Remembering the Carnival of Lost Souls

Violently ripped from his past life where he spent eternity (or so he predicted) twirling majestically around and around and around in an endless nauseating cycle of harsh fluorescent lighting and violent block colours, this carousel horse escaped the maddening hell of relentlessly looping warped circus music and now resides in the Outrageous Cabaret Bar. His own personal fresh hell now consists of being subjected to 80s pop songs and the UK Top 40 on repeat, night after night, being ‘ridden’ by drunken scum sucking rodents who develop a strange vague feeling of paranoid unease immediately after mounting him.

What horror befell the fairground, which caused him to be hacked at and torn so viscously from his garish prison of gear work galloping? Maybe it is this mysterious air that evokes faint terror in the hearts of the club’s punters. Whatever the reason, if you find yourself in close proximity to this horse of the apocalypse and you begin to harbour a feeling of misplaced anxiety, do not ignore it. Give in to him. Imagine being trapped in a hall of mirrors, relentless jerking phantom music notes and flashing neon lights closing in on your loosening sanity. This is the fate the horse delivers to those who disrespect, mistreat or dare to ignore his silent but nevertheless ever-present warning; his old private reel of madness and abysmal despair. Take some time out of your night to pass his way, greet him as if he were an old friend you have been longing to speak to, pat his proud mane, offer a heartfelt salute and tell him you love him. Don’t for a second let yourself believe that he can’t tell when you don’t mean it. lours, this carousel horse escaped the maddening hell of relentlessly looping warped circus music and now resides in the Outrageous Cabaret Bar. His own personal fresh hell now consists of being subjected to 80s pop songs and the UK Top 40 on repeat, night after night, being ‘ridden’ by drunken scum sucking rodents who develop a strange vague feeling of paranoid unease immediately after mounting him. What horror befell the fairground, which caused him to be hacked at and torn so viscously from his garish prison of gear work galloping? Maybe it is this mysterious air that evokes faint terror in the hearts of the club’s punters. Whatever the reason, if you find yourself in close proximity to this horse of the apocalypse and you begin to harbour a feeling of misplaced anxiety, do not ignore it. Give in to him. Imagine being trapped in a hall of mirrors, relentless jerking phantom music notes and flashing neon lights closing in on your loosening sanity. This is the fate the horse delivers to those who disrespect, mistreat or dare to ignore his silent but nevertheless ever-present warning; his old private reel of madness and abysmal despair. Take some time out of your night to pass his way, greet him as if he were an old friend you have been longing to speak to, pat his proud mane, offer a heartfelt salute and tell him you love him. Don’t for a second let yourself believe that he can’t tell when you don’t mean it.