this woman can not be saved


Despite better judgment decided to follow flatmates to Club Air just to vindicate decision not to buy the Freshers’ Fest nightclubstravaganza pack. Gemma wasn’t using her ticket and offered it to me. Underwhelmed by production values and anti-forgery measures of Freshers’ Fest tickets; I could, if I wanted to, attend the remaining events with ten minutes in Photoshop, or failing that bootblack, a bit of light knife work and half a potato.

It was truly amazing how no sense was any use in there. Fog machines and erratic lights and lasers confounded vision, bass like a constant 16-inch broadside did for hearing as well as sanity, touch wasn’t really voluntary, snuffles (thankfully) meant that I couldn’t smell the collective reek of deodorant, aftershave, perfume and humanity, and as for tasting people, well, perhaps not in public. It was oddly liberating being able to shout whatever the hell I liked at someone two feet from my face and be certain they would not comprehend, but even bawling MAGGOTS at random strangers gets old fast.

Requested Propane Nightmares from bored-looking DJ but was well and truly sick of the place and had left by the time he got round to it (if he did; even Pendulum perhaps a little tuneful for the “pound you with a big sonic hammer” style of music employed.) Vacated with two blockmates in a shared taxi; saw a fox on the way back.

Not doing that again.

Sense of superiority and smugness somewhat dulled by the way my head feels as though it has been uncaringly violated by a freight train full of shaped charges. Unable to hear anything. MOMD registration tomorrow. Zzzzz.

Outgoings: £2 on shared getaway cab.


3 thoughts on “this woman can not be saved

  1. Yup, that pretty much sums up why I’m not a fan of clubbing. I’m perhaps slightly more game than you in that even while sober, if everyone else’s inhibitions are sufficiently lowered I’ll have a jig about on the dancefloor, but that gets old after 20 minutes or so, and then what else is there to do? God forbid I should actually want to TALK to my friends as well as stand in a circle self-consciously gyrating and occasionally grinning at them.

    Other business:

    “…bawling MAGGOTS at random strangers…”
    “Requested Propane Nightmares…”

    Distance relationship be damned, you marry me NOW.

    • brosencrantz says:

      I’m sorry, man. I just don’t see how it’s going to work out. Bristol… Birmingham… heterosexuality… soldier, spy…

      And I don’t see that many foxes aboot Clifton. Once, one walked across our garden with two eeny foxcubs and a neighbour’s dog spazzed out at them.

  2. Oh by the way, I fail to see how ‘saw a fox’ is blagworthy. I can’t say I hang around Clifton Village at night enough to be aware of its foxiness, but venture over to Redland after dusk and you’ll see mangy foxes bloody EVERYWHERE. In my second year Blackboy Hill abode, I recall they would sunbathe on the lawn out back.

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