After a year when I have faced more challenges alone than the first series of Survivor, I’ve taken myself off to recharge.
So I’m in one of my happy places, 39000 feet in the air on my way to Colombia, via Houston.
Im re-watching a documentary at the moment about Studio 54 . I started it ten hours ago just before I skilfully mixed a lorazepam with a couple of glasses of Tattinger, so some of the detail first time around is sketchy. It’s okay, a bit of sketchy detail never hurt anyone but the falsely accused. And I’m taking a holiday from accusing myself of anything. It will make a nice change.
I wish I’d been there, at that time, in that club, for just one night. A cultural phenomenon, Studio 54 was the catalyst of a societal king tide which swept together the famous, the fringe dwellers and the ordinary but beautiful people into one hot mess.
The only photograghers at Studio 54 were official; they were there to document the cultural phenomenon at play. It was life before botox, flllers, facelifts, snapchat and Instagram live. So it displayed a different kind of beauty than our warped eyes have become accustomed to, and a different kind of freedom to play.
I hope this isn’t 125 minute viewing window isn’t going to make Bogata’s New Year an anticlimax.
I don’t think it will. Hot mess Studio 54 styles should be easy for me. I’m already a bit of a mess. I just need to turn up the heat in a place where almost no-one knows my name and burn the year off.
Come on Colombia, let’s do this.