I just read Peter Hook's book, The Haçienda: How Not to Run a Club, and it's hilarious. (Surely "How Not to Run a Club" could have been the title of this ten-year-old blog, as well, right?) It starts like this:
"Right," I storm back in to see Suzanne, who runs the kitchen. "Your bucket's over there," she says.
This is one of the perks of management: because we didn't put in enough toilets when we built the bloody place, you can never get a piss. Plus I always get hassle in the bogs anyway. So I'm the proud user of a Hellmann's mayonnaise bucket with my name on it, which stays in the kitchen. It's a source of great hilarity to everyone (until they want a piss too). Suzanne actually has a great trick of getting people to hold it for a while. Then when they ask "What's this for?" she tells them. Ah well, little things please little minds.
However: "No, I don't want a piss, love," I tell her. "Just a breather."
Refreshed, I come out and spot a line of bouncers weilding baseball bats, all of them headed for the back corner. They go in and beat the shit out of some gangsters.
And it pretty much goes downhill from there.
Much of this book is very, very familiar. Depressingly familiar. Obviously the stories I'd heard about the Haçienda were an inspiration, but... wow.