I realise that this is not really a review blog, and I have never reviewed anything on here in the past (maybe with the exception of a calamitous night of clubbing). However, I am moved to write about The Holy Mountain, a film I watched a couple of days ago, as I have never had such a reaction to a piece of cinema.
It begins with two naked women being shaved, an odd image for those of us who like naked women as it brings a distressing touch of Holocaust imagery or when they used to punish women for sleeping with enemy soldiers. As I became used to the image, I muttered to myself. Maybe this will be more intelligible in the next scene. This, after all, was merely an introduction and once it's over the story proper can commence.
Cut to a man pissing his over-sized nappy while flies crawl over his sleeping face. Then cut to him being stoned by children only to be saved by a man with no arms and no legs, tenderly kissing the nappy-man on his forehead after the rescue. Then cut to a recreation of the conquistadors' attack on a South American tribal city by lizards dressed up as soldiers and natives, ending in blood being projected fountain-like from the top of a model temple (the man in the nappy witnesses this, jumps onto the model city and begins crowing like a rooster).
It carries on like this for some time. Until (after having hundreds of plaster casts of his body in the shape of the crucifix by a man dressed up as a nun) the man in the nappy (although now he is merely wearing a tiny g-string) finds a large tower, which he ascends by age-old method of giant fish-hook. In the tower lives an alchemist who proceeds to strip the man in the g-string (which doesn't take long) and bath the crack of his bottom in a graphic manner. After the sponge bath, the now-naked man defecates in a glass bowl. The alchemist then turns the shit into gold while the now-naked man pukes up inside a giant glass egg. At this point I was deeply unnerved, and wasn't sure if continuing was a wise option, but I didn't have time to dwell on what I had seen. We are quickly introduced to seven people, each from a different planet in the solar system - for example, the man from Venus has many wives and has lots of sex, the man Neptune collects testicles for some reason (we join his story just as he has collected 1000). The film then concerns itself with nudity (most of which is gratuitous), castration, someone putting his finger up a bum (in an "art" installation), an old woman up a tree made of dead chickens, and the search for immortality.
So that about deals with what happens in the film (I skirt the word "plot" deliberately). What did I actually think of it? I hated it. It's true. I was equally disgusted and perplexed by it. But (and this is a big but, maybe it should be written BUT), I was hopelessly captivated by it. I couldn't look away, I wanted to watch it. I wanted to be disgusted and perplexed. This has never happened to me before.
I should say that I really don't like gratuitous weirdness in films. I get hopelessly bored by it and much of the cinema from around the time The Holy Mountain was made (1973) and it was very guilty of it.
A digression: I really don't like Lynch. I sat through his most recent, Inland Empire, bored senseless by the "cerebral" imagery (in actual fact, I think Lynch is taking the piss, and seeing how far he can push it until critics stop saying its good and pseudo-intellectuals stop blathering on about the condition humaine in relation to his fevered output).
Anyway, The Holy Mountain is a pompous, deliberately weird film that probably attempts to say something profound about the role of man and religion, the desire for immortality and various other things (mainly to do with sex or shitting). The real reason to watch it is to revel in what a self-indulgent (just witness the ludicrous, breaking of the fourth wall ending), incoherent and arty mess it is (although I will probably be accused of demeaning what the director, Jodorowsky, was intending to do by saying that but, in truth, I don't think Jodorowsky succeeded in saying what he tried to do, unless the film is deliberately mocking its audience by encouraging them to read into the graphic imagery on display, which would explain the ending).
I am conflicted about the film - and when I say I hated it, I really mean hated it. When I say I was captivated by it, I mean I haven't stopped thinking about it for days. I would be interested to know other people's views in the comments below, if anyone has braved this film...
Saturday, September 06, 2008
Friday, August 22, 2008
Decadence and Decay
In my last post I said that I had left the world of service behind me; the Christmas department store fiasco was rich enough for me. But a few weeks ago I was asked by a friend to help tend bar at a garden party deep in the Cheshire countryside. I agreed, hoping for some easy money and some very generous tips. The theme of the party was "Bollywood Bling", which was a thinly veiled excuse for a repugnant display of excess mingled not-so-delicately with that certain brand of racism which white, successful people think is "just a bit of fun". The people arrived to a champagne reception – one glass per person, unless you shouted at the waiters (i.e. me and the rest of the bar staff) enough, and declared your position as obscenely important and rich. You see the more notes in the diamante money clip, the greater the entitlement to freebees.
