Sooner than Now

The End.
Someone's graffitied over the original tag line so it now reads "Wish you wereNT here." I sip our bitter Cafe Nero crappuccino and stare at the glossy holiday brochure depicting a white sandy beach with crystal clear waters on one side and perfect palm trees on the other. "Wish you wereNT here." Gatwick Airport, North Terminal, 6.14am. My head’s throbbing, it feels like the dancefloor of Fabric after a heavy weekend. Two cracked ribs constantly ache as a dull, painful reminder of everything, until we try to turn too quickly and it switches to a sharp spiteful pang of agony making me wince uncontrollably. I can’t stop tonguing the loose tooth in the back of my mouth and the taste of blood fills my throat. A pair of wonky Aviators hide my black eye. I did my best to get the swelling down with frozen peas and we're not ashamed to say the worst bruising is covered with her foundation. A straw hat hides the six stitches in the back of my head where we hit the curb. I’m a train wreck. I scroll mindlessly through my iPod menu. Arctic Monkeys turn into Bloc Party's "Helicopter" and Kele Okereke asks, “are you hoping for a miracle?” We’re a bomb site. Our own little warzone. A puppet falling apart. I’m never going to get through security like this. I pray. I don't know who to. "Wish you wereNT here." I'm trying to figure out how the fuck we got here. I mean, I know how we got here but at what point did it all go so wrong? Maybe I’ve always been destined for a desperate escape. Maybe not. Either way, the catalyst for our current predicament was probably The Beard's freshers party.

Chapter 1.
I get to the house party on the Old Steine just before 1am and a deviant green glow baths the single-speed bikes lined up outside. It takes five minutes for someone to hear the bell and buzz me up. The door’s been left on the latch and it swings open effortlessly. The flat's full of flesh, shoes and hip apathy. Girls in little more than primary coloured bikinis and high-vis vests, prance around the high-ceilinged room, shaking their fists and stomping their Converse clad feet to Crystal Castles. The abrasive, high-pitched female vocals shrill desperately over Tetris and Super Mario sound-effects. Boys flick their floppy, asymmetrical hair as neon lasers cut through the smoke to illuminate the slick writhing bodies in a poisoned fluorescence. I don't recognise anyone, but why would I, I’ve only been down here a few days. "Bonjour Esser." Thats me. Duddlyheath Esser. My parents never gave me a chance. "Easy Page." She invited me. She’s not French but she does like to use the odd phrase to simulate sophistication. I met her on my media course through a shared interest in being late. She's in a lemon yellow Boxfresh jacket nearly half unzipped, under which she possibly has nothing else on. She’s smoking a Vogue and the glitter gold lettering of her Adidas Ecstasy high-tops twinkle in the dark like a diamond in the scuff. She leads me through the heaving crowd, a mass of sweaty, well dressed spectres, and we sit on a black leather sofa. M.I.A turns into Santogold. I skin up a spliff. Page cuts lines of coke on a compact mirror. “Get involved babes?” She asks seductively. “Nah, I'm broke.” “No worries, these are on me.” “Safe.” “You skint then?” “Cold stinking.” “Why don’t you just get a student account?” “Maxed it out.” “Already?” She says, impressed, then adds, “you can have more than one.” “How?” “Just don’t tell ‘em about each other.” “Like spouses.” “If ya like.” “… I don’t wanna owe any more money to the bloody banks.” I say. “Then, I can introduce you to the Beard.” Page snorts.
“The Beard?” I snort.
“Yeah it’s his soiree.” She gestures to the decadent scene in front of us and says,
“They call him the merchant of hedonism.”
“Who call him?”
“…They...” She motions again.
“…And this merchant can get me a job?”
“Defo, like courier.”
Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not some naïve, wide-eyed country-bumpkin, but I’m also not really up for selling drugs.
“I can’t be arsed with dealing.” I say.
“Not dealing Esser, just… facilitating. Anyway, for fuck-sake, what’s wrong with dealing? Dealers are not the despicable characters police, parents and the media make them out to be, they don't loiter around street corners selling crack to kids under the flickering light of broken street lamps. They come in all shapes and sizes and simply provide a public service.”
“Like a public toilet.” I say.
"Whatever."
I’m dubious but I do need the money. My student loan won’t cover my tuition fees, rent and a drinking habit. I see G materialize from the UV montage, he swaggers over to the sofa with a couple of Kronenbourgs and a rollie hanging from his lips. And this comprises the long list of people I know down here, Page and G.
“Easy Geez!” He shouts, planting two purple pills in my palm. They have double cherries on them.
“Page.” He says with feigned suave and gives her the same then passes me a can of Kronenbourg and we all double drop with a wash of beer. G borrows Page’s lighter which says “Buy your own fucking lighter.” He sparks his rollie and then pockets the lighter. The Ting Tings turn into Little Boots. We make our way into the epicenter of iridescent depravity. Red Rayban wayfarers are in. So are black leggings and white brogues, but not necessarily together. We dance for a bit, Page disappears, probably to the toilet to do more coke. G introduces me to Ben and V. Ben has a handlebar moustache and pointy shoes. He looks like he's tried sucking cock at least once. V’s in a long caption t-shirt dress that reads “Save the Children.” I hope they’re not together. Page returns and seems to know Ben and V. She’s set up an ominous meeting with the Beard. Wiley turns into Lethal Bizzle.
“Come with me Esser.” Page takes my hand and we drift through the throng of vivid colours. Those double cherries are good. My heads spinning and my pupils are swimming. I lose myself for a moment and realize I’ve been staring at an ivory white door with Page looking at me expectantly.
“You ok?”
“Dandy.” I say.
The door opens into a hazy den of inequity. Dark dubstep forebodes in the background. Moody hip-hop heads in flat peaked caps that still have their store labels on, stare unflinchingly through me. I shrink. The Beard is in a Victorian armchair wearing a white bathrobe. I hope he's got underwear on. Behind him stands a guy called Tyni. Tyni, another ridiculous hip-hop name purposefully spelt wrong with Postmodern irony. He's a gargantuan cross between Chewbacca and Lurch. I wouldn't say any of this to his face of course. There’s a coffee table that has an upturned, ornately framed mirror for its surface, as well as a long beige sofa and towers of vinyl stacked and pushed up against the walls. Above the art deco fireplace hangs a Banksy print of a London policeman snorting a line of coke off the pavement. Round the far corner there’s an on-suite bathroom with black marble surfaces on which hundreds, maybe thousands of purple pills are being counted by a couple of hot, half naked skets wearing Burberry bikinis who don’t even bother to acknowledge us, they just keep counting. You don’t normally see this kind of unsolicited, gratuitous glamour unless it’s framed. The Bug turns into Burial. The guys laugh maniacally at a YouTube video of a midget fight on Jeremy Kyle.
"Have a seat Esser." Says The Beard, gesturing to the sofa. Tyni remains standing behind him, alternating his glare between Page and I.
"So what can I do you for this evening?"
“Um, yeah…” I start
“Esser wants to tic some beans.” Interjects Page.
“Ok Esser, what’s your business down here in my beautiful Brightopia?”
“Just moved down for uni.”
“Excellent, education is the key to unlocking a brighter future, and our little operation can always do with more prongs in the student cattle market. You got a lotta contacts?”
“Oh yeah babes, he’s a right little social butterfly.”
“Can’t he talk for himself Page?” Snaps the Beard.
Actually I wish Page would talk for me, I think those double cherries are getting the better of me, my jaws tensing up and I think I’ve been grinding my teeth. Plus, I’m trying to work out whether it’s sexual tension between the Beard and Page or if they’re both just really coked-up. Skream turns into Bong Ra.
“Do you believe in Karma, Esser?” Asks The Beard shifting position in his chair. The more he moves the more the rope of his bathrobe becomes loose and reveals increasing amounts of his hairy pale chicken legs.
"What?" I say.
"Karma." Repeats the Beard mechanically.
"…I, err. I have faith in a natural balance."
The Beard ponders this while cutting some generous lines on the mirror-table.
"I believe we make our own Karma." And he punctuates the point with a slow controlled snort.
“Empowered.” I mumble staring at myself in the mirror, my face dissected by a long white airstrip.
“If we embrace the idea of compatibilism which combines the law of cause and effect with free will, then we can make anything happen." I catch Tyni rolling his eyes. "Take our exchange right now for example, you ask politely for my product, I grant your wish and... here you go." He chucks me a bag brimming with hundreds of pills. They’re big white triangles, rounded off at the corners, like lots of engorged Smints. "Cause and effect, you ask, you receive. Move all those and come see me in a week.” I can see the inner workings of his white thighs now, the bathrobe's dangerously close to opening completely.
"Ehm. Thanks." Is all I can think to say, trying to stare down at the bag rather than the Beard and his inadequate bathrobe.
"Don't thank me, thank causality and compatibilism." Replies the Beard.
"But don't you think there are forces in the universe out of our control?" I ask.
He stops cutting another line of coke and looks at me, raising an incredulous eyebrow.
"That's the voice of a defeatist Esser, don't be a victim." He says shifting position again to go back to chopping his charley. The rope loosens further, his bathrobe opens and no, he's not wearing any underwear.
“Come on, let’s get me drunk.” Says Page, brushing my forearm. I get up, wobbling like a bassline as my head rushes from the double cherries and subsequently I slip on some porn called 'The Bottomless Slit'. I catch both the Beard’s and Tyni’s glower as we exit with a half dozen daggers being stared into our backs, even though according to the laws of nature it wasn't my fault I slipped on his dirty magazine.
“How many little uns are here?” I ask, condemningly holding up the bag at Page.
“I dunno babes, like, five hundred.”
“What-the-fuck Page?! I don’t want five hundred pills.”
“Relax Madonna, I’ll help you get rid of them. Anyway that’s, like, a grands worth.”
“…How much do we owe the Beard?”
“Well you owe him half a G.”
“Great.”
“Esser, look around, it’s not gonna be hard to move these.”
I survey the scene. New ravers body-pop next to the self-conscious shuffling of emos. Art school dropouts twitch next to the swaying of wicker skirt bohos. Everyone’s looking casually insatiable in their own little sub-culture. Page introduces me to more people. Tom, Dick and Harry, all chavs in Nike caps and Reebok Classics. A girl called L, or Elle, I’m unsure, but she’s hot in a tight, white Warehouse top, although she’s hanging on the limp arm of Ben. A guy called DJ Praiz and some other guy who runs a music blog called 20 Jazz Funk Greats, which was recently voted one of the top ten music blogs by Dazed and Confused magazine. This means something, apparently. Bloc Party are muted on the flat screen TV mounted on the wall, Kele Okereke sings to someone behind me, staring at the space just above my head, his attention focussed on an unintentional anybody and I look round to find them. When the word is out that I’ve got hundreds of high-grade little uns I don’t need Page to meet people, everyone introduces themselves to me. Drug induced popularity. It’s false, but I don’t care.
Some young blonde girl picks up but I don't quite catch her name.
"She's fit." I say to Page. "She aint fit babes, that's sweaty Betty." Replies Page stamping out another cigarette on the parquet flooring. "Isn't her name Betsy?" Says L.
"Who gives a fuck? Betty rhymes better, didn't you see those patches under her arms? She's sweatier than a paedo in a fucking playground." "That's pretty harsh Page." I say.
"Harsh but fair Esser. Anyway come with me, I wanna talk to you private like." Page abruptly grabs my hand and drags me to the toilet. The clinical monochrome surfaces provide some brief respite from the relentless fun outside. She sits on the closed toilet seat and looks at me in the mirror while unfolding her wrap of coke. Well, probably the Beards coke. When girls look this fit they never have to pay for drugs. I wish I was a woman. She picks up a Mach3 razor from the sink and expertly dismantles it taking out a single blade. It's not until she's done a couple of lines that she looks at me directly and asks.
“So how much have you been selling them for?”
“Um, like, five for a tenner.”
“What?! We’re not a fucking charity Esser. If you wanna make some decent profit it’s three for a tenner. Maybe four for a tenner, if you’re feeling particularly frivolous.”
“But everyone's been…” I give up with my defense as she’s not listening, instead she's checking herself in the mirror and reapplying her UV makeup to her wing-mirror cheekbones.
“Trust me babes” she kisses me on the corner of my mouth “and you’ll make a lot of mula and a lot of mates. Now come on, there’s work to be done.”
The top of a lacey white thong pokes out from her jet-black Miss Sixty jeans as she leaves the sanctuary and heads back into dazzling debauchery. I can’t help but follow.
CSS turns into Dizzy Rascal. V body-swerves some guy in navy Evisu jeans and approaches me with a demure smile.
“So Esser, you down here studying?” I think this is the first time in the last few hours that someone’s talked to me without an ecstasy agenda.
“I've just started a media degree.”
“How you finding it?” Her voice is slightly husky, like sand soaked in honey.
“Not bad, but they’re hitting us with essays already, and I hate writing.”
“Yeah I know what you mean, what's your title?" "The text is a tissue of quotations drawn from the innumerable centres of culture."
"Ouch. I’m writing one at the moment for my photography course.”
“Oh yeah, what’s it about?”
“The corrosive role of photography in the affluent mass-media of the 21st Century, referring particularly to the work of Susan Sontag.”
“Wow, sounds like you’ve got it figured out, maybe you could help me with mine?”
“Sure.” V nods. She’s hot. She looks a bit like Alexa Chung but with more of a button nose, bigger breasts and sparking a Marlboro Menthol. We swap digits. I catch Page shooting me a frown. Ben and L join us. They’re both soaking in sweat or alcohol, or both, their skin showing through their now translucent tops.
“Hey those pills are tasty Esser!” Gerns Ben over the din.
“Yeah they’re not bad.” They are pretty good. Everyone looks beautiful. Hugging is definitely in.
“You got any more?” He asks.
“Yeah sure how many do you want?”
“Ten for twenty quid?”
“Sorry man, I can only give you eight for twenty.”
“But you sold me five for a tenner earlier.”
“Yeah, that was just an introductory offer, to reel you in.”
“… It worked.” He smiles through clenched teeth.
I fight back a yawn. My wallet’s bulging but my body’s drained. Page disappears again. V's being chat-up by some graphic design student wearing a Fred Perry polo shirt and a pair of pristine white Dunlop plimpsols. Neon Neon turn into Metronomy. My eyelids are drooping. I can’t be bothered with this charade much longer. I see Tyni leave. Page emerges.
"You wanna get some air?" She asks.
"Sure." As I exit I catch eye contact with V, the graphics student still rabbitting in her ear. I mime, “I’ll call you" with a finger-thumb telephone to my ear and she nods.
Fresh air is amazing. I take a long deep breath and we walk over to the Level and sit on the skate ramps. Page is smoking a Vogue and talking about the Beard and money and fair trade. I try to smother another yawn.
"Am I boring you Esser?"
"I dunno, I wasn't really listening."
"Fuck off." She says with a playful push.
"Nah, I’m sorry, I’m just tired."
"Go home then." She gently kisses my upper lip, slides down the ramp and heads back the way we came, towards bright lights and loud sirens. I hail a cab. At home Koop turns into Little Dragon and I empty my Eastpak rucksack. There’s a lot of money and a lot of pills. It doesn’t look like tonight’s damaged them at all. There’s far more than five hundred here. I count the money. Nearly three hundred pounds. I've never made so much money for chewing the fat and getting messy. But my bed is still a very welcome retreat. I skin-up a spliff, smoke half and drift off. Sleep is good.

Chapter 2.

I wake up around noon. Harsh rays of sunlight beam through my venetian blinds and abuse my unsuspecting eyelids. The hairs on the nape of my neck rise to attention, saluting the sun, however my head feels fucking heavy. I drink a pint of water and sign into Last.fm where Bonobo turns into Blockhead. Resisting the temptation to smoke the half-spliff sitting in my ashtray I put the kettle on and have breakfast; Frosties mixed with Coco-Pops, beans on toast and an orange. Breakfast of Champions. Text Page “U in? x” and start tidying my room, which doesn’t take long because it’s still not fully furnished. I make my bed and sort out the clutter on my desk, which constitutes throwing away unopened bank statements and letters from the student loan company. I chuck most of my unwashed clothes into a dilapidated canvas cupboard. I reckon minimalism is an easy way to achieve a positive feng-shui. I check Facebook, seventeen new notifications, that’s a record. Fuck-loads of friend requests, all people from last night I presume. Message G back, write on V’s wall and update my status to 'hanging'. I sign out and head to Page’s.
After a few minutes wait, she opens the door.
“How much mula did we make last night?”
“Good morning to you too Page.” This is my first visit to her place. Empty Lambrini bottles are dotted throughout the front room, as are ashtrays and mini skirts. It’s like a Manchester morgue of good times. She’s in ripped denim hot pants and a shirt that says “who the fuck is Harry Potter?” and she’s looking surprisingly perky considering last nights shenanigans. Ladytron turns into Nightmares on Wax with Big Brother muted on T4. The house mates are lounging around the living room.
“Anyway, what’s all this we talk? I made around two ton.” I’m reluctant to give her the full figure.
“We, I, semantics. Without me you wouldn’t have made any… So I want at least twenty percent.”
“What’re you, my agent?”
“No agents make ten, managers make twenty.” She replies indignantly, exhaling smoke with a silent ‘fuck you.’
“Well before you get a cut, I’ve gotta pay the Beard back.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Of course I do.”
“Nope. You left in the nick of time.”
“What d’you mean?”
“The Beard got busted last night.” She makes no effort to hide the smile on her face.
“What?!”
“His party was raided. The police rushed in all guns blazing, held everyone there until they confiscated all the drugs, which took till dawn and then they dragged the Beard out in handcuffs.”
“…Deep.”
“Deep? Fucking deep? This is a touch Esser. Now we’ve got a little less than a thousand beans that we don’t have to pay for.”
“I knew there were more than five hundred!”
“Of course there were, and now they’re all pure profit.” The default Nokia text message tone keeps chiming from her mobile phone.
“…It’s too good to be true.”
“Well believe it baby.” She says running her index finger under my chin. “The Beard’s gonna be gone for a while.”
“How long?”
"Well, with the fresh order he had in… Plus the fact that everyone at the party was on his drugs, so there's no doubt of intention to supply… He's probably looking at like, eight or nine years, with a minimum of serving five...” She says triumphantly. “And sooo, with the stock that we have from last night, we’re looking at making well over three grand."
“That amount of dirty money will never go unnoticed.”
“Always with the worrying Esser.” She slides behind me and gently massages my shoulders, whispering in my ear. “Loosen up. This is good news. The Beards behind bars and we’re in the flush with enough ecstasy to get the Titanic high.”
Page's phone rings, a hideous polyphonic tone of Britney’s Womanizer, she says “yeah” six times, followed by "OK" and then hangs up.
“Who was that?” I ask.
“How many beans have you got on you?”
“About a ton.”
“Good, let’s go. We have business on the beach.”

We walk through town and Page seems to know every other person. Pierced-up punks, urban hippies, fine-art hipsters, goths and rockers, all milling, cruising and bimbling about boutiques, and cult comic book shops followed by the odd quirky pub. Obligatory small talk pre-emanates the real purpose of all these encounters. Drugs and money, drugs and money. In the North Laines there’s a tight rope walking violinist. I chuck some silver into the bowler hat below him.
The beach is packed, drenched in golden sunlight and bare skin. Pretty girls and pretty boys parade themselves from pier to pier. We meet our targets in front of the Fortune of War pub. It’s a group of trendies, all trilbies and tight pipe jeans. Names fly at me from all directions. Sarah, Voytek, who looks like DJ Praiz from last night, Ursula, K.T, Maya, Not-Gay-Tom, Roxy and Rain, who looks a bit too slim. If they’re not students they’re either producers, DJ’s or club promoters. As well as some members of a Brighton based nu wave band called Maths Class. Everyone’s smoking Marlboro Lights and one of the girls is reading a Heat article entitled “Why Sex With My Sister is the Best Ever” and she’s giggling quietly to herself. I sell thirty little uns before I even sit down and knock one back with a long sip of Corona. I want to call V, but I don’t. I could at least text her. I don’t. G slumps disconsolately next to me and proceeds to throw pebbles at other pebbles.
"Whassup G?"
"... If my dick doesn't make itself useful soon, my bollox are gonna pack up their testosterone and leave."
"No joy last night then?"
"About as much joy as the holocaust."
"Ouch. What you on tonight?"
"Probably go Devotion with this lot. Up for it?"
"Yeah sure."
"Bring a lot of pills, you'll make a lot of money." He says.
"And the music?"
"Oh, drum & bass, breakbeat, probably dubstep."
"Cool." I say looking out to sea; it winks back at me with a thousand glinting eyes. The tide’s coming in.

Chapter 3.

