At my own little itty bitty titty bar there’s a girl who serves drinks out of her own cup. The customers, they’re never quenched. Except for one. He never looks. Sits in a booth on his own with a newspaper. One of the older girls brings him a shepherd’s pie and then salts and peppers his plate. He picks at it, rolls the mince around his cavities and smiles wildly at the always black barman. You could call it a party. Why don’t you join us? We want you in the room, gyrating to bounce, taking part and living.