The bar I was working on had the glamorous name "The Kumars at Number 42 Bar", and from my vantage point I could see the guests arrive. Most of the women had an odd colour of skin; it was hard to tell if they were in "black-face" and trying to look Indian (they were all wearing Sahris after all), or if it was merely the "natural" colour of an epidermis exposed to UV and fake tan on a daily basis. Both theories had 50% believability. The "gentlemen" wore flowing linen and sandals, a few sporting cheap-looking shiny black wigs and laughing like overfed horses. It was all withered breasts on show, and alpha-male strutting. And I was caught in the fray.
I have never tended bar before in my life, and it was quite a shock. It's hard to gauge the first in line and, at this shin-dig in particular, they were all barking like exhibitions at Seaworld. I threw fish in the direction of their braying mouths all night and the total of the tips was horrifyingly low - especially in light of the indignities we had to swallow whole: letchy old guys making smutty (and as the night drew on, very sexually offensive) comments to the girls behind the bar, vicious brutes asserting their aggression in my direction, and being sworn at routinely.
These sophisticates stole wine off each others' tables, vomited recklessly and collapsed in heaps by the end of the night. Cash, it seems, does not help you hit the target when urinating either; the toilets stunk of the piss that swum around the floors, the shit that had missed the bowl and the vomit that had decorated the walls. Christ, I thought. Such decadence reveals the human race in all its brutal glory.
Towards the end of the night, I began clearing tables of bottles and glasses. It was 3am, and I had been on the go for twelve hours, and my weariness could not protect me from the decay. The withered breasts had been joined by descending bra straps, while the alpha-males were still strutting (albeit with the tell-tale trip-step of a man possessed by booze). There was dancing of course; the cliché of the covers band pumping out Mustang Sally, and a saxophone solo in every tune (whether it needed one or not). At various tables there were women asleep, cradling half-empty bottles of champagne. I carried on regardless, trying to ignore the hip-thrusting of the saxophonist (where do these bands come from, and why do people hire them?).
The night wound down, and I began my journey home, thinking about a possible moral for all of this. Days later I discovered it, like the gold of a sunken Spanish galleon. The moral is this: the higher a monkey climbs, the more of its backside is visible...
The bar I was working on had the glamorous name "The Kumars at Number 42 Bar", and from my vantage point I could see the guests arrive. Most of the women had an odd colour of skin; it was hard to tell if they were in "black-face" and trying to look Indian (they were all wearing Sahris after all), or if it was merely the "natural" colour of an epidermis exposed to UV and fake tan on a daily basis. Both theories had 50% believability. The "gentlemen" wore flowing linen and sandals, a few sporting cheap-looking shiny black wigs and laughing like overfed horses. It was all withered breasts on show, and alpha-male strutting. And I was caught in the fray.
I have never tended bar before in my life, and it was quite a shock. It's hard to gauge the first in line and, at this shin-dig in particular, they were all barking like exhibitions at Seaworld. I threw fish in the direction of their braying mouths all night and the total of the tips was horrifyingly low - especially in light of the indignities we had to swallow whole: letchy old guys making smutty (and as the night drew on, very sexually offensive) comments to the girls behind the bar, vicious brutes asserting their aggression in my direction, and being sworn at routinely.
These sophisticates stole wine off each others' tables, vomited recklessly and collapsed in heaps by the end of the night. Cash, it seems, does not help you hit the target when urinating either; the toilets stunk of the piss that swum around the floors, the shit that had missed the bowl and the vomit that had decorated the walls. Christ, I thought. Such decadence reveals the human race in all its brutal glory.
