Fisticuffs in the upper pension room

The raucous chatter floats like mist amongst the queue, oozing from one clique to the next, the potential audience which is their true aim. Globules of chat are sprayed around, with their emanator hoping that someone will take fancy to it, instead of being disgusted by such disregard for comfort zones. Outside, queuing, there is an acute awareness that they have not made it yet. The uniformed guard, meant to put them at ease, only confirms their otherness, doling out directions as if explaining to a child the correct manner to leave the table when asking for the toilet. This is ironic (unlike the rest of the weekend) as this is the one thing that the newcomers cannot do – leave the table for the toilet. Even the old-hands don’t get that privilege.

The pension room is stuffed with farts, old and new, but all displaying the creak of old leather, the wizened features of people carved by the winds of their profession. A senile fart mumbles her way into the group, explains the greatest crime of humanity is to leave a person on their own in the room (she ignores my companion who I was happily conversing to) before passing us on to two pompous twits. They reminded me of Dahl so much; I was amazed that caricatures could come to life. Everything was "marvellous" and the disdain felt for people not of a kind was palpable. We chatted about knots, it seemed we had lived in the same area. Even this was not enough to surpass the gulf between us: she had lived in one of "the big ones". I chatted to the senior about why all this was necessary, and civilisation was the basis of his reply. England was more civilised than the rest, and the bar more than anywhere else. I continue the march on into this supposed civilisation, and dread the day when I arrive.

Front 242 - Body To Body (2Trax) (from Geography LP limited edition bonus CD)