It was a visual bullet-time realisation when I stepped through the doors that exposed the inside of the Arab night club. The term 'Freak Farm' came to mind. What the fuck was this? I navigated myself through the crowd with the intension of reaching the far end of the club, but in the process compelled to observe these humanoid phenomena up close.
Sitting there puffing on my hookah with great delight, I watched some of my newly met acquaintances venture onto the dance floor. I smiled and observed the people “getting their freak on”, which I mean in a literal sense. It was nothing short of abominable. Semi-overweight women wearing clothes five sizes too small with the moves of a rusty fork lift being admired by the male, who believed that the waist line began above the nipples and wore his jeans accordingly.
In all of this morbidity there was a sense of amusement. My observation struck me as being unreal that I had no choice but to smile wholeheartedly. A good comparison to this event would be the hypothesis of what a raspberry and guinea pig smoothie would taste like; it was fucked up and no one in their right mind would taste it, nevertheless, not impossible if you had the ingredients.
What happened next took me by surprise. The DJ went from mainstream Arabic music to something more traditional, or at least that was what I could fathom from the sudden increased enthusiasm of the dancers. The abominations suddenly formed a chain and initiated a “Dabka” (Middle Eastern folk dance) session to proclaim their rhythmic obedience to the song. Again, I felt someone had fucked with my mind. What the fuck was this? The chain grew longer and longer until it consumed all of the dance floor and moved in drunken grace.
Later I was standing outside the club to get some fresh air. It was then that things got worse. It was evident to me now that wherever a potential one night stand was taking place, the factor of success was NOT alcohol. It was poor disco lighting, and what happened was after leaving the disco the pick up became a double dare. You leave the disco and see your prize in the light of the lamp post, and your thoughts are: “What the hell is this? Did I score the donkey when I wanted to get with the rider or what? I can't back out now that's not polite”. Yes, these people in an illuminated environment were a celibacy incentive.
I was sitting back inside resuming my sideline freak show observation. The DJ had decided it was Dabka Soul Train time again. The crowd followed the DJ's musical lead and quickly a chain formed again. The stomping on the floor and the twirling of the handkerchief were there to honour the spirit of the Dabka. As I sat there smiling, my mind ventured off again. Why weren't euthanasia or death penalty more common and accepted phenomena? I remained inconclusive whether the people I gazed upon should die out of sympathy or punishment. One thing was for sure, you would never see the likes of these anywhere else.
Edward T. Shufflebottom
