One thing leads to another, from Moroccan Police I went on remembering the Danish band Shubidua. Not so weird as it sounds. While I lived in Morocco, Shubidua came down to give a small concert and afterwards we wanted to show these nice guys little Moroccan nightlife. The night was still young so we took them first to a very nice piano bar with live music. After a couple of minutes Michael B. took over the entertainment; soon everybody was dancing chain dance to his nonsense Russian folksongs. And my boyfriend would never forget having Michael B. singing Happy Birthday to him.
Okay, these guys can actually party, so let’s take them somewhere where they meet real Moroccans, not just these upper-class, extremely elegant girls and men in latest Paris suits. We forced us in one car, and maybe this was the reason that the atmosphere was more or less hysterical. On the way we passed a car that suddenly burst into a fire and for no reason we couldn’t stop laughing. I still don’t know how a burning car can be funny; it should be tragic, shouldn’t it? Did the poor Mohammed driving the car get out in time or did he burn to death? If he died, I have totally repressed it from my memory. But in that case I do hope that he was a good Muslim and made it to the garden of Allah.
The club we went to was known for its great music, vivid dancing and women who didn’t earn their living by selling oranges at the local souk. A totally fantastic place, I am sure the Shubidua guys agreed. But as Morocco is a Muslim country where prostitution is forbidden not only by religion but also by law, there was maybe a hint of nervousness amongst our guests. “Don’t you guys worry", I said, "I don’t think police will come here. And if they do, I am sure that the Chief of Police, dancing with the fat beautiful Fatima to your left, will certainly send them away again.”
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