TARQUIN’S LAMENT

Another short piece from young writer Kendal Atcliffe, expect great things.

- - -

“Hi, I’m Danika! Can I see your pass? Here, you’ll need these! In you go!”

“Hi, I’m Danika! Can I see your pass? Here, you’ll need these! In you go!” “Hi, I’m Danika! Can I see your pass? Here, you’ll need these! In you go!” “Hi, I’m Danika! Can I see your pass? Here, you’ll need these! In you go!” “Hi, I’m Danika! Can I see your pass? Here, you’ll need these! In you go!”

If that woman smiles any harder, the muscles in her neck are going to snap.

Eventually, she’s settled into a rhythm. Not just any rhythm, God no; the rhythm of If I Can’t, by 50 Cent, which to the audience in question (which features the daughter of an 80s rockstar, three footballers of varying international relevance, minor royalty, a pair of artificially inflated breasts who has recently had a divorce and the director of the piece-of-shit film I just sat through) is an instant classic. A loud “woo” sounds through the teeming mass of their entourages, digital cameras play their pre-recorded shutter sounds, and women spray-tanned to within an inch of a Satsuma push silicone body parts against inflated egos on the large space laughably called a dancefloor.

VIP-hop, they call it. Hiphop so ubiquitous, so mainstream, so fucking soul-rapingly awful that it penetrates the bullshit bubble around these creatures and to it they dance. Music so bland and uninspired – music that betrays the roots of hiphop so comprehensively – that it forms the perfect musical accompaniment to the utter death of dignity. They are photographed as they enter, date on arm; they are photographed as they meet a lump of meat alternative to the one with whom they entered; they are photographed exchanging saliva with the second lump of meat; they are photographed as they leave.

The next morning, when I’m on the train home, I read the same pages you do in whichever free newspaper ends up in front of my tired little eyeballs, about their dalliances. I can tell you now, the newspaper account is usually 100% accurate. How do I know? Oh, I sell them cocaine. People will tell you anything if you sell them cocaine. They’ll think you want to hear every detail of their night, if you sell them cocaine.

Do you have any idea how much of a twat you sound on cocaine? Yes, you, the one at the back. Reading this. You’re a twat. You have too much money. Spend it on something. Buy a subscription to “the Economist”. Get a library card. I don’t know. Learn something.

I am one of very few people willing to admit that I make decent enough money and have little need of your custom, but then, I have always suspected that to be the reason I am not in prison. Also, the accent helps. When you sound like a barrister, the police are kind to you. I would also say that bribery helps. People in Britain never realise how far you can get, with bribes. They seem to think it’s a sordid little thing for Italians and the Chinese. That’s a bit racist, don’t you think? Timothy 6:10 doesn’t come with a footnote saying “…but not if you’re from Blighty”.

This little chain of thought runs thin; Danika’s constant bubbling drone wears at me, but I know I must keep to my spot adjacent to the entrance, and never risk movement. If I move, I demonstrate need, and they come to me because of the crippling atmosphere of indifference. I’d leave, but I do have to pay rent. Not like that lucky little prick, Irwin.

My name? Good grief, have you listened to a very word of what I just said? Danika, dearest. We’ve another one begging for the pavement.

It’s a shame; I was getting to like you.