Have you ever seen one of those old disco documentaries that are on BBC4 sometimes? They’re fucking amazing. They’re one of those rare things that make me wanna be alive in a time that isn’t now, a more innocent time before homophobic hicks cottoned on to what a dancefloor was, before Rohypnol, badly cut cocaine, small-town DJs playing chart trance to hen night partiers, knife checks, AIDS and J Devil. But since Thomas Edison first linked two turntables together at Studio 54, dancefloors and the people that populate them have spent 40 years getting worse.
It’s probably about time we made some dancefloor sins die forever.
Unless you’ve been living in Greece for the last few years (where they love a fag and quite frankly have more important things to worry about), you’ll have noticed that gas-based bodily emissions have become a dancefloor pandemic in the post-smoking ban era. Once upon a time, the stench was overpowered by the not-quite-as-foul odour of stale B&H. But now clubs are so thick with the fug of beer burps and drug farts that you can tangibly feel the shit and bile particles leaking into your mouth whenever you open it to order more booze (ironic) or chirpse someone.
At Plan B or Plastic People, it sort of makes sense (dubstep is played in clubs, most dubstep sounds like farts), but I do wonder if this is a problem at those Ibiza superdomes where you need 400 Euros, a boat and a white linen shirt to get in? Or do Pacha pump in the scent of rare orchids and the captured musk of some boyish eunuch to disguise all the guffing and belching? As I’m not likely to be hired as a shot girl in San Antonio any time soon, you’ll have to send me your answers on a postcard, please.
We all know who he is and we all hope he ODs.
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