Swedish House Mafia Concert
Auditors have no life. That’s the rule of the profession.
There’s also another unofficial rule that we live by.
Friday nights are sacred.
It’s 6pm on a Friday and I have an influx of work that will keep me occupied for the rest of my weekend. What’s my reaction?
Fuck you. It’s Friday night.
So we pack our bags, compartmentalize our worry and panic over unfinished work and answer the phone that’s been buzzing for the past half hour;
“Yeah yeah, I’m on my way. I’m driving straight to the pub. The rest are already there, eh?”
Mine of course, doesn’t involve drinking (And auditors are infamous drunkards, I swear to you). I’d watch two movies alone and completely enjoy it while my colleagues get completely boozed up like nobody’s business.
Come Saturday morning though, regardless of the fact that they downed almost a bottle of vodka per person, they’d don their professional auditor masks and resume working like they didn’t just puke their innards on the dance floor and had to be dragged from the scene wailing on and on about “When was my soul sucked out of me?”
What’s probably similarly amazing was the bunch of smashed party-goers I was tagged with for the Swedish House Mafia concert.
By accident, I had to go. You take a person who enjoys extreme solitude and prefers being alienated by friends and place her in the middle of a throng of scantily-clad, screaming throat-abusers dancing to the beat of Club House music.
How the fuck?
I had to buy shades because, in the words of a perpetually-drunk party veteran, “I don’t trust the laser light shows with my retina.” Say what?
The blinding light shows, heart-thumping bass and a crowd with no regards to anyone’s personal space is exactly as the movies depict it.
With the epilepsy-inducing flashes of light, it looked almost like an old movie reel being played before me, with momentary scenes of stark blackness before blinding flashes of lights, slightly displaced by the artificial fog swirling everywhere.
Confetti rained down on us, actual rain rained down on us, creepers inching closer to sexy girls dancing and lost in the moment and beguiling vixens gyrating and dry humping each other. What horrified me was the fact that these two girls lesbian-dancing next to me were sisters and they were the ones I came to the party with.
Of course, thoughts of “I could be finishing up Games of Thrones right now. With Beethoven in the background for induced epic-ness” popped now and then, but was quieted down with the Hollywood-influenced “You fucker, just enjoy the moment” voice.
So I jumped, I cheered, I danced awkwardly to the beats I’d heard for the first time and I smiled to complete strangers around me every time the beginning to what I supposed to be was a crowd favourite was starting. My companions were dancing with complete strangers, giving random high-fives and ear-jarring screams as their mode of civilised conversations, and moving to the beat like they were completely lost in the moment.
It was exhausting. Reasons why people choose to do this often escape me.
When the party ended, we proceeded to the parking lot where they finished cans of beer of bottles of tequila (Coke for me, though). More house music blared from the car speakers and they continued dancing in the parking lot with random people coming over to join now and then.
When they mellowed out to take a breather and the full effect of alcohol hadn’t taken place yet, I starting finding out a lot about them.
They were professionals. Two were financial analysts, one was in Finance (unsure exactly on what he does) and was recruited to Singapore, one was a final year Law student set to study in London this year and three of us were full-fledged auditors, two of them my Seniors.
Their actions that led up to their moment of fatigue screamed otherwise, and I learnt not to judge a book by its cover several times over. They continued dancing after that and the party finally ended at 3am. Half of the group passed out, the rest talking gibberish while the Senior I was supposed to send home starting to get melancholic over life… Which, also, is quite humorous when you have nausea.
“There is nothing to be happy about with my l—BLEERRRGGGHHH. Why does this happen to me – BLAAAAARRRGGGHHH”
And as I sat there in the bleak quietness of my car after she’d pass out and the peaceful hum of the aircond as my only company during the drive to her house… I thought to myself; This will be the same senior asking me ‘Are you aware of how they would apply the new MFRS standard? Did you check if they presented the balance sheet in the financial statements in three separate positions?’ come Monday.
…And that I also really, really needed to wash the inside of my car now.