Posts Tagged ‘nightclub’

Ladies you're making this um "harder" than it needs to be

There has always been a level of intrigue from the male gender towards the goings on in ladies public bathrooms. We are intrigued as to why woman travel in groups to the restroom and why they are so frequently require a “powdering of their noses” (as frequently as a cocaine addict might use the same euphemistic pardon).

  As with most situations our only glimpse into the inner workings of ladies’ restrooms is through what we are told by woman, regaled by brave men who have snuck behind enemy lines and whatever the pornography industry chooses to have us believe.

 Little do we know that women are as eagerly intrigued by what happens in Men’s restrooms and so to appease my female demographic here is my account of the everyday men’s restroom and the personalities within.

 Unlike my imaginings of a female restroom, a men’s room has far less instances of conversation, potpourri or homoerotic fondling (thank you porn industry). It is a room designed purely for the functional use of relieving oneself of bodily excretions and in fact conversation is in many ways frowned upon. There is something a little odd about standing a few inches from another man and having a conversation knowing full well that you are both holding one’s exposed (and hopefully flaccid) penis – not exactly a conversational norm in any other setting.

 That doesn’t stop several distinct personality types from indentifying themselves. There is of course the philosopher who will take the opportunity of awkward silence to let you know his view on the world – the quality of this philosophical discourse is inversely proportional to the amount of alcohol consumed (as with most things) and so do be warned that most of these philosophers will be found in nightclub restrooms. Some of my favourite pearls of wisdom which have been imparted on me in the past include “you don’t really buy alcohol, you just sort of rent it…look there it goes!” or “Chicks… you can’t live with em…” (that was all).

 Thankfully the “Philosopher” isn’t really looking for conversation merely a congregation so a few “aha’s” and “amen, brother” is all you really need to reply before you slink away unharmed. Far more troublesome is the conversationalist who feels that standing a few inches with one’s penis one’s hand is the perfect time to chat about the weather, the political climate or the local sports team’s chances this year. Unfortunately one is forced to respond in these circumstances and it is at this stage one can be quite thankful for the small talk skills one develops from years of government skills, low paying jobs in the service industry and visits to elderly relatives have bestowed.

 The awkwardness of this “conversational” interaction can be exasperated by the introduction of one of my personal pet peeves of ingenuity – the blue tooth headset. You see because one is generally looking straight in front of you and not able to see the moronic little ear tumour, when the gentlemen next to you suddenly says “Hi there” you instinctively think he is talking to you and not someone on the other end of the phone. It does get a little strange I find when this individual starts doing a running commentary of what is going on at the time – but then again, weird means something a whole lot else in a men’s room.

“Yeah hi there, I’m just in the men’s room taking a piss. That beer is going straight through me.”

 Yeah, thanks for reminding me….

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Hair of the dog... or some clever pun...leave me alone I'm hungover

So I gave up drinking on the 1st of January 2010 because I couldn’t think of any other decent new year’s resolutions and there was no way I was giving up any of my real vices. I immediately added the resolutive clause (go legal studies) that I would not drink until my Birthday, which only being the 6th of February (mark that down) didn’t seem like too much to ask…

And it wasn’t. The month of sobriety sped past like a rollerblading midget walking an energetic Great Dane. Then I didn’t have anything to drink for my Birthday, nothing for St Patrick’s Day, nor Easter (not even one of those Liqueur-filled Eggs alcoholic diabetics love so much). Next thing I knew an entire year had passed without me having a drink; it had it become a way of life.

There were obviously some distinct advantages. For one, I now new that there was such a thing as a Saturday morning (since I was 18 I thought they had  discontinued  Saturday mornings and that Saturday only started at around 2h30pm). I also found that I had lost about 10kg, which for those of you who know how skinny I am, is quite a mystery as to where exactly the weight came off – my earlobes I think.

I had more money, looked and felt healthier, was sharper on stage and best of all wasn’t finding out about stupid stuff I did the previous night based on pictures I was tagged in on facebook.

But it hasn’t been all Saturday morning breakfasts and care free breathalyser tests, there have been a few downsides and not just the obvious ones like being everyone’s designated driver.

Some of the disadvantages of being sober include the fact that now I remember everything that happened the night before even if I’d rather forget it. Girls will never look any more attractive than when I first meet them and you can’t exactly whip out the “good stuff” when it’s time to celebrate because no one wants to drink 100 year old orange juice.

