DIARY OF AN URBAN BOGMAN. Day 9. A Night on the Town, pt. 2

I’VE LOST MY MOJO!!!”

Nothing but silence and puzzled looks permeate the assembly, as Rory Edward screams desperately in the vague direction of the busy dancefloor. I don’t think he has completely lost it, but there’s definitely something of his previous relatively–together self that has faded into obscurity.

MY MOJO! HAVE YOU SEEN IT? OHMYGODWHATIFINEVERGETITBACK?!?!”

He falls to the ground in despair. “…please help?”

People will casually observe the complete disintegration of a fellow human being, with the same level of interest as they would a nineties sit–com. Mostly tedious, but with a few good laughs. Nothing worth spilling your gin & tonic over, of course.

I don’t know what’s wrong with him. Maybe he’s had too much, maybe they put something in his drink (more drink, maybe?) or he’s just prone to having these episodes and I just haven’t witnessed one yet. Good to know it’s not just me that loses the plot occasionally.

There’s always a good samaritan, though. One person will wiggle out of their dumb–struck observer mode and try to uneasily help a fellow human being, albeit a complete stranger. This one, though, takes the cake…

Look hun, I know it’s tough, but you just gotta pull though,” she says softly, while attempting to crouch down closer to his bent shape, without ripping her pink pencil–skirt. “I mean, I know that Made in Chelsea is on a break, but don’t worry about it because I hear they’re coming back soon, with the LA version.” The benevolent smile on her face makes it clear that she is being completely serious.

Bizarrely enough, Rory seems somewhat appeased by this news, as he stops sobbing and looks up from the ground. “You smell nice,” he tells her.

Thanks hun! It’s the single scent molecule Iso E super suspended in alcohol. You can’t smell it when you wear it, only other people can, and it smells different on everyone depending on skin chemistry. It’s like magic.” She smiles warmly.

Rory Edward’s face drops, a grimace full of horror as he edges back and away from her. “SHE’S A WITCH! A PREDATORY WITCH!!! SHE WORKS FOR THE DEVIL!!! FOR THE LOVE OF GOD CAN’T YOU SEE THE FIRE IN HER EYES?!?!? WHY ARE YOU ALL JUST STANDING THERE??? RUN! SAVE YOURSELVES!!!”

As I sip down the rest of my beverage and watch him run awkwardly through the parting sea of strangers, I wonder why it is that nightclubs make people so desperate. There’s probably something in the hormones we secrete in a space so densely populated with attempted fornication. Maybe it just gets to some people.

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