8 July 2009

Welcome to the Mum and Dad Party Scene.

Welcome to the "Mum and Dad" Party Scene. Or how I survived my thirties through the love of great bunch of friends.

This weekend was going to be a bit of an eyebrows raised and chin up full eye contact alpha being kind of a weekend. You know, yeah! Let's go for it. Let's go here, go there, go everywhere do everything; driving like a loony, staying awake, talking, partying, dancing, socialising non stop for days and days and be great and happy and full on and spend loads of money on crap drugs and even crapper clubs. Yeah! Yeah! Yeah!

However it ended up full of sluggish winter torpor and missed, tired promises. All in all a bit of a "greasy" weekend. After sitting around in restaurants stuffing our faces and drinking gallons of Indian lager it's little wonder another inch goes on the waste (sic) and the prospect of an early night with your long term partner does actually seem to be the preferred and slightly privileged optional end to the evening. No, I mean it.

However, other things prevail and the groaning, moaning raps begin. Again. Complaints about the damn job, the damn kids, the damn mortgage and the bloody damn car mingle in the air like a bloody great rancorous middle class cancerous, cantankerous wankerous (That's a made up word, but you get the idea). Oh, for the thinly disguised shallowness and arrogance of our youth. Or no mortgage and kids. Listen, you don't need these accoutrements; they get in the way of a late night out with some chums.

Then again.

This local party for Zoe's (a fully paid up member of the Mum and Dad Club) "five years at my house and the kids are away" celebrations was announced just after we'd agreed to go to the Barracuda Club in Brighton to support our new old chum Friendly Pete on Friday. Or Deep Pete as he was called on the flyer. What with the prospect of another deadly drive of hundreds of clicks the proposed all nighter in Kent seemed a tranquil and far less "oh God we're in funny, strange Brighton isn't every one here full of energy and lust for the place" option.

The under-wary would leap upon and ride to buggery any option that our pallid, partied out three decades plus rotten carcases were offered. So no change there then. The day before, which we missed, had seen top TAK DJ's Kier and Tom played this new club up in London where the Plastic People have moved to. We didn't go coz we thought it was at the Drone, that, admittedly spacious megalith of industrialised car park concrete chic that is, of course, totally shite as far as carpet between the toes and other excessive clubby demands go. Like cold beer and clean free water on demand. (Don't get me started on clubs as the poisonous rancour of my fetid thirty something opinions will, I assure you, overwhelm you well balanced brain. More of this line of thought to come in our special "Are Clubs Really as Shite As We Think They Are?" article coming soon).

So, guess what? We went nowhere; not to London, where we heard K&T were "well stacked" before they went on the decks. Another said it was "the best party Stevino Talent had done"; nor to Brighton. Sorry Pete and Jane.

Saturday and all day Monday was spent down "Hardleys" in Dover chasing the dollar bill (2-Step-Cash) and being ignored by the staff who have known us for six months but still don't speak to us at all. Well, apart from Mel. And Jackie. At 11.30pm when the ante was upped we shot over to Eastry, just a few miles away, to quickly set up and "pound" (copywrite a neighbour later on) the surrounding area into submission. Or at least that's what they said. What with the Council there later in the form of the dreaded environmental health and their db meters ("You Da Party-busters?"), impromptu meetings on the street corner and even a baseball bat wielding irritation huffing and puffing at the gate it was obvious from the start that the good citizens of Eastry "South Central" were determined not to let even one party in five years stoke up to acceptable volume levels. The dancers chanted along to the tunes "fuck the neighbours, fuck the neighbours" and "Waaaarghhh!" before bursting into laughter and rolling around on the floor.

Zoe's mates were all mad fer it, lar, whilst the other, cooler, more laid back (gormless, or should that be drugless?) tVC'ers sat upstairs ruminating on chin stroking techniques, which designer shades to wear this summer, is the new Siesta tune any good and smoking a particularly unpalatable brand of grass clippings or some such smelly stuff that us straight edger's (Hi Val) disapprove of.

