THIS TIME NEXT WEEK IS CHRISTMAS EVE

2011-12-18T00:08:00.002Z

I cannot go clubbing. Not anymore. Once upon a time, I subscribed to mixmag - I thought Drum'n'Bass and Intello-DJ'ing the equivalent of Classical Music (or, of what I called Classical, Gorecki, John Adams, Gavin Bryars, Arvo Part, Glass, Tavener, Terry Riley, Cornelius Cardew...). I still rate Laurence Garnier, Suzuki and, well, most of the serious boys. That's what I like, serious. Only the serious really understand the brilliance of silliness. What I learnt to hate about clubbing is much what I began to despise about 'church', of organised religion - the people. When I got to the real clubs, where the music and dancing and sharing the love (of dancing, music and those who shared that love) it was sublime - you felt as if your soul was blown large to contain everyone sharing. That might well have been a drug thing, though I was never a regular. The clubs I had to frequent were 'parochial' - they housed all dominations. Those who loved who danced who mixed who heard the sound, we were a minority. Those who wanted a shag, to play Weekend Celebrity, who saw alcohol as an event in The World's Strongest Man. I've never known if I am fancied (yeah, all I've got is that schoolyard language) - I only know who I'm attracted to. My partner, back then, back there, wanted an allure, and when she began to recognise lust in the eyes of young men and desperate blokes, well, she felt sexy. She was always 'sex' to me, until she cheapened herself (which is what she did, she chose to make a cocktail of sexuality, money and largesse). I was never going to compete - and our understanding of love was either different or the same. What I mean is, she wasn't following the rules of the love we'd always professed (or we'd laboured on under a misunderstanding), or she loved me as strongly as the love that let her go (she had to saw off the limb of me, a cutting off me that would re-grow elsewhere). Unfortunately, I broke - shaken, vigorously, like an EktaSketch - I remember the past without any emotional memory, I know I stuff I cannot feel.

I stopped clubbing because she would flaunt her un-want of me in her play of these cock-led fellas. I left her to it. I left her to herself. I could not leave though I knew the worse. She spoilt the music. Now I cannot bear the idea of such nights.

Plus, I cannot hear - even in the breaks, in the slow builds, in the side bars, even in the pub before - I cannot hear what anyone is saying. I've always been borderline deaf - after tests at school, it was suggested I wear an aid, but Mam thought wearing one would be more disabling than not. I've half heard all my adult life, nodded or shrugged when I've no idea if I ought to have scowled or struck. If you know what it's like, well, it's a bugger. It affects the way you act and, so, the way you're perceived - I tend to perform conversations (monologues with little room for diversity), which gives me control of my understanding. I cannot join 'table' dialogue. I drink to much, too quickly because I'm lost - as you're lost in a book when distracted.

And, now, Amy, my wife is clubbing. She loves to dance. She doesn't need me to dance with. Amy's dance is her own. I do not think Amy a re-experience of my long previous. Amy is younger than me, and it isn't important that gap in years, but there's a lag - I've had all I want, need or can ever bear of clubbing.

I love Amy more than I believed I was ever capable. I love music, I'm poor without it. I'd love to dance, to do it properly, to explore it, physically.

What I've always attempted to be is honest. I believe it's the only way. It means being honest with yourself, and that's a complex thing. Honesty will leave you cleaner, never untouched, in the end. Being 'good' is something different, that's about strength and willingness. I want to be good. I aspire to be worthy of my wife's love. I cannot help but love her. She understands, I don't want to club. She must always do as she pleases, even if it means leaving me behind. That is what I expect of love, not departure, but seriousness. I'm a classical lover, like in the classics.

[booze of choice, Tesco Cava 11.5%]

small bites off life

THIS TIME NEXT WEEK IS CHRISTMAS EVE