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Metallic crisp ballad dungeons - or 'Party Rock soundtracks'

Still no time to uncover the salt-made crucifix. We must wait. Instead: lasagne in a stormy room that's half inside and half outside. Splodges of rain tinkling the outskirts, getting the plastic tables wet. The lasagne is tiny. I'm having to gluttonously cram down the breadsticks just to keep pace with the Professor and his massive pizza. He's banging on about why he's called the Professor (something to do with two cats who were donated, one of them with this name, the other Doctor Tiny Cat), yet I can't give him my undistorted attention. I feel good though - we're reaching a strange plateau already, as if strange things could happen soon. That wicked syringe of risk creeping in. Mirroring the storm, at complete unease.

Bit pissed. Strolling, roaming, roving, wobbling about town. Dusk. Fizzy mind-shattering lights giving the Rynek Glowny added lustre. Hundreds of miniscule bulb lanterns on the beer visors like static fireflies. Cosmic stars on real-life nighttime scattergraphs. Already being bombarded by promoters launching flyers into our swollen hands. Remember we got a tip-off from Michael that there's a Smash-toned nightspot called Kitsch so we're asking these street salespeople what the deal is. And while they're quite polite about this alluring, intriguing club in the ether, they all want us to go to their beaming thrash venues first. Some of them are immensely shaggable as well. So we do.

Boom "Bar" Rush. Exquisite dark neon-black. Slippery noir glass. Along throbbing corridors decked/crammed by slinky Poles, firmament flames drip-drop along walls. Packed at the bar, foreign flybuzz hum of chitter chatter. We follow the labyrinths round till we reach the source of the god-like din. There, already swathes dancing, their gorgeous torsos marked out by the skyblue-turquoisish strobes. I love this. I love it. I live for it. The moment. Me and the Professor and well tipsy now, getting pristine with these endless funny moves. Glancing everywhere, off-balance Tyskie-drenched surveillance - women on all sides, our incredible prowess. 50 Cent 'In da Club'. Taking the hint I rumble the bar and get two Bacardi and Cokes. Swig like it's the Professor's birthday (luckily, in two days, it is). Almost relentless dancing: the only problem is that of my jacket and where to put it. Nevermind. Arms aloft all the way. A truly astonishing European rhythm takes hold and we're on an endorphin rapidride. Still the numerous strobes rain over joy-prickled posers, the succulent effortless sex of tans and minimal perspiration brought into focus.

Robust anthems. The greatest mash-ups since the new decade dawned. The Eurythmics versus Adele's 'Rolling in the Deep', belted out as the hussies bow down and time stands still. Beyoncé again. Aloe Blac's 'I Need a Dollar' and LMFAO versus Nirvana's 'Smells Like Teen Spirit'. Is it 2004? Those vibes are circulating in our tonic-stained veins. Generic continental/foreign-face muscle-DJ lapping up each female whoop to his crunching timeless vocal house. We're content. Yet Kitsch is calling.

Watery mems from here on in. The journey to our final spot is vague, although my head is sure there were wrong turns and arguments. Luckily, similar to a storybook ending, it's spied on a dank back street. Revellers spilling out to the warm tarmac, a florescent club logo in red, and further muffled thumps. Looks a good-un this (although we soon realise there's only one toilet, and I really need a piss).

I'm sensing there's an eclectic mantra at play here. Three floors, punk kids, scraggy students, metalheads, pure ravers, even really fit girls. I'll summarise: it begins with Aqua, Venga Boys, and Haddaway. I'm in heaven. Then: the Prodigy, extra Nirvana, Chemical Brothers. An interlude of insane Polish gypsy clown party anti-dubstep. Before I can think I'm in the middle in a loved-up embrace with at least 30 strangers. I look through the mesh of arms and legs and spy the Professor acting out some sort of ethnic stomp - also with complete strangers - on stage.

Changing floors. A tiny, colossal, compact hub, not an inch to move in - and brutal, esoteric drum and bass. No salt crucifix but sultry, emotion-bulging fantastic beats spiralling into a large ceiling. Getting all frenzied in the chaos corner. Getting my cheekbone headbutted. Bashed from every side. The international language of pushing past people in a club. All part of this triumph. Only music. I can't remember a night this good in at least six years. Excessive bellows of "CRAP!!!". A sudden switch to nuts fast-house - what a fuckin' blend. I make a dart for the bar and order two Sprite and Cokes. I don't know why. The barman looks at me like he doesn't know why. I look serious. It's at this moment that I notice shivering computer-screen white light plopping in through an air vent. Shit! It's morning already. Barge back to the dancefloor, another switch to mega-slow underwater dubstep. Jiving at the deep end. The Sprite and Coke is unusually tasty.

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© Copyright 2016 John Maher