2001-08-05 - 5:51 p.m.

�I am the son, and the heir�of a shyness that is criminally vulgar. I am the son and heir. Of�nothing in particular.�

We shouldn�t really be having 80�s club nights until later this decade, but nostalgia happens so fast these days (late 90�s revival, anyone?) and the music, in pop terms, completely towered over the egregious muck that has the audacity to litter the charts these days. Name me one decent single released in the last 6 years. Go on. I bet you can�t. Anyway, cutting an alcohol-fuelled rug on the dancefloor last night at just such an occasion, it occurred to me that these were the times when the charts were interesting. Duran (please bow your heads in respect) Duran nestling in the warm cleft between, say, Soft Cell, Prince and The Smiths. Diversity. Remember that? I�m going to sound like a feeble minded old crone, but now it�s just wanky homogenised pap � creatively there�s no difference between, say N Sync, Travis and Eminem. You may think there is, but I�m telling you�there�s not. Mind you, people did walk round looking like extras from a restoration comedy set in regency-era France, so we can be thankful for some changes.

�There�s a club if you�d like to go. You could meet somebody who really loves you. So you go and you stand on your own. And you leave on your own. And you go home and you cry and you want to die.�

So I�m sipping a patently watered down cocktail � the kind where the menu is no more than an interesting diversion, because the Long Island Iced Teas taste like the Tequila Sunrises taste like the Screaming Anal Sex Cum Shots or whatever the �cheeky� named one�s called, and they all taste like fruit juice, water and vodka. But buying a beer involves calling an independent financial adviser, so it�s kind of unavoidable. I�m approached by a very good looking girl with no obvious signs of mental/visual impairment and dragged, with a distinct lack of kicking and screaming, onto the dancefloor. OK. This is a new one. But. You know. Don�t knock it �til you�ve tried it. �How Soon is Now?� is playing, and she is going MENTAL. People were diving for cover. And I�m kind of embarrassed, but fear any sudden movements could be seen in an encouraging light. So the song ends and she�s staggering about and she lurches to the side of the floor, me trying to hold her up, and suddenly I�m in sole charge of a semi-conscious girl. Erm, this isn�t what I ordered. I�m asking her where her friends are and they�ve all gone (or been mown down on the dancefloor) and now she�s being sick on herself and I�m trying to keep her from passing out, and looking around like someone in need of immediate help with something that IS NOT HIS PROBLEM. I mean, I�m sympathetic and all, but I was in this relationship for the slinky moves and eye candy, not vomit coordination and remedial resuscitation. A female bouncer kindly takes her to the recovery room, but not before several �Why don�t you take better care of your girlfriend� stares from passing punters.

All my friends subsequently paired off, and I got the night bus home, and 2 Kosovan refugees kept cracking nuts in their mouths and throwing the shells at my head. What a tremendously fulfilling evening that was.

�I am human and I need to be lo-o-ved. Just like anybody else does.�

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