23 September 2009

Sweaty, steaming, stomping primeval soup

Every so often, you get one of those special nights , when everything is right. When the music’s so fucking good that you lose it, in a sweaty, steaming, stomping primeval soup of ecstatic chancers. Dancing. You ride a glimmering thread along which you vibrate. Luxuriously. Pulling faces. Anticipating the rhythms. Moving to melt into them. Meeting them head on.

Tonight was one of those nights. A rare but always hoped for thing. A night of stop to start good music. Spot on music. House music. A night that makes you forget the daily shit, reminding you instead of the power of magic. Really, I’m glad to be alive. I’m glad you were there with me. Life. Is. So. Fucking. Good. Sometimes.

Packed to the rafters with hedonists of every sex, shape and size. Supping rich pleasures. Devouring fun. Experiencing music. All friends. All believers.

We may inhabit the land of “not allowed” whose language is “No”, but it is at moments like these that we create a new world. Our world. Stuffed full with “Yes’s”. Where we rediscover delight and slip into the luxury of fun.

Childhood revisited, but as it never was. The rediscovery of that love of life, of people. Of loving living. Goodbye cynicism. Hello blue skies and sunshine. With the air resonating in lusty appreciation I’m feeling a-fucking-live. At last. Again.


Full of mad, up for it, party bastards, nashing and gurning, prancing, chancing, living and having a fuck of a good time. Faces you would not believe the like of, made their public debut, under the glare of the flashing, crap lights, wrapped in the arms of some seriously meaty music. What is that music? Where does it come from? (Mark Dettmar (C), legendary topp tune trader). How does it hit that spot, again and again? The music was that right, I had to stop myself swooning at the beauty of it all. The shared look on the heaving dance floor, followed by the communal grin. God we felt good. We luxuriated in it and just got fucking lost. Riding on, living for, that next tune.

Tonight was the first time that Oz (C) and Timo (C) were publicly joined together in their pursuit of musical excellence. Never having played with each other before (apart from a couple of times in the shower) they slipped into it easily, each working perfectly to compliment and enhance the others tunes. For five solid hours they kept it up (oo er). Remorselessly holding us in their thrall, as they performed their very public aural coupling.

From wall to sweat-glistening wall people danced and howled their appreciation which was milked to perfection by our seducers. I was entranced, invigorated and fucking stinking as I joined the mass sweat soaked worshippers, at their alter of brilliance. (Well this was the first drink I’d had for well over a week, leading to immediate intoxication of the kind generally exhibited by batty old boys in their local pub). “This is what we want”, yelled Maurice(T), whilst dancing (yes!) and waving his moist limbs about in relaxed abandon. Performing an elaborate mating ritual in front of Judith (V), no doubt. (And Judith lost her tVC virginity as she was clasped to our mass bosom for the first, and hopefully not last, time). Indeed tonight was a family affair for old Mag Maur as a further 2 members of his immediate family were spotted shaking in appreciation of the groove-tastic musical delights on offer. Rowan (V) whooped her encouragement like a good ‘un (‘she’s got a good pair o’ lungs on her that girl’). Oochie(C), flushed with the birth of his business empire, ”Oochie Oochie Tape Productions”, celebrated in true Louie fashion by sticking solidly to the dancefloor all night, gyrating his hips with a beatific grin stretched across his chummy features. Grinning coz he knew this set was being taped, from beginning to end, and he’d have copies, out on the streets within 2 hours of the night finishing.

Unfortunately he spent so much time dancing he didn’t manage to sell many of the tapes he’d already done, but chose instead to give them to whoever took his fancy i.e. young women in tight tops and hot pants. Keef (T) reinstated in his position of splendour at the head of the tVC dancefloor. Exactly positioned between the speakers, topp off in record breaking time (don’t tell Roy) his face wreathed in smiles. Roy (C) appeared to be the only person out of over 350 to miss, totally, the vibe. Charging around, shouting and sweatily chasing someone whom I’m afraid did not appear to exist. Jasper (T) with his hair down tonight so he could swish it’s silky tresses over the back of his neck (constantly) sulking because we’ve all seen his scar and didn’t want to see it again. Kate (V) and Mike (T) (yes) obviously becoming slightly jaded by the superior entertainment opportunities offered by that mecca of sophisticated nightlife, Dukes in Whitstable, decided to slum it instead here. Mike dressed accordingly. There was a time that he sported an expensive new top at every local dance, but this one had obviously seen much action (mwar).

On the “God I didn’t expect to see you here” list as I thought you were “giving up partying“ (Watson (C) in top old trooper mode), going to Portugal (!?), going to France to do a course (Aaron (T), allegedly), knobs” (a few sharing this thought were in evidence, lurking accordingly).

In fact it was so packed (biggest attendance ever, folks, with 333 paying househeads that’s not including the massive guest list) it was actually quite hard (missus) to see who was there and who wasn’t. Everyone was pulling such funny faces, and had lost so much weight due to the gallons of body fluids sucked out by the heat, that they were unrecognisable anyway.

One’s whose faces cannot be mistaken however they’re twisted include Toby (C) “the safest car parker in town”. Gary (C) who was able to tell a certain MM just what that thing held in his sweaty little hand was. Mia and Diane (T’s), Timo’s official fanclub and looker afterers. Gone (T), hair smoothed back in neat and orderly fashion so as not to betray the tumultuous activity going on beneath. “What’s it like not having the kids for the weekend”, we ask knowing full well they’re going to Alton Towers. “Er”, he thinks for a short while, then big beam, “GREAT”. Walt (T&C) in his capacity as stolid, upstanding yet very respectable member of the business community i.e. sitting down all night shouting grotesque profanities and insulting anyone who would listen to him. (Which was no-one, as usual). Polly (T), Trudi (V), Suzanna (V). Jerry (T) back from his round the world exploits, reminding us of his damn fine dancefloor wrist action, maan.

Eldad (V) was also spotted indulging in a little of the urgent wrist actions favoured by the more esoteric of our dancers. Artist Steve (T). Pam (C) only stumbling over steps, and down them, and a couple of times in between, otherwise keeping a low profile. Aaron (V) who managed to keep both a thick top and a coat on throughout all the shenanigans. He looked good, but he must have been fucking hot and I bet his pits stank. Pete emerged as a clear challenger to Keef’s speaker space. Aaron’s wrist action was decidedly limp as Pete managed to nearly out dance him, without even being there. And was that Guy (C), spotted, dancing, on a tVC dancefloor? At last. “That’s a bit more like it Ozzy”, he says, “a bit ‘rder”. Stuart L (T) stumbling around extremely energetically, warming up most professionally for when he plays in September. The undisputed, newly crowned “dancing queen” Leila (V), sans Kier (V). Kier’s bro Liam (T). Ed Formerly (C), the pain from a cricketing wound bravely borne in the pursuit of ‘sinking some piss’. Kate (V). Yes. Alive and well. Roger (V) enjoying his birthday already (as he has been doing solidly since the last one). Freshly deoderised , preparing for his party in a couple of days time whilst giving the dance floor a damn fine rogering with his superb mastery of the light control panel. Those geordie bastards SJ and D (C’s).

And fucking loads of others. Thanks for making it such a good night and adding many fine new memories of 1001 ways to stagger around in a sweat-drenched, beer sodden frenzy.

T=twat V=vagina C=cunt

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