I work in a nightclub.

I used to work as a glass collector, bumping into drunkard and – according to them – stealing their drinks to resell to them later. Then I moved on to the bars, pulling pints, serving jagerbombs and energy juice infused vodka to eighteen year olds who look twelve and glare at you when you ID them. How dare someone think they look young with there thirty pounds of make up hiding freckles and the contures of their noses?

You learn several things about people working in a club.  Drunks can be funny, horny, violent, or, in some situations, catatonic. But mostly, unreasonably stupid if I’m brutally honest.

Nowadays I work in the cloakroom where there is a barrier between me and the drunken masses. It looks like a horse gate and the bottom half is locked with a sliding bolt that an idiot – or a drunk – could easily unlock from the outside, but I digress…

We work by a simple system, it’s very easy to understand. You give me your coat and articles of clothing you wish to put in, add £1.50 per coat/jacket, – We’re nice, we don’t charge for shoes and bags. You’d been surprised how many women hand their shoes in regretting those six inch heels in a three story nightclub. – and voila! I give you a little ticket to hide in your pocket, shoes, bra, – I’ve had moist ones returned. – I don’t care where you stick it. (Within reason.) But if you want your things back, you’d damned well better have that ticket.

We work in rows up to 50 hangers and there are 7 rows. So row one would be ” 1 1″ up to “1 50” and row two “2 1” to “2 50” and so on. I’ve worked on cloakroom for a while now. I like it. I know the routine, I have my wee radio, and I get on great with the doorman and the night passes mostly without event. To the extent that I can sit with a book for the first half of the night while people drib and drab in. That’s cool. By two o clock, we’re getting busy so I put the book down, pay more attention, mind my please and thank yous, and focus on making small talk.  Cool beans.

Until he comes up. I say he, because it’s usually he. He is usually the first on the night. He comes up, he pats his pockets. Front ones, back ones, front again. He looks from side to side, sometimes staggers in a full circle. I can tell them a mile off; they have the glazed look of someone who drank to forget; and forgot they were drinking.  He staggers up to the gate and he says.

“I’ve lost my ticket.”

This is where I would once clutch my radio in horror, but now a lazy smile curls onto my face. Eyes lighting with wicked glee.

“Oh no.” I say, with barely concealed amusement. “How awful.”

No. I don’t actually say it, but this is my entertainment for the next few minutes and it can go one of two ways.

Way one: You get your coat back. Way two: You don’t.

It’s late, or early in the night and you’re polite. You listen to reason when I explain that no, you cannot get your coat back because, if it’s not your coat and someone returns with that ticket; I get it in the neck. I have to pay for someone elses jacket. And when you’re dealing with £130 jackets at times, and I make £30 a shift, so, you know what? No jacket for you.

But, you’re nice to me, you don’t call me a “cunt” or a “bitch” or any other horrible word you can think of. So I explain, “come back at the end of the night and I’ll see what I can do.”

It’s hard to reason with drunk people but if they nod, they’re usually back ten to fifteen minutes later, arguing with me.

“Oh, but please. It’s cold outside and I have work in the morning. It might be raining.” These words make me laugh louder. Why are you drinking if you have work. A coat – which is safe and sound for that matter – is the least of your worries, mate. With that stagger, you’re gonna be lucky if you can crawl to work tomorrow. So, nope, that one won’t cut it. Try again.

“My friend has the ticket.”

Well done. Go get your friend. Bring her here, show me the ticket – I am not looking through two hundred jackets for a black, leather one with a zip, or in winter, a green furry thing with a hood. Do you know how many people own green furry things with hoods? Apparently everyone except me.

I love it when they argue because I have an excuse to send a doorman on their sorry ass and the doorman all think I’m adorable. Sorry guys, I’m a drunk person’s worst nightmare. Don’t pretend you wouldn’t in my place; you would.

Sometimes they find their tickets, stuck in their bra, or wedged in between a five pound note, and voila! Jacket back. They stumble up all contrite and apologetic.

“Oh, so you did give me a ticket.”

Or

“I found it. Sorry.”

And I get to grin smugly and pray I don’t get punched in the face for my gloatiness.

But the kicker, the best one happened last saturday.

It must have been about half two(am), and things were winding to a close. This guy with a small blonde beard stumbles towards the cloakroom. I’ve never seen him before but many people pass by me in a night. I don’t remember every face. No-one would. He grins and me, points and says.

“0541!”

I nod, pull a confused face, and return my dead eyes to the dancefloor where a girl in red see-through mesh is conducting a symphony. Cute girl; good dancer.

“0541!” He insists. This is where I desist leaning on the door/hatch/thing and stand upright. Drunks are unpredictable and thus far I’ve only been punched in the face once, and I’d like to keep that number down. (Accident tbh. The guy didn’t see me.)  So, at a slight distance, I inquire.

“What?”

“Lost my ticket, but that’s my number.”

I glance to the rails. We’re only on rail three, and if you remember the system, this means rail five is untouched. It cannot be 0541 as we operate on a system of three numbers, and I haven’t got to four never mind five. I try to explain this to him, but it’s like explaining algebra to a carrot. He shakes his head.

“No, 0541. Get it.”

I really don’t. I steeple my hands and buckle down for the long run. The doorman across the way has folded his hands and is peering over.

“Tell you what,” I barter. “Bring me your ticket, and I’ll get you your coat.”

“NO! 0541! It’s my new pin number.”

Pin number being the four digit code one used with their bank card to access money. I blink, trying to process the sheer level of stupidity before me. I can’t. It’s too much. I’m stunned. I can’t deal with this and I can feel the laughter about to erupt. Again; dangerous, as he could react badly.

Nope. Can’t help it. I’m laughing.

“NO!” He insists. “It’s not funny. Get my fucking jacket.”

The doorman is on him. Grasps his shoulder and says, “Is there a problem mate.”

“No no.” He goes. “No. My number is 0541.”

I’m shaking with laughter as I explain myself and the drunken man holds up a piece of paper – official bank documents – with the number on it. Even the doorman break down, face in palm, trying to process this.

It’s at that moment, the doorman realised.

“Wait a minute, pal. You’re wearing a jacket.”

“Naw, naw. This is my other jacket.”

“You wore two jackets?”

I’m done. I’m gone. I have to walk behind the coats into the room where the lights are controlled before I die laughing. It’s too much. I chuckled at the walls for a good ten minutes before I can return. He’s still there.

“Superdry.” He says, nodding. “Superdry.”

I nod, noting the word “Superdry” across his jacket on the breast pocket.

“Leather.” He continued to describe the jacket upon his person. “Black, and it has a hood.”

“Mate.” I say, calmly. I have descended to casual sarcasm and dry patronisation. “Mate, you’re wearing it.”

“Nah. 0541, Superdry.”

I’ve had about as much as a rational sane person can take and by this point there in a voice in my head explaining why murder can be a good thing. So, to pacify this voice, I point to the giant red writing on the top, open hatch of the black door.

“NO TICKET

MEANS

NO JACKET”

I mean, really. It doesn’t get clearer than that.

“Let’s play a game.” This is where I’ve lost all ability to be calm and polite. The sarcasm has won. “Let’s see if you can read this to me.”

He sniggered, it can’t just be alcohol this guy is on, stepped back, stepped forward and pointed to his cheek.

“Give me a kiss.”

“I’m gonna go with no.”

“Go’an.”

“Still no.”

“You know you want to.”

“Mm, I really don’t.”

I’ve only closed the hatch on two people. He was the third. They say that third time’s a charm but…. I big to differ.

Still. Working in a nightclub has it’s amusing tales…