Lights and sound thrummed through the shoe-box of a club. Violent neon beams flashed out across the smoky air. Apparently, those in the prime of life at the turn of the 20th century had the idea that lasers were ‘cool’ and ‘rad’, and not highly dangerous weapons.
“Come on, Viv, come dance!”
The shout came from a figure attired in a hideous clash of neon and plaid.
“I don’t know what that is,” I shouted back, “but it is not dancing.”
“It’s called twerking,” said the boy in neon/plaid, who was called Tobi, “and it was a supped popular dance move in the 90s.”
“Twerking is from the 2010s, moron.” Adele offered.
“What makes you the expert, anyway?”
“My grandma told me about it.”
“Come on, Addy, your grandma’s crazy. She still thinks public nudity is weird.”
“She’s not crazy, she’s just a little old fashioned.”
I had had enough. I left my half-drunk Smirnoff Ice on the sticky bar-top and wandered through the clammy crowd on dancers – metallic clothing and the tiny gems on velour garments occasionally catching the light. I needed to get out of that madhouse.
I take the hover-square up to ground level. As I walked down the shiny street walled with advertisement screens, I tried to shake the club from my head. How did people ever think those were desirable? Or that alcopops were palatable? To what pronoun was the listener supposed to ‘get jiggy wit’?
(25/2/17: ‘Gettin’ Jiggy Wit it’)