A night out in Stockholm - Tuesday 12th December

So following a reasonably heavy weekend which saw trips to the Drome and to Home, I fly to Stockholm on a business trip on Sunday night. Nice town, beautiful buildings, great shops etc etc. Tuesday night, the last night of the trip, we decide to go out and get completely battered. Fair enough.

Now we had been out on the Monday and noted that the place was dead. Very few people around at all. On Tuesday we were told that the place only gets going at about 1am, so, this being our last night we decide to go back to the hotel after work, rest up for a few hours before hitting the town and tracking down where the babes hang out at night.

At 7.30pm I'm in a bar and have had three Stellas. Oh well. 

At midnight myself and Chris (alright mate?!) are in an "English" pub. I'm drinking a nice swedish bitter called Battle Axe. All of a sudden the doors open and the place is heaving. Apparently "in Sweden this is the way it has always been".

We decide to go and find a more stylish bar. Walking past a club we spot a huge Ministry of Sound sign thing. Result! Peg it back to the hotel for change into disco shirt and back out into the not-so-warm Stockholm air to queue up for Ministry. Now Stockholm is an ultra trendy place, designer all the way, and the bouncers were picking the odd beautiful person out of the crowd and letting them in. This was going to take a long time. I figured it was time to get all "Houston" on the guy. So I strut up and give him the full bunchofcaners spiel. The guy is less than impressed. I try again a few minutes later but he is having none of it. Oh well - I would only have binned it anyway. 

So we head up the road to the Penny Lane night club which apparently only lets 27 year olds in. Bizarre, but worth a go. Tonight, of course, is a private party, and only for 18 year olds. There are weird age restrictions afoot here.

It's getting worryingly cold now, but we have one more club to try - Pilot. The bouncer informs us that it's full of 18 year olds but we can go in if we really want to. Me? The CEO of bunchofcaners, here, in Stockholm, in a club full of a bunch of 18 year old girls? Swedish Girls? With my reputation? Hmmm.

We're in. Britney is playing. Then Five. Oh dear. They do redeem themselves with Sandstorm at one point but make no mistake, I'm in a Swedish School Disco (note to self - isn't that available on video?). So we get the drinks in. The Vodka tastes very weak so we have quite a few. And some beer and some JD and some other stuff. I'm running around interviewing youngsters who appear quite bemused by the whole thing. Bless 'em.

So at 3.30am we are chucked out, feeling fairly sober, but we have work in the morning so we go back to the hotel.  I go into my hotel room and instantly I am completely battered. Trying to undress. Falling over. Chairs get knocked down, lampshades are broken, shirt buttons are lost. I'm an absolute mess. Eventually, after causing utter havoc, I get into bed and pass out. 

Some time later, not sure when exactly, I wake up. I am standing outside my room, in the corridor. I am completely naked. 

Oh. I have no idea how I got there, or why I got there. I go to the door of my room but obviously I can't get back in. What am I doing here? Shitting Crikey.

I figure, find a phone, call reception, get them to come up. So I'm running in zig-zag lines up and down the corridors hoping to find a phone lying around the place. None. So now what? Ok, I have to go down there. I head to the spiral staircase in the center of the hotel. It's two flights down, I can shout for help then hide behind a statue or something. Ok good plan.

At the staircase, a guy, evidently a guest and judging by the clothing not British, is coming down the stairs. Now...now is the time, I realise, to pull Mr Houston out of the bag. Inspire now young man. I have no option but to stride up to the guy, little drew flapping in the breeze and give it some...

"Ah, there you are! Be a good chap and pop downstairs and tell reception that I'm locked out of my room. 334. Thanks very much. Cheers now."

I turn and leave the guy gawping at my bot. (Well he might have been. I didn't turn back to look, but hey, I'd gawp at my ass if presented with it in such fashion). I'm hiding behind a wall when the receptionist guy turns up. Houston it again:

"Ah hello. Good of you to come up. Seem to have a bit of a problem sleep-walking. Can't explain it. Very drunk you see. Anyway, let us in will you?"

The guy is looking at me like I'm...like I'm.....well, like I'm Paul Houston actually. But he lets me in and I go back to bed. 

At 7.30am the TV comes on as a wake up call. Still I sleep. At 9am, when I'm supposed to be in work at this conference, the phone rings. It's the reception guy - or at least I think it is. I talk to him for about 3 minutes apologising for last night etc. Then I go back to sleep. At 9.15am the cleaner woman is in my room. She quickly leaves (I still appear to be naked). Then in homer Simpson moment of looking at the retreating cleaner, the TV, the phone...cleaner, TV, phone......cleaner, TV, phone.....DOH! I am very late. 

I jump up, fall over, get dressed, pack my bags, fall over (x5 as now still very drunk) run downstairs to check-out whilst enduring many sniggers from the receptionists who are now beautiful Swedish women rather than guy from night before. Run outside, down road, into work building. It's 9.30 and I'm late - but even after all that, I'm here, I'm awake, I'm ready for work. Chris hasn't shown up yet either so I fear for his safety. Eventually he arrives and apparently he also went of the deep end in his room, managing to phone everyone in his phone book, much to their delight and his expense.

Somehow struggle through a very bad hangover day. I can't leave this gem country fast enough. The plane home is delayed but we have business class seats which makes amends. As we fly up the Thames it's a clear night. I can see all the streets lit up. The Dome. Canary Wharf. I see a train approaching London Bridge station - the Drome is just there! The bright lights of the city - Fabric in there somewhere! I see Elephant and Castle - The Ministry. From there I trace roads down and to the left until I can make out Brixton Hill - I can see the Fridge!! I can't quite make out Tooting from here, but it's enough. As a small tear drops from my eye, I spy my adopted home city, full of nutbags, degenerates, rogue Americans and Australians, party animals and general caners, and I have such a great feeling of home-coming that I realise I don't want to be found naked in any other city except my beautiful, wonderful London.

drew

xx