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Wheaty froth from plastic glasses sloshes into the air, meaty bodies clang together, the front rows surge forward and then the falling beerfoam lands on already-soggy heads. All while the burlesque Euro-trombone music layers everyone with brutal hugs. This one feels era-stopping. Feels as though these are the last superfluous drops of lager, the curtains on our impossible trek through the years, the ones which should probably never have happened like this at all. And this place has already, always a little bit to me, felt like it should have been in the past, and now that thought is more profound. This is the last dance. In this place that is breaking up all around me. The band continues as bits of old newspaper begin falling away from the walls and landing in the middle of the throb. There are still gargantuan grins, but they are increasingly being mixed with foreboding O-mouths, and with the slight drizzle coming in, making all the paper soggy, and this land creaking now, some dancers giving up, with slabs of plaster breaking off, bringing tiny rivers of water too, cutting the exposed flesh of the main-stayers, the blood mingling with the rain and reddish plaster, and giving out a really dodgy smell. I maintain my posture of hands in the air. Whatís this? A second kick of the beat, stubbornly refusing to relent, making a V at the crumbly, chalky entrails of ceiling, hissing and steaming as disorientated droves dash for safer dancefloors. I maintain a salacious tummy for a going-out-with-style shuffle in-between sodden drinks leftovers and sacrificed high-heels or Adidas pumps. Iím grinning. My teeth smeared with black shit thatís come from who knows where. The skies are reclaiming this land, asserting their power on the zones, which have probably been too complacent for too long.

It was quiet, warmly lit, and neighbourhood-y, we thought, and in a nice way, brought together a group of people that wouldn't have otherwise been together. (Ok, I guess any restaurant does that, but maybe you know what I mean.)

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