
...and so here we are, footprints on the ceiling and screaming the words in each others faces, sharing in it like a party we might have hoped it could have been had we closed our eyes and dreamed hard enough on the bus on the way into town. An Arctic Monkey or four screaming at I the Rev Rarsclart, eyes bulging, faces red with the joy of it all.
And the people who have shared it. Those who felt some connection with getting on their Dancing Shoes, a Mardy Bum or Scummy Man or something. There's these moments on which it all turns. I have two or three,
Cos‚ after all what is it if not an adventure? Like getting on a bus to the other end of town and your not really sure where it goes but you get on anyway. As I started out the Arctic's four screaming faces, spoke to the people who had traveled for eight hours in a micra, or as I tried to sleep, listening out of the window at some drunken lads singing dancing shoes at four in the morning, it dawned on me that there are no leaders in all this or no plan or scheme, other than what's unfolding. People understanding it, relating to it, not relating to it but dancing to it, whatever. Everythings happened yet nothings really happened at all. Why set flags in the sand, it could all end tomorrow and it be back to the local and the chippy afterwards, or it could run and run and run to places unknown. Dreams and schemes and bla bla bla. But the reasons it started are as pure today as they ever were and that's gotta be a damm sight better then formed a band, drank some JD, took some drugs, had some birds or whatevers cool these days. All thats left to say is, welcome to anyone and long live it all say...