There are a few things I miss about drinking. I miss being an incredible dancer or at least being able to enjoy dance music. I miss having an alibi for everything. When a drunk guy does something stupid, gross or inappropriate, it’s hilarious or “colourful”, but when a sober guy does the same he’s “being a dick”. I miss being able to eat things I couldn’t dream of stomaching sober. I miss being impervious to ridicule, judgment or pain – where the only memory of any pain was trying to recall the cause of unidentified drinking injuries in the shower the next day. Which is why I’m not surprised that my doctor recommended I actually started drinking again – not for my personal health, but for his financial health.

I’ve tried drinking non alcoholic beer so that at least I “look cool” but what’s the point of drinking non alcoholic beer that’s like getting a blow job while wearing a condom. I know its technically the same, but it’s not the same. You’d get more buzz by eating a handful of dead bees than drinking non alcoholic beer.

Regardless I remain sober but Alcohol: love it or hate it, I have to agree with Homer Simpson in saying it really is “the cause of and the solution to all life’s problems”.

Works everytime....

 

Do pick up lines even work? Even I think they’re corny, I can’t imagine what a girl thinks when some drunken fool spits a pick up line in her face.

 “Hey is your dad a baker? Cos you have nice buns!” hehehe

What exactly is hoping for? Seriously? Does he think that she’s just going to go “Oh my god! You are the greatest male specimen I have ever encountered!” “Not only do you have the debonair charm and wit of James Bond, but the way you got into that fight with the bouncer after puking on the dance floor is most invigorating. Please oh please make sweet love to me on this bar stool! And then allow me the honour of being the mother of your unborn child!”

 And if these pick up lines do actually work do any of those relationships ever last?

I can’t imagine if you had to ask your Mom and Dad how they met they would say “Well son, I had just been in a fight with a bouncer for throwing up everywhere, when I saw your mom in the shortest mini skirt I have ever seen…And the rest is history” “In fact I’m pretty sure that’s where you were conceived, you little bastard!”

 One of the things that scares me the most about dance clubs is when it gets towards the end of the night and the club starts emptying and you can smell the desperation in the air, it smells like sweat and rohypnol.

 At this time of the evening the body is just craving 24hour Steers or MacDonald’s, but you can actually hear some of the guys saying stuff like “Dammit its 3am! It’s burger time, I have to come right with something before the club closes!” at which point he is faced with a very troubling dilemma that has plagued mankind for centuries… do you go home alone, or drop your standards significantly!

chicks dig pandas

 And you can see these guys circling the dance floor like sharks looking for ANYTHING to eat, these sharks would be happy with the ass end of a leather boot let alone anything living. But this doesn’t scare me half as much as the “minga” chicks still there on the dance floor during this feeding frenzy. They’re dancing there thinking… “One of these guys might drop his standards significantly tonight and I might get lucky.” Some of the uglier ones are even hanging around the dance floor shaving their back then they whip out a Big Mac… here boys, here boys.

 I had a friend who had no problem with this, he used to say that every guy needs a “practice girl” and so even these girls served a purpose. Of course we called him the sexual janitor because of this, but he didn’t seem to mind. Heck his favourite pick up line was “you want grab some pizza and then have sex, or we can get something else if you don’t like pizza”

when in doubt...be honest

Look how awesome I look when I press play on my iTunes

What would a nightclub experience be without the DJ? I mean besides “better”. Talk about the most overrated job in the nightclub; this has to go to the DJ. The DJ gets so much credit for basically clicking play on his iTunes playlist, mincing around like a drunken hobo and then occasionally telling people what to do.

“Everybody get down!”

“Put your hands in the Air!”

“Everybody Scream!”

Gees, what a control freak! He could at least say Simon says first. Then he’ll play whatever the “flavour of the month” song is about 4 times every hour and yet you’ll still hear a million women scream “Oh Em GEE! It’s my song!”

Let me get something straight here, a Club DJ is not a live act. I understand there are electronic musicians who make dance music and some call themselves DJ’s, but the guy who clicks play on his iTunes then occasionally listens into his oversized earphones and pretends to finely adjust certain buttons and dials is not a musician. He is as much a musician as the guy who presses play on the DVD player is a movie director or the guy who forwards email jokes is a comedian.

Heaven forbid these “DJ’s” actually try and do some real mixing… what usually happens is either a garbled mess of 2 songs where the beats don’t sync and you end up dancing like a one legged man wearing roller skates during an earthquake (an actual description I’ve heard of my dancing). Even better is when there is that “death” between two badly mixed songs and everyone on the dance floor kind of just stands around staring at each other like they were all crammed into the largest most awkward elevator of all time (except at least there there’d be elevator music).