Towards the end of the night, I began clearing tables of bottles and glasses. It was 3am, and I had been on the go for twelve hours, and my weariness could not protect me from the decay. The withered breasts had been joined by descending bra straps, while the alpha-males were still strutting (albeit with the tell-tale trip-step of a man possessed by booze). There was dancing of course; the cliché of the covers band pumping out Mustang Sally, and a saxophone solo in every tune (whether it needed one or not). At various tables there were women asleep, cradling half-empty bottles of champagne. I carried on regardless, trying to ignore the hip-thrusting of the saxophonist (where do these bands come from, and why do people hire them?).
The night wound down, and I began my journey home, thinking about a possible moral for all of this. Days later I discovered it, like the gold of a sunken Spanish galleon. The moral is this: the higher a monkey climbs, the more of its backside is visible...
Thursday, August 21, 2008
Recovery from the Worst Kind of Illness
I have returned to this record after months of silence. My problem since my last post has been a crushing kind of illness, a specifically modern malady; that of the somnabulistic city drone. I have been spending my time commuting to the city centre, sitting inside offices, my face irradiated by the VDU. There is nothing like this to dull the keen eye of the observer, to pickle the brain of the creative soul. Nevertheless, I have recovered enough to, once again, approach the keyboard. My new life, outside of the airport or a retail situation, yet still inside of an invisible set of bars, is concerning me greatly. During my time at the airport, I began to feel that the majority of humanity were bastards, utterly selfish consumers intent on devouring everything and everybody in their path. This feeling has mutated into something different. During my commutes into town, and within the office, I am nestled deep within humanity, not serving them or fulfilling their every whim. I am an equal. It's an odd feeling for me and one that I'm not altogether comfortable with. Back when is was "us and them" my role fulfilled that terribly (and inexplicably) teenage-like lust for rebellion. It hasn't gone away in me, even now. Now I'm just another commuter, trying not to think too hard on the train, as that may lead to some kind of psychic crisis, or a dark realisation of mortality. Now it's eyes down, headphones in like the rest of them. It's a worrying situation, because if everybody is like this, then that means that the average human being thinks about nothing all day. It's worse than that. The average human being wants to think about nothing all day. Christ, say it isn't so...
In light of my new existence, I have changed the name of this blog. I felt like a fraud writing under the Airport Diaries banner, since I left the airport over a year ago now (nb: I still hear reports from my good friend Stockton about the state of things out there. It's not good, and I gather a fitting soundtrack to the drive to work is Maggie's Farm by Bob Dylan...)
The new title is from Marshall McLuhan's Understanding Media. He says we live to allow our technology to propagate, the same way bees live to be the sex organs of plants. Apt in so many ways.
I shall continue to post about everything that I deem fit. You can watch The Genitals of Technology engorge here...
In light of my new existence, I have changed the name of this blog. I felt like a fraud writing under the Airport Diaries banner, since I left the airport over a year ago now (nb: I still hear reports from my good friend Stockton about the state of things out there. It's not good, and I gather a fitting soundtrack to the drive to work is Maggie's Farm by Bob Dylan...)
The new title is from Marshall McLuhan's Understanding Media. He says we live to allow our technology to propagate, the same way bees live to be the sex organs of plants. Apt in so many ways.
I shall continue to post about everything that I deem fit. You can watch The Genitals of Technology engorge here...
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
On Sunshine and Masturbation
"How about this weather?" the train conductor said, his body smelling old and rotten. I smiled and handed over the fare, watching it sweat in his greasy palm. "It's a scorcher." I smiled again.
"Yes, it's end-of-the-world hot, isn't it?" I said and he looked down at his machine while the ticket took an age to emerge. He ripped it off hastily and handed it to me, not saying another word. He moved on and I looked out the window, watching a vapour trail of an aeroplane, trying to determine if it was arcing gently towards the earth, wings withered by the heat.
"How about this weather?" The train conductor carried on his patter with someone else down the carriage. This time he was rewarded with some chattering nonsense from an old lady.
Four weeks ago, I made the same journey while hail pounded against the glass. To flip from this to the heat in such a short space of time is deeply worrying for me. Global warming or not, this has to be a sign of impending doom. It's something I've been thinking about a lot recently. What if the sun is getting bigger? What if the core of the earth is getting hotter and more firey? What if...?
