Two of the all time clubland nutbags and their tales of clubbing horrors…
Miranda gets going first with a hotel-after party to die for – sometimes these rooms are better than the club’s…
“I have always had a love/hate relationship with hotel room parties – sometimes they’re hilarious but more often they’re full of boring tossers listening to local radio on the telly or boring tossers desperately trying to have a mental one because they think they should. First things first – when I get into any hotel room in any case – I always have a quick flick through the Bible. Because that’s where a certain colleague of mine (ahem) says he used to hide his valuables for later and then forget where he put them – never found anything yet though. So which hotel room after-party was my favourite of all time? Was it when a former Gods Kitchen promoter lost his marbles, started dribbling profusely and telling us all about his mum being a triangle? Or maybe it was the time when a pop star who’d gatecrashed our room, made to “do a dance” for a line (and then promptly kicked out with a swift “goodnight pal” after he’d performed? Or maybe it was the time when the Wall of Sound bad boys came round for a nightcap, tried to break the room’s window with a bottle of gin, then smashed our glass table and left saying “we’re not sorry”?. Nope, my favourite’s gotta be after the Essential Festival in Brighton. Me and a mate were just about considering smoking the teabags when there was a knock at the door. A presentable looking couple holding a big carrier bag smiled at us. “Good morning, we wondered whether you’d like to buy any drugs?” We explained that sorry, we didn’t have any cash. “Oh that’s OK,” said the couple. “We take cheques.” Now that’s what I call room service. Get in.
Prince comes back at her with a tale he took to Amsterdam that he still giggles about today…
The weekend was simple enough. A weekend in New York buying some clobber, going to Twilo and just getting out of London for a few days. Then some dickhead jumps infront of a train at Clapham killing himself. I wasn’t best pleased. So that was the flight to the United States of America out the window. A few phone calls and a last minute flight to Amsterdam was confirmed – plus with the reduced air fare, the opportunity to take a couple of floozies with us. What ensued can only be put down into the ‘Carry On Clubbing’ film department. The Coffee Shop and it’s secret draw that sent us all just crazy, The Escape Club – the girls nearly got the elbow after seeing Holland’s finest, getting back to the hotel and my mate (who shall remain nameless) passing out – so asking the reception desk for a camp-bed for my baby was the obvious thing to do. Then, very carefully lifting my pal onto the camp bed and dragging the sleeping sausage into the hotel corridor, shutting our door and carrying on the party. Two hours later however I sort of regretted my actions. A knock on the door and standing there was said mate completely naked wrapped in Cling Film. Head to toe. With a hard on. Smiling. We got him dressed and decided to all go down to the bar where my friend climbed onto a grand piano infront of a full room of people having their breakfast. And then pissed into an ornate vase of flowers. We then missed our flight home.
