The Sound of Silence
Ah, the joys of dance. The sweet smell of social interaction hangs in the air; the sound of a hundred deaf voices singing at which ever pitch and volume they feel appropriate; the lukewarm wonderment of a six pound pint in your hand. This my friends, is what it's all about, the culmination of a generation shaped by war, ignorance, poo-litical leadership, and a distinct lack of any possible change in the near future, getting their mother-fuckin' groove on and shakin' that booty 'til it falls the fuck off.
This is... Silent Disco.
Dancing, since the times of our fore-fathers, has been used not only for entertainment and reproductive purposes (horizontal shuffle), but also as a way of communicating. I note with some enthusiasm as I look around the Social Melting Pot of Excitement, or dance floor as it is more commonly know, that this still holds true today. A female approaches the male of the species, both amazed they've been let out of their cages for the night and a break in the steady diet of fish heads has ceased, for the time being at least. She shakes her hips side to side, as if to say “hey, my name's Sarah, couldn't help but spot you from across the room, I was wondering your thoughts on ice-cream, I know it's a little cold this time of year, but I'm just such a huge fan I had to know.”
In a rather witty reply he starts violently thrusting against her backside arms desperately thrown out in front of him, and then quickly pulled back by his sides, in an obvious answer of “I like mine with chocolate sprinkles”.
These cockle-warming stories of half-witted enjoyment are everywhere. On the corner of the dais I spy a group who have obviously got into the parent's make up and smeared it about their face and hands, reminding me that finger painting need not be limited only to those 4 and under. In the beer garden two friends desperately try to impress upon the other how inebriated they are, that they alone know the true extent to which the beer has affected them. The level of caring in that friendship is unfathomable, because to be honest every time I'm drunk, my mates couldn't give a damn.
Inside, both channels of the disco are pumping harder than a gym junkie on speed, wandering around the room I note though that everyone, bar two crazy dancers, are listening to channel one. Being the gooey-centred human I am, I switch to two, not wanting the second dj to be disheartened by lack of coverage. Far from it, this dj is having the time of his life. “It may be the cocaine, or it may be the ecstasy, or it may be the beer but my dick is in love with all of you so much right now!” he blares into my headphones. It may be those things mate, but reckon it's just because you're a fuckin' lovely human being, who I'd really enjoy taking out for ice-cream some time.