The first strand of thought which led to this article.
On Friday I knew that Channel 4 was about to start its 3-D week, where it brings the cinematic experience of 3-D cinema to our television screens and laptops. People will be sat in their living rooms, like in a 1980s vision of the future, with their cardboard glasses trying to fully immerse themselves in the screens which are taking over their lives. Like in the movie Tron, some people may never leave this new universe into which they have been coaxed by the new mass media. I must document the beginnings of the demise of mankind.
The second strand of thought which led to this article.
My friends Sam Foster and Martin Langmead would be coming to London on Friday and staying with me. They like nightclubs, drinking, smoking, women, and other things which my housemates would sooner we did elsewhere. I used my Platform email account to get us press passes into Fabric, on the strict condition that we were not allowed to take any pictures of the other guests.
Two birds get hit with one X-raving spectacle of an idea.
I decided to let Martin and Sam loose in Fabric, telling them to ignore what the woman had said about not taking pictures. We were going to take pictures of the other guests looking zonked out and futuristic in their cardboard glasses we were handing out. I told my editor about what I’d be writing about, and he seemed unsure. I told him to expect a report on the reactive power of youth culture as expressed through fashion. As far as excuses to watch these two weapons in action, firing on all cylinders against the unsuspecting face of womankind go, this seemed like a pretty good one.
This is MC Serocee, who was on microphone duties for Toddla T’s set. He was more than happy to man some old school eyewear for a stint.
Langmead could not see the look on the girl to his left’s face, who found his Essex charm endearing to begin with. After ten minutes or so, she thought he was creepy.
This is not the girl from Paramore, although she still looks good.
This guy brought his own 3-D rave shades to the club. He knows how great they look.
Sam was wearing a photographer’s pass which we’d scammed, and this gave him access to all areas of the club. He may have made an ‘access all areas’ joke to these girls, although I can’t be sure why they left us hanging in the smoking area.
Langmead tried his luck with a lot of girls, using a variation of this chat-up line every time: “Ello girls, it’s 3-D week on Channel 4 this week. Would you mind just having your picture taken for us please? We’re writers and Sam’s a photographer. We’re writing a piece for Platform magazine, it’s the next big thing. And Channel 4. We’re doing a documentary as well. When’s your boyfriend coming back?”
They eventually struck gold at the bus stop on our way home. Two girls, obviously leaving their bullshit detectors and their rape alarms at home, were keen to share a joint and come back to my place. I wasn’t sure about this, but Langmead had already invited them, telling them again that he is a writer. I went straight to bed, and left the four of them in my living room to party on until the morning. My housemate walked in at 7am, and they were still there talking rubbish. She thought I had been using the living room for people trafficking, and remarked that it smelt like a brothel.
At 10am I found Sam lying on the sofa, the girls and Langmead having left him in peace. He looked like he had witnessed the beginnings of the demise of mankind.
