I know the score. I know what you’ve been saying. “Why does Arena have a carpet?” I’ve heard you ask. Now look here. You don’t know. You don’t know the first thing about carpets. But I’ll tell you why: I’m the best carpet in town. I’m the stuff your dreams stumble on. You want to drop a drink on me? I’ll soak it up. You want to cry on me? I’ll drink it down. Decided to piss yourself? I’ll shrug it off.

Rugby boys? Don’t make me laugh. You like a drink? I’ll drink you under the table, lads. And when your face hits the floor, I’ll be there, drinking you under the table some more. I’m always under the table, but don’t let that fool you. I’m everywhere in this club – I’m in the air, I’m on your shoes, I’m diffusing into your brain, I’m breathing down your neck – I’m omnipresent.

You think I smell bad? I’m potent, that’s what that is. That’s the smell of a real carpet. Don’t inhale too strongly though ladies, you could get nasty surprise the next morning. Yeah, that’s right – pregnancy – with none other than my 60% polyester child.

Other types of club flooring just don’t compare. While laminate is drinking martinis with Dale Winton and comparing botox with Gok Wan, I’m partying with the big boys. I’m chugging pints of piss with the lads. I’m wearing a girl’s blouse while Hercules Baron-Smithe pulls down his Hollister joggers and pops grapes into my mouth from under his foreskin. I’ve got the sort of banter that the floors at Mosaic can only dream of.

My friends over at the floors of Rococo’s say I’ve got a hygiene problem. Yeah? So did Einstein. It’s all relative. Every night I’m on beer, cider, Sambuca and Tequila; I’m on pints, pitchers and shots; I’m on the sweat of blokes in vests, the tears of girls in skimpy clothes – and they’re all on me – you wouldn’t fucking believe it. But every so often the boss will slip industrial-strength disinfectant into the mix at a foam party, which means I’m probably cleaner than the average pair of balls swinging above me each night.

What really gets me is when people say I’m sticky. Really now. Well, we’ll see who’s sticky when I roll up, rolled up, at your house with the boys in the back of a transit van. You see if you want to say that when, bam, I’m there, carpeting your hallway. But no bother mate. I know the score, I’m clued up. It’s cool. Just don’t tread on me so hard next time.