No Particular Saturday Night Symposium...


1. No Particular Saturday Night Symposium...

No Particular Saturday Night Symposium In A City That May Or May Not Be Called Leeds


Standing on the entrance

watchin' the entranced

pay 20-quid a-head

t' give life


so the' don't feel

quite dead.


With the 'ordes

all gone inside,

ma fellow doorman, Big Ioan

from Bucharest, asks mi


am wearing a stab-vest – “cos we don't

get blacks

in here.”, he sez,

not even in jest.


Am disgusted

but decide

not t' openly wear

my unprejudiced pride.

“Gunna go see if all's well inside.”,

I say instead

an' 'e just nods

'is stolid head.

Through the doors

an' the lights

a-flashing, bass-line banging

rattling rib-cages


club-goers vent pent-up

rages. They call this hypnotic

transient melodic

but it sounds like

dog shit, t' me. A wiley pill-popper

wiv a weasely slink

tries t' chew

off 'is lip

before shoutin' in 'is friend's ear

that 'e needs t'

stick 'is dick

“in some slag.”. Another lad

wiv vexed eyes

snorts a piled up line

off the end

of a key

to a door

that will stay locked


they mute the inner-self

wiv this shite.


Then red an' green strobes


cut through the 'aze


as a half-naked ket'-head


an' smashes 'er face

off the

dance floor.

Am surely destined for more.

She's bound for a Joe-Baxi back-seat

as she slurs up

to 'er best-mate,

“Does ma make-up look alreet?”

“Yeah, it's still neat”, she replies

as she drags 'er to 'er feet,

licks 'er thumb

an' wipes 'er eyes.

Might well 'ave slipped

on some of 'er own sweat, I imagine –

as ma soft heart beats – it's drip-





makin' it wet under-feet.


The gurnin' competition's over

an' as the music


the hardcore ones,

still standin', realise

an' scream out

in a drink an' drug-enhanced


at the ceasing of that last,


'proper tune'.


I guess it's back t' life,

back t' reality.

I've been 'ere all night – thanks for joining mi.


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