Sick Moves In The DJ Booth

The night had started out like any other with my whirlwind of a friend, Jane. Two single girls in the city, headed out to drink, dance, and find their next disastrous date. The setting was as clichéd as clubs come: overpriced drinks, overdressed girls, and underwhelming men. That as never a problem for our dynamic duo, though, as a few shots in everything would soon take on a gleaming newness that was nowhere to be found when sober.

It was never hard to be noticed when you were out with the Atomic Blonde. French, hair seemingly spun from golden silk, and curves that would make even the most stone-cold sober man drool - we couldn't be more different if you tried. So, when two handsome men had drawn up enough liquid courage to approach us, it was hardly a surprise.

The ubiquitous bar mantra was soon wheeled out by both guys, as they repeatedly called for 'SHOTS', imploring us with their hazy eyes that it was indeed a brilliant idea to go to the bar and down some black sambuca. A word of warning before I continue this tale - never, and I mean NEVER, drink black sambuca. You'll rue the day it ever passed your lips.

One shot down and I was still standing. Back in my younger days of yore I could hold a fair amount of drink, but I didn't have the maturity to know when I'd reached my limits. As Jane moved further and further into the blonder of the two men, slowly enmeshing herself into his side, my brunette boy decided the best course of action for us was most definitely to take another shot of sambuca. Oh, joy.

As the aniseed sting hit my stomach, I knew I'd made a mistake. In the instant that 'one drink too many' hits your stomach, the SOS signal hits your brain, and you know its contents are hatching an imminent evacuation plan. The sweats start. The panic sets in. I just need to make it to the bathroom. I just need to make it to the bathroom.

Bathroom door opened, cubicle found, but plans scuppered. For some godforsaken reason, high-end London clubs have a no puking rule in their facilities. Yes, that's right - it's forbidden to be sick. If you need to expel those £20 cocktails then you're going to have to find somewhere else to do it.

Well, unfortunately, that's exactly what I did.

Panicking my way out of the toilets and back into the throng of the club, my honing senses clocked the DJ booth. It's empty! Better yet, no one's looking this way! What if I just...Okay, no, no time for cohesive thoughts, the carnage is already set in motion. Crouching down like a drunk breakdancer, I ducked behind the booth, and promptly introduced both of those tequila shots to the floor. That's right, folks, I threw up behind the DJ booth.

Standing back up, Drunk Nati felt disproportionately proud of herself - no one had seen her! Ha! No one would ever know. A few staggered steps away from the scene of the crime, and I was ready to go find my Goldilocks and go home to find the comfiest bed possible. Until a tap landed upon my shoulder.

"Are you okay, miss?"

"Huh? Oh, yes, haha! I think I'm just thirsty. I must need some water."

"Yeah, you look a bit peaky - come with me."

Fun fact #2 about swanky London night haunts: there are Puke Patrollers. Not their official title, granted, but it is their job to monitor the patrons, and swiftly cart anyone on the wrong side of drunk off to the 'Recovery Room'. There, you're given a bucket and a bottle of water, and time to compose yourself before you're firmly told to leave. That room was my home now.

Water in hand, I sat down and drunkenly giggled to myself at the stomach-turning crime I'd just committed. Until she returned, that is, and a voice crackled through her radio.

"Hey, ugh god, someone's been sick in the DJ booth and he's just slipped in it. He's meant to be starting his second set in 5 minutes, we need someone to deal with this ASAP."

What was left of my stomach dropped. The Puke Patroller looked me in the eyes.

"For fuck's sake, some people are so disgusting, aren't they?"

"Oh my god yeah! Who would do that?"

"Hold this for a second, I'm gonna have to go sort this out." Passing me a bucket, she left the room with an eye roll that seemed to last for an eternity.

I was mortified. The sweats had started again. I needed to get out of there before I was unveiled as the culprit, and doused in so much shame that I'd probably be sick again. Lolloping to the cloakroom as fast as my heels could take me, I grabbed my coat and climbed those stairs faster than Usain Bolt on 10 cups of coffee.

I'd escaped. I felt wretched and I was on the run, which was not entirely how I'd imagined the night would progress. With my friend still stuck in the embrace of her sambuca sidekick, I took some deep gulps of fresh air and leaned back against the rain-soaked wall. I was out, but my shame was very much kept inside - until now.

So, dear reader, if you can learn anything from this tale of mine, let it be that this: one shot of black sambuca is never a good idea, and two? Well, misery loves company, and that company might just start a party on the floor of your nearest DJ booth...