It would be impossible to do separate reviews for each and every shenanigan down at the East Kent, mainly because I (thankfully) can never remember quite what happened, but rest assured that basically the same things happen each week.
Max welcomes us to his ageing bosom once a week and we proceed to get rat arsed, after having been partying solidly since Thursday.
Not for us the finer points of social etiquette; we shout at each other in drink sozzled amusement until Max kicks us out at closing time.
Often parties develop afterwards and great hordes of beery party peeps stream in ever increasing numbers to the nearest available house with an semi-adequate hi-fi to party the night away into the early hours of Monday morning leaving vast mounds of vomit in the once tidy bathroom.
Originally meant as a chill sesh, after the weekend’s usual hard (enforced!) hedonism, it has turned into something of a celebration itself. A celebration that after all you've managed to put away, you're not only still alive, but also still standing, making less sense than ever. It's a real macho proof of stamina and the women enter in to it (as usual) even more excitedly than the men. Through all of this, Max smiles indulgently, putting up with our worse excesses by thinking happily of how much cash he's made.
You can drink Hooligans to a throbbing deep house back beat whilst slagging off/falling out with all of your friends. The perfect antidote to post party blues, it sets you up magnificently for the torturous week ahead, by making sure you feel hung over to fuck all day Monday and probably half of Tuesday too. Then you have to remember who you were incredibly insulting to (which is usually easy as they will be avoiding you) and just make sure that you're extra nice to them at the next party. Simple innit.
Meanwhile in a few weeks you will find that your alcohol consumption has trebled and you're a(n even) fat(ter) fuck because there's now no excuse to stop festivities. So join us in the worship of the only God we know - excess.