All wrapped up
Some people look the part, others look like fuk all.
Doing my moonlighting stint last night and up to the door steps this dozy little scrote who thinks he’s the bollox in oh so many ways.
He has some kind of pattern shaved into his hair. He wears one of these [not a very good description coming up] headbands with a peak that seem to be made out of baby’s nappy type thing pulled down over his eyes.
He sucks the face off of my “bouncer” colleague to give the appearance of being “in”.
He never pays to get in [coz he snogs Rob, Rob lets him in for free].
He lets his jacket [anorak, as mother would call it] hang off his shoulders.
He always looks at me with that “I know the main bouncer and you cant throw me out” look.
Well, Rob having gone to New Zealand for a month, Friday and Saturday sees me as chief Clip Board Nazi. OOOOOOOH the power!
Up steps this prick
“£2 sunshine”
“What?”
“£2 entry”
“Where’s Bob”
“His name’s not Bob and anyway he’s not here. £2”
He paid with all the good grace of Princess Di scraping shit off her shoe and made to squeeze past.
“Hang on, I want to check your pockets”
Now here he missed an opportunity, he could have refused. I have no rite to search him, but I can refuse him entry if he does refuse.
He obliged.
Nothing of any interest, just the usual pocket crud.
In he goes and all is forgotten until about 12.30 when we stop letting people in and I go for a wander around inside to try and illicit a quick snog from this cute little French guy I’ve been working on for a couple of weeks [no result, sadly].
Low and behold, on the top floor is this knob sitting in a corner minus his shirt but wearing his beast gangster frown.
One of the carved in stone rules of the venue is that no matter how hunky you are, you keep your kit on. Peter André this guy isn’t.
“Do me a favour, pet, put your shirt back on, please”
“Why?”
“Because you don’t want some old minger like me wanking to the thought of you without kit, do you? Put it on”.
[Works every time]
Another half an hour or so later and having cleared the other floors [we always leave the top floor till last] we head upstairs to tip the DJ the wink to play his last track so we can kick out and go home.
Who is standing in the DJ booth [along with the DJ] but “laddo”.
Not only standing up there with Soho Squares very own FatBoy Slim but he’s got the mike in his hand and is…. well it’s generally known as “rapping” but coz this cunt is white, clueless and loads of other things besides, all it consists of is “YEP, YEP. CUMMON, YEAH”.
Not only is the content AND the quality crap but he has a voice pitched such that only dogs can hear it and the track he’s. …performing [?] to is Madonna’s Vogue!
Now Andy [the DJ & owner of the place] is nobody’s fool but on this occasion he must have left his sense in at the jewellers for a new battery.
Vogue is defiantly the last track. I can tell this by the look on Andy’s face.
As a parting shot, as he’s going down the stairs, my compadre says to him,
“Well done that’s the best I’ve ever heard it done to Madonna”
What “it” was, she didn’t elaborate.
Doing my moonlighting stint last night and up to the door steps this dozy little scrote who thinks he’s the bollox in oh so many ways.
He has some kind of pattern shaved into his hair. He wears one of these [not a very good description coming up] headbands with a peak that seem to be made out of baby’s nappy type thing pulled down over his eyes.
He sucks the face off of my “bouncer” colleague to give the appearance of being “in”.
He never pays to get in [coz he snogs Rob, Rob lets him in for free].
He lets his jacket [anorak, as mother would call it] hang off his shoulders.
He always looks at me with that “I know the main bouncer and you cant throw me out” look.
Well, Rob having gone to New Zealand for a month, Friday and Saturday sees me as chief Clip Board Nazi. OOOOOOOH the power!
Up steps this prick
“£2 sunshine”
“What?”
“£2 entry”
“Where’s Bob”
“His name’s not Bob and anyway he’s not here. £2”
He paid with all the good grace of Princess Di scraping shit off her shoe and made to squeeze past.
“Hang on, I want to check your pockets”
Now here he missed an opportunity, he could have refused. I have no rite to search him, but I can refuse him entry if he does refuse.
He obliged.
Nothing of any interest, just the usual pocket crud.
In he goes and all is forgotten until about 12.30 when we stop letting people in and I go for a wander around inside to try and illicit a quick snog from this cute little French guy I’ve been working on for a couple of weeks [no result, sadly].
Low and behold, on the top floor is this knob sitting in a corner minus his shirt but wearing his beast gangster frown.
One of the carved in stone rules of the venue is that no matter how hunky you are, you keep your kit on. Peter André this guy isn’t.
“Do me a favour, pet, put your shirt back on, please”
“Why?”
“Because you don’t want some old minger like me wanking to the thought of you without kit, do you? Put it on”.
[Works every time]
Another half an hour or so later and having cleared the other floors [we always leave the top floor till last] we head upstairs to tip the DJ the wink to play his last track so we can kick out and go home.
Who is standing in the DJ booth [along with the DJ] but “laddo”.
Not only standing up there with Soho Squares very own FatBoy Slim but he’s got the mike in his hand and is…. well it’s generally known as “rapping” but coz this cunt is white, clueless and loads of other things besides, all it consists of is “YEP, YEP. CUMMON, YEAH”.
Not only is the content AND the quality crap but he has a voice pitched such that only dogs can hear it and the track he’s. …performing [?] to is Madonna’s Vogue!
Now Andy [the DJ & owner of the place] is nobody’s fool but on this occasion he must have left his sense in at the jewellers for a new battery.
Vogue is defiantly the last track. I can tell this by the look on Andy’s face.
As a parting shot, as he’s going down the stairs, my compadre says to him,
“Well done that’s the best I’ve ever heard it done to Madonna”
What “it” was, she didn’t elaborate.
“Cheers, I fort it wus good too”.
posted by liits at 5:16 AM
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