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About Me:18-year-old sixth form student, studying English Literature, History and Government and Politics. My articles will broadly cover topics from the current affairs of politics to reviews of books and albums, as well as adding my own creative pieces, whether it be short fiction or general opinion.
I stormed off and sat on a nearby bench with my prejudices and stereotypes sat either side. Brilliant, I thought, kick your customers out for the sake of a bloody Greenpeace conference. An evacuation, perhaps, because a smoothie had been spilt on one of the precious plants. Very soon, however, I realised that a queue had gathered outside the café, which I joined the back of inquisitively. It took 30 minutes to get to the front, and 30 times I contemplated leaving.
I’m glad I didn’t.
The place that had just an hour previous been some insipid bar was now well and truly alive. A party of about two hundred people danced with feverish zeal to the sound of funky jazz coming from a live band that appeared to just materialise out of nowhere. Illuminated by lights of oscillating colours the band played as if juiced on the people’s energy. There was some old Disco Stu guy bouncing up and down, gyrating with his guitar, licking the sweat dripping down his face as if it were ambrosia – a James Browny figure leading it – do you want some more?! – yeah! – do you want some more?! – yeah! – owww give it to me! – myself swirling in a paradox – men eying up women, women eying up men, both sets of eyes yearning with carnivorous intent in Turner’s Vegan Café.
Turner himself, whom I’d envisioned as a champagne hobo, strutted down, making an entrance of instant gravitas; everything tailor-fitted, including his sanguine suit, tucking in his enigmatic Gatsby-esque disposition – the proprietor of the party but somehow absorbedly aloof, pensively sipping from his chalice.
I adjourned to the bar not out of disdain but merely as a means to grasp what was going on – a break of sorts from this new inundation. Breathlessly I scanned the room. It was just throbbing, everything just bouncing to some new rhythm. What had happened? This was a vegan café – vegan. Whilst I usually pride myself on being somewhat above this sort of thing (it screams out to me ‘your wallet is irredeemably lighter, now join us in this pseudo-fun!’), I couldn’t help but be swirled into its orbit. Indeed my infantile curiosity had made me pay, but monetary value seemed to subside once I had accepted a few drinks and was led to the dancefloor.
It was safe to say that, whilst admittedly under the veil of inebriation, I really began to enjoy myself. The energy maintained its unrelenting pace; a strange harmony seeped out of the bodies (most probably sweat but allow me to indulge in my romanticised narrative), and I got my teeth well and truly stuck into the rump of it.
I must say I don’t remember the end of the night. All that I understood was a gaping void had opened and Turner’s Vegan Café had filled and overflowed.
Note that is wholly fictional – Vegan’s Turner Café was purely a construct of my imagination wherein I thought it would be humorous to juxtapose not only veganism with sexual deviance (“carnivorous intent”), but also to create a narrator whom, with his pretentious air, was pulled in by the magnetism of a genuinely good time. This is an example of what you can do for your English coursework – humour always adds to a piece of writing, even (well, especially) an obituary.