The Nation

In keeping with this issue’s theme, think of recent political events in this country within the context of a night out on the tiles.

As a starting point, we need to set the scene. ‘The Nation’ could be the name of our three-storied mega-club. The Federal Parliament on level two, is the club-within-a-club where a reasonably popular crew of (choose an adjective) glittering, slobbering, slackjawed, egotistical, wily ‘clubbers’ hold centre stage. These middle-men and women pass up the song requests and so on from their accomplices downstairs.

Now, the top floor VIP room at this place is about as exclusive as it gets. Bewilderingly, perhaps by some strange mode of mind-power, nutjobs also occasionally slip through to this enclave. But by and large this is where the heavies hold court.
 
Here, the drug of choice is power. The attaining, stripping, reducing, enhancing and seeking of this transient commodity is what concerns those who hold the floor in the VIP room. We could liken the inhabitants of this floor to management of the club itself, who are charged with overseeing the running of the whole venue, especially the ground floor, which we’ll call ‘Dregsville’. (Almost anyone with a heartbeat can get into Dregsville, exclusivity is virtually non-existent, and the cavalcade of humanity here, while startling, could paradoxically be considered more genteel and dignified than floor 3.)
 
Democracy Darling
 
Now for some time, The Nation had been run as a curious mix of debutante ball and nazi-sympathiser rally. DJ Johnny ‘Straitlaced’ Howard and his band of cronies had a stifling hold on the general ambience of the venue, almost squeezing the life out of what had been known to be a joint that could really (choose an adverb) go off, pump, suck.
 
Alexander ‘Dandy’ Downer had long been responsible for promotional material, overseeing publicity. His flyers were insistently bland and sneering, offering little substance. Much of the artistic essence of his material was lifted straight from the textbook of superclubs in countries similar to ours.
 
Security was the domain of Philip ‘No-soul’ Ruddock. A most frightening specimen, this guy radically changed the door policy (at the behest of ‘Straitlaced’), employing a crack squad of vacant, ham-fisted oafs. Prospective members were even asked to answer questions about what went on inside - even though they had never been - and often had to line up outside in the rain for hours on end. “Members only tonight buddy”, or “We’re full at the moment,” the bouncers would say; only to let in a bookish trio of conservatively dressed women in the very next minute.
 
Under these killjoys – better suited to running a funeral parlour than a nightclub – the general mood of the place was one of gloom, self-interest and simmering tension. The door price kept going up, apparently to improve the venue, but the amenities didn’t get any better. When fights broke out, the instigators were often bought free drinks, while the victims were shown the door. The lighting was dated, the cocktails positively archaic (Grasshopper anyone?), and the music selection a bland, one dimensional mélange of Scandinavian hyper-pop.
 
Then, joyously, there was an uprising. After one too many replays of Jive-Bunny does the Nolan Sisters, the punters had had enough. Baying for blood, vast sections of the crowd demanded of their well-connected friends in level two that there be a change in management. Duly, a new squadron of VIPs assumed the position on the Milanese furniture on level three. DJ Kevin ‘Straightlaced (Version 2)’ Rudd and his motley crew of ex-rock stars and pearly-toothed dilettantes sought to give the place a new lease of life.
 
Promising a revised play list, new lighting and a more relaxed atmosphere, Version 2 immediately bought everyone a free pill and apologized for the heinous crimes against clubbers of generations past, wrought by the initial management consortium. Despite some mumbling about not all of the previous management being complicit in the initial direction of the club from some recalcitrant thunderbird-looking goose on level two, everyone on the dance floor, as they looked around at each other, sensed it was going to be good night tonight.
 
Amongst themselves, they secretly hoped that these pills would have a nice, clean, long peak; the DJ wouldn’t get too drunk and start playing rubbish, and that the beer would not be slowly watered down over the coming weekends.

 

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