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.

Apologies to nightclub bouncers, but every job has its idiots that make everyone else look bad.

When my youngest son was about twenty or so — legal drinking age — he decided to check out a new night club that had opened about two weeks before. As the establishment was still new, there was a line out the door and about half a block up the sidewalk.

My son wanted to ask what the wait time was, so he asked the bouncer, a big mouth-breather sitting at the entrance, how long the wait would be. The guy told my son to F-off and get to the back of the line.

At that moment, the “bouncer” was called in to the club and left his station. More importantly, he left the hand stamper that allows admission on his little table. My son, a little pissed off by this guy’s attitude and by that point not at all interested in going into the club, grabbed the stamp and very politely made his way along the long line of people waiting to get in.

“You’re in, and you’re in, and you’re in…” He just went through the line on the sidewalk stamping people’s hands and they gratefully charged into the club. As the bouncer had left his post there was nobody to check them, but they had stamps, so the club ended up being full and having at least another fifty people crowded in. 

My son had got about halfway through the line when the idiot came up to him, demanded the stamp back, and informed him he was banned for life from the club. My son laughed, handed over the stamp, and left. The club closed about three months after.

I love my son; he doesn’t get mad but instead uses people’s idiocy for good.

(I am married to a fellow Marine, a man with two left feet and no sense of rhythm. He hates to dance; probably inevitably, I am a dancin’ fool. We come to terms with this early in our relationship, or at least I think so.

It’s Friday and we are meeting at the Officer’s Club. This particular club has a DJ and dancing on Fridays. I sprained my ankle earlier this week, so I come limping into the bar on my crutches and greet my husband.)

Me: “I see the DJ is getting ready.”

Husband: *in a tragic tone of voice, glancing at my crutches* “Yes, and I was just going to ask you to dance!”

(I tried to smack him with a crutch but he was too fast for me.)

Scene: a night club that i work at. There is a man making a commotion outside. I come over to see whats going on.

Bouncer: This man wants to get in for free

Customer: I am an old childhood friend of the owner and I demand in!

Bouncer: Theres no way yo–

Customer: I am! Let me in!

I decide to step in

Me: Oh really? You’re from Mexico?

Customer: Yes, I grew up with the owner there! I was his best friend, Marcos!

Me: Wow, another person from the small city, Platanos!

Customer: Yes, yes I grew up there let me in now!

Me: you really want in? Well I doubt I cant say no, except for the fact that you claim to live in of bananas with me through grade school. Well let me say I did not grow up in a town full of bananas, nor did I have friends. Get out.

He runs away! My bouncer, my real best bud from my childhood laughs his ass off, along with the rest of the line

(Two friends and I are the tender age of 18 and decide to go out clubbing for the first time. We find a club, we party, we drink… waaaaay too much. We decide to leave but can barely make it down the stairs. I have a vague recollection of someone shouting, “Call an ambulance!”, but us shooing them away saying we are fine. So, there we are, standing at the edge of the main street of the busy clubbing area, dozens of people walking past us, with no idea how to proceed as we are all too trashed to even work out how to get home. After a while, a man dressed in sparkly trousers, crazy yellow glasses, and a white furry coat, carrying a speaker and another couple of large bags, comes to talk to us.)

Man: “Are you guys heading somewhere?”

Us: “Yeah, we just need to get home.”

Man: “You look like you’ve had a big night. Where are you heading?”

Us: “[Suburb].”

Man: “Okay, well, if you don’t mind coming via [Other Suburb 15 minutes from ours], we can share a cab, and then I can drive you home.”

Us: *with, apparently, no idea about personal safety* “Oh, that would be so good. Thank you!”

Man: “It’s all good. I’m a DJ; I’ve just been playing at [Nearby Club]. I see people like you guys all the time; it’s kind of refreshing. I’m happy to help.”

(He gets us a cab, loads his stuff in the back, opens the passenger door for us and gets in the front. We try to be polite and ask about his DJ-ing, but none of us can make much coherent conversation. We get to his place and get out of the cab, which he jumps in to pay for before any of us can offer.)

Man: “If you guys just want to wait on the path, I’ll just get my gear inside and get the car.”

(He returned in five minutes with his car, we piled in the back seat and gave him the address, again trying unsuccessfully to converse, and we were soon at our destination, all of us trying not to fall asleep or vomit. We got out, the man wished us well and drove off, and we all somehow managed to get into the flat and collapse on the floor for the next ten hours. Twenty years later, my friend and I still refer to this man as “the angel.” We couldn’t remember his DJ name so we were never able to track him down and soberly thank him or pay for the cab fare. Our night could have ended horrifically. We were unbelievably lucky to have such a nice, honest, decent bloke come to our aid in our moment of need. He never even said anything to make fun of us for our predicament — which would have been totally warranted. The world needs less drunk teenage idiots and more blokes like this guy.)