If your club doesn’t have a photobooth, what’s even the point?

You’ve arrived at the club. You and the squad are soused, pres already a hazy Bacchanailan memory. You inch forward in the queue. You’re at the front, you’re flashing your ID, you’re paying your dues. The music washes over you as you step through the doors, every cell of your body pulsing along to the pounding bass. You get drinks. How could it get any better than this?

You spot a photobooth, monolithic amidst the throng, and everything else melts away.

It’s all led to this.

Some of them even have greenscreens fuck what a time to be alive

The queues look huge, but a queue in a nightclub is about as rigidly delineated as a puddle in an ocean. You throw yourself vaguely towards what looks to be the final third and slowly get closer and closer. Before you know it, the queue in front of you has dissolved (did they get pictures? did they all leave? did you imagine them all?) and the photobooth operator beckons you in to their boudoir. You accept the invitation with gusto and pile in.

It’s your lucky day – this is no ordinary photobooth. This one has a box of hats. This one has a greenscreen. Maybe, if you’ve really done something to please whatever Powers that Be, this one has a box of hats AND a greenscreen. You know your time is limited – much like your full time on this Earth, your time in the photobooth will never be long enough to achieve all of your dreams. You have to live your short life to the max, and the photobooth must be afforded the same respect.

You divvy out hats unthinkingly, operating solely on raw animal instinct. Toby gets the fez, Toby must get the fez. Damo gets the tutu because in the photobooth, there are no gender roles. There is no judgement, no discrimination. Damo can finally be himself.

The countdown starts, and your heart syncs up with the flashing numbers. You are all staring at the camera lens – so small, so benign, yet you may as well be looking God in the eye.

Flash.

Everything is right and good in the world. You’re okay. Everything is fine. Briefly, you know the solution to the Israel-Palestine conflict. You witness the cure for cancer. Bathed in this bright light, you see all and understand all, and it is good.

Then, as quickly as it arrived, it’s gone. You’re done. You collect your photographs once back in outside world – permanent reminders of your shared journey. You go back to the bar for another round. You feel hollow, but you know you can always go back for another hit later in the night.

Plus you can neck in them so that’s cool.

Forget porn filmed in space, I was about 20 seconds away from the first porn filmed in Sugar