The ancients sought to organise their lives around the rhythms they could discern in the chaos of the natural world. No wonder they chose Gods for themselves like Helios, Amun-Ra and Tonatiuh: the sun will always rise, and the sun will always set. Safety beckons from a place of certainty. Modern man has changed little. This week, in Bristol, the nightclub and place of worship Lakota, has reached the end of its current ceremonial cycle by announcing it would close its doors “for good this time – no crossed fingers.”
Lakota’s openings and closings, from events like “FINAL BLOWOUT FRESHERS RAVE — LAST CHANCE CLOSING PARTY” to the “LAKOTA SAVED: GET FUCKED CELEBRATION GUNFINGERS TO THE COUNCIL REOPENING BLAST” are annual ceremonies that purport to be one-offs: selling themselves as last chances to engage in Bristolian bacchanals, the final opportunity to cut loose “before it all gets sold off, before we all have to hang up our dancing shoes and sort stuff out and you know like not do Nos until head hurty at three thirty.”
However, historians have made it clear that this is a falsehood.
For millennia, Lakota has been in a state of flux, both closing and not closing. Recently, Local historians discovered a flyer dating back from the Roman occupation. It reads as follows.
“SALVE, RAVER. THE LAST DANCE:
FVCK THE COVNCIL, SAVE LAKOTA, SAVE STOKES CROFTUS.
XII DENARII NO REENTRIUS”