The diary of Emma D May: Return of the undead
Sunday 03 May 1998
12.15am: "What did that young man say to you?" Mrs T wants to know. Have to repeat everything six million times because of lethal combination of loud techno (this floor) and deaf old biddy. "He was making a joke," tell her. "Not a very funny one either." Mrs T frowns. "He needs a haircut. You should tell him. Otherwise how will he keep a job?" Try and explain that in Dylan's vocation, personal appearance is not of paramount importance. "Is he a dustman?" asks Mrs T. "No, he deals things," I say. "I always fancied life as an art dealer," she sighs. "My father wouldn't let me go to art college though. He was a grocer, you know. I suppose one can wear anything one likes if one is talented - but one should aim to keep up standards. Have a word with him, won't you?" Say yes I will and look desperately around for DJ booth. "You did say ambient house, didn't you?" I shout in the speed garage room. "Only, I can't seem to find anything that sounds anything like ambient house in the club."
2am: Luckily, just then spot Vikram. "Have you seen the ambient dance room?" shout at him. "Thank God!" shouts Mrs T, clutching at Vikram's arm. "A waiter! Be a dear boy and get me a glass of water... " Vikram looks amused. "Sorry!" he exclaims, "but I don't speak any English thank you." Mrs T is horrified. "Why do they bother to come and live in this country if they won't learn the language?" Try telling her he's got First in English Language and Literature, but she won't listen. Want to just dump her there in the middle of dance floor but she is v. old and what if she collapses from dehydration and exhaustion...
2.10am: Am dragging her towards bar where can get her bottle of Evian and leave her to sort herself out when hear gentle strains of ambient house coming from next floor up. "Come on!" I tell her. Drag her upstairs where, bizarrely, several sheiks are sipping Evian in air-conditioned luxury. Push past sign saying "Private Party". An easily recognisable Mark Thatcher in beige suit is leaning against door with a sozzled older man. "Margaret!" he exclaims. "Where on earth have you been! The security men are looking everywhere for you!" "You silly old fool!" she hisses, suddenly. "How could you leave me like that! It is Babylon down there. Young people on drugs, men kissing each other, Pakistanis, terrible loud music as if Armageddon were approaching! And as for you... " she turns to me, nastily. "Who in God's name are you!" I look at her. "But, we're your children," I tell her. "You created us. We're all Thatcher's children."
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