There another aspect of this sunny weather that unnerves me. I now work (sometimes) in an office which is near to my old friend Sergei's place of work. We met at the airport and became, like wartime soldiers, comrades in arms. His office overlooks a park, where students gather, sit in little groups and become loud and noticeable. Now, I have absolutely nothing against students, but the sun seems to alter people of all shapes and sizes. Shirts are off, flip-flops are on, and cans of Red Stripe are nestled between sunbathing thighs.
"Everybody is here to be seen," Sergei said a few days ago, his Russian accent thick in the heat. "It's nothing but meaningless posturing."
We sat on a wall bordering the park, and I unwrapped my sandwich.
"I see this all day from my window," he continued. "What do you call those trousers that only go down to the shins? And why do all the men wear vests?"
I looked at Sergei, smart in his jeans and shirt. He took a bit of his sandwich and chased it hastily with a sip from his orange juice. Just then, a group of lads disbanded and started throwing an American football long distances. They tossed it in lazy arcs over the other groups of people, puffing their chests and arrogantly demanding attention from all concerned.
"Ha," snorted Sergei, squeezing his juice carton slightly so the straw ejaculated onto the wall beside him. "Everybody hates America in Britain, but they all want to be American. Throwing pigskin, wearing baseball caps. Look at these guys..." He watched the ball as it bounced wonkily and infiltrated a group of girls who were lying on towels next to the bin for dog waste. A particularly puffed up thrower flip-flopped over and began noisily retrieving the ball, trying to chatter with the girls who were all heated and lazy. Sergei shook his head, as another group of lads with an American football started throwing in another region of the park. They gradually overtook the entire area with their self-conscious game and the first group sat down, defeated. They no longer had the monopoly. By this time Sergei was on to his crisps, and I was eating a second sandwich.
Just then, underneath wear we were sitting, a new group began setting up camp. One of them had a guitar. Sergei made an audible sigh.
"Now look," he said to me. "We just want a quiet lunch, but it's either 2Pac on the stereo or a man with a guitar." His face was scrunched up in disgust as the guitarist began widdling quietly. "Look at him. First he starts of nervously and quietly, as if he doesn't care if people notice him or not. Soon he'll start singing."
"I hate those parties where someone brings a guitar," I reply. "It's as if people need to bolster their failing personalities with something interesting."
"Yes," Sergei said thoughtfully. "Playing the guitar is like masturbation. It should only be done in private, or for a consensual, possibly paying, audience. If someone starting wanking in the park, it would be equally as offensive as this character."
The guitarist had started playing chords, more loudly than before. His group were chatting amongst themselves, but he seemed oddly isolated. Sergei stood up and brushed some crumbs from his jeans.
"He's ruined it," he shouted, more loudly than he perhaps should have. "He's ruined not just my lunch, but my life." At this, his Eastern temperament flaring, he stalked off towards his office, tupperware container clutched tightly under his arm. I walked in the other direction and out onto the road, where young men had parked their cars by the curb. Different music was playing from each stereo, creating a nasty cloud of noise, while the owners of the cars were sat on the bonnets hollering and whooping like rabid animals. The engines, of course, were running, spewing out hot gas onto the pavement.
The sun has a lot to answer for...
"Yes, it's end-of-the-world hot, isn't it?" I said and he looked down at his machine while the ticket took an age to emerge. He ripped it off hastily and handed it to me, not saying another word. He moved on and I looked out the window, watching a vapour trail of an aeroplane, trying to determine if it was arcing gently towards the earth, wings withered by the heat.
"How about this weather?" The train conductor carried on his patter with someone else down the carriage. This time he was rewarded with some chattering nonsense from an old lady.
Four weeks ago, I made the same journey while hail pounded against the glass. To flip from this to the heat in such a short space of time is deeply worrying for me. Global warming or not, this has to be a sign of impending doom. It's something I've been thinking about a lot recently. What if the sun is getting bigger? What if the core of the earth is getting hotter and more firey? What if...?
