A few splintered images.
A dance floor in the Amnesia nightclub on Ibiza, an island off the coast of Spain. Girls with glitter on their faces. Sweaty t-shirts as you squeeze your way from bar to podium. Smiles and high-fives. A crowd juiced up on house music and ecstasy.
In a basement room in Marylebone in London I sit slumped in a plastic chair, the kind you get in schools. Around me, a throng of men and women, some old, some young, some rich, some poor. All are straining forward to hear the speaker, a guy in his sixties, an actor, quite well-known, telling the story of how he nearly lost his liberty. sanity and life to the demon drink, and how it was only through hitting rock bottom and discovering a power greater than himself that he was able to turn things around.
On a battered old couch in a nightclub at the end of the world (actually in Berlin) the girl and I smoke shisha and watch as another girl gets fucked until she squirts, and the gentleman next to us carves out a fat line of cocaine to snort. He acts with studied disinterest.
A trio of dissolute memories. There are many more. Like the time we all stood in Trafalgar Sq and watched the Pet Shop Boys perform a specially-composed electronic soundtrack to the film Battleship Potemkin
