The Hate Locker

When I was a young boy, my father took me into the city to see a marching band. He said: ‘Son when you grow up I don’t ever see you turn into one of these nancy faggots honking on a clarinet.’

Valuable words. Treasured memories. My dad taught me what it took to be a man. Every morning my dad would wake me by bringing a hot pot of coffee to my room. He then would pour it on my face, put a loaded revolver in my mouth and dared me to cry. This was fundamental in me growing into the man that I am today. A real man. 

Time passes and society changes, as does the ever blurry depiction of what constitutes a ‘real man’. What falls into the realms of masculinity these days? I don’t even know anymore.

When I walk around my workplace, I notice some things guys do and really think they are in the realms of being a faggot nancy boy. 

1. Wearing Caps

I like to think of the stereotypical man as logical and rational. I consider men wearing hats indoors the height of rudeness and completely nonsensical. Why? Scared of the cancer you might get at 2 AM?

I don’t mind that all these caps I see are in support of sports teams. Sports is pretty manly. Fuck yeah sports! Sports are fucking gnarly! What isn’t manly is wearing a cap of a sports team that you don’t even follow. All these caps I see are in support of the Boston Redsox or the St. Louis Cardinals, both of which teams I know no-one supports, because no-one really likes baseball. Be honest.

For those who aren’t street and cool, most American sports caps these days come with stickers attached to the brim. These stickers pretty much just say the size of the hat. The cool thing to do is to keep the sticker on the hat, so everyone can see your head size advertised on your cap, as if people are interested the size of your skull. Keeping the sticker on is fucking nonsense! No-one gives a fuck about your head size. No-one compares head sizes. What is this?! Where I’m from (South Carolina) we compare dick sizes. Like real men should. You don’t walk around your school locker room saying ‘Hey, check out my cap. Size 9 & 3/4.’ Real men say: ‘Hey needle-dick. Look at my cock you faggot’ 

2. Ordering drinks with raspberry cordial in them.

Riddle me this: A man walks into a bar and orders a vodka, cola and raspberry cordial. He died immediately afterwards. Why?

Answer: Because the bartender was Burt Reynolds and the bar was full of lumberjacks and undertakers. They beat the shit out of him for ordering such a wussy drink. After defiling his corpse, they proceeded to drink their tumblers of scotch garnished with rusty nails and bolts. None of this umbrella garnish shit. 

James Bond never ordered a vodka raspberry. He drank vespers: 3 shots of gin, 1 shot of vodka and a half shot of lillet. 

3. Wearing Low Cut Singlets

I’m no fashion expert (Royal Acadamy of Fine Arts, Antwerp. Class of 06), but these are the most vile things to ever touch a mans body. 

I had to fell some tree’s and engage in a random fist fight to restore my manhood after searching for these pictures. 

Since when has been showing off your nipples and sideboob in public been cool? Do chicks get off on that kind of thing? I’ve never once heard a girl say: ‘Get a load of that man cheddar’s side boob. That’s making me frothy at the loins.’ This leads me to the question: I wonder what dude that dude is trying to impress? I’m sure at some point the bad singlet epidemic will move towards something like this:

Help me Burt Reynolds. 

4. Fake Tan

I don’t even know what the fuck this is. I maintain my tan the good old fashioned way, by working hard in the field sewing and reaping crops. The amount of vanity and evident mental retardation (both unmanly characteristics) in this picture makes me want to castrate myself. I don’t want to be a man anymore. 

5. Fights

Even the fights today are wussy. Most of the time it’s two guys squaring off because a vodka and raspberry got spilled on one of their favorite nipple singlets or caps. No punches are thrown, just hollow insults like: ‘I’m going to fuck you up you pussy.’

Like anyone could take a guy wearing a nipple singlet and cap seriously in a fight…

I went to my high school reunion recently. I don’t really know why I went. I guess I just wanted to go to gloat about my internationally famous blog. I’ve never been to one before but I anticipated that I would be feigning interest in hearing how everyone’s lives have progressed forward. Needless to say, a lot of interest was feigned. 

