|How Does It Feel To Be Loathed?
||[Sep. 6th, 2004|03:38 pm]
Titanic. Today's youth have no medium, or even desire, to express themselves; less still any coherent thoughts or emotions they could express in the first place. They are contended to graze on the cud, punch the clock, and concuss themselves on stimulants when at leisure, so that they will never be troubled by a single thought. For the future if this country, our government need to tackle binge drinking.Literature is dead. The visual arts are dead. Pop music is in its final death rattle, only a few hardy souls like Franz Ferdinand's Alex Castrato and Luxembourg's David Shire still bothering to bail water out of the |
This weekend, in a special invetsigative report, The Noble Sausage posed as a young, denim-clad, grinning cretin in order to infiltrate a group of typical London youths. I am sure the results will shock my readership just as much as they disgusted me. Would these youths make any diversions from the pursuit of pleasure, any attempts to accomodate art or culture in their evening out, or would it be as vulgar and direct as a tube journey, changing at Gratification Broadway and terminating at Nausea Central?
I got my answer immediately, as we met in some shed or other on the riverbank, where an earnest old man with a WWI moustache was attempting to serenade the posing cognoscenti. Nobody there paid the slightest attention to his senile wheezings. Like pack animals, they were too busy preening themselves, scrutinizing each other's wardrobes and looking down their noses at everything around them. Before long, my party decamped to something called Wetherspoon. I have never seen such revolting decadence and I never wish to again in my life. A vile, rat-infested drinking den, with beggars and theives sleeping face down in the sawdust. These places are the new Sodom and Gomorrah, and I am sure they do more to lead or youth astray than all Cable TV channels combined. A party of five can hunch round a table and purchase enough spirits to flood the entire city for less than a shilling a head. A pint of vodka for tuppence, a pitcher for fivepence. One dreads to think what poisonous ingredients make up these dirt-cheap mixtures. I attempted to restrain myself, sipping on a whisky and munching homemade sandwiches, but my companions made gluttons of themselves, drinking until oblivion and beyond. Some purchased dinner, although most did not bother, and when the microwaved gruel arrived at our table I could understand why.
We rounded off the evening by crawling fifty yards down the high street to a discotheque. The posters promised soul and disco, but the music was banal and for some reason Luxembourg's excellent new single, 'Readers' Wives', was nowhere to be heard. I accosted the DJ to ask if I had missed it, as surely no soul playlist could be complete without it, but he laughed in my face. I left shortly after midnight, his cruel mockery ringing in my ears as loudly as his candyfloss sixties pop. None of my 'friends' even noticed my departure, all making exhibits of themselves whether incoherently flailing on the dancefloor, sobbing hysterically in a darkened corner or chewing the face off a total stranger. On the long and lonely march back to Tooting, I resolved never to have anything to do with them as long as I live--