I’m having one of those days when I look like a Long Street tik addict.
You know what I mean – hair a bit greasy and unkempt, chunky jumper that looks two days overdue on a wash, and the obligatory backpack - like I’m bouncing from hostel to park bench to Senator Park crack dorm.
I always wonder what they carry in those backpacks. One’s mind stereotypically runs to maybe a few pairs stolen underpants, a sentimental Mandrax pipe, and a honey-stained copy of ‘The Tao of Pooh’.
They also all seem to have a starry glow in their eyes. Not a bright and bushy kind of starry, but an eerie shimmer round the edges – what a ‘His People’ churchgoer would call either “Demonic!” or “Filled with the Glory of our Lord!!!”, depending on what kind of mood they were in.
It’s easy to write off those types as drug-addled losers, but Lucy and I had an experience one night that forced contemplation.
In our favourite nightclub, Deco-Dance, while dancing badly to the cheesy 80s pop, we noticed that there was an unusual surplus of people who just didn’t look quite right.
Now I know that faces aren’t ever perfectly symmetrical, but these punters’ mugs resembled a Mr Potatohead built by a brain damaged, wannabe-Picasso’s clenched butt-cheeks - not ugly in the classic sense, just assembled wrong.
Discussing it with the barlady, I posited my theory that they were demons from Hell, probably here to recruit the souls of inebriated sinners.
“Ridiculous,” she said, “there’s no such thing as demons… they must be aliens in flesh-suits; here to observe before a forthcoming invasion.”
That makes sense, I thought, and I warned Lucy to stay close in case one of them fancied her and radioed for an emergency beam-up.
Now whenever I come into contact with one of them on Long Street I imagine that their backpacks contain not undies and hallucinogenic paraphernalia, but a ray gun, one-piece silver tracksuit, and a Lonely Planet Guide to… well, a rather overpopulated planet.
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