On the night of Tuesday the twenty-first of September, two-thousand and ten, few of the tenants at Tewkesbury Place would have believed that a in a mere day's time, their walls would be shaking with animalistic frenzy, that their very dreams would be interrupted by a great cacophonous army of the inebriated.
Yet across the gulf of Cardiff, minds that are to our minds as a can of lighter fluid is to a half-pint of IPA, personalities boisterous and wild and unhinged, began to come towards Cathays.
At first the invasion was marginal. A sleepy received visit from the two landlords and a single confused looking guest were about the total of it in the first half-hour.
But then they came. In their droves, they came. I had been dozing in my bed when the first few had arrived, and I was still not fully conscious of my surroundings. But they cared not a whit for my sensitive condition, being loud and grating on my senses.
We thought we had it all under control, until Murphy brought down his damned speakers. The sounds coming through them were distorted but all-conquering. Walls offered no defence against their aural onslaught.
Myself and my friends, Tom and Sarah, hid in my bunker, passing the time playing idle games like Tekken and Fifa '01. Eventually, Tom could take no more, and made a go at escaping, promising that he would make contact when the maelstrom had passed. Now, in the aftermath of it all, I have yet to hear from him.
Sarah and I took one last look at the chaos around us and retreated as best we could into sleep. But the noise! The horrible quasi-music playing through those speakers came at our heads like a barrage from Hell itself.
This morning, the house was quiet. The night had taken its toll, though, and all around us were strewn bottles and glasses and gore. I know not whether I will hear from my friend Tom again, nor whether I shall sleep any better tonight.
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