I can hear the bass rolling out of the club from half way down Madiera Drive. The muffled sound of anticipation reverberates through the doors and windows. Concorde 2 is bursting at the seams like the busty brunette in the queue. We skip the heckling line of frustrated punters and head straight for the main bouncer. Who's name Page tells me, is Lucifer.
"I know him." She says. Knows, blows, tomato, tomato. Fuck it. We're in and unsearched. I’ve put the pills in Tictac boxes, I don’t really know why, it seemed like the most logical receptacle at the time. Noisia turns into Friction. The molotov crowd’s made up of rudeboys, pikies and townies sprinkled with the odd emo kid and just enough hot girls to keep the less than reputable characters happy and horny. It’s all Nike caps and Ben Sherman shirts. But what do you expect from a drum and bass night called Devotion? High Contrast turns into London Electricity. There's a five man wait at the bar but this doesn't dissuade Page who slips around the side and flirts with the barman to get us two cans of Red Stripe. Before we can make it to the main room I’ve made sixty quid.
“Pendulum’s headlining.” Page tells me.
“When’s he on?”
“In about an hour.” I can hardly hear what she says.
Green lasers cut through the smoky space above our heads and silhouetted hands reach up to touch the intangible surfaces of toxic light. Brockie turns into Bad Company. Page has drifted towards the front of the stage with a loyal following of sweaty heads gurning after her. People are drawn to me by some primal party instinct. It’s annoying, but it’s easy. Then a tap on the shoulder I wasn’t expecting.
“…Shit. Alright… Tyni, is it?”
“Outside.” He orders with his fried breakfast bulk towering over me. He won’t start anything here, too many people, too many bouncers, surely. We exit via the double doors to the right of the stage where the dehydrated raving elite are leaning on the outside of the club, gasping for air and pumping their tops in a desperate bid to cool themselves down. I wipe the sweat from my forehead and notice an unhealthy river flowing down the back of Tyni’s Stussy T-shirt.
“You owe me a monkey blud.” He barks, lighting a B&H Gold.
“I owe the Beard.”
“Yeah well, I’m his debt collector ya get me?”
“…I’ve got till Friday.”
“’Fraid not shit-cock. Coz the Beard's been banged up you’ve now got three days, and I want what you’ve already made, right-the-fuck-now.” He bears down on me blowing smoke in my face.
“Well… I haven’t really made much… yet.”
His massive paw clamps around my neck and shoves me against the wall.
“Don’t. Fucking. Lie. Not only do you owe me a whole G, you’re also the prime suspect for the Beard getting locked up.”
“What the fuck?! I wasn’t even there!”
“Exactly! You tic a thousand beans and then breeze just before the pigs turn up. Ain’t that convenient?” He growls and flicks his half smoked cigarette into the darkness.
“How come you’re not locked up with him? I saw you leave right before I did.”
“Shut-the-fuck-up-you-little-cunt.” He states, bobbing his head giving each word a rhythmic beat. With his yeti hand still tight around my throat he fishes around in my back pocket and pulls out the crumpled bunch of notes.
“I’ll be taking this. And seeing as you obviously do have some beans on you, we’ll link up out front when the last tune drops and you’ll give me whatever you make from tonight. Clear?”
“…Crystal.” I choke.
Inside Page is pulling some skinhead and I glare disapprovingly but she’s too involved in his tonsils to notice so I take a wander to the back-room chill-out area. I see G in his Liam Gallagher outfit, hassling people for Rizzla, the people being Maya and the trendsetters from the beach earlier. You know the six degrees of separation rule, where everyone knows everyone in six steps? Well in Brighton it seems more like two degrees of separation. Maya doesn’t acknowledge me, she’s sitting on a plastic chair hugging her knees so her skirt rides high and she’s flashing her white thong at anyone lucky enough to notice.
“Easy Esser.”
“Easy G.”
“You still stocked?”
“Yeah.”
“Fantastic mate… Now, I don’t technically have any cash on me, but we could trade, narc for narc?”
“Sure, whatcha got?”
“Banging beak.”
“Alright. Let’s loo.”
“Safe.”
The toilet is a pleasant escape. G unwraps about an eighth of coke from a flyer and cuts a couple of hefty lines on the cistern while I place a couple of freebies on his tongue and feed him some Red Stripe. We take it in turn to snort.
“How’d you know Maya?” I ask.
“Dunno… friends of acquaintances of friends.”
“Right. She’s pretty fit.”
“Yeah, she’s hot.” He says turning to unzip his flies. “But… big feet.”
“... I hadn’t noticed.”
“You will… God damn it man!” He strains. “I’m pisstipated! Fucking beans, what’s a guy gotta do to take a piss?”
“Relax G.” I say putting a sympathetic hand on his shoulder. “When it’s time, you will go.”
“…Nnh. So, did you come with Page?”
“Yeah.”
“Where’s she at?”
“Half way down some chav’s esophagus.”
“Fucking slut-bucket.”
“Sucking lemons G?”
“And you’re not?”
“…Touché.” I answer.
“So the Beard’s banged up.” He says.
“How’d you know?”
“Everybody knows.”
“Oh. Yeah, yeah he is.”
“Who’d you think squealed?”
“No one, pigs just turned up.”
“Pigs never just turn up Esser.”
“It was a coincidence.”
“No such thing as coincidence mate, only consequence.”
We head back to the chill-out area where Maya’s arguing with Voytek or DJ Praiz about Pendulums set.
“See, Tarantula. I told you!” He shouts. “They're shit, they’ll only play their own tunes, mostly from 'In Silico', then every other track, they drop Tarantula.”
“Why not, it’s a good tune?” Asks Maya, struggling to skin up a rollie as her fingers shake.
“It was a good tune, but after you’ve heard it thirty times a night, every night, it starts to grate on you.”
“Masochist was a good tune.” She says.
“Masochist was a good tune. Before they went all electric guitars and drum snares, before it became drum and bass rock for dancefloor grungers.”
“Come on bass-snobs, capé pm.” Appeals G.
I’m thinking I need to leave before the end and miss Tyni. He’s already robbed me of a ton. So we head to the main room where the jam-packed crowd are chanting “Tarantulaaa!” and stabbing the air with gun fingers. We weave through the endless mass of screw faces and I’m tired of getting elbowed in the ribs and tripping over pikey’s feet so I make for the front room.
I think I see Page, I wonder what V’s doing. I get a Red Stripe from the bar and discreetly sort out who I think are Tom, Dick and Harry, but can’t be sure. Everyone’s faces are gaunt with thin skin stretched over their prominent skeletons like wet latex over faded steel. I hope I don’t look that bad. I clock Page exiting via pikey piggy-back.
“Bon soir babes!” She shouts. I just nod and get back to aimlessly searching through my phones inbox although I know there are no new messages.
“She’s off then.” Says G sidling up beside me.
“Looks like it.”
“What about you?”
“Duno, havn’t thought that far ahead. I’ve gotta go soon though and duck Tyni.” I say.
“Cool, come to Maya’s for some post-apocolyptic wind-down?”
“Sure. If that’s cool with Maya?”
“Maya!” Shouts G. “Is it cool if Esser joins us?”
Maya rolls her eyes and turns to G, then looks at me quizzically.
“…Why not. You’re Page’s new dealer right?”
“…I’m her new friend.”
“Yeah, ok.” She says getting three for a tenner.

Maya’s place is in Kemp Town, something Mews or Muse. People sit, lay and perch wherever they can. It’s basically the same group that were at the beach, plus Ben and L, who I didn’t see at Devotion but may well have been there. Are they together? Fit girls do go for gay guys. I’m not really sure of anyone else’s name so I resort to calling people mate, man and pal. Some pal’s just ordered two crates of Oranjeboum and Strongbow, three bottles of Smirnoff and three bottles of coke from Booze Brothers. If you’re not smoking a spliff you’re rolling one, and if you’re not snorting a line, you’re cutting one. Four Tet turns into Aphex Twin. You know those Kanye West sunglasses that are just slits of plastic? They’re in. So are lapels. The guys from Maths Class all have different colours of the same style pipe jeans. Except the drummer who’s in an aqua blue suit with lime green leg warmers and crisp white Reebok high-tops. He looks good. There’s a girl from an art collective called ‘Daa’. They squat abandoned buildings and put on exhibitions. She’s currently living in an empty hotel in Mayfair. People give me the time of day as long as I give them pills and listen to self-appointed critics battle it out.
“Trust, everyone's on a post punk nu-rave tip at the moment mate.”
“Nah man, everyone’s listening to nerdcore-glitch with like, four by four basslines.”
I think Maya’s making eyes at me, but I’m not certain because I’m having trouble focusing and she hasn’t really looked at me since the club when she was picking up pills. Square Pusher turns into Prefuse 73. There’s a mirror being passed around as a chemical launch pad and I catch my reflection. I need to go to the toilet and fix up. Not before a line though. Fuck. Snorting MDMA feels like inhaling the whole world’s toxic waste up your nose in one go. My nostril is on fire, I think my septum might fall out. I don’t wanna do this again. I probably will though.
Toilets are a sanctuary. I check the wad of twenties and tens spilling out of my pocket. I can't be bothered to count it now. It looks about right. But what’s right? Pissing is awesome. I barely think about Page, or V. Just as I finish shaking off and zipping up the door opens slowly.
"Sorry… I’m just about done."
"Don't be." Says Maya, closing the door behind her.
Don’t be? What the fuck does that mean, keep pissing? She pushes up against me and our mouths are one. She shoves her tongue to the back of my throat. I’m pulling her top over her head and groping her soft pert breasts. Her hands are down my trousers pulling my cock up and unbuckling my belt. Maya, I say to myself as a reminder. At least I hope it's to myself. Our tongues are fighting for space in the others mouth and I push her up against the door, hitch her skirt up and raise her left leg and put her foot up on the side of the bath. She does have big feet. Fuckit. I slip her dental floss thong to one side. Her bald pussy's moist and glistening but I’m... I’m. I’m not. I’m nothing. Fuck. My dick's on the drug shrivel. Shit. I wish for the ground to open up and swallow me. I wish for a stray terrorist attack on her flat right now.
"What the hell? Why the fuck is it soft?!" She demands.
"Maybe coz you're shouting at it." I reply.
“Fucking useless.” She says exacerbated. I’m still desperately mashing my flaccid crotch against hers.
“Don’t bother.” She says. “You ever got a slug into a slot machine?”
“What?”
“Do less, yeah.” And she struts out. I look face the mirror but can't even look myself in the eye. I just hang my head in shame.

Chapter 4.

I wake up around 2 in the afternoon. Alone in my own bed. I do my best not to put the pieces of last night back together, it’s better that I don’t remember. My cranium’s caving in. Light is not my friend. I have a cup of tea and smoke a rollie while Boards of Canada turn into Pliant. Steve Jones is a pineapple on T4. I count my cash. I’ve got over half a grand already. Amazing, although none of it's really mine, yet. I count out another hundred pills. After a cold shower and some marmite on toast I feel slightly more human. Text V, “Hey it’s Esser from the freshers party, you still up for a study session sometime? x.” I should call but I can’t be bothered. I check Facebook, fifteen new notifications. I confirm some friend requests from people at Maya’s last night, which only serves to remind me of the travesty, and notice that Page’s status is “I love myself therefore I am.”
V replies and invites me round hers. On the way I take a detour to Snoopers Paradise, this shop turned flea market On Kensington street in the North Lanes. I pick up a copy of Susan Sontag’s ‘Illness as Metaphor’ for £2.50. I hope she hasn’t already got it. V lives near Seven Dials in a homely little two bedroom flat with lots of plants and big bay windows. Everything is in its place and there’s actually toilet paper in the bathroom, which is a nice change. I can’t remember the last time I sat down and didn’t have to scramble frantically, trousers around my ankles, looking for a spare scrap of paper in a reeking panic. She’s got a fat tabby cat called Gonzo who’s rubbing himself up against my leg.
“Antics last night?” She asks while pouring two cups of Earl Grey.
“Ergh, Devotion at Concorde 2.”
“Any good?”
“…Debauched.”
“Feelin’ ropey?”
“Fully.”
We watch Big Brother, the housemates are in the garden smoking. We mute the TV and V tells me about her Art History course.
"Why art history?" I ask.
"I like art but most of it's useless, history's credible, so it justifies the art part."
Her eyes are captivating, big and brown like a couple of deep wells you really want to fall into. Gonzo’s purring on her lap and she’s showing me some of her photography on her Mac Book. It’s a series of images depicting some Sylvia Plath poem. It’s pretty good, actually inspiring me to be studious. G's text me. He’s still at Maya’s, I don’t think he’s slept yet. Page also texts me trying to persuade me to join her at Rikitiks. She probably just wants pills, or money, probably both but I could do with a drink.
“You popular?” Asks V.
“Not exactly. I might go to Rikitiks inabit, if you fancy a drink?”
“Nah, I’ve got work to do.
"Fair enough."
"Ben said him and L are going to some house party later on near London Road, should be a good un, you’ll be able to make stacks of cash.”
“Oh, right, I’ll give them a call then.”
"Yeah."
"...We didn't even get any work done." I say.
"Not even nearly." She replies.
"Maybe we could try again sometime? We owe it our essays."
"Ha, speak for yourself Esser."
"Alright, well I definitely owe it my essay, and I think my essay deserves a bit of your help."
"You do huh?
"I do."
"Yeah, go on then." She folds.
"Wicked, I'll text you in the week?"
"Why don't you try calling, you'll get an immediate answer."
"Or none at all."
"Oh don't such be a defeatest."
I don't really want to go, but I doubt she’s that easy. No, she’s scholarly and ambitious. A diligent rose. I say goodbye to Gonzo and kiss V on the cheek, only slightly awkwardly.
Rikitiks is lit like a cheap Dan Flavin retrospective with poor art deco floral accents on the wallpaper. Mr Scruff turns into Quantic. The bar’s not too busy yet. Page is with Sarah, K.T. and Not-Gay-Tom, I think. Sarah’s timidly sipping Tom Yum soup which makes me think I should eat something. K.T’s absently flicking through a copy of Vice entitled the ‘Special Issue’. Page is in her rockabilly outfit, all polka dots and handkerchiefs holding up her hair, smoking a Vogue and definitely a little wired. She’s just come from a piercing parlour called Penetration and got a nose stud. It’s pretty fit.
“So, what d’ya reckon babes?” She says, turning her face to the side to show it off.
“It’s fit definitely. Did it hurt?”
“Did it fuck, I was high anyway so I didn’t feel shit. Where you been at?” She asks.
“V’s.”
“Oh yeah… Doin’ what?”
“Just, studying.”
“Mmm, I bet babes” She takes a long drag of her cigarette. “So you up for this party tonight? We’ll need you there.”
“I dunno, I think I’ve got uni tomorrow.”
“Oh come on you geek, don't flop it’ll be fun.”
“…Fine. Who’s is it?”
“Don’t worry, you’re invited.”
“…Okay. I’m gonna get a drink.”
“Get me a Tuscan Mule will you babes?”
“What’s that?”
“It’s. A. Tuscan. Mule.” She says.
“…Right.”
At the bar Cinematic Orchestra turns into Gotan Project. I order a couple of Tuscan Mules and eye up the hot barmaid who has a bad tribal tattoo on her coccyx. Page gets some matches from the bar. She's listening to her iPod with both earphones in, even though there's music playing throughout the place, and she's shouting at me,
“There's a party near Phoenix Halls, plus K.T and Sarah have got an eighth of coke we can rinse!”
“Okay.” I say, thinking 'I need an iPod'.
“How many beans y’got on you?!”
“A ton.” I reply.
Rikitiks turns into the Mash Tun and we're all pretty drunk when we head to K.T and Sarah’s in the North Laines. There’s Hello and OK magazines littering the floor, a black lacy thong hanging from the curtain rail and no clean glasses. We rinse two grams of coke and drink cheap Jacobs Creek white wine straight from the bottle while listening to a Fabric Live CD. The girls change their outfits at least five times each and Not Gay Tom tells me about his collaboration with Ben on some Joseph Beuys-reminiscent installation piece involving grand pianos. But I’m not really listening. I’m disappointed in myself. I'm going to go out tonight and probably not make it into uni tomorrow and I'm not going to do anything about it. I can still try but I'm reserved to the fact of failure. Nevermind. The girls come out, all in short skirts, all smoking Vogues, raising the mustard butts to their liquid lips all in unison. We leave for Phoenix Halls.

Chapter 5.

The party's live. I can hear the Klaxon's “Atlantis to Interzone” emanating from down Southover Street. We roll in, straight through the hall to the main room where skinny boys take pictures with lo-fi cameras of skinny girls popping their hips out to the unremitting beat. Tutus are in, the brighter the better. Sequins are in, so are piano belts and keyboard ties. Jesus. Everyone bounces from floor to ceiling then suddenly stops to strike a provocative pose for lenses that aren’t always there. MGMT turns into Hadouken!. Nameless eyes catch mine through plastic slits of stunning colour. American Apparel hoodies adorn either bare flesh or bad t-shirts. Page is twisted but still manages to radiate a dissolute sexuality. I think I see G but whoever it is quickly disappears into the nu-rave collage. Drop a bean. Go for a wander.
In the kitchen guys play with their triangular hair as they talk to girls doing the same thing. Everyone's satirically genuine. I get a Corona from a plastic recycling box full of ice and bottles and head out the back door into the garden.
There's thirty people talking over each other in a space only made for ten. Ben and L are smoking European cigarettes on trailer trash patio furniture. L’s wearing a torn caption T-shirt that says “You looked fitter on MySpace.”
“Esser! Thank the devil you’re here.” They both crow.
“... Oh, don’t say that.”
“Come on don’t be shy pretty boy, you loaded?” Asks Ben.
“…Yeah. How many do you want?”
He looks at L for an answer, who just shrugs and drags on her cigarette.
“…Thirteen?” He says.
“…Ok.” I give Ben the pills and he gives me a crumpled twenty with a ten and thanks me by licking my face.
“I saw V earlier.”
“Yeah, we know.” He says swallowing a little un and passing one to L.
“Oh… I tried to get her out but no joy.”
“No, it’s her Sunday study-jam. Don't take it personally.”
As soon as people know I have drugs they're all over me like a rash, a rash that I enjoy scratching. I'm man of the minute, or moment… whichever is less. I move back to the front room and skirt the outside of the crowd. Justice vs CMS is playing and everyone's chanting along to the words "We, are, you're friends, you'll, never be alone again, so come on!" G’s in the heart of hyped revelry, his hair’s wet with sweat and he’s lurching after some blonde who looks like Fern Cotton.
“G! Yo G!” I shout uselessly. I tap him on the shoulder but it still takes him half a minute to recognize me. I gesticulate to the sofa in the corner of the room and once he’s understood, he grabs the girls hand and tows her behind him. He introduces me to his victim but I don't catch her name. She's wearing red pantaloons with a little black waistcoat that barely conceals her breasts. She’s got her own YouTube channel called Sextacy16.
"It's received, like thirty thousand views." She says.
"Wow... That’s, popularity." I say.
"Yeah, but the comments can get you down."
"I can imagine they might."
"Like, sometimes I can't be arsed, but now I think I owe it to the fans, ya know?"
"Not really." I say.
“Esser, we need some disco biscuits.” Interrupts G.
“No prob.”
“Well, at this very moment in time, I don’t actually have any money on me…”
“…Oh, no worries. Just pay me tomorrow."
"I was hoping you'd say that."
"So, how many d’you want?”
“Um, twenty.” He gargles through Strongbow.
“Twenty?” I repeat.
“Yeah, I’ll shift a few and make the doe to pay you back.”
“…Oh, ok, that makes sense.” And we go to the bathroom for a bit of discretion. Close the door. G slumps on the toilet, I give him the pills and he examines them vacantly and licking his lips.
"Page is well on it tonight." I say.
"No change there then." He mumbles.
"You two tight?" I ask. "Esser, no one's really tight to Page."
"She was close to the Beard for a bit?"
"Yeah, those two deserve each other."
"Meaning?"
"Y’know…" I’m not sure if he’s just a bit fucked or purposefully staying vague.
“So what happened between you and Maya last night?”
“Nothing, and that being the problem.”
“Yeah I heard about your failure to rise to the occasion.”
“How’d you know?”
“Everyone knows, bad news travels fast in Brighton mate.”
“Great.”
“I wouldn’t worry mate, everyone gets stage fright now and then, at least you’re almost getting some.”
He drops a pill, downs the rest of his Strongbow and chucks the can into the sink saying, "I need to get fucking laid." matter-of-factly and hauls himself up to stumble out of the bathroom and back into madness.
As I exit the toilet I see Page leaving a room with a bunch of obese hip-hop heads, the more bulbous one looks like Tyni so I duck downstairs to the basement. Adult turns into Bloc Party. I open a door to an avalanche of weed smoke. It's a semi-converted garage, less dank than it sounds but still pretty dingy. Records lie loose from their sleeves and half crushed cans of Carlsberg cover half the carpet, which is spotted with so many cigarette burns it looks like a connect the dots. The lighting is offensive, a plethora of bare light bulbs like something out of a Jeff Wall photograph. Flies hover aimlessly. "Esser!" It's Dick, I think.
"Lads, this is the cheeky bit of knob cheese that’s making a mockery of the Beard." He says to the nameless props. "Come in mate, close the door behind ya."
It’s his party, he tells me with bug-eyed intensity. His shiny skinhead and acid-washed black jeans would make him look like a cracked-out member of the BNP if he wasn't surrounded by a bunch of white hippies with dreadlocks. No one else is talking, there's just his voice and insane gabba-breakcore ripping through every atom in the alienated underground.
"Beer?" He offers.
"Yeah, why not." I say.
"Line?"
"Yeah, safe." I reply.
He passes me a CD case with ridiculously big grey lines cut all over it. They're hardly crushed, they look like lines of debris not cocaine. I do one and wince.
"Easy mate, bit of an experiment that."
"Ergh, how’d you mean?"
"Few beans, bit of beak, some K.
"Isn't ketamin a horse tranquilizer?" I ask innocently.
"Haha! Yeah and we're fucking stallions mate!" Says Dick wrapping his arm over my shoulders. "Ya know?" He gives me wobbly wink.
Not really, but I will in a few minutes. There's a fly on the ceiling trapped between the myriad of naked light bulbs. Dick walks over to the far wall where he opens a coffin-like cupboard to reveal an arsenal of heavy, air-gun artillery. A sick assortment of air rifles, BB guns and a fuck-load of pepper spray. And a bloody crossbow. How about that, my throats dried up, I can't swallow. Take a long glug of beer. My head's trying to escape my shoulders. So, Dick's a gun nut. As much as you can be in England, and he's talking me through the miracles of his Magnum.357.
"It's a perfect replica, down to the finest detail bruv. This seamless piece of machinery has a muzzle velocity of four hundred and forty one metres per second. Imagine that." He says, spinning the barrel, clicking it in place and pointing it at the mirror on the adjacent wall.
"I'd rather not." I say.
He swivels round to point it at me, staring blankly down the barrel. Great.
"So, seeing as you’ve ripped off a few hundred beans from the shit-sniffing Beard, how ‘bout you tic me thirty?"
It’s hardly asking when you've got a fully working replica-Magnum pointed at someone's head.
"I didn’t rip off the Beard." I say.
“Sure-sure -sure Esser, the pigs just happened to raid his house that night. Whatever, I don’t give a fuck, think the guy’s a cunt-muffin anyway, why don’t you just give me the bloody beans, as a gesture of good will, for the hospitality I’ve shown you tonight throwing this lovely little hoot-nanny.” And he waves the gun in the air a bit.
Dunno if I class pointing a very real replica gun at someone’s head hospitality, but I’m hardly in a position to argue. The K kicks in and the floor tilts.
"How about a trade?" I offer, blinking and rubbing my eyes as if it'll help my wonky head.
"What you got in mind?" He asks, intrigued.
"I'll give you thirty little uns and in return, you give me that gun..."
"Don't be a fucking spaz Esser, this is a hundred and twenty pounds worth of fake gun."
"...Oh. How about a can of mace then?"
He smiles yellow teeth and chucks me a red can. I Exhale.
"Good choice. That bastard will make the corpse of a blind man cry." He says, like he knows it for a fact.
He lowers the gun and I start to breathe regularly again. I pocket the can and chuck a baggie of pills towards Dick, but completely misjudge the distance and they end up flying into the cupboard just missing his face.
"Shit, sorry."
Dick glares.
"I've, gotta go." I Say.
"Blatantly." He answers.
I leave without ever fully turning my back on him. Outside the early morning sun is a welcome replacement for the inhuman lighting of Dick’s dungeon. My head's playing space cadet. I don't remember getting home.
Chapter 6.

