Clubless

We have had some scary news.

It would appear that the nightclub, local epicentre of music, drug-abuse and illicit liaison, is not going to reopen its doors after the pandemic is over.

Obviously it is closed at the moment, because apart from the above-mentioned delights, its main attraction was a dance floor. As you know, these have become illegal in our Brave New World in case anybody touches anybody, which probably should have been prohibited for all teenagers years ago, that would have sorted out the population explosion.

Its other attractive feature was that it was open until three in the morning, making it the latest-opening alcohol-vendor for about fifty miles.

From our point of view, its best quality was that it was halfway around a long one-way system, and a long way away from the town centre, making it tiresome to access on foot, especially on high heels, in the rain.

Not only did we make substantial chunks of cash taking people there and bringing people back again, its very presence served as a tourist attraction. That is, if you consider the thrill-seeking youth of the surrounding villages as tourists. Lots of people came to Bowness for a night out, quite simply because of its Late Bar Drink Dance And Be Off Your Face facilities.

Indeed, because of its reputation for hosting the most intoxicated, most abusive and unpleasant customers, most of the other taxi drivers avoided it. Sitting outside it in a taxi, waiting for people to stagger out and vomit into the litter bins, was an occupation reserved for a very few flinty indifferent villains for most of the week.  Also nobody likes having to stay up until dawn with the possibility of only making an extra tenner, or worse, having somebody scamper off into the night shouting rude words over their shoulder as they go.

We made a very lot of cash from the nightclub.

We considered our position over coffee in bed this morning.

Thoughtful contemplation was somewhat impeded by having Ritalin Boy sitting in between us. He has been staying with his Other Grandma, whose nobility never ceases to impress me, but had come to spend a night with us.

I know that you are supposed to do Social Distancing with your grandchildren when they come to visit. This might have been a good idea, especially after some poo issues that he had had earlier on, but of course we didn’t bother. Of all the things I think one might conceivably catch from Ritalin Boy, Bat Flu is not one that I am worried about.

I expect the police will come round and arrest us when they read this.

We had had to leave him to Oliver’s supervision when we went out to work. This might not have been especially vigilant, because when Mark popped in during the evening he discovered the dog had been trapped under a bucket, which had subsequently been decorated with some plastic butterflies. Ritalin Boy explained that since the dog growls whenever it sees him, he had imposed the bucket as a kindness to stop him from feeling so grumpy. He added that it seemed to have worked, and I suppose he was right, because the bucket was still there an hour or two later when Mark came home and removed it.

We finished work much earlier than in the olden days, because of the absence of nightclub, and although Oliver was still awake, Ritalin Boy wasn’t, and all that remained was a lingering aroma where he had neglected to flush the loo next to our bedroom.

He has gone now, and a hush has descended upon the house. We have now got all the time we need to contemplate a future in which our chief source of income has disappeared.

What on earth are we going to do?

Have a picture of a boy.