Here is a sample of the conversations I had to stay conscious through:

The Locker: ‘Hi Charlie. How have you been? I hear you are a CEO of a multinational corporation?’
Charlie: ‘Oh are you talking to me? Sorry, I only respond to my DJ name: DJ PoWerfuCK.’
The Locker: ‘A thousand apologies DJ PoWerfuCK. So what have you been up to?’
DJ PoWerfuCK: ‘Pushing through musical boundaries by spinning a cool blend of electro, dubstep and trance. Incorporating mash-ups on the fly, DJ PoWerfuCK brings a new level of electricity to the room.’
The Locker:‘Fascinating..’
 

The Locker: ‘Hi Stephanie. I haven’t seen you in a long time. What are you doing with your self these days?’
Stephanie: ‘Wow Mr. Locker, you’ve changed so much. You look so dashing these days.’
The Locker: ‘Oh you!’
Stephanie:‘But yeah, in answer to your question I’ve been spending a lot of time researching cures for cancer.’
The Locker: ‘Really? How noble. It’s good to see a passion for such a noble cause’ 
Stephanie:‘Yeah I guess its okay…. But my real passion is creating a live fusion of psytrance and hiphop with a touch of drum and bass to keep my fans on their toes by pushing musical boundaries.’
The Locker: ‘Fascinating..’

The Locker: ‘Hey Ash, I heard you just got divorced. How are you holding up?’
Ash: ‘Yeah I’m okay. Times are tough though. I just gotta keep pushing through..’
The Locker: ‘Yeah keep on pu-‘
Ash: ‘PUSHING THROUGH THE MUSICAL BOUNDARIES THAT RESTRAIN THE COMMON DJ’s TO SPECIFIC GENRES. THIS MAN KNOWS NO BOUNDARIES. DJ FLAMING ASH WILL MELT THE BASS TO YOUR FACE YOU STUPID FUCK’ 

Fascinating. Everyone is a DJ now. I left with a pile of promotional CD’s which will inevitably become coasters.

I find the DJ phenomena quite interesting. You find that a lot of them throwing the phrase ‘dj’s aren’t jukeboxes’ around. I disagree completely. To illustrate my point, I have created the following puzzle for you to solve.

_____ receive unjustifiable amounts of money to play other peoples music. The music must be appropriate to the venue in where the ____ is located. ______ are used to provide entertainment for patrons. 

Fill in the blanks.  (Hint: The answer is jukebox)

I’m sure deep down all DJ’s know this to an extent, which is why they need to come up with reasons to justify their inevitable boundary-pushing existence, because for the most part, all they do is play other peoples records. 

Common justifications for a DJ’s existence:

‘I can beat-match and mix’
So can my 7 year old daughter and anyone who can count in multiples of 4. Hardly anyone scrutinizes what the DJ is doing in the booth. For all they give a fuck, you could be playing a premixed CD. No-one gives a shit provided they are under the illusion that you are doing something.

Mixing isn’t overly hard, Yet DJ’s need to make it look like they are doing something obscenely hard e.g making out like turning an knob 270 degree’s is that hardest thing you have ever done in your life and requires horrendously aggressive arm moments like this: VIDEO OF SUPER DJ WORKING SUPER HARD. Must be some heavy knobs to twiddle. 

Really makes me wonder what they teach in Disc Jockey school?

‘I play vinyl. Real DJ’s use vinyl’
Whats so good about it? Vinyl sounds better? It’s apparently harder to use? I call bullshit. No-one walks into a venue, says: ‘What the fuck is this noise. It’s not vinyl. This is damaging my vinyl only ears. I threw away the CD player in my car because it doesn’t play vinyl, what the fuck are people thinking putting that shit in my car.’ 

Equally no-one cares if vinyl is marginally harder to mix (Which is still fucking easy). No-one walks out of a club solely because a DJ is using CD’s.

If you are going to be stuck up and pompous about being ‘original’ and stuck in the past, throw away your DVD player and digital set top box and enjoy the analog warmth (i.e static) of VHS cassettes and analog TV. 

‘I do live mash ups’
 Any deadshit can play a ‘Pon De Floor’ acapella over a song and call it a mash-up.

