Wanchai Only Makes Sense When You're Drunk

On diet coke on Friday night because of the antibiotics, it was just too weird. I had no idea what anyone was saying, why they were going, why staying, why chatting up this girl not that girl, why crossing the road here, going in there, down there, up there... No clue. I was not drunk.

Observing Wanchai through the aberration of sobriety renders it incomprehensible. It is a heterogeneous entertainment district; beer-bars, lounge-bars, chill-out bars, dance clubs with live music, and outrageous girlie bars interspersed with each other around a city block and a half. Only when you're suitably pissed does any of it make sense.

The forces and gradients of Wanchai's social interactions waver into your vision as the drinks go down, their mists coalesce and become alcohol clear, their purposes potent. You must always face down the fall-line of thirst, of hunger, of sport (usually another "important" soccer match is being shown at bar somewhere), of where the best and cheekiest bar-girls are, where the right beers or vodkas are sold, of somebody-else's unspoken crazy idea to listen to live music when en-masse your table of misty-eyed Mancunians arises and moves to Amazonia. But ultimately, as the hours advance towards morning, one or two break away in the thrall of their final surge of energy for this night's session, then another is missing, then another, till all have been called away, save those who have no strength left, or who have peaked too early... the last of the gallants, sucked by the currents of a spiralling vortex, follow the flow for the satiation of their most basic earthly appetites, down the last run for the night, towards lust...

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Just some ideas for further elaboration... (and removal of purplish passages.)

E@L