In marked contrast to the seriousness of the last post I thought I'd write down a few stories about the funnier (all be it morbidly so) side of my life. Hope you enjoy.
Due to the embarrassing nature of this post I will not disclose the who's where's and when's of this particular tale. Is bad enough as it is without the poor lad dying of shame.
As with all work environments there is always the possibility of working with folks that either aren't as professional or good as you. I saw him slumping down the street towards the club, all shoulder rolls and tight shirt. The snow was crisp and yet this lad was only wearing a shirt, no coat. And what a shirt, wow, it was tight. You could see the lot, bits bulging where they should (and in some cases shouldn't) the sleeves straining under the duress and tension, poor guys just wanted to break free and be oiled. This was the kind of chap who insists on showing you pictures of themselves in the buff, oiled up and plastered in fake tan. You desperately try not to look at the skin tight yellow budgie smugglers but the eye is ever drawn to the package.
Grim.
This was our eleven o'clock lad. The later the time that a bouncer starts either means that they are the new guy or a tool, not always the case. Just most if the time. With sinking hearts we stare at captain roid n' quiff, lets have a natter first before we make any judgement. Only fair.
"Calm down girls, there's plenty of me to go round". Big smile. Wink.
Fuck. He's a nugget. A whopper. A proper meat pie. In fact the gargantuan level of dick-headness cannot be adequately commited to script. I don't actually have enough words for how idiotic he was. Spoon fed fuck knuckle? Spunk sculpting monkey trumpet? Roided up quim gibbon? Nope. Can't. No words.
With a sigh and a hand shake the head doorman introduces us to Mr Bolas de Burro. What a shocker, he trys to crush my hand. Prat. He's 19, 6'1, on so many steroids, has a shock of brown hair curled into a quiff and clothes so tight that a gentleman from the village actually walked past and said "come on honey, thats just too far"
"Right, I've got a really special job for you mate, proper high end" says the head lad.
"Well thats what I'm here for boss, to take all the top jobs.." Replys the half man, half cow.
"I need you to guard the rear fire exit pal, can't let anyone out son, no one. Got it?"
Serious face.
"Absolutely chief, I'm ya' man". Tit.
And with that our skin tight warrior shoulder rolls his way into the club, as the double doors close on him cutting short a few bars of repetitive music that drift away into the smorgasbord of the nights cacophony, a fellow doorman known for not being so verbose merely mutters "wanker". Our thoughts exactly.
Throughout the night the normal trials and tribulations of a busy Saturday come and go. A few fights, some drama's, lots of shouting and of course my favourite. Tea. We talk as we work. Communication is key, we tell each other everything we see or hear. Movements, ours and theirs. Every movement is spoken. If your oppo doesn't know where you are, someone could get hurt, tell your lads where you are going! It's quite common when not working that I will turn to a friend or family member and quite abruptly inform them that I'm going for a shit. Habit.
Whilst we work and whistle we get talking about the muppet on the rear fire exit. One of the lads pipes up from doing the clickers at the 'out' side of the door that he has worked with him before. We ask if he was a plank at the other venue as well, affirmative is the reply. But it gets better. He goes on to inform us that big man likes colonic irrigation. Big time. Apparently he ducked out of a scrap last time with the excuse that he didn't want to 'volcano'.
Um... Okay.
The words had little time to settle into our ears when all hell breaks loose. We hear the glasses smash and the scream. Kick off. Here we go lads. We rush in, doors slammed to the wall, men bark orders into radios, replys hence forth and we go in the direction of main dance floor three. We are greeted by a swirling mass of folks bashing the hell out of each other. Simple process. Grab one, twist him up and drag him to the door where three of our lads are standing by. By the time we each get there the quarry is quite.. Sleepy shall we say and are not normally a problem for the front door boys. That just leaves the other side of the disturbance. At first we thought it was another group of lads but we soon find out it's just one bloke. Bloke, ha! He was more like a sofa wearing a suit. He had more jowls than I have tea cups. Even his ear lobes were fat. And what a frame to invest all this money on, he had to be a good 6'6. Funny thing was he didn't want to leave. Two of our chaps had managed to get him to the fire exit and in true sofa form he was stuck, not only was he wedged but he was side ways up and angry. Never seen a chesterfield enraged before.
After a quick con-flab it was decided to get all hands on deck and push the bugger out. Simple?
Nope.
Try as we might we could not budge him, we were pushing so hard that his shirt had rolled up to his neck and his belt had snapped letting his pants fall down. Everytime we pushed it sounded like squeeking rubber. Now enter captain tight pants, God's knows where he had been till now but here he was to save the day. With a grin and a swagger he walks up (not really much else he could do in those testicle squashers) and informs us that he is here to "get the job done".
Just to be nice to the lad we all step back allowing him the whole of the coal face. He puts his shoulder to the task at hand and pushes. His feet scrabble for purchase on the floor like a cartoon character at the start of a run away from a spooky ghost. He grunts. He roars. His face goes a shocking shade of purple. Veins stand out all over his body.. The music dulls.. That's when we heard it.
It started as a little fart.
But it went on. And on. And on. It varied in tone and pitch. High and squeeky followed by low and ominous. By this stage the poor lad had managed to get our obstacle half in and half out so that he was slowly being squashed by him.
The sound got worse. Deeper. Much deeper. The roar of energy had turned into a roar of shame.
"NOOOOOOOOOOOOO....!"
And that's when he shit himself. It was the longest crap I have ever heard, with tears running down his face and sobs emitting from a down turned mouth it went on and on and on. As the pants were so tight the bulge was easly visable. And the smell! Oh the smell! With tears of laughter running down our faces we dragged him out and took him to the toilets. The large man was eager to leave and helped us remove him from the pooh like situation he had put himself in and went into the night.
As for the subject of our tale he got the ok from the head lad to leave site and slipped out if the very same fire exit that had been the scene of his most unfortunate expulsion, never saw him again.
Hope it made you laugh like it did for us.
Speak soon. Stay safe.
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