Erghagh. Wake up. It feels like my brain's been marinated in warm petrol and used as a football between Millwall fans. Drink my body weight in water. Make a cup of tea and check Facebook; eleven new notifications, five friend requests and a few tagged photos. Lie in bed for another hour. It's 1.30pm. I can still make the afternoon's cultural and critical theory lecture if I get up now. But I can’t be bothered to get up now. Maybe I'll just give it half an hour and turn up fifteen minutes late. Dunno what the lecture's on, I think it's French postmodern theorists, Barthes and Baudrillard. Simulacra, simulation and hyper-reality. The Gulf war never happened. I wish last night never happened. I wish I was studious like V. Work hard and live a wholesome lifestyle. Fuck it, I will get up now and make it to the lecture on time. I force myself up out of my pit and into a cold shower. Eat some toast and Nurofen for breakfast. Stuff a pad and a few pens into my Eastpak bag. Why the hell have I got a can of “Dragons Bile”? Forget it, head to uni. The lecture's at Grand Parade campus, in the Sallis Benny theatre. I'm almost late but the tutor hasn't quite started yet. I look for a familiar face but don't see anyone I can actually put a name to so take a seat centre right and get out my dog-eared note pad. Page isn't here but that's no surprise.
The tutor's called Mrs Bumstead which is distracting when you're trying to concentrate on Roland Barthes' Death of the Author. "So to fully appreciate a text we should forget where and from whom it came?" Asks a guy in thick-rimmed glasses.
"According to Barthes' threory, yes, meaning should rely with the reader." Replies Mrs Bumstead.
"But doesn't this undermine the author's intentions?" I offer.
"Potentially yes, but Barthes argues the author shouldn't have any intentions beyond the will to write the text, after that when he releases the writing into the public domain he relinquishes all power and it is up to the audience to discern the text's meaning. Now I want you to think about these ideas when you write your essays. The title of which is a direct quote from Death of the Author - 'The Text is a Tissue of Quotations Drawn From the Innumerable Centres of Culture.' Consider this sentence in relation to your own cultures and write 3500 words before the end of term."
That's no mean feat. I try my best to focus on the rest of the lecture and I make a fair amount of notes but trail off in the last half hour. My mind starts to switch off and my eyes struggle to lift their lids. I'm glad to get out of there by the end of it.
I wanna go straight home and sleep some more but in the corridor I bump into V.
"Hey Esser."
"Wassup V?"
"Not much, I just got out of a semiotics seminar. How about you?"
"Death of the Author and where a text's meaning resides."
She nods and smiles. There's a brief bout of semi awkward silence. She looks at her watch.
"You got somewhere to be?" I ask.
"Not really, all done for the day, lecture wise."
"You wanna get a drink?" Please say yes.
"Sure thing." Yes!
"Pub, Hector's House maybe?"
"Bit early for me. How about coffee?"
"Yeah safe, where?"
"Do you know Wai Kika Moo Kau?" "No, but it sounds interesting." I laugh and click my ballpoint pen a few times just to keep my fingers busy.
Wai Kika Moo Kau is situated in the heart of the North Laines. We walk through a sunny Pavilion Gardens where birds chirp in the trees and the leaves and grass are illuminated by the rich golden sunshine. Inside the café it's a fairly large space with exposed beams and wooden tables, which is an odd combination with the light blue paint throughout but it doesn't bother me for too long. V gets a soyachino and a vegetarian burrito, I get a milkshake and wonder why it's called Why Kick a Moo Cow when most of the options on the menu involve dairy, still there's enough vegan alternatives to keep the hippies happy I guess. We sit outside.
"So, how you finding Brighton?" Asks V after finishing her mouthful.
"Yeah loving it. Town's pretty hectic day and night, doesn't seem like you could ever be at a loss for things to do."
"Yeah true, although sometimes that's more of a curse than a gift, there's always something to distract you."
"That's cool, I've gotta pretty short attention span anyway."
She giggles and bites her bottom lip delicately. Our eyes meet, make love for a second then she looks down to sip her soyachino.
"You're vegan then?" I ask, keen to keep the conversation flowing.
"Not really, not even a vegetarian fully. I don't eat any red meat, or white much, but I do love my fish."
"Ahhh, so you're a pestatarian?"
She giggles again. I like making her laugh.
"Pescatarian." She corrects sweetly.
"Same difference."
We talk the usual first date banter, where we grew up, family, friends, musical interests. Not that this an official first date, but it's got that vibe. She assures me she'll help proof-read my essay, once it's written. If it's ever written. Although I think I'll give it a go, can't be too hard and V's impetus and commitment to her course is inspiring me. I'd write the fucking thing just to impress her.

"The Text is a Tissue of Quotations Drawn From the Innumerable Centres of Culture." Discuss.
In Roland Barthes' essay 'Death of the Author', he argues that for a piece of work or the 'text' to be appreciated properly it must be considered in itself, completely separate from when, where and by whom it was created. We shouldn't have any knowledge of the author’s identity, their history, class, race, religion and political preferences, because these lead to preconceptions about the writing. To know the author is to know the source of the text and therefore expect a single definitive interpretation: “To give a text an Author is to impose a limit on that text, to furnish it with a final signified, to close the writing.” (pg.147). Our Western mind-set desires clarification of one ultimate and ‘correct’ meaning, for the sake of believability. But without assumptions on the writing’s origin, we're left to our own devices to create meaning entirely. For Barthes, the meaning of a work depends on how it is received rather than how it is intended. The view of a text’s unity “lies not in its origin but in its destination” (pg.148), implying that we the reader, are in complete control. This idea, over four decades old, seems to hold even more relevance now than it did then. At present we live in the age of digital revolution and my young adult culture is a hyper-real mash-up of all those that precede it. I land in the demographic of Generation Y, who are generally thought to be anyone born after 1980 and often derogatorily labeled Generation Whine. We are the most molly-coddled, protected and marketed to generation to date, yet we have little to offer in the way of cultural contributions. Our main conduit to information, entertainment and communication is the internet. We consume our cultural tid-bits in cyber space, the hyper-mediated terrain of the world wide web that combines all previous generation's media; such as radio, television and film. Slowly society has moved from an industrial civilisation to an information civilisation and so Generation Y enjoys instant gratification via powerful computer processors, file sharing and high speed broadband. Generation X had MTV, brands and excess. The Beat Generation had Jack Kerouac, jazz and the open road. What do we have? We have no revolution, no real struggle, and so it would seem no originality. Generation Y is the Remix Generation.
"The text is a tissue of quotations drawn from the innumerable centres of culture."
In 2009 what do the young adults have for an excuse of culture?Disillusioned B-boys who weren't even born when the movement had already lost momentum. Or the hipster, playing with their iPhone while wearing an unsuitably warm wooly hat indoors. Maybe the freakish young entrepreneurs so ahead of their time that their parents haven't even met yet. We're new-rave punks, dance-pop crunkers and landfill emo-goths. No mods and rockers, hippies and yuppies. We're post-postmodern, neo-modern, meta-modern, whatever idiosyncratic portmanteau you want to use to label our epoch. The internet super-highway is our playground. The current accessibility and scale of information technology allows anyone to be a bedroom DJ, designer, or director. This advance in technology has allowed consumers to become producers and Generation Y is at the heart of this prosumer culture. As the states of author and reader overlap and interchange Barthes' 'Death of the Author' is truly realised. But when the author dies, what happens to their culture?

Chapter 7.

I wake up to my phone ringing. “Hello?”
“Where you at?”
“Morning Page.”
“It’s three in the afternoon fuck-nuts.”
“Shit.”
“You're so 404 Esser."
"Come again."
"Where are you?" She repeats.
“Where’d you think.”
“Well get out of bed and come meet me at Oxygen Red.”
“Alright, gimme an hour.”
“Make it half.” She hangs up, sexy bitch.
I have a cold shower and a cup of tea. I channel hop. In the Big Brother house the captives are woken up by an alarm that they have to respond to within thirty seconds in order to eat next week. Bloc Party's playing to a hundred thousand people at some festival. I haven't even seen a hundred thousand people. I count my money, nearly a grand now. I stuff the wad in a sock and bury it in my drawer. Check FaceBook, nine new notifications, confirm a few friend requests, check a few photos I've been tagged in and then immediately regret it and do a serious bit of de-tagging. Stanton Warriors turn into Drop the Lime. My head’s foggy as I pull an Easy Jeans T-shirt down over my face, it’s musty with smoke and apprehension, so are my Gap jeans. I should have breakfast but I can’t be bothered to eat. Fuckit, head to Oxygen Red.

Town’s hectic, too many people, it must be Saturday. Everyone’s looking at me funny, is everyone looking at me funny? Am I paranoid? If I’m asking myself ‘am I paranoid’ then I am paranoid. Shit, is that the Beard? Nah, can't be. I duck into the nearest shop, Borders and paw over The Dice Man while trying to discern whether it is or isn’t the fucking Beard, but there are too many emo kids loitering outside Churchill Square to see clearly. The Beard can't have made bail already, can he? Rather than worry about it I read the first chapter and try my darndest to forget about the serious implications of the Beard’s potential return.
At Oxygen Red, Page is sitting in the window seat with Ben and L and some guy called Juan or One, who's wearing a pastel-blue polo shirt by Ted Baker and Diesel Jeans with CK boxers poking out the top. L introduces us.
"Good to meet you." I say hardly looking at him.
"You too." He lies.
I'm told he's a DJ/producer, but who isn't?
“What sorta stuff?” I don’t know why I ask.
"It’s like, dance-punk grindcore, ifyaknowwhatImean."
Was that an actual question? Who cares, I don’t know what he means anyway. Apparently, he frequently flies out to Berlin to play but can rarely get a good gig in his own country.
"The English just don't appreciate him." Explains Page in earnest. No, they don't. I go to the bar and get a double JD and Coke. Down it and order another.
"Thirsty much babes?" Says Page.
"I just clocked The Beard, I think."
"You think? I think you're paranoid."
"Fuck off, I’m sure it was him." I hiss back.
"Yeah, so what? He probably just made bail."
"So fucking what? If he's out he's gonna want his money and my bollox spinning on two separate turntables."
"That's ridiculous Esser. He won't risk it, he'll get someone else to do it."
"Oh, fucking brilliant."
"Ssshhh. Calm down you little drama queen, don't make a scene. Now you coming with us to Audio tonight?”
“I’ve got uni tomorrow.”
“So, we had uni today.”
“Did we?”
“Who cares, come to Audio, it’ll be jokes.” She says.
Oxygen Red turns into the Pull and Pump before we head to Audio.

Before we reach the club I give Page the little uns to take in although it turns out she knows the girl on the door “from when we were, like 5 years old” which is weird, because Page is still a kid yet I can’t imagine her being a child, so neither of us have to pay and we get in unsearched. The club looked swanky on the outside but the inside is just a glorified basement with an overpriced bar. I make sure I get the pills back off Page because I know she’ll soon disappear. I double drop with a wash of San Miguel and put the rest in Tictac boxes. Shit Disco turn into Digitalism. I don’t know who’s DJing. A spindle-stick thin guy wears a T-shirt that says "Will Suck Cock for Rock". I think I see G but whoever it is melts into the seamless crowd on the dancefloor. Beads are in. Crucifixes are in. Rosemaries and religion are in, so are those geeky Elvis Costello glasses. I get what would be a well overpriced beer but Ben's working behind the bar and giving us generous mates rates. Find the chill-out area and collapse into one of the sofas while Page rallies us up some custom, which doesn’t take too long.
Everyone’s got their poker face on. Lady Gaga turns into La Roux and the falsetto vocals pierce ‘80’s synths making the club morph into a celestial timewarp. Page introduces me to Juan or One, again. Again I miss which one it actually is.
“And this is Esser.”
“Oh yeah…”
“Yeah, we’ve met.” I say.
“Yeah, yeah, you’re the guy with all the beans right?”
“…So I hear.” I reply.
“Safe, three for a tenner?”
“Yeah. You’re a DJ right?”
“And producer.”
“Of course. What sorta stuff?” I don’t know why I’ve asked.
“Mainly dark-step and neuro-funk.”
“Right.” I’m sure earlier it was dance-punk grindcore, this evening it’s dark-step neuro-funk, I guess the music industry moves so fast these days.
“Dogs on Acid forum voted him the third sickest sixty minute set in the region.” Chimes Page.
“What region? Like England?” I ask.
“Sure, why not.” She says playing with her mobile.
G comes over.
“You got any little uns Esser?”
“What happened to the ones I gave you the other night?”
“Hard to say really, last night’s a Scooby Doo mystery waiting to be solved.”
“Well, you’re gonna need to get me the mula for ‘em G.”
“Esser, listen mate I’ve been meaning to talk to you about this. Dealer and customer, it’s just like owner and worker ya know? It’s not a good dialectic, especially between friends. In fact, it’s a very unhealthy and ultimately doomed basis for a relationship, which is why you shouldn’t sell me any pills but give them to me for free.”
“But you already owe me half a ton.”
“This is exactly what I’m talking about man.” He shrugs.
I sigh and feel the pantheon of pills in my pocket.
"Money's the opiate of the masses mate." He says rolling a cigarette.
"No, that's religion."
"Not any more it ain't." He replies sparking his fag.
His intoxicated logic makes some twisted sense so I play the serotonin Samaritan while Page chats up bouncers inbetween frequent bathroom breaks and tequila shot pit-stops. I double drop again with G and watch Page’s degenerate magnetism attract the attention of every crotch in the club, both male and female. Dance it off and pretend like I don’t care. I don’t care. Sell most of my little uns, stuff my pockets with paper. Go to the toilet with G and do a couple of lines, I don’t bother asking him where he got it from. I’m feeling worse for wear and when I see myself in the mirror I’m a bit repulsed.
“Fuck man, my jaws gone to Guernsey.”
“Guernsey’s supposed to be very nice this time of year.” Says G, his voice devoid of any sarcasm.
“I was speaking metaphorically.”
“I wasn’t.”
“I should take myself home.”
“Don’t be a pussy.” He says racking up another couple of mini-motorways on the cistern.
“Oi! What the fuck do you think you two are doing?!”
“Shit.” We say in unison.
The bouncer’s not huge but he’s bigger than both of us, put together, and he’s got a face like the corner of a tank. I've got a little less than a hundred beans spilling outta my pockets in several Tictac packets. I know we’re fucked, he knows we're fucked, and he knows we know we’re fucked so he’s going to enjoy this, the wanker.

Chapter 8.

“Both of you come with me.” He grabs us round our necks like a mother with her lion cubs, except not with his teeth, and it's a lot less cute without David Attenburough’s voice narrating the scene. The big burley bouncer drags us out the toilet and towards a black door that has ‘staff only’ on it, probably the store room stroke torture chamber. We twist, wriggle and protest but it’s futile, for me anyway. G takes a more proactive approach and bites down hard on the bouncer’s fingers and they unclamp from around his collar. "Oi you fucking ferret!"
“Fuck you fat man!” Shouts G and he legs it towards the main room to dissolve in the mass of student punters.
The bouncer throws me through the black door.
“Right, coz you’re lippy little mate just did a runner, you’re gonna have to take both your punishments.” I don’t like the sound of that.
“What’s your name?”
“Ehm, Tyler Durden.” I say.
“What the fuck are you doing taking illegal substances in my club?”
“I was just powdering my nose.”
“Don’t fuck with me boy, do I look like a cunt you wanna fuck?”
“Definitely not.”
“Exactly, now empty your pockets in there.” He places a steel tray in front of me.
“All I’ve got are these Tictacs.” I say and empty the last three pills from one of the packets into my mouth, dropping the little plastic box on the floor in front of his feet.
He looks at me tiredly.
“Pick that up.”
I exhale slowly and bend down for the plastic box. On the way up my head rushes like a freight train, my pupils explode and for a few seconds all I can see are stars. My mind races trying to figure a way out and as I look forlornly at the door Page comes in straddling a bouncer. It’s the most convoluted sense of relief I’ve ever felt.
“Sorry mate.” Says her bouncer to mine. “Didn’t know you were ‘ere. Who’s this prick?”
“Just found him.” He says coming up behind me and locking my arms up against my back.
“What do we have here then?” Says Page, jumping off his waste and winking at me. “Two bouncers, a lowly student and lucky little me.” She says applying more lip-gloss then approaching my bouncer and planting a sticky wet kiss on his cheek.
“Relax Mark.” She tells him and squeezes his biceps that slowly unclench from around my arms. She points to her bouncer’s crotch with her eyes.
“Yeah, what about his hard-on?” I ask abruptly.
“You dick-head Esser.” She replies and knees her bouncer hard in the bollox.
“Esser?” Says my bouncer bemused momentarily while I swivel round and sink a shell-toe deep into his groin.
“Come on.” She says taking my hand, “We’re offskie.”
Page and I leave the two doughnuts of club security in the dark room, doubled over holding their deadened dicks together.
“You owe me.” She says lighting a cigarette as I piss on a lamppost round the corner of the club.
“Yeah, cheers. I’ll make it up to you tomorrow or summit.”
“Why wait till then?”

We go back to mine and cane coke and cigarettes while Arman Van Heldon turns into Switch. Page dances on my bed, her tits bouncing up and down to the funky filth. Her mini-skirt gradually slips off her winding hips and falls to the bed revealing her tight little ass shaking in a pair of white french knickers.
"Phew. I'm starting to sweat again" she says caressing her forehead with the back of her hand, "I need to take a shower." And she hops off and skips to the bathroom. Chromeo turns into The Count and Sinden. My eyes are in orbit and I can’t sort through my thoughts. Although, I only really have one thought. Page soon returns in nothing but a white towel. Beads of water cover her body and roll down her bare legs. She drops the towel to the floor and moves over to the bed, lying down on her back and slowly spreading her legs. She puts her index finger into her wet mouth and pulls it out to run down her stomach, over her navel through her trimmed triangle of public hair and then deep into her pussy. She draws her gleaming finger out and delicately rubs her clit with the tip, never breaking eye contact with me. Beautiful fucking whore. She takes off her silver DKNY watch and puts it the upturned box that constitutes my make-shift bedside table. I settle down between her legs and lightly kiss the inside of her soft thighs, slowly working my way to her pussy, which I'm glad to see is shaved except for that triangle of well kept hair sitting just above. Her cunt lips taste sweet and with a hint of come. My mouth edges round her pussy before I press my tongue flat against her clit and run it up and down. She starts to murmur quietly and further spreads her legs opening herself up to my mouth even more. I penetrate her with my tongue and it goes from sweet to ever-so-slightly salty. I reach a hand up to cup a breast, then pinch and twist her nipple until it stands erect. She takes my hand and sucks on my index finger. I get the message and when she's taken it out of her mouth I run my finger teasingly between her pussy lips, from the bottom, up, over and around her clit then down, up, over and around her clit then down again and I repeat this motion until I can't resist anymore and I gently slip two fingers inside her. I keep it shallow at first then deeper, deeper and up, searching for her G-spot. I find it, I think, a soft and spongy bullet of skin and she lets me know I'm in the right place by moaning louder. Her eyes are flutter half shut half open, her legs quiver either side of head. With my fingers stimulating her G-spot my tongue and lips lick her clit gradually getting faster and rougher. Three fingers now and my hand's basically fucking her pussy while my mouth nibbles at her clit. She groans those sexy sounds of female pleasure and arcs her back shoving her crotch hard against my face, which I burry in it until she grabs my head and looks me in the eyes ordering, "fuck me." So we fuck. And of course she's like a pro, making all the right noises in all the right positions. Missionary, cowgirl, reverse cowgirl going into doggy, then back to a few variations on missionary until its just hard and fast fucking. She takes it and after I'm sure she's come, I climax but she's scratching my fucking back to shreds, which does it for some guys but not me, after a while it just plain hurts. So I pull out, come on her tits and then try to get her in the eye but miss and get her hair, which will suffice.
"Damn you Esser, this is a fucking pain in the arse to get out."
"So don't, I think it's a good look on you."
She fake smiles. "So where we at?"
"What d'you mean, like, where we at?" I say, taken aback.
"Fuck no, I mean how much mula ‘ave we made?" She says reaching for the tissues.
"Oh, of course... How much mula have we made?..."
"Fine, if it boosts your ego, how much ‘ave you made?" She concedes.
I go to my desk and open the bottom drawer and take the money wad out the sock. I take a minute to flick through it.
"My my monsieur, you have been busy.” She says. “How much is there?"
"A little over a G." There's more like two. I put it back in the sock and close the drawer.
"It looks like more. How many beans have you shot now?"
"I dunno, like half of them." It's more like seven hundred.
"Babes, how have you sold five hundred beans and only made a grand?"
"Freebies." I answer. Her eyes penetrate mine.
"Well, we're gonna need to pay Tyni another visit then." She says, pushing me onto my back flat on the bed. I lie with my hands behind my head.
"Why? We've still got five hundred pills to get rid of and have already made plenty of money."
She straddles me and places a king size Rizla on my chest and drops some baccy in it. "Yeah, and we can make plenty more, why stop? We've done all the ground work, built up a client base, got ourselves a nice slice of the market, all the hard work's done, now we just sit back, relax and reap the benefits."
"Even so, Tyni's never gonna tic me any more pills, I still owe him a grand remember. He's sent me dozens of angry texts, left some fairly threatening voice mails and..." "Relax, Tyni doesn't even know your fucking name, Dudd-ley-heath-Esser."
Plump DJs turn into Scratch Perverts. She sprinkles in fluffy green on top of the baccy and rips a nearby flyer for roach. "So how we gonna get Tyni to tic us another thousand pills?" I ask.
"We're not, I am." She sparks the spliff.
"And how are you gonna do that?"
"I can be very persuasive." She says blowing smoke from kissing lips and grinding her pelvis down onto my crotch.
"No doubt." I say. "But seriously? He'll know whatever's for you is also for me."
"And what? I'll be straight up on a level with him, just explain that it's in his best interests to give me more beans coz the more I have, the more I can sell and therefore the more money I can make to pay him back."
"Tyni's no mug, he'll never buy that."
"Well he'll just have to won't he, what other choice does he have? Either he doesn't risk it and never gets any money back, or he does risk it for the chance of getting all his money back."
"Which ain't gonna happen."
"Non."
"Coz we're gonna sell all the beans and keep all the cash."
"Oui babes, oui." She says lying down next to me, her head on my shoulder. I look up at the ceiling for the next few hours, trying to sleep. But as soon as I turn the light out I know I won't. I wish it was as easy as flicking the switch to turn the light off. The more I try to sleep the more I can't and so I try not to think about it. But the more I try not to think about it the more I think about it. And think about it, and think about it.

