Part 3 – The invite said there was a 15% discount on first the drink
The bar area of Angie’s Room was quite tastefully lit by candlelight, with low tables surrounded by low sofas, 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…
“Clive, this is Jimbo. Jimbo, this is Clive.” said Angie, pointing towards a stool at the bar beside a large man, wearing a Kilt and white T-shirt with a Falcon on it. Angie then 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” Jimbo motioned to the velvet stool beside him.
“Very kind of you Jimbo, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I’ll have a Pimms please.” I said courteously, as I took the seat beside him. “Angie tells me you run the poker sweat shop, Jimbo?”
“Three poond fefty”
“Excuse me?” I said.
“The drink. It’s three poond fifty.” said the Scotsman, with his finger stabbing menacingly on the bar, demanding payment.
“Errrr, the invite said there was a 15% discount on first the drink” I told him in incredulity at being charged.
“Aye, it does yes, but this is my hoose, and it’s been a bad year financially you see. 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 profits as a group, due to the contribution from our backroom casino and our degenerate sportsbook highrollers.”
“So, you run the poker sweat 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, 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 out of the blue.
“Gibraltar” I replied nonchalantly, 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 a club superior. Feigning interest in the poster man to avoid losing the shirt off my back, I left Jimbo and made my way over to the far side of the room. At that moment what looked like a Dago, but with an Australian accent, 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 the disagreeable looking fellow is, the one that is putting up the posters. She went on to tell me that the man putting up the posters was Vic. He was angry with society after a freak accident in which he tripped and accidentally 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 has 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 had 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, Eastern European 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 Esslobb – 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 emigrate to America en masse, so he has founded the world’s first Nazi denial foundation. 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 fingers slowly to her mouth… and whistled with her fingers. 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 it’s assault.
“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, Clive” she replied. “But mainly a show…”
She stepped into the contraption, securing it with leather straps around her ample arse, and then proceeded in drenching it in KY-jelly. She was certain to be my executor, Lubbock-fashion, if I allowed her have her way with me, so as she began to approach, I was furiously weighing up that awkward dilemma of risking hurting her feelings with my rejection, 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 as she gave the dog a double-handed a reacharound, or hugaround rather, she asked if I would like to take over in the wanking-off department.
I quickly declined, told her it wasn’t for me, made my excuses, and decided to invoke the 24 hour cooling-off period, as stated in paragraph 3.6 of the Angie’s Room terms and conditions.
Nowadays Angie’s Room is no longer open as a live venue but still exists in spirit as a daily private tournament on Ladbrokes Poker, following the shutdown of the club by authorities last year when Jimbo was indicted by The Hague for crimes against humanity.