The black turntables, the beer and the girls, the Maceo Plex and the Sister Nancy. The faders, the channels, the booth monitor, the Skintologists, the 78 Edits, the collaborators, the conspirators, the hastily scribbled notes and ideas that grow damp in the back pocket on the ride back home. The Brick Lane Beigel, the so strong tea, the broken glass crunching on bare-foot girl feet, chubby hands clutching too high heels, the furtive whisper – taxi, taxi – the Junior Murvin, the clash, The Clash, and remember not to forget – enjoy yourself, it’s later than you think. The black turntables, the ones and the twos, the endless vari-speed merry go round of nights out in the city. The hugs and the kissing, the between song pissing, the terrible rhymes, the return of hard times, the jet black headphones, the long way home. Take me out, tonight, because I want to hear music and I want to see lights. She’s a model and she’s looking good. You were working as a waitress in a… My life in songs and rhythms and dances, Witness the Fitness, deliver, deliver, nothing left to believe in but these things. The black turntables, the spinning, the spinning, the spinning, the spinning, till we’re all so dizzy we can’t stand up and we can’t fall down so we dance and dance till the lights come on… We dance and dance until it’s gone.