Inelegantly wasted is what you see across Shoreditch on a Sunday lunchtime, when clumps of arseholes who've already been up all night and look a bit peeky in too few clothes plump for a lunchtime sojourn of double vodka red bulls with a bomb of Jeigermeister to down in one and then have all the appearance of being about to shit themselves as they struggle back to the bar for another round or ten on the credit card (and you need a credit card). I witnessed five chumps in action doing precisely this earlier, and I thought 'Max Beckmann would have enjoyed this' and I love Max Beckmann, Beckmann painting the Weimar Republic. Probably a place we do not want to revisit.
I don't blame them, but it's pretty shitty to watch, this emptiness in action. I suggest that an explanation may be that what used to happen over four days straight is now compressed into a mere twenty four hours, and that they need to do this to compensate for their ghastly work tomorrow when they will probably be busy cutting my own credit limit wearing their cheap suits, that and the universal availability of the derisible but usefully brain fugging coke, which paradoxically rather suits the smooth running of 'the machine'.