I fucking hate Tuesdays. For anyone trying to hold down any kind of job with a side career as a professional raver, it’s without a doubt the deepest, darkest purgatory day of the week.
Mondays get a bad press. While it’s always a struggle to haul your ass out of bed, you’re probably still somewhat off your tits – and when you finally hit 5pm you feel like you’ve won the Olympic Gold for awesome. Wednesday is of course hump day – you’re half way there. And Thursday, the finish line is clearly visible for the promised land of Friday where a VIP pass to kick on town awaits. But Tuesday – or Suey ‘suicide’ Tuey as it will henceforth be known, can get in the fucking sea. Here’s why.
It wasn’t a small weekend. Back at yours for the afterparty, you were all so mangled you searched for your missing friend while he helped. We’ve all heard the old adage that what goes up must come down. But when we’re basking in the aftermath of a 5 hour Villalobos set surrounded by your new crew of new soulmates who you just met by the speaker wearing a stolen sombrero in a field with no idea how you will ever get home, we are all invincible. All logic and reason are too far out of the rabbit hole to grab, or too easy to ignore. ‘Just one more!’ you’ve said seven times. And another line, cap, tequila or all of the above is always a good idea and ever preferable to crashing back down to the land of the unspangled. That is until your super powers wear off and reality stands there in the porch tapping its watch because you’re late and seriously, not fit for public consumption.
Come Monday, you have had 4 hours sleep all weekend and your alarm is baying like a klaxon. But shrouded in a warm blanket of happy memories, you know you can do this; you’re still feeling a bit tingly and when you get through the day managing to avoid eye contact you feel like you’ve already won the race. Fast forward to Tuesday and the tables have turned. All the serotonin in your body has been squeezed out of you and is quite possibly what is dripping out of your streaming nose. Without a doubt your train will be cancelled. Today will be the day when the creepo from Finance is in the coffee queue at the same time as you and there’s a new barista on who will forget your much needed double sugar dosage. Your parking fine will arrive in the post. The roaming charges from your trip to Thailand will come through and let you know you can’t afford to pay your rent tomorrow. It will either rain sideways or be hotter than a bikram yoga studio. There will be no clean undies or shirts. Your boss will send you a surprise catchup meeting request with yourself and the CEO and the super chatty Instawhore receptionist who hates you, just as you blob tomato sauce on your shirt after scarfing a self-preserving sausage roll for breakfast. You fat bastard.
Trying to manifest Armageddon, will an earthquake or Godzilla-style judgement day is not working. Locked in the disabled toilet at work dreaming up ways to fake your own death and wondering if anyone has noticed how long you have been gone for, you realise today is going to be one of the biggest challenges known to humanity. ‘My allergies are very bad today,’ you wheedled to the chick who sits next to you to explain your incessant sniffing and hacking cough. Hayfever is always a good excuse. And man does it play havoc with your sinuses – especially on a fucking Tuesday.
Paranoia kicks in. They know who you are. They saw you on Chapel St at 7am on Saturday, tumbling out of Revs lit AF staggering the walk of shame in your platforms like a wide eyed baby fawn. They were probably going for a morning run, or off to church with their kids. They know you didn’t have a quiet one, they can see it in your glazed and confused stare.
You’ve booked as many appointments out the office as you can. You opt for easy listening in the car with the air con on full blast teething down a Maccas in the hope that the grease will reincarnate you in processed form. You’re self-medicating double macchiato on an intravenous drip and doing anything to avoid eye contact. Your skin has gone from a radioactive glow to an alabaster white, even if you are of African descent.
Perhaps you’re at uni? This doesn’t mean things are any better. The dull thrum of the air conditioning in the lecture hall suddenly sounds like a jet plane – and you’re getting motion sickness because you’ve finally stopped dancing. The dull monotone of the lecturer that you used to find interesting is now sending you into a coma. The espresso you thought was a good idea to bring in as ammunition is now allowing you to see through time – which means the end of this hell is something you can see but not yet experience.
I hate to tell you this, but going home, things will get worse. Your favourite housemate will be out and unavailable for a consolation cuddle. The cat will have pissed on your sheets and haughtily scorn any attempts at affection. The housemate you don’t like will be there with his bitch ass girlfriend, reminding you that you are single and old and probably will be this way for the rest of your life. Nobody will have bought toilet roll. Again. Uber Eats will fuck up your order. You are starving. You will starve and die cold and alone. Nobody will find you. The cat will feast on your rotting corpse.
But fair raver, stay strong! Because really, it’s all in your head. Suey Tuey will pass. Tomorrow is another day. And it’s Hump Day tomorrow, which means you’ve nearly made it across the finish line where a huge rail is waiting for you with a bucket of cold beer served by bikini clad babes/shirtless hunks (delete where applicable). Stay safe in the knowledge that you my friend are not alone. We feel your pain. Ravers the world over are huddled under blankets shaking, forging sick notes and eating Cheezels in bed every Tuesday. But if this one hellraiser of a day is the price we have to pay for the dizzy heights of joy we experience on dancefloors and in glitter strewn festival fields, then ravers, we shall overcome.
