Starting a journalistic revolution with bitter resentment and narcissism.
We were smoking reefers as thick as children's wrists in the VIP area of a secret Kanye West gig exactly 4 kilometers under the London underground. I hadn't slept in two weeks, my time was much better spent doing bumps of MDMA at sticky college dorm parties that I wasn't invited to (I went ironically) and tricking clueless teenage girls into talking about minstrel singers that I had, in fact, just made up.
So, I was doing all this cool stuff with lots of black people who like me when suddenly my pager starts beeping. Blurry eyed and drugged as a mule, I tried to focus on the message, and could just about make out the words 'bunker rave', 'Kuwait' and 'bring drugs'. Kanye offered me a bite of his lamb shank, but I had to decline, I hadn't eaten in nine days and wasn't going to start now. I excused myself from the party and crawled through a series of pipes toward the surface.
Hopping on my Islamic bicycle (Wearing my skin-tight Burka, ironically but also politically charged), I rode to Heathrow airport where I'd meet an American named T-Wizzle. Together, myself and T-wizzle would take a Boeing B-50 Superfortress to Kuwait, where the world of Kuwaiti House and Post-Trance music would be waiting for us to arrive.
I'd been to Kuwait for drug orgies about seven times by now, but this was T-Wizzle's first time. He was making a really big deal out of it and I was all 'ugh'. I just kinda ignored him for the rest of the flight, listened to my Tobi Vail spoken word tape and made charcoal drawings of my own asshole.
When we arrived I was totally ready to party again because I'm always ready to party because I'm a 90s kid and remember Nintendos and Pokémons. So T-Wizzle steps outside first and instantly feels the heat on his shitty American skin and he starts complaining and I'm all like 'ugh'. If you can't handle the stone-baking Kuwaiti desert, stay home in your super upper class mansions you teetotaling bourgeoisie posers. You have no business in investigative journalism.
Anyway, so after a four hour dune buggy ride through miles and miles of desert storm, we arrived at the bunker rave. T-Wizzle jumped off and he was all like 'how do we get in?' and I was all 'ugh'. It was kinda obvious that this guy was a total newb at life and that I'd experienced so much more in life than he has, so I explained to him that there's only one way to get into a secret nuclear bunker rave. It's like, a universal thing here. We walked to the main entrance which peeked from a large hill, I tapped on the steel gate eight times and played a few notes of "Colourless Colour" by La Roux on my tin whistle. T-Wizzle looked on in total amazement as the gate slid open and we were ushered inside by an emperor tamarin monkey in a purple cardigan.
So, we were the first to arrive or something, I wasn't really paying attention because I was already snorting up huge lines of black lotus flower, a drug that can only be found in the fictional world of Conan the Barbarian. I have people everywhere. Anyway, so we're sitting there in the VIP area and listening to some UK grime artists that I'd already heard months ago, and watching all of the other posers wobble inside like big poser jelly pyramids.
The first to arrive after us was a large group of men and women in clingfilm trousers. They were completely naked above the waist and had ironic statements like 'Libertines 04'' and 'Vote Labour' painted on their chests, it was totally sweet but T-Wizzle didn't get it because he's not from London. The fucking ignorant cunt.
So, I'm all basking in the inside joke when suddenly, out of fucking nowhere, the prince of fucking Bratislava rolls into the bunker Freddy Mercury style atop a sea of midgets in yellow spandex. He notices me immediately and rolls over our way to compliment me on my last article about urban hip-hop music and the different kinds of tranquilizer darts that compliment it. I just kinda shrugged him off and went back to rolling a super doobie for me and T-Wizzle, who was like, totally freaked out by everything at this point.
Anyway, we smoke up the doobie and T-Wizzle starts going green and I'm all 'ugh'. I decide to leave him on his own so I can go and dance ironically with everyone else dancing ironically on the quote unquote, DANCE FLOOR. I start moving my arms around the jerking my head forward in time to the music and who catches me eye? Only the drummer from Nirvana!
I immediately take my chance to whisk him away and take ironic photographs as if I actually like his stupid mainstream band. I'm figuratively chewing on the irony here and I can already hear the collective laughter of the secret London indie cinema scene. Just when I'm about to take one of me and him throwing up gang signs, T-Wizzle appears out of nowhere, dump tackles me and starts rubbing ketamine on my face. I instantly soak up all of the drugs through osmosis (my body's osmosis is like, faster than most) and suddenly realize that I like King Krule.
So like, whatever. Fuck off.