Items by Darius

STONE COLD HAVEN

  • So I Went Clubbing, VIP Style

    Posted: November 28, 2011, 5:34 pm by Darius

    One of the most offensive comments I’ve ever heard was “he said if we paid £40 extra each, we’ll get into the VIP section”. This was one of my friends in a taxi feeling excited about getting off the phone with an “insider” from the club we were going to. Up to that point, I really hadn’t taken notice of where we were going clubbing, I was more interested with what we were going to eat first because I was hungry.

    “£40?!”, I exclaimed in shock, “to get into a pub in South East London? You can get a blowjob for £40”.

    “That’s for a VIP pass” the argument followed, “And it’s not a pub, it’s a club”.

    I’ll come back to this VIP thing in a bit. It had been a great Saturday that started with us drinking at midday. It’s been a while, but I applied for my overnight visa from er indoors and it was duly granted to allow me to attend a Christmas drink up after a game with my Arsenal supporting friends. Even she knew there was absolutely no chance expecting me back home on Saturday night and promptly granted the visa.

    So we sang and made merry, and even thought of opening a book to bet on how many of us would actually make it to the stadium. It didn’t matter that the pub was literally a few minutes’ walk from the Emirates, 5 pm got to us quicker than we could order enough pints. It’s one of those things that always gets you – being in your seat before kick-off is just an elusive bastard.

    We quickly got into the cheering rhythm as the first half flew past – with one of my friends who was there for the first time (he supports Liverpool unfortunately) spending most of the time being mesmerized by the magnificence of the Emirates stadium. Seriously, this guy was taking photos of the pitch and the players instead of enjoying the football match. We excused the poor bastard – it was his first time in a proper stadium, one of the best in the world.

    The result was disappointing, but I’ll take a point after a European weekday game with our boys coming back with a late equalizer. Everyone was still in a party mood as we headed back to the pub. Those who did not have overnight visas ended up having the traditional ‘one for the road’, and making mental notes for the next time – “make sure your missus sanctions an overnight stay”.

    Fast forward a few hours later, and we had been roped into visiting an African club in South East London. When I heard the driver in the taxi being told the address, I said there’s no African club anywhere near that road and it’s a bloody long road with hundreds of nightspots. An African club is not one of them.

    So imagine my surprise when they said we need to pay extra for a VIP pass. You see, I have a problem in principle. This whole “VIP status” in clubs or entertainment venues is just taken too far. It makes no business sense whatsoever. Why create second class citizens and try to segregate people in a place that is a shit venue in the first place.

    If you’re going to make me a VIP – it better be VIP. Don’t try and entice me with a section of the pub with a few fluffy seats and a huge ugly fuck off bouncer built like a brick shithouse stopping people from entering the fluffy seated area.

    I’m still listening to the same dodgy music, still smelling the same sweaty bodies like every other fucker in the pub, fighting like everyone else to get a pint at the bar, using the same dodgy and smelly toilets with the same lollipop selling, chewing gum peddling toilet attendant that’s’ smiling at everyone. If you’re going to make me VIP, make sure you have heated toilet seats, a surround sound system playing jazz fm, a toilet that can wash my ass with soapy water, and blow dry all the cracks and curves that nature endowed on me.

    Don’t bloody call a pub a club, and don’t bloody insist that you have a VIP area and tell me that £40 is a discounted price to enter your dodgy VIP area.

    True to form, it was exactly the pub I had in mind. And even then, someone was still being nervous about whether we would be let in wearing sneakers.

    “It’s a pub for fuck’s sake”, I screamed. I kid you not though, the first bouncer stopped us and told us the dress was smart casual, no sneakers. And our friend instantly took to his phone to try and call his “insider” to bail us out”.

    Before he could get his ‘insider’, one of the other bouncers came jumping with joy towards us and crushed me with a huge bear hug which of course shocked everyone at first. Big Ken though, is one of those huge ugly built like a brick shit house bouncers, and it’s understandable why the others were apprehensive. But Big Ken used to work for me in a previous life, hence the joy and excitement from seeing me after nearly 10 years.

    “This dude hear tells me I can’t enter your pub” I hurriedly pointed to the offending “you can’t get into my club with those sneakers” bouncer, a huge “fuck you” grin on my face.

    “What do you mean”, Big Ken laughingly responded, and turning to the other bouncer, he calmly said “I still call this guy boss. If T (the owner of the pub) found out you were freezing him, he’d have words”.

    “what’s this VIP shit I hear you guys charge for the price of giving head” I asked Big Ken as he led us all inside. “And in a pub though these guys think it’s a club”. Big Ken just let out a hearty laugh saying it’s for the amusement of customers.

