Monday, August 26, 2013

Going back home from the university to the Bigg Market at three at night on a weekend is like living in a badly made remake of Dante's Inferno.

The first circle of hell - the 24 hour McDonald's at Haymarket, without a doubt brimming with emotionally wrought couples fighting over the betrayal of the night. In the midst of their sordidness, the drunken busker croons love songs on his guitar. I cross the showers of tears, screams and Geordie abuses and make my way forward.

The second circle of hell - the Monument. Swarming the square are groups of Lads, leaving havoc in their wake, whilst I try to avoid their advances with deft, Matrix style moves. Basking in the yellow moonlight bouncing off the medieval stones in the square, there is always a lone man, sitting quietly amidst the turbulence as if in a bubble, under the Monument, charmed by the fantasies of some faraway world.

The third circle of hell - Bambu. The squeals of women in irrevocable pain from wearing freakishly high heels (the illusion of height seems to be the greatest pathway to redemption here), and the drunken slurs of men who intoxicated themselves into a stupor so they would no longer notice their vixen like high pitched sounds of death. I make my way through the suffocating maze of bodies and sweat, the chaos of ambulances and engulfing fumes of vodka and cigarettes, onto the very last circle.

The last stretch of the journey - the fourth circle - the final frontier - my street. I am greeted into the alley by arches of men facing each wall, releasing the intake of vast amounts of liquid. I must cross this raging river of urination, and like a ballerina, make my way to my door. Finally the quest comes to an end. I am safely ensconced by the embrace of my refuge, my home.

As my journey comes to an end, I can still hear voices of the lost, inebriated spirits, singing disenchantedly, slurring loudly, beckoning. I shut the window, climb into bed and breathe a sigh of relief.

I hate bank holidays.

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