Likely found on maps in an industrial wasteland at the edge of a postcode you’ve never heard of, the Chronic Clubber is always in a queue for something: the venue lockers, the packed-out bathroom stalls, but never the club – they know the DJ. They’re spiritually tethered to the dancefloor (and possibly half the people on it). Eusexua spoke to them in ways commercial pop never could, and the Arca and Sevdaliza spat kept them up at night. You’ll find them, often, in the smoking area: fumbling around for a lighter as their club-stamped hands sift through the electrolyte sachets, tobacco detritus and more. They’ll be the last ones still standing when the light floods in, and the first ones to scout out the afters. If you need them, you’ll probably never find them; they’re two parties ahead and, sorry, the club is at capacity.