Again and yet again everyone flushes down some exotic cocktail and the riot grows wilder and madder than before.
Flushed and inflamed, they fly from side to side, tear to and fro, whirl round on their heels, skipping in the air and jumping, feet high above the ground, to the banging of a great drum and the screeching of classic belly dance tunes scratched to and fro by a clubfoot DJ and the crackling of guns as they go off. Scimitars are drawn, yataghans flourished, half a dozen engage in mimic combat, slashing and cutting at each other with an all too earnest resolve to draw blood - a result speedily obtained - while yet another batch jump to their feet and shout poetry at each other.

Faster and furious grows the corybantic rout and in their mad excitement the men tear the garments from their bodies, throw away their weapons, fling the turbans from their heads and, naked to the waist, with dishevelled hair, eyes ablaze and extended arms, they continue their mad antics, until foaming at the mouth and bleeding from their nostrils, they sink to the ground and lie huddled in heaps.