Chapter 9.

When I wake up Page is on her side, her perfect thigh wrapped around my waist. My jaw aches more than my dick. My venetian blinds deny that it's day outside. My mouth is bone dry with a tongue like Satan's toilet paper. I reach for a dirty glass with an inch of old water and glug gratefully. Except it’s not water, its vodka. Swallow down the retch. Get an actual glass of water and roll a joint. My skull's collapsing in on itself. I know it’s probably best not to have a spliff but I want one anyway. There's a green Ford Mondeo outside. I smoke half the jay and jump into a cold shower. When I get out Page is up and has made tea, but only one cup. She's watching an X-Factor repeat with the sound real low while skimming through an old copy of Dazed and Confused, not concentrating on either.
"How ya feelin?" I ask.
"Fuckt." She's definitive.
"Yeah."
"Might-as-well get back on it then." She says with the grin of a good looking devil and slaps shut the magazine. So we do more sniff and smoke the rest of the joint while I count the cash from last night and more little uns for today. Page bounces around the room getting dressed, undressed and dressed again. She's filled my mantle piece with make-up ephemera. She kicks down her flimsy cotton knickers and flicks them at me from the end of her foot, they nearly knock drug paraphernalia everywhere and I'd be pissed off, except they landed neatly on my face. I take a breath before throwing them back at her. Stark naked she exhibits herself applying fake tan all over. Lifting one leg up and placing it on the side of the bed via her pointed toes. I toke longingly on the joint and watch content.

It's about 2 in the afternoon when my mobile starts annoying me. L and Ben, Tom, Dick and Harry, and a girl called Roxy who I can't recall but don't let on. Finally Page is ready and looks phenomenal. I need new clothes. I need new trainers, these Adidas Decades are battered. I think I’ll spend some of Tyni's money on one of those heterosexual shopping sprees guys can have now. We leave mine and head for the beach. A young female tramp rocks back and forth and cries into her knees. Page and I pick up a bottle of Pimms, coke and shit-loads of fruit. I see a poster for Bloc Party's latest album tour for Intimacy. I wish I had an album out. The seafront is throbbing with people, there's a group of musicians called the Carnival Collective playing instruments made from oil drums and other recycled rubbish as they totter on top of ten-foot tall stilts. Sarah, K.T, Ben and L soon join us on the pebbles in front of the Arc bar.
K.T's wearing a studded leather belt that says, "Trust me, I’m a Christian" and Sarah has a black headband with cat’s ears poking out from her silky blonde hair. They all simultaneously spark up cigarettes. Everyone picks up and then sits down. I smoke a rollie and flick through one of girl's GQ magazine, wondering why a girl has got a GQ magazine.
“Where’s G?” I ask. “Last time I saw him he was talking to Ben’s fridge.” Says L.

Jess and Voytek or DJ Praiz turn up with more Pimms. Jess has silky black hair that shines like she's slept in a vat of Tresemmé conditioner. Voytek or Praiz has got an iPort and plays High Contrast's album "Tough Guys Don't Dance" much to the discomfort of those around us. Two more guys turn up with that girl called Roxy or Rain or whatever, who's looking very thin behind her wicker skirt. Her male friends sit down with an instant barbeque and a dozen vegetarian sausages. I sell them twelve beans.
“What you doing tonight Page?” Asks L.
“Dunno, weighing up my options, Friction's playing at Audio.”
“Holy Fuck’s playing at Concorde 2.” Says Ben.
“I wanna go to Stick it On.” Says Sarah.
“What’s that?” I ask.
“It’s a night at the Komedia where you can play fifteen minutes of your own tunes.”
“Yeah, you plug in your iPod and put on a playlist.”
“Sounds cool.” I say, rolling a rollie and observing the sun-kissed scene that is Brighton beach. Ben stands up and starts laughing, pointing at the sea. There’s commotion near the water’s edge, some middle aged fat guy’s struggling about 20ft out, which isn’t far really but I feel like I should help somehow. Everyone else stands up and starts laughing in unison, like a pack of hyena’s who’ve just spotted their next victim.
“Shouldn’t we do something?” I ask.
“Don’t be soft babes, that’s what lifeguards are paid for.” Says Page.
The guy gets dragged out the water by a couple of young shiny lifeguards. The fat man’s coughing and spluttering but the scene soon settles and soon it’s like nothing ever happened. The sun beats down. People dive into the sea off groins and then return to down cans and snort keys. Through the bottom of my glass I see Page double drop. Joints are strapped up, bunned down and passed to the left. Brighton beach is awash with nipples, booze and scintillating potential. My mind swims. Page looks delectable as droplets of the ocean evaporate from her solar skin. She's listening to her iPod which is tucked into her left bikini breast. That's fit. Her D&G aviators are reflective and her eyes are undetectable under them, the only reaction I get is my own reflection. She lies on Sarah's bare stomach, smoking a Marlboro Light and playing with her diamond bellybutton ring that glints in the sun, mocking my horn. V texts me. I tell her to come to the beach but she doesn’t reply and I wonder why.
“Be a babe, babes, and rub some sun-cream on my back.
I take the blue bottle of Nivea and happily do as I’m told. Then V turns up. She’s looking buff in a blue Esprit bikini under a pure white American Apparel hoodie, her slim silhouette briefly blocks out my sun.
"Hey honey, how you doing?' She asks demurely.
"Pissed."
"Good then."
"All the better for seeing you." Shit, did I just say that? I think I’m slurring, my gesticulations are two seconds behind my speech which is five seconds behind my thinking. This doesn’t bode well.
"You're looking trim." I try to flirt but really just crash and burn.
“Thanks.” She replies with a knowing smile.
I hear Page exhale annoyance. "You weren't in our cultural and critical studies lecture today." She says with an air of genuine disappointment. "Shit, is that today?" "It was." She says, sitting down next to me.
“I've still gotta finish my essay.”
“"I can still help you."
"I've kinda only just started it though."
"You've still got till the end of term."
"Yeah that ain’t long though."
"Week or so." She says sparking a Menthol cigarette, when she takes it away from her lips to exhale the white butt's got her ruby red lipstick printed around it.
"How many words is the essay?" I ask, removing my shades.
"Three and half thousand, I think." She says, doing the same. Her eyes look safe, reliable, trusting.
"Thats do-able I guess." "Who're you referencing?"
"Mainly Barthes, bit of Benjamin, Baudrillard and Manovich." I reply.
"Wow, you're not just a hat-rack then Esser."
"Well I haven't written it yet."
"Sounds like you can."
"Hopefully, with a bit of work."
"You out tonight?"
"Probably, you?"
"Maybe, I should do some more work though."
"Ha!" I cough on my rollie, "shouldn't we all."
The sun starts to sink towards the horizon, filtering through the stencilled wreckage of the West Pier, now screen-printed on a crimson sky. The air is quickly tainted with a penetrating chill. The Beach turns into Brighton Coalition, which turns into Page's where we binge in the warm, cosy mess. V doesn't, she wants to write the conclusion of her essay. I wish I was at that stage. Fuckit, I make money at Page's.

After a few hours at hers, Page drags us to some house party on Dyke road. Dunno exactly where it is, we get the address and Google map it. It’s in full flow when we arrive and there's a long hall full of club kids entangling their limbs to navigate through like a high-octane, bass heavy gauntlet. Late of the Pier turns into Bloc Party and Kele Okereke tells everyone to "Get out the way, or get fucked up." Page knows most of the peeps we've got to squeeze past. There’s a lot of Nathan Barley come-socks, some illustrators drinking beer through a hose and a few cliques of super-cool geeks discussing the tech specs of the PS3 over the XBox 360.
“The 360’s a behemoth, it comes with 20GB memory as standard. That’s the equivalent of 5,000 tunes on your iPod.” Comments one.
“Yes Quentin, but does anyone really need that much memory for console gaming?”
“Whether you actually need it or not is irrelevant, the fact is you can have it.” Replies Quentin, sipping on a shandy.
I like geeks, they’re usually smart and humble after experiencing generations of playground torture. When they’re in the safety of their own little circles like now, it becomes an amusing battle of virginal wit and pop culture references.
“Jesus Charley, you’ve got humous all over my cardigan, you’re clumsier ring piece than Ja Ja Binks.”
Brighton seems to cater well for nerdy types, they’re free to be themselves especially in creative cliques where geekdom is celebrated rather than scorned. Of course when you give them an inch they program a mile and often get far too ahead of themselves with flights of fancy and plans to take over the world with their superior intelligence. I blame characters like Napolean Dynamite for appropriating the chic of the geek. Still, geeks are pretty cool I guess. They soon get onto some adventure role playing game called ‘Wet’ where you play a beautiful Lara Croft-esq assassin who wears little more than a black bikini and a massive pair of guns. I get bored of their salivating and take a wander.
Where’s Page? She's looking like a pixel perfect virtual character wearing KMZ from TopShop and telling L, K.T and some guy called Gremlin or Snail about the rejuvenating effects of some amazing moisturiser that contains snake venom and visibly reduces wrinkles in just seven seconds. Ben's wafting around them, making snide remarks between checking out boys trying to get past in the crowded hallway and pinching their arses. I dodge, duck and dive towards the living room. Pixie Lott turns into VV Brown turns into Speech DeBelle. Some blonde's wearing a T-shirt that says "Shhh." G taps my shoulder, his belt-buckle reads "Gonorrhea" and he shouts over the din,
"Can I tic twenty?"
"For shizzle." I reply, fishing in my Levi's pocket for the bag of little uns.
"Is that a pink shirt G?" I ask, genuinely surprised.
"It's salmon." He replies stone cold.
"It's pepto-abismal mate."
“Listen Esser, we live in a time of the metrosexual, right? So guys can do all sorts of queer things without actually being batty. Guys can wear salmon pink shirts, guys can enjoy shopping, guys can even get fucking manicures if they want.” He’s right of course but,
“Just coz they can doesn’t mean they should.” I reply.
“Yeah fair play.”
We double drop and bop through the throng of paper thin skirts and black thongs. The DJ ups the tempo as Subfocus turns into Chase and Status's "Pieces" and precocious voices chant to the lyrics "I remember when I used to feel suttin, I remember when I used to feel suttin!"
Heads jack back and forth to the whip-snapping snares and bodies brock-out violently. We get lost in hours of lascivious revelry. Music, empathy and a deceptive sense of well-being wash over me. Forget Tyni and the Beard, forget money, forget essays. It'll all be fine. For sure.

It's light when I get out the party. I know I'm not going to be able to sleep so I walk around the north lanes for a couple of hours waiting for the shops to open. I smoke a jay staring the trendy mannequins dead in the eye. The quaint boutiques and uber-cool clothes shops start to open their shutters. Moda Soda turns into Kinky turns into Cyber Dog. I dot in and out checking the threads and the fit blonde in ripped jeans bending down to pick up her pen. I'd pick up her pen. Get bored and leave. There's some busker playing a saw. At the end of Bond street I see Voytek or Praiz handing out flyers for a d'n'b night called Autopsy and wonder how the hell he’s up this time, probably hasn’t slept. I acknowledge him but don't stop coz I'm not capable of any d'n'b shit-chat, plus he's wearing Nike Shox, which is a fashion faux-pas in my book. But it inspires me to buy some new high-tops from Size? I purchase Reebok Jams, white with a luminous orange logo and lettering. I head up to Churchill Square and the clock tower tells me it's just after ten. Floating past Currys Digital, my eyes are drawn to the shiny new iPods. I spend a catatonic hour between the shelves gawping at slick consumer electronics before purchasing a red Nano.

This blurring of authorship has been made possible by the proliferation of digital technologies but the trends of the virtual world have very real world consequences on our culture. In 'The Myth of Interactivity' Lev Manovich comments, "As we shift from an industrial society to an information society, from old media to new media, the overlap between producers and users becomes significantly larger." In our current digital era, work and leisure overlap and this is why one of Generation Y's cultural traits is our disregard for soulless work. We have been brought up to believe that we can achieve our dreams and get paid, so not only do we want job satisfaction but we don't feel the same sense of loyalty to our employers as previous generations did. Fuck a job, we're art-school dropouts. Before us the industrial revolution was typified by mechanical reproduction and a time when art was one of the defining points of high culture.
Now the information revolution is typified by the remix of data rather than just physical material, and so art is considered less precious and denounced to low culture. In 'The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction', Walter Benjamin suggests that original art works project a sense of aura upon the viewer. This aura would instill the audience with awe and admiration as they observed the unique piece of art and this is exactly what made it high culture because art was far more special. However, aura was subsequently diminished when said piece of art was reproduced. “That which withers in the age of mechanical reproduction is the aura of the work of art. This is a symptomatic process whose significance points beyond the realm of art." (Benjamin 215)
This sense of aura was attributed by a number of external attributes; the art works cultural heritage and its history of ownership. As well as the works traditional value considering the skill of the artisan and the expense of the materials used. Previous to the 18th Century blue was a costly colour to mix and produce, therefore paintings with an abundance of blue would socially signify prestige on the part of the artist and in turn would signify wealth on the part of the owner. These ostensive characteristics limited art to the bourgeois and therefore heralded it as high culture, property of high society. But no quality surpassed the importance of its time and place of origin. This is the quintessential essence that makes an original work unique and exactly what a reproduction or a remix lacks, this is where aura is fundamentally lost. “Even the most perfect reproduction of a work of art is lacking in one element; its presence in time and space, its unique existence at the place where it happens to be." (Benjamin 214)
The age of mechanical reproduction was born of the bourgeois’ growing demand for such status symbols. This demand created a market for imitation art which was obviously cheaper to generate and naturally lacked aura. This situation continued for centuries until the industrial revolution occurred late in the 18 th Century which gave way to the era of the produced. Before mechanical reproduction, the imitation of art was a long and arduous process, but industrialisation mechanized this process and freed art from the restraints of tradition and its intrinsic cultural value was freed from the bourgeois elite and distributed to the masses. This is the time Walter Benjamin is most concerned with, the age of mechanical reproduction which freed works of art from the shackles of ritual and place. “Mechanical reproduction emancipates the work of art from its parasitical dependence on ritual.” (Benjamin 218)
Now that art’s context was no longer centred on ritual and tradition the cultural connotations of wealth and power were seriously reduced. As a result the public’s appreciation of ritual and place diminished, as society moved into an industrial age the attention of the proletariat focused on the ownership of material goods which were valued by their consumer heritage rather than cultural tradition. In the era of production the distinction between high and low art was drastically blurred because mechanical technology severely threatened aura by mass reproductions of copies of originals and arguably, aura was distinguished all together. But for the first time on a national and international scale art was made accessible to those other than the privileged classes. “The end of the obliged sign, reign of the emancipated sign, that all classes will partake equally of.” (Baudrillard 85)
Chapter 10.

I wake up with my phone ringing and the common characteristics of a come-down setting in; fear and self-loathing.
"Yeah?" I croak.
"Esser, I'm outside."
G. Thank God, not Tyni. or the Beard.
"Hang a minute." I tell him, pulling up a pair of olive green tracky bs.
"Hurry up, I'm bursting for a slash."
I make two cups of tea while G urinates.
"Thanks mate, but I brought beer." He says coming out the toilet and dumping down an orange Sainsburys carrier bag full of Grolsch.
"Safe." I say and put down the kettle obediently.
We drink beer and smoke a spliff. I have Marmite on toast and more Nurofen for breakfast. Braintax turns into Jehst's "Holy Water". I think I've got a lecture today. I check Facebook while G straps another jay. Seven new notifications and more grotesque reminders of last night's destitution. I should ask G for the ton he owes me, but I can't be arsed. Like he said, owner and worker is a bad dialectic, flawed for friendship.
"So what's the crack?" He asks, spreading Golden Virginia into a Rizla.
"Not much, just woke up. Where'd you disappear to last night?"
"Dunno man."
"Fair play." I laugh.
"Was Tyni there last night?" He asks.
"Hell-to-the-fuck-no, d'you think think I'd be there if he was?"
"Must've dreamt it then."
"Weird thing to dream."
"Innit, hence why I thought he was actually there. How much money d'you owe him now?"
"Enough." I say with a sigh.
"No seriously" He continues, "how much?"
"Couple o' grand now I think."
"And Page?"
"Yeah same."
"So you and Page are splitting it down the middle?"
"Pretty much."
"Does she know how much you've already made?"
"Not to the penny, but kinda."
"Kinda, and I guess she kinda wants her cut of the spoils too?"
"Of course."
"But you don't wanna give it to her."
"I do, just not all of it. I put in most o' the leg work, ya know?"
“Sure, so how much does she think you’ve made?” Asks G squinting to stop smoke getting in his eye as he sparks up.
“She’s seen a little more than a grand, but I think she knows I’ve made more.”
“But she ain't letting on?”
“Nah, she's playing it cool.”
“What about Tyni?”
“He’s fuming, but he’s just a Neanderthal numb-nuts, I reckon if I keep a low profile for a bit he’s too dense and too lazy to find me.”
“Ya think? I reckon two grand’s a lot o' money and Tyni’s pretty resourceful mate so don't underestimate him. Plus, you've dented his pride, taken the piss and everyone knows 'bout it, his rep is severely damaged.”
“Rep doesn't exist any more G, it's not the fucking nineties. Anyway, what’s he gonna do? He can’t call the police, and the Beard should be in jail for a while, Tyni’s nothing but a red herring.”
"He'll make an example of you. And what 'bout when the Beard makes bail?”
“…”
“Esser?”
“…I think he already has man.”
“Fuck-adoodle-danger-wank, you’re deader than a dodo’s doorknob mate! How’s he made bail? Are you certain?”
“Pretty certain?”
“Pretty certain mate? You wanna be absolutely definitely, HIV positive certain Esser. You don’t wanna have to deal with the Beard and Tyni and Page.”
“Page is harmless.”
“Yeah, about as harmless as a sexy suicide bomber with killer tits and a pussy to pray to. Trust me mate, Page will turn on you quicker than a glass of milk left out in the summer sun. Let me ask you Esser, have you got an ejector seat for this plane crash?”
“Sure, I’ll just play them like a PS3.” I blag, with dismissive false bravado.
“That’s your plan?”
“Yep.”
“That’s worse logic than Jez mate. How exactly are you gonna play them?”
“... Fuck-knows man."

Chapter 11.

I’m tired. We go to a flat above Burger King on North Road. I don’t know whose party this is but the layout feels familiar. Long narrow hall with too many people in it. Main room, kitchen, garden, booze, drugs, pretension. Foamo turns into Diplo turns into Rusko. Relax, enjoy yourself. No, I might have a lecture tomorrow, I’m not sure. I should go home and get an early night. It’s 2.30am. How many little uns have I sold? Fifty? A hundred? Page, Ben, L Sarah, K.T, Praiz, Voytek, Not-Gay-Tom, Tom, Dick and Harry. Brighton’s a bubble, little else exists outside the circles you run in. Some short girl's wearing a T-shirt that says "I Don't Have Tourets, You're Just a Cunt" and randomly informs me that jean leggings are called jeggings then skips off into the garden, her bunny rabbit tail bobbing behind her bum. Everyone’s drinking Cobra beer. Some pseudo-famous blog photographer called the Face Hunter prowls around the Ikea crowd taking art-house snaps of all the oblivious oxymorons; the party ambience, the guys so meek and geek they’re uber-cool, and the girls sucking on their lollipops with a practiced nonchalance.
G staggers up beside me and grabs onto my shoulder to steady himself. Gossip’s “Standing in the way of control” blares out the speakers.
“We’re so fucking Skins.” He says taking a deep swig from his bottle of cheap Frosty Jack Cider.
“We’re not Skins.” I reply.
“Look around Esser, this couldn’t be more Skins if it was filmed and aired on E4.”
“Fuckit. Skins is so fucking three years ago.” I double drop and wander off.
“Yeah so is this DJ. Wait, where you goin', mate, I need more beans.” He says running after me.
“Yeah and I need more mula so why don't you actually buy some G.” "Whao, I thought we talked about this ma man." "Yeah and your socialist ideals are great in theory but I've got some pretty hefty debts of my own mate, hefty enough to choke a donkey’s dick and that ton you owe me would be fucking helpful in getting Brighton's bad boys off my back." "Bad boys and girl." "What?" I say frowning and probably looking a bit bemused. "Brighton's bad boys and girl ma man," he replies around a rollie, "the brains, the brawn and the buffness."
“You’re talking the Beard, Tyni and Page.”
“That’s right.” "Yeah so you understand, the potential hazards are mounting up." "You've only got yourself to blame." "Well that ain’t exactly fair play." "What is Esser?" I eventually concede and give G a few beans. It's easier that way.

