7 October 2009

we flinch away from their K fueled breaths

honey for the bears - Saturday 27 February, Acton

Mmn, Acton action, and how to get there. We do an Autoroute Express on the computer, which tells us to ride the M25 till we meet the junction with the M4. Fucking miles in other words. So, deciding to forgo the dubious delights of driving round the sodding M25, practically to my place of birth, we decide instead to 'go through London' on the ol' South Circular, reasoning somewhat unreasonably, that it 'won't be that busy on a Saturday evening'.



Ha! Two and a half hours later, we limp into Acton, bladders bursting, to find out that Wes has pissed into a bottle in the back of the van, and also over much of the floor by the smell of it.The first indication that all is not quite as it seems, is when Dick approaches, sodden with drink. We were meant to have arrived by 8, apparently. It is now well past 9.However, little do they realise just what a well-oiled machine tVC can be when they need to. Within 1/2 an hour the equipment's in and carried into a dank, long and narrow cellar, beneath a convivial restaurant.



By 10 (ish) the sounds are pumping and we've reassured the owner, who has quite literally shat himself at the size of all the equipment being carried in, that "yes, the speakers do look large, but we don't have to have them all turned up loud." (!!) By 11, the place is filling nicely and we're all 'getting down on it'. The 'corridor' has literally been transformed as the back drops have been erected for the first time in months.





By now Cagey and Sid are doing their scary loon out double act, and we flinch away from their K fuelled breaths. Dob has drunk his wine in the van on the way up (shades of Austin we ask?) and is asleep behind the decks on his hands and knees, arse up. Oz, warm up man supreme, warms up, well, supremely, whilst we wait for the other DJs. Friends trickle in with alarming tales of not being allowed in by a "scary red haired woman." No, it wasn't Lincoln (now Essex) Sue. "Are you sure this is going on till 6?" we ask Cagey, again. He reassures us. How you can be reassured by a stumbling, sozzled mess, is anyone's guess, but we were, momentarily.By now, Iain and Bazil have arrived from Exeter. They look a trifle harassed.


The scary woman on the door, the co-owner of the restaurant, wouldn't let them in. She's panicking, thinking she has a full-scale Castlemorton on her hands. We send Cagey up to reassure her, although why that should work with her when it doesn't with us, we don't ponder over too much. I don't think he was too effective.However, things start to gell nicely as Iain takes the wheels of steel in his practised paws and quite literally whips the floor into a screaming, baying frenzy.

It's a while since we've been spanked so expertly. Seen making the moves, Sara and Tone, Emily, Smasher and Steve. Emily as usual is stumbling around and getting away with stuff she wouldn't be able to, if she wasn't so blond and pretty. Charles stands on duty before the speakers, listening to minute fluctuations and distortions of sound, invisible to normal naked human ears, but not to his. He is not living up to his name, well for a few hours anyway tonight, recovering from the Tasmanian devil puking up in his beloved Audi. Tas, seemingly has recovered and is giving it serious welly on the vocal chord front. Iain and Baz's very nice Acton chums, Nicky, Ewen and the man with the 16 valve car that they make drive them everywhere are grooving on down expertly.


We forget the red haired terror on the door and party like fuck. As Sara so succinctly puts it about Iain's set, "There aint nothing lazy about this!" and we whoop away like Billy O.Cagey is now being ignored by all politer society. It is his bosses party, and he doesn't seem too perturbed by the condition of his star employee. His friends seem to be adapting quite nicely to the nuances of our music, after the initial "What the fuck is this" look has eroded from their features.


Things start getting messy as more sangria is consumed. We hear TAK will be along at 3 and hope they will be able to reason with the keeper of the door and attain entry, as we have given up trying to reassure her.TAK turn up with entourage and manage to pass the keeper of the faith. Lee Godden is with them , 5 hours late for his set. Scouse has his cheeky chappy look and he and equally little, high-heeled trainer wearer Steve remain either side of Ed, who stands erect and tall between them, meat and two veg(etables). Leyla is skipping and Lisa dancing in her lovely relaxed, but very energetic manner, that she can keep up all night. Simone is staggering around, waving her arms like a loony and Sam is enjoying her "last party ever in England" (well, that's until all the last parties she goes to the next week).


Caroline sporting her new PVC zipped trousers is asleep somewhere on the floor and Kate and Richard are on their usual munch-athon.
We turn the music down to placate the by now extremely flapping owners of the restaurant.

The red haired woman has been bundled off home before she has a coronary, and her partner is left to deal with the awful reality of having the two littlest Steve's and Rosie reassure him. The music is turned down again. It's 5. Oz has developed a splitting headache, that manifests itself in an alarming tendency to vomit down the side of van doors, so retires to the relative peace of the van, whilst we tread water the last hour, before finally succumbing to the owners wishes and shutting the music off.


A strange little party, with some exceptional moments, including the meeting of new hoped to be chums. Shame about the lack of communication really between all the parties involved, but hopefully no harm was done. Cheers to Cagey's boss, Andy, happy 40th and commiserations for having to put up with Cagey. And to the owners of Honey For the Bears? A top little restaurant, and if we see you again, it will be to sample the delights of your culinary prowess, rather than to plumb the depths of your basement for hours on end and give you a fright.As we pack everything away, we see Mike looking scared and nice. He has an empty car and the K-kids are trying to blag a lift, "down the road", all 8 of them.They phone when we're back in lovely, sunny Kent. Cagey is dribbling into the phone by now. Pleased we're at home and not there, I put down the phone, turn to Paul and sigh, "Poor Mike".

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