With hindsight, I shouldn’t have drunk so much right before we left for the club. Not because I was drunk (god no, not that! Who doesn’t like to be drunk?) but because I was now stuck outside in a queue of London proportions with a bladder fixing to burst all over the pavement. Having suffered the misfortune to be born with rude bits that go in instead of out, there was squat-diddly I could do about it, save squat-piddling, which I was not yet inebriated enough to consider socially acceptable. I sent my accomplice, Dave, to scout ahead and see how far the wretched line extended, and he reported back that it wrapped around three sides of the immense and towering exterior of our venue, occupants waiting doggedly like tramps on a breadline as they glacially trickled towards the dark entrance. I’m paraphrasing, of course, Dave was much more verbose.
So we waited and waited, and then we waited, and the rain rained away my make up and most of my buzz. In the interests of clubbing camaraderie I spoke to the people in the line behind me, covering general topics everyone likes – music festivals, sandwiches, unicorns – but my impressions of solidarity were later shattered when I noticed the same people had edged in front of us. The combination of being desperate to get in without trouble and being English meant I was unable to cause a scene, but I gave the back of their heads a mighty stern look, I can tell you that. Anyway in a few more minutes we reached the final frontier, a bottleneck of bouncers with their best grumpy faces on.
“Can I see some ID?”
Shit. Balls. Bugs. Reekus. Forgot my ID. I uselessly patted around my pocketless outfit and put on my finest puppy dog eyes.
“Uhhh I think it’s fallen out, I swear I had it. Honestly sir I’m well overage.”
“No ID, no entry” said he with the heart of stone, and began to usher me aside.
“NO! Wait! Please!” I yelped. “Look at these laugh lines. See the shadows under my eyes? Feel my tits – go on just feel them – these are not underage breasts, sir. I’ve got a filling! I’ve got cellulite!”
Dave chose this moment, and no sooner, to pipe up: “nah here it is, I forgot you gave it to me.” And thus it was that we finally made it into the club; a humiliating process which left me feeling very much not seventeen.
Relieved to finally be done with all the waiting, I headed straight for the bathroom to wait for a cubicle, after which I was to head to the bar and wait to buy drinks, whilst D waited for the cloakroom. I ninja-weaved my way to the front in good time however, buying four drinks and then spending a good ten minutes balancing them all in my hands and ninja-weaving my way to the agreed meeting point on the dance floor, where I saw D waiting with his back to me. Heady with the success of my booze mission I let out a whoop and nudged the four glasses into the back of my companion. Alas, my hubris was my undoing! For it was then that my iphone, wedged within my sweaty armpit, boldly broke forth from its fleshy bonds and kamikazed to the floor. Cracks! Devlish cracks everywhere! The back, it turned out, did not even belong to Dave. He was nowhere to be seen.
I jived away on my own for a while in pretty good spirits, as the DJ was turning up some belters. I whipped out my fragmented phone to try and nab some track IDs, when I noticed a dark handsome stranger leaning over my shoulder. He was making the eyes, I was making the eyes, then he leaned in close and said, “the dance floor is no place for a smart phone babe, update your status tomorrow” and smugly jived away with his smug clubbing purist smugface and I was left with the burning injustice of his snap judgment. I WAS SHAZAMING YOU INGRATE.
With no phone reception I had to eventually give D up for dead and head to the smoking area to make some replacement friends. Pickings were slim, as everyone was either already deep in exclusive conversation, or borderline cross-eyed. I chose the mess nearest to me and asked how her night was going. “Absolutely swimming, mate.” She slurred, ashing her cigarette on my elbow. “Couldn’t be rounder if I ate a peach”
She continued to talk at me in riddles but I couldn’t concentrate on anything she was saying, all I could think about was pulling down hard on that nose ring dangling from between her ket-funnels and severing her nostrils in twain. Deep in bloodthirsty reverie, I absent-mindedly raised my beer and took a deep refreshing swig of – FAG BUTT!?! There was a mother-effing cigarette in my mother-effing beer bottle! I had reached my Samuel L. Jackson breaking point.
Spitting ash and cursing I stomped towards the exit, but was pushed roughly aside by two bouncers, who were marching a very floppy Dave towards the door. He smiled vacantly and waved goodbye in my general direction, possibly not even aware we knew each other, possibly not aware there was a lemon slice stuck to his cheek. I followed the procession outside and claimed custody of my citrusy friend. The night had been horrific, so naturally I was straight on the ring-around Sunday evening trying to work up a crew for next weekend. We spend our weekends chasing the party through the rain and the dickheads, into basements and over gutters… because sometimes you catch it, and it’s that perfect.
Once in the cab and swiftly exiting the scene of this disastrous night, one final dig in the ribs awaited. “The coats!” I wailed, “You left our coats!” Dave burped and pulled half a kebab out of his pocket for us to share.
By Jordan Smith.