top of page
  • Writer's picturen0mad


Why he chose this place I can’t imagine. Down some fowl back street in the East End. Bouncer on the door looking ominous. He hasn’t thought about me at all. Not for one moment. Not thought about the dirty streets and my shoes. Not about my safety. Not thinking about food, what will we eat for heaven’s sake.

“Hi, John? How are you?”

He says he’s fine but I don’t believe him for a moment. He doesn’t look well. Pastey, like a ghoul, only half here in this reality. If he wasn’t a friend of Rachel’s I would have given up already. Would have walked away without a second thought. She sees something in him and thinks we might get on. He leads me through the bar, past a guy sitting on a little stool by a door and down some sticky steps to a basement. We join a crowd of perhaps twenty people in the smokey, steamy space, cut through by pulsing strobe lighting. He buys me a drink and then the low beat begins, very low at first and then building, building, this is good. Really good. The DJ at the front with his headphones half on looks like he’s in a trance. He’s gone beyond this room, he’s with the gods. Pulling music from the very earth and channelling it through two speakers the size of doors. I can’t stop myself. My body starts swaying to the music. Swaying along and before I know it, I realise I’m actually enjoying this. This is my flow, my mojo, my beat, ...I’m home.

She’s late. I knew she would be. That bloody Rachel. I told her if she’s flakey I’m not interested. But Rachel insisted. ‘You’ll love her’ she’d said, ‘She’s really cool. Much cooler than she looks.’ Finally, I can see her treading carefully in her fine shoes as she makes her way down the alley. She’s so late we’re in danger of missing the start. This guy is only in London for one night, if I miss it god knows when he’ll be back, if ever. I should probably make more of an effort but she’s so late there’s no time. We need to get in and get a drink fast. I almost march her through the bar. She’s so out of place, dressed for a West End club, not the gritty East End dives that I love. Miniskirt and tiny denim jacket, probably thinks the latter makes her all urban. I did warn her, but she clearly didn’t listen. Only focused on what she wants. Poor little rich girl.

But then something strange. She gets it. She feels the music pumping. Pulling her deeper, deeper into the rhythm. Watching her, I see what Rachel meant, I lose my breath. Can’t breathe, can’t think. Just watch her white arms in the strobe lights above her head swaying with the music.

York Uni: To write first person views of one event from two different people's perspective. 15 mins excercise in class.

Recent Posts

See All


bottom of page