I spend the next few hours floating around and shifting more little uns. Kissy Sell Out turns into Boy 8 Bit. A girl who looks like Lily Allen plays with her fringe while talking to a guy who looks like Alex Turner. I feel like that character in a movie who's in a permanent state of de-ja vu. Where’s Page? I wonder if V’s coming. V won’t come. I haven’t seen G for a while. I join Ben and L dancing to the helium vocals over pitch-bent basslines. I sweat the hours away thinking as little as possible.
I’m far too drunk and nearly stack it a few times so decide to take a break from dancing and go for a wander, maybe get some fresh air. I think I see V, her brunette bob laughing with some blonde dude. I weave through the endless bodies, spilling beer and treading on toes.
"You're here." I say to her stupidly.
"Looks like it." She replies with a drip of sarcasm and looking down at herself. "How you doing honey?"
"Gravy, and you?"
"Yeah alright. I fancy a joint though, who’s got green?" She asks.
"I have." I answer with a beaming smile.
“Wicked, you wanna find somewhere chilled to hang out and bill up?"
"Abso-bloody-lutely." I say rubbing my jaw and belching a sicky burp which I really hope V didn’t smell.
We escape the manic over-indulgence of downstairs and find a bedroom retreat upstairs and out the way.
"Who's room is this?" Asks V.
"Who’s party is this?" I reply then say "Lets get some tunes on." And aim to set some atmosphere.
Edit turns into Fourtet's 'No More Mosquitos' as we bill up, bun down and get high. V's a very sexy smoker. I think most hotties are, but V in particular has got some sexy little mannerisms going on. She purses her lips a little and lets a thin stream of smoke out. Her eyeliner flicks up at the far corner of each eye giving her an exotic eastern look.
"So honey, why exactly are you at university?" She asks, exhaling a jet of green smoke and leaning back into the mass of cushions and pillows we've chucked on the floor.
"It seemed like the most natural next step, ya know? School, college, university. Plus, I like education and I'm not ready for the real world.” I pause to take another toke. “How 'bout you?" The weed’s gone straight to my head and is mixing with the booze and ecstasy to make the whole room spin violently. I make every effort to listen to V.
"Well, neither my mum or my dad got any higher education so they thought it imperative that I did."
“Yeah parents are odd, always using their kids as conduits for a second chance at their failed hopes and dreams.”
“Yeah pretty much.”
“Are your parents still together?” I ask.
“Yeah they are, but they’re both dead inside. I’m sure they stayed together for me, but now I’m nineteen so it’s like, why don’t you just admit you’re desperately unhappy and do something about it that’ll be a lot healthier in the long term. But they won’t ever breach the subject. It’s probably easier for them to just grin and bare it now, than bother with divorce and risk actual happiness. How about yours?”
“Dad bailed when I was about five, since then raised by my single Mum, well her and the likes of Mario and Link, Ross, Joey and Chandler, I made do with my 2D role models. Mum’s a good woman, I guess.”
She passes me back the joint, which I reluctantly accept through thick clouds of green smoke. Neither of us speak, we both want to fill the void but neither of us really know what to say.
"Uni's a good idea I guess. We get a fuck-load of money to party and study." I offer.
"Can't say no to that. So why'd you choose media?"
"Thought it'd be easy to get onto and hopefully easy to sail through too. But I'm already slacking, missing lectures and behind on that essay, it feels like I'm falling at the first hurdle."
"Don't worry, first year doesn't even mean anything. Save your energy for the third year, that's when it really counts."
"Mmm, maybe." I lie back on the bean bag that's now completely engrossed me, the ecstasy and weed let my mind reach for the ceiling.
We finish the spliff and go for a wander and I make more money without making any small talk, keeping V next to me as a body swerve buddy. But Dick literally crashes into me.
"Watch where you’re fucking going ya cock wrench.” He says.
“Dick.”
“Oh sorry bruv, sorry, didn’t recognise ya for a sec. Oi, you ain’t stocked are ya?”
He's got a real twitchy disposition about him, rubbing his hands and twiddling his thumbs then searching his pockets and forgetting whatever it was he was looking for. Vampire Weekend turns into White Stripes' and Jack White wails "I just don't know what to do with maself!"
"For sure Dick, how much you want?" I say.
He picks up eight and goes to walk off but then remembers something and turns back to me mumbling,
"Your horny mate's through there, jiving with some proper fucking jailbait."
V and I move towards the room he points at and the carpet squelches with spilt beer and perspiration as we drift through the labels and haircuts. In a dark bedroom towards the back of the house I can hear faint, slurred murmurs of pleasure and the erratic click of a camera. In a small on-suite bathroom G is engaging in an impromptu porn-shoot with a couple of young blondes, one of which has a badge saying “13 Today!” pinned to her H&M leggings. This could be an ironic fashion item, or an absolute statement of the truth. The Face Hunter perves through his lens, snapping away at the soft-core scene that plays out in front of us. One bare bulb hangs from the bathroom's ceiling, lighting the four-some from above and casting their stark shadows on the dirty white floor.
"Nice." Remarks V with disgust. I think she looks at me and waits, but I'm elsewhere and she leaves.
One of the girls is a proper dishevelled, gurning mess, only half aware of what’s going on as G pulls her top off. He exposes delicate little breasts, bends down and bites her nipples. The girl looks up to the light in the ceiling and her eyes roll into the back of her head. The other girl, a mousy brunette fresh faced and pale skinned, she's far more conscious than her fukt friend and doesn't look like she wants to be there, but the Face Hunter keeps her engaged telling her to put her hands up to her head and run her fingers through her hair. The blog photographer turned pimp now looks at G telling him with just his eyes to get her more involved and so G leaves the gurning girl who falls to the floor and just lies there pinching her nipples while her jaw gyrates away from her face. G fumbles with the other girl's belt buckle who looks sick with shame but does nothing to halt proceedings. I should say something, stop it, get her out of there, get G out of there, but I stay staring, silent and dumb. Wish you wereNT here.

Chapter 12.

Ergh. Awake. My jaw aches and my cheeks are sore from where I've been chewing them in my sleep. I'm strung out, my fucking phone’s ringing. Pick up.
"Yeah?" I struggle to say.
“Yo, you awake?”
“No G.”
“Do you know where my shoes are?”
“What?”
“My shoes, you seen ‘em?”
“No, why?”
“I woke up this afternoon, my socks are soaking wet and I can’t find my shoes.”
“So you walked home in just your socks last night?”
“Evidently man.”
“How did you not notice you didn’t have any shoes on?”
“Mate, I could’ve been raped and I wouldn’t have noticed.”
“That’s encouraging then.”
“Yeah... well, wanna get a drink?”
“I think I’ve got a lecture.”
“Well if you think you’ve got a lecture, you’re obviously not very prepared, and you know what they say.”
“What?”
“Fail to plan and you plan to fail.”
“Right.”
“Better save your mental energy for when you’ll actually learn something mate.”
“That is a good argument.”
“Course it is, see you at the Victory in half an hour then.”
My landlord lives in this same house, in the converted attic on the top floor so I have to keep dodging him when he's home otherwise he'll ask for his rent which I don't wanna give him. It's a house of four decently sized rooms but no lounge, which actually works out well because the only communal areas are the kitchen and the bathroom. I don't cook much but I can shit up to three times a day. I've got a formal letter pushed under my door from my landlord asking for his three hundred and fifty pounds rent. That's exactly the sorta depressing shit I'm trying to ignore. My other housemates are girls and both fairly fit. One's Japanese, or Chinese or possibly Korean. I can't even begin to pronounce her name, so there's an obvious language barrier which hinders proceedings. The other is English, but has a boyfriend. The house is quiet, as usual, and I keep myself to myself. I log into Facebook. Only five new notifications, couple of friend requests and a few tags. Sometimes I think I should’ve lived in halls, but I don't fancy sharing my living space with eight other people for a year. Before I leave the house for the pub I hide the stack of paper in a tupperware box, sandwiched between two slices of white bread and shoved in the freezer.
The Maccabees turn into Bloc Party. Kele Okereke asks me, "is it so wrong to crave recognition, second best, runner up, is it so wrong to want rewarding, to want more than is given to you?" I don't have an answer, I was hoping he could tell me.

G’s sitting outside the Victory, basking in the sun under black Aves and a dirty white T-shirt.
“What you been upto G?”
“Curing cancer, brokering a peace treaty between Israel and Palestine, ya know, just the usual.” He replies with a smirk then says,
“Its thirsty work ma man,
“Uh-huh.” I see where this is going.
“So will ya get me a pint of Kronenburg?” And he sparks a bent Mayfair Smooth.
“You owe me a ton G.”
“Esser, don’t pollute this beautiful weather with bad debts and negative-nancy talk, go and get a couple of beers in.”
I can’t be arsed to argue so bring back two pints.
“What was going on last night in that bedroom?” I ask passing him a pint.
“What bedroom? When?”
“Last night, you, two girls, and the creepy-Face-Fuck-photographer.”
“Oh that, yeah, I don’t really know, it was all quite spontaneous.” He barks through beer.
“It was all quite sordid, not to mention illegal.”
“Oh right, yeah, like you’re gonna lecture me on legalities Esser.”
“Those girls can’t have been older than thirteen, not to mention one was so fucked she was barely sentient.”
“Yeah, because o' your beans mate.”
“Whatever, where was Page last night?” I ask, trying to sound casual.
“How the fuck should I know? Probably somewhere near Tyni’s dick.”
“What? Tyni ain't tappin' Page.” I say adamantly.
“Wake up Esser, he’s flavor of the month mate.”
“And what? Page gets on any cock that’s in vogue?”
“Pretty much man. First it was the Beard, before his cock got put on lock down.”
“And so now it’s Tyni’s.”
“Bingo bludskin." Says G, shooting me with sarcastic bullets from his gun fingers. "Since the Beard’s been banged up, Tyni’s become high-profile, he’s got a powerful position, loadsa drugs and a well malleable will, that’s pretty much the perfect play for Page.” He looks at me, his face stone serious now. "You're not thinking of tapping Page are you?"
"Nah, course I'm not thinking of tapping Page."
"Sound, even if you could get on her, you wouldn't wanna put your dick in a hole that's only just got rid of some other dick. It's like bowling, when you've gotta wear those shoes that you know have already had a fuck load of other peoples feet in them."
I shudder. Then my heart sinks a little.
“What about you?” I ask.
“What about me?” He answers, spilling Kronenbourg on his shirt after taking an over-enthusiastic gulp.
“Your dick ever been flavour of the month with Page?”
“My dick’s never been flavour of the minute with Page, let alone a month mate.”
We keep drinking into the early evening, The Victory turns into Gemini when Page rings me and invites us both to hers for a little gathering. Kele Okereke tells me to stick my bloody head in the jaws of the beast.

Chapter 13.

At Page's there's the usual suspects; Ben and L, Sarah and K.T. Not-Gay-Tom's arguing with Dick about whether sharks have bones or not until Page tells them to shut-the-fuck-up and Google it. And there's a few dreadlocked heads I recognise but can't put names to faces so don't bother talking to, they're the trustafarian type, hiding their parents money behind a hippy facade. One of them has dread-locks down to his arse, like long hairy turds. DJ Hervé turns into Deadmau5. I count out little uns and collect a bit of cash. Not enough though, I wanna be rid of these buggers sooner rather than later but people aren't biting like they did initially. I wonder who they’re picking up off. On Big Brother the housemates argue over the lack of eggs. One of the dread-heads is wearing Ugg boots and has a tattoo on his forearm that says "My Mum Should've Had an Abortion." Page is wearing an open Bench hoody with a Cargo miniskirt and talking to L who's in wet-look leggings and white bo-ho top from New Look. Ben's boxers read Chlamydia in Calvin Klein typography.
"Some girl's having a party in Hanover." Says Page, necking vodka and coke.
"Yeah, anorexic Rain ain't it? Asks L.
"She's not anorexic, she's bulimic." Corrects Page.
"What's the difference?" I ask.
"About 5lbs!" They both cackle.
I get a Grolsch from the fridge and skin-up a spliff. The weed's sticky and hasn't been cured properly so doesn't fluff out in the grinder like it should. I pick through the prongs for shreds of moist greenery.
"How many beans have you got on you?" Asks Page, immediately taking the joint from between my fingers before I’ve even taken a puff. Rollers rights be damned.
"I dunno, little less than a ton." I answer.
"Safe, let's bounce."

Sirens echo through the streets and I think twice, pat myself down and feel the bags of beans bulging in my pocket. Glug down more Grolsch. Swallow hard. Breathe. Keep walking.
"Don't be prang Esser." Says Page.
"I'm sound."
"Pigs only stop and search you if you give 'em a reason, so stop being bait, yeah babes."
“You’re not the one packing more pills than a pharmacist Page.”
“Listen, in the big scheme of things the pigs don’t give a fuck about drug cases no more. They’re far too busy hunting prospective suicide bombers and warring against terror to bother with you. Unless you black-up or grow a beard and get a tan you ain’t got shit to worry about babes.”
True that but still, I put all my effort into keeping a low profile, blend into the crowd and don’t act out. Fly below the radar and operate undetected until your luck runs out. Until karma catches up with you.

We find the party on top of Hanover Hill. People spill out of the house like blood from an open wound. High Contrast turns into Bloc Party’s ‘One Month Off’. Down the hall the party engulfs us with more ebullient colour, contrived good times and Kodac moments of fleeting rapture. Page is talking to some young looking guy, probably on a Foundation Art course. His T-shirt reads "Ketamine - Just Say Neigh" and Page has stolen his cap and is spinning the propella on the top. I'm bored and no-one's hassling me for little uns. I feel useless.
“Hey Page, who here needs sorting out?” I say.
“I dunno, I’ll find out. Hey, Ben, L, find out who's catting.”
“Sure.” They reply together.
Piercings are in, fangs are in, blood is in. Freak chic has ousted geek chic. The music morphs, Cyantific turns into d-Bridge turns into N-Type. A guy in a battered trillby who looks like Pete Doherty slurs at a girl who looks like Jamie Winstone but his rambling's freaking her out and she's failing to get the attention of her friend who's nose down to a mirror. Everyone's well messy already. Fiends climb the walls and clamber over other gurning ghouls as the hall swells with jerking bodies and knocking knees. Page and I snake to the kitchen where they've spilt washing up liquid on the tiled floor and are slip-sliding across it through plumes of bubbles, foam and smoke. We get a drink, knock back a couple of beans and move out into a small corner garden full of bean bags and assorted cushions, lit softly by Tiki torches. Ben and L are talking to Maths Class.
“Need any disco biscuits?” I ask the circle.
No reply, just flickers of light teasing at shapes in the darkness.
“Hey, who needs pills?” Page shouts.
“Nah, we’re sound" Says Andy, "we’ve got these boss Batmans." He holds up a yellow pill with the Batman logo stamped in the centre. Fuck. He turns his back on us and continues his rant.
“Look it's undeniable, Erol Alkan’s remix of She's Hearing Voices is far superior to the original.”
“No it’s not, the actual track itself is fucking wack but that's beside the point, a remix can never be better than an original.” Says another member of Maths Class.
“Of course it can, a remix avoids all the mistakes of the original, and it builds on all the good points.” Replies Andy.
"But some tracks don't require any meddling, they're perfect as they are." Says another.
“True that, and not to mention the fact that without the original the remix could never exist.”
"It's the same with cinema, there's no sequel superior to the first installment."
"Errm, I could reel off numerous examples that disproves that crock-o-shit theory."
"Be my guest, bitch."
"Terminator 2, The Dark Knight, The Empire Strikes Back... need I go on?"
"No coz you're talking shit Andy. None of those sequels are better than their predecessors, and The Empire strikes Back doesn't count coz it's part of a trilogy."
"Hexalogy actually."
"I think we can all agree that The Phantom Menace, Attack of the Clones and Revenge of the Sith are all well gash and best forgotten."
"Agreed!" They all shout and cheers their cans of Grolsch triumphantly.
Benga turns into Plactician.
"What the fuck we gonna do?" I ask Page.
"About what babes?" She replies.
"About the fact that we've got over a thousand beans no one wants."
"Oh that, we'll just sell MDMA too."
"...What?" I ask flatly.
"What?" She repeats.
"Next you'll want to sell crack and smack Page."
"Oh don't be so righteous Esser, you've made well over a grand now, selling beans. All I'm suggesting is that we up our game a bit. So what if everyone's in love with these Batmans, we'll just dye our Smints red and offer bumper-pack goody bags of three beans and a gram of mandy, for like, half a ton."
"Jesus."
"Get over it, if you wanna get rid of those pills then you've got to give people an incentive to buy them. Anyway just think of the money we’ll make, we’ve made a few thou in a couple of weeks, in a couple of months we could raise well over ten grand, simples." She says sparking a Marlboro Light resolutely.
"Fine" I sigh, swimming further out of my depth.
"So, how much MDMA are we gonna need? how much is it gonna cost? and who the fuck are we gonna get it from?"
"Easy, Tyni."
"For fuck-sake Page."
"I can get it off Tyni, no problem."
"That's what I'm afraid of. But I can't keep ticcing off Tyni to pay Tyni back. Plus we've only just ticced another thousand little uns, so our tab's at two grand already, there's no way he'll let it get any bigger."
"You let me worry about Tyni."
"Well if you can get all this off Tyni yourself, then what do you need me for?"
"I don't need you, I'm just trying to help you out."
"By making me a pusher man."
"Fuck off, I'm not forcing you Esser, there's no gun to your head. You needed to make some money and I've helped you do that."
"I've made about as much money as I have debts."
"Bullshit, now don't be such a pessimist, you need to stop worrying about the past so we can move forward. Now listen, how many beans have you got left?" She asks.
"I dunno like... twelve ton." I say, which is pretty much true.
"Ok, so lets say we sell three beans and a gram of mandy for fifty quid, yes?"
"No, that's not even a discount. We should sell three beans and a gram of mandy for forty quid."
"...Alright, but a dowey gram." She concedes.
"Whatever, three pills and a G for forty quid is a pretty tough temptation to resist."
"Defo babes." She says and stubs out her Marlboro Light.
"So we've got twelve ton little uns and we're selling three with a gram, so twelve ton divided by three is four ton."
"Four ton." She repeats.
"For fucksake, that means we're gonna need four hundred grams of MDMA Page. That's well over fourteen fucking wizards."
"And what? We've been handling thousands of pills Esser, what difference will a few wizards of mandy make?" She says, fumbling with her lighter sparking another cigarette.
"It's still alotta mud."
"No it's not, we won't even need all that anyway, I'll tic a few off Tyni just to get us started and people interested again, it’s perfect timing coz Tyni’s just reloaded and wants to get move his product asap."
“How’d you know that?” I ask sharply.
“It’s gossip babes, and I know gossip.”
I've got no interest in moving that much weight, but it doesn't seem like I've got much choice. Pick up more drugs to shift more drugs, it's a fucking paradox. What am I doing? I didn't come down to Brighton to shift beans and owe wretched dealers fuck loads of paper. I tentatively touch my lips. Their red raw, dry and sore from endless gurning. Snort a few lines, triple drop and lose the next six hours to Southern Comfort and reckless abandon.

Unfortunately for culture, art was now available to the proletariat and therefore it's significance was industrialised, moving it from the traditional sector to the cult and landing it in the arena of politics. Socially it depreciates to the essence of common culture but in this regard industrialisation now had the potential to democratise art and the exhibition of artistic artifacts and to further open up art's semiotics to the public’s critical attention. This situation is further accentuated by our current digital revolution as our global economy now revolves around the manipulation of data rather than the production and consumption of physical goods. Our digital culture is not only based on remediation but because society is so utterly permeated with networks of information we're completely reliant on digital technologies to maintain our millennial lifestyle, especially Generation Y. We have entered what Baudrillard called the era of simulation, the third order of simulacra. “Simulation, on the contrary, stems from the utopia of the principle of equivalence, from the radical negation of the sign as value, from the sign as the reversion and death sentence of every reference.” (Baudrillard 6)
Our era of simulation is epitomised by Web 2.0 and user generated content, which exploits our narcissistic nature through social networks that encourage us to create, edit and broadcast ourselves using any multitude of Me Media tools, paeans of which include; YouTube, Twitter and FaceBook. These user-generated content sites, by encouraging us to provide their content they simultaneously give us an intrinsic investment in them, because they furnish the platforms on which our content is created and shared with the other members of the community. On the net, our culture comprises of fabricated web-pages with links to who we know, our associations and a range of other interests. People's online profiles are full of arbitrary links to similar pages of music, art, TV shows, cities, books, film and fashion. Here generation Y exists this is why our remix culture has little originality, we simply remediate previously existing substance and structure to craft new pieces of work and try to re-appropriate it as our own. And so it is for these reasons that Generation Y and our remix culture is considered inferior by those that came before us.
When Generation Y came into being the notion of the remix came to flourish. Remixing dates back to the early eighties when DJ's first started to ask other members of their musical community for remixes and the manipulation of original source material or the 'text' became more widespread and aggressive. Since then the phenomena has filtered into all mediums such as film, television and fashion. Take for example Kill Bill, Pimp My Ride and custom Nike trainers. Digital media and particularly the internet were catalysts for the remix culture, as they provided the instruments and exhibition space for the zeitgeist to manifest. In a time when function follows form, the youth of today are all style and no substance. The hyper-mediated terrain of the information super-highway, where Generation Y spend most of their time, consists of application mash-ups, video collages and sonic remixes. If the eighties was defined by post-modernism then the millennia is definitely defined by meta-modernism.

Chapter 14.

When my memory kicks back in I'm lying on Ben and L's living room floor with Page passing me a spliff from above. It’s 2 in the afternoon and I don't think we've slept. We sit in a smoky palace of pillows, cushions, and burnt-out inertia. L is collecting all the empty crisp packets and methodically folding them into neat little squares. Amon Tobin turns into Erol Alkin. Stale weed smoke loiters in the stagnant air around us. There are a half dozen cold cups of tea and coffee sitting around, some with flies in them lying upside down, some without. Page is berating Brighton uni because they won't give her a locker away from the boys toilets which "reeks of piss, chlorine and body odor". Ben is biting the dirt from under his nails and now I’m looking at the dirt under mine. G snores on the couch, the permanent marker on his face reads “I wish my girlfriend was this dirty” and then below that someone's added "I wish I had a girlfriend". Britain's Got Talent is on, it's the best part, the audition stage where shameless and deluded members of the public cry out for attention with weird and wonderful acts of desperation. Quality entertainment.
"What's the time?" Asks Ben wistfully, flicking his trendy unkempt fringe. "Line o'clock." Answers Page instinctively.
Everything's an adverb.
"Just another way to prolong the inevitable." Says Ben racking up while Sarah tries to read out sound bites from Peaches Geldof's new magazine "Disappear Here" but soon gives up claiming, "You can’t polish a turd but you can give it glossy pages. Ey Page, pass me the mirror hon."
She snorts through a moth eaten twenty and rubs her nose. Page disappears for a while, probably to do more coke alone. I want to leave but it's easier not to. G wakes up and makes me roll another jay before he runs to the toilet with his hand clasped firmly over his mouth, almost bowling over Page as she returns in a new outfit. My mind doesn't want to be here anymore, it's floated away and wafts around the room laughing at my face that's stuck in this place. Wish you wereNT here. Page is like a badly dubbed advert.
"I'm borrowing this top L." She says.
"Whatever." L replies without looking.
"It's lush, where's it from?"
"TopShop, Kate Moss's line."
"You know she didn't actually design any of those clothes."
"Whatever." Says L toking on the joint with her eyes closed.
"I'm bored, walk me home Esser." Page puts on her Bench hoody.
Fine with me, I wanted to leave a while ago. Stub a spliff out on fag butts. No point in chasing inspiration. I need sleep.

It's not far from Page's to mine. I'm looking forward to my bed. The warmth, the softness of my sheets and duvet enveloping me and bringing on the sweet release of sleep. I pick up the pace. I imagine my head hitting the pillow and swiftly drifting off into my subconscious to dream of even more sleep. I need a break. When I arrive at my front door it's ajar with the lock hanging off its latch. I leg it down the hall to my room and open the door to see Tyni sitting in my computer chair scowling savagely, in his lap he's got a baseball bat and a bucket of fried chicken. His mono-brow hunched up over his beady eyes and the corners of his mouth curling up into his fat cheeks.
"Sit down, Duddleyheath."
I try not to gulp too obviously.

