I can hear it now, the low rhythmic throb of the music that drifts through these narrow passages like the drumroll of anticipation for the night ahead. A cackle of laughter abruptly enters the noise of the night as two women stagger through the mist, bent onto each other legs splaying about as they walk on wobbling heels, thighs tied together with skirts that constrict their mottled, dimpled flesh and betray the poorly hidden age of these creatures. A snippet of conversation about who was going to drink most tonight then clamp their tattooed arms round some man who would only go along with it because it was there. These will be the ones tonight up there black bra, lace teased above the poorly sewn plunge in their cheap synthetic tops, gold chains swinging, drunkenly screaching something like 'i will survive' pout firmly in place with a 'i know, i've been there' look on their strangely sad faces. Something behind the make-up and bravado giving it all away. they always sing just that bit too hard and with that uneasy edge of realism to the words that suddenly makes you feel deeply uncomfortable.