The night begins to brew.
Fun simmers on its outskirts.
The town heats up.
And DJs raise the decibel to number 9!
Now Ritual must begin: performed in umpteen bedrooms by umpteen girls.
Saturday Night must be obeyed!
Partying’s a solemn business; not to be left to chance.
Town-girls cackle, hen-like on their hen night,
On heels high enough for a Good Time.
Something is pleasuring them.
All short-sleeved-a’-Winter, Lads, or Townies,
Push out chests, lower their voices,
Then aim iron stares at clubbers not of their pack.
Outside, booze is taken as if a sacred juice.
Taken like holy water; though more freely.
Alcohol is guiding the way.
All hang-ups fall like the heavy-weights they are.
Sharp and raucous, the music thumps night-club walls;
Which vibrate, throwing back the noise back to the dance-floor.
The bass drum bangs its nail into a dozen heads.
Its one-beat bar guides like a law.
Dance-Music is mantra.
Each beat is rammed into young, delicate ears.
Ears are now bleeding onto the sweat-drenched dance-floor.
Young ones dance from the soul out.
Dance deep into the concrete sound.
Dances expressive of the dancers. But I don’t know what they say.
The DJ’s fused accent, part-US, part-Keighley,
Unctuously crawls into credulous ears.
These ears are impressed by such things as an affected, hip accent.
A voice, that, in a pained contrast, turns my bowels over.
Fag-end of another Good Night.
The fresh air mingles with the boozy breath.
Night-clubs spews out the pissheads;
The packs of fist-happy lads;
And drunks whom later spew their innards onto the pavement.
This is the anointed hour to drop one’s pants;
For a fight to spill over the fun-barrel;
To neck the prize lad on a quiet street;
To piss in public;
To cry over boyfriends and fight over girlfriends;
And, finally, but not leastally, to moony at Asian taxis.
The fact is, the drivers no longer care about this.
They’re not impressed by the debauched, silly displays
Of the white working class - you know what I mean.
By yet more of the same.
You know what I mean.