Chapter 15.

He sits there, frowning but plainly pleased with himself and his menacing presence. Any over-grown bucket with a baseball bat would be menacing. His eyebrows meet in an angry valley of hair and little rolls of creased skin over his nose. His lower lip juts out and his nostrils flare as he breaths, heavy and smelly. He's turned my room upside down. The bare floor is now strewn with uni print-outs, and like my clothes spill out of the canvas cupboard like guts from war-torn bodies. Tyni sits amongst the mess, it's quiet except for his loud salivated chewing. He dunks nuggets deep into tomato ketchup. When they're heavily soaked in the thick red sauce he rips into them and spills some ketchup on his shirt that says, "Your Mum's Gonna Love Me." Daylight hints outside.
"Where's the paper fuck nuts?" He says.
"What I'd made was on the desk" I reply sitting on the end of my bed facing him, "and you've already taken that."
"That was only a few ton, where's the rest?"
"Page's got it." I answer swiftly.
"Don't mug me off." He says pointing at me with the bat.
"I'm not Tyni."
"Well then, you best start spitting excuses and shitting explanations, hadn't you Esser?"
He stares at me like he's waiting for me explode. I walk to the window, Skream's 'In for the Kill' remix turns into Caspa's 'Cockney Violin'. There's two cop cars and a wagon down the road.
"Like I said Tyni, I left Page holding the rest, 'bout five ton, under the instruction she's to deliver it to you the first chance she gets. Now that was yesterday and I've been with her ever since, so she obviously hasn't had the opportunity yet."
Tyni sparks a B&H Gold and talks around it.
"Don't patronise me you cocky little prick. If I was to get Page on her blower right now, she'd tell me to cruise over to hers and pick up my paper?"
"Doubtful. If you were to call her right now she wouldn't pick up coz she's asleep." I feel a bead of sweat run down my left temple and think about how wet and shiny my forehead must be.
"Convenient." He puts the greasy bucket down on Walter Benjamin's 'Illuminations'.
"I've just come from her place and after being on it all weekend I doubt she's up for much, confrontational conversation." I sit back down on the bed opposite his fastfood bulk. He breathes heavily and I get putrid wafts of thick smoke and fried chicken.
"Well, it won't hurt to try." He replies, I think 'It might' as he slides open his Nokia and speed dials Page. I pray from heaven to hell that she doesn't pick up.
Tyni hangs up with an angry grunt. Thank God.
"You're a lucky fuck Esser."
"Luck's got nothing to do with it Tyni." I reply, dropping tobacco into a Rizla and concentrate on not letting my hands shake as I try to roll a cigarette.
"Whatever, even with Page holding five ton you still owe me well over a monkey."
"Cool your jets Tyni, it's on its way. I can't shift a thousand beans over night, I'm not Santa Claus. Anyway fuckit, why's it all down to me, Page's been the one actually ticcing them all, I'm just the hired help."
"You're partners in crime, when shit hits the fan you share the burden and the blame."
"Give me a week and" I try to say before Tyni cuts me off.
"Fuck a week, you've got till friday, I'm putting a night on at Oceana, the Hip-Hopalypse, you better step there and you better be packing the rest of my paper or I'll make your life down here fucking impossible." He says stubbing out his half smoked fag on Baudrillards 'Simulacra and Simulation'. He stands up and bears down on me. I stand up in an attempt to even the level, but it's far from equal.
"I'll see you Friday, Esser." And he turns to leave.
"How about I see you next Tuesday." I taunt fate and it retaliates.
Tyni whirls round with a snarl and jabs me hard in the side of the head with the butt of his baseball bat. I fall to the floor, feel sick and start to black out. I see flying white dots and lightning flashes in front of my eyes. I blink but they don't go away. I close my eyes tight and the fireworks begin to fade until darkness reigns supreme.

Chapter 16.

I wake with my head aching more than usual and I remember a little too late as my hand touches the bloodied bruise by my temple. Big Brother's on, the outcast housemate is in the diary room, crying and complaining about the others. Check Facebook, only three new notifications, and none are friend requests. Sign in to Spotify where Tricky turns into Portishead's 'Silence'. The music fits my mood but isn't doing it any favours. Call Page and get her here.
"Ouch, what happened?" She asks playing the fool.
"Tyni." I reply, adding "and a baseball bat."
"Aww, poor babes, let me see." I wince and soak up the spurious sympathy. She's wearing leopard print leggings and a tight little dress pinched in by a belt from Esprit.
"He was waiting for me." I say.
"Oh yeah?" She says busying herself in her Guess handbag.
"He knows where I live."
"So, I never told him." She bursts.
"I never said you did."
"Good."
"Has he been in touch?"
"With me? No... why would he?"
"No reason." Either he has and she's lying or he hasn't, but then why wouldn't he?
"Let's get you cleaned up." She pads the dry blood with a cotton bud and brushes my hair out the way. I close my eyes and enjoy the affection trying not to figure out why Tyni wouldn't've hassled Page. Another thing not to think about. Big Brother's muted, the housemates are now braiding each others hair.
"So what you on today?" I ask. Page pauses.
"We're gonna link Tyni, for that mandy."
"You joker, we." I'm searching for a Rizla in the depths of my Eastpak. "Check me out", I push my temple in her face. "like I'm gonna go back to Tyni for round two."
"Course not, just accompany me."
"Page, he batted me, with a baseball bat."
"Well what else is he going to bat you with? Anyway what do you expect? You owe him a couple of grand."
"No, we owe him a couple of grand Page, we."
"Well he's not gonna bat me is he." She says, aimlessly channel hopping. "And that's precisely why you should come wit me Esser, coz we owe him. Anyway, last night you said you'd come."
"Did I?"
"Yeah, you did."
"Well, I was probably high,
"So fucking what? You can't flop now babes."
"Well you can't expect people to always go through with things they promise when they're high, the world would be a mess."
"You said you're coming, so you're coming." She says, stubbing out her Marlboro Light.
I won't tell her I told Tyni she's got half a G for him. If she doesn't know now then she shouldn't know. And if she does know now, then she ain't a bad actor. I'll rock up with her to Tyni's, see how deep this rabbit hole goes. There's not many reasons why Tyni wouldn't hassle Page for that paper. They've gotta be playing me together.
"See, it's not that bad babes. I can cover most of the bruising with foundation."
"... Do it." I Say.

The bus always comes on the wrong side of the road. We wait, Page's fake-tan glow leans against an advert that says, "Your future's bright, your future's Orange." We get the 21 up Elm Grove. On the upper deck we sit at the back. A group of school girls play Soulja Boy from their mobiles and heckle their friend to get on the chemical band wagon.
"Try one, you don't know until you've tried it, take one with us at Honey Club on Saturday." Says one.
"I dunno."
"It'll be ghetto-fucking-fabulous." Says another.
"Trust us Bex, just do it." Says another.
Page snaps me out of my voyeuristic malaise.
"Our stop's coming up, we gonna do this then?" She's too keen, like when you order food at a restaurant and it arrives too quickly, you're pleased that it's come but worried about how soon it's there.
"Just do it." Reads a Nike billboard with an aspirational young athlete hurdling over a huge white swoosh.
"Just do it." Squawk the school girls at their friend.
"Well Esser, you on this tip or not?" She says again.
"Yeah, fully." I reply rubbing my eyes. Wish you wereNT here.
We get off the bus outside a primary school and walk up. The sun's out in full effect. The big horse-chestnut trees provide spots of shade on the pavement.
Tynis place is on the other side of Queens Park so I wait round the corner by the Pepperpot. Page isn't that long but she could'nt've been quick enough. I sit on a bench by the bus stop. There's no doubt Tyni will know I'm involved. Darkness sets in. The street lamps come on, not all of them though. I twiddle my thumbs, roll cigarettes and try to read 'The Myth of Interactivity', anything to keep my fingers and mind busy. I wrap my keffiyeh tighter around my neck and tuck my T-shirt into my Levi's. I don't hear her approach.
"You took your time."
"Gotta be polite don't I? He's got a new puppy, a cute little chocolate coloured staff.” Her dark eyes melt into the darkness of the night.
"He's putting on a hip-hop night this friday at Oceana, we should go."
"I think I already am."
"Safe, that makes two of us."
“Did you get the mandy?"
"Course I did." She says, sealing it with a blown kiss and we head to mine to weigh up.
But what does all this Web 2.0 content imply on the part of the main contributors, the prosumers of Generation Y? When the user is also the producer then surveyors and purveyors of the material must appreciate that there is no interiority online. In our homogenous web culture it is vital to distinguish between what is connoted and what is denoted, and essential to understand the difference between the two. Here Saussure's 'Course in General Linguistics' can help. In his study of semiotics Saussure argues that words are comprised of two elements, their sound and their idea and they only convey meaning because of their difference to other words with other sounds and other ideas within a language and a shared understanding of this between the participants. He says "Language is a system of interdependent terms in which the value of each term results solely from the simultaneous presence of others." (Saussure 114) So meaning is interpreted via differentiation and familiarization within a given system i.e. the language in question and in our case English. This structuralist approach to language and meaning can be applied to the signs of culture we are presented with online. The internet's subjugation of the science of signs employs a post-structuralist idea that produces meaning from organising data into systems as an approach to understanding language, culture and society.
Due to the signs autonomy online the semiotics of any web page, especially that of the social networking sites such as MySpace and Facebook, through which much of Generation Y operates, must be questioned and not just taken at face value. Facebook describes itself as, “the social utility that connects you with those around you...” If we analyse a typical Facebook profile we are initially presented with a myriad of photography, images and personal information; all powerfully arbitrary signs operating within a stand alone model (the social network) while also having tangible effects in reality. But they are just signifiers pointing the audience to the signified, our deduction from the signifiers of who this person is, what they enjoy doing recreationally and professionally, their friends and their family. The resulting signification is the audience’s idea of the subject in physical reality, their actual presence and interaction and ultimately the voyeur’s gratification. And so the otherwise stagnant signs convey meaning through collective agreement and understanding on the part of the audience, and their value ripples from an online pool of simulacrum in which they originate into the real world into a culture also transfused with ubiquitous simulacra. Singularly all these signs are subjective and tyrannical; they hold no value of meaning outside of the system in which they exist – yet they still have a profound effect on the culture of physical reality. The virtual world is no more than a semantic system of simulacra, and this shallow web culture is bleeding increasingly into our real world.
Chapter 17.

The Fiddlers Elbow turns into The Full Moon, which turns into Digital, a club on the windy seafront where Page is taking me to a hip-hop night. Here she handles the drugs, tonight I hang back and play the middle man, not even that most of the time. It's a different crowd tonight. Screw faces dare each other to start, kissing their teeth in barbed acknowledgment. Doc Brown turns into Lowkey as two Brighton MCs prepare to battle. Comic book flat caps are in. Anger is in. Scowling is in. Hand gestures are in. Arthritic fingers twist and switch to spell out crew name acronyms and idiosyncratic mottos like 'throw your Ms up'. No sign of G, V, Ben or L, no surprise though, this isn't their type of washing machine and I'm feeling well outta my depth.
Page is in her element. As if guys needed another reason to throw themselves at her, now she's got hundreds of pills and a half wizard of mandy to entice them. She's the gorgeous poison and they're like horny moths to a naked flame. Girl dealers are definitely in.
"Make yourself useful and get us a couple of drinks yeah babes." She says craning her head over several guys' shoulders.
I don't reply, just turn away and head straight for the bar.
"Long Islands!" She shouts behind me. Skinny Man turns into Stig of the Dump.
At the bar I have a couple Sambuca shots to myself and eye up a hip-hop honey in Adidas tracky b's and fresh Puma 'Slipstream' high-tops I try to catch her eye across the bar but she’s oblivious. I take the drinks back to where Page and some guy are leaning up against a black column on the edge of the main stage. It's a sausage fest tonight, too many dicks on the dancefloor.
"Where's Falcon's?" She asks motioning to a thirty year old with his trousers round his ankles.
"Sorry, I..."
"That's pretty rude." She says sealing my fate as Falcon evils me into the background. I haven't made a friend there. I brock out for a bit but soon loose my energy so I hang my head in the speakers, the tweeters vibrate and try to escape their black cages every time the beat hits. And I'm quietly content for a while, not worrying about Tyni or the Beard or Page or drugs or money or uni, but of course this can't last for long. A smoke machine gases me completely. I'm lost in a cloud of white, I can't breathe, just cough and choke as my throat and lungs are filled with chalky, artificial smoke. Desperately trying to get away from the all-encompassing cloud I have to fight my way through headless bodies that are reluctant to move. I find the toilet, hock up the rest of my lungs and appreciate fresher air for a second.
While I'm hear I may as well take a piss. With my dick out and almost letting rip I think I hear Tyni's voice boom down the corridor. Shit a brick and fuck me with a PS2 controller. Hold tight and shimmy into the nearest cubicle. Close the door but there’s no lock, probably removed by bouncers so coke-heads can’t have any privacy to rack up, bastards. Graffiti tells me 'God Is Always Watching'. Tyni and some guy enter and walk to the urinal. I sit on the closed toilet lid and pick my feet up but then worry that they’ll think the cubicle’s vacant so quietly put my feet back down on the piss dirty floor, but then worry that Tyni’ll recognize me, bollox, he can’t recognise my feet in trainers. Settle down, don't move. The grouting is mouldy between the tiles and bits of paint peel away from its surfaces. I wipe the sweat from my brow, hold my breath and listen motionless.
"Tyni, you gotta stop maccing on that Page girl man."
"Nah trust blud I'm gonna tap that soon enough."
"Ya know Page's a wily sket mate, recognize she gave the Beard nuff headaches and blue balls, he ain't gonna appreciate you chasing her tail."
"What he don't know won't bother him blud."
They shake down, zip up and move on, I breathe again, but only for a nano-second. They head to my cubicle, I quickly and quietly put my feet flat against the door to keep it closed.
“Sorry mate.” Says Tyni’s droog. Thank God or whoever. But they still occupy the cubicle next to mine. I can hear the unfolding of a wrap. Probably coke. I’m rushing my balls off. My heart feels like it might smash out of my chest. I try to breath silent and steady.
"And what about that Esser kid rinsing you then mate?" Jibes the droog.
"Don’t get me vexed blud there ain't no new-kid-on-da-block rinsing me, he's just a means to an ends." Says Tyni.
"You fucking blagger."
"No joke of a lie blud, that boy's a necessary nores for now. But don't worry, I'll shank him soon enough."
There’s six alternate snorts in quick succession. Then a couple of coughs and they leave. Wish you wereNT here. I need to find Page and dust while I still have my teeth. This whole situation is getting dry, Page's long, Tyni's more than just hassle now and the Beard's blatantly looming in the dark, unknown future.

Back on the tin can-rammed dance-floor Page is slow jamming with a dozen moody faces. I fight my way through the baggy clothes and bling lettering. Roots Manuva turns into The Streets.
"We need to go." I tell her.
"Fuck no, we need to stay."
"Tyni's looking for me and he's gonna grind my bones coz I don't 'ave his bread."
"Stop chatting frap Esser."
"I just heard him in the toilet."
"He's blagging, relax, he ain't gonna do nothin' and certainly not here."
I double drop. If I'm gonna get stomped on again I might as well get fucking high beforehand. Keep an eye out for Tyni, keep my other eye on Page and now I can't see where I'm going. G texts me. "Party in the pink house half way up London Road, come chew the carpet." I eventually manage to convince Page to go under the promise that even more hip-to-the-now-sound wicked people are there and she'll be able to make even more money.

Chapter 18.

At the party Chris Cunningham’s 'Rubber Johnny' video is playing from a digital projector onto the main wall behind the DJ. I see in night vision. More lo-fi photos are taken with old analogue cameras. Aphex Twin turns into Jack Beats. A girl who looks like Moquita Oliver talks to a guy who has a Russel Brand bird's nest. Eastern beer is in. Tiger, Asahi and Chang. The letter 'D' is in, so are the 1920's. Page is wearing plano glasses. We get down like the economy. Emaciated cool. Translucency is in. Ben introduces a couple of girls, one of which looks like Maya but thinner, both drinking Smirnoff Ice. Apparently they run a blog called CeleBitch. I’ve just ticked G another twenty pills although he owes me a over a ton now, it's easier to give in and get him off my back. So now he's dribbling from one pair of tits to another in quick succession. Live the dream. Don’t be afraid to merge. I shift beans like a super sharp shooter, and people aren't reluctant with MDMA being added into the mix but Page is crowding my style even from a distance, stealing customers just by batting her eyelashes. Fuckit. The DJ’s face is lit up by the glare from his MacBook Pro, he’s wearing one of those fluffy, long eared Russian winter hats and chewing on a glow-stick, which has subsequently split and the UV liquid runs over the corner of his mouth, glowing like semen under a black light. V isn’t here. I shouldn’t be here, I should be home working on my essay.

It feels like Page is busying herself with every other guy here but me, making her twenty percent I guess. Time ticks by all too slowly and think about leaving but never quite get round to it. Wish you wereNT here. Jamie T turns into Jack Penate. L approaches me wearing a T-shirt that reads "Good Girls Are Just Bad Girls Who Don't get Laid."
"Esser, come look who I found." She says with a smirk.
Ben, Page and some young guy join as L leads us upstairs and into a bedroom at the back of the house, revealing G passed out in the corner with a young blonde girl next to him. G and the girl are both half naked, both with repulsive polo nose. The girl's white knickers hang around her ankles and the faintest hint of trimmed pubic hair pokes out from the V her crossed legs make. Her dirty H&M T-shirt is ripped around the neck and only hides one breast. Her nipple's erect and pastel pink in colour, blending well with her pale complexion and the rest of her pasty breast. G's snoring with his hand down his boxers but little to show for it.
"Sick, is she dead?" Asks Page with up-beat curiousity.
"Let's see, shall we." Says Ben, unbuckling his brown Top Man belt and flopping his dick out. He leans his groin over the girls face and pokes her in the eye with his cock. Her eye lids half open and her eyes roll into the back of her head.
"Well not dead, but not very much alive either." Concludes Ben after running his helmet over her lips and forcing his uncircumcised member into her mouth momentarily. Ketamine and snot have combined to encrust her red raw nostrils in a grey-green crystal residue. I sigh. The synthetic click of Page's camera phone can be heard when she says,
"What's her name?"
"Fucknose, why?" I reply.
"I wanna know, so I can tag her right on Facebook."
"Don't Page."
"Fuck off Esser. I don't make 'em, I just take 'em."
Ben, L, Page and the young guy all cackle like witches round a caldron, I manage a gargle and turn my back on the scene. They all sit down, bored of the two dissolute anti-drug campaigns in the corner, Page racks up lines of mandy while L cuts coke and Ben plays on his iPhone.
"Who's got a note?" Asks L.
"I've got a few babes." Says Page, pulling out what's gotta be more than half a grand in twenties and tens. I sit down with them to complete the circle and try my best to ignore G and the nameless girl in the corner.
"How effluent am I?" Says Page fanning herself with the splayed wad.
"Fuck me Page!" Cries L. "How much is there?"
"Dunno, haven't bothered to count it yet, 'bout five ton I reckon though."
"Drinks on you then." Says Ben, prepping a joint.
"Drinks on Tyni." I say.
"Oh shut up Esser. You'd give a valium a fucking panic attack." Dismisses Page turning back to L in ernest. "I've proper gotta get uni to move my locker now, I don't wanna be smelling the boys toilets every time I stash my cash."
"You're gonna keep half a grand at uni?" Asks L.
"Course I am, I ain't got nothing secure at home like that locker in Grand Parade."
"Seriously Page, what about paying Tyni back?" I say.
"Fuck that geek-features, it's mine, I made it. Anyway, you avn't given any back." She answers belligerently and sparking a Vogue.
"Yeah I have, he just robbed three ton back."
"That doesn't count. You didn't give it to him, he broke in and took it from you."
"And fucking battered me."
"I thought you were looking a bit rough Esser hon." Says L squinting down her nose at me.
"Thanks." I say.
I can't be bothered with this anymore, never rinse an idea. As I'm just planning my goodbyes Dick pokes his head round the door.
"Oi it's kicking off downstairs, proper fucking ruckus!" And he disappears.
At the promise of violence we all instinctively jump to our feet and leg it on to the hall. Over the mass of heads and caps I can see Tyni at the bottom of the stairs squaring up to some smaller guy in a box fresh cap on and an Avirex jacket. Tyni stamps out a half smoked B&H Gold on the carpet. The shorter guy steps up to Tyni and their faces are so close their noses must be touching and if they weren't both scowling so much they could be about to pull each other. Tyni's beady eyes stare directly at the other guy's who simply returns the glare and shouts "And what?! And what?!" several times. Tyni head-butts the bridge of his nose and before the poor guy's even hit the floor Tyni lamps his round the face with his mallet of a fist. This is my cue to breeze, no doubt that malicious attention could easily turn to me. As I return to the bedroom where Danny G and the polo-nose girl mong out obliviously I hear everyone's shouts, whoops and braps of encouragement. Pick up my Eastpak bag and check I've got anything. Arctic Monkeys turns into Bloc Party's "Hunting for Witches". I'm getting used to the fact that you can't go anywhere in Brighton without seeing someone you don't wanna see. I leggit down the hall to the open window at the opposite end. It leads to the roof of a tall conservatory at the back of the house. People fill the garden with raucous laughter. I scramble along the roofs central beam to the end and hang by my arms length dropping to the ground. Bolt through the vociferous garden of mess heads and hop over the back fence. No-one takes a blind bit of notice. I run all the way home knowing full well that if Tyni did want to find me, he could.

At home I can't sleep. I toss and turn, drifting from a reality so grotesque it merges seamlessly with my own savage dreams. Images of that girl and G refuse to leave my mind while Tyni prowls the perimeters of my conscience. My hands shake as my chest palpitates through my TopMan T-shirt. I fight back tears. I can't remember the last time I cried and I don't wanna start now. Unfortunately, I know I won't forget this. To occupy myself I get the stack out the freezer, stay up and count it, seven times. There's £4350 in two hundred £20 notes and thirty five £10 notes. I check it one last time before returning stuffing it in the bottom drawer of my rickety desk. I need to go to the bank. There's a green Mondeo up the road.

