...She looked at him with a look of slightly bored scorn, as though she'd seen a hundred fat drinkers do the same thing before. A slow, yellow toothed smirk spread across his face as he eyed her, the anticipation of a reaction glittering in his eyes.
The microphone on the karaoke stage crackles as the m.c. takes it and begins to welcome everyone in his side-show-euphoria heavy voice. This is the most exciting night of your life. ever. The distorted wailings of the music begin to boom from the buzzing speakers as he clears his throat to the deep reggae bass of 'red red wine'. That throbbing line bouncing off the walls as i make my way to the toilet, pushing through the heaving crowd. The intermittant chatter of groups of women interrupted by a deep masculine explosion of laughter at some unheard anecdote. The door swings open as i go to touch it causing me to double take slightly as a cluster of women shriek through the narrow opening and forge their way back to bar, some clutching bottles in red taloned fingers, the chink of their rings on the glass neck a barely audible tinkle.
There is the high, breathless whine of a hand dryer as i go in and the sweet smell of spilt alcopops and not yet dispersed purfume that hangs in a fuzz over the sink. Inside the cubicle the thin partitions vibrate to the plunks of the bass and the m.c.s voice comes through the walls, a cotton wool blur of sound. The bass is hypnotizing as i read the smattering of graffitti that daubs the partition walls and the door, its lock on only two screws. These are the grown-up sagas of the kids who scrawl on the walls of the tower block. This biro scratched philosophy that runs by my eyes like the pointless ramblings of problem page angst; contempory prose of the disaffected and misunderstood. And for all the change in scenery the message still remains. Yes, T.L. is still a slag!
The door opens as i sit in my cubicle bringing with it a burst of bass and a shriek of bridge from the m.c.. The click of a lighter and the fast-talking bitchiness of a woman who has seen a rival and is prickling with jealousy. Their spite-tipped accusations continue to fire from them like bullets, bequeathed to those they despise. A glance as i emerge then hushed voices, the murmer of retaliation and then to the smeared mirrors as i exit, hands still damp from the sink with the cigarette butt pirouetting towards the plughole.
Back into the bar. The strains of 'I Who Have Nothing' and there he is. I knew he'd be here, with dusty-jacketed triumph he takes to the stage.