30 November 2009

tVC and Subsdance - New Years Eve Party

An end of year celebratory night of the very best of deep house and deep techno provided by free party crews tVC and Subsdance are predicted to get arms a flapping and feet a shuffling on 31st December 2009.

So, come with us into 2010 and dance and love with the Kent fluffcore.

The party will take place from 8pm to 8am at The Lido Cliff Bar Function Room, Ethelbert Terrace, Cliftonville, Margate, Kent, CT9 1RX. This is a legal venue with an approved late drink and dance license.

Full crew of tVC DJ's on the night will be, guest Thom is a DJ  (Sideways) plus Oz, Warren, Rosie, Si. From Subsdance Stoney, Jay, Loop de Loop and Gary

Guaranteed no rip off door or bar prices. It's going to cost £10 to get in and tickets are strictly limited to 400 only. When they are gone they are gone.

Clarity Sound is provided by tVC and Subsdance. Pub prices on all drinks.

Tickets obtainable from any of the DJ's or by ringing:

Whitstable & Canterbury Area
Oz on 07795313843
Si on 07740184456

Thanet Area
Stoney on 07751358035
Gary on 07546573040

Ring us up and we'll arrange to drop the tickets off to you...


We just can’t keep track of ‘em... new police/crime/public order laws that is. Time was when there would be a new shake up of criminal law once a decade, now it’s more like once a week.

Anyway the latest round of repression on the beat in your neighbourhood is set to be the Crime and Policing Act 2009. The Act (which came into force last week) is the usual New Labour ragbag of miscellaneous new police powers to bug, search, seize and detain without trial, with the odd bit thrown in to keep liberal naysayers happy.

Most worrying for campaigning groups is Part 4 - the power for civil courts to grant injunctions to ‘prevent gang-based violence’, the so-called GANGBO. Now this revisits the territory of the injunctions taken out under the Protection from Harassment Act and ASBOs in that a civil burden of proof (balance of probabilities in place of beyond reasonable doubt) is used to create criminal offences tailor- made for the individual, punishable by arrest and imprisonment.

All that is required is that violence is threatened. In item 34, section 5 of the Act, ‘“gangrelated violence” means violence or a threat of violence which occurs in the course of, or is otherwise related to, the activities of a group that (a) consists of at least 3 people, (b) uses a name, emblem or colour or has any other characteristic that enables its members to be identifi ed by others as a group, and (c) is associated with a particular area.’ Sound like any protest groups you know?

Of course when the act was first drafted it only applied to adults - but before the first GANGBO has even been issued, along rolls another piece of legislation, this time the Crime and Security Bill which is going to extend the powers to thirteen to seventeen-year-olds.


28 November 2009

village life

I was all over the place on Saturday. Didn’t go anywhere. Didn’t leave the house till 9pm. I mean all over in my mind.

I don’t agree that Woody Allen is neurotic. I just think he’s sussed out. Ah, well, maybe he is neurotic but the funny neurotic. Proper neurosis is debilitating not a great joke or witty chat up line.

So, I was sat there worrying about the sound that night as for the first time ever in the 23 year history of doing free parties to the masses tVC had handed over the reins and responsibility of sorting out the  reverberation to another sound crew. Not just another sound crew but a sound crew that had never actually done a gig ever before. Well, apart from Genie Burners birthday bash round at Nick Dents the other week.

I was worrying about the DJ’s and whether they would turn up, fuck up and fuck off as some of the more salubrious members of the DJ fraternity tend to do a little these days. Nah, not ours. Would they bring any people along? Would anyone turn up at all? Would the night be a big steaming pile of embarrassing poop? Will we remember to bring drinks? Will people be able to find it easily? Will I even get to play any records? Will the £88 I have spent this week on new tunes ever get a decent airing to a properly appreciative crowd? Will it sound shit? Will everyone leave early? Or arrive late? Will there be trouble or arguments? Will the really bad, windy, very wet weather put people off? Will the other house night in town on tonight at the Brewery Bar take people away from us? Will we take people away from them? Is splitting the house crowd, albeit from different ends of the scale, a good idea? Will we cover all the expenses? This and the question of how the hell do I cross this bridge I was stuck on in Half Life2 perplexed me somewhat most of the day.

Half Life was easy. I just had to go online and find a walkthrough that helped me out greatly. Now I could carry on and finish my 6 hour Xbox 360 session in peace before I had a lovely little bath then a nap then a bite to eat before facing the ravages of yet another night of party based performance and social delinquency .
“What time you getting the keys for the hall mate?” says el maestro of “Leave Me Out Of It”.

