Cigarettes and Alcohol: Confessions of a Stag Weekend by Phil Sloan Read Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Phil Sloan
the beer that we sunk.
Women are hit on and I think someone else got hit for hitting on the wrong blokes girlfriend. I then go into full wobble mode and lose hours of time in a hideous tail spin. My body cannot handle the abuse any more. We somehow manage to lose Kristall and all her mates in the club, or more likely they decided to lose us. Our drunken English charms had worn well thin by this time of the night.
We do the offski.
CIGARETTES SMOKED IN THIS CHAPTER: 16…..156 TO GO
BOOZE BINGED IN THIS CHAPTER: 5 PINTS, 2 BOTTLES, A PORT & LEMON, 2 X BLACK SAMBUCA AND A CARTON OF KIA-ORA
Chapter Nine: I Know My Basic Human Rights!
Friday night slides into Saturday morning as the fourteen of us wobble around Amsterdam town centre. Finally we come across a nightclub that has a queue of bodies waiting outside to get in. It looks right up our strasse as it’s a hard house night and the queue is full of ladies.
We all get in with no bother from the bouncers. They have a strange system for buying drinks though as they don’t take cash at the bar. As you pay to go in they give you a card with eight empty boxes on it. Every time you get a beer, the staff on the bar, stamp the card and as you leave you present the card and pay for your alcohol as you exit the club.
All drinks cost the same so you pay per stamp you have on the card. Seems well over complicated to me, but when in Rome, I mean Amsterdam. Besides what could go wrong?
Inside the club the volume is turned up to ELEVEN. It’s a huge warehouse-looking place and the DJ is spinning his ‘platters that matter’ from a booth at one end. He’s playing full on bibbly bibbly house music. This is proper ‘industrial house music’, with bass so low it rattles your fillings.
The place is full of folks getting down to the hard beats. Plenty of people have their hands up in the air, pumping their fists, arms waving about. All that ‘big fish, little fish, cardboard box’ nonsense is going on. Or was it ‘big box, little box, cardboard fish?’ I could never remember.
Just a noisy, smoky room full of ‘pilled up’ clubbers, gurning their faces off. Everybody is pouring with sweat and wearing ‘shit eating’ grins as they have a top night out. Most of the ravers are swigging bottles of water, rather than beer, not a surprise.
It is crazy loud though, loud enough to wake the Devil and all his imp helpers. Even my tinnitus has tinnitus. We wander up to the bar which is empty, even though the club is busy. This is a sure sign that illegal chemicals are fuelling the majority of people in this joint.
We shout in a round of beers, so everyone has to produce their cards that then get stamped and returned. We then explore the club properly.
Some of the lads make a bee line for a group of fruity looking frauleins dancing around their handbags and start up all the old chat. A few others are up on the podiums waving their arms about and throwing shapes like they are having some kind of seizure.
Although the music is way too heavy for me we all have a great laugh. We are all smoking, boozing, sniffing and snorting.
The dance floor is a big slab of raised metal. Kid G legs it halfway across and then slides on his knees the rest of the way. He looks extremely cool and it looked like bloody good fun.
Then Hit runs and flops down on his belly to glide over the dance floor. Some of the locals join in and soon a big crowd take turns bombing across the floor on knees or beer guts. This sliding game is something for nursery school children or folks with limited intelligence to enjoy. Know what category we fall into. We’re well feeble minded.
Suddenly the bouncers appear and with just two words ‘No More’ our fun ends. That’s that game over for sure. Was a giggle while it lasted but ‘rules are rules.’
DUN-PHER! DUN-PHER! DUN-PHER! The music is absolutely blaring louder and louder, our eardrums are in serious danger of splitting. Kid L has got chatting to
Women are hit on and I think someone else got hit for hitting on the wrong blokes girlfriend. I then go into full wobble mode and lose hours of time in a hideous tail spin. My body cannot handle the abuse any more. We somehow manage to lose Kristall and all her mates in the club, or more likely they decided to lose us. Our drunken English charms had worn well thin by this time of the night.
We do the offski.
CIGARETTES SMOKED IN THIS CHAPTER: 16…..156 TO GO
BOOZE BINGED IN THIS CHAPTER: 5 PINTS, 2 BOTTLES, A PORT & LEMON, 2 X BLACK SAMBUCA AND A CARTON OF KIA-ORA
Chapter Nine: I Know My Basic Human Rights!
Friday night slides into Saturday morning as the fourteen of us wobble around Amsterdam town centre. Finally we come across a nightclub that has a queue of bodies waiting outside to get in. It looks right up our strasse as it’s a hard house night and the queue is full of ladies.
We all get in with no bother from the bouncers. They have a strange system for buying drinks though as they don’t take cash at the bar. As you pay to go in they give you a card with eight empty boxes on it. Every time you get a beer, the staff on the bar, stamp the card and as you leave you present the card and pay for your alcohol as you exit the club.
All drinks cost the same so you pay per stamp you have on the card. Seems well over complicated to me, but when in Rome, I mean Amsterdam. Besides what could go wrong?
Inside the club the volume is turned up to ELEVEN. It’s a huge warehouse-looking place and the DJ is spinning his ‘platters that matter’ from a booth at one end. He’s playing full on bibbly bibbly house music. This is proper ‘industrial house music’, with bass so low it rattles your fillings.
The place is full of folks getting down to the hard beats. Plenty of people have their hands up in the air, pumping their fists, arms waving about. All that ‘big fish, little fish, cardboard box’ nonsense is going on. Or was it ‘big box, little box, cardboard fish?’ I could never remember.
Just a noisy, smoky room full of ‘pilled up’ clubbers, gurning their faces off. Everybody is pouring with sweat and wearing ‘shit eating’ grins as they have a top night out. Most of the ravers are swigging bottles of water, rather than beer, not a surprise.
It is crazy loud though, loud enough to wake the Devil and all his imp helpers. Even my tinnitus has tinnitus. We wander up to the bar which is empty, even though the club is busy. This is a sure sign that illegal chemicals are fuelling the majority of people in this joint.
We shout in a round of beers, so everyone has to produce their cards that then get stamped and returned. We then explore the club properly.
Some of the lads make a bee line for a group of fruity looking frauleins dancing around their handbags and start up all the old chat. A few others are up on the podiums waving their arms about and throwing shapes like they are having some kind of seizure.
Although the music is way too heavy for me we all have a great laugh. We are all smoking, boozing, sniffing and snorting.
The dance floor is a big slab of raised metal. Kid G legs it halfway across and then slides on his knees the rest of the way. He looks extremely cool and it looked like bloody good fun.
Then Hit runs and flops down on his belly to glide over the dance floor. Some of the locals join in and soon a big crowd take turns bombing across the floor on knees or beer guts. This sliding game is something for nursery school children or folks with limited intelligence to enjoy. Know what category we fall into. We’re well feeble minded.
Suddenly the bouncers appear and with just two words ‘No More’ our fun ends. That’s that game over for sure. Was a giggle while it lasted but ‘rules are rules.’
DUN-PHER! DUN-PHER! DUN-PHER! The music is absolutely blaring louder and louder, our eardrums are in serious danger of splitting. Kid L has got chatting to
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