t.r.a.n.s.m.i.s.s.i.o.n.d.i.s.o.r.d.e.r.

EVERYDAY IS LIKE SUNDAY.
boredom and paranoia in small town hell.

A NEW HUNTING GROUND.

WEDNESDAY
"maybe this place doesn't exist and your sadistic runt of a friend has made it up. she's really at home, and she's laughing at us wandering aimlessly round town." I'm insisting to Fi this place doesn't exist. It's called 'The Bedroom' and I've never been there, and in a town this small, I've been to most places. "No, it does exist" Fi says "and they have a real bed upstairs". "a real bed? sounds very bohemian". so anyway we turn the corner and find 'The Bedroom' does exist. Only it's not bohemian, just a plain old trendy bar. The Neon lighting is a warning sign. We have our passports scrutinized by a pigmy with a talkie. To her disgust, we're perfectly legal to enter the bar. Tonight bottled piss on the offer menu is one pound only. So THIS is why we've ditched our old hunting ground at the Hop & Friar and strayed to new locations - cheap drink. And they weren't lying there really is a bed up here. And it's a whores bed, wipe clean PVC. The place is crowded for a Wednesday night, and the reason is playing out on seven shiny wide screens across the bar - the England game. But I have no interest in talking about a game of cushioned egos and zero blood spill. Our gang have commandeered the bed, and from the looks of things, and the empty pints on the floor, it's been occupied a while. I haven't drunk beer since before Reading last year, when there was a serious cash flow shortage and I was reduced to ordering half pints of Harps that had to last hours. Since then I've got used to the sweet life of Smirnoff and Jack Daniels. But tonight the familiar feeling of 'skint' returns. On Monday I put myself Ł334 in debt in two minutes flat. I bought three Glastonbury tickets.

Glastonbury aint no damn hippy festival these days. Hippies just don't have that sort of money. I did consider buying buying a fourth, to stick on EBAY to cover the extra costs the ticket agencies were ripping out of me. And it seems a hell of a lot of people had that same idea. 24 hours, that's damn quick. Everyone knows the majority of tickets have gone to touts, and now the people behind Glasto want to do something about it. But the people behind glasto really are on another fucking planet. Instead of stopping the touts before tickets went on sale, they are misguidedly trying to stop touts form selling those tickets on, post-sale. Which is, frankly, the worst idea since Playlouder decided to put some gigs on at an uber-fashionista art gallery. NOW NO-ONE CAN GET TICKETS! Yes the poor fucks may have had to pay over the odds (between Ł200 and Ł400 per ticket last time I checked) but at least they would get to go to Glastonbury. Right now, there is much confusion, and no one is really sure how or if they can get a ticket. Hell, I'm not even sure I'm going to get my tickets. Maybe this year Radiohead will be playing to a field of cows, and a beardy farmer. Maybe that was the PLAN.

Back to The Bedroom. I'm drinking my second pint of stale piss and something magical happens. There's a sound of a camera shutter, a drum beat kicks in and good God it's Duran Duran! Let me tell you a little story. In February I went to see Idlewild at Cardiff Student's Union, and after we hit Barfly for a student indie club night. It seemed a good idea at the time. As soon as I get in there I request the fifty-plus DJ to play a Duran Duran track. "Any song I don't care, just play 'em" I say. The music is terrible - an ugly mix of NME humping Strokes-Hives-Stripes combos and old 90's student anthems. The Stone Roses and Reef never did anyone any good. And hell, this is supposed to be a club, you are supposed to dance at clubs, not shuffle your feet to monged out pastyfaced indie losers from Manchester. I took my case to the DJ once more. "Look you aged bastard, You played Electric Six and those student wasters loved it, play some Duran Duran, they'll love that too". He stares back, blank. "They're trendy now" I rave, "They're making a comeback, you'll see - in six months time you'll be playing three Duran Duran records a night!" . He says he'll play them in a bit, which means he wont, so I give up and watch Steve McQueen try to outrun some Nazis on a motorcycle. They put TV's in clubs for bored and frustrated people like me.

Half an hour later in The Bedroom a second magical thing happens. Duran Duran again! Sweet Jesus, and I hadn't even asked. And then, 'Y.M.C.A', followed swiftly by 'In The Navy'. Finally it clicks. This is a GAY BAR. Of course. That would explain the neon lighting and the PVC beds, it just happens to be full of straight people. Sitting back on that PVC bed, pint of stale piss in hand, marveling at the pretty flash bangs in Iraq as the football finishes and The WAR takes over, I find a new home for Wednesday nights and decide to never, EVER set foot in a crappy student indie club again.

Rachel Duluoz.