As I take a sip of my double Talisker, I peer into the mirrored back-bar and realise the severity of the situation. Dusty nosed miscreants obsessing over the ownership of a sweaty cubicle refusing to admit to any form of addiction. Moist palms grasping at distasteful clobber searching for a hit or two, or three.
The mass congregation of the 'Fred Perry Army' hustling and bustling past the bubble covered bouncers at the door, hiding their apparent dilation. Entry fee demands an unwelcome interaction. I get a glimpse of the cobbled street through some nearby glass. It has been invaded by locals knocking knees with the barest legs expecting the expected, at a fair price of course.
There's a few reliving their youth in a clichéd batch of mid-life crisis avoiding speakers as best they can. It's about time to call it a day and stick to park trips with your youngest and box-set nights with the old ball and chain. Singles passionately grinding infront of a crumbling five year relationship. I'm assuming it was her flirtacious glance directed at the tatoo'ed barman. Or maybe this time it was his promiscuous smile. Either way this vocal brawl the penultimate clash before the explosion of vodka-flavoured tears.
Overwhelming confidence from the slanty-faced meat heads wearing tees roughly five sizes too small for their frame of femininity. Plucked eyebrows, concealer, sun-bed skin and shaved chests the pinnacle of the modern man. What a joke. I'm witnessing a realtime Discovery Channel style conquest for the elusive tangerine mistress.
The stink of Hollister aftershave creates a cloud of conformity and stings the eyes of the bearded hipsters in their corduroy cage. Whining that 'too many people know this song these days' and judging every generically dressed underage with eyes that say 'check my blog for updates.' Conversation muted by the iBerry and BlackPhone creating Tweets of facade and exclamations of "THE BEST NIGHT EVER L.O.L."
There she is. The court jester. The 3AM queen. Once again she's pushed it at least seven shots too far. Baring her vapid mind, disrespected body and invisible soul to all upon the rickety table in the corner.
An accidental push and shove met by a fist and a forehead rather than an apology or a handshake. Chemically imbalanced retards seeking confrontation and initiating a civil war upon the dirty dancefloor.
Just like the evening soundtrack mixed and muddled by the divine DJ, each evening a simple collection of repetitive sounds. Throw a net entwined by truth into this ocean of strobe and the sheer amount of pressure induced boredom caught within will widen your eyes.
Everybody looking for a love of some description, or seeking an escape from our currently unresolved issues. Choking on alcohol, popping pills and puffing joints seems to be the most desirable wingman. Chatting up the exaggerated concept we call sociality placed importantly upon a pathetic pedestal. The phrase 'what the hell' quite ironically appropriate.
A blurry mind and a pounding head usually the first sign of clarity for what feels like a lifetime. Is it worth becoming best friends with the bathroom floor and being greeted by the unlikely partnership of sunlight and vomit? My patience diminishing faster than the 90mph taxi ride to that place we call home.
I feel like the fly on the wall of this repetitive omnibus and quite frankly, I'm bored...
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