Eat Your End of an Era Continued (3/3) By Joe Hakim

1/3, 2/3, 3/3

I flicked through the channels looking for a chat show or a cooking show or some shit, but it was the same thing on every channel; footage of a plane flying into a building. I put the book down, turned the stereo off and then I turned the TV up. I watched it for a while, and then there was a knock at the door. It was my mother. Mum, you've gotta come and see this, I said. We watched the news, and then she took my washing. I watched the pictures of the jumbos flying into the World Trade Centre over and over again. At one point, one of my mates rang. It's all fuckin' happenin', he said. Nostradamus was right man, this is it, the beginning of the end. The apocalypse is upon us dude… And then it dawned on me. I didn't want to go out and take pills and dance anymore. I just wanted to get pissed.

I'm given an orange VIP band to put around my wrist, but it doesn't entitle me to anything. Rab and Caligula head straight to the toilets and I go to the bar with my mate. These nights don't attract the same amount of people as they used to. I'm drunk as fuck; everyone else is on pills. My mate soaks it all in and psyches himself up for his set. Rab and Caligula come over and gibber incoherently before heading for the dance floor.

Seems a bit quiet, I say, shouting to be heard above the banging music. Yeah, I know, my mate says. It's kinda dyin' out, I think. You'll always have the faithful, the hardcore, but people aren't into it as much anymore. It's not like it was a couple of years ago, when you'd get the townies coming to shit like this as well. They go where the birds are, and the birds are all round town.

We live in a drinking culture now. Two-for-one offers, all-you-can-drink for twenty quid, cut-price cocktails, pints and flavoured vodka. It's all about getting smashed, and thanks to the Licensing Act 2003, you can listen to manufactured chart shit in a pub until early the early hours of the morning, and then have a fight, a fuck or a fry up afterwards.

There are no scenes anymore. Things like style and music have become secondary to the aim of getting completely and utterly smashed out of your face on alcohol.

We make our way through into the room where my mate's playing. I find a space at the bar and order a Bud and a couple of Aftershocks. The girl seems to be pleased to be serving someone. Everyone else is just buying water and then refilling it in the toilet. I keep the bar staff busy.

I look around the room. Some girls are scrapping over a comatose kid in the corner. A couple of guys who look like they are in their mid thirties are dancing like robots. They have spiky hair and they wear too tight t-shirts and baggy jeans. They look like refugees from an old school rave. I almost expect them to break out the glow-sticks and whistles, but they don't.

I spot Rab and Caligula. Caligula is slowly collapsing against a wall, and Rab's trying to look cool as he dances, but he doesn't.

My mate gets on the decks, and from his first record he makes it clear that he's going to rock it. He raises his hand and some of the people on the dance floor cheer. I raise my glass, down it, and then signal to one of the bar staff to pour me another.

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