Huxley's Mill

Is this the dystopia which Huxley once feared?
This brave new club with the most dazzling discolights since 2001.
Yes, they are Stanley’s spacelights which sparkle upon the crammed dancefloor
As Captain Morgan’s shipmates tipple the decks dancing to The Cure.
Smirnoff’s for one pound fifty
Two Jagerbombs for two pounds sixty
You can negotiate a pint of Bulmers but it’ll cost you three pounds eighty shouts the Delboy from the bar.

This Shakespearean screamer masks the change from Robert Smith to My Dark Fantasy
As you etch a sketch the foreign fresher fondling the schoolgirl’s vest
When Stanley’s shadows catch his jaws closing in on the Sambuca tasting bait.
Next to the bloke who’s consumed something stronger than Maxwell’s house.
As you spot the football social pulling every Geordie, Mancunian and Scouse.

To the left, a volcanic brawl waiting to erupt, a brawl that’s so typical for Saturday night but so different in blood.
One’s red, one’s blue, one’s United, one’s not.
A shirt is torn, a punch is thrown, a kick in the head.
Whilst sitting on this speaker, you begin to question,
Question whether that schoolgirl bitten by the teeth of Jaws is Leadmill’s Lolita?
The blonde who prefers her Southern comfort and arranging parties is West Street’s Mrs Dalloway
Or if that flirtatious, brunette with the bob wearing the seductive, sparkling, bodycon is Kelham Island’s Jordan Baker?
Who fancied a drink elsewhere from Gatsby’s Division Street
Or if those….. fucking freshers, the Carnage children coloured in UV paint. Whether those are Freud’s discontentment?

In typical Sheffield fashion, the bolts of the mill come together when Jarvis questions, questions
What else is there to do but to dance and screw?
It really does leave the question of whether your faithful speaker, this wayfarer wearing, Hicks quoting, self-deprecating literature student, whether he’s…. Dostoevsky’s idiot?