I work in a club in a small town where everyone knows everyone. We have closed and are trying to kick out the last few remaining customers who are refusing to leave.

Me: “Sorry, guys, you need to leave now. The club is closed.”

Customer #1: “Don’t you know who I am?”

Me: “No, I don’t.”

Customer #1: “I’m [CEO Of Club Company]’s son!”

Customer #2: “Yeah, and I’m his older brother.”

Two of the CEO’s sons work for the company, one is still in high school, and one I used to go to high school with. They’re in all the time so we all know them.

Me: “Oh, wow, which ones are you two again? Sorry, I always get your names wrong!”

Customer #1: “Ummm… I’m [CEO’s Oldest Son who works for us and is currently on shift].”

Customer #2: “And I’m [CEO’s Second Oldest Son that I went to school with].”

Me: “[CEO’s Oldest Son], what are you doing out here? I thought you were supposed to be packing down the bar? Have you been drinking on shift? I’ll be telling your father about this! And [CEO’s Second Oldest Son], I thought you were still in Melbourne with your mom! [CEO’s Third Son who works with us and who is also on shift] will be so excited to see you! I’ll go grab him for you!”

I went and grabbed the CEO’s actual sons who laughed at the boys for pretending to be them. The boys left quickly.

It’s New Year’s and we’re kicking out customers after a manic event — it’s 6:30 am by this point — where the club reached capacity, approximately 4000 people. We’re all exhausted and quite frankly looking forward to our staff party after work for working New Year and New Year’s Day, so we’re trying to get everyone out quickly so I’ve been asked to help in the cloakroom.

Customer: “I’ve lost my ticket. Can you look for my coat for me?”

The majority of the customers still need to leave; she’s one of the first I serve.

Me: “Sorry, but I’m afraid it’s club policy that if you’ve lost your ticket you have to wait till the end for us to find your coat.”

Customer: “It’s not f****** difficult. I’ll tell you what it looks like and you can get it.”

Me: “I’m really sorry, but as I said before, I can’t get your coat until the end unless you have a ticket.”

Customer: “Listen here, you f****** b****. Just look for my f****** coat. It’s black.”

Me: “There are about 2000 black coats back there. I’m not looking for yours until the end or until you have the ticket.”

Customer: “Why the f*** not?”

Me: “Firstly, I’m not allowed to. Secondly, that’s the biggest waste of time.”

Customer: “F*** you, you little c***. You’re going to find me my f****** coat.”

She continues to shout and call me names for about five minutes before I can say anything.

Me: “I’m not finding your coat. Now go to the back of the line and wait.”

Customer: “I have f****** work at nine o’clock; I don’t have time to be waiting around.”

Me: “I’m sorry, but you should have thought of that before you decided to go clubbing until six in the morning.”

Customer: “Stupid b****, get me your f****** manager.”

Me: “I can tell you now that she will tell you exactly the same.”

The manager had observed this whole incident and went to speak to her. The customer continued to swear and called me and the manager a bunch of obscene names. This went on for about ten minutes until the manager told her, quite forcefully, that if she was not going to wait, she could go home and call back when she was sober. The customer sulked off to the back of the queue, calling me a b****, etc., under her breath. It took so much for me not to lose my temper with her.

A few years ago, when I was twenty-five, I gathered enough courage to visit a famous local late-night club. It was a “first of its kind” for me, as I’d rather meet up with people to play board games or spend time on gaming consoles.

As expected with people looking for new friends and/or hookups, I was really nervous and silently sat in my corner, sipping on my cola. Feeling another wave of courage and energy, I told myself to at least see the whole club with every room and all of its dance floors. 

I thought to myself, “Hm… That dance floor there looks full of smoke and people. Let’s be brave and walk through the crowd!”

So, with my trusted bottle of Coke, I took a deep breath and walked until… I reached a person with a drink in his hand. No matter how I stepped to the side, we still stood in each others’ way.

With all the smoke, flashing lights, and overly loud dance music, I looked into his eyes…

…only to realise that I was standing in front of a wall-sized mirror.

I was embarrassed beyond belief and left only two hours after entering the club.

It’s been ten years since this incident and I’m still amused and confused by this situation.

My friends have invited me to drag night to see their friend sing and dance in a competition for amateur drag queens. I’m not a fan of loud music or clubs so I suggest that I drive so they can have a few drinks, and I bring a book along so I can be supportive but also have a break if it gets too overwhelming.

I’m sitting against the wall reading my book when a man in his late twenties comes and sits next to me.

Man: “Hi there.”

Me: “Hi, what’s up?”

Man: “I just noticed you over here and thought I’d come and say hi.”

Me: “Oh, well, hi.”

Man: “How are you enjoying the show?”

Me: “It’s interesting. The costumes are pretty cool.”

Man: “So, if you don’t mind me asking, how long has it been?”

Me: “I’ve never been to one of these shows before.”

Man: “No, sorry, I mean… Y’know, how long has it beeeeeeen?”

Me: “I don’t understand.”

Man: “Since you started transitioning? You look great.”

Me: “Um… I was born this way?”

The man very quickly stood up and walked into the crowd.

I asked my friends later what was going on and they explained that he was trying to hit on me. My innocent, twenty-one-year-old brain had no idea.

I’m tee-total, but I still like to go dancing with my friends. A Shirley Temple is one of my favourite drinks, but for some reason, some bars like to add vodka or rum, without even asking me which one. Because of this, I’ve learned to be specific.

I’m also used to non-alcoholic drinks being free at the clubs we go to.

Me: “Could I please get a Shirley Temple with no alcohol?”

Bartender: “What is that?”

Me: “Just orange juice, Sprite, and grenadine.”

Bartender: “We don’t have grenadine.”

Me: “That’s okay, just orange juice and Sprite.”

She mixes a drink and sets it on the bar.

Bartender: “That’s $5.75.”

Me: “For what?”

Bartender: “For the vodka.”

She says this as if it should be obvious.

Me: “No, I wanted no alcohol. I said just orange juice and Sprite.”

Bartender: *With attitude* “You didn’t say you wanted a virgin.”

I was especially confused because not only was I certain that I had specified no alcohol, but I had actually listed the ingredients for her. A version of this was, unfortunately, a common occurrence at clubs, but this one was definitely the worst one.