Walking into 79CXR was always a scene. The mamas, the speaker-bells, the man-manors, the she-queens and the faints (it was the summer so the woodland preachers were back in their natural habitat), all very different in manner, but bending and floating like a terrible ballet, pecking at the bar looking for seeds. I both loathe and love this place. Coming here reminds you that you’re just another single lad looking for the one, which sometimes can be a mind-chore. But it was the pantry down stairs where I always got my cake. That was the syringe for my veins, always getting off, always filth. “It’s the crack of this world,” said Doreen, “and we’re their fucking kingpins.” And away we went into the glorious rainbow haze. ”Good day, you gruesome scene!” I lorded, “for when we return, we shall be fed and ready to two-step, and off we went Hurling abuse like a scatter gun and most of the bullets missing the target but laughed we did all the way to the cash point.