Three lost first years, eight gallons of sweat and a white man’s dreadlock: Blue Mountain closing sale now on!
After much speculation, Stokes Croft’s Blue Mountain, a Bristol nightlife institution, will officially close its doors later this month. Several events in February have been scheduled to celebrate 26 years of providing ‘really, objectively, quite shit’ but still ‘quite good times’. With the closure nearing, manager Dom Trent is trying to squeeze out whatever profit he can before the bulldozers arrive. The Whip headed down to the venue to find out more.
“Roll up, roll up. Closing sale, now on! Everything must go. We’ve got all sorts of things; detritus, valuables, half chewed cigs, even people. And all for a low, low price. Roll up, roll up!”
A dishevelled young man wandered over, flicking a broken lighter.
“No Derek, no – oh for fucks sake. Sorry about this” apologised Dom as the figure trudged towards him from the enclosure where two other wide eyed first years sat huddled in the foetal position. “for the last FUCKING time I don’t have a rizla. Go back to the pen with the others. And who said you could open the fence?”
A concerned onlooker had gone over to check on the boys.
“They don’t need no child-line. I’m looking after them. They’ve put away enough adult-lines in their lives to know what’s what. They’re grownups,” Dom shooed her away and wheeled around to admonish the boys.
“All of you, can you please, please, please stop gurning? You’re not going to get a new owner otherwise, and the new flat-owners aren’t going to want pill-heads for doormen, are they? Christ.”
He then turned towards our reporter, desperation in his eyes:
“You want any of ‘em? Tell you what, I’ll throw in a very limited, very desirable antique if you take a couple. One white dudes dreadlock, free of charge, eh? How does that sound! Used to be a Psytrance DJ’s. Good resale value. Collector’s item.”
“Guy’s name was DJ Tarantula. Good acquaintance of mine. Arachnid-looking fella. Was like he had eight arms in the booth. The Crusties, you know, they shed their dreads, like an insect sheds its skin.”
“Personally I don’t want to touch it, but it’s definitely one for a discerning buyer. Probably will be framed in the Louvre one day. Or in the Hamilton House Yoga Room. You got an offer?”
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