There another aspect of this sunny weather that unnerves me. I now work (sometimes) in an office which is near to my old friend Sergei's place of work. We met at the airport and became, like wartime soldiers, comrades in arms. His office overlooks a park, where students gather, sit in little groups and become loud and noticeable. Now, I have absolutely nothing against students, but the sun seems to alter people of all shapes and sizes. Shirts are off, flip-flops are on, and cans of Red Stripe are nestled between sunbathing thighs.
"Everybody is here to be seen," Sergei said a few days ago, his Russian accent thick in the heat. "It's nothing but meaningless posturing."
We sat on a wall bordering the park, and I unwrapped my sandwich.
"I see this all day from my window," he continued. "What do you call those trousers that only go down to the shins? And why do all the men wear vests?"
I looked at Sergei, smart in his jeans and shirt. He took a bit of his sandwich and chased it hastily with a sip from his orange juice. Just then, a group of lads disbanded and started throwing an American football long distances. They tossed it in lazy arcs over the other groups of people, puffing their chests and arrogantly demanding attention from all concerned.
"Ha," snorted Sergei, squeezing his juice carton slightly so the straw ejaculated onto the wall beside him. "Everybody hates America in Britain, but they all want to be American. Throwing pigskin, wearing baseball caps. Look at these guys..." He watched the ball as it bounced wonkily and infiltrated a group of girls who were lying on towels next to the bin for dog waste. A particularly puffed up thrower flip-flopped over and began noisily retrieving the ball, trying to chatter with the girls who were all heated and lazy. Sergei shook his head, as another group of lads with an American football started throwing in another region of the park. They gradually overtook the entire area with their self-conscious game and the first group sat down, defeated. They no longer had the monopoly. By this time Sergei was on to his crisps, and I was eating a second sandwich.
Just then, underneath wear we were sitting, a new group began setting up camp. One of them had a guitar. Sergei made an audible sigh.
"Now look," he said to me. "We just want a quiet lunch, but it's either 2Pac on the stereo or a man with a guitar." His face was scrunched up in disgust as the guitarist began widdling quietly. "Look at him. First he starts of nervously and quietly, as if he doesn't care if people notice him or not. Soon he'll start singing."
"I hate those parties where someone brings a guitar," I reply. "It's as if people need to bolster their failing personalities with something interesting."
"Yes," Sergei said thoughtfully. "Playing the guitar is like masturbation. It should only be done in private, or for a consensual, possibly paying, audience. If someone starting wanking in the park, it would be equally as offensive as this character."
The guitarist had started playing chords, more loudly than before. His group were chatting amongst themselves, but he seemed oddly isolated. Sergei stood up and brushed some crumbs from his jeans.
"He's ruined it," he shouted, more loudly than he perhaps should have. "He's ruined not just my lunch, but my life." At this, his Eastern temperament flaring, he stalked off towards his office, tupperware container clutched tightly under his arm. I walked in the other direction and out onto the road, where young men had parked their cars by the curb. Different music was playing from each stereo, creating a nasty cloud of noise, while the owners of the cars were sat on the bonnets hollering and whooping like rabid animals. The engines, of course, were running, spewing out hot gas onto the pavement.
The sun has a lot to answer for...
Friday, April 04, 2008
Club Sauce
The fact is hard to avoid. People come from miles around to sample the vibrant clubbing scene in Manchester. In fact, it’s not just a scene. It’s several scenes, all happening at once, and a night out can turn into an odyssey saturated with endorphins and chemical highs…
Let me stop there; I can’t keep this up. I know what you’re thinking. For those familiar with my blog, it must be a little strange for me to be writing about clubs in Manchester. And you’re right. I hate crowds, especially sweaty crowds. I loathe excessive, repetitive noise. Dim rooms, in which I tread on unspecified, moist obstacles, actually make my entire body twitch with disgust. I detest those odd, soulless places inhabited by a transient population, these voids of the modern.
So why am I writing about clubs? Well, I decided to embark upon a night of clubbing with some friends, to immerse myself in the clubbing scene for the purposes of writing this post. I threw myself on their mercy, allowing them to pick the locations, and following them nervously as we moved from one location to another.
