Tag Archives: clubs

Surprise, surprise

As usual, my inability to organise anything or sort myself out in any meaningful way has ended with me landing nicely on my feet. For all the complaints I make about life, liberty and fruit of the loom being shit, I am often on the receiving end of lucky breaks. Not all the time – it’s not like things are anything like perfect – but it does seem that a noticeable amount of times I don’t bother trying and things sort themselves out nicely for me.

See, I’d all but given up yesterday – people were suffering from the night before, fair enough blah-de-blah. So I’d resigned myself to sitting in my pants, eating Chinese food and watching both Clerks films. I was about 20 minutes into the original and half a plate into my banquet when I received a phonecall, indicating young Benjamin and his ladyfriend Hayley had made their way to Bournemouth without announcing they were coming.

It’s called a ‘surprise’, apparently.

Anyway, a bit of confusion, some quick getting dressed and rushing out to meet them was followed up by a night that – while not hitting the heights of pier-jumping for stand-out moments – was a considerable pleasant experience from start to late, late finish. Apart from the part where I agreed to sleep on my own bloody sofa.

Sitting in a booth and judging everyone in the pub quite openly, receiving free wine, helping people through their debilitating shin-related diseases, taking someone to their first ever rock club, JAEGER BOMBS, dancing like a twat, marvelling at one very good fancy dress costume, watching girls practice their pole dancing (purely for scientifical reasons, natch), something in iBar, Karaoke, being the DJs best friend and not really knowing why (he specifically requested Ben and I sing the closing song of the night), something else at iBar, back for remaining Chinese.

Good night. And on that bombshell, I’m knackered. Good night.

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Tigger loves it, I tend to get annoyed by it, but last night I was genuinely impressed with bouncing. We ended up at Bar So* and were greeted when trying to get in by what looked like the bossman of the bouncing group. What happened then was a pleasant surprise the likes of which I’ve never encountered before.

In short, he asked how many of us there were, why we were there (lots of stag parties in Bournemouth: some bars hate them), told us he was going to let us in but they paid close attention to larger groups of the same sex, advised us to be mindful of our behaviour towards others, then hit us with the old ‘if you have fun, we have fun’. It may not sound like much, but I was actually happy with this treatment. It was (whisper it) respectful.

I’m used to two types of bouncing, generally. There’s the heavy-handed, idiotic, ape-like morons who work doors in order to deal drugs, molest girls and beat people up in gangs and with no repercussions. Mercenary thugs, basically. Dickheads who should fuck off. Then there’s the ones that aren’t exactly like real people, but have enough going on in their head to realise not everyone is spoiling for a fight**. They’re still not great, but thanks to prison currency they can be bribed to get onside and become an asset if needs be.

Case in point: the idiot who liked to call me Harry Potter at Aqualenium in Preston stopped a friend from getting a beating because he liked us. He liked us because he had been systematically bribed over a course of months with cigarettes. Simple.

This new experience, though, was something that actually had an effect on me. Generally speaking, I ignore bouncers. I dislike them, but I don’t get in trouble myself*** so they don’t register a great deal. But for the boss of the doormen to just lay it all out, speak to us in a friendly, non-aggressive tone and just treat us with common sense was a minor revelation.

Naturally we immediately took advantage of his trust and had a naked, flaming knife fight. Stupid bouncers should never treat us with respect.

* Which I probably won’t be going to regularly, let’s be honest.

**To be set upon by multiple steroided-up wankers behind a club.

***And I’m not just saying that because my mum reads this. It’s also because I’m a tremendous physical coward/am not a prick.

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