You feel slightly unnerved. You are in a somewhat remote club that you have never been to before. It's located in the dodgy end of town and it took you some time to safely enter the building – you had to keep turning corners in order to avoid creepy looking old guys in sleeping bags. They were probably no threat to you, but all the same, this wasn't your territory, and nothing was familiar to you at all.
The room is filled with slightly stoned looking people fist pumping in unison even though the music hasn't started yet, you edge over to the bar and sit on one of the many seats available. Everyone is stood by the stage, waiting for the band to come on. You look at your watch, you're almost half hour late. Could he of already been and gone? Surely not.
"What'll it be love?" a rough voice asks. You turn to see a tall, dopey looking bald man with a tattoo on his forehead. You struggle to make out what it says without looking too suspicious, so you simply glance at the selection of drinks behind him instead. "Malibu and coke, please," you reply. The barman gives you a knowing look, almost as if he's expecting you to own up and order a lemonade. But then the moment's gone and he turns to pour you a drink. That was one thing you kind of liked about this place, the way no one seemed to judge you on how old you were. Not once had you been made to feel prejudiced against because of your age. Then again, that could just be the four inches of make-up you had caked on in order to look older.. or the fact that you haven't actually spoken to anyone yet, bar the barman.
"'Ere you go m'love," placing your drink on the coaster infront of you the barman gives you a wink. Gross. You think. Nevertheless, you pay him and proceed to search the room with your eyes. The guy you were supposed to be meeting was nowhere in sight. Wanker. You thought. You'd give him five minutes. If he hadn't turned up by then you would leave. Glancing at the alcohol-stained, corner-torn poster on the wall you think you might as well check out the night life while you're here. The poster reads: 'PLAYING TONIGHT: TERMINAL MARGARET' the barman sees you squinting trying to make out the description and interrupts your reading. "Shit band." He grunts. "Lead singer's a nob. Drummers a nob. Bassist went to school with my cousin. 'E gave her an STI." A grin spreads across your face and you snort with laughter. The barman gives you the eye and you quickly disguise your outburst with a cough. He's probably right, the name was a bit crap, and this wasn't exactly the kind of place award-winning artists performed. All the same, something about the black and white photo of the band underneath it intrigues you. Almost as if you have seen them before. You take a sip of your drink and avert your eyes back to the stage. The room isn't small but small enough so that you can make out the odd facial features of the guy that has just walked onstage. He has beady eyes and a slightly upturned nose. He taps the microphone and announces that this Terminal Margaret band are about to come onstage. And as promised an oddly kind of handsome looking guy with tousled black hair and sparkly boots walks onstage followed by a small group of boring looking punk types who all have weird trousers on. With a quick nod and a few exchanged high fives with the audience the band start playing.
"Told you." The barman was right. They were a pretty shocking band. Except for the sparkly boots guy. He's the main singer and you find him strangely fascinating. You tear your eyes away from his chiselled face for long enough to realise he is wearing red leather trousers and a black fur coat. A combination which shouldn't work, on anyone. But he manages to pull it off.
They play a few songs which all sound the same –for all you know it could just be one long song- and get a few drinks thrown at them before rounding it off with a still similarly sounding, but slower song about a a man with seven goats. You're weirdly starting to get into this now, you even start mouthing some of the chorus, and for a second you think you feel the singer lock eyes with you. But then the bassist starts a riot and they get booed off the stage. "Thank you, Terminal Margaret." The beady eye man says awkwardly. You realise it's been longer than five minutes and glance at your watch. Fuck. It's been two hours. Your mum must be going mental. You calm yourself, you told her you were staying round your friend's. She'll be none the wiser. All the same, you better get going. The still stoned, now angry mob are starting to leave and pretty soon it'll be mayhem outside. You go to grab your leather jacket but you just feel air. You could of sworn you'd left it on the back of the stool. Ah well, it'll be at home. You're probably tired. You can see it now, on your bed all ready to be worn. You gulp the remaining trickle of Malibu and coke and slam the glass down a little too hard. Standing up you feel slightly light headed. You shrug it off and tell yourself to stop being such a lightweight. Making your way across the now foul-smelling room everything starts to spin. You feel your stomach churn and make a mad dash for the bathrooms. But you don't know where they are, and end up running out the back door into an alleyway. You lean against the wall to steady yourself, but it's useless. Your legs quiver uncontrollably and you vomit onto the floor for what seems like hours. And then you pass out.