# to fade unto our own soft parade via forward surbass operative swain spatial: an ok student nightclub temporal: oh last night blue musical: only love can break your heart by saint etienne quote: a cycle from which one never wants to escape a elf inflicted punishment one's tiny shrunken life tainted and stained with fatally disappointing insights into vastly over rated little thrift store corners of the modem world say an atrocity of committed in the ancient crusts of time wide scale cosmic error in which one accidentally participates a non event which still fatally robs one of space confounded by the burning mysterious light of a neon blue hotel in the middle distance a sedated memory desert where the bleach white sickness of hope deceives by a twilight shadow shore of hallucinogenic thought cores left to bit rot unknown and unloved another slow sad song about love but it's coming out like fate in which called 'big scientists' see ruin in all directions smell signs of the passing of science / the republic everywhere drowning in information based uselessness wherever one looks or hopes or plays all angles trajectories final approach the suffocation of shattered elf reflection within dreams of ongoing existential innocence one can't ever quite claim or reclaim faint transparent silver which vanishes even as one reaches for realty / theory both vaguely and obliquely the whole desperate drawn out notstory of one's accidental vat birth and subsequent slow living suburban deff already retold in all non places at once everywhere that one time we're the one who makes the call sitting alone on our bed after a steaming shower room covered with dirty washing and greasy pizza boxes staring at the far wall watching brown ceiling tiles peel in the heat stereo plays an old mix tape in a dusty corner just then jb says 'urrrgh' we shout 'heyyy' in return we sit until around 19:30 breathing shallow until we can't be bothered anymore we leap up and pick up the phone that's been ringing on and off for an hour our first initial contact along the line to destination whatever is fellow researcher kid massive who says 'wassup' they're just on ir way out they're supposed to be our mate we mean they are kinda but researcher sometimes it sure doesn't feel like it effort shouldn't be a major factor in a friendship they should just pick up the darn lab phone more often - reach out and touch a pal on shoulder say hey how's it goin' we're the last to know and if we don't overhear researchers on campus chatting about what's happening nobody will tell us directly in short playing the dead zone a null space researcher walking alone till dawn through endless grey slate northern rain we swear we've got terminal el hombre invisible syndrome so we call up kid massive and ask them directly - they say we're all going out to this crap nightclub outside of town it's 80s night 'smith night' huh we think hey sounds good we reply (deep southern amiga 500 'demoscene' reference) do they mind if we come along we ask 'they say the more the merrier i guess' though without emotion ignoring the lack of commitment we iron a suitably garish hawaiian shirt stick some bo basher on and we're straight outa dodge the blue room cube however waits for us an infinitely patient ocean trench dwelling night beast that knows we'll be back that sad black hole mouth open and receptive to quiet campus based desperation we meet kid massive at the bus stop into town - they're wearing the exact same shirt as ours deep purple with exotic jungle orchids stitched in brilliant micropore white it's baby sky blue and eight in the evening massive's got ir shades on for better hallway vision we ask who's coming along tonight kid says the usual crowd but we're not part of that particular scene so we don't know who they mean dr. orloff we ask kid says yeah they're coming too the bus stop is bumping fifty students all dressed down and on the pull ready to get drunk out of ir media dulled minds above us the starry biocosmos stares down it's another odd night in deep north of good old old merrie endland group of extreme males next to us exudes a noisy cloud of cheap aftershave and the artificial sink cleanser stench of bo basher another cold clear night in the deep post-industrial north all of us wear a shirt and thin casual cotton trousers thinking we're just too hot in this getup to develop pneumonia our heads form a dense collective forest of slick backed spikes curls waves lit cigarettes in the corners of thin lipped mouths rubbing hands in anticipation of happening social events to come for once we share this blind collective enthusiasm we also want to reach out make contact willingly suffer the sublime subtle joys of mild alcohol poisoning we watch eyes flicker like holo-tv sets automatically trying to get the best reception tuning into scene discovering what's going down ir collective corporate slogan: tonight we've come alive again with the sense of ceaseless directionless forward motion we enjoy the bus drive down into the old town of evening we ask kid to sit at the back of the bus on the top deck because one gets a longer ride kid ignores this foolishness but up the stairs we go five minutes into the journey they say check out the super cute researcher in front with ir beige friendo we note short black hair a red top and small circular tribal tattoo on one beautiful bare shoulder - tough looking we dig it researcher they're with tonight however ooh boy they look positively ready to tee off - head to toe in amazingly beige kas u el clothing they're also