Living for Disco

I was in heaven. The music was mid-90s indie pop. The Stone Roses, Pulp and Sleeper pulled me irresistibly towards the heaving dance floor: a sea of waving arms, jumping bodies, beer arcing gracefully over the waving, seaweed hair. I was sucked into a whirlpool of frenzied, drunken, snogging, groping humanity, and I let go.

Twenty minutes later, flushed, sweating and covered in beer and bruises, and was washed up onto the bar, where I flopped happily. I recognised a bloke standing next to me – I saw him at a party a couple of weeks ago, where thanks to some mild mind-altering substances, I was convinced that his dredlocks were the hybrid offspring of a pineapple and a coconut, and was transfixed for hours. I felt the need to explain.

“Hello”, I said. “I saw you at a party the other week. I was a bit stoned, and I thought you had great hair”.

His face froze in shock. “I’m sorry?”

“I thought you had great hair! I was a bit stoned!” I was starting to feel embarrassed, and not a little stupid.

His expression didn’t change.

“You were at a party, and you gave me great head? I’m sure I would have remembered that – are you sure it was me?”

With a fresh insight into the inner workings of the rumour factory, I went back to the dance floor, and surrendered myself to the Cure.

This entry was posted on Monday, May 9th, 2005 at 10:44 am and is filed under Punting, The Devil's Lucozade. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.