‘I MC as well!’
Getting on the microphone with a fake british/american accent and saying ‘Whats up (Insert City Name)! How you all doing……MOTHERFUCKERS!’ is not MCing. I don’t know why a crowd responds so well when being called a bunch of motherfuckers in particular. 

‘It’s all about track selection’ 
Then make a premixed CD that the crowd will enjoy.  

‘I can juggle and scratch’ 
You win this round..

I would like to apologies to my three subscribers for my absence. For those who don’t know me, I took a brief sabbatical to do some soul searching in the Black and White Lodge. Needless to say I’m back and the hate will flow vehemently. 

Yes, these are pictures of me. 

Facebook is great in so many ways. It lets my anonymously stalk ex-partners and cry over their photos. It let’s me see how much better I am doing than my kindergarten friends, the ones who laughed at me for occasionally being incontinent during story time. However, there are some bad things about Facebook.

A long time ago getting on ‘The List’ of a club was all about knowing someone or being someone. Now, with a simple flick of a Facebook message, you can ask to be on ‘The List.’ 

Literally anyone can drop those four words of self masturbation: ‘I’m on the list.’ When I say anyone can be on the list, anyone can be on the list. The people who curate the door list don’t scan or screen the names of who they are sent. They couldn’t care less. I know this because I have sent various establishments a request for my name plus a few of my friends to be added to the door list. 

People who I have had added to the door list of clubs:

1. Joesph Stalin: Soviet Badass responsible for the death of millions.
2. Mao Zedong: Chinese Badass responsible for the death of millions.
3. Richard Goldberg: Former fugitive, on the FBI’s top ten most wanted fugitive list for child molestation and pornography. 
4. Rick James: General Badass.  
5. Myself: A balding, overweight 31 year old male with a permanent scowl on his face. I am the person who eats beetroot and corn before I go out. I am the person who’s vomit you look at and think: ‘Why is it red and why is the corn still whole?’ Also a Badass. 

So it is pretty evident that the V.I.P factor of the door list is pretty much dead. 

The entitlements associated with the door list are equally questionable. The Facebook door list entitles you to a few benefits. Quicker and possibly cheaper entry plus paired with the kudo’s associated with being able to say ‘I’m on the list’ loudly in front of all the peasants who didn’t bother asking to be on such an accessible list. Stupid peasants.

The thing that I find most odd is when it’s more beneficial not to be on a list. For example, most clubs have a separate line for door list entry. If they get priority of entry on a 10:1 ratio to normal patrons, and the ‘door list line’ has 100 people in it and the regular line has 5 people in it (obviously myspace users), I’d probably jump in the normal line pay an extra few dollars (if any) and get in first. Sometimes the door list just gets ‘quicker’ entry, not cheaper. Who’s the peasant now? By the time the people on the list get in, I will have been inside and left them a steaming pile of my beetroot and corn vomit. 

So in summary. You aren’t a V.I.P unless you walk straight in, without paying and get looked after. A lot of places advertise V.I.P booths which are purchasable alongside with table service. The oxymoron of this is that actual V.I.P’s drink for free and get catered for on the house. The oxymoron of this is that actual V.I.P’s drink/demand to drink for free when they are rich. 

Lastly, the most moronic thing about the Facebook is the ‘checking in’ phenomena. I see people sitting down around my place of work ‘checking in’ and letting the world know how much ‘fun’ they are having. Go figure. Aside from letting the world know you are a complete mongoloid, you’re practically telling the world to go to your house and rob your stupid ass. If you are the kind of person who ‘checks in’, you’re probably the kind of person who ‘checks in’ to your own house or bed, letting everyone know where you live. Furthermore you’ve probably named it ‘_____’s Pad/Supercool House/House of Sex’ or some other rubbish for your 900 ‘friends’ to see. So when you’re out and about ‘checking in’ to a place with a Facebook update such as:

Chastity ‘Mad Raver’ Dickface: I am soooooo wsted r8 now. cn brly walk lolz - Checked in at Rohypnol Night Club. 