The first club was an accident. It was cold outside and we wanted to start the night off quickly. We found ourselves outside a garish, neon building, the image of a supine woman, high-kicking her long, boot-clad legs in the window. It’s name, The Purple Pussycat, was emblazoned above this image. My group started to move towards the door.
“That’s a strip club if ever I saw one,” I shouted after them, reluctant to enter into a room that was filled with sorry breasts and male arousal.
“It’s not, I’m sure,” replied one of our pack. “But we can go somewhere else just in case.” Then a loud, meaty voice joined our conversation.
“It’s not a strip club.” It was the bouncer, clearly enjoying our consternation. This was the only reassurance my friends needed and we were soon inside.
Well, The Purple Pussycat is not a strip club. But it sure looks like one. The DJ booth was framed by two greasy poles, and the décor looked prepared to deal with all kind of bodily fluids. There were little alcoves here and there and a fish, tortured by the bass lines and banging its head on the glass of its mucky tank. It was an ominous start for me, the non-clubber. I felt slightly miserable as I tried to move my legs in time to a Madonna track I could barely hear over the farting buzz of the sub-standard speakers. It wasn’t long before a fight broke out, and a man dressed in a black raincoat fell directly on his face with a horrifying crack. There was raised voices, pushing and poking. I wasn’t really surprised. These poor saps were probably over-stimulated by the weird interior design (including the police mugshot of Charlie Sheen), and their loins had probably been activated by the faint promise of seeing some naked flesh. We decided it was time to move on. The Purple Pussycat had done nothing to change my mind about clubbing. But where to next?
From deep within our group there was a cry of, “Sankey’s”. We jumped into a taxi and headed up to Ancoats, the historical scene of much suffering in Manchester.
Sankey Soap is one of Manchester’s most famous clubs. I remember, back before I became the man I am now, attending nights there. Back then it was a scruffy venue, packed to the rafters with sweating thugs and pill-heads. It’s no longer scruffy, and has the stench of Money and Greed about the place. We joined the queue in the freezing cold, and shivered our way to the front.
Here, we were faced with no less than eight bouncers, all wearing matching outfits: black coats, black jeans/trousers, and black leather gloves. Their collective shaved heads glinted under the shiny new sign above the door. The only one with anything to mark him out as an individual had a very vaginal looking Mohican; a strip of coarse, pubic hair dividing his head, and declaring “Macho!” loudly and pornographically. It was, of course, this man who stopped us, glaring menacingly.
“You ain’t getting in with that shirt,” he said at my friend, who was obnoxious enough to wear a neatly pressed black shirt, black trousers and black shoes. He couldn’t see the problem.
“What?” he answered back. “I don’t get it.”
“Out of the queue,” the Mohican man ordered. Another friend piped up:
“But he’s with us, can’t we all just go in.”
“You’re together, are you?” came the reply. “Right, all of you, out of the queue.”
We were cast aside, huddling together, watching other people get subjected to the same treatment. I was taken back to my time at the airport. The security staff behaved in exactly the same way, their fictional authority puffing their chests as they sat on their high, high horses. I looked at the bouncers and just saw that their lives were structured around appearing tough, and getting paid. Humanity, it seems, has reached a peak of affectation: machismo in the modern world is nothing more than eight men in black standing with their legs so far apart that they are in danger of tearing their groins. I would have stifled a giggle right there on the street if I hadn’t been so darned cold.
