I was far too tired to be there. Yet again, I’d had fuck all sleep. I’d spent Friday night with some friends in Clapham, and slept on their lumpy sofa. Following the king of all fried breakfasts, we spent most of the day either in the pub or back at their flat smoking spliffs, and somehow someone persuaded me that meeting up with some other mates and going to a club in Brixton was a good idea. I had been labouring under the misapprehension that enough vodka and Red Bull would do the trick, but now I felt slightly queasy from all the caffeine, and the vodka hadn’t touched me yet. I still had no energy, but now my wallet was empty. I dragged myself onto the dancefloor, and began to lurch about a bit, transferring my weight from one foot to the other, hoping that the music would take me, and I would forget how tired I felt. I tried to throw myself into dancing, but it was no good. My legs were unable to keep up with the pace my brain was setting for them. I went back to the bar and nodded my head for a while, trying not to look out of place. Each boom of the bass rattled my ribs but it failed to stir me. I couldn’t even get any drugs, because I’d spent so much on Red Bull. Everywhere I looked, all I could see were stereotypes. White b-boy students in baggy jeans with stupid hats and ludicrous futuristic eyewear. Beer boys in Ben Sherman. Council estate ravers in Kappa and Ellesse, dilated pupils bugging away inside hollow pasty faces. A gaggle of under age girls wearing too much makeup. Black guys in Moschino with short tidy dreads, affecting Jamaican accents as they dealt pills with blatant subtlety in dark corners, giving the occasional nod to security. Hangers-on and wannabes following the DJ through the guest list queue. They were all playing their parts, following the roles they’d been assigned. And somewhere in there was a role for me. Fucked if I knew what it was, though. Every so often a good bass line would kick in, and I’d drag myself through the crowd to find my friends on the dance floor. They were full of energy, all hands in the air and smiling faces. With my return, they became aware that I had been absent, and questions were asked. I didn’t want to bring them down, so I mumbled something vague about chilling out, which seemed to satisfy them. Somebody came over and offered me a pill, but I couldn’t afford it. I danced for a few minutes, the beat getting inside my head, inducing me to throw myself around like an idiot, but I couldn’t keep up the pace for long. Gradually my movements subsided into the odd nod of the head, and perhaps the occasional twitch from my shoulders or hips. I surveyed the scene, and immediately became paranoid that the guys dancing behind me were taking the piss out of me. I really hoped I didn’t look like that when I went for it. As I realised that they weren’t laughing cynically, but smiling euphorically, it became clear that they were just getting into it. Fucking hell, what a bunch of goons we must look. No worse, though, than someone doing the twist, or pogoing, or giving peace signs or any of the things that young people have done at any other point in history. Maybe that’s what being young is about; not being afraid of looking like a twat. I headed for the gents. In spite of the smell, the toilets were something of a safe haven. The music was less domineering out here, and the brighter lights and the presence of mirrors were forcing me to get my head on a bit. I gratefully took the chance to splash cold water on my face, but it was only a temporary measure. I couldn’t stay there long, for fear of looking like a weirdo. I found my way to the back bar and leaned against the window by the fire exit. I had found where the other casualties were gathered, some sat in supportive couples or groups on the steps, others wearing a lost expression, wandering around shell-shocked. The glass was cold, and the condensation came through my shirt. The cool of the outside world felt magical, and I wished I was fucked enough to press my face against the glass without worrying about looking like a freak. I wanted to go home, but the others were loving it, and I didn’t want to stop their night. I half wanted them to come out and see if I was OK, but I knew how I’d feel if one of my mates was dragging me down by having some pointless whitey. I was quite happy playing the martyr, and I wasn’t going to pay for a cab home on my own. I looked at my watch again. It wasn’t even one o’clock, and I knew that they would all be staying until the end. I couldn’t have felt much lower. I wished that I could be more healthy, more attractive, more confident, richer, all the rest of that bullshit. I knew that all of that came together, and it was like a spiral, and it was all a matter of positive thinking, but I just couldn’t see where a boost was likely to come from. All of a sudden, I was having a significant life crisis in this scummy club. I had to get out of there. The notion came to me that I had to walk home. I had no idea how far it was, how long it would take, what kind of dodgy areas it would take me through in the middle of the night, but I was going to walk home, from Brixton to Bow. I knew that there were night buses, but the notion had lodged itself in my mind, and wasn’t going to be denied. I needed to get my head straight, do some thinking. Some vague idea of purity and honesty had blocked the flow of my thoughts. Somehow I’d managed to set myself a mission, a quest to prove myself as a man. I collected my coat, said some summary goodbyes, and started walking.
The corollary of constant change is ignorance. … we computer experts barely know what we are doing. We function well in a sea of unknowns. Our experience has prepared us to deal with confusion. A programmer who denies this is probably lying, or else is densely unaware of himself.
Close To The Machine