    So inside we were – and even without paying VIP prices (for the sake of self-respect I insisted on paying the normal cover charge at the door) – of a pub I might add – and I must say, I felt like I’d lost a few years.

    I didn’t recognize any of the songs being played except for one Rihanna hit, but that’s because it’s on radio nearly every day. In fact, last time I went to a club proper was nearly 4 years ago when I lost a bet to my younger brother’s 23 year old girlfriend and the punishment was clubbing with her all night in Nairobi.

    I thought clubbing would be what it used to be like in my day, but the young girl really punished my body (wipe that smirk off your dirty face – not that kind of punishment) by keeping me on a dance floor all night.

    Saturday was getting to be like one of those “what the fuck am I really doing here” kind of nights. But my friend reminded me that overnight visas are rare to come by so I better enjoy myself. And this I promptly started to do as I moved my bits and pieces on the dance floor before one of the DJ’s took pity on me and started playing some good old fashioned old school music. To me it wasn’t old school, I’d say late 80s and early 90s, but to the crowd around, they danced to it like it was the golden oldies.

    One of the young girls next to me looked like she was still in nursery school and still getting used to solid food when House Call by Maxi Priest and Shabba was topping the charts in the early 90s, yet she was grooving to it like she had been in the music video.

    There as another one across the floor who unleashed a scream of joy when the song came on and started the crouching dancing move as if to prove to everyone how fit she was. To be honest, the only thing you could think of with her face right by the crotch of the guy dancing with er was Biggy in Nasty girl rapping “Whip it out, rubber no doubt” – with the expectation that any second, the dude was going to whip his dick out and slap the girl’s face with it.

    Believe it or not, when I was in the clubbing business, I came across crazy things, and it wouldn’t have surprised me one bit. I remember a few years back when talking to one of my customers outside in the club box office area, another customer walked out, calmly said hello with a smile and looked around as if checking if anyone else was about – nonchalantly lifted her dress, pulled out her stockings and panties, folded them neatly, put them in her hand bag and went back straight into the club.

    And by the way, ladies, if you’re going to wear a mini-skirt, please do us a favour and wear one that doesn’t ride, especially if you’re going to get tipsy and drop your guard. A good miniskirt can look great and elegant (on the right body I might add), but when it starts riding every few minutes and it becomes difficult to tell whether you’re wearing a skirt or a belt, then you’ve got a problem.

    We ended up talking with this particular girl and her group of friends and making small talk with industrial strength speakers determined to fuck up your conversations wasn’t easy at all. At one point when we were sat in the fluffy VIP seats (yes there was a VIP area, she started telling me her life story – hard to keep job, dodgy boyfriend who doesn’t’ value her, ambitions in life, and why the group decided they needed to party hard.

    I was also amused when she complained about the challenges of wearing a miniskirt. Especially when she’s had wine, panty removers, beer and all sorts poured onto her thighs by inconsiderate bastards.

    “My thighs are so sticky…” she moaned, almost daring and willing me to feel and see how disgusting it really was.

    I thought if only there was really a VIP bathroom for the ladies, she could have actually taken a shower.

    Some things never change though – like the dodgy mini-cab driver who hang out all night outside the club and want to charge you an arm and a leg to take you home, especially when you’re all going to different addresses. And the one thing that always cracks me up is when they insist you pay them first before they take you – something I always refuse on the grounds that they haven’t taken me anywhere – how do I know they’re not a murderer like the ones you watch on CSI New York.

    As far as I know, the only professionals who get away with collecting fees before the job are prostitutes. Why taxi drivers insist on going this direction I don’t know. Besides, if I actually manage to elude a taxi driver in my state after clubbing, they’ve got bigger problems than me not paying them for the fare.

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    • Is Kalonzo Musyoka Just Another Cock Teasing Vice President Or Is He Just Politicking

      Posted: November 14, 2011, 5:13 pm by Darius

      I have a deep rooted cynicism for politics, notwithstanding the fact that I don’t trust politicians as far as I could spit the fuckers.

      You always know it’s election season when they start gallivanting around the UK purporting to reach out to the Kenyan Diaspora and pretend they care. It’s the twisted rendition of them visiting rural areas to hand out lessos and bags of sugar to the hapless electorate who are supposed to be thankful that the politicians are coming to their village to listen to them.

      I mean, these are the same folk who literally hijack burial services because it’s one of the most sure fire ways of reaching a captive audience. They don’t even give a damn about the deceased and instead shamelessly preach their tribalistic nonsense.

