Now that's a comedown...

It was in the terribly wonderful very early hours of the morning. About the time that the crisp pre-dawn chill thinks about settling. I was loitering between the two white canvas tents at Inqui, having finished saying hello to all the beautiful people and becoming deeply suspicious that my drugs were due to kick in any moment. When I heard the chorus of a horribly bouncy hip hop God-song.

What possessed the DJ responsible to play such inescapable poppy pseudo-religious shite at a party run by, for, and packed with the cream of Sydney’s kink and queer community is beyond me entirely. And if my suspicions about my drug status was correct, and I was to peak when listening to this song, it could get very very ugly for me indeed.

So I darted away, or attempted to, considering the crowd, my precarious leather soled vintage shoes, and the unavoidable greetings from drug-fucked acquaintances lurching out at me from corners.
I found myself a smoky sweaty corner of a distant dancefloor, with music I couldn’t name and without any discernable lyrics. And I danced and danced and danced away any memory of my close shave with any rapping jesus-homie-girls.

Cut to later the next day, much later the next day, as I’ve found my way into civilian clothing of some description and half tamed my hair and left the half-light of my little house for the sunshine of a now forgotten errand down the street.
And what song do I find myself humming under my breath.

'Fuck' I think.
'Holy-mary-mother-of-god they’ve won'.