Ah, student night. An excuse for our local shambles of a nightclub to rip off a new set of customers, this time to a jangly indie soundtrack in what could only be described as a bomb shelter under a multi-storey car park. In Bracknell.
Consider the scene as two scruffy oiks wangle their way past the penguin-suited bouncers at the door:
"Two pints of bitter, please"
"We don't do bitter"
"Right, two pints of lager, please"
"We don't do pints"
"Oooookay... two bottles of pils, then"
"Ten quid"
Disgusted at the prices behind the bar, we decided to throw some shapes on the dance floor to see if we could impress any passing young ladies.
Sadly, the only lady of any description was the local fat goth, in a black leather dress made out of at least half a dozen cows. She'd do.
A request for The Smiths got me dancing like a spastic passing a magnet factory to This Charming Man (a song that invites dancing like a spastic passing a magnet factory) in my ...err... rather unique style that resembles the moving parts at a wind farm.
It was this exact moment that the captain of the college rugby club (a huge rugger-bugger with a double-barrelled surname) took out a small mortgage for a round of drinks, and carried the entire tray across the dance floor to the rest of his equally beefy chums.
Despite the music being around 150 decibels, you should still hear the "SPA-A-A-N-G-G-G!" as my windmilling arms swiped the tray out of his arms and showered him with the most expensive lager known to man.
Time stood still.
Then he punched me in the face.
Then he punched me in the face.
Then, by way of variety, he kneed me in the groin, before punching me in the face again.
Mozza sang on about not having a stitch to wear, and the fat goth laughed.
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