is my brain in full glitterball mode. It is a nightclub of thoughts that never closes. Politics is chain smoking in the dark room, quoting James Baldwin between drags. Pop culture is throwing questionable shapes on the dancefloor in last year’s Love Island bikini. Mental illness is propping up the bar ordering a triple vodka and asking if anyone else feels a bit…existential. Random questions are shouting over the music: What happens if the moon disappears? Why did they stop making Toffo sweets? How many species of caterpillars are there? Does this mole look weird to you? David Attenborough is the DJ, narrating the chaos like a wildlife documentary spliced with a Channel 4 late-night arts programme.

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It is where my thoughts, feelings, questions, and answers all end up. Where I try to understand and be understood. A space for anyone else whose brain has ever staged a coup against them.

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Some nights it is euphoric. Other nights it is me alone under the strobe lights wondering why David has put on Mad World again. It is messy, emotional, painfully honest, occasionally heartbreaking, defiantly embarrassing and gloriously unhinged. Imagine Virginia Woolf, glitter in her gin, talking feminism with a man dressed as Mr Blobby, while Plato plays bongos in the corner.

That is about right.