wearing ir sunglasses on ir head researcher dr. orloff: nobody real wears ir sunglasses on ir head as the immortal phrase from deep urban endland has it: wearing sunglasses on your head makes you look a right class munt kid massive says loud enough for strangers to hear: hey henry where did you get such beige slacks they're awesome henry: oh these we ordered them special from kleen kutt international kid massive: they do neat kaz-u-el clothing at the right prices henry: yeah we're saving up for a whole beige extreme golfing outfit it's gonna be wild kid massive: one thing though does beige say post ironic modeme or capture an essential something something missing from our current off the shelf lifestyle henry: many researchers dig whole beige look nowadays it reminds them of fashionably retro computer monitor housings and all that exciting techno stuff we can see the cute humalien in front smiling to themselves ir dance partner for the evening isn't happy at all however and turns around in ir seat to give what must be ir attempt at a hard northern glare beige storefront model: oi you taking the urine or what kid massive deadpan: or what bsm: keep your comments to yourself swanson: hey now we've nothing but respect and admiration for fellow university students into beige kid massive: in any case it must be nice being jimmy tarbuck's golfing partner bsm notices ir cool friend is now watching this conversation more closely and responds: you asking for trouble mate all students on the top deck of bus suddenly look around to watch kid massive as though shocked: woah there mister matey no trouble here is there any trouble with you henry swanson sports ir usual blank urban psycho face: no trouble at all beige boy grabs ir friend's arm and marches off downstairs the rare beauty waves to us before disappearing and we blow kisses back we're baffled at ir obvious lack of taste though why not just drop the zero and get with the antiheroes as the manicured brain bubble finally disappears downstairs massive can't help shouting 'fore' and everyone laughs culture reference check for jimmy tarbuck: a once popular super lite family tee vee entertainer from the early nfr 70's era heavily into lame golfing anecdotes and lofi northern seafront style working men's sexism club naffness friend of mine told swanson ir grandmother had an anecdote about good old greasy jimmy apparently a post office worker regularly delivered mail to jim's vast luxury house at the end of a long drive one year after delivering many heavy xmas packages they politely try asking the jimster for a tip hey there mister jim what about a small christmas tip this year jimboy replies: sure - look both ways when crossing the road which goes to show what a greasy stuffed bell jimmy was along with all the other horrible talent celebs from horrible beige 70's tv-land arriving near the nightclub we get off the bus it's starting to gently wreck it down massive says they can't stand the north but ir heart isn't in it the nightclub's thin neon painted cardboard front glares out into the frozen night it tempts us in because it's so lousy it must be good - we're not thinking straight after a whole week of essays and sub projects strolling up to the door we see two tall dim muscle headed bouncers in matching blue tshirts with the club's wack logo on front they look bored yet always ready to randomly blindside students with sucker punches as they've done before yep this place must be a student hangout we go in to pay at the counter a weasel with spiky blond hair and a machine rage tshirt stamps our hand with what looks like a rad warning symbol we hold out our taut baseball arm of muscular internal chinese martial arts and they stamp it it's 21 hours and the club's empty we follow kid to the bar checking out the scene nobody looks as through they'd remotely be interested in two researchers in unironed streetware lot of them sport bare arms with tribal tattoos perhaps a joke to take somewhat seriously since such markings while historically problematic arriving with unchecked colonial baggage are also positively symbolic of deeper wider subcultural movements cultural momentum back toward everything connective and organic we briefly wonder what tribe we're part of before snapping back into our usual urban mode or approach trying to be more determined to have a good night tonight riding a wave of recent useless campus negativity letting it happy wash through us kid tells us a joke about a naked scientist and a two foot length of salami and we hyena laugh researchers stroll around checking out the scene looking for ir mates getting ready for the club to fill up with the constant looming threat of alcohol based excitement and low grade social misadventure we sit at the bar with kid massive looking at a wall screen holo projection an old tape of mods in brighton hey smartly dressed there lads maybe the exact same things went through ir dim heads as ours nothing much at all as the hank says ten minutes later we've lost kid massive they're disappeared maybe they've pulled culture reference check: in endland to pull at a dodgy nightclub means to have successfully hooked up with another researcher it's doubtful though as kid has forgotten to wash ir armpits and tonight we could smell them all way here on bus despite ir attempt at chemical based armpit suppression someone then digs us sharply in the ribs with a finger we spin around with ba gua efficiency ready to confront when we see it's someone we know from our lousy 'sociomedia' course hey what you