Lockdown Day 45: Wednesday 6th May, 2020

As the legal nightclubs closed around three am, the influx of shell-shocked tourists began, johnny foreigner slumming it with the temporarily-cash-in-hand lumpen detritus of society. The joint was bursting in no time, a time-honoured safety valve of early-doors London.

The crush intensified, bodies jammed in every space as they packed the paying cattle in wherever they could. As the horde encroached a bit too much on my personal space, I fizzled for a while then let one fly, “Bloody Hell. What’s wrong with these people. Have they no concept of personal space? Get that close to someone you’re not sleeping with in Glasgow and you get stabbed. Not that I’m suggesting anyone needs knifed. But even all loved-up on good E that French lot should have known they were getting too close. It’s not natural.”

  “Sure it’s not you, Trick man? You don’t like anybody getting too close. Everybody knows that.”

  Don agreed.”Ya mon. Ya naa like people too close. Ya naa like bein touched. Ya naa let nabady near.”      

  “Nothing to do with me. Look at this place. I can’t stand it when it gets like this, no air to breathe, way too many people in. And what’s even the point of packing so many in if none of them can get near the bar to buy a drink. Bit of proper door control, that’s what they need, sort this munchbunch out and make more money. I mean, look at them, what a fucking crew. No-chancers and fancy dancers, haggard old blaggers and slaggy shaggers, freeloaders, drunken hoochies and rat-arsed coochies. And upstairs is worse, Hieronymous Bosch couldn’t paint that heaving nightmare on the dancefloor. Wasted junkies and cracked spunkmonkeys from the lower rings of hell, wanks, manks and skanks. And worst of the lot – those fucking Home Counties Trustafarians keeping it real to the steel on the offshore family money. What the fuck are we doing here? Is there not a decent late-night joint left in this end of town? Bit of cards, few tunes, some tasty girls, smooooth single malts and fiery rum. Spice up life with a bit of ginger. You know what l mean.    

  Just look at this place. What’s happened to the banter and the laughs. I can see cockneys, weegies, seppos, gyppos, africans, Afrikaans, assorted sweaties, scallies, carribeans, geordies and our ever-faithful Essex boys. Plus the tourists. And barely a smile on a face.”

  As if to punctuate my outburst, an agitated camelhair coat acquainted a roughly tattooed colleague with a fistful of sov rings. Blood from a bust lip splattered all over his Armani suit and enraged him further. As he swung again and again, Essex boys spilled out the woodwork to discourage further conflict, steering the designer instigator to the exit.

  “Well, there you go. As I always say, you can take the scum out the slum but you can’t take the slum out the scum.”

  Don and Frank just looked at each other then burst out laughing, Don in his booming sunsoaked chuckle and Frank in his own inimitable Mutley snigger.

  “Ya gat a point dere.”

  “Yeah, but which part of the Royal Borough of Glasgow Regis do you come from?”

  “The best bit Frank, home. Ach, must be getting old. Next thing you know I’ll need to get some sleep at night.”

  Wallowing in the organic afterglow, Don leaned across, “So how ya do that mon? I mean, I seen ya suited an’ booted in da morning, after we been in da club past five. I’n’I headin’ to ma mattress an’ ya all sweet an’ sensible in ya shirt an’ tie an’ shiny Five-0 shoes.”

  “I’ll sleep when I’m dead. I’ve got a lot of energy I need to use. Maybe I’m scared to miss out on anything. Who knows? You’re not here for a long time, you’re here for a good time. And that’s me clichéd out.”

  Don snorted and shook his head, “Too real, mon. Too real.”

  I settled down further into the seat, “Good gear this. You can always rely on Frank for some decent puff.”

  “Ya, daan’ tell ‘im, but he roll a good smoke for a white bwai.”

  “Careful Don. He’ll hear you. That sounded suspiciously like a compliment.”

  I slid up the wall and steadied myself on the table as the rush of blood from my head knocked me sideways, “I’m furra waz. Mike,” I shouted across the bar, “one would like a couple of cappuccinos here, please and a decaf latte for Frank.” I dived as Mike rained the slushy contents of the struggling ice bucket over our table and heard Frank and Don damply cursing him as I trotted off in search of relief.

  Across the stormy night, faces and places swirled in the dark. Sweet little mysteries unfurled in a haze of imperial purple. Friends and acquaintances came and went and came again, roaming in the gloaming of this illicit half life through the darkened chambers. Society’s substrata, hidden and horny, heaving and grinding, swimming against the ever-quickening tide, the soporific ebb and flow, to occasionally escape and drift in a temporarily pleasant place at a pace of comfort, yet knowing always that tomorrow was another harsh day, that immutable reality would soon intrude. Leaving cloud sixtynine meant nothing except a hard and sharp landing in an unforgiving world of concrete and steel.

  A face soft-focused in the dark as I returned.

  “Bob, how’s it hingin’?”

  “Trick. Been a while. They not sent you back to Jockland yet?”

  “Never happen. They’ve got lookouts on the border. So what’s going down lads?”

  “Nothing much. You guys?”

  “Nothing much. Bit of a stooshie up Denmark Street earlier. The club got popped, big style raid, like something out Hill Street Blues. Guns and tough poses, abseiling SWAT teams, the works. I kept looking for James Bond to leap off the opposite roof and crash through a window.”

  “That explains the Old Bill up that end of town then. We were thinking there’d been some kind of firefight. We saw a lot of plod and some scene of crime guys carrying what looked like a couple of bagged AKs. Still, life goes on. You looking for Charlie?”

  “Not tonight. Don’t want to waste this buzz. Not been this mellow for yonks. Don’t want to chase it in case I kill it.”

  Don shook his head slowly. He didn’t rate Hoxton Bob or his gear. Wouldn’t do business with the man or his mob.

  “Your loss guys.” Bob stated matter of factly. “Your mate Shaun’s upstairs.”

  “Yeah? Never saw him come in. Who’s he with?”

  “That other mad Manc, you know, the dodgy geezer.”

  I caught the grin on Don’s face and laughed, “Which one. All his mates are dodgy Manc geezers. Never mind, I’ll catch him later. My legs aren’t too connected to my brain at the mo’. Kriis bought any powder tonight?”  

“He’s not bought any gear off me for a couple of months. I think he’s doing a stack of crack these days. Shame. The Aussie wanker’s loaded. I could do with a taste of that. See you around.” He headed upstairs.