Spin the black circle

Let’s say you suffer from this obscure malady, where you can’t survive on anything except, oh, mineral water. Let’s also say that there’s only one place, close to where you live, were you can get your hands on mineral water. So, you visit this place pretty regularly, yes? I mean, you would, wouldn’t you, Elixir of Life and all that?

Let’s say, every now and then, along come some twits, who whine, stamp their feet, and generally create a scene, because they don’t want mineral water to be served AT ALL. They’d rather have, say, Moët & Chandon, Grand Vintage.

Why? It’s not because they appreciate good champagne. In fact, I bet every hair on my beard, that, if you served these nincompoops a glass of horse-piss with soda bubbles in, they’d be convinced it was avant garde bubbly.

No. They want champagne because it’s “kewl”. It’s the “in thing”. It’s what you should be drinking when you’re out on a Friday night, with a fat wad of cash or plastic in your hip pocket. It’s what you should ask for when your over-dressed, room temperature IQ, girlfriend slobbers in your ear, “Bayyybeee. I wanna pah-ty, baybeee”. It’s what you order for when you don’t give a fuck that a bunch of people around you are dying because YOU are depriving them of their life-giving l’eau minérale.

Now, picture this little tableau in terms of music. You land up at one of 3 establishments in this fair city of ours, that plays good rock on a daily basis. You see hordes of people hoisting their beer mugs and singing along to AC/DC and Steppenwolf. Your babe doesn’t like this. She wants Akon. What do you do? You walk up to the DJ and demand that the music be changed. The DJ tells you to take a hike. You cook up excuses like, “It’s my girlfriend’s birthday”, “We’ve waited so long. Now that we’re going, the least you can do is…”, and “It’s my friend’s birthday. He’s asking for it…”

Doesn’t work? You go complain to the club manager, who tells you to fuck off. You pull out your shoe phone and start dropping names. Manager gives in and tells the DJ to switch to hip hop. 70 other rock lovers in the club curse the DJ for the rest of his life.

Net result: You’ve just proved that it takes one solitary arsehole to kill a great evening.

Watch out, my lovelies. One of these days Crowley’s going to blow the dust off his chainsaw.