You were thrown out of that posh private party in the suburbs earlier on. The beer was gone, so you nicked some fine spirits from the cabinet of the hostess’s parents and shared, generously. You insulted most of the male guests and flirted with most of the female guests (or was it the other way round?). They discovered the messages you left on the bathroom mirror and disapproved, even though it was the best poetry you had ever written. At least they could not rub it off so easily… But now the girls (or was it the boys?) no longer flirted back. You couldn’t afford them anyway. The music there was terrible, but you could do nothing about it as you dropped your tape at the petrol station where you’d bought your booze on the way to the party. You had walked there, activating every motion sensor in every villa along the street with your silly dance moves, and deactivating every second lamp post with a kung fu kick. For contrast. Before walking there, you took the bus.
Now you ride the bus again, into the city. You glance cautiously at the mulletted proles, all with similar intentions to yours. They are as drunk as you are. They stare right back. They hate your hair, your jacket, your badges, your shoes. They hate the rest of you too. There’s always more than one of them. They are never on their own. You hate buses. One day you will be able to afford a cab. Actually you could already afford one, but you prefer to spend your money on getting drunk and that outfit they hate. But until that night you can afford it all, around now is when you begin to think of what will happen should you meet the same bunch tomorrow morning, waiting for the first bus. You will have to run again. Weekends mean running. Maybe you can run faster. You’d better try. But you won’t be in time and anyway there will be further trouble once you have arrived, either torn and beaten up, or not – but wasted either way…
You arrive. There’s been a fight already. You see the blood and broken glass. You see the blood on the broken glass. You see a badge on the ground. Tonight you are wearing an identical one. You encounter witnesses. You laugh them off for exaggerating, even though you know they do not. You walk down the stairs to the club. It was never a club with a view – you always descend. You pass the soccer table (those pros with their gloves on again, waiting for victims) and head for the bar. You don’t know as many people as you had expected. You wonder if this is a good or bad thing.
The DJ starts his dark set. THE BLACK BOX. The black light. You think it a bit much that not only the stains on your clothes glow in the dark but your drink does, too. It tastes like cheap liquorice. THE COUNT. You think it would be funny if The Count would really be here, targeting future playmates among the Blixas and Siouxsies. You think it would also be funny if the dancers would have to throw their agony-shapes accompanied by the meagre disco lights, while the imminent disco set would be cloaked in heavy fog. But the punk set always come first. DOCTOR ANNABEL LIES. DOCTOR ANNABEL LIES. DOCTOR ANNABEL LIES. It's either Buzzcocks next, or something for the scooter boys. But they are not so present tonight; a shortcut to synths and the floor split between the Heavy Fog and the Meagre Disco Lights factions. IT'S THE ONLY WAY TO LIVE. In bars. In bars. Ha! You compare your own unimpressed look to that of the others…
You realise the button on your jacket’s pocket has fallen off again and your cigarettes are gone. Your keys as well. You decide to postpone the consequences as long as possible. For the keys at least. You will have to wait until the lights come back up to fish around for some cigarette money – but for now you will blag one off the soccer table pros. You wonder if they have a theme song. HAND IN GLOVE. Oh, the irony. THE SUN SHINES OUT OF OUR BEHINDS. Sun. Ha! You are determined your next drink will be something fruity that does not glow in the dark, and you wonder if that is even possible. You get a warm beer instead. And some mean shot. You want results. You take a leak. You hear someone snorting bad speed. As if anything happening here really requires chemical pace. You read the same tired jokes on the wall. You check your hair in the broken mirror, even though it doesn’t need checking. You read the same tired jokes written on there, too. Back in, another round. A lighter one. Quiffs and Marc O'Polo sweaters, predictably. You recognise that girl from the party hours before (or was it a boy?) FROM THE MOUNTAIN TOPS DOWN TO THE SUNNY STREET. Ha! A DIFFERENT DRUM IS PLAYING A DIFFERENT KIND OF BEAT. Ha ha!! You think the DJ could be smarter than anybody else in here. Except you, of course…
Later you wake up next to a girl (or was it a boy?) on that dirty sofa. You are not sure if anything happened. It does look a bit as if something happened. No, actually, you just do not know… Not so many people left now. Slow songs already. TAKE YOUR HANDS OFF ME. You watch the very recent couples, who ignore the instructions. You are too wasted to join in, with whomever, anyway. WELL IT JUST WASN’T ME. Maybe half an hour left before your exit into daylight — and then you will have to run. Oh well.
This is not a true story.
Everything will be different.
We invite you to hear the BEST FUCKING MUSIC EVER.
NO TRUMPETS (maybe).
Do swing by and bring some love. And other people.
We love you (YOU PAY OUR RENT).
Finn, Roger unt Wyrm.
(The Tapeworm dedicates this evening to the memory of Massimo Pavarini, who bloody well should’ve been dancing with us tonight…)