After pacing trenches through trainers around my room I go to the beach, stare at the pier, smoke a spliff and think. Sitting near the waters edge I look out to the black sea. The surf laps at the shore playing with the pebbles like an idea on the cusp of realization. I listen to Dark Night of the Soul by Danger Mouse and Sparklehorse's Mark Linkous, an album which may never be released because of legal bullshit on EMI's part. My mind races. I’ve got four thousand three hundred and fifty pounds in cash here in the proverbial flesh which Page definitely knows about and so I can assume Tyni also knows about. The Beard's back although it’s quite possible he never went anywhere in the first place so I’m stuck between a rock a hard place and a fit-as-fuck girl who's playing it pretty close to her pretty chest and I’m sure the three of them are triangulating plus they all know where I live which worries me massively. If I give Tyni seven ton then that's basically a grand he's got off me which as far as I'm concerned is my half but there's also the issue of the mandy but fuck that I'm advocating responsibility for that shit Page ticced it Page shot therefore it's Page's problem so that still leaves me with over three Gs meaning I should visit a few banks and spread the stack out while keeping as inconspicuous as I can. I’m due an installment of my student loan again soon I think I need to get out of Brighton the water's getting too hot too deep too heavy I'll hand in my essay and take a long holiday go stick my head in a sandy beach somewhere and wait for everything to blow over fuck uni even V said the first year doesn't count for much so missing a term or two won't matter I just need to get out unscathed or at least no more scathed than I already am for fuck sake. Breathe. I fall asleep despite the tinnitus and my ears constantly ringing with the sound of a thousand cells dying.

Chapter 19.

I wake up to the frenetic sound of seagulls squawking and the channel ocean washing over my feet and ankles. My Levi buckets are soaking wet, as are my Reebok Jams. Rub my eyes and go to Page's. The seagulls scavenge through the rubbish bins on the promenade, their beaks pecking at the scraps as they wrestle with packaging for the merest morsels and announce any success to their partners in crime.

"How was the rest of the session?" I ask her.
"Raggo babes." She says, pulling up her Adidas tracky bs and closing the front door.
Her ashtray is full of half smoked B&H Gold cigarettes.
"Tyni been 'ere?" I ask as casually as I can muster.
"Nah, why?"
"No reason." I say sparking a rollie and putting her kettle on. "What was going down with Tyni and that guy?" I ask.
"Nothin' much, I heard he's in intensive care but fuckit, he brought it on himself. I'm taking a shower babes." She says, turning her back to me and kicking off her flimsy cotton knickers..
I turn on the TV and fall into the seen-better-days sofa. On Big Brother the two chavvy housemates are bitching about the gay guy. I channel hop but it doesn't distract me. The cushion vibrates under my arse. It's Page's phone telling me 'message recieved'.
"Page, y'got a text." I shout without commitment.
No reply. Better check who it is.
Tyni. "U best be." I stub out my rollie. The kettle begins to boil.
You best be?
Curiouser and curiouser.
Check her outbox.
"Nah Tyni u know I'm on a level babes. xo."
What the fuck?
Search her inbox where I find more text messages from Tyni "The Beard made bail, we need a new fall guy." A text from the Beard asking "Page, are we set for check mate?" I look through her dialled numbers mainly to Tyni, The Beard, Ben and L as well as a 999 call, my head rushes and I feel fucking sick as my heart sinks and my brain just kicks itself. The kettle hits boiling point, screams for an excruciating few seconds before switching itself off. I wish I could switch myself off.
Page comes out of the shower and goes into her bedroom. My mind's blank but my body knows where to go. I follow her. She's got a black thong on and is just clasping up a black lace bra. Never trust such a fine figure and fiery temperament.
"Esser." She says standing there, proud, uninhibited, her back to her mirror so I've got a perfect view of both sides. I kiss her roughly. She accepts initially but soon pushes me away. I haven't got the energy to persist.
"Easy babes, what's with the rape-pull?" She says pulling up a pair of fishnets.
"Just, checking something." I answer.
"In my mouth?" She says zipping up a new American Apparel hoody.
"You looking forward to Oceana on Friday?" I ask trying to catch her eye.
"Defo, you?" She says, looking down at the untied laces on her Air Force Ones.
"Whatdayouthink?" I snap.
"Well you best not flop Esser."
"I'll be there."
"Cool, why don't we link before hand and we'll head together."
"Dandy idea." I say sparking a rollie.

We go to parties in my sleep. I dream of vibrant colours and hair cut into geometric shapes. Everyone flaunts their individuality in the same way. Fake Blood turns into Does it Offend You, Yeah?. I sell hundreds of pills, a dozen wraps of mandy and stack paper on automatic. Sarcastic bling jewelry is in. Situationism is in. I’m told to read AdBusters. I’m told not to shop at Primark. I'm told to watch Adulthood. Why is a meerkat comparing the market? I’m confused.com. We're chasing jabberwokies on the other side of the looking glass. I try talking to Page but she's distracted by her iPod, or her mobile or the fat girl she's just seen wearing a T-shirt that says, "Get Cake, Eat Cake, Cry."
"Irony doesn't make you slim bitch!" Page shouts at her.
"Leave it out." I say.
"Shut up Esser, she looks like Michelle McManus had an epileptic fit in Matalan."
I leave Page and meander through the flow of forms like a winding stream round brightly coloured pebbles but probably less graceful. There's a bunch of sculpture students wearing paper-maché woodland animal heads. Rabbits, squirrels and a donkey. It's like A Midsummer Nights Dream on acid. I wander into an open-plan living room that turns into a kitchen and back to Page. She’s at the stove, cooking something. I’ve never seen her so focused. Breakfastaz turn into Evil Nine as she wafts around padding barefoot on the cold monochrome tiles, both her butt cheeks bouncing alternately. Her Warehouse skirt lies on the floor. Ben and L are sitting on the work surfaces, smoking a spliff and not taking their eyes off Page. There’s some floppy haired toff kid in chinos and a brown T-shirt that says ‘Drop Pills Not Bombs’ and he’s trying to engage Ben in conversation, but Ben’s more interested in Page emptying a resealable sandwich bag of grey-white chunky powder, which she then starts to crush with a pestle and mortar. There’s a young blonde hovering around her wanting to be involved but just getting in the way. She’s infatuated either with the K or with Page. I guess Page is kinda infatuating, I guess K is too. We're all highlighted by the soft glow of fairy lights and the faint whiff of chemicals that permeates the air. London Electricity turns into Logistics turns into Cyantific. On the stove a saucepan of water starts to boil tempestuously. Page empties the crushed white crystals, which is now a fine powder onto a white china plate beside the stove, with the young girl peering over her shoulder. Ben continues to ignore the toff boy, who chats on regardless. People start to fill the kitchen, as if attracted by some innate narcotic magnetism. Page spreads the powder mound out evenly with a gleaming steak knife and places the plate on top of the saucepan as the water bubbles. She runs her fingertips under the tap and drops water onto the powder.
“What are you doing?” I ask, just for confirmation.
“Magic babes.” She replies. “Watch one ounce of K, turn into two.”
The kitchen's now full of people, hanging around and licking their lips while feverishly smoking spliffs, half attempting to make conversation with each other but mainly just waiting for the K to cook. I'm told you’re well vegan if you’re vegetarian but vegans are not in. Jump-suits are in. Page plonks down the plate on the kitchen table, and before she’s finished cutting and fluffing the massive mound of powder everyone sits down with their notes, cards and keys at the ready. Not wanting to be the odd one out I grab the last wooden chair next to the toff, who’s finally stopped trying to talk to Ben. I have a couple of corners and get wonky. My first thought is, it’s fucking strong. Then the Michelle McManus look-a-like enters the kitchen and suddenly the space becomes a lot smaller.
“Is that coke, can I have some?” She asks naively, although she can be forgiven because the mound does look a lot like coke.
Page, Ben and L swap quick glances of deceit.
“Sure babes” says Page, “I’ll just cut you a line.” And proceeds to cut an uncharacteristically generous line, of course.
“That’s not coke” I say, “It’s K.”
The girl looks at me then Page, who looks at me and scowls. Michelle McManus backs away slowly still staring dumbfounded at Page and I, like she’s scared to turn her back on us completely. I have another corner and settle into the wooden chair even more. Ben does the phat line Page cut and only now does he acknowledge the advances of his toff admirer. My eyes droop, music swirls around me, I don’t know whether my eyes are open or closed but everything’s getting darker, fading out. I can hear people’s discussions but don’t understand them, like they’re talking in tongues, which they may very well be, what with Brighton’s heavy influx of foreign students. I’m an omnipresent voyeur. I want to involve myself in the activity going on around me but my body and mind aren’t cooperating with each other. I know what I want to do but my muscles fail to respond, I’m glued to my seat almost against my will, if I really had a will. Someone’s talking to me about liquid drum and bass, I keep hearing warm basslines and intellectual vibes but the voice soon disappears, probably tired of my incessant nodding. When I come out of my K hole the kitchen’s emptied except for a few casualties who’ve fallen asleep, or possibly OD’d. I need to sleep. I manage to conjure the strength to get out of the now very uncomfortable wooden chair and take myself upstairs. On the upper landing I aim for the nearest door hoping to find a vacant bedroom.
I open the door to see Ben’s hairy back flexing as he thrusts into the arse of what I’m assuming is the toff boy. Ben’s butt cheeks clench and he grunts with every lunge as the boy lets out a faint, high-pitched murmur. This is the wrong room.

Chapter 20.

I wake up on the sofa with some strange hippy chick with shells in her hair and asking me for some spare socks. I tell her I don't have any spare socks and head to the toilet. I brush my teeth with the cleanest looking toothbrush and have an evil shit that burns on the way out. My jaw kills, my stomach gripes and my semi won't go down, which is a good sigh I guess. I need solace, refuge and sobriety. Text V, "U home?x" I don't know what to do with myself. The computer's still on in the lounge so I go online and check Facebook but to no avail, no new notifications, zero friend requests, not even a fucking poke. I’m still pretty twisted. I need a shower. I put on Last Fm, Estelle turns into H Boogie and I alternate between sitting, smoking and pacing around the room stepping between bodies, bottles and dirty bottles, generally doing very little but waiting for V to reply.

"You look great." She says with sarcastic gusto, when she opens her front door to me.
"Gimme a break. I haven't been awake, been... asleep for days."
"Congratulations honey, you're clinically insane."
"...Touch." I say.
V's place is a blissful oasis of creature comforts and cool blues. Boards of Canada turns into Belleruche. Gonzo's rubbing himself affectionately against my calf, purring like a little furry motor boat. There's scented candles dotted around her living room. I kneel down in front of a cluster in the superficial fireplace and hold my palm over the candle's flame for as long as possible, until the sweat on my palm sizzles and evaporates away and just before it starts to burn the flesh. Her centre table is covered with books, high-lighted print-outs and pages and pages of notes. It's very intimidating to someone who's only half way through their essay.
"I've started mine, but am well off finishing it." I murmur despondently in the direction of V.
"Well I'm nearly done with mine, I can still help you." She replies approaching from the kitchen with a cup of tea.
"...Thanks." I slurp through hot Earl Grey. “But have you got any beer?” There's still a faint ringing in my ears which I'm doing my best to ignore. V eyes me skeptically.
“Just need to wean myself off it, ya know, ease myself into the hangover.” I try to justify.
“I’ll have a look in the fridge.” She says and then announces “You’re
in luck honey.” Around the fridge door and then chucks me a can of Grolsch which I only just manage to catch in my fragile state.
We sit on the sofa and watch a Peep Show DVD, six episodes back to back, one of the early series I think. I sip away at my beer and by the time the last episode ends I’m pissed again.

I curl up on the sofa in the fetal position with my head on V's lap. She's stroking my hair. My lips are red and chapped from chewing them and talking to much. I'm drifting between my breath and my heartbeat. I'm dreaming of that unspoiled beach with the perfect palm trees. This time Page is there too, leaving footprints in the soft sand as she walks along the shore. V is following her and they both enter the crystal clear water hand-in-hand, breaking only to dive in as the camera zooms for a close up and the splash turns into a shower of twenty and ten pound notes that wash over their naked bodies until all the money seeps away and Page's body sinks down and V's body floats up, both of them out of sight and I'm left looking at an endless abyss of darkness. Must. Make. A. Plan.
I wake up soaking with the drug sweats that have drenched through me to the sofa. Classy.
V sets a cuppa tea on the coffee table in front of me.
"Thanks." I say feebly.
She smiles.
"I'm going for a shower." She says, not flirting just telling, but she doesn't quite close the door. She switches on the shower and the sound of jets of water hitting the glass surface provokes me. Steam fills the bathroom and slides out of the gap she's left between the door and frame. I imagine her untying the rope of her robe and letting it slide off her shoulders, down her arms that are clasped over her chest, and settling on the floor in a heap that her dainty toes step out of and into the hot shower. The water splashes over her face and washes over her upper body, dripping from her chin and down her slender neck, running all over her slim silhouette. She lathers her shampoo and cleans herself gracefully, spreading foam over her nipples and naval and up between her soft, inner thighs. It's too much, she's asking for it.
I hoist myself up out of her sofa and onto my staggering feet. I wrench my Top Man T-shirt off my body and kick my Reeboks from my feet. Stumble to the door that's left ajar and blatantly tempting me. I hear her turn off the water and step out the shower. I enter the bathroom and move with purpose. V screams and covers herself with shock. I step into the shower cubicle, take her frightened face in my hands and look into her scared eyes and kiss her passionately.
"Esser, no." I don't hear her. I keep kissing, pushing my tongue into her mouth and shoving her back, up against the wall so her retreat's impossible. Her lips are soaking wet from the shower. I feel her every curve with my erratic palms and open her legs with my right knee, beads of water hide in her trim bush. She tries one ditch effort to force me off but I lean into her, holding her wrists up against the wall either side of her head.
“Esser, you’re hurting me.” I choose not to hear her.
I'm hard. I force myself inside her. Now she doesn't resist, much, just lets out a gasp that could be pain or pleasure or both and finally she stops struggling.

"Linguistically, the author is never more than the instance writing, just as a I is nothing other than the instance saying I: language knows a 'subject', not a 'person', and this subject, empty outside of the very enunciation which defines it, suffices to make language 'hold together'." (Barthes 145)

As we have discussed in 'Death of the Author' Roland Barthes introduces the idea that for a text to be fully appreciated it must be considered completely within its own context, and without any knowledge of its origin or author, which is fine for the creator of the text but can be highly detrimental to their surrounding culture. This essay has focused primarily on Barthes' statement "The text is a tissue of quotations drawn from the innumerable centres of culture." Now that this text has epitomised on the internet where the two states of author and reader have become synonymous, the Generation Y prosumer reigns down an eternally regurgitated aesthetic on its hapless culture.
Where previous generations had their movements and their counter-cultures which frequently challenged the status-quo of everyday society and in doing so revolutionized music, fashion and art, Generation Y are the first post-war epoch that has failed to so. Rather than expending the energy to be truly subversive we simply appropriate the different styles from past eras to create a highly superficial culture devoid of any real meaning or principles. However as Barthes argues, there is no such thing as originality and all creative works from any generation, are simply new remediations of old ideas.

"We know now that a text is not a line of words releasing a single 'theological' meaning (the 'message' of the Author-God) but a multi-dimensional space in which a variety of writings, none of them original, blend and clash." (Barthes 146)

Generation Y prosumers are the Author-Gods here, delegating meaning or a lack of, in their user-generated culture of social networks, mash-up remixes and instant gratification. Our elders dismiss us for our lack of authenticity as we constantly appropriate whatever facets of past cultures we take a liking to. But is this our fault? It seems that Barthes' theory has been fully realised with the advent of the World Wide Web which has coincidentally come into fruition during Generation Y's time, therefore almost advocating our responsibility for this apparent cultural vacuum that is occurring. "The text is a tissue of quotations drawn from the innumerable centres of culture." This has always been true, unfortunately for Generation Y and I, it's truer now than it ever was.

Chapter 21.

I can't sleep. Aim turns into Air turns into Autechre. I sit at my desk and begin to count pills, but there’s that dark green Ford Mondeo parked outside, about ten metres from my place. I think it's been there for a while, on and off. Shut up. Could be anyone’s car, probably is just anyone’s car. I close my venetian blinds; see no evil, hear no evil and all that superstitious malarkey. Even if it is pigs why would they be watching little ol’ me? My life can’t be that interesting, why would they care enough to spy? Unless, when the Beard was taken in, he mentioned my name. But why would he mention my name? He only met me an hour before his arrest, he doesn’t fucking know me. Which is exactly why he would give them my name. I’m the perfect fall guy, he’d just met me, doesn’t know me, and so knows no one else in Brighton knows me, or knew me, really. He wouldn’t think anyone would miss me. Just another unsolved case. The Beard isn’t stupid and certainly wouldn’t go down easy, not without a fight. He had a nice set-up here; established, respected, comfortable, there’s no way he’d let that slip, not when he could pass the buck to me. Well, fuck him. I’ll pass the buck back. Then there’s Tyni, the mammoth amount of meat and gristle, who’s definitely got some sideline projects on the go, I suspect orchestrated by, or at least with Page, that the Beard’s unaware of. I wonder how much he’d like it, to know he’s been left out of the loop. Maybe I should inform him.

We go to another club, then another party in another house, on a road in some other part of Brighton. Front door, hallway, living room, kitchen etc etc. More sex, drugs and rhetoric. The scene looks like it should be surrounded by quotation marks. Florence and the Machine turns into Noah and the Whale turns into Gideon and the Shark. Stripes are in, horizontal not vertical. Jean leggings are in. The month May's in. So are YouTube videos of kittens. I’m told to get on Twitter. Some guy's wearing a T-shirt that says "I Saw You on RedTube." Page, Ben, L, Sarah, K.T, Maths Class, Praiz, Voytek, Tom, Dick and Harry, Not-Gay-Tom, Maya, but of course not V. Drop, sniff, down and do all sorts of anything. D-day tomorrow. Oceana and the Hip Hopalypse. Wipe the slate clean and duck the scene. Tyni, the Beard, Page, Page, the Beard, Tyni. I take Page upstairs into an empty bedroom.
“Yeah, what d’you want babes?”
“Here’s your twenty percent, miss manager.”
I hand her a substantial wad, she doesn’t bother to count through it, just runs her painted nail down the side, flicking the edges of each and every one of the fifty, twenty pound notes.
“Merci buckets, but why now babes?” She asks, slightly squinting her thickly mascara’d eyes and her fake lashes look like massive dark awnings sheltering her eyes from some oncoming bad weather.
“Why not?” I say.
“Whatever Esser, it’s sweet with me.” And she stuffs the wad down the front of her tight Gap jeans. “So you’re on some generous tip, what with giving this to me tonight and leveling with Tyni tomorrow at the HipHopalypse.”
“Yeah, I’m cleansing my chakra.”
“Tired of ducking Tyni already are you babes?”
“Tired of the lifestyle, Page.” I look at her; her fake eyelashes and perfect make-up leave little in the form of human expression and so she gives nothing away. She looks like a fit Second Life avatar.
We get back into the thick of it and everyone in the party’s well messy. It occurs to me that it’s not on my beans and I’ve got mixed emotions. Now I’m not the cause of these lavish, self-indulgent effects, but at the same time this makes me just one of these lavish, self-indulgent effects. No, I may-as-well plant my magic beans and wait for them to grow. The girls have dressed up in whoever’s clothes. L’s wearing shiny rainbow leggings and Page is in a multicoloured, tie-died jumpsuit that looks like such a trip a hippy must’ve vomited on it. Page talks to a guy wearing a fake Rolex as well as a luminous orange Casio watch from Claires Accessories, both watches are on the same arm. Young drunk girls stagger around like Bambi learning to walk. A blonde with dreads is wearing a T-shirt that says "If You're Not Pissed Off You're Not Paying Attention." I'm bored, I roll a joint and look for G but there's no sign of him anywhere. Drop a disco biscuit and let time tick away. I'm just another marionette riding the merry-go-round. Wish you wereNT here.

Chapter 22.

It's sunlight when we get out the party. The natural light's harsh on my eyes, I squint and shield them with my hand. The sky's empty, not a cloud, not even the wisp of some cirro stratus, but it’s not a bright sky, just dull, grey and full of nothingness. My high-tops are battered, my body aches and my eyes hurt. Next stop hangover-ville, soon followed by comedown-junction and resentment-town. I can feel that, pretty soon I’m gonna be so full of fear and loathing I’m gonna wanna kill myself. This routine's getting long. I'm hungry, for the first time in what feels like forever. My stomach is trying to eat itself. We decide to find breakfast in the North Lanes. Crossing over the Old Stein there’s been a car crash. Twisted metal lies strewn on the floor. Tire tracks disappear into the brightly coloured wreckage. One of the cars was a new VW Golf, racing green. Black smoke filters up into the ghastly grey sky and I can smell burning perfume with new carpet. The obligatory police, paramedics and accident victims litter the scene, and I slow down, stop and examine their faces trying to instill some sort of authenticity with what’s presented here. I make eye contact with a middle aged woman, she’s sitting in the back of an ambulance being tended to by a male paramedic who’s bandaging her head while a policeman stands over her, writing arbitrary words on his clip board. It could be a Disney cartoon for all its worth until she looks at me and we hold the connection of eye contact for a few seconds but it soon makes the disaster scene too real and I break away to look for Page, L and Ben. They don’t seem to notice the charcoaled havoc, they’ve walked on and got quite far away up into the North Lanes. Through the lanes Page and L stop to stare at the outsides of boutiques checking when they open. Not for another hour. I feel like the mannequins trapped in the shop windows. Tramps fill a few doorways, wrapped up in grubby street ephemera that stinks of piss. One wakes up screaming. I keep walking.
We sit in a greasy spoon café called Tiffany’s on North Road, Ben tells us it was featured in the Guardian or Observer for a ‘hidden treasures’ article. He and L look like the neon undead in aviators. As we sit down and slump into our wooden chairs no one can be bothered to talk, or perhaps for once, no one has anything to say. In the pressing silence we spend thick minutes treading on egg shells. Don't think about the Hop Hopalypse tonight. Page pushes her food round her plate and stares glassy eyed out the window. Bacon and sausage grease soak into her toast.
“Has Tyni text you for that paper?” I ask.
“Yeah.”
"So what'd you say?"
"Told him I was dry." She says sipping a can of coke through a red striped straw.
"Page." I say raising my eyebrows at her and leaning in. "Now I look like a fucking liar."
"You are a fucking liar babes." She says at me full of spite and venom, then turns away. "I told you I never intended Tyni to get jack. He's all fucking front, he ain't gonna do nothin'."
"Double fucking negative Page."
"Huh." She says at the window.
“I’ve just given you a whole G, with the half you made yourself that puts you a grand and five ton in the flush Page. Don’t you think it would be nice to get Tyni off our backs for a bit?”
“Speak for yourself babes.” Ouch. Fuckit, her selfish agenda is probably the way to play this, everyone man, woman and beard for themselves.
I don't particularly wanna return Tyni's paper, seeing as I put in all the hard party graft. But if it gets him off my arse I guess it's well worth it. Although, there's no guarantee he'll leave me be, especially if the Beard's back and still wants to step to me for his arrest. My head’s foggy with thoughts, I wanna sterilize a needle and remove these splinters from my mind, with that half G she's hoarding plus the grand I gave her last night means she’s got a grand and a half in her locker at Brighton uni, Grand Parade. But she blatantly hasn’t told Tyni aboout it and therefore definitely hasn’t told the Beard if he’s about, which I’m certain he is. But at least I’ve settled up with Page, now I’ve just gotta level with Tyni and I’m home free, hopefully. I look at Page, her perfectly unkempt blonde hair falling over her face, adhering to her effortless fitness. I’m chewing on a piece of fat stuck between my teeth like a delicious string of salty dental floss. Jehst turns into Taskforce but I don’t know where it’s coming from. I look around the café. Trucker caps are in. Dan Deacon is in. Words that start with the letter ' C' are in, like cavort, cunts and complicity. Page is crushing single grains of sugar with the back of her painted finger nail. A brunette goes by with one of those pointlessly little dogs poking out of her Louis Vitton handbag.
“I’m worried about G.” I say, staring down at my empty plate.
“Why?” Page answers, looking for her reflection in the window, but it's too faint so she gives up.
“I think I saw him sleeping under a Ford Fiesta." Says L, devoid of any intonation and only just reminding me that she's actually here.
"That's why." I say, pointing from L to Page.
“So, maybe it was comfy.” Page answers, dropping her fork with an unnerving clatter.
“He’s a fucking mess… and he owes me two ton.” I say.
“He’s just being G, he’s probably fine.” She replies and looks up out the window at the empty grey sky, biting her sugary nails. Wish you wereNT here.

