Why Only Saturday Night?

It’s late on Saturday night as I type this. I’ve long had an uneasy relationship with the period covering a few hours either side of midnight - the dark part of Saturday night and Sunday morning. I’ve had some good times on Saturday nights, and yet they seem to lend a certain truth to that famous line from Macbeth:

Present fears are less than horrible imaginings.

Yes indeed, but combine the two and you achieve a shadowland of mind. There’s something dark, dangerous and sordid about Saturday night. It conjures images of damp, shabby streets, lit by unhealthy and unnatural low key lighting. The unholiest form of chiaroscuro, pregnant with nameless menace. There is something lurking in the shadow beyond one of these corners, something that will carelessly rob me of my life without having the decency to kill me.

I wonder where that came from.