S01E03 - Flashback, Vodka Martinis and Surgical Gloves

In this episode Niko goes through a very dramatic drunken flashback, gets robbed by a bouncer, finds out what a Vodka Martini consists of and has to wear surgical gloves for a PT session...

Transcript

SPEAKER_00 0:02

Welcome back everyone to the PT Chronicle, the story of a small town Welsh boy and his rise to the very middle of the fitness industry. As always, my name is Nico Algieri, I'm your host, and I'm also the main protagonist in this story. So let's get straight into episode three. Flashback, vodka martinis, and surgical gloves. Now, this is going to be a flashback within a flashback. So I need you to turn your imagination into grayscale colour until we resume usual service. Now when I passed my PT exam, I wanted to go out and celebrate. And me and my best mate Tom had actually done the course together. So me and Tom invited the rest of the boys out, the six of us in total, to go out and get smashed up and celebrate in Soho London. So we meet up in uh Volka Revolution just off Dean Street because we're just plain classy Welsh boys. There's a couple of English boys in there, but you get the picture. Now, something to realise is that when I first moved to London 15 years ago, I had no idea what clubs to go to, what were the cool restaurants, who were the right contacts to make. So I just ended up going out to places like Tiger Tiger and Piccadilly Circus and Zoobar and all the worst places that all the uh the tourists go to. Because I just didn't have a clue. And honestly, I was a tourist. I didn't have London in my heart, and I didn't have the know-how of where to go. Now, one of my first experiences of the guest lists of going out to nightclubs in London. Uh actually on my PT course, there was this woman, and her daughter, she said, Oh, my daughter runs guest lists for Movida. And we were like, We've heard of Movida, but we never considered that we could get in there. So she told us, Don't worry, I'll sort you out. So me and Tom, our names are on the list for Movida. So we go there on a Saturday night, and this girl had given us strict instructions. Get to the front, say you're on the King's List, King's List, and then give your names and you'll cruise in. Great. So we're all dapper up, get to the front of the queue. And honestly, this queue took about 45 minutes to get to the front, and uh it was agony. So we're there, we we walk up nervously, and this huge bouncer just looks us up and down. This girl steps forward. You know those girls, the hostess is on the front of clubs who just kind of look you up and down, and if you don't look the part, you don't come in. She looked at us, she'd already made a decision, but I was like, Don't worry, Tom, we're on the king's list. So I say, Yeah, uh, King's list. She goes, Um, yeah, no, thank you guys. Uh, thanks, have a good evening. And the guy lifted up the rope, and I was like, No, we're we are on the um we're on the king's list if you just check it. She goes, No, that's fine, thank you. And we had we had to exit the queue. That was it. We'd obviously didn't look the part, she'd made the decision, and uh embarrassing we had to exit the queue. So anyway, now after downing an unreal amount of purple, blue, red, brown, and vodka shots, me and the boys smashed up, ventured out into Soho without a destination in mind. Oi lads, looking for a club. One of those dodgy club promoters had spotted us and was like, I can get you into one of the exclusive clubs for free. And we were like, Yeah, okay, like there's six guys, we know how it works, mate. He goes, No, I can. Follow me. So we followed him up to the top of Dean Street, and we managed to get through the door of what we knew at the time to be an exclusive club, and I can't for the life of me remember the name, I apologise to you guys. But we got through the door. However, just as we got partially through the door, the huge bouncer had obviously noticed how desperate we were to get in. We got in, and the guy was like, Alright, lads, it's 20 quid. And we were like, Oh no, um, the uh promoter just said we were getting in for lads, it's fucking 20 quid. So we had to hand over 20 quid cash. And as we were walking in and turned our heads, this bouncer was just pocketing the cash. Honestly. Anyway, we entered the club all grumbling that we got ripped off, and the assistant manager notices that we're all moaning. Now, without realizing that she'd taken a bit of a shine to me, she comes over to us and says, Hi guys, everything alright? Can I help you? And we were like, Yeah, you know, the bouncer just took our 20 quid and we told we'd get him for free and whatever, whatever. She was like, That's fine, come with me. I'll take you into the VIP area and say sorry. So we go