The Angie’s Room Trilogy - By Miguel and Clive
Part 3 - The invite said there was a 15% discount on first the drink
Ladbrokes - to fuck or be fucked by?
The bar area of Angie’s Room was quite tastefully lit by candlelight, with low sofas surrounding low tables, and high backed swivel-chairs at the bar. As I scanned the room I began to see unholy horror after unholy horror, culminating in a gay couple felching on the leather recliner in the corner. I had walked into a terrible den of inequity, a place with the biggest collection of deviants and misfits ever to be gathered under one roof.
“Clive, this is Jimbo. Jimbo, this is Clive.” Said Angie as an introduction, casually pointing towards a stool at bar beside Jimbo. And with that, Angie disappeared out of the room to sign the dismissal letters of the Stage 3’ers.
“Take a seat young Clive, let me get ya a drink” he motioned to the velvet stool.
“Very kind of you. Pleasure to meet you Jim” I offered courteously, as I took the seat beside him. “Angie tells me you run the poker sweat shop?”
“Three poond fefty”
“Excuse me” I said.
“The drink. It’s three poond fifty. This is my hoose” said the Scotsman, with his finger stabbing menacingly on the bar, demanding payment.
“The invite said there was a 15% discount on first the drink” I told him.
“Aye, it does yes, but it’s been a bad year financially, you see, and whilst the poker sweat shop broke all revenue targets, they are linked to our illegal bookies call centre which missed their targets by 16%. Anyway, the upshot is I can only offer you a 1% discount, as a gesture of goodwill, in spite of the fact that we smashed all historic profit records due to the contribution from our backroom casino and our degenerate sportsbook highrollers.”
“So, you run the poker seat shop Jim?” I asked again, begrudgingly digging into my pocket for the 3.47 in change.
“Aye. I run a tight ship, make no mistake. If any of the lads get out of line I’m very much a belts off, trousers down, bend over sonny, this will hurt me more than it hurts you, up the arse, Flower of Scotland belting out, style of disciplinarian. I won’t be doing this forever mind, one day I’ll return to the Glasgow Folk scene as the prodigal son when ‘Flower of Scotland – The Anal Remix’ hits all good Our Price stores.”
“Jolly good show, Jimbo.” I stammered at the verbal barrage.
“I once had sex in the disabled toilets at Ibrox. Where’s is strangest place you’ve had sex, Clive?” Jimbo asked me sternly.
“Gibraltar” I replied, as my eyes caught a shifty looking man stapling a poster to the wall on the far side of the room.
As I bid farewell to Jim, he relieved me of a further £300 as a deposit in case I leave Angie’s Room without serving the proper membership termination notice period, even if early termination of said membership is verbally agreed with by a club superior. Feigning interest in the poster man to avoid losing the shirt off my back, I started to make my way over to the far side of the room. At that moment, what looked like an Australian Dago minced though the room, pumping his fist, singing ’It’s Raining Men’, and challenging the club patrons to a 70’s style disco dance off to The Carpenters. I was suddenly startled by a whisper in my ear “That’s Tyrone, he talks complete bollocks, but his hips certainly don’t lie”
The whisperer was Angie, and she had come back to get me as she wanted to show me her ‘real preference’. OK I agreed, but first tell me who that disagreeable looking fellow is that is putting up the posters. She went on to tell me that the man putting up the posters was Vic. He was inwardly angry with society after a freak accident in which he tripped and mounted his house cat [as stated in the police report, with an addendum that no independent witnesses could found], contracting cat HIV in the process. His condition subsequently developed into full blown cat AIDS, and angry that John Craven failed to report this danger on Newsround, he has vowed to infect every fellow cat owner with the disease, funding his scheme by masquerading as a charity collector for fake scabby-cat sanctuaries. She also told told me he has only played backgammon a few times in the club training sessions.
As we crossed the room towards Angie’s office, I saw somebody I recognised entangled in a 6ft Rusty Lee impersonator, with a pot-bellied sex slave on the side, going through her whole repertoire of seduction to try and attract her master’s attention. It was my old friend Eslobb - a fervent anti-semite and the sort of man that would steal your microwave meal from the office communal fridge, but generally a good egg. He started out in life as a holocaust denier but has since come the conclusion that Nazis themselves didn’t exist, and that it was all a Jewish propaganda plot to justify emigrating to America, so he has founded the world’s first Nazi denial committee. I thought it best not to disturb him though, he’ll be fucked soon anyway, the flamenco dancing cleaner was on the way, and it looked like she’d had a few Cruzcampos.
Angie led me into her office, telling Dee to fuck off without looking at her, and locking the door behind her as she scurried out. With her back to the door Angie raised her hand to her mouth and whistled with her fingers. Just then, a dirty great beast of a dog appeared from under the desk on the far side of the room, bounding towards me, leaping when 4 ft away from me. With it’s giant paws extended to catch me on the lapels, the Great Dane landed with deadly precision, pinning me to the ground, to begin an assault.
“Excellent, he likes you, Clive” chuckled Angie as she reached over to the hat stand - I hadn’t noticed the 12” black strap-on hanging on the peg.
“What do you intend do with that?” I asked nervously.
“This is a show and tell” she replied. “But mainly a show”
She stepped into the contraption, securing the leather straps around her ample arse, and began drenching it in KY jelly. She was certain to be my executor, Lubbock-fashion, if I allow her have her way with me, so as she began to approach, I started weighing up that awkward dilemma of risking hurting her feelings, against me being not so keen to be a team player on this occasion. Fortunately, she took a left turn, popped round the back and smashed the granny out the dog’s arse instead, peering around the side of the dog as she gave it a reacharound, asking if I would like to take over in the wanking-off department.
I quickly declined, and told her it wasn’t for me, made my excuses, and decided to invoke the 24 hour cooling period, as stated in paragraph 3.6 of the Angie’s Room memebrship terms and conditions.
I never returned.
Nowadays Angie’s Room is no longer open as live venue but still exists in spirit as a private tournament on Ladbrokes Poker, following the shutdown of the club by authorities last year after Jimbo was indicted for crimes against humanity relating to his poker sweat shop.
Miguel and Clive
The Angie’s Room Trilogy - Parts 1 and 2
It all began when I received an anonymous letter through the post, scented with female-ejaculate, from a Lady identifying herself as Angie. In the hand written letter she claimed that we shared an affinity for poker and the dark side, with the words ‘dark side’ punctuated by a body print of her obviously shaved snatch to represent the commas.
Included in the envelope was a Polaroid image of her naked, with her breasts perched atop a copy of Phil Gordon’s Little Green Book of Poker. Not much of a looker I thought, but hey... inside every bush there is a flush!
I spun around to be greeted by an abomination which was stood up at it’s desk, with it’s hand out to shake mine. I couldn’t help but notice the unfortunate denim skirt. She had the sort of figure that made it look like she had put it on upside down, and corn beef legs with the early signs of varicose veins.