Regardless of what’s playing I’ll be trotting side to side doing the boyfriend dance in a circle around girls’ handbags while some strange loner guy who is clearly way too “in touch” with the music dances in a world of his own on stage or on top of one of the speakers hoping that it will attract some equally strange mate.

Sometimes DJ’s will be a little less authoritarian and ask people for requests. Although not once has one of my requests been acknowledged, probably because the requests are to “stop playing immediately”, “stop butchering my ears” or the ever popular “eat #### and die”.

Thank you Mr DJ for everything you do. From the way you peroxide your hair to the way you wear your sunglasses inside. From the way you pretend to be doing something important from behind your laptop to the way you always find the most inspiring things to shout over the microphone.

I salute you for without you the nightclub would be a very different place: A place I could possibly stand going to.

I'm pretty sure if I buy whatever alcohol they're selling one of them is contractually obligated to sleep with me

Next under the microsope: Promo girls

What genius thought up this vampiric marketing scheme? You can actually imagine the boardroom discussion. When are men most likely to buy things they don’t need? When they are drunk or when they think it will impress a pretty girl. So let’s combined the two by having scantily clad skanks sell alcohol to these men! Genius! Give that man a raise, in exchange for his SOUL!

Furthermore, at what point do they choose the promotional items to give away? Let’s see, we’ll need 4000 T-shirts (all size XXXXL), 4000 poorly stitched caps and a cubic f**kton of lanyards. I have so many lanyards I actually have to buy more keys. If you don’t know what a lanyard is, it’s those ropey/ribbony pieces of crap that douche bags carry their keys or wallet on and let hang out of their pockets ala “Dope on a Rope”. At some point in the past few years someone discovered that lanyards cost about 20 cents to make and they can retail for up to 50 bucks and so became the promotional item of choice for everything from beer, to cigarettes, to lanyards themselves and if you buy just 50 shots of tequila you get this classy lanyard free so all your friends know what a raging alcoholic you are.

But what is a promo girl without her “oh so classy” outfit. The fact that the outfits these girls have to wear stand out as being particularly skanky amongst the sea of skank that comprises most night clubs is really a tribute to the designers, who have removed any need to possess an imagination. I can’t decide whether these outfits are meant to be so skimpy or if these promo girls are buying their outfits on the instalment plan. I don’t drink and I have to say having a girl come up to me with her vagina hanging out is unlikely to get me to start, unless it’s supposed to make me feel sorry for her being unable to afford a complete dress and thus offer to buy her one.

One thing I will say there appears to be a direct correlation between the exclusivity of the brand and the quality of the women they employ. So while Moët and Johnny Walker appear to take some care in who they have representing their brands as all appear to be lingerie models or from the covers of fashion magazines; there are other brands that, either due to budget constraints or because they know they’re not fooling anyone (since their product is known to cause memory loss, internal bleeding and memory loss and is brewed in a bath tub) will take less rigour in choosing their brand ambassadors.

 

DO NOT MOVE! Their vision is based on movement

 

Thesy choose the kind of “girls” who look like they derive most of their income from testing experimental medicine and posing for “Before” pictures for plastic surgery and extreme weight loss programs. The kind of classy girl that it wouldn’t surprise you to find out that they’re pregnant while doing their promo work, not that that would stop them letting you buy them shots of tequila.

What scares me most when noticing how trampy and “less-attractive” these girls are, is that promo girls from all brands appear to travel in packs of at least two and in my experience, as limited as it is, there is always one who is definitely the ugly friend (here’s a tip she’s generally the one carrying the box of caps, t-shirts and lanyards) Now this is fine when we’re talking about the supermodel promo girls because then the “ugly duckling” could actually just be seen as someone attainable or in the league of “normal looking” people, but when it comes to the girls selling 2 buck Sambuca Shots the ugly girl is likely to be feral.

So next time you see Shrek and the Box Donkey limping your way do not make eye contact or you may turn into stone or even worse buy a lanyard.

I hope you’ve enjoyed the nightclub journey so far; next up… the DJ.

 

Yeah that's great, but can you just serve me a drink rather?

Oh the nightclub bartender; what wonderful hole do these creatures crawl out from? Yes, I get that you think you are the centre of attention since without you no one will be able to get the one substance that makes being in this psychedelic hellhole tolerable, but that doesn’t mean I have to tolerate you.

My interactions with bartenders although limited are more frequent than I would like as at least standing at the bar waiting for service is a damn side better than being on the dance floor (to be addressed in a future rant, sorry I mean “well researched blog article”). Either it’s because I’d use any excuse to get off the dance floor or because I’m usually the “boyfriend” and getting the drinks is part of the job description given my ancestral predilection towards hunting and gathering. Regardless I find myself having to negotiate the frenetic transaction of ordering drinks.

