Okay, so like every other Friday night… I’ve been at work.

Standard shift, working on the bar. Boring, annoying, pointless.

Anyway, after a while, these four guys came over. Middle aged, smelly and dirty, they proceeded to order some very strong drinks, which I immediately regretting serving them when I realised how drunk they were. The oldest, ugliest, smelliest member of this literal rat pack beckoned me to lean over, and, in a voice that sounded like crushed glass under a revolving door, he said “So, where’s the nearest nookie house.” Generally not hearing through his rough accent, I asked him to repeat himself. He rephrased his enquiry to “Do you know where’s the nearest massage parlour?”

Oh, right… He means prostitutes. Classy. I told him I didn’t. He kept mumbling, but I just ignored him, occasionally smiling and making that short, sharp exhalation of air that people think is me laughing, when really I’m just humouring them, because I’m not quite rude enough to tell them to fuck off.

Anyway, cut ahead a bit, and a hen-night wanders in. If that phrase isn’t universally known, it’s the female version of a bachelor party. They’re the worst. Loud, desperate, excitable. It drives me mental. So, here they were, bunny ears, and funny hats and glasses and all the other things that make me remind myself of the punishment for murder. The pathetic quartet of Neanderthals soon invite themselves to the group of ladies, and start trying to hit on them, when they realise that the ladies are simulteaneously doing a half assed charity collection while they pay for several bottles of expensive wine. Long story, slightly shorter: One of the men ended up paying £20 to be spanked with a cane by the ugliest, sluttiest member of the hen night crew.

The irony is… he was looking for a whore.