“Four PM”, I reply.

“We’ll be there at 4.30. We need to set up and check everything and do all our adjustments and all that. Ey.”

I arrive at the venue at 9pm; knackered yet refreshed. I don’t know if that state of mind is possible but it existed for me that evening. The room is decorated with Wendy and Stuart’s backdrops and BJ’s white netting and looks very good. They have transformed a drab, and I must say, very clean, village hall into an exotic world where dreams and imaginings are made real. Well, I say dreams. What I mean is it doesn’t look like a box with windows anymore, which is, in a way, a different, if not exotic place and I’m hoping my dreams can be made there tonight. Although my main dream is actually a hope and it is that everything goes smoothly and the place is not left in a dreadful state that will cause us to lose our deposit. By saying ‘everything’ of course I put into my neurotic loop a build in destabiliser and upsetter thus giving myself permission to be upset and thus punish myself in any way I can imagine.
It all seems great! Hang on; something missing. Oh yeah, the rig. Five hours after they said they would be there the sound boys arrive. If I used the words ‘in a fluster’ I think I would be exaggerating just a tad. We all employed the tactic of remaining calm and centred as people started to arrive and the rig was unloaded and set up. Everyone took it in good spirits so I relaxed a bit. By the time Simon and BJ had, ahem, ahem, ahem, cough, turned the ‘screw’ on the back of the mixer which actually allowed the sound to come out, and we’d heard all the “tVC, ey, trying to sabotage our sound” comments we were, huzzah, off and up and running.

The old bill, her maj’s boys in blue, the old billage, the bacon battalion, the po-po, flatfoot, the fuzz, the pork patrol, the rozzers, the bizzies, 5-Oh, the blue meanies, the big blue machine or plain old office Dibble decided to arrive just as things started. It was raining hard and very windy. They motioned me outside. No coat!

“It has come to our attention that a ‘rave’ will be taking place at this venue tonight”, they begin.

“This is a double birthday party, officer; two friends sharing a space to celebrate their middle age”.

“It’s all over the internet son”

“Where? What sites? What did it say?”

“Couldn’t tell you that; Police intell’”. He taps his nose.

“You can have a look inside if you want”.

“No. Don’t want to see anything we don’t want to see. We’ll be back later”. They didn’t come back.

As Brummie Jon said on his FacaesBook page the police "were happy that it was a private party, they gave us their mobile number in case we had trouble with gatecrashers. Classic police quote "but don't phone us at 3am to tell us that you love us, we know what you lot are like"

As with Ribbed at the Lido the other week the decks were set up on a wooden stage with all the inherent feedback issues associated with such a decision. Do humans ever learn from the past experiences they have?

DJ wise Shaun Muddy Shovel warmed up followed by our Rosie. Lovely deep house just how we love it. Warren and Croucher bumped the arse off the new speakers, which performed admirablely. People seemed to like it. Dan and Louise from Unite in Margate played a great set of deep tech and techno. I thoroughly enjoyed their take on things and would heartily recommend you catch them sometime soon. Oz and Si played for 10 seconds then Steve Zest got on after his delicious gig in town that night and the night was finished off by Warren.

more pics from wendy and mikal's birthday party

27 November 2009

TV Cabbage Pt 1

Watched too much TV. Damn that generic satellite TV record and playback box with a + at the end of it. Only means one inevitable, relentless possibility; I can go out more and watch more TV. Whenever I want to. If only work didn’t get in the way and the bills didn’t need paying? Today; ‘Grey’s Anatomy’, ‘Lost’, ‘House’, ‘Rescue Me’, ‘Last Man Standing’, that CGI thing on the sperm whales, ‘IQ’, ‘Coach Trip’. 3 episodes of ‘Desperate…’ still stacked up. Oh, dear! Where will I find the time? BB 7 hours a week minimum plus the LB, BM and Big Brain versions when I can. Not include the ‘3 film’ deal I have with one particular satellite film channels online DVD rental arm. Don’t do it. It’ll kill you! Recent top films; ‘The Beat That My Heart Skipped’, ‘Brokeback Mountain’, ‘A Bittersweet Life’, ‘The Ordeal (aka Calvaire)’, ‘King's Game (Kongekabale)’ and ‘Ivan’s XTC’, to name drop but a few. Besides, its proof, to me, that intelligent and bloody great film can still be made. Must hunt for more…

I’m finding myself coming home after work and just watch TV instead of catching up on my paperwork. “Hi, my names TVcabbage and I’m an addict”. Maybe this is turning into a TV addict’s blog?
1997 part 21 - Nick had a hangover

All is calm and Nick’s pissed and I said let’s go upstairs (where they were having another sesh) only Rosie left her cartridge on the bar and someone stole it and they only have one cartridge between two decks and don’t want to come and ask for one of ours because I kicked off in the pub again. Phew!