So another taxi and another club. It was already past midnight and I hadn’t had a drink in about ninety minutes. It was also so cold that my state of sobriety had returned rather quickly. It was to The Roadhouse, where it was a Detroit Techno night and, a plus point on a clubbing night, only £4 to get in. We quickly found out why it was so cheap. The DJ, a big noise from Detroit, had decided not to do his set. Actually, he had not even left the United States, and was currently AWOL from his duties. Inside the club there were few people, most of who walked around aimlessly, their shoulders slumped, looking miserable. While my group made the best of the situation and took to the dancefloor, I counted up the reasons why clubbing is a horrific activity for me:
1. The music is so mechanical and repetitive that it makes the experience of standing in front of the DJ booth reminiscent of being chewed slowly and painfully by Ted Hughes’ Iron Man. I yearn for the organic in all forms of life – why does modern man gravitate towards the grind of the computer, even in his leisure time. Give me swirling jazz, primal drums, upbeat folk, loud rock music. Don’t give me a headache, and remind me that I spend most of my waking life in unholy communion with a machine. Of course, I wasn’t on drugs…
2. Everything is a disappointment. You queue for a while, and then find out that what you queued for wasn’t worth queuing for in the first place so you move on to another queue and stand shivering in the cold, waiting for something you hope will bring an epiphany, but only gives you a sinking feeling and the desire to leave. So you leave again, and queue again, and sober up again, and get cold again, and are disappointed again. This cycle continues and can’t be called fun by anyone.
3. The alcohol is of such a lousy quality that it makes the sting of being over-charged much, much worse. Watery beer in a plastic cup, or maybe a can of Red Stripe. Christ, our leisure time has been hijacked by dumb, tasteless brutes. I ended my night drinking straight Jack Daniels for want of something better. My Scottish father would disown me if I ever admitted this to him…
4. There’s a scene in Larry David’s delightful sitcom Curb Your Enthusiasm, where Larry is given a condom by his friend that has a special numbing tip to make him last longer. “Why would I want to last longer,” asks our bewildered hero. “It just gets boring after a while.” This is precisely how I feel about clubbing.
5. When these concerns are voiced, I’m looked at as if I’m some crazed pervert. This, of course, makes me have an even worse time, and makes the people I’m with question why they are indeed friends with such a stick in the mud. Which, in turn, makes me feel as if there is something deeply wrong with my genetic make-up, as if I am a social Elephant Man wailing through the sack on my head.
Let me stop there; I can’t keep this up. I know what you’re thinking. For those familiar with my blog, it must be a little strange for me to be writing about clubs in Manchester. And you’re right. I hate crowds, especially sweaty crowds. I loathe excessive, repetitive noise. Dim rooms, in which I tread on unspecified, moist obstacles, actually make my entire body twitch with disgust. I detest those odd, soulless places inhabited by a transient population, these voids of the modern.
So why am I writing about clubs? Well, I decided to embark upon a night of clubbing with some friends, to immerse myself in the clubbing scene for the purposes of writing this post. I threw myself on their mercy, allowing them to pick the locations, and following them nervously as we moved from one location to another.
The first club was an accident. It was cold outside and we wanted to start the night off quickly. We found ourselves outside a garish, neon building, the image of a supine woman, high-kicking her long, boot-clad legs in the window. It’s name, The Purple Pussycat, was emblazoned above this image. My group started to move towards the door.
“That’s a strip club if ever I saw one,” I shouted after them, reluctant to enter into a room that was filled with sorry breasts and male arousal.
“It’s not, I’m sure,” replied one of our pack. “But we can go somewhere else just in case.” Then a loud, meaty voice joined our conversation.
“It’s not a strip club.” It was the bouncer, clearly enjoying our consternation. This was the only reassurance my friends needed and we were soon inside.
Well, The Purple Pussycat is not a strip club. But it sure looks like one. The DJ booth was framed by two greasy poles, and the décor looked prepared to deal with all kind of bodily fluids. There were little alcoves here and there and a fish, tortured by the bass lines and banging its head on the glass of its mucky tank. It was an ominous start for me, the non-clubber. I felt slightly miserable as I tried to move my legs in time to a Madonna track I could barely hear over the farting buzz of the sub-standard speakers. It wasn’t long before a fight broke out, and a man dressed in a black raincoat fell directly on his face with a horrifying crack. There was raised voices, pushing and poking. I wasn’t really surprised. These poor saps were probably over-stimulated by the weird interior design (including the police mugshot of Charlie Sheen), and their loins had probably been activated by the faint promise of seeing some naked flesh. We decided it was time to move on. The Purple Pussycat had done nothing to change my mind about clubbing. But where to next?
From deep within our group there was a cry of, “Sankey’s”. We jumped into a taxi and headed up to Ancoats, the historical scene of much suffering in Manchester.
