My life has not changed at all. As in the last ten years, it is blessed by the stars and eschewed by the men. Be not afraid if time passes and there is no word from me, be not anxious by the tram-station nor blue when you're playing, because I have taken my destiny in my own hands. I have thought in light-years and I have suffered in seconds.
I have been invited out by some friends to go clubbing and the club turned out to be a skark of such proportions that by comparison a night out in a bovine slaughter-house would sound like the Oscars party. This is a denunciation. Do not follow my example.
Admittedly a part of it was my fault. I’d gone out the night before too and I had about three hours of sleep in my body, which didn’t set me up for the best of times. My head was heavy with the additional weight of undreamt dreams, aching and pounding with the inner pressure.
The club in question is called La Loco and it is just below the Moulin Rouge. From outside, it looked freaking awesome. There was even a live feed from inside which showed the multitudes moving under fluorescent lights. The queue was immense, but we meet this grotesque little individual who seems to know one of our friends and he leads us inside to the cloakroom.
That is where we get the first slap. ‘It is thirty-five euros to get in,’ he tells us. Hardy har har. What is this, the Sultan’s limousine Jacuzzi, with top-models swimming naked within it? We negotiate, and those of us who do not wish to get the free drinks implied in the price are allowed to walk in for fifteen euros.
In we go. The first thing we notice is that we have ended up in an ethnically exclusive club. Everybody in there is either black or Arab. The two groups don’t seem to particularly like each other either, which results in a bit of a heavy atmosphere. The second thing we notice is that every motherfucker in there is dressed up like some kind of vampire hierophant. They’re wearing so much shit in terms of necklaces, sunglasses, armbands, piercings, hats, spikes, sheriff pentacles, Merovingian flag-staffs and pre-Columbian underwear that if any of them were to get laid it would probably take them seventy-five minutes just to take all of their clothes off.
The first room we walk into is awright. It’s pretty small, but it strikes us as the kind of place people go to rest in – there’s a bar and couches and stuff. A few of us sit down for the first few drinks while the rest of us start dancing. I’m on the dance floor of course, and I start showing off my skillz. After approximately five minutes of smooth moves, I take a look around to see whether the ambience has been impressed. I notice a gay bloke with eye-lashes like the ends of a broomstick and even more copper jewellery around his neck than the three wankers around him put together eyeing me the way that cheese eyes a hamburger. No thanks.
I move to the bar and instinct tells me to ask how much the Red Bull will cost before ordering it. Ten euros. Right. Stick it up your ass and give wings to your colon.
I’m beginning to get bored of this room. For one thing, it is so small that it looks like a cell in one of those ships in the Matrix. For another, there’s an amplifier exactly behind the place where I’m sitting and I’m slowly turning deaf. So I start yacking with people and I convince them to go downstairs. There, we are faced with a magnificent atrium. The place is huge and crowded, a bit like hell. Unfortunately, the music is rubbish. It’s like we’ve leapt five years back in time except everything is at half the usual tempo. How are we supposed to mosh to this shit? By the time a drum has been hit twice you’ve had the time to take a correspondence course in Zen religion and learnt how to levitate.
We remain down there a record-breaking thirteen seconds. We go upstairs, but we are already bored of this pig-sty bathed in red light, so we decide to go for a smoke (I don’t smoke cigarettes actually, but I would have followed my friends anywhere as long as they were getting out of that horrendous grotto). They’ve got a smoker’s quarters, intelligently selected to be the smallest room in the entire building. There’s about four-hundred people in there. It’s also dark and muggy. Walking into it is a bit like walking into an orgy, except you don’t get the sex. Hell, you don’t even get to see people naked. All you get is the inhalation of an airy gas composed for the most part of the stuff that comes out of tyre factories. Remaining inside that place feels like one of those tests they give to military aircraft pilots to examine their resistance to extreme atmospheric conditions.
Of course this is not particularly pleasant, and one of our girls is beginning to get pissed off. She already has a bit of an irritable temper and having had to pay fifteen euros for a situation of general discomfort is getting on her nerves. She gets out of there fuming (forgive the pun). The instant that she does, a tangle consisting of a black guy holding an Arab by the neck rolls into her shouting and steamrolls her onto the wall. She calls for help and is instantly answered by two bouncers who dive into the fight head-first and turn it into one of those clouds you see in cartoons where some character’s leg or head pops out of the dust and the rest is just a complete mess. Me and my friends stick our arms into it and manage to pull her out like a dog dragged dripping out of a river.
We then go back to the dancing room. What a great idea this is. I don’t have a problems with inarticulate clubs themselves, but I do have problems with DJs whose IQ runs below the line of 75 (which means I have problems with more than half of them, really). That specific night we must have had a record-breaker of the psychic faculties because no-one with an IQ over 20 could have enjoyed those pleognastic distortion effects we were hearing over the songs, at least no-one who is distasteful of those angsty, stringy sound effects they put in movies when a priest is shagging a little boy. The guy also had a tendency to introduce escalating battery rolls at four-hundred and forty-five beats per minute only to send the place into silence immediately when they stop. Dude! That’s when the music is supposed to explode! That’s the 101 of DJs! It’s like a basket-ball player having to learn how to bounce the ball! It’s like Hugh Grant having to learn how to shave his balls!
Somewhere around four in the morning (I lost track of time to some extent), the man had the great idea of adding Reggae. I’ve already expostulated on the subject of this genre of music, but for anyone who missed the last few posts, this is worth quoting again: “Reggae has the same effects on me as a blowjob given by a really fat woman – it’s kind of ok when you’re totally stoned and can’t even get off the couch and all your sense of resistance falls away into the background as naturally as steam in clouds, but it’s complete rubbish at any other time. I have more difficulty telling the difference between one Reggae song and another than I do between a dumb and deaf midget eunuch and a four-foot tall Lord of the Rings fan with his legs chopped off.”
At five, the metro started working again and we could finally go home, trapped amid junkies and girls throwing up. The DJ’s own voice, blasted through the amplifiers over the music, echoed in my skull with his horribly distorted phrase: ‘Are you having fun?!’ Yes – so much so I was playing my cell-phone’s videogames in your fucking disco. Thank you very much, you disgusting jerk.