» Nightclubs

Guessing eighth?
I've spent too much time and money over the years in nightclubs, drinking bad beer and making an arse of myself dancing like an epileptic, mid-fit.

The standard of hostelry has changed over the years, from the local dive in a bumfuck market town in the Midlands which used to serve people pints of line cleaner and contributed to the town being known as 'Dodge City' for the after-hours street warfare that used to take place, via the Warehouse-sized shiteholes of Cardiff when I was a student in the late 90's, playing 'pull-a-bull' with the Welsh rugby team and getting thrown out for being lineout lifted on the dancefloor to catch the free t-shirts the DJ was throwing out of the booth, to trendy London and Bristol clubs enjoying a *ahem* 'pharmaceutically-enhanced' time till the early hours of the morning.

I reckon of all of these places my favourite story of being a punter in a club is the night I stole the shirt of the back off the back off a Welsh Rugby Legend (not going into names here).

I'd been drinking (heavily) during the day at the Members Bar of the Cardiff Athletic Club, home of Cardiff RFC, right next door to the Millennium Stadium, with my brother and a stack of his mates behind the bar meaning they were terrible at taking money for the beer they were serving me. I was making myself popular with the ladies by blagging free drinks for them as well, and had a bevy of lovelies vying for my attention - well at least hanging around drinking for free.

The bar starts to thin out - I later find out this is due to the bar manager knew the Welsh Team, of whom I knew a couple, were coming in for a session, and was trying to get the 'riff-raff' out so they could cut loose without too many photo's being taken. I'm left alone as I'm a mate of the bar staff and the girls could stay as 'entertainment/eye candy' for the players.

Mr Welsh Rugby Legend and his team-mates wander in, and he is decidedly dischuffed to find his missus sat on my knee. I back-pedal rapidly avoid getting a leathering, and retreat to the safety of the bar.

Couple of hours later, after much more beer has been sunk , it's decided that we're *all* going to a nightclub in the Cafe Quarter, all are invited, no excuses for non-attendance alas I have no shirt to wear, which in Cardiff at that time meant you ain't getting in anywhere. My rugby mates assure me that this is fine and miraculously produce a rather natty, and highly expensive looking designer shirt for me to 'borrow'.

Too pissed to wonder where it's come from, I pull said shirt on and stagger round the corner to the club - the Welsh Rugby crew are in the process of blagging their way into the club when a shout of 'Oi!, That my fucking shirt!' comes from across the street. The team-mates start laughing, and quickly make me away that the reason they had a 'spare' shirt is that it was the one Mr Welsh Rugby Legend had bought along to go out in, and they'd nicked it and passed it on to me.

What do you do when being charged at by a 16 stones of Professional Athlete, with a reputation for having a short fuse, who's already pissed off with you for 'eyeing up his bird', and has just seen you over the road in his new shirt.

Ladies and Gentlemen - I ran - it's amazing how quickly you can go when driven by fear. I'm surprised he didn't manage to track me by the sound of my arsehole flapping as I legged it.

Still got that shirt as well ...

Worst thing is I've been playing out as a DJ for the last year by way of a hobby, so now voluntarily spend time in this sort of place - if anyone is going to the Big Chill you might hear me play ...
(Wed 8th Apr 2009, 12:48, More)

» Nightclubs

Tales from DJ Booth part 1.
I still recall doing a warm up set of Funk/Hip-hop/Bouncy Breaks in Ride in Nottingham, handing over to the next bloke, who as doing a full on Ableton + Controllers & Guitar set, and finds himself confronted with a overly made up, thoroughly pissed Barbie-a-like sporting a like '21 Today' badge, who proceeds to ask him to play Brian Adams / Summer of '69.

Stu, for that was the man's name, politely decines, pointing out that he doesn't really play records, but mucks about with samples, and can't really help.

All of this was totally over the poor dears head, and the next thing I heard was her bleating 'But it's my biiiiiiiiiiirthday'. Just glad my set had finished 5 minutes earlier ...
(Wed 8th Apr 2009, 16:46, More)