Dancing slow, with slow-motion vodka pout. Hammered now. I ask the DJ to play Skream's La Roux remix and I'm flabbergasted when he plays nothing instead and stops the music (I was promised the club was open until at least 8am). We're ushered down the stairs, still hungry for more, hunting down the thwamp of the 4/4. Find a heaving pop-based glowing dungeon. More Bacardi and Coke. Then, the Professor on podium once again. Gradually, itís just the dregs as the stamina of most others puddles out. GaGa's 'Poker Face', plus other stuff that's left my head. Eventually we crawl puke-faced away, watching so we don't tread on the Desperados bottles lining our exit.
Outside: slimy light. Some stupid argument about whether I "hate" music or not. The Professor is basing this on the fact I don't have to listen to music all the time, and I've told him that I would choose to do something other than listen to music if I had the choice. I put this quite new decision down to my new 'active' self, always wanting to do something that's useful and not wishing to waste a moment. We argue about other stuff, too, including what the right way home is, and whether I should go for a massage.
Horrible dreams all the way: me and Dizzee in the marathon, Dizzee's still much quicker, the bastard. I wake in terrible plain with pure heavy poison clouds in the bowels. A rush to the toilet to do a total Bacardi shit. It's disgusting. I feel the alcohol leave my body as I poo out slimy brown slippery liquid. I can smell the fumes and I'm afraid this was brought on by the Sprite and Coke - the catalyst for a trillion litres of bad shite? Back to bed for a little while before the evil intestines rumble again.Sweat-cloud blueish interchange
Where am I going? I get these moments. I pray, I desperately pray that this is not all in vain. We are going further and mining fresh ground, on the brink of new social frontiers, yet are we chasing a dream that is fake, impossible, unreal?? A dream that's already gone? Maybe a vision gone to a simpler world left behind when I was a younger cub. Gone to an earlier lifestyle that was always an illusion - times have been significantly altered. It's hard to maintain that same intensity now, that same vibrancy thanks to extraneous obstacles. Yet I can't loosen my grip on it. On the residual energy and feelings. And I think that's what all this - all this chasing-the-hedonism mantra - may be about. I'm incredibly scared that some day soon (the Professor's pretty settled, others getting further away) the nights out might stop and there'll be no more dancing. So I'm trying to cram in as much as I can into the nights out that actually take place. I realise I'm probably being over-dramatic. I stop thinking like this. I try to push on.
(zzzzzzzzzzzzz.) The Professor and I eventually wake properly mid-afternoon. Thunderstorms. Air is tangy. Bowels still like lead. Brilliant shower, then we move off. First for a burger in an opulent cafe space, all velvety pink cushions, net curtains blocking the storm out etc. The waitress, who can sense our imperialist tendencies, kindly informs us what 'thank you' is in Polish, and we duly thank her in English.
© Copyright 2016 John Maher