doing here we ask waiting for godot don't know them is the reply some beauty they know then comes over says hello fancy a drink they ask - yes please says the beauty looks like they've been professionally assembled in an underground biosynth research facility every muscle tight every line spare and streamlined we accidentally catch a look in ir eyes and see hard won life within this 'hey nice to see you would you like a drink routine' happens several times with other researchers all the while one stands there like a spare pillock not being offered anything eventually we place our hand on the researcher's shoulder to get ir attention we say hey sorry to bother you mate what about drink over here aha the music isn't loud but they make like they haven't heard us and blank us out cold; in fact the asshole deliberately shrugs our hand off ir shoulder a sudden molten rage in our blood / queue a hardcore sci fi bullet time pause as they shrug our hand off ir weak student frame there arrives a heavy existential pause for the beautiful ballardian hyperviolets soon to come grabbing the back of ir scrawny squeezy plastic drink bottle neck with an iron claw we imagine slamming ir ignorant meat onto the bar top laughing like mckean's joker we repeatedly get the boot in as they slump to the floor just then the flat northern club snaps back into drab realty not caring enough to waste time and precious martial chi randomly smacking random droids senseless for a clear lack of social grace who honestly cares if they don't buy us drink - nobody should be drinking back in this pathetic cardboard realty we smile and it smiles back styled hair as synthetic as northern nightclub happiness and our bs outrage plastic students inside dead and dying all gestures feigned and hollow vain words out of painted mouths every paper thin event carelessly manufactured and running bind on full automatic thing is we need to act the exact same in order to pass by undetected or they'll destroy everyone they view as dangerous this ir desperate and destructive ontological worldview and so the whole glorious sad play space continues lights on colours flash shine in dead fish eyes not much it's all we've ever thought we've known with faint disgust at our fellow researcher's lack of appreciation for our unassailable existential position we wander onto the main dance floor ooh boy they're also here tonight with several of ir new slick contemporary pals ir hair is up and they're wearing a tight camo tshirt we watch obliquely as they dance flinging ir sweet head around in time to the music the scene brings to mind a newton's cradle thumping around *gulp* as researcher dylan says heart of mine be still hot low lead heavy feeling in our lower stomach purple in tone knowing in our shallow soul the 80s suck major rotting donkey duck yet we can't remember a single thing about the awful corporatized 90s researcher henry swanson: not that the 80s wasn't already hyper corporatized instead we've chosen to be stuck within an era of endless bad made for direct to holo-tv sci fi movies and 16 bit graphics oh if only such vivacious spacetime curves were slapping up against our idiot student face tonight how blissful and ignorant we could be of our wider unacknowledged world of flat grey disappointment we check out all the skinnies standing around edges of the social crowd pit pints of lukewarm beer in hand wishing we could throw ourselves right in still a shame to see fellow researchers prostrate themselves before ir own naivety and mindless suburban boredom not that there's much else to do round here on another lousy damp northern saturday so what can we do but leap right in weaving through the dancing throng on our way to them imagine one's dad dancing ir way to inept social oblivion some researcher we both know prances near them - a live ferret stuck in ir lab cacks we watch them gyrate an accidental elf parody of a future victim of advanced biodata tech another hot summer night track classic work it baby we're a manic manic at our own lab door gonna chainslaw deaders like never before finally the dense horizontal waves of researchers part and we see them they dance toward us leaning over and we reflectively pull in our flabby student stomach they lean in close to shout in our ear: hey so you managed to make it then we imbibe ir intense ambient beauty by this comment we assume they mean we've finally to stop avoiding them like we've been doing the past nine weeks yet in this fractured moment outside time they lean in a little too far and the result is we suddenly get kissed on the cheek it's only within such romantic cinematics one feels life exists yet that feels wrong tshirt slogan: wake up you schmuck life isn't a flocking wes anderson movie they fire engine flush with embarrassment but one plays it off like it was nothing and together we keep on dancing forever deeper into the neon night meanwhile all ir fancy arts friends stare at us or more precisely in one's vague direction with dead marble eyes of plastic barbies in ir tiny world one doesn't count or even exist not privy to the private gated paddock of cultivated idiocy they prance around in with well practiced effortlessness we only want them treat others with minimum respect for one of them in particular to kiss us again and again feel our alien mask with soft cool hands in short remind us we're real not merely virtual awful lonely out here on the electronic margins of the near-future now guess that's the price one pays for the entrance and opening attractions // republic of bob