The weekend has landed. All that exists now is clubs, drugs, pubs and parties. I’ve got 48 hours off from the world, man. I’m gonna blow steam out my head like a screaming kettle, I’m gonna talk cod shit to strangers all night, I’m gonna lose the plot on the dancefloor. The free radicals inside me are freakin’, man! Tonight I’m Jip Travolta, I’m Peter Popper, I’m going to never-never land with my chosen family, man. We’re gonna get more spaced out than Neil Armstrong ever did, anything could happen tonight, you know? This could be the best night of my life.
— Human Traffic
