It took me my deepest décolleté and I had to punch some bitches in the weak spots, like, real hard in that mud wrestling contest, but it was worth it.
I’ve never been happier then when those darling Raveslave kids sent me across the Iron Curtain to report about my Eastern Bloc Parties. I promised them to be the high-heeled, drinking and swearing version of Tintin in the Land of the Soviets. Quoi qu’il en soit, I decided to Czeck out what ex-bolshevist, Lada-driving and vodka-lurking communists party like. And for that sort of private investigations, there’s no better place than Roxy Klub, in Prague, Czech Republic.
Should you pussycats ever end up in Roxy Klub, there’s three things you’ve got to keep in mind. One: if you dress stylish, the KGB will arrest you and send you to the Gulag. It’s fricking cold over there, so kids: don’t do style. Two: “Kanaplja” is actually Russian, but those sweetheart Czech kids understand it perfectly well. And three: Bohemian-style absinth is infamous for a reason.
Deciding to go partyhardy in Praha is one thing, getting there is um- another. I had the incredibly bad idea to trust my brother on the ‘men have better orientation skills’-thing. Lost in the small Prague streets, I cursed my belief that men are as good at finding the way as they are at finding the closing of your bra. I mean, if you see the speed and efficiency that they usually go straight for their objective with… But that’s my next blog.
So after, like, 7 hours of roaming, we finally arrived at Roxy Klub. The club wasn’t the tightest I’ve ever seen, but I guess, trendy in a Marxist-kind of way. The place looks like an old warehouse or something, lots of concrete and dirt, and holes in the fricking floor. Holes, by Jove!, and I was wearing high heels. Ah well, at least I could, little hypocrite that I am, use the holes as an excuse for my stumbling and staggering, rather than the absinth.
Something completely inexcusable, on the other hand, is the way people dress over there. You know that kind of cheap shapeless t-shirts you win at a lottery for some charity thing for blind disabled Chinese orphans with aids? Helluww- they’re meant to wash your car with, not to be WORN! And for the whores- sorry, I mean: the girls- the battle cry apparently was: “put a stamp on your ass and call it a skirt”. Don’t get me wrong, I’m a total fan of the ‘show some leg’-concept. But. Those Czech chicks. Have. FUCKINGUE. Cellulite. All over their fat communist upper legs, for reals! Pathetic.
They were playing some sort of techno, nuff pounding, but still a little boring. It sounded actually much like a bread machine. (I know this because my dad thinks it’s oldskool to bake whole grain bread on Sundays. He’s such a darling man in his midlife.) The music was an unrecognizable stream of beats to me, and the line-up, consisting of Yanota, Steen vs Keeper and some other dudes didn’t really ring a bell either. If all of you smart kids now jump up in indignation, hurling: ‘who ever asked this ignoramus to join our beloved Raveslave!’, well I guess it’s actually Niels you should blame. I won the all-you-can-booze, not the say-something-clever-‘bout-the-music, remember?
Anyway, I didn’t know the dj’s, and that, together with quite a lot of cheap absinthe, left me looking like a confused little capitalist lost in the USSR. But Czech boys are extremely lovable (I called them all Kafka, for reasons of simplicity), the place was spanking and not a single kitten in the club that wasn’t shaking his Czech ass off. It was mad, an unceasing daze of sweaty bodies swayed to the music, flashing lights reflected on bare skin and the beats that control your body. A true MOAB of a party.
An exiting moment, considering my dj-slut reputation, was when this douchebag was dancing just a petit peu too close to me, and some other ugly dude yelled in my ear: ‘That’s Stifler, he’s a dj here!’. The Stifler-guy was as handsome as an abortion, but the fake blondes nearby almost burned their cellulite with jealousy and Dj Douchebag bought me pink cocktails, so I put on my most arrogant face and enjoyed my newly obtained groupie status.
Up till the point where the Stifler-thing got too conceited, placing his sweaty hands on my derrière and demanding ‘a naaaiizz lietell kiesss’. There it was, Friggin Czech Groupie Walhalla, and I was right there. But Stiffie stank from cheap beer, and I was still not wankered enough to fall for ugly boys. So I smiled and said: ‘Stay gold, Ponyboy, stay gold.’ And carefully avoiding eine Hüre who had just puked on her own pumps, I hauled my brother away from his Matroesjkas, and started stumbling my way to the exit. On high heels. With those fricking holes in the floor. But elegance is refusal, as Coco used to say.
