27 June 2009

TV sea April Bank Holiday or May Day by any other name.

Yes, a daytime extravaganza on the trendiest beach this side of Cambodia. To be held on a Sunday with the bank holiday Monday in celebration of May 1st as recovery day, it was eagerly anticpated by all and sundry. It being the first sojourn to the beach after Nick and Val got their heads kicked in on the last little outing, courtesy of one of the new species littering the beach at Whitstable, the DFL's. Anyway, enough about that.

So Saturday was a glorious day of most magnificent sunny proportions. In the sun stakes it was definately one of the most well endowed days we have had the fortune to have looked upon this moist and damp rain sodding year. Everyone diligently saved themselves all day Saturday, refusing the overwhelming urges to go down the beach with a few tinnies, kick back and enjoy the rays, knowing they'd be there the next day avec chums enjoying the heat of the day in style. Even that evening not a can was opened or bottle finished in antipation of the next days pleasures. All weather forecasts had predicted a day of gorgeous sunshine, and we retired early to bed, smiles on faces, dreaming..

On waking, however, whether it was face down on someone's carpet, or in a warm nest of pillows in ones own boudoir, the view out of the window was met with universal disbelief. Fucking pissing down. Again.

And so the rain continued all day. By 12 we had decided to pull the plug on it all, reasoning that we had the genny all weekend and as tomorrow was a bank holiday, we'd do it all then. Then it was round to Chris and Terri's where ridiculous amounts of very cheap vodka were drunk very quickly. Luckily P and I left before all the really strange behaviour started kciking off, preparing ourselves for the next days jollities.

The next day dawned. Well, it wasn't raining, but fcuk was it windy. Also those that had been to C & T's who were still talking to eachother spent the whole day in bed, puking their guts up. Those who were still talking, and not puking were so quiet and hungover that I've seen Tony more animated. Plus that bastard wind didn't really help. Especially when Tarnia started her twisted fire starter routine and dragged down various garden fences that had all been painted in some noxious chemical waterproof material and proceeded to start a fire to keep us a little warmer. All very well and good, but alas, the fire was lit right next to the decks, where it blazed away merrily and most intensely for the next few hours, coating all the very expensive equipment and records in a very fine black and filthy smelling film of soot (which still clings resolutely to it 3 months later.)

As darkness began to hug the coastline, there appeared a posse of young spotty youths, obviously just a few of the local smack proteges, many of whom have probably been helped into their choice of carreer with a helpful push by old Lost It himself. They started to slink over asking for some kickin' drum and bass tracks rinsing the charts at the mo. Then they asked us to turn it up, but we only had one speaker, and that was at full pelt. Then some of them appeared over the horizon with a couple of speakers, decks and a genny that they had probably just stolen and set up two groins along, and soon the old coastline was ringing to drum and bass, very tinnily. Unfortunately this was at about 10 right in front of the row of houses in Wavecrest, so within half an hour or so the gavvers showed up, demanding that all sounds be turned off, or 'the equipment would be seized'. The young chancers instantly complied, pissing themselves and were packed up and gone within minutes. It took us old codgers to party on till one minute past 12 when the genny at last ran out of fuel. Now we could pack up and get out of this fucking wind. The police never came back though.