Nightclubs
Thinly-disguised entrances to Hell where bad things happen. Tell us your dancefloor disasters.
( , Wed 8 Apr 2009, 12:35)
Thinly-disguised entrances to Hell where bad things happen. Tell us your dancefloor disasters.
( , Wed 8 Apr 2009, 12:35)
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I've been quite lucky
In that for most of my years I've managed to avoid nightclubs, due to having been a teetotaller until very recently and having very non-nightclub-by friends. However, on one occasion when I was at the tender age of 18, I was roped into it by my then girlfriend.
Being 18 years old, with your first *proper* girlfriend and horny as a badger rapist in a big heaping field full of badgers, you do tend to be an obedient puppy, all for just the tiniest whiff of that first, fishy twadge.
Having not been to a nightclub before, I had visions of it being some dark, sweaty room full of smelly, awful posers drinking drinks with silly names, grabbing each other's genitals, and having something or other "large".
"No no! This nightclub is ok! It's got couches and TVs and it's really classy. Honestly, it'll be fine!"
That's how I came to know the popular nightclub called Walkabout, in particular the one on Broad Street in Birmingham. The signage outside suggested some kind of Aussie themed pub, so immediately my trust in said girlfriend's description was challenged. What made this place "Aussie" as far as I could tell was that they had cricket on a small TV above the bar. And they served Fosters. Woo. But this bar area was not for us, oh no. We went down a flight of stairs to a very dark, loud, noisy nightclub full of...well, just repeat my earlier paragraph about what I thought it'd be like.
I was rather angry at being lied to, and to compound this I was used as a makeshift coathook for the girlf and all her pigs-in-makeup friends. Finding myself a wall upon which to lean with a selection of New Look's finest coats, I watch my little gaggle of female friends and girlfriend go to the dancefloor and proceed to sweatily bump and grind and jump their way through all manner of tedious, droning horseshite. Being a shy, insecure pseudo-goth at the time, I stood there stony faced, looking away every time some gelhead walked up to her and made a comment about her dress, which managed to be low cut to the point it actually just looked like she'd forgotten to do it up.
I look to my right for something to do, and see a platinum blonde shop dummy/barbie type with her bare leg wrapped round a man old enough to be her great uncle, and wished I could have unseen his freckly, hairy, pudgy fingers sliding in and out of her freshly waxed, suspiciously tanned fuck-hole.
I was later ordered to go and buy a round of alco-pops for everyone, which meant going to a heaving bar surrounded by loud, drunk men. Despite being a sizeable chap I have always had a quiet voice and have never been that good at asserting myself in a leaning-over-the-bar-to-order-drinks kind of way. As I stand there waiting to catch the eye of one of the staff, I can feel someone really, really pushing into my back, to the point I wondered if I was being anally raped by a poorly endowed man. I decide to turn round and see the causer of this pushing.
Being 6 foot 2, I am usually half a head or so taller than most blokes. What was presented to me upon turning round was a man I can only describe as a dwarf. What he was presented with was a very tall man who, upon turning round, managed to crack him on the bridge of the nose with his elbow, causing it to bleed profusely.
I immediately assumed I would be glassed and kicked to death by this midget. But surprisingly he was ok about it, told me "it happens a lot", and went on his way.
I spent the rest of the night drinking coffee on my own in McDonalds. By comparison, I had a whale of a time.
( , Wed 15 Apr 2009, 17:15, 5 replies)
In that for most of my years I've managed to avoid nightclubs, due to having been a teetotaller until very recently and having very non-nightclub-by friends. However, on one occasion when I was at the tender age of 18, I was roped into it by my then girlfriend.
Being 18 years old, with your first *proper* girlfriend and horny as a badger rapist in a big heaping field full of badgers, you do tend to be an obedient puppy, all for just the tiniest whiff of that first, fishy twadge.
Having not been to a nightclub before, I had visions of it being some dark, sweaty room full of smelly, awful posers drinking drinks with silly names, grabbing each other's genitals, and having something or other "large".
"No no! This nightclub is ok! It's got couches and TVs and it's really classy. Honestly, it'll be fine!"
That's how I came to know the popular nightclub called Walkabout, in particular the one on Broad Street in Birmingham. The signage outside suggested some kind of Aussie themed pub, so immediately my trust in said girlfriend's description was challenged. What made this place "Aussie" as far as I could tell was that they had cricket on a small TV above the bar. And they served Fosters. Woo. But this bar area was not for us, oh no. We went down a flight of stairs to a very dark, loud, noisy nightclub full of...well, just repeat my earlier paragraph about what I thought it'd be like.
I was rather angry at being lied to, and to compound this I was used as a makeshift coathook for the girlf and all her pigs-in-makeup friends. Finding myself a wall upon which to lean with a selection of New Look's finest coats, I watch my little gaggle of female friends and girlfriend go to the dancefloor and proceed to sweatily bump and grind and jump their way through all manner of tedious, droning horseshite. Being a shy, insecure pseudo-goth at the time, I stood there stony faced, looking away every time some gelhead walked up to her and made a comment about her dress, which managed to be low cut to the point it actually just looked like she'd forgotten to do it up.
I look to my right for something to do, and see a platinum blonde shop dummy/barbie type with her bare leg wrapped round a man old enough to be her great uncle, and wished I could have unseen his freckly, hairy, pudgy fingers sliding in and out of her freshly waxed, suspiciously tanned fuck-hole.
I was later ordered to go and buy a round of alco-pops for everyone, which meant going to a heaving bar surrounded by loud, drunk men. Despite being a sizeable chap I have always had a quiet voice and have never been that good at asserting myself in a leaning-over-the-bar-to-order-drinks kind of way. As I stand there waiting to catch the eye of one of the staff, I can feel someone really, really pushing into my back, to the point I wondered if I was being anally raped by a poorly endowed man. I decide to turn round and see the causer of this pushing.
Being 6 foot 2, I am usually half a head or so taller than most blokes. What was presented to me upon turning round was a man I can only describe as a dwarf. What he was presented with was a very tall man who, upon turning round, managed to crack him on the bridge of the nose with his elbow, causing it to bleed profusely.
I immediately assumed I would be glassed and kicked to death by this midget. But surprisingly he was ok about it, told me "it happens a lot", and went on his way.
I spent the rest of the night drinking coffee on my own in McDonalds. By comparison, I had a whale of a time.
( , Wed 15 Apr 2009, 17:15, 5 replies)
You have my sympathy, mate
But in all fairness any Walkabout I've ever been dragged to is absolutely fucking shit. Try a jazz club or something like that, niiicccceeee!
Great post, by the way.
Cheers
( , Wed 15 Apr 2009, 17:22, closed)
But in all fairness any Walkabout I've ever been dragged to is absolutely fucking shit. Try a jazz club or something like that, niiicccceeee!
Great post, by the way.
Cheers
( , Wed 15 Apr 2009, 17:22, closed)
I feel sorry for you.
a) You had to go to Walkabout
b) You went out with a girl who described Walkabout as "classy".
( , Wed 15 Apr 2009, 18:19, closed)
a) You had to go to Walkabout
b) You went out with a girl who described Walkabout as "classy".
( , Wed 15 Apr 2009, 18:19, closed)
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