Chapter 23.

G isn’t picking up his phone and is ignoring my texts, although it’s quite possible that he’s just lost his phone out on a session. I’m avoiding Tyni’s calls and texts and I’m pretty sure Page is screening me. My room is cold. My body aches. Aches of living. Living in the red, living in debt to dealers and landlords and The Man. These last few days I’ve barely even felt like I'm living, I’m merely existing, as a simulation of myself being observed from a far by my real self. I’d feel claustrophobic in life if the open invitation of suicide wasn’t always there. I’m not saying I’m going to kill myself right now, just that I’d feel very trapped if the option of escape wasn’t permanently available.
I need to go hand in my essay. No point writing it and not handing it in. I need to put some of that fucking money in the bank. I haven’t got any socks left and the freezer's near full. I feel like a broken children’s toy. Dick texts me but I can’t be doing with that right now. I need to hide away from the world. Stick my head in the sand, except Brighton beach is all pebbles. Smoke a spliff. Drink a beer. Snort a line. I’m strung out, a frayed copper wire. Just another wasteman. Wish you wereNT here.

Chapter 24.

Page gets in contact and texts me. “Drinks at Rikitiks before the HipHopalypse? Don’t flop x” but she just wants to make sure I go. My own fit little escort, not in the whore sense of the word, although she is a fucking hussy. Fuckit, it’s not a bad idea to get tanked up before it all goes down with the end of level baddies.
At Rikitiks Page with Ben, L and Not-Gay-Tom. Ben’s just got a job at the White Cube while uni’s out. They’re all celebrating but I don’t much feel like it. Page is wired and catting for more beans, snapping away at my ankles like a hungry Chihuahua. A hungry Chihauhau in a crystal studded belt from Arrogant Cat and red ankle boots by Hush Puppies. I appease her and buy us a couple of shots of Jagermeister. I don’t want to wait around, it’s like purgatory here but with a lot of liquor and neon lights. So we down our Jagermeister’s with a judder and swiftly drink a Coroner each before heading to Oceana and the Hip Hopalypse.
Brighton manages to contain most of its chavs, townies and wide-boys by keeping all the hideous bars and clubs on one main strip called West Street, boasting Yate's, Weatherspoons, Tru, Heist, Kulture and of course Oceana – West Street’s Mecca.
We don’t queue, I follow Page to the front and the bouncers let us in no question. The club's a cacophonous cornucopia of pop-nihilism and STDs. Walking through the entrance you arrive on the upper gallery. There’s symmetrical staircases leading down to the ground-floor that opens up to the glittering dance-floor. It's not late and already the crowd's full of fervour, hyperbole and sexual abandon as young girls and boys flash flesh and bling body decorations at each other like peacocks deep into the clubbers mating ritual.
“Drop this into the coat room for me babes.” Says Page dumping her Le Sport Sac bag and Gap jacket on me. “And meet me in the VIP room, yeah.”
For fuck-sake. The cloak room queue takes half an hour, all of which I’m stewing over how much Page takes the piss, but I shouldn’t be surprised or take it personally at this point. Oceana’s impressive. Two opposing bars flow round its outer edges, and rows of pillars support the horseshoe balcony which I peer over and which is intersected by podiums on which taut young raver girls twitch their limbs and expose their navels. A couple of heavy bouncers mark the VIP room like a couple of boulders in security uniform.
I approach them and one steps to the side to let me through and lead me round the gallery, as the other follows behind me I’m sandwiched between the two of them and instinctively slow my walking pace but I’m immediately pushed in the back to keep going. I’m herded down a mirrored corridor which is all a bit much what with the infinite reflections of myself disappearing into the silver surfaces all around, so I’m glad to get into the VIP room, but that feeling soon subsides. Tyni is sat in the middle of a semi-circle booth, fag in one hand and the lead to his staff in the other. Surely you're not allowed dogs in clubs?
The VIP area's spacious, with high ceilings and a series of other large semi-circle booths lining the outside. They have porcelain white tables and black leather seats which provide a stark canvas for Tyni's vivid threads, rich, navy blue Diesel jeans and a fresh pair of luminous Nike Air Max. His staff snarls with wet fangs when I sit down on the edge of the half-circle seating. "What's it's name?" I ask.
"Her." He replies with a grunt.
"Her name?”
"Nia." He says.
"...Pretty."
His face remains expressionless.
"Here." I say, flicking a manila envelope across the table to him.
"What's this?"
"Your paper."
Tyni opens it up and flicks through the stack.
"Are you trying to mug me off blud? That's only seven ton, where's the rest?"
"That's my half, ask Page for the rest."
"…Aight." He says, too soon to be true.
"Alright, so that's it... Beef squashed?" I half ask and half say.
"Beef squashed." He repeats, flashing some smoking stained yellow teeth at me.
White Lies ‘Farewell to the Fairground’ turns into Bloc Party's 'Mercury'. Kele Okereke's voice echoes over guttural synths repeating "Mercury's in retrograde" at me, like I'd forgotten. A shadow approaches from down the mirrored corridor I entered through. The Beard. Fucking figures.
"How’d you do? Esser." Says the Beard, looking taller than I remember and quite gangly. He’s wearing a tweed waistcoat and looks a little like Simon Pegg with his newly acquired ginger goatee.
"I've been better."
"I bet you have squire."
"He says this is all he's got Beard." Says Tyni puffing round his cigarette and waving the manila envelope left and right. The Beard takes it and empties the wad into his palm. Eight eyes land on the stack of paper and all of them silently count it.
"What? A minor seven hundred Esser? Are you taking the fucking michael?" Asks the Beard, his eyes narrowing to thin slits for a second.
I remain silent. Mercury's building in momentum, the breakbeat quickening as synth horns bear down on a grinding bass and bounce off my ear drum as two sets of eyes evil me back into the cold, black leather seating. I want to disappear into the corners.
"Are they new Dunks Esser?" Asks Tyni.
"And those 501s look straight off the shelf Esser, they're pretty dapper aren't they Tyni?” Says the Beard cutting coke on his iPhone.
"Pretty fly man.” Replies Tyni. “So how much did all this Gucci linen set you back then blud?" He asks squinting down his cigarette at me.
"You know… I lost count." I say.
“You did huh? That’s funny coz we’ve lost count of how much you owe us.”
“Nil now.” I say, rolling a cigarette.
"You're taking liberties Esser." Coughs Tyni at my audacity.
Page comes through the corridor with Ben and L, K.T and Sarah. They all approach the booth. Page is wearing denim mini skirt with a ripped Zoo-York tank top that exposes her firm stomach and glinting belly-button ring. She sits down between the Beard and Tyni, but up on the top of the headrests, so her feet are on the seats and she snorts a generous line running from one end of the Beard's iPhone to the other as he holds it up for her like a well programmed machine. Then she looks at me, without guilt or regret in her eyes, they simply twinkle with the thrill of the game, and the coke of course. She sits there, rubs her nose and fiddles with her cloakroom stub, looking cute as a kitten in candy-floss. Ben and L pick-up off the Beard.
"Hey Esser, hows it goin' hon?" Asks L.
"Not great." I reply, looking at Page who sparks a Vogue.
"Yeah wicked fun ain't it." Says L, skipping to the booth next to this one, her tasseled mini skirt barely hiding her bum. I take a deep breath in an attempt to stay calm but the air's humid, stuffy and wrought with the stench of Tyni's Joop aftershave combined with my anxious body odor.
Voytek, Praiz, Not-Gay-Tom and half of Maths Class bound into the VIP area and after picking up a bunch of beans off Tyni they take up the other booth. The carnivalesque horns of Mercury spiral downward accentuating the sense of impending doom upon me. A fit bar maid brings us a tray full of tequila, lemon slices and salt. It's salty, sharp and bitter, quite fitting for the given situation. After the standard tequila ritual of slamming down shot glasses and exhaling loudly in some vein attempt to lessen the harsh taste on our mouths, I look between Tyni, the Beard and Page. The brawn, the brain and the buffness.
"You owe us a lotta lolly blud." Says Tyni, letting some slack on his staff's leash so she gets closer and growls at my knee.
“Indeed" The Beard takes over, "with those thousand pills I gave you that fateful Friday night you should have made at least two thousand pounds, that’s assuming you were being generous and selling five pills for a tenner. However, in reality I think Page pushed you to sell three pills for a tenner, am I right?” He looks from Page to me.
I stay motionless. She smiles. Wish you wereNT here.
“I thought so, therefore at three for a tenner you stood to make exactly three thousand three hundred and thirty three pounds and thirty three pence recurring, which you must have seen by now coz Page has already taken an advance on another batch of our product on your behalf.
"Not to mention that mandy." Adds Tyni.
"We'll get to that. So, with that thousand Page got in advance, on top of the thousand I advanced you at my freshers party, you could’ve potentially made a little over six thousand six hundred and sixty six pounds and sixty six pence recurring, over four thousand six hundred of which would be pure profit. Ergo, after moving all that product and making all that profit, what both Tyni and I are wondering, is…Why-the-fuck-am-I-holding-a-measley-seven-hundred-pounds, Duddlyheath?!”
"I fucking told you, that's my cut, Page's got the rest."
"Bullshit, he's done all the shottin' and he's been keepin' all the profit."
"What 'bout that grand and a half in your uni locker?" I say, rolling my head back between my shoulders and crunching the gristle in the muscles.
"Fuck off dip-shit, you think I'd be dense enough to keep fifteen fucking ton at uni. I might have the looks Esser, but I ain't no sket."
"You best not be playing us Page." Says Tyni.
"Again, do I look that fucking thick Tyni." She replies with hard stern eyes and pouting her lips that are glossed up to look like a couple of baby seals on her face. "What I had I gave to him." She finishes and crosses her legs, riding her denim mini skirt further up her glittering thighs.
"Bitch is lying like a politician." I say through gritted teeth.
"Funny that," Says the Beard "I've always been quite interested in politics, you know, management, organization… leadership" And he grabs Page's chin and pulls her face directly opposite his, she looks perturbed but takes it.
"You telling us the truth young lady?"
"Does Jordan have fake tits?" She replies, flicking the cloakroom stub rapidly over her thumb nail while holding eye contact with him.
Tyni and the Beard look convinced, or so say their dicks. The Beard looks at me resolutely, Page and Tyni exchange a tight glance.
"You boys are blinder than Blunkett, she's scheming on us all, I've settled up and now she's playing..."
"But the pussy doth protest too much." Interrupts the Beard with slow, staggered deliverance and holds up his hand at me to shut up. “Listen Esser I’ve been tried and tested by young little up-starts before and I’ve come out top trumps more times than you’ve wiped your shit ridden arse so don’t bother with all your bullshit spin. I want half of the rest of your profit, that’s three grand, and I want it by next week.”
Mercury's finished but the DJ must be asleep or in the loo snorting a line because the needle's been left scratching on empty vinyl. Every scratch cuts into me a little more but finally silence saves me. The rest of the extras are oddly quiet, either sniffing, dropping or sipping somewhere in the near vicinity. Page just sits there. She folds her cloakroom stub into a square and places into a back pocket of her skirt before rummaging in her Le Sports Sac. She files her nails loudly against the huge backdrop of silence that should be filled with tunes and adrenaline fueled tattling. The dog's getting agitated, still growling with increasing aggression. Tyni's biting down on his fag butt, grinding his molars on top of Page's filing. The air now smells like a smoky science lab wearing cheap aftershave. The Beard cuts more lines on his iPhone, even though the porcelain table makes a much better surface. He snorts and holds it up again for Page, who snorts before the Beard stands up, letting everyone know he’s ready to leave.
"Much obliged Duddleyheath" He says leaning towards me and leaking smoke into my left ear. “We’ll catch up in a week.” And he slaps my cheek twice, not hard, just letting me know I’m his bitch.
Tyni squeezes my shoulder in a Vulcan death grip as he exits and whispers in my right ear.
"If you don’t show next week blud I’ll catch you on your jays and then you’ll take one straight to the dome, ya get me?" His musty breath makes the statement even more unpleasant.
Page takes her time. She walks round on the semi-circle seating and sit herself down on the table facing me, basically straddling me with her feet either side of my legs and her see-through lace thong proudly exhibiting her neatly shaved pussy that stares me in the face with one fleshy eye.
"Sorry Esser babes." She kisses me and bites my lower lip. "But I like playing with the bigger boys." She says with a patronising head tilt. "Roll with us or get rolled over, yeah." And she arcs her right leg over my head and hops off the table. I get up quickly and grab her arm, pull her into me and hit her with a diversion pull while I gracefully pluck out the cloakroom stub from her back pocket. We make our own fucking Karma.

Chapter 25.

After visiting the cloakroom and robbing Page's locker keys from her Gap coat I duck out the club and head for Seven Dials and home. I wrap my keffiyeh tighter as the cold wind bites at my neck. I shiver and do up my Fly 53 jacket as it starts to rain, heavy, like the sky's bleeding. I walk down Ditchling Rise under the bridge and check over my shoulder thinking I hear footsteps. Paranoid as fuck. A train clatters past, rattling the rafters and dispensing dozens of flapping pigeons that fly from their clandestine coups. The rain's easing off and there’s a dense mist coming up from the sea and sweeping round my waist as I wade home through fog and rain. It’s that strange time, that brief hiatus in the city when everything’s stopped, except for the weather. Every town has this time, these moments, you just have to find the right hour and take your own personal picture of the streets so rarely still. Blinking seems to last for minutes. More footsteps and I hardly feel the first punch but it puts me straight down to my knees. I try to stand up but can barely steady myself. Tyni’s big angry blur punches me again and I fall backwards, head hitting the curb and I think I hear our skull crack but can’t be sure as my teeth are being punched together and blood fills my mouth. As I literally lie in the fucking gutter, rain hitting my face and I imagine it’s all very film-noir, there’s a smaller Beard blur laughing over me. I finally get warm and black out.

I wake up. Beeping. Medical pads leach my body. Hot student nurse.
“…Ngh. Why am in hospital?”
“Your brain was bleeding.... What were you doing last night?” She asks.
“…Having good time?”
"Too good."
I need to go home, check my stack, which I’m trying to deny is already long gone. I try to get up.
“Whao, you can’t go anywhere mister, you need to rest.” She says tucking me in. Nice.
“…I need to piss.”
She passes me an insultingly small cylindrical tube made out of thick cardboard.
“…You’re fucking joking me yeah?”
“No, yeah.” She replies sarcastically. “It’s either the tube, or the wheelchair.” Her eyes look behind me and I turn painfully to see a steel, cardboard, wheelchair monstrosity, the epitome of humiliation. Well I’ve certainly arrived somewhere. Do I piss in the tube or the wheelchair? What a conundrum. Wish you wereNT here.

I slip out of the hospital as soon the nurse isn't around. Hola a taxi back to mine. I’m still wearing the plastic bag slippers from the hospital. My front door's open and the lock’s hanging off the frame. The place is eerily quiet. Where are my house mates? My room’s a fucking mess but not as trashed as I'd expect from Tyni and the Beard robbing me. They obviously knew where to look. I rifle through my sock draw frantically. Nothing. Over three grand in cash and all the pills, I knew we shoulda kept it in the freezer. Fuckit. Revenge is in. I lie in my robbed and raped little hovel. Dig out the end of a spliff from an overflowing ashtray of grey and black matter. Dull the senses. Wish you wereNT here. Go to sleep. Must. Make. A. Plan.

Chapter 26.

I come to around 1am. Check my phone, nothing but the time. Don't bother checking Facebook. Fuck Facebook. Tyni's after party should still be going strong and I must still be doped up to the eyeballs with morphine or something coz I'm gonna go get my fucking stack back. Portishead's 'Silence' turns into Bloc Party's 'Song for Clay (Disappear Here)’ and Kele Okekeke tells us he's just trying to be heroic. Join the club Kele. There's a fly buzzing around my room, it settles on my window and crawls up the glass. In a stoned stupor I uncap a can of 'Raid' fly killer and unleash a torrent of spray on the poor, unsuspecting insect. It attempts a futile escape but its fate is inevitable as the plumes of poisoned fragrance engulf the little bastard and it crash lands on to my desk in front of the window sill. The struggling of this alien-like silhouette is illuminated by the dawn light from outside and I watch it die, kicking the air with it's hair-thin legs and wriggling away its last moments. With death on our hands I get up and go to Tyni's.

White Lies ‘To Lose My Life’ turns into Arctic Monkey’s ‘Brianstorm’. Wish you wereNT here. I need to go. Leave Brighton. Emigrate. We’re gonna fly south for the winter, after getting my stack back which should send me half way round the world and keep me there for a while. I didn’t have all that money making fun for nothing. We want the money to show for it. So I pocket a can of Dragons Bile mace, chuck three pairs of H&M boxers and socks, two Topshop T-shirts and a pair of olive green Adidas bottoms into my Eastpak and put on my Reebok Jams and head to Tyni’s after party. Don’t judge me. I'm breaking down the fourth wall.

As I pass the Pepperpot on Queens Park Road an electric pink glow from a 2nd floor window up the street marks my target. A dozen Vespas and single-speed bikes are stood on the street outside. We dial 999 and tell the police there’s a fire at 101 Queens Park Road and that thousands of pounds of drug money is gonna go up in flames if they don't hurry. I then call 999 again and tell the fire brigade the same thing. I don't know the average response time for Brighton's emergency services, but I'm guessing it's well over 5 minutes, which is plenty.
Little Boots’ 'Stuck on Repeat' turns into the Ting Tings’ 'That’s Not my Name'. Hollow faces are washed in green luminescence and their thrashing bodies flick the same trendy fashions. Tyni's staff Nia is running around the ankles barking to anyone who'll listen. We're drawn to a back bedroom. Don’t knock, kick the door down. Two people are having sweaty sex on a mattress with mildew. This is the wrong room. Try the next one. Kick the door open, kinda unnecessary as it’s open but it has the desired effect and grabs attention. The Beard, Tyni and another little crony scramble out of their stoned wombs. We douse them in Dragons Bile, my index finger locked down over the cap, showering them in burning water until the cans empty. Nia's barking gets closer or louder or fucking both as I jump against the door closing it with a bang. She scrapes, growls and shouts against my ear separated by just an inch of flinching wood as Nia repeatedly butts the door with her head and claws away in an animal frenzy. Bogdan Roazynsky turns into Producer and the agonistic howls of Tyni and the Beard punctuate the dark dubstep so they sound like nothing more than poignant samples. I put Tyni back down to the floor with a right hook he can't see coming, only reason I landed it so perfectly on his gurning jaw. Drug paraphernalia is strewn everywhere, but there’s an organised stash on the desk, alight by the glow of iTunes. Three bars of weed, five stacks of cash and bag of beans bursting at the seams. Nia still barks ferociously outside getting increasingly frustrated, I’ll have to duck out the window. We have no idea how much cash I’m shoving into my Eastpak but it feels like more than enough and I make sure to leave plenty to incriminate these two fuck-wits. The Beard is on his knees when I kick him in the stomach and send him into a bookcase of DVDs which subsequently rain down on top of him. I turn round to stamp on Tyni’s already unfortunate face and he soon stops his gargled threats, just spitting blood instead. Jump out the window leaving the wheezing, gargles and deep elliptical basslines behind. Scramble down the balcony and land on the grass outside with a thud. There are few drifters on the front lawn but no one cares so no one notices.
The whole scene only lasted thirty seconds and no one in the rest of the house is any wiser. Through the window I can see the party hilarity drowned out any brutal sounds of my self-delivered justice system. Party figures are highlighted for brief seconds by camera flashes and strobe lights. Then there’s Page.
“Esser, babes.” She says blatantly bewildered and lost for any other words. She studies my beaten and bruised face, looking at me through my black eye for a second then diverting her stare down at her red ankle boots.
“Alright Page.” I smile, I can’t help it.
“What you doing here?”
“Roll with me, or get rolled over, babes.” And I kiss her hard, before she can do anything about it. Revenge is in. Reckless-fucking-abandon is well in. I’m that intoxicated fly-on-the-wall, I’m that bloated sense of self-importance. We're that air of doubt, that first line of the night, that shadow disappearing as dusk sets in. We’re crossing the Level, heading for Brighton train station and a holiday. Everyone rolls a different spliff. Wish you wereNT here. Now I’m not.

Sooner than Now

Monday 18 June 2012

Shogun Assassin

Wednesday 14 March 2012

By Amon Alt-Jafarbay

Tuesday 6 March 2012

Front Cover Comp

Friday 2 March 2012

Chapter 1

Thursday 1 March 2012

Reverse Shoplifting : STN in NYC

Friday 9 October 2009

Sooner than Now