Clubbing It

Clubbing it Once I went to a night- club in Albufeira a dreadful place with garish colours and a man with a Hammond organ also played many instruments with a total lack of talent, when he rested a jukebox took overplayed so loud the windows shook. Around the dance floor – arena – skeletal women sat crows that looked at men’s crotches and piercing eyes looked into his wallet the three ugly sisters had felt at home, their fairy-tale opulence could have lent this place dignity and humour. Driftwood from all over Europe men swarmed around them like bees around a jar of honey, a few caught a bee in time a dream come true golf lessons swimming pool and garden- Then they got old eating a lettuce a day, slept the afternoon away in the evening and hungry they had the nails and hair to do and still dreaming of the right man to rescue them of this ennui, prisoners of faded beauty and their former lovers lived at the old folks home up the hill in the interior of Algarve Yet I could not help feeling sorry for them helpless old age stuck on a slow liner and no life raft, as they resignedly waited to be engulfed by cold green sea and Albufeira continued its dance around tourism a place for the “hard working worker,” erasing what once had been a peaceful fishing village along the coast of romance.