Nick got out that one about Charlie giving me that CD at ‘Technology Night’ that he’d took ages to get it back off R, but it wasn’t one of the pirate software CD’s but a Dutch porn CD. She called him Throbbin’ but he denied the existence of it and I said I knew he had a sex life. Somewhere. But R seemed OK about that little slap and handled it quite well which me makes me look a little stupider than I already feel at the moment.

The next morning Nick had a hangover – the first in ages – and I sorted some liver salts and 2 paracetamol and we made sweet, short love. She said that I’d had an erection for hours in my sleep.

26 November 2009

"You don't know life until you've fucked death in the gall bladder."*

I was well looking forward to Channel 4’s 3D week of programmes, particularly the 3D version of Flesh for Frankenstein, Morriseys 70’s sludge kitsch camp epics of awfulness and cheese from Warhol’s Factory days. All the nudity cut out no doubt. But they’ll probably leave the bit in where Ze Baron "makes love" to the entrails of his female zombie.

Flesh for Frankenstein is also notable for having the longest 3D midget-horse carriage ride in motion picture history.

Even the Queen in 3D presented an opportunity to wallow in the 3D pool of lovely warm bubbliness, as did smugfest Derren Brown’s programme “Derren Brown's 3D Magic Spectacular” presenting a plethora of magic tricks.

So my attitude was don’t believe all those 3D party poopers like Ronald Bergen in The Guardian who say “Why the second coming of 3D is overrated”. “3D will go the same way as Smell-O-Vision and Odorama, as well as extinct gimmicks dreamed up by William Castle such as Emergo, Percepto and Illusion-O.” O ye of little faith. It’s actually like an old friend coming back into your life and giving you a great big hugathon. You remember the good times; the fun; the excitement; the warm glow only true love can give you. Surely 3D on TV would not dissappoint?

Alas, it was not to be. First thing Monday morning after I got up the TV was on; Sky+ menu up and the Queen in 3D slapped on. I’d been DJing down Ribbed the week before and James had been going round with a pocket full of Sainsburys’ cardboard 3D glasses handing them out to everyone; free from any of their shops apparently. Of course we’d all been walking around with them on taking photo’s of each other on the dance floor. Multi-use 3D specs; that’s what we like to see.

One eye was orange the other blue. Pressing play I eased back into my sofa. I had a good half hour till 7.45am before I had to shower ready to go to work. Oh, what a disappointment it was. It just all looked blue! Mind you I had had an operation for a detached retina on my left eye and could hardly see out of it. Suddenly a heavy emotional silence fell over me. Would I never again be able to enjoy a 3D TV show or film? Would I never again be able to visit the wonderful IMAX in London to watch a shit James Cameron film where the pure joy of watching a 3D camera pan around the watery grave of the Titanic cannot be quantified or equated to the pleasure the brain feels in relation to what is actually on the screen; or seeing insects kill each other really close up? Wow, it’s in 3D.

I went to work that morning feeling like a blind man denied access to one of the fundamental joys of cinematic life.

So what was the best 3D moment of the week? The cozy image of cognac in a balloon glass being exploded in Courvoisier cognac’s advert. Glass splinters and cognac shoot out at viewers and then spin into a vortex that forms a cocktail sitting next to a bottle of Courvoisier Exclusif. One of the first 3D ads to air on UK terrestrial TV. Now that’s what I call groundbreaking.

Gordon! Gordon Brown! Going blind is one eye is well shit...

24 November 2009

did he just tell us to drink water?

Please look after yourself and your fellow clubbers. Watch for dehydration and heatstroke. The main symptoms are excessive sweating, staggering, thirst and exhaustion. Over heating is unlikely to occur if enough water is drunk.

