I don’t remember blacking out. I remember asking where I was and some other stuff. That guy who kept rolling joints but never smoking them. I watched him. Just line them up he did, neatly side by side on the coffee table. And those Nazi rallies projected on the wall and the music which seemed to get louder and… Christ my back is so sore. Did you see those ones? Practically ridin’ in the living room they were.

Did you have any of that stuff Cormac had? And did you notice how all the girls had dyed-blond hair and how they all smelled so strong and how they didn’t really say anything till Cormac gave them some of that stuff he had, drugs or whatever. And do you know why everyone was talking about rhythm and destruction and bad dreams they were having and about the funerals they were going to have? Was that a theme or something? Was it a theme party? And that friend of that girl with the glitter on her eyes, Elaine I think, who told me she’d stopped eating for two weeks in protest at Brad Pith’s engagement to Jennifer Aniston and that Jennifer Aniston, she told me, was a filthy Greek Jew bitch who looked like Barbara Streisand’s retarded daughter. But, she said, she said she lost more than a stone in that fortnight which was deadly she said, because her boyfriend who has a car will go down on her again and that now she only eats popcorn and only drinks Diet Coke except of course when she’s getting smashed or about to be weighed. And she said she thinks she’s happier now… and the way she gripped my arm mad tight and came in close, the smell of hunger off her, and whispering low asked me did I think it possible if she wished hard enough could Jennifer Aniston get cancer or die or something – my back is so sore.

What was in that last drink that guy Scott gave me, do you know? The glass looked muddy. And Rachel, she came back from Viva I think it was, with those models. They didn’t look like models, though one of them was I think, cos I’m sure I’d seen her in a Barry’s Tea ad or maybe it was a Lyon’s one, anyway, why were all the boys laughing at the models and asking them to spell words they were getting from a thesaurus and telling the models they were a real ‘asset’ to the party? And why didn’t someone stop Moby, all night he sang, and who the hell was that prick who kept telling me how many pints he’d drank and why some soccer team were the best. The room really spun last night. Who was that guy with the hat? I think it was him who was sending me those creepy text messages, those girls in the kitchen snorting Es, the black guys huddled in the corner making plans, the voice in the hall screaming – did anything happen before I blacked out?
I mean did something happen?
My skirt was ripped you know.
There are bruises.
Do you know? Cos I think something did cos I blacked out and don’t remember a thing.