      The game has changed with dual citizenship a reality. It gives politicians access to campaign funds from Diasporans abroad desperate to maintain a link with politics at home. It gives them potential access to votes if the Independent Electoral and Boundaries Commission can get its shit together. It gives them a platform to spew their diatribe and tired political messages.

      Kalonzo Musyoka is already at it with his entourage of dodgy ministerial lackeys and civil servants. And guess what their carrot is. Kenyans in the Diaspora should lobby for a seat in parliament.

      Forgive my cynicism, but if the Vice President was serious about representation of Diasporans in the Kenyan parliament, he should have pushed for the creation of such a presence before the constitution was sealed.

      What point is there jerking off excitable Kenyans in the Diaspora with the tantalizing prospect of a seat in parliament instead of presenting it as a bill for law change in the said parliament and having it debated. The parliament building is in down town Nairobi and not in East London.

      All Kalonzo and other politicians and their hapless bus boys and girls are interested in is exerting influence over the Diaspora to gain advantage before the election next year.

      The Vice President should stop being a manipulative punk and stop taking people for idiots. The government can’t even sort out the issues around the ICC and the criminal case against the Occampo 6, and he’s here promising a seat in parliament for the hundreds of thousands of Kenyans abroad? Does he think we walked into this election season from the cotton fields?

      The irony is that Kenyans abroad are directly responsible for 5.3% of Kenya’s Gross Domestic Product. That’s a budget segment even bigger than the budget of most ministries in government. And all the punk can offer is a single solitary seat in parliament? What’s he going to give us next, a meal for our Diaspora MP every time he or she attends parliament?

      If Kalonzo wants to impress us, get the president and prime minister to create a full blown ministry of Diaspora affairs to channel the human, social and financial capital and absolute clout that Kenyans abroad can bring to bear for the development of the country. You don’t need any Kenyans in the Diaspora to lobby that one for you – you’re the vice president, convince your bosses.

      Kalonzo should stop this cheap ass politicking and cock teasing of Kenyans in some back water in East London. Go back home and get us some real shit in government.

      And in case you were wondering where my contempt for Kenyan politicians comes from, have a look at this article I wrote quite a while back about the Rapists Of The Kenyan Spirit. Believe me, these guys don’t do themselves any justice – but I have to tell you, I blame all of us Kenyans for collective gross negligence and deriliction of our civic responsibilities by the reckless and irresponsible way we keep voting these punks into parliament.

      And don’t forget the shot gun wedding that Kibaki and Raila had to endure. we still don’t know who’s children will survive this marriage..

      If you haven’t yet, follow us on twitter. You might even get the chance to help us get Larry Madowo laid.

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    • Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Hoe

      Posted: November 12, 2011, 6:28 pm by Darius

      I always figured I was in the wrong profession. Not that I’ll even get away with trying to sell my body. A sell-by date doesn’t even apply in my case. I doubt that I’d ever pass any type of screening that would declare me fit for purpose for what seems to be a very lucrative trade in austere times.

      Legend has it that there’s only 2 professions in the world that are recession proof. Being an undertaker and prostitution. You’ll never run out of a ready customer base willing to pay the going rate for services rendered.

      But of course once in a while someone just takes the piss and redefines their own rules in the market. Take poor old Dawn. She thought she’d hit the jackpot, but didn’t account for her client being a thief. For the record, whoever pays for sex to the tune of £1.7 million in less than 3 years deserves to be locked up in prison and the keys thrown away. That kind of stupidity endangers the human gene pool.

      It’s bad enough that the guy steals over £3 million from his employer, but he should have been executed for the manner in which he spent the proceeds of the heist.

      The lady argues that her sexual services were value for money and the guy was prepared to pay the market rate – a rate her accountant estimates at about £20,000 a week. Even the judge in this case hard a problem with that appraisal of the defendants market value as a professional provider of horizontal refreshments. Which makes you really ask the question – is any pussy worth circa £3K a day? The law of the land clearly thinks not.

      But then again, what price do you put on someone being a platinum idiot and agreeing to pay that amount. The lady is clearly aggrieved that she’s losing the fruits of her loins, literally – but you really can’t argue about a judge clawing back the proceeds of crime. It’s forbidden fruit.

      My take – she should have hired a more savvy accountant to keep her hard earned money away from the long arm of the criminal justice system. There’s nothing that’s more of a bastard than thinking you’ve earned £1.7 million for a judge to tell you “actually, sweet heart – you need to pay that shit back”.

      Or maybe she should have opted to become an undertaker. There are no grey areas when it comes to splitting hairs over the prices of the services rendered.

      So I’ve also joined this twitter thing. I’m told its safer and more sane than MKZ – but what do I know. You can follow me on twitter and find out whether I get the hang of it.

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