Be prepared to see:

TheHateLocker: I am in your house. I did not leave my shoes off at the door. I am eating your ice-cream straight out of the tub. I am stealing your shit. I just used a UV Light in your bedroom, I nearly went blind. - Checked in at Chastity ‘Mad Raver’ Dickfaces House of Sex.

What are you going to do when you find me walking out of your house with your worldly possessions (Economy vodka and Mi Goreng)? It’s not like you’re in a state to stop me………

Chastity ‘Mad Raver’ Dickface: Helllllp! I’m being robbed!!! p.s so off my chops right now lollolol - Checked in at - Chastity ‘Mad Raver’ Dickfaces House of Sex.

I love New Years Eve. There are so many things to love about it. You can make whimsical resolutions just because it is the end of the year. I mean, it’s not like you can do that at any other point throughout the year. Anyone who isn’t an utter fuckwit knows that for a resolution to be fulfilled, it must be a new years resolution. Look at all the people who have become movie stars/quit smoking/lost twelve billion kilograms because they made it their new years resolution. They weren’t complete deadshits. They knew what they were doing. 

I also love New Years Eve because the unjustifiably large celebrations associated with buying a new calendar. 

What did you do this year? Did you have an amazing New Years Eve?  Did you:

1. Go to a horrendously overcrowded/under policed event swarming with drunken jail-bait.
2. Get annoyed with all the sweaty drunken shit-bags around you. 
3. Get annoyed at your friends for being sweaty drunken shitbags around you.
4. Miss the ‘countdown’ because you were busy waiting in line to take a piss but when you got to the front of the line to the toilet it became apparent that every single person who went before you had fatal dysentery. You then decided that you will try your luck elsewhere. 
5. Sing the first few words of Auld Lang Syne. 
6. Remember that you don’t actually know any of the words to Auld Lang Syne except: ‘Auld Lang Syne.’ Who the fuck does anyway?
7. Watch some underwhelming fireworks which got progressively more boring as the minutes ticked by. 
8. Stand around for 2 hours in a taxi rank full of people openly pissing/vomiting into their immediate surroundings to avoid losing their place in the line. 
9. Vow to never do this again, yet do the exact same thing next year. 
10. Tell all your friends of the amazing time you had. 

If this sounds anything like your New Years Eve celebrations then you have had a perfectly acceptable New Years Eve.

I get the feeling my last post conjured a small portion of discontent among those belonging to a particular gender. For anonymity sake, I will not identify this gender. 

From the feedback I received on my last entry, I perceived that there were feelings of sexual discrimination. I do not want to be perceived as one that discriminates on the basis of gender. I want my entries to be fair and contain a certain degree of morality. Therefore, contrary to what I originally planned, I will not be writing an entry on the topic of Males. 

Warm wishes,

The Locker. 

I am The Hate Locker. I am a blog, therefore I have no gender. Ergo, I can provide an objective and well grounded standpoint on topical matters surrounding gender…

When women enter nightclubs, they change. It’s as if they become possessed by a supernatural presence similar to what happened in Kubrick’s ‘The Shining.’ However, instead of writing ‘redrum’ with lipstick on the walls, they prefer to write on mirrors in bathrooms. The content of what they write is generally less stimulating as well. It’s common for a plethora of love hearts to be drawn on the mirrors (Wow so arty and post-modern!). Kissing the mirrors and leaving lip-marks everywhere on them is also standard practice. Idiotic right? Why would anyone want to kiss a mirror in a public bathroom (especially if it is already covered in other peoples markings.) Do you know who the last person was to kiss that mirror prior to yourself? The girl who spends half her night in the bathroom giving suck-jobs for drugs, that’s who! Congratulations! You now have terminal herpes. You are going to die. 

Upon entering a club the modus operandi of women also changes. For some undefined reason, mountain goats women must dance on the highest point nearby whether it be a stage, table, chair, tombstone etc. Why would a tombstone be in a club? Who the fuck cares! If it provides any elevation, it is not safe from being danced upon. Nothing is. I once caught a woman with a handbag full of rope, carabiners and chalk intending to scale the walls of my workplace in an attempt to dance on ceiling support beams.

The behavior of women in clubs undeniably renders any arguments of gender inequality void. 

