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I do not go to Majorca

  Sun 26th September 2021

To Lancaster. An old pal is putting on an acid house reunion at a club I used to go to infrequently.

The cheapest way of getting to Lancaster from here is to fly to Manchester via Majorca, then if you can wait around a bit in Manchester, there's a train from the airport to Lancaster for £5.90. After I took the screenshot here, the air fare came down to £38.

I couldn't be bothered with all the testing palarver though, and found a lift for £20 each way on a car-sharing site. It was a long journey, five hours in a little van, but he was chatty and had an interesting sound track, where white people sing serious songs of self-analysis. I'd have preferred silence but I realise that that is a horror to many.

He drops me off at the motorway junction and I walk up to Kirsty's. She shames me with her hospitality. "Would you like a bit of [homemade] Gruyère quiche?" Raw spinach in a lemony dressing. My youngest is there, the drummer, hugging me with her bony body.

"You know that rave you're going to? Are there any tickets available?" I was lit up. "I don't know, let's see," excited that she might be able to come with me. She wears trousers. Pale blue. Stylish and flimsy, but I was hoping for the Mondrian miniskirt. It feels a bit like going out with a new girlfriend, except we've had three children and we're a hundred-and-eighteen put together.

We get the bus to Morecambe and get in the club. Kirsty has had half an e; me, a third of an acid blotter. I shove my remaining drugs down my pants, which is a good job as we are made to empty our pockets on entry.

I sold a couple of e's but spent the evening dancing with a mysterious but pleasant feeling in my perineum. When I got back to Kirsty's, I discovered it was the plastic bag with two e's in them that had slipped down to my undercarriage.

The place was not quite full enough, but friendly and tactile. Me: "Is that your daughter?" Him: "No, it's me girlfriend." Wide-eyed stare, trying to to stop saying, "you fucking lucky bastard."

Dancing with Kirsty. Fleeting moment of thinking "why the fuck did I throw this one away?"

The Morecambe Male Lager Courtship Dance, which consists of a man in a T-shirt and shorts going up to a well-dressed girl and standing with his legs wide apart and spreading his arms. "Look at me, I'm Morecambe's gift to women." Then everyone on the dancefloor moves away and opens a space around him so that he might get the message.

Chatting to strangers. Arms around waists, sweat everywhere. A finger up to covid and its worrying subjects.

10 comments »

10 comments

Comment from: Scarlet [Visitor]

Aww…sounds fun. I’d love to have a club night reunion with my old clubbing buddies, though I reckon a night like that would probably kill me!
Sx

Sun 26th September 2021 @ 06:48 Reply to this comment
Comment from: looby [Visitor]

Scarlet, we’ll have to drag you up to Bristol one night!

Sun 26th September 2021 @ 10:01 You are currently replying to this comment
Comment from: exile on pain street [Visitor]

Hi ho, good man. Nice to see you’re up and dancing about, lamenting the ones you threw away. That’s part of the human condition, isn’t it? I play that self-defeating game all. the. time. NYC is still flat on its ass. I went out for my afternoon coffee today and watched a man fix works and shoot up right on the street in the open air with tourists mulling by. Quite a scene and something to tell the family back in Omaha. I hope you’re healthy, well, happy, all that cal.

Tue 28th September 2021 @ 00:58 Reply to this comment
Comment from: looby [Visitor]

Hello Exile! Good to see you hereabouts!

Maybe the tourists who saw the man shooting up thought it added to the local colour.

We keep hearing some ludicrous news items from the US about the anti-vaxxers and their evangelism. (Maybe more down South, less so in NY/NJ). But they’ll die off eventually I suppose.

I’m healthy, but there was another alcohol-related reverse pike with double twist on my scooter yesterday. Going to have to watch this. Don’t want to damage my nice scooter :)

All the very best and hope to see EoPS rise again maybe, if you feel like it.

Tue 28th September 2021 @ 09:44 Reply to this comment
Comment from: kono [Visitor]

So the cheapest way to get to Lancaster was through Spain? via Madchester? fuckin’ ell! and we wonder why the world’s a shit show, lol!

Though the do’ sounds like it was a lovely time and Kirsty a lovely woman… so what did happen? enquiring minds want to know ;)

Mon 4th October 2021 @ 19:36 Reply to this comment
Comment from: looby [Visitor]

Yes it’s ridiculous isn’t it? Although good fun I bet – I’m looking forward to travelling that route.

Nothing happened with Kirsty! We went home, had some toast and a natter, and I slept in one of my girls’ room and she in hers. Sorry to disappoint :)

Fri 8th October 2021 @ 08:29 Reply to this comment
Comment from: Eryl [Visitor]

I’m glad some people still get to go clubbing and that one of them is you. Like Scarlet, I think it would kill me, but I’d like to try again!

I prefer silence, too, it feels like a very rare commodity these days.

Tue 5th October 2021 @ 14:02 Reply to this comment
Comment from: looby [Visitor]

Sure you could find something going on next time you’re in the Dear Green Place that wouldn’t break the knees.

Silence is rare and precious now, you’re right.

Fri 8th October 2021 @ 08:31 Reply to this comment
Comment from: kono [Visitor]

You must think i’m some sort of perv now don’t you? i wasn’t talking about the night in question… i was talking about why it didn’t work out the first time around? ;)

Mon 11th October 2021 @ 20:19 Reply to this comment
Comment from: looby [Visitor]

Having children didn’t help, to be honest. I lasted twelve years. One day shortly before I moved out she said “it’s like living with an amiable tourist.” I think too much of my life was outside the house and I wasn’t pulling my weight with the girls.

Things improved in proportion to them demanding less of Kirsty’s time.

Sun 17th October 2021 @ 21:46 Reply to this comment


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M / 57 / Bristol, "the most beautiful, interesting and distinguished city in England" -- John Betjeman [1961, source eludes me].

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