The YTP troops ir here givin it some. Patricia is floatin aboot somewhere anaw. A lost everycunt ages ago. Look away fur a second n the surgin n swellin crowd swallows them up n casts them adrift somewhere else. A’m floatin aboot no givin a fuck who A meet, ridin the wave. Everycunt is yir pal in here. Maybe it’s cos we’re aw fuckin oot our nuts on pills that we’re feelin the love. The ecktoplasmic euphoria n fellowship wae our common man. Harmony wae aw humanity. A love the strangers next tae me n they love me back. Peace n love tae aw mankind. Utopian society.

A’ve git a white paintin overall tied at the waist n a light blue tracky top on. It’s November n fuckin freezin ootside. The contrast in temperature is unbelievable. Yi walk intae the main arena n it’s like a wall ae heat. You’ve git aboot eight thousand sweatin, dancin n ecstasy-heated bodies in the wan room. Yir peelin yir layers aff doon tae yir bare back. There’s big curtains at the back ae the hall. Yi walk through them n yi see the event in its entirety. The name wisnae sellin it short. No a sea, but a fuckin ocean ae people aw bobbin n weavin, knitted together by sound, ecstasy n passion fur the tunes. It sways to n fro tae its ain motion n seems tae take on a form ae unity, everycunt connected in a rhythmic state. The crowd is a single entity, a cult, n our deity behind the decks. There’s three big screens at the front wae alternatin images, like a wean’s kaleidoscope. The big screen in the middle hus the DJ’s name on it in big white letters, n the line-up list flashes occasionally tae let yi know wit’s on later. Everycunt is dressed in mad shit, masks, tutus n furry boots, hotpants, white boiler suits, breathin masks, wigs n multicoloured motherfuckin dreamcoats. Lassies huv git big eyelashes on aboot three inches fae their face. They remind me ae spiders n freak us oot fur a second but A’m Johnny Bravo, fuckin surfin that wave n the ecstasy inside me is calmin ma soul, huh! It’s mucky n muddy wae a thousand trainers tramplin n shoes stampin, bouncin tae the fuckin beat.

It’s a sensual experience aw this. Yir walkin wan minute n a lassie grabs yi n starts kissin yi. Yi kin feel the net vest she’s git on when yi put yir hands on hur hips. Yi kin taste the Blue WKD she’s been drinkin n yi kin feel yir own sweat runnin doon yir neck but yi don’t care. Basic instincts ir firin on aw cylinders. Yir reachin fur the ceilin cos it’s an anthem then the annihilating rhythm drops n yir bouncin. It’s a shift but nae pain, nae gain. The lasers above yi look alien n otherworldly, a green tartan in the sky. Kin yi see them? It’s beautiful. The tunes ir trance, then drifting. ‘Drifting Away’, Lange feat. Skye. Yi feel warm, irritable but orgasmic. Every touch n sensation heightened. Yi choke fur a smoke but yi barely taste it goin doon n it’s smoother than smooth, too smooth maybe. Yir body is wet wae that eckto sweat n yir just dancin. Yi git loadsa wee thoughts n yi think Did A just think that?! Yir mind’s goin too fast fur yi tae keep up. Confusion in the membrane. Yi forget where yi ir, who yir wae n who the fuck yi ir. A’m Azzy W – dancin machine, WKD n Coors tanner, glowstick raver, eckto muncher, renegade master.