‘Ladies Nights’ featuring free drinks and free entry for girls is a pretty loose translation of ‘Hey whoreface, you probably don’t have a penny to your name so get horrendously drunk and loosen your morals and chastity belt so that males will patronize this venue in pursuit of your loins.’ It’s promoting sexism and gender inequality when women capitalize on such arrangements. If you want to fight for equality, you should be demanding to pay full price entry and for full price drinks! Fight the good fight.

The expectation of a male to pay for drinks is rubbish. If you are happy to make the old fashioned assumption it is the males role to purchase you drinks for the night, go the whole nine yards and assume that is your duty to go home with him, bear his child, do his laundry and subject yourself to domestic violence, fisting and bukkake. 

What about violence? I often see a girl slap a guy here and there and watch him stand there constrained by social values. I feel sorry for this guy. It would be sexist not to give her five of the best. We’re talking equality here people.

How about all the complains about ‘sleazy men’ and how they feel objectified? Maybe you should bring back the exposed skin to clothes ratio down from 10:1 to have a valid argument. Maybe you shouldn’t dress like a whore and then you won’t be treated like one?

Boom.

Before writing any further, I will admit that I have taken narcotics in the past however those days are long gone. I have stopped. Times have changed. I can no longer go to my local opium den on a whimsy with my comrades. I can no longer go to my local dispensary to purchase a spot of heroin. 

At this point, you are probably thinking to yourself:

‘Wow. Mr. H Locker dabbled in narcotics? He must be first-rate cool!’

I can thoroughly assure you that I am not cool in any sense of the word. I am thoroughly square. As mentioned above, the period in which I participated in the use of illicit substances was a time where you could go to a chemist and buy heroin. If heroin wasn’t your thing, you could get your cocaine fix via Coca-Cola. There was nothing debonair about walking into a chemist. 

If you are guessing how old I am, you are probably correct. 

The benefit of taking drugs in my time is that the quality obtained was a lot more reliable than today. You also didn’t have to fraternize with uncouth dealers who make you feel stupid just by standing near them. The last plus is the fact that I’ve never had to perform any fellatio, which seems to be the most acceptable form of currency for drugs these days. 

From observing a few thousand pairs of dilated pupils per night, it’s pretty apparent that Ecstasy tablets are the narcotic of choice of night clubbers. In my prime, no such drug was taken. Nowadays it’s everywhere paired with immense peer pressure to take it. People are practically disowned if they do not indulge in the coolness of tablets of Ecstasy. I wouldn’t even know what to expect if I tried an Ecstacy. 

In a nightclub setting, one of the benefits of drugs is that it makes it relatively easy to remove patrons who possess drugs and under the influence of drugs. It also makes my night more enjoyable. I often play mental games with myself such as ‘spot a person who may be under the influence of drugs.’ It’s a similar game to Where’s Waldo except much harder. Perhaps you would like to play along? Give it a go…

What ever happened to good music I used to listen to on my phonograph? I am quite passionate about music however I seem to be failing to connect with the music of today’s generation. I just feel like I’m out of touch with today’s youth. I just can’t seem to enjoy the music they listen to, as hard as I try. Due to this I’m sure they probably think I’m bogus or fail or whatever the appropriate slang may be. 

I’m a firm believer that music has the ability to move people. I’m also a firm believer that nightclub music has the ability to move people in the wrong way. Being stone cold sober and watching people listen and dance to dubstep is an interesting phenomenon. After careful examination and scrutiny of these people, I actually now consider myself an expert in how to dance the dubstep. I’ve even made a 3 step process as to how to dubstep dance.

Step 1. When a dubstep song starts to play, it is imperative that you must remain as still as possible. The idea is that you and your peers must imitate a sweaty pack of groaning zombies, swaying ever so slightly. 

Step 2. At the point of climax, when the beat and bass drops (Yes, I am down with your hip music lingo cherubs) commence ‘The Hump.’ ‘The Hump’ involves you swaying back and forth, humping the surroundings around you, whether it be thin air or your sweaty comrades.

If you look like this, you are doing well. 

It is common knowledge that the more sexual and violent your movements are, the higher your dancing will be regarded. An interpretive semen dance is held in high regard in dubstep circles due to the sheer raw sexuality displayed.

