Cities 97 Sampler Vol 13 is dedicated to the memory of the victims of the September 11, 2001 terrorist attack on America.Oh what a weekend; exasperating days, nights of debauched behaviour and drunken antics!
What it is to live by the seaside! As the visitors arrive looking for fun; they implode with excitement and go ever so, slightly mad!
As they escape from far-away, congested cities to the serene lands of tranquil countryside and beautiful golden beaches. Do they revel in these exquisite surroundings? No, their ebullience is reserved for the frequenting of bars and getting decidedly smashed!
They came, they consumed and became inebriated; they were narrow minded and very, very loud. The insecure, exhibitionist of questionable intelligence claimed to be of an 'international (of the club scene) pop singer' status; he was not able to go out much, due to the weekly social club appearances. So a weekend at the seaside turned into a very depraved affair. Unfortunately for us they were staying next door.
We heard all about his iconic eminence in club land, his popularity; his expertise; we chuckled at his constant need for reassurance, "I'm good aren't I?"; "I'm the best aren't I?" We heard all about his gym, his personal trainer 'Dan' and his belligerent pursuit to a fitter, better body; we heard all about how he has forsaken his beloved pint for vodka and Red Bull, because Dan had advised him that it has less calories!
We heard a lot!
We ventured into town for the pre-requisite pub crawl, they were indeed ready for action; loud and adulterated; they vied for attention; they mocked; they resounded; unabashed they were obstreperous and crude.
The 'international pop star' did not care for the locals (too scruffy!) or the band of musicians in our parochial pub; he criticised the singer's voice, the sound, the music. As he vociferates to all of his disdain for bands. "Too much noise!"
So we were forced to encroach on the tacky bright lights of the tourist's Mecca. To a sweaty, smoky milieu of thumping dance music and cheesy party tunes that filtrates the ears but not the soul. Sticky floors of spilt cheap lager cling to our feet and imprison in us in this empty, shallow place of drunken stag / hen parties, excited teenagers and the decamped weekenders.
Where gaggles of girls giggle and dance; evoking moods of silliness they wear costumes to attract, like peacocks their strut, displaying their tails. Intoxicated males stumble in clusters; clutching with addled impetuosity at any passing females; any piece of meat! A blow up doll surfs the crowd; floating gracefully like a feather above the herds of marauding stags. As they wrestle and jostle in their boozy camaraderie.
As we watch from the sidelines the 'international pop star' elicits his moves on the dance floor; thrusting his body to the music, drawing on his stage routine, sliding on his knee's ; provoking attention, high on adulation he basks in his glory.
Oh, how they were drunk on merriment and excessive alcohol; oh, how they laughed, danced, poked fun and rambled aimlessly.
When the night was called and we stumbled home in the wee hours laughing gleefully; with not a care in the world.
But how the mood can change so abruptly! When the liquor, drenched atmosphere can incense and inflame.
In the middle of the night; in the early hours of the morn, contentions ignited and an argument did rage; screaming, shouting, swearing, banging, for the whole neighbourhood to hear. We cringed in our beds, we struggled to sleep; we longed for the weekend to be over and the visitors to leave!
As quickly as they arrived, they departed, leaving a trail of carnage and bitterness in our hearts. Why travel so far to insensate the mind? Why dissipate the body in tacky bars and overpriced clubs? Call that a holiday, when they do the same at home? To live by the seaside, the party town; with it's summer haze of drunken revelry and boisterous larks. How we pine for the winter and a glorious, desolate town!
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