Stumbling solitary in drunken stupor, not quite sure where I want or need to be; I am only too conscious that I am totally displaced. In my blinking view-finder I find comfort in the swaying and festive beat of a swag of fuzzy silhouettes. Quite possibly it was their fumbling synchronicity that drove me towards my seeming allies and soon find myself to be a limb of their awkward collective.
I recall our bit-bandit collective was mostly made up of scenester rockerbee’s complete with shaggy hairdos, stove-pipes and romantic pointy shoes and lagging subserviently behind them were a couple of ladette band-aids fittingly adorned in complementary splashes of leopard print, red lipstick and netting. Now a complementary damsel in their tribe, I am lured in further with an offering swig of their baneful cheap wine and as I force down the dregs of our shared clear skin chalice I dread the ringing cliche ‘chisel’ lyrics that are throbbing through my head.
“Wanna cum to a parteeee in Keele St.?” queries the ring-leader they call ‘Fringey’. I shrug my shoulders and grunt a surrender of apathetic compliance.