Step 3. The song will inevitably deteriorate into the mundane. During this time, recoup and begin returning to your zombie like state. 

Congratulations. You can now ‘Do da Dub’. 

You may have noticed that dancing to dubstep dancing is highly symbolic. My research has led me to believe that dubstep dancing is representative of sexual repression. The ‘Zombie Phase’ represents the sexually repressed unable to express themselves due to deeply embedded emotional scarring. ‘The Hump’ represents the sexually repressed violently breaking free of their sexual constraints and raping everything in sight. Due to this symbolism, I’m slightly more tolerant and sympathetic towards dubstep when I observe all the poor souls who really make a connection with the music.

Topsy-Turvy Land on Earth. The Twilight Zone. Twin Peaks. Soviet Russia. These phrases all fittingly describe the infamous nightclub restroom. Why? Because the nightclub restroom is like a parallel universe. Everything is backwards and generally unpleasant. 

I was astounded the first time I walked into a nightclub restroom. Upon surveying the surroundings and having my nostrils and vision violated, I mentally questioned whether anyone had been formally trained to use the toilet like I had been when I was a young cub. The procedures I observed were foreign to me.

After several years, I still haven’t been able to quite grasp nightclub toilet etiquette. As I previously mentioned, everything is backwards. The toilet isn’t actually used as a toilet. The sink isn’t used as a sink. It’s hard to believe, but in male restrooms, it is unacceptable to use the toilet for its primary function (it serves a more ornamental purpose in a nightclub). In fact, it is acceptable to do your business anywhere except the lavatory and urinal. Nothing is off limits. The sink, floor, walls, bin are all proper candidates for urination or defecation. Furthermore, It is apparent that some men go to extreme lengths to deliberately miss the urinal. I’m not sure how men do such a good job of making a mess, but I’m guessing some men put one of these on his privates when getting dressed before a big night out. What else could explain how urine gets on the ceiling?

I actively avoid using the male restroom at work partially because it is impossible to walk out with any sense of hygiene. If you unfortunately have to use a toilet in a nightclub, I suggest a rigorous sanitation process afterward.

As a male, it is a common misconception that the female facilities are more bearable than the male facilities and thus should be infiltrated for the goal of retaining hygiene. In reality, the female restroom is even more disenchanting as it is exactly the same as the male restroom in every single way (sans urinals), except you are posed with the question you don’t want the answer to: ‘How did this mess get here…?’ Perhaps they laugh and sneeze a lot in there.

In most cases, it is a better idea to use the disabled restroom. The only repercussion associated with doing this is the situation where you find yourself walking out of the restroom to find a line up of handicapped people impatiently/incontinently scowling at you. 

Nightclub restrooms: It’s not worth it. Buy a catheter. 

With the exception of myself, hospitality workers are an odd bunch. They possess some rather unique characteristics. 

A peculiar phenomenon occurs when a normal civilian becomes a hospitality worker. Immediately after being employed, a cyst of arrogance begins to grow in the workers ego. Give it a few weeks (or hours) the worker will have transformed into a person who fancies themselves as the Alpha and Omega of all things food, drink and service related.

An air of self confidence begins to swirl around the worker as they begin to impose their knowledge and will onto other people, essentially critiquing them from an ivory tower. The hospitality worker will often justify being so outspoken by saying:

‘I work in a Bar/ Restaurant/ Wine Emporium. I think I’d know…’

There is no restriction of scenarios in which this phrase can be used. I have often been chastised over the fact that the cocktails I have made were prepared incorrectly, which puzzles me at times due to the fact that they were my original recipe. I have also been berated over the correct technique for serving a glass of water. In both scenarios I have obviously been the one at fault, due to the fact that the person yelling at me works in the field of hospitality. I won’t even bother writing the obvious counter argument to this. 

Upon becoming a hospitality worker, ego is not the only thing that skyrockets. Depth of palate also changes dramatically. No longer will regular drink or food satisfy the palate of a seasoned hospitality worker. They will be tasting things that they have never tasted before due to their new super power. 

