While on the Dance - by Robert Henry Jackman

Oh, what is this strange sight before me?

This witching-hour economy… this carnival of debauchery…

Where Primark queens bellow greetings from limousines,

Swigging back cheap champagne – the stuff that tastes faintly Listerine,

And across the road, hunger-stricken drunks lunch on imitation fried chicken,

Spewing out their life story to anyone who’ll listen,

While drunken soulmates try swapping numbers, but inevitably stumble – oh, it can be quiet a scene,

‘Cos swapping thirteen digits can be such a bitch after you’ve downed 24 WKDs…

And at the cash machines, silly students make flippant, triple-figure withdrawals,

Not thinking for a moment, about their student loan, and how they’ll explain to mummy that they spent it all,

What is this strange place where accidental eye contact is received as aggression?

And where bellowing out across a crowded road passes as healthy conversation?…

Oh, what is this strange place before me?

This battle against sobriety… this riotous assembly…

Where inside the clubs, bodies bob to the libidinous throb of Fiddy… Akon… P. Diddy and ‘Snoop Dogg’

Where nervous sort stand on the edge of the floor, and potter with indecision,

Watching the girl next door, as she bumps and grinds, like a bad pole-dancing audition…

At every bar queue sweaty mobs reaching out for fluorescent alcopops,

Where trendy types prefer to overdose on diet-friendly, low-sugar Bacardi Breezers,

Strutting across the dancefloor like a Paralympic Night Fever,

Where size-10 barmaids fight off sleazy propositions,

From Norwich Union types who’ve drowned their inhibitions,

Where smokers and cokeheads congregate behind locked toilet cubicles,

Sharing their love for the devils’ dandruff…. *snort*…yeah, it’s beautiful,

The chaos! The carnage! The pandemonium! The palava!

Prince of Wales road – where your night could end in a fight – or projectile vomit disaster,

Imagine a crowded Wetherespoons… now imagine it in Gava,

Imagine what the First World War would’ve been like if everyone was plastered,

This… is binge Britain.

Welcome… to binge Britain,

This is what the Daily Mail write editorials about,

This is what the Arctic Monkeys tell stories about,

It’s a place where you drink just to forget the sights you’ve seen,

You drink to forget it all – the slags, the lads and the terrible dance routines…

And when I wake my brain pulses with pain,

I whisper promises to myself never to do it again,

I lay there… fantasizing about a glass of icy water,

Not sure whether this is a hangover… or post-traumatic stress disorder.

If you liked this beautifully pretentious poetry from a 21 year old man of the world critic without a degree, he's reciting thusly:

http://www.norwichartscentre.co.uk/content/view/1860/40/