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I’m sure some are reasonable people out to make an honest buck. Unfortunately, nobody ever remembers them. It’s only the roid poppin’, knuckle draggin’, power crazed fun police that stick in your mind. Sometimes, things turn ugly and people get hurt, even killed. Other times they just manage to sour the euphoria of what looked set to be a great night out with one shake of their meathead.
Logic goes out the window when dealing with bouncers. There are few places other than bars and clubs where potential customers would tolerate being kept waiting in line for a complete stranger to judge their fashion sense, personality and mental state in one cursory glance. Especially when said stranger is a flat topped Neanderthal in a black polo. It’s like wearing a tux to the Rwandan jungle to impress the gorillas.
One thing about bouncers, though: like referees, they never change their mind. If a bouncer says you’re not coming in, you’re stuffed. Case closed. The best thing to do is walk away, come back later and hope they don’t remember you. Nothing else you say or do is likely to advance your cause.
That’s not to say there aren’t novel ways of trying. Notoriously impish mate John once decided the best way to persuade a bouncer he was not, as accused, too drunk to enter, was by wowing him with an extensive vocabulary. Annunciating as though he was addressing the Queen, John earnestly enquired, “Are you insinuating that I am too inebriated to partake in your establishment?” Needless to say the reply was not nearly so eloquent.
Then there’s Andrew who, after being kicked out of a club, waited til a fight broke out outside and, with the bouncers distracted, snuck back in. They tracked him down eventually, though found him hiding in the female toilets. And can I just say that if a grumpy bouncer ever asks “How did you get back in here?” the correct answer is not: “Well let’s face it, you guys aren’t renowned for your intelligence.”
Me, I must admit to having dropped the ‘I’m a journalist’ line a couple of times after receiving what seemed an unfair shake of the head. It’s cringe worthy, really. “I’ll call tomorrow and speak to the manager. Your unfair door policies will be a big story . yada yada yada”. By morning, even if I do still think it’s a good idea, I’m usually too hungover to do anything about it.
Still, it’s better than a former colleague who once asked without irony, “Don’t you know who I am?” Not only was he denied entry, he had the added trauma of a shattered ego to deal with.
The only ploy I’ve ever heard that worked, and I suspect it’s urban myth, involved a girl going down on her knees in front of a bouncer and it wasn’t to beg, if you get my drift.
What about you? How have bouncers managed to infuriate you, what did you do about it and, more importantly, did it work?
I think the situation is far more serious than the article suggests. Sure it can be a downer on the night and there are some funny stories to go along with it, but how many of us know of someone who was seriously injuried by a bouncer? There really needs to be someone who oversees what they do.
Really, does it take a 180kg muscle bound idiot to count the number of patrons they let in the door or as you say assess dress standard. No. The thugs are there to fight and take every opportunity to do so. If the club owners were more responsible for the action of their employees, this problem could be fixed.
My best effort to get into a club when i was pissed was talking to the bouncer in an Irish accent and trying to convince him that I HAD to go in because my long lost sister was in there. I said we had been separated at birth and divided by different countries and now she was dying of a congenital disease and i had to see her tonight, right now, before she died.
Just as an aside, I did not actually know what congenital meant.
Needless to say, my ridiculous story and even more pathetic accent got me into my favourite club at the time: Rosies.
The story with bouncers controlling a night out has become out of control. I don’t think we ever have a night out where we have got a bouncer to complain about afterwards.
I’ve had quite a few times where I’ve been told I’ve had too many to drink and I was the designated driver or I had come straight from work and therefore hadn’t touched a drop.
we once weren’t allowed into a pub this year because we had been to a reds games and had reds supporters shirts on. We were told that the pub didn’t support the reds so we weren’t allowed in. We definitely hadn’t had too many because its too expensive to drink at the game. A pub in Brisbane that doesn’t support its local team, regardless of what sport it is. pretty terrible.
maybe it had something to do with the reds’ form this season? bloody fair weather fans.
What should have been an easy task was made difficult because Boy Wonder on the door didn’t think the admittedly young looking lad in front of him didn’t match the admittedly young looking face on the license, and when he asked me my postcode to verify it was me I gave the one on the back (MacGregor) instead of the one on the front (Albany Creek).
Einstein’s grandson then tried to take my license away, only for me to fire up and give my full name, date of birth, current address etc etc. He then asked if I was a donor and what my conditions were: in my case corrective lenses. He then performed the very intelligent trick of putting his face inches away from mine to look for two clear bits of plastic in my eyes before the other bouncer asked what the problem was.
This one gnarled rock lobster working security out front of Le Shack pincered my ear, so I swam over to his motorbike and kicked it over with my tentacle.
‘It was the cuttlefish!!’ I screamed as everyone turned to see what all the commotion was. I made like a Rainbow fish and pointed to the black inky cloud hanging over the bike lying forlornly on its side jug.
‘That Prick!’ roared the rock lobster, scuttling over. Switching form now to a Halo fish it’s fun to pretend I swim inside the establishment, slipping straight by the folks lining up outside, just to get down. Inside, it was incredible. I was shimmying and shaking, snap changing form and colour like a Vegas neon sign. This cute little lobster came up to me; she’s clearly overboard. So I turn the lights out and we slip under the rock she was so tasty, if a little sandy. Suddenly the rock is lifted. It’s the lobster in the black scivy, again. Fuck, he looks roiled. I feel a little stupid. I give it all the black ink I have. Pandemonium ensues and I slip out the back door, unseen, but knocking over a Crown of Thorns Starfish on my way out sorry dude. He he. I hit the glittering highway, speeding the 15 miles back to the city and then get off the highway fast. I’d do it all again in a heartbeat. Next time I’ll bring a little lobster home with me.
please, please, puh lease can i have some of what you’re having, Twinman?
I happen to know a bouncer or two (and not because I spend my time waiting in line to get into bars). Some choose it as a career, some do it as a stepping stone to something else. Some are university educated, some hold down a day job at the same time.
Ever got a little irritated and maybe a little verbally abusive with the bouncer who refused you entry at the door? You’re exactly the reason they are there.
We’ve all been denied entry at one time or another. He says you’re too drunk? There’s the taxi line. But you’re completely sober? Unlike the Pope, security guards are not infallible. They are still bound by the law and the code that exists amongst them.
And let’s face it for a male security guard. it’s a great way to pick up chicks.
it’s a fair point, spotty. i know i wouldn’t like to spend my entire work day dealing with drunk people. still,
so many of them seem to get off on the power associated with their job. that’s what gets me.