Wesley's wheeze of filling his "crack" pipe with something or other and making everyone take a toke was priceless just to see their spluttering faces go bright red. Well mine did anyway. Bang goes my straight edge vibe. Nicky spent the night casually and not a little aggressively waving a series of red wine bottles around hurling her sharp one liners into the ether. The liquid that didn't go in her lilian went on her shirt leaving a river of blood Enoch would have been proud of. You fashion victim, you.

James our DJ friend and fresh back from one of his "weekends" with his workmates and drinking buddies from, ahem, Page3.com seemed in fine fettle (particularly later in the evening), although the drunken boistrousness of the the Chelsea v Newcastle sesh at Armen's Das Boot German themed pub in Whitstable (respendant with German flags and an oil painting of a submarine) appeared to desert him. Something to do with Chelsea losing (smirk). Or maybe that is my strange Geordie psyche convincing itself that Newcastle will win something. Even if it is in the imagination. An email later from James confirmed this delusion. "You may recall Chealsea won" he drolled.

S seemed to be on his best behaviour. Although we say best behaviour but that is only in contrast to his worse behaviour that has the exclusive effect of pissing everyone who is anyone totally off all at once. Remarkable social co-ordination that and no mean feat. Aah, the glory days before his new cool right-on sensitive side beat it out of him. Oh for that arrogant leer and swagger co-ordinated to such perfection with his well worn and cheesy pick up lines. "Born to Fuck" indeed as his cheerful tattoo expouses. What is newfound respect, tolerance and an increased social circle compared to hilarious, increasingly offensive exploits that everyone talks about for years? I don't know.

Tania was so excited she was shaking all over. Never leaving the dance floor, not once, she hopped and skipped and felt arses (well she did mine anyway) and fiddled with the DJ's knobs (well she did mine anyway) till the cows came home. Way heyyyyy!

Jes made a fleeting appearance fresh back from his - no don't, please, stop laughing it's not funny - snowboarding sojourn with Timo over in Val des Twatter in snowy Europe somewhere. Luckily Timo managed to break his ankle two days into the hol and if it wasn't for all that driving around looking for a hospital and then a doctor to treat it they would have had to spend their spare time actually snowboarding and hanging out in them rowdy après ski bars getting pissed and having a laugh. Still, Jes was in, on the decks and out within two hours of the party starting. Respek to Da Maan! All Jes would say about it was "ask Tim".

Oz played a few of his tunes too, but the general exuberance on the dance floor meant he could have probably played a cheesy techno set (some say he did) and they would not have noticed (or more than likely, liked it more). The preponderance of tattoos, weird clothing, piercing and strange haircuts does not necessarily mean that the crowd has had their bad taste in music setting turned up. No, indeed increasingly over the past few years strange sightings on the tVC dance floor such as, cough, young people, smiling dancers, new trainers and clothes, loads of great accoutrements and active, lively conversation could mean that the music is now reaching a broader base or it could be that round our neck of the woods tVC are the only people doing this strange recreational pastime that everyone is so happy that anything is happening they'd dance to it even if it were, er, something else.

Shaun and Rosie and Mike were there too playing loads of lovely new music no one had ever heard of before. Even S and Wesley hung on till 10am to get a play. Not new but still nevertheless lovely.

But I digress. Enough of this demystifying the "dad house" myth of legions of morose over serious twenty and thirty-something's (with gangs of bright keen and ever so politely spoken middle class children called Thomas or Lydia or Sunshine - I mean, growing up in poverty on a council sink estate in Newcastle never done me any harm) gagging for a party with crèche facilities (which incidentally we do supply) and musing over the latest Idjut Boy's sax solo or whatever. The trainspotters art is not quite dead yet. Thank fuck we say that the love of dance music and dancing does not entirely desert this much persecuted minority.

And when we are tired, coz we do tire easily these days, what with the bills coming in and the car to run and the dot.com jobs to go to we can endlessly discuss our massive record collections without the need or the desire to stay awake for four days (although that is nice once in a while), and yes the Idjuts may be making tunes with Sally Rogers from A man Called Adam but that don't mean they've sold out maan. Their new album is worth a listen too. Alright?

Welcome to the "Mum and Dad" Party Scene. Mines a gram.