26 September 2009

On Rocks

Saturday 26th August
Free Party for Free People
The Warren, Folkstone

Last night we were on rocks. Large, chalk, rocks. Piled high, nestling the cliff base, all square and pointy. At regular intervals during the darkness hours some guy would climb, right up, to the highest point and perch himself on the precipitous ledge. What seemed like footballs of straw were attached to the end of a long rope, maybe 15 or 20 feet in length. These were then lit and slowly swung around his head in a most spectacular manner bringing noisy whoops and screams and whistles from the large crowd below.

In the morning the obligatory naked dancing man was joined by another naked dancing man and they both bounced up and down for an hour or so. The people watching saying to themselves; “No, I won’t look at his penis”, then looking, in a quick-glance-I-hope-nobody-noticed-me kinda way. A few of the men huffed and puffed. One said to me; “I can take most things but”, points to the naked, dancing men, “that is well out of order”. When asked why he said; “it just is”. At least they didn’t try to put their genitals inside a hot-knife bottle. One woman said; “Someone should tell them” and left it at that. I pointed out that this was a naturists beach which elicited a general “oh that’s OK then” response.

Grant Plant, top DJ and tunesmith extraordinaire, was our guest. He played the first set after Nicki’s warm up. Snorter. Deep, funky house blends with melancholic bouncy beats. The, by now, 500 strong crowd kick in to first gear and we’re off. A dazzling, blurred, social whirl that seemed to last 5 minutes but in fact went on for a good two days (and more). With all our basic needs catered for we funking went for it big time. Talk. Walk. Chalk. Everyone with white, dusty bums. The fluro’s flapped, all green, red and yellow, shaking sticks with fluorescent tape on and glowing pom-poms. UV moths.

Only dedicated free party people applied. What with steep steps, going on for ages, or steep slopes to surmount, on top of a two mile walk and a police “checkpoint” to overcome only the dedicated attempted it. A thin ribbon, or apron, of concrete snakes below the Folkstone cliffs towards Dover. The walk is spectacular. Pure white cliffs, no barrier or fence on the apron, only a cars width wide, then the sea, a precipitous drop below. Suddenly this man made barrier against the sea ends and a sandy cove emerges. The sea, now at high tide, all dark greys and silver laps on the shore. Tranquil? Yes and no. 500 persons of the partying persuasion crammed the beach. A “woodwork” gathering, so called because so many people came out of it tonight.

Spotted; Mike-ee walking 5 miles (in the wrong direction!) and losing it (literally, ie himself) for 3 hours, at the peak of the party! Yes he went off to get a bottle of beer (although there was shit loads on site. He just wanted to frolic with Paul in the bushes. You know how excited he gets, Kate). Aaron doing his best to dispel the rumours of his lameness by actually dancing (at his last party too before he hits France. Poor France). Timo (Leg -End (Mr)) ‘falling’ over on the ‘dance-floor’. He tripped over a rock in front of the decks and amused everyone no end, especially as we’d been saying he should have cleared all those dangerous rocks off the dance-floor (actually we think he passed out momentarily but cunningly managed to disguise it. And if he didn’t, he fucking should have (passed out that is)). YSHSTFSOH*. Ed’s chin, manouvering alarmingly all night (just like the good ol’ days, eh?). Well it was his birf-day. Grant Plant, top notch geezer, playing a belter of a set. The pal who came down with him dancing half way up the cliff all night in a fetching pair of shorts. Kate and Connan (yes, we know) deciding not even cake eating could keep them away. Spencer (straight out of the recording studio) and Charlie. Nicki and Dave, with Nicki looking after us in the morning and clearing up the whole beach. Mia, clearing up the whole beach, and looking after us in the morning, despite being decidedly the worse (better) for wear. Timo finding one of Kevin’s pubes (blond (natural)) in one of his packages. Dianne sorting the collection out whilst we all chickened out and pretended to be paranoid. Makka keeping everyone laughing, apart from those poor lads who tried to pitch a tent. P and J appearing out of various bushes, grinning cheekily. Gary, depressed in the beer tent because he couldn’t get his purple beast out (or maybe it was too handbaggy). Paul dancing like a loon all night (we wonder why?) Kate schwinging at Mike in pleasant anticipation of pleasures to be had. Andy and Melissa. Simone and her bro. Nasal and Creaky (and he was). And fucking hundreds more.

Highlights; Grants set. Mike’s set. Timo’s set. Jes’ set. Oz’s set. Ed’s set. The whole darn thang. The setting. Who needs Goa/Thailand/Portugal when you have Folkestone, that’s what we say?!! Doing it. Getting away with it (it finally stopped 2pm Tuesday afternoon). Having it. Big time. The best of music, company and scenery on what looks like being the last day of summer. Here’s to next year.

*youshouldhaveseenthefuckingstateofhim

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