Friday 5 March - FP2 - The Duke of Kent
A long weekend this one, almost back to the heights of the glory days. Friday, Saturday and Sunday night, all on the trot, with the trots by the end most probably.
Friday starts fresh and hopeful, until Paul and I realise that, as usual, we have to move all the equipment, by ourselves, again. This we manage to do, set up, sound check take the van back, all within 2 hours. Who needs Louie, we ask, as we back slap our way back into the flat for a short respite, before the 5 minute drive up the road, to that nights playground.
With everything done, there's only drinking to indulge in, and dodging the poorly aimed wind-up's from other sound engineers, that fail, as usual to hit their intended mark. Cagey has turned up to "support us", more like pissing his pants at the thought of a 3 day bender.
The place starts filling despite a serious cock-up with the flyers (so no change there then). But fortunately this seems to have negligible effect as the place fills nicely, the vibe flows and everyone gets down to the business in hand. Which is the same as it ever is, enjoyment and its persuit, forthwith.
The smoke machine is making it difficult to see or breathe, a few fall choking to the floor, clasping their throat, eyes bulging, or was that just Dave Burner admiring the woodwork through the drink. The music is pumping (but not too much I hasten to add) and sounds excellent, much to the chagrin of a rival sacked sound engineer, who believes in the six foot tall amp rack scenario, full of gagdets.
A right good little atmos is developing in time honoured tVC stylee. The floor is filling, people are boogying, and the world outside becomes a dim and distant memory. But then, disaster, a prat is in our midst, again. This time, the 'sad's' are of the female variety, two pikey girls, who decide they feel threatened by the freedom and frivolity, and decide they will stop it by attacking Tracey and Nick. Or maybe Nick accidentally trod on one of their feet with her silly boots? Anyway, the outcome is sudden and unexpected. Unfortunately for them though, they realise a tad too late, that an attack on one of us, is an attack on us all, and they are quickly expelled from the party, only after being given a taste of their own medicine.
Tracey has been bottled and Nick is sporting a rather fetching bald patch, where once there was hair, Jerry Springer Show style. The music has stopped and the night is ended an hour early. We're kicked out into the cold March air, pissed off and full of righteous anger. The pikey's have been sent away by Dave and are no longer outside threatening to "do" us, and crying over their ripped blouses.
chilling out with a coffee after the big hump
Well, what can you do? Give up? Parties by their nature have to be mutually inclusive. Everyone has a chance to be part. You can't really VIP a party. All that exclusivity bollocks sucks. However, what do you do when you're being physically attacked in spaces you have set out for the safe and enjoyable attainment of pleasure? What do you do when you've opened your arms to people who then fuck the carefully orchestrated, extremely fragile vibe up? Fuck them off. Get them out of your headspace. Refuse to give up and learn kick-boxing, so the next time it happens you can kick the shit out of them? Remember who they are and ban them from all future spaces? And just remember, that unfortunately, however much we would like it to be so, that everyone isn't a cool cookie, that there are some weird trips going on in people's heads and guard yourself against it in future. You can't stop people from coming into fields, but you can sure as hell refuse to let the cunts get into your head. Onwards and upwards. Forever.