Dr. John Henry from the National Poisons Unit at Guy's Hospital, London explains the mechanism of heat stroke. Dissolute Intravascular Coagulation (DIC) - blood clotting in the arteries - occurs at 42 - 43 degrees centigrade (c.108 degrees Fahrenheit) and tiny blood clots stick to the artery wall. This is harmless in itself, as the blood clots are too small to cause a blockage, but the process can use up all the clotting agent, with the result that the blood will pour out of any of the tiny haemorrages which occur throughout the cardovascular system as part of the normal process of breakdown and repair. Such internal bleeding can be fatal. Internal bleeding in the brain, combined with high, pulsating blood pressures can cause shakes.

To combat this, SIP SOME WATER

Dr Henry believes MDMA stimulates opioids, a neuro-transmitter that acts as an internal anaesthetic. Neuro-transmitters such as 5HT and opioids can be stimulated by chemicals such as MDMA. Opioids go into action when the body is injured, so if your body is exhausted or overheating you can't feel that it is.

Kidney failure (or "acute renal failure") is the result of muscular breakdown overloading the kidneys with myglobin. Muscular breakdown can be caused by intense bouts of physical exercise.


There may also be a link between liver damage and ecstasy use. Liver damage cases in the UK "might be the result of parallel use of alcohol and other drugs".


Finally, MDMA can undergo "redox cycling" - a process that liberates copious quantities of oxygen free radicals. Excessive amounts overwhelm the system and damage ensues. Phenethylamines are stored in highest concetrations in the brain and nervous system. Not surprisingly these tissues are at the greatest risk for being harmed by free radicals (and associated oxidants) formed during the redox cycling of phenethylamines.

Excessive quantities may cause oxidative damage. It would therefore be prudent for those taking large quantities of MDMA to take antioxidant supplements as well. These incude Vitamin C (2-4 grams) which is water soluble and Vitamin E (1000 iu) which is fat soluble.Also recommended; B-Carotene (5mg); Bioflavonoids (2gm); L-Carnitine (1gm); N-Acetylcysteine (2gm); Selenium (250mcg)


22 November 2009


1. Scooby and Shaggy were always being freaked out by ghosts and ghouls, but no one else saw them before Scoob and Shaggy.
2. Scooby and Shaggy always had the munchies.
3. Shaggy always thought Scooby was talking and was the only one who could hear him and understand him.
4. Scooby and Shaggy always fell into the trap that was intended for the monster because they were tripping over themselves and couldn't see where they were going.
5. They were always deluded and warped by thinking they were dressed up in some costumes and entertained the monster.
6. Shaggy always said "like" to the extreme, i.e. "like ZOIKS, Scoob, let's get outta here!!" What's a zoik?
7. Scooby and Shaggy were always the ones in the back of the van (doing who knows what).
8. They drove around in the MYSTERY MACHINE, which had that weird trippy design on it's side.
9. Shaggy and Scooby were always giddy and laughing.
10. Look at Shaggy; the way he dressed, his goatee, etc., 'nuff said.

20 November 2009

Renovating Max

Cabbaged at the EK

Remember the pub with that dull smell, stained walls, carpet and curtains etc. The mobile phone freaks (real and fake) lurching, taking their time with that never ending game of pool (they must be crap, because we can clear the table in less than 5 minutes). Well, some things are no more! Max has had a re-fit. It was not quite finished as we descended on our seasonal winter come down soiree on a Sunday.

Dancing or sophisticated stumbling around has been catered for by the area being opened out a bit more, the beam being raised to hopefully cater for Pen, who we haven't seen for a while. The floor has been stripped bare, to reveal waxed floorboards and wooden paneling around the walls, with a shelf on which to put records, so no more stumbling over record boxes/bags.

And, thank fuck, no more fake, red leather seating! Unfortunately some things which have not changed are sleeping figures that still manage to adopt a slumbering position on a chair somewhere, and the dominant voice of Max. The DJs: Oz, Shaun and Wesley or (Weso). Rosie (steadily improving her lager consumption, all of two-and-a-half pints now) Rebecca who is doing far too well for herself (good on yer girl!) Simon S, and not forgetting Mike SU, who has returned down South because he couldn't handle the cold weather, all playing to the dutiful posse.

tVC is the only deep house system in the South-east to maintain the level of delightfulness with never a dull moment/sound, with a lot of bloody hard work and effort that goes into the set-up. You can always turn up at a party and rely on a good sound, and the fact that the team members do work together with a mutual understanding, despite what you may see on the outside. We may argue and squabble over trivial misunderstandings, but these inevitably only last the duration of how much strong lager you have drunk, which could be somewhat countless.

tVC may have had their 'euphoria years 86-93', and then their 'come down years 93-95', followed by their 'post come down reassessment 96-97', but hey, who's complaining. We don't have to put up with arrogant, rude bouncers, bright lights and expensive over the top priced lager. We party hard, in the summer thanks to our friendly, bewildered farmers/landowners, and carry on in the winter. We welcome new friends, we have breaks from old peeps (but not that long). If you have been dancing to tVC since 86, then you're likely to still be stumbling with your mates in 98 and onwards.

