BLOG NUMBER FIFTY-SEVEN: THEY'VE LEARNED THEIR LINES, I DON'T EVEN KNOW WHAT PAGE OF THE SCRIPT WE ARE ON...

BOOTS AND CATS AND THE TRANSMISSION POWER TOWER by Steven Holding.

Brown bottle slips towards dry cracked lips. Andy tips it back, sipping what’s left, maintaining enough supplies to sustain him through the night.

Stumbling through a dew moist meadow, scaling an unforgiving gate, his satchel clinks and Andy’s thinking: thank fuck there’s still something left to drink.

In the distance, dim sounds of techno bliss bubble; bass and fractured screams from the all-night rave scene. Andy can’t deny the party was totally off the chain, but right in the middle of his peak, his ex screamed in his left ear that yes, indeed, they had conceived.

A pause that was heavily pregnant. Too heavy for him to handle, so Andy had to split to get his shit together.

Further afield: the shindig fades away as Andy embraces the night, traipsing damp trainers through wet, warm cowpats, cursing aloud the cunt tree sighed. Tired, he collapses, cross legged, a blissed-out Buddha, catching his breath.

The moon is bright white light, illuminating shimmering silvery cobwebs draped across the rustling grass. It’s just enough for Andy to see.

His head throbs with a pulsating buzz that isn’t the drugs.

Rotating his eyes upwards, he spies something. Two identical creatures lurking on either side of him, mighty giants reaching up for the sky. Legs spread, firmly planted into the ground. Iron arms extended like Christ on the cross.

Blinking he finally recognises them.

Pylons.

He can feel the thrumming charge passing over head along the drooping cables laden with 400,000 volts as both structures conduct an electric symphony.

Andy senses the pure energy crackling. Before he knows it, he’s on his feet again, getting a second wind as another rush creeps up on him. He can’t help but move his feet as he sways and starts to beatbox.

The cacophony of splintering metal nearly drowns out the rhythm he’s spitting. Before him, sparks fly as wires come crashing down, ground trembling, the sound resembling an atom splitting.

Andy roars with delight, can’t believe what he’s seeing as the twin steel skeletons shake, flicking earth from their base, bending and flexing as they throw crazy shapes. 

When they slip into some pop and lock, Andy, spewing more bars of hip-hop, drops in some sweet robotics, BREAKDANCE TWO: ELECTRIC BOOGALOO style.

Busting moves, the trio compete; a dance off that Andy knows is in the bag.

No matter what state he’s in, he’s never been beat.