In my time I have developed a few techniques for getting service which I have perfected to the point that occasionally on the rare instance have actually been known to work, sometimes. One such technique which is unashamedly stolen from watching too many rap videos is the “make it rain bitches”-technique, which involves waving your money around  in the air, in a fashion that would indicate that you “just don’t care”. Please note that it doesn’t really work when the biggest note you have is a crumpled up R10 ($1 for my international readers – if you exist)

Another technique is to try make eye contact with the bartenders; unrelenting and unblinking eye contact as if to draw them in like some sort of tractor beam. The drawback of this method is it can result in your just looking like some sort of creepy weirdo who actually believes he has some sort of telekinetic tractor beam vision as you stare down lady bartenders while they prance around the bar. What can make matters worse is when one of the more effeminate male bartenders catches you staring and thinks you’re trying to hit on him.

The one technique that works without fail… have huge breasts, which is a problem for me as I’m sure you can imagine. However, I have learnt to use this observation to my advantage. I normally just ask one of the more well-enchested ladies to buy my drinks for me, which has some rather awkward repercussions. First of all I’m normally ordering chick drinks for my girlfriend and her mates, and it is pretty damn hard to act smooth and debonair when you’re ordering a cosmo, three strawberry daiquiris and a screaming orgasm, worse still is one is invariably seen by your girlfriend talking to other women – big breasted women – who you then proceed to give money to.

So Mr or Miss Bartender… you may try to avoid me, you may get my order wrong, overcharge me for my order or spill most of my drink on the floor in an inane attempt at “flaring”. You may serve the attractive girl next to me who just arrived at the bar even though I’ve been there for 20 minutes and you can even “forget” to bring me my change, but I have to tell you it gives me great satisfaction paying for my drinks from money you so kindly left me in your tip jar.

Next up… let’s see… how about promo girls!

Doesn't look too bouncy to me

What a terribly misleading name: “Bouncer”. It brings images of a rotund and jolly individual known for his boisterous laughter as much as his philanthropy. Instead in my experience most bouncers are steroid fuelled shaved head rage-aholics who can’t go five minutes without a glass of rage-ahol and would sooner stab you in the face with bottle than smile.

There they are; the first person you have to interact with on your magical evening if you don’t count all the freaks in the line. Squeezed into a suit and looking like a shaved gorilla they slowly assess everyone’s suitability for the fine establishment – meaning guys, you better all be wearing a collared shirt and leather shoes or you won’t be classy enough for the place which smells of sweat, vomit and broken dreams and looks like it was decorated by a gay robot (one which was programmed by a 70’s mafia boss with a penchant for animal print).

It doesn’t matter if you’re wearing expensive sneakers or an exclusive designer T-shirt, if you’re not dressed in the douche bag uniform you’re not getting in (this point has be well noted in my “secret ways to not have to go the nightclub” guide to be published soon). I even saw someone try argue with the bouncer saying he’s Vegan and doesn’t believe in killing animals for leather to which the bouncer elegantly retorted: “I don’t care what your f**king name is Kegan, you can’t come in if your shoes aren’t leather” and then something along the lines of “Are you looking at me or are you chewing bricks, cos either way you’re losing teeth?”

Wow the lines these guys use. There are some absolute literary pearls out there and I do suggest you try hear as many as possible hopefully not directed at you as it can often be the last thing one hears. Personally one of my favourites must be “The call me the VET, cos I’m looking after some sick puppies” (at which point they will kiss their biceps referring to them as puppies).

Where do they get these beef busses from? Are they genetically bred for the single purpose of making the night club experience less enjoyable (as if that were possible)? After getting past the “clipboard bouncer” who looks like he could snap my spine with the 5 mm of plywood clipboard and then the ever so surly cashier/stamp troll, I then have to get patted down by another frisky shaven gorilla before showing them my stamp.

Why am I showing you my stamp? You are standing less than a metre from the stampy cashier troll lady. You saw me pay! You saw me get stamped! What did you think somehow an alternate reality version of me switched places with me between payment, stamping and the 1 and half seconds it takes me to get to you? Oh! That is the reason? Okay then, suppose you can never be too careful.

At least at that stage you are in the club. Yay! (Sarcasm font required) and the adventure can begin and that is the last you will see of the bouncer unless he decides to kick your ass for breathing funny because he sure as hell doesn’t get involved in stopping any fights that may break out (usually because they’re the ones that started it in the first place).

One freak down many to go… next up: The Bartender.