Music is always being produced, with dedicated DJs playing it, and really the movement of the Deep House sector has never been better. It moves on, refusing to stagnate.

Remember the last 10 odd years, but don't stagnate on them, look forward to what is happening in front of you and ahead of you. If you're not shown appreciation at the time, it doesn't mean you're not appreciated, because we all are by the fact that we are still going strong, as part of tVC, one of the UK's longest running sound systems, who continually produce a fucking excellent place to be, with the sound to compliment. Even in the EK.

18 November 2009

Time's Circular.

The Earth is a garden. But if God cannot tend it, then we must. There's a Larch at the bottom of my garden. Except that I don't have a garden. But anyway, it's out there. It looks like a lyre, or some kind of a cock-eyed angel with its wings raised. I put food out for the birds, who gather in its branches, twittering and scattering about, all chaotic activity, squabbling amongst themselves. There's a number of Magpies who visit it regularly, and a Blackbird or two who fix you with malevolent glances. And a Robin. Jolly Robin.

Do you know that you can train Robins? They're the least fearful of all the wild birds. Leave food regularly in a trail to your window. Eventually it will wait on the sill. And then you can open the window and lead the trail indoors. Be patient. In the end it will eat from your hand and shit on your carpet.

"Jolly Robin in the wood. Waiting for the gift of food..."

I spend alot of time looking out at that tree. I do a lot of thinking. Sometimes I think about Time. I think of all the time that is gone. All those countless hours, what were they for? And all those days and months and years. All those centuries. All those Eons. An immensity of time. An ocean. We think we can count time. But how do you count an ocean?Do you know that there are dinosaurs still on the Earth? They were not reptiles, they were something else. When the cataclysm came and ripped out the belly of the Earth and with it all those lumbering monsters, the little dinosaurs grew wings and became birds. Little twittering things, living time on another lifescale. Echoes of the past. Ripples in Time's ocean.I think about reincarnation too. Not that I remember any of my past lives. Somehow I can't imagine that I was ever a Pharoah or a Buccaneer, or any of those other things. I expect I've always been as I am now, the son of a Birmingham carworker with a strange, speculative imagination. I imagine that all through the immensity of Time I've always come from Birmingham, and have always been sitting here like this, looking out my back window.What are we? Our bodies grow rigid and cold, and we all die. But we are electromagnetic beings. We live on the interface between the synapses of our brains. In the arc of energy. And energy does not die. Our brains are Quantum computors and we leap in Time and Space.Time is a product of the Universe, like matter. As the Universe unfolds, so Time unravels. Onward and outward. But come the time the Universe collapses, drawn by the inexorable weight of matter, the pulsing heartbeat of Gravity, then Time will reel back again. And we will live these moments over again. Backwards. And who can say if at this moment Time is running backwards or forwards? Whichever way you are living, Time will always be running the right way.But when I think about reincarnation, the nature of the Universe changes for me. It means I've been here forever. That we've all been here forever, since the beginning of Time. That we are part of the process. That we are It.And it also means that Mozart is still amongst us. That he was always amongst us. And Einstein, and Marx. And I expect that Mozart is sat in a bedroom right now, a weird genius with a DAT and a computor, making house music. Altering our perceptions as he did the first time. Messing about with our melody-lines.Moments are like atoms. Parcels of energy. When we split the atom we unleash the Universe. When we look into the immensity of the moment, all time is there for us to see. In the infinitesimal, infinity is unfurled. The outer reaches of the Universe warp in the smallest particles of matter. Boundless moments expand. An ever widening circle. Ever circling Time. Revolution of the Spirit. Reincarnation.

"Jolly Robin in the woodWaiting for the gift of food.Be he humble or be he boldHe'll turn a tumble, and then grow old."


16 November 2009

"arse plasma from the hideous mirrorworld of fuck"

Cabbaged At The Smack - November 14th 2009

Ol’ Stevie, the partner of the landlady of The Smack, was in a well funny mood