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  • This wasn’t his bag.
    This wasn’t his sound.
    He didn’t belong there,
    just hanging around,
    just drinking the night
    through cheap plastic jars
    and checking his watch
    until he could depart.

    ‘I’m Barnabus,’ he said,
    to himself (no-one else).
    ‘To dance in a nightclub
    Is no good for my health.
    You can’t mosh to this music.
    You can’t rock to this beat.
    I’m like unwanted veg
    on a plate full of meat.
    Techno’s for tossers
    and disco is dead.
    Just how did I get here?’
    He was easily led
    is the answer to that,
    and really, he knew it.
    And really, it’s sad
    that he left her for this
    for nights out on the town
    and the ‘best bunch of mates’
    that could only be found
    out on the dance floor
    with their new dance floor chicks.

    They’d forsook rock n’ roll
    for the pull of their pricks.

    ‘Infadels mate,’
    grinned a mate, dancing back.
    Ol’ Barney just groaned and said
    ‘Infadels? Cack.’

    And with that he left,
    out into the street,
    soothed by cold city air,
    a relief from the heat.
    And he tried to shake off
    that monotonous beat.
    And he tried to shake off
    that monotonous....

    Time for some different tunes. Maybe a bit of Morning After Girls. Barnabus plugged himself in to his mp3 player, wrenched up the volume and surrendered to the soft attack of vibrant grooves. He took a short cut through the alleys at the back of Canal Street, to make his way home.

    At first when he saw them, he didn’t know what to do.
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