possible. Starting with JD & Coke, working my way through Morgans, Jamiesons, Southern Comfort and so on.

Surprisingly I was in decent shape up until we were going onto the final venue for the night - Skinandi's. As we spent most of our time in the various public houses of Thurso, we were getting to the club late and a large queue had formed. So we patiently waited, and waited (and could see behind us the queue had been growing ever larger). After what seemed an eternity, we got to the front where things got interesting.

Two of my "mates" who were also exceedingly inebriated and with me in the queue, pushed me over, pulled one of my shoes off me and threw it quarter-back style over some kind of shop over the road. Then they ran away into the club giggling. What were the bouncers upto? Faced with the prospect of climbing over walls and raking in gardens, getting mucky and stuff (followed by rejoining the gigantic queue) OR hobbling my way into the club to get my vengeance, I opted for the latter.

It was surprising how little people noticed that I only had one shoe on. And the floor was mostly in good shape, nice springy (read: marinated in sick) carpet, and smooth dancefloors. I was getting away with it. The floor was unkind to my plain white sock however, and this had to be discarded to the backpocket for now...

As Shylock famously said (possibly paraphrasification): "An eye for an eye, shoe for a shoe", I plotted my Jew-inspired vengeance. Not before I took a piddle however. What a strange experience to go into the man-toilets with a limp, only to feel the soft squidgy (albeit comfortable) carpet replaced by cold and slippery piss-ravaged tiles. Indeed, I got some very strange looks from my compatriots at the urinal, who I'm sure employed additional splash-back tactics to make my barefoot even warmer and wetter.

After shaking off my cock, hands and foot, I knew that I'd been got - and got good. And by God it was time to *got* the boys that had gotten me good. I prowled the upstairs balcony like a rare one-clawed eagle, spying my prey - the treacherous rats below. It didn't take me long to find them, acting all boisterous by the bar, oblivious to their betrayal - they had surely now forgotten, causing a scene like all good Weekers do. They were at the Champagne, in fact they appeared to be waiting for more glasses to toast their success no doubt.

I went in for the kill with all the grace of a shoeless man who'd just spent the last 10 minutes with his bare foot in everybody else's excrement. I took the sock out my back pocket and stuck it in the guy without the champagne's mouth. He recoiled, all grimacing and angry-faced, and backed away, dumbfounded as to what horror just breached his lips. Victim number two of my vigilantacious crusade had his back to me and was just popping the cork.

While the cork expelled along with the foam, I seized my chance and barged my way between some clingers who were waiting patiently for their share of the champagne. To their surprise I grabbed the neck of the bottle with both hands and started shaking it furiously, left and right, up and down. The foam was as relentless as my vice-like grip. John (for that was his name, perhaps a late time to introduce this revelation) had terror in his eyes. Champagne in clubs does not come cheap and at least half of it's volume was now at bare-foot level. But for £30 he wanted at least a taste and he would not let go, looking into my eyes he knew I was just as determined.

As this was by the bar, the floor was a kind of tile surface - no doubt to make sure incidents like this would be easy to clean up. By now the clingers had fled for their lives, and Kev (you know, sock-mouth) had returned to the fray. How it must've looked to the locals - me a semi-shoeless man battling for dear life with 2 other strangers for some precious champagne, white foam spraying everywhere and onlookers fleeing in all directions.

The frictionless surface of the champagne soaked floor against my baby-soft foot made the threesome collapse, yet the bottle was held aloft in the ruck - like a 21st century Raising the Flag on Iwo Jima.

It was at this point that we were ejected from the premises - soaked through and without drink. We hailed the taxi to take this ramshackle crew back to the good side of Caithness for £10-15 each.

The shoe was abandoned.
(, Tue 14 Apr 2009, 13:35, 6 replies)
great story
and well told


*donates shoe*
(, Tue 14 Apr 2009, 13:51, closed)

I knew that I'd been got - and got good. And by God it was time to *got* the boys that had gotten me good.


(, Tue 14 Apr 2009, 14:07, closed)
I like this.
(, Tue 14 Apr 2009, 14:21, closed)
Vile dump 20 year ago. What you needed was some one to put a torch to it, make it feel like a club in Wick. Burning Hot !
(, Tue 14 Apr 2009, 14:22, closed)
@nee Haha
I like what you did there. Those insurance jobs eh...
(, Tue 14 Apr 2009, 14:38, closed)
Wasn't the Weigh Inn a bit of a hot spot as well.
(, Tue 14 Apr 2009, 15:09, closed)

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