Such snobbery ultimately will lead a hospitality worker to be hated. Hated to the extent to where they are written about in a mildly worded blog.

      

It’s fascinating that even with today’s technology, people can forget where they are. At least once a night a patron swaggers up to with the mistaken belief that he/she is currently drinking and partying at either a car dealership or some sort of home furniture/electronics store. The aforementioned patron will then order a drink which upon being served; ask for a discount or try to strike a bargain. This is inevitably due to the fact that the patron thinks he/she is at said furniture/electronics store and is under the belief that they are buying a surround sound system. I guess this is an easy mistake to make. There aren’t a lot of identifiable differences between say; a beer and a surround sound system. I guess the major identifiable differences between the two are yeast, hops and bubbles. Maybe even moisture?

Society has many establishments where you can bargain and barter so I can understand where this confusion arises from. I often find myself bargaining with my local vending machine over the price of a can of coke. I never come up trumps though. Can’t get a word in with that guy. 

I guess it can be difficult to differentiate between an establishment where you can bargain or not. A large quantity of white-goods is usually a give away. 

Moving along, it is my pleasure to say I will not be hooking you up. Contrary to popular belief, there is no ‘discount’ button on the cash registers in most nightclubs. Nightclubs surprisingly don’t have half-yearly stock take sales for left over stock with dents and scratches. If my employer ever has one, I will endevaour to make it as apparent as possible. 

I never did overly well at chemistry or mathematics but I still think I’m on point with this one.

I think most people order these drinks to get drunk in the most brazen fashion. I’d like to know what is going on in the minds of people that order these shots. I can only presume it is something along the following lines:

‘Absinthe is 60% alcohol….Chatreuse is 55%…and Bacardi 151 is 75%. If I mix them all together in a 30ml shot…that leaves me with……..oh my god….one million percent alcohol!’

Pure genius. Just ask this scientician!

Why not just have a shot of Bacardi 151 if you are so intent on getting drunk. Why bother diluting it with lower alcohol contents. Surely it’s not because of the taste?

Fuel/Rum Flavour + Anise Flavour + Herbal Flavour = Delicious?
I think not. I think the more correct equation is:
Fuel/Rum Flavour + Anise Flavour + Herbal Flavour = Guilt free sex with a girl akin to Vicky Pollard.

Fortunately, in my current workplace, I don’t have to serve a single A.B.C Shot. This is the most common interaction between a customer and myself:

Me: Salutations Home-brothers. How may I assist you?
Broseph: 23 A.B.C Shots!
Me: Unfortunatly I am unable to offer you those as this establishment does not stock Bacardi 151.
Broseph: Really? I’ll take 3 Fresh-Pussy shots then.
Me: As you wish Sir.

Yes, in my recollections I am a hip Stephen Fry.

It’s understandable that most people spruce themselves up for a night on the town. What I don’t understand is the need for girls to wear heels in which they can barely walk. I quietly want to kill every girl who overtly (poorly covertly) looks like they are painfully walking on egg shells. Furthermore, after about an hour of stumbling around like a crippled fuckwit, all girls have to sit down and take off their heels and complain. 

A very minor (yet excruciating) part of my job is to politely request that these shoe-less idiots put their shoes back on their feet. As most would know; being barefoot in a nightclub is a health hazard. You would be hard pressed to find a nightclub without a single shard of broken glass on the ground. The usual response to my polite request to a patron to put her shoes back on is her complaining that her feet are sore from wearing heels and that I am a fucking asshole for even asking. I die a little on the inside when I hear this. 

I die a lot (not just a little) on the inside every fucking time I have to walk behind a girl in heels on a staircase. Girls find it necessary to walk horrendously slowly and grab both banisters. Yes, thats right, both banisters. From the second a girl in heels approaches a staircase, you can be assured that there will be gridlock for the next 20 minutes as she ascends/descends the stairs. Surely this girl would have the decency to perhaps hold one banister? Possibly let some people pass? Notice that there is a gigantic shit-storm of impatience waiting behind her? Wrong. 

Ergo, every time I walk behind a girl in heels (especially on a staircase), I have the rising urge to curtly ankle tap them like this…