Its late, 2.10am, Saturday morning and while most people are partying or sleeping, I’m doing neither.
Never before have I experienced the very worst bits of a night out without also experiencing some nice bits, you know, the warmth of a bar or a club, a drink, a conversation with somebody, anybody. Not tonight.
This disastrous night started two weeks ago when I dropped in to see a friend of mine and Len’s, Kenny, a wheeler dealer in the world of janitorial supplies with a side line in sportswear and sports equipment. It isn’t important how we know Kenny considering his random occupation but needless to say, he’s squarely to blame for ruining my f*cking night.
On that fateful day, two weeks ago, Kenny tells me of a nightclub he’s started to frequent on the first Friday of each month – Lords Nightclub, Hullbridge. He bangs on about this place as though he’s its f*cking marketing manager, making out it’s a total meat market, get in before 8.30pm because their queuing around the block…..and so on. Anyway, Kenny, although a thoroughly decent guy is also a bit of a bullshitter. He’s famous for it and never fails to bullshit at least once a week. Usually, his once a week bullshit story is his arranging to go out with Len and I on Friday night and then at the eleventh hour, contacting me to explain he can’t make it because some bird or other has asked him to take her out. He can’t miss this opportunity because she’s a sort and won’t ask him again. You’d think he’d change his story once in a while but the f*cking idiot doesn’t and leaves himself wide open to mockery.
So Kenny has put into motion a sequence of events that will inevitably lead to me writing about what a f*cking terrible night I had and here it is…
Len and I don’t believe for one second this place is going to be rammed at 8.30pm and arrive late. Only 20 minutes late but f*uck me, I thought Peter Andre had just turned up because the queue was around the block and I MEAN around the f*cking block. To make matters much worse it’s raining hard, cold, and windy. At one point I think I saw Ray Mears walking up and down the queue giving out survival tips. Anyway, neither Len or I have a coat, Kenny arrives later than us and is therefore no help in jumping the queue and we have to wait it out. To give Kenny his dues though, it was f*cking heaving. We daren’t leave because the potential was amazing. However, it takes an hour to get to the entrance and I look like I’ve been through a f*cking car wash, when the bouncer says ‘Sorry mate, no ripped jeans’. I protest and broker a deal whereas I go home and change and he lets me straight in. Len and Kenny, miserable, cold and wet go into the club and as far as I’m concerned are waiting for me to return. I get home, change and I’m about to leave the house when Len arrives back citing illness as his main reason and wants to call it a night. I just cannot f*cking believe it.
I reluctantly call it a night also.
Michael