Suspension Bar

James Brown has just finished his mind-bendingly soultastic funkathon set on stage, ending with a biologically perplexing splits jump, the likes of which would have killed any other 96 year old human instantly.

You're standing amongst an enormous throng of sweaty, heaving homo-sapiens, all cheering, jeering, shouting and bouncing, awaiting the arrival of the Red Hot Chilli Peppers onto the stage as the sun over the Central London park beats down with its gorgeous warmth.

You're thirsty from the heat, from the dancing, from the smoking. A thirst entirely dissimilar to that experienced during a Saharan adventure, or the morning after the Xmas party. No, you're thirsty for one thing, it sure ain't water, and that thirst must be quenched, and soon, as time is running out...

Beer.
You need it.
You NEED beer.
Immediately.

One of your friends has given in to his thirst and has bade his farewells to the rest of the group, hopeful of seeing his compadres amongst the crowd upon his return. He will never be seen again...

Just as you are about to ruin your enjoyment of the impending funk-rock fusion by making your way to the bar a dark shadow casts itself over you and your companions like a space craft from the heavens blotting out the sun. You look up to see a great square silhouette slowly descending, the sun's crest peering round the side of it forcing you to cover your eyes as you gaze in bewilderment at the ghostly monolith. This enormous craft lowers itself slowly towards you, seemingly rippling with unseen activity around its edges.

The craft stops but a foot from your head and to your wonderment a blonde Australian girl leans over the top. Her hair trickles over her ear and forehead as she looks at you, into your eyes. She utters in an angelic voice,
"What can I get ya, mato?"
You stammer in response, "... beer..."
"£3, cheers! Enjoying yerself?"
"... yes..." you manage to whimper, and then "...I love you..."
"What was that? Here's ya lager mate." She turns to someone else. "Yes mate, what can I get ya?"

The floating bar ebbs away bringing alcoholic joy to the masses as it passes. With only a minute left to go before the Chillis take the stage, the crane begins to haul its booze-dispensing cargo up and out of the crowd's view. Eyes turn back to the stage.

Except maybe yours, transfixed on the place where Sheila once was. You already miss her, such a fleeting moment.

You sip your Fosters and pray there's a gap between the end of the show and the encore...