"Your hand hurts because you punched a church"
This doesn't really compare with most of the current tales of woe, but maybe it should be told.

This typical night out features our heroes, little brother Marcus, and associate Ben. I won't bother changing names as I'll only get confused.

Marcus lives in the pub he works in rent-free and therefore gets credited, every month, with nearly a grand and a half of which only £50 is needed for mobile bills and the suchlike. Ben has not worked for more than three weeks at a time for the last three years, and is rather partial to anything which comes in white powdery form.

So, payday and a "drink Monday" session in grotty, good old St Neots. A couple of lunchtime beers swiftly descend into "OMG! Eight for a bluey at King's Lane Garage! Better get three gallons!" between about six of us.

By the time the three gallons are consumed, Marcus realises an evening in Cambridge, it being student night, might prove successful for him and Ben (who hasn't seen any pink for a good six years by this point). I was asked to tag along in case anything ridiculous happens, and also because at this point I am holding most of Marcus' wages to stop him spending them on a whim. This is crucial: he can have the money when he wants it but has to wait an hour.

By the time we get the bus, Ben has run home and drunk half a pint of Merlot, and Marcus has started on his eight bus beers. Luckily, they seem to have drunk themselves sober, and the first hour in the abomination that is the Regal goes without a hitch.

Fresh air, however, does not agree with the amount of boozes these snoutmen have consumed, and before long we are being kindly asked to leave on account of the two drunkies trying (one successfully, one not so) to piss under one of the outside tables.

An altercation ensues thereafter with some rather posh CUSU rep, out with a group of over-priviledged, away-from-home-for-the-first-time Cambridge Uni freshers. Shouting was involved, insults were exchanged, this rather stacked young man misheard Marcus and thought he was being racist.

Twenty minutes of convincing them not to go back in the Regal ("I can take them on!" "You can't, there's thirty of them") and M&B realise it's only an hour or so until the world's worst strip club opens and a couple of drinks in nearby Fountain are required.

Stumbling into a bar at half ten on a Monday night and loudly demanding "THREE FUCKING BOOZES PLEASE" does not, actually, get you three boozes. Ben is dismayed by this. Normally a very passive man, he decides the church up the road is to blame ("fucking organised religion!") and punches it. (Next day, of course, he has rather swollen knuckles, and zero memory. This could be due to the double vodkas Marcus was putting in his Old Rosie - well, he was paying, after all.)

An hour at the strip club swiftly resulted in Marcus spending £240 on private dances, buying eight £6 bottles of Newcastle Brown (kept leaving the last one in the booth and forgetting he had it) and being told by a stripper that, if he stays until closing, he can take her home. It also results in Ben falling down two flights of stairs in rather spectacular fashion.

By this time, I feel like I should be claiming £7 an hour as their "special helper" and ordering helmets lest they hurt themselves.

10.30 hoves into view and me and Ben must get the late bus back to the Neots, and Marcus off to Grantchester. He's convinced he's pulled, so after much arguing we leave him in the strip club.

I carry Ben to the bus stop (he's light, but he never washes so he fucking stinks), whereupon he drops around 8grammes of tobacco on the floor in successive failed attempts to roll a fag. The X5 turns up. This is a long-distance bus, so no low-floor stroll for us, and the bus driver helps me carry him up the five steps. "He's not gonna puke is he?" I guarantee that he'll be asleep before Madingley Road, or we'll get off. Off we go.

On getting back to St Neots, I realise there's no way Ben is walking the half-mile alleyway home, so set about getting a taxi. This is after he failed to walk down the steps and I had to leave him at the top, stand at the bottom arms outstretched and have the driver give him a nudge. Luckily, the taxi was a people-carrier so I could lay him on the floor. Me and the cabbie pick him up and deposit him by the back door, as he's lost his keys.

The most upsetting thing, of course, is the fact that after spending £490 when the original limit was two lunch beers, neither of them can remember having stripper-gash rubbed in their faces.

The story continues, but I already find myself apologising for my intimidating length.
(MightyX5 living on a small island on, Wed 30 Mar 2011, 11:06, 6 replies)

Would that club be
Talk of the Town? Nice club that.
( jim_bob can herd cats., Wed 30 Mar 2011, 12:10, closed)

Indeed it would
Twenty quid to get in, three rather gelatinous slappers once accessed.

Because I was pretty much sober, and obviously trying to stop the other two disgracing themselves, the dude overseeing the CCTV in the private rooms made me a cup of tea and let me watch the carnage. He even emailed me to remind me how much money my brother now owed me.

Good stuff.
(MightyX5 living on a small island on, Wed 30 Mar 2011, 14:13, closed)

Ah
The bouncers there are top notch. One of them posts on here from time to time. Also, the standard of the girls has increased, unless it's a stag night, in which case they could quite easily scare a police horse.
( jim_bob can herd cats., Wed 30 Mar 2011, 19:24, closed)

I don't know whether to laugh or cry, at this.

( monster munch person, man, woman... camera... TV?, Wed 30 Mar 2011, 14:19, closed)

Cry with laughter?
Or laugh because the crying hurts?
(MightyX5 living on a small island on, Wed 30 Mar 2011, 16:21, closed)

I think I've come over a bit Daily Mail.
BROKEN BRITAIN, that sort of thing. Sorry.

I'm really in no position to judge, having once been ejected from a church for being drunk. Vicar told me they were closing, and wouldn't listen to my perfectly sane arguement that "God's omniscient and omnipotent, so why would he need to close?" and so left me hammering on the locked door. Oh, the shame.
( monster munch person, man, woman... camera... TV?, Wed 30 Mar 2011, 19:27, closed)