Club security: Bordering on 'Border Control'

Club security: Bordering on ‘Border Control’


With the vast majority of nightclubs deciding to raise the intrusive nature of their searches, it’s hard not to feel like you’re perhaps being hoisted into a wooden contraption and repeatedly being poked by molten hot iron sticks in order to hand over whatever class A’s you may have clutching to the hairs of your “scrotanal” area. Or indeed anxiously clasped onto the breast of your best female friend. Obviously by the time everything’s been taken off you, your desire to go in needs a Viagra or two.

As drugs became increasingly difficult to bring into nightclubs, people were running out of ways to smuggle them in. Swallowing fifty badly wrapped pellets or condoms seems a bit ‘Border Control.’ Plus, the idea of squatting over a probably never cleaned toilet while someone smashes the door down with a broomstick-cum-battering ram screaming “ORRRYY OPPP!” isn’t exactly the best way to get one’s anus to dilate.

Drug users are highly skilled in the art of concealment, if you wanna take it in, you’ll find a way – and trust me we did. Soy sauce fish emptied and filled with G, balloons as well, Mephedrone disguised as face powder, and girls with big hair, big boobs and big bums being harassed like a cheap airline that everyone needs to get their baggage on board. (Completely forgetting the poor girl is carrying so many illegal drugs that a firing squad would need to be assembled in the morning to execute her if caught).

After finally passing all three levels of the critically acclaimed new game: ‘Club Search III’, you are then forced to find a toilet to securely pull your ingredients for a fun night out of whichever orifice was feeling particularly packable prior to leaving the house. With bags of Mephedrone bursting in shoes, GBL leaking down pants and whatever else lost in the layers of confetti, wristbands and nondescript puddles of liquid. It’s only once you get to the bar or queue for the toilet and have to wait an eon (by which point you’ve either shat yourself, or decided to do a ninja bump) that you hear a unified sigh as your muscled around by security and escorted out.

When it really just got a bit boring, and everyone was sick of chucking away £50 (if you were lucky) a weekend and everyone had been “banned”, we took to the streets, well, the houses on the streets to be exact. And boy was this a whole different ballgame…

With the usual chill-out ratio of girls to boys being about 1:3, it broke up the testosterone nicely. If it’s a female host, the majority of attendees will be in drag for at least 30% of their stay. Drugs are a constant theme, but it seems the Vaginal Talisman that is present keeps most sexual activity to seriously heavy petting and bathroom play. These are the chill-outs I went to at first, birthing many a hairy drag persona, and having a great time cuddling friends and listening to music while the roadrunners threw shapes in the living room.

Somehow it evolved into something with a much more specific demographic…

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