Sankey Soap is one of Manchester’s most famous clubs. I remember, back before I became the man I am now, attending nights there. Back then it was a scruffy venue, packed to the rafters with sweating thugs and pill-heads. It’s no longer scruffy, and has the stench of Money and Greed about the place. We joined the queue in the freezing cold, and shivered our way to the front.
Here, we were faced with no less than eight bouncers, all wearing matching outfits: black coats, black jeans/trousers, and black leather gloves. Their collective shaved heads glinted under the shiny new sign above the door. The only one with anything to mark him out as an individual had a very vaginal looking Mohican; a strip of coarse, pubic hair dividing his head, and declaring “Macho!” loudly and pornographically. It was, of course, this man who stopped us, glaring menacingly.
“You ain’t getting in with that shirt,” he said at my friend, who was obnoxious enough to wear a neatly pressed black shirt, black trousers and black shoes. He couldn’t see the problem.
“What?” he answered back. “I don’t get it.”
“Out of the queue,” the Mohican man ordered. Another friend piped up:
“But he’s with us, can’t we all just go in.”
“You’re together, are you?” came the reply. “Right, all of you, out of the queue.”
We were cast aside, huddling together, watching other people get subjected to the same treatment. I was taken back to my time at the airport. The security staff behaved in exactly the same way, their fictional authority puffing their chests as they sat on their high, high horses. I looked at the bouncers and just saw that their lives were structured around appearing tough, and getting paid. Humanity, it seems, has reached a peak of affectation: machismo in the modern world is nothing more than eight men in black standing with their legs so far apart that they are in danger of tearing their groins. I would have stifled a giggle right there on the street if I hadn’t been so darned cold.
So another taxi and another club. It was already past midnight and I hadn’t had a drink in about ninety minutes. It was also so cold that my state of sobriety had returned rather quickly. It was to The Roadhouse, where it was a Detroit Techno night and, a plus point on a clubbing night, only £4 to get in. We quickly found out why it was so cheap. The DJ, a big noise from Detroit, had decided not to do his set. Actually, he had not even left the United States, and was currently AWOL from his duties. Inside the club there were few people, most of who walked around aimlessly, their shoulders slumped, looking miserable. While my group made the best of the situation and took to the dancefloor, I counted up the reasons why clubbing is a horrific activity for me:
1. The music is so mechanical and repetitive that it makes the experience of standing in front of the DJ booth reminiscent of being chewed slowly and painfully by Ted Hughes’ Iron Man. I yearn for the organic in all forms of life – why does modern man gravitate towards the grind of the computer, even in his leisure time. Give me swirling jazz, primal drums, upbeat folk, loud rock music. Don’t give me a headache, and remind me that I spend most of my waking life in unholy communion with a machine. Of course, I wasn’t on drugs…
2. Everything is a disappointment. You queue for a while, and then find out that what you queued for wasn’t worth queuing for in the first place so you move on to another queue and stand shivering in the cold, waiting for something you hope will bring an epiphany, but only gives you a sinking feeling and the desire to leave. So you leave again, and queue again, and sober up again, and get cold again, and are disappointed again. This cycle continues and can’t be called fun by anyone.
3. The alcohol is of such a lousy quality that it makes the sting of being over-charged much, much worse. Watery beer in a plastic cup, or maybe a can of Red Stripe. Christ, our leisure time has been hijacked by dumb, tasteless brutes. I ended my night drinking straight Jack Daniels for want of something better. My Scottish father would disown me if I ever admitted this to him…
4. There’s a scene in Larry David’s delightful sitcom Curb Your Enthusiasm, where Larry is given a condom by his friend that has a special numbing tip to make him last longer. “Why would I want to last longer,” asks our bewildered hero. “It just gets boring after a while.” This is precisely how I feel about clubbing.
5. When these concerns are voiced, I’m looked at as if I’m some crazed pervert. This, of course, makes me have an even worse time, and makes the people I’m with question why they are indeed friends with such a stick in the mud. Which, in turn, makes me feel as if there is something deeply wrong with my genetic make-up, as if I am a social Elephant Man wailing through the sack on my head.
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