The End of the World on Brick Lane

The End of the World on Brick Lane

15 October, 2008
by: Sherbet

What would you do if you knew your last breath would leave your well-worn body in eleven or so hours? Contemplating this while procrastinating about the writing of this article, I conjured up a last-day-on-earth to-do list involving gorging myself at a counter of Ben & Jerry's, spending the day with friends and family at a BBQ on the beach and eating as much red meat as humanly possible. Face it; if you had a few hours on God's green earth would you stick to vegetarianism?
 
Even though my short list was geared towards food, one thing that would definitely not be on there was the chance to subject my last requested song upon hundreds of my fellow Londoners.  The organisers of The End of the World (ETW) nights have been promoting this kind of torture (in the guise of entertainment) at theme nights for a few months now. The concept is pretty simple; each occasion is a new reason for an Armageddon with tonight set in 1986 at the height of the Cold War. The Soviets and the US have decided to warm things up with a play for all out nuclear war and, without resolution, all partygoers are destined for a painful death. How else to beat the ache of your skin melting from your bones than by drinking as heavily as possible and partaking in random debauchery until the call to duck and cover is given?

As we enter the ETW's new home at 93 Feet East on Brick Lane, we're told we have around four hours to live. Time to party! An omnipresent countdown timer is projected in every room keeping the tension ratcheted at all times. The night accurately reflects the black hole of fashion history with revellers donning everything from Soviet comrade spies to bombshell scientists; Ronald Reagan wannabes clothed in the red, white and blue, Mr T complete with massive bling and two Rubik's cubes stumbling around the two heaving rooms blasting with '80s classics. As promoter of the power ballad at Spoonfed HQ, this night could be designed with me in mind.

Throughout the night, as we settle into our nuclear bunker, we are entertained by what could well be the winners of the very last Britain's Got Talent. They range from a hula hooping trio in neon lycra performing amazing feats upon the stage to a mime dressed as a skinny Terminator in his leathers, attempting to master the crystal ball made iconic by David Bowie in The Labyrinth. The crowds cheer for the acts enthusiastically before returning to their cans of Red Stripe.

Having all emailed our last requests beforehand, the last hour consists of tunes from our sentimental past including Madonna and quite a few Britney requests. Sadly no Phil Collins though. Grasping the closest person, the crowd counts down the last few seconds of life with nervous anticipation. 3,2...1- we have survived! A news broadcaster appears on the screen with an intoxicated smile greets us with the news that the dividing forces had met for negotiations at Wacko Jacko's Neverland Mansion and had decided to give up their 'silly' intentions. Thank God for that.

Now also ask yourself, unless you're a hardened east Londoner, would you really spend the coming of Revelations on the infamous curry strip of Brick Lane. I answer this with a quote from the man himself:

REV 18:3

For all nations have drunk of the wine of the wrath of her fornication, and the kings of the earth have committed fornication with her, and the merchants of the earth are waxed rich through the abundance of her delicacies.

Might as well end it well with a cup full of wine, dressed as Mr T. 'I pity the fool!'. 

The End of the World has unceremoniously failed again but here's hoping for another fantastic tribute to the chaos at 93 Feet East in a month's time. No sense of mortality and the morbidity that comes with it, the end is time to delve into as many sins as possible.

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Sherbet