Some asshole opened the curtains, foolishly letting the sunlight in to
> slice the dark atmosphere. This caused a ripple of moans that spread
> across the dank room until the culprit realised his mistake and
> quickly closed the curtains tight. That brief beam of sunshine was
> the unwelcome guest, bursting into the scene like a drunk uncle,
> kicking us from our slumber, waking us from comatosed states, back
> into reality, reminding us of where we were.
> I look around. Empty beercans scatter the sticky carpet. Bodies lie
> on couches, barely alive, hinging on death. A few people are still
> awake, chasing six hours ago, trying to get back to a certain
> moment, but failing miserably. A room of people no longer able to
> look each other in the eye. Fear of human interaction being drowned
> by cheap cider. The flat resembles the inside of a tomb. A large
> coffin. And here I am, halfway to 60 and drunk on a wet Sunday
> morning. Something is happening here but I don’t know what it is.
> Outside in the cold distance a church bell rings as people flock to
> mass.
> Yes, it’s morning outside, but not in here. Not if we don’t want it
> to be. I scour my vicinity for any half empty cans of beer. I find a
> warm one and take a large swig in a feeble attempt to block out my
> surroundings. Warm flat Carlsberg swirls in my mouth, but before I
> swallow it, I notice there is also a ciggarette butt amongst the
> slosh. I spit the thing out. It would appear that some cretin has
> been using my beer as an ashtray while I was unaware. Or maybe it
> was me..
> And now someone else enters the room, returning from his mission,
> carrying a blue plastic bag like a trophy. He is a hero. He braved
> the outside world to get provisions for us all. Provisions that
> would see us through the next phaze. Cold cider and cheap cigs.
> Enough to go round. There is new life in the room now, a second
> wind. People move zombilike from their seats to gather around the
> hero with the blue bag as he fiendishly hands out cans of bulmers
> like a demented Santa Claus. Someone has put the Beach Boys on the
> stereo. Wouldn’t it be Nice. It feels like a sick joke. I shudder
> and take a fresh bulmers to my seat as someone beside me starts to
> tell the same unfunny joke that he told last night. He’s actually
> been telling it for years. I stare at him as he spurts out this
> garbage, his words tripping over themselves as they spill from his
> manical mouth. An eerie sort of joy begins to stir in the bloodshot
> eyes of my acquantances. I even hear someone laugh. But it is
> laughter spiked with fear. For it’s all about to begin again, and we
> all know it. We are in this for the long haul. A hazy fog of
> weirdness will float through the next few hours, smothering any
> signs of normality. We will go along for the ride. We will drink it
> up. We will laugh. Even though we really know that the party has
> actually ended. Many years ago.