The club is situated between two floors. The ground floor is lined with bars but doesn't have much dance space. After 11:00, however, the intimidatingly large bouncers pull the heavy velvet drapes back to reveal a wide spiral staircase, leading to the "VIP dance room", which is really just a larger and wilder dance floor. This is where we were all headed.
The dance floor in the VIP room has several large platforms to dance on, all at various heights, and each can hold a large amount of people. For a laugh, a few friends and I jumped up on one of the lower platforms, mainly to get out of the hot mass of people dancing on the floor below where Mike and his mates still were. After a few minutes, all of us on the platform were having fun and competing for the stupidest dance moves (a game I usually conquer). At one point I gracefully tripped into the rail and nearly fell off, but regained my balance, and we all carried on our merry way, completely oblivious to anything else going on in the club.
A few seconds later, we heard loud shouts coming from below us. I peered down to see a guy in a far-too-tight white Armani t-shirt -- well, it had been white at one point, but now it was a blotchy pink colour -- arguing with Mike, and they both looked furious. I was trying to figure out what had happened, when Mr. Armani scowled and started shaking his fist at me, his face contorted into some Red Phase Picasso design. Because of the loud music and my obliviousness, I still couldn't figure out what was going on. Relying on the strength of Girl Power, I decided to look to the the guy's date for some kind of sign. And boy, did I get one. She glared up at me (quite an achievement considering the 10 pounds of heavy eye makeup she had painted on) and made some crude X-rated hand jives so creatively I was almost impressed, then took a large swig of her drink. That's when I noticed all the drinks lined up along the edge of the platform. Mr. Armani had been using the ledge as a drink counter -- bad judgement on his part, I might add -- and as I had stumbled, I had kicked his fruity red drink (really, HOW unmanly could this guy get!?) all over what had once been a brand-new £120 ($190) t-shirt. And he wasn't too pleased with me for it.
Now, Mike's tactics weren't exactly helpful either. If anyone has ever watched Madagascar and seen the Lemurs do their "I Like to Move It, Move It" dance, that is Mike. For those unprepared, it can be quite disturbing. So while Mr. Wastes-Money-On-Ugly-Shirts was yelling at Mike to "control his woman," Mike was still obliviously swinging his hips all around the dance floor, which, to the untrained eye, can seem more like threatening spasms. His weird African mating dance moves must have intimidated the now Very Angry Armani Man, and before Mike even realised I was the cause of all this mayhem, Mr. Armani girlishly shrieked at Mike, mid-pelvic thrust, and the shouting had commenced.
Not wanting things to escalate further, I bounded off the platform to save the day like Superwoman. Unfortunately, my heel caught in one of the steps, and I ended up doing more of a Mr. Magoo stumble-turned-somersault onto a very sticky floor. By now I had managed to piss off half the people in the club. The Bouncers must have agreed, because the next thing I knew there were two of them on us, took one look at Mr. Armani in Pink, and we were booted out without even an "excuse me" or an "off ya go."
Needless to say, I think there was a reason we were living a hermit lifestyle. Perhaps Scotland just isn't ready for me yet. Or perhaps society in general isn't ready for Mike's dancing.
*Picture credit to animatedtv.about.com
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