Cubic Zirconia: Do you see rings on those fingers?
I don’t really like going clubbing anymore. It’s too dark, there’s always either too many or too few people, you can’t hear what anyone’s saying, 97% of all unfamous DJs are unfathomably hateful by design, the drinks are always extortionate and now people can’t smoke it stinks of BO and farts.
What’s more, and this really says more about me than anyone else, but I seem to spend all my time inside clubs people-watching. I sit with suddenly awfully sneering eyes, and dissect the people innocently trying to have a good time: ‘what the fuck are you doing? At the age of approximately 38, gurning your jaw to paste, in a shimmery Bathing Ape bomber jacket and sweaty white vest combo? Aimlessly waggling your leg like a urinating kanine to disco that wasn’t even cool in the Seventies. Combing your hair into a Biggles side parting and trying to sleep with the 16-year-old Eastern European barmaid. Why has your presence been thrust into my life like this?” ETC.
However, if I lived in a murky tar bubble of 808-snare snaps, Ru Paul shimmers and back-alley bass echoes that miraculously resurrected the Paradise Garage’s hedonistic heyday, where every beat was so deliciously pervy you could impregnate a meth-addict runaway with it, I think it’d be a completely different scenario. I think I’d be still dry humping the sticky DJ booth in just metallic draw-string short-shorts come midday…