I have the black dogs. ie: the feeling of fear you get after a night out when you feel like you are being hounded by a roving pack of black dogs.
Last night I went to a party in shoreditch (trendy trendy shoreditch. oh so trendy. plant some trees shoreditch. why does everyone have half a shaved head in shoreditch?) but first we went to a quintessential film premier for a series which is highlighting the whole 'bankers rule the world. fuck the banks' movement that is happening right now. A 'charity' film one might say...(although truth be told - everyone got paid who worked on that film.. ummm... yeah) A film outlining how banks set the prices for food and the cost of living and that's why there are million of people living below the poverty line and dying of starvation around the world. So of course the film screening would be in a poor townhouse with people in hemp clothes serving fallafels and hummus.
Why do poor people and people who pretend to care about poor people all dress in terrible clothes and eat lentils and not shave properly? Did all the do-gooders get together and decide that this would be their utilitarian uniform so they can all spot each other in a crowd. so ridiculous.
What was most ridiculous about this whole screening was that the film is essentially putting the message out there about Banks being the Bad Guys.. and yet the people who attended this screening were.... investors (bankers) and women in fur coats.. who all stood around eating their dried up fallafels pretending to care about the world whilst wide eyed and youthful hopeful types swanned around with petitions that no one signed, sporting their Occupy London badges (fuck off now) and then telling people that when they finish their unpaid internship at the charity they are going to open a fashion label for high street designs. yeah that's a really charitable job. at least you're giving 5 year old kidnapped indian kids a chance to earn some cold hard cash. except we don't want that. because cash is bad.
That was the first stop of the evening. After choking down the driest fallafels in the world we went to the party in shoreditch where everyone was there to meet people to make them rich! rich! rich! there is nothing more soul destroying that standing in a room of 400 leaching parasitic industry people who you all know are there to network with each other and talk about work whilst a crazy rave band from Berlin plays music so freakin loud my heart had an irregular heartbeat. You can't network when you can't even hear yourself think. The last thing I want to do is scream into some strangers face 'so what do you dooooooo' whilst the stink of hummus rams up their nostrils from my poverty screening breath. Who will give me work then?? so instead of that everyone dances badly, and drinks the free drinks, and then you get a cab home at 4am and make the driver drive around for half an hour whilst you look for a chicken shop because only a dried up chicken wing that has been sitting in a warmed oven shelf is going to make the vomit go away.
The whole going out thing is a false economy.