Ok. Consider this as a first act. You are impatiently waiting in your bedroom. From time to time again you return back to the stickered mirror. Double checking that those bothersome couple of hair strands, which you had just spent fifteen minutes toying into place, have not undone that perfectly sculpted image. Your heart broils in tensed excitement. Thinking that tonight is your night you get to talk to that cute girl sitting in your class. Maybe who knows the night might end with a late night kiss. Fingers crossed. Your mates eventually arrive and a quick draw of rock-paper-scissors was declared. The loser unfortunately cast as the appointed after hours designated driver.

9.30pm. Tigullio. They enter the premises. All was still quiet and dimmed. Their eyes gleaming towards the assorted pile of liquor bottles all neatly placed onto the bars. Waiting to be claimed. The mates all order shots and toast to the drunken gods calling upon them for the coming thunder and storm. And without reason of refusal, those same liquored gods delivered that storm. The speakers erupted into life. And rumbled like thunder. The spotlights flickered as if possessed by the rhythm of the music. The disc jockeys have summoned their call. And an audience soon came. On that night the disc jockeys became the puppeteers. The music was their string. The audience was under their hypnotic control and were helpless to escape. Those who were angels became the devils. The reckless became the crowned and wanted. All drank. Many whispered in ears. All were having fun. Laughing at the silliest of jokes.

But if are going to think for one second that the centre of attention belonged only to the masters of the turntable then you are mistaken. Another opponent sought to challenge them. They wore black shirts printed with white lettering like a proud uniform. They were the bartenders. Drink after drink they kept pouring and serving. Fuelling again the ecstasy of those tired from dancing and chattering. They too summoned an audience. When the right track was playing and the hype reached a climax the bartenders took the stage for their own. They thumped and stomped onto the bar table. Whistling and gyrating with presence. Rewarding those most loyal to the bartenders or those most foolish to misstep their choreography with squirts of tequila fired from plastic toy guns. In the end as the hour hand reached one, just as sudden as the storm arrived it also suddenly died down. Everyone took their shoes and coats and left the club contempt with their fill of alcohol and fun memories. If you have read this and are starting to feel bad that you did not come don’t you worry. Barmaggeddon will soon again to awaken another storm.