I’m currently at the Norman B, making a few observations.
Firstly, looking at how people are talking with each other, there seems to be this invisible boundary when you have a drink in your hand. I guess we feel safe as long as there’s glass between us.
I look to the dancefloor for some insights…
I look upon the dance floor at people who are only half drunk. They look timid and their facial expressions tell me they need to be drunk to enjoy themselves. They are dancing like they were put on the dancefloor by someone who has a giant mouse and they have clicked and dragged them on there in a SIMS game.
They glance awkwardly at each other until one of them has the courage to do some sort of novelty dance move. I watch. WOW!! What is that you are doing with your arms? That is revolutionary! it’s some sort of…. oh yeah..how awesome – its a sprinkler in dance form. Oh…you have another one? so you are putting things in an imaginary basket as you are running on the spot.. oh yeah…a shopping trolley. How creative, I’ve never seen that before!!
The Pussycat Dolls classic comes on. ‘Don’t cha wish your girlfriend was hot like me, don’t cha wish your girlfriend was a freak like me, don’t cha…’ A girl that weighs about 100 kgs is jumping around punching the air like she is doing aerobics. The irony of pop music astounds me.
Ah 10pm arrives. The dull presence of highly boozed people spread this blanket of embarrassing carelessness into the atmosphere. Everything seems to be shrouded in a familiar Saturday night haziness. 10pm. Its the time when I see a grown man sing a madonna song on the top of his lungs in the middle of Norman B dance floor, is absolutely acceptable. Imagine if you followed this person around and filmed everything they did on any given night. Then took that list to them and said ‘Today, you and me are going to do everything on this list, sober, in broad daylight.’
Its about 12. I have had enough. I jump back on my high horse and go home, to bed.
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