into the VIP area and she offers us vodka martinis. And being a small town Welsh boy who'd only ever had lager and shots, I was like, What's in those then? Oh Nico, come on, mate. Anyway, we get hammered. We're dancing on the tables, drinking more martinis, dancing with scantily clad young ladies, we're living the life. We're drinking more until the room starts spinning. For me, certainly, I can't even remember seeing the boys. I was stumbling around that club, there was flashing lights. You know when you can only see parts of your night happening as you black out in between, that's what was happening to me. So, in the end, I just think I've got to get out of here, I'm gonna die. So I do that thing where you don't know how to get home, but you can navigate home completely safely. Now I remember being in the back of a cab, and my phone back then, on vibrate, never anymore, was so I checked the text message, and the assistant manager who'd been looking after us and dousing us with Volga Martinis, texts me saying, Shall I come over to your place? And honestly, I was in the back of that cab, drunk, insecure, in pain, lonely, and just thought, Yeah, fuck it, yeah, come over. I managed to text my address amazingly. So I stumble through the door back home in Brixton, clamber up the stairs, crash onto the couch, and obviously pass out. I don't know how much time has elapsed, but then the buzzer goes. I go down the stairs, open the door, and this girl launches herself at me, wraps herself around me like one of those things that impregnate people in aliens. So I just go with it, and we're in it, you know, we're naked within seconds, we're having sex, it's great, whatever. So we release each other in a heavy, breathing, sweaty mess. I roll over and look at my phone for the time, and it's 3 30 a.m. I am teaching at Bootcamp Palates in three hours. So I'm like, oh my god. So I look at her, I'm like, I've got to be working at 6 30, I'm gonna have to leave at like 4 45 to get there. Um she's like, Oh, that's okay, I can let myself out. You know when you just want someone to leave? Yeah, she wasn't quite getting the picture on that one, but anyway, so she stayed. I got up at 4.45. It was unbelievable. I remember vividly teaching that class. So I actually made it right. I got up at 4.45. I did the tube and bus journey that you know by now. I got there, opened the studio. I was trying not to breathe on people, but all three of my classes, I taught 6.30, 7.30, and 8.30. All three of my classes were packed out, and I remember having to do this thing because when you're a reformer Pilates teacher, you're obviously walking around the room while the people are on the reformers, so you can get them to face down. So I was getting to do them a lot of planks whilst looking internally and going, Oh my god, how am I gonna get through this? Okay, stepping up onto the platform, getting into your lunge positions, great. 5, 4, 3, 2, 1, go. And as I was setting them off again, I would turn around and be like, I was dying. End of flashback. Please return your seats to their upright position and your imagination back to RGB colour. Remember, I started taking clients from Gina, the very busy PT who'd help me out? Well, she sent me another one. So I turn up again to Bulgravia at Louise's house. Humongous. Now, I'm briefed beforehand not to touch her, not to look at her too much, or make her train hard in the slightest. When she opens the door, the brief becomes obvious. She's dangerously thin and in her sixties. She's wearing surgical gloves and surgical slippers, and she hands me a pair of both gloves and surgical slippers, and we crawl at a snail's pace to this top floor of her house, where we undertake the lightest and slowest PT session I've ever produced. This was a massive lesson for a gung ho 28, 29-year-old Welsh PT who's eager to impress in the industry. I had to learn that not all clients will be fit and fabulous like the West London elite that I was used to. I had to adapt, I had to learn, and then I got the hell out of there. I half expected Pennywise to jump out of a fucking cupboard at some point, because honestly, it was that harrowing and scary. Everything creaked. She was very, very quiet, but very, very mysterious. I almost ran home to Brixton. Now on the love life side of things, I was totally sit smitten with Sophie from the Pilates class, and I began to chase her like uncontrollably every day, seeing her for 15 minutes if I could. She felt the same way. She was beautiful, smart, successful, kind, like no one I'd met before, and she just diluted through my brain like squash in water. I'm a Welsh boy, innit? Consumed. That's always a danger with me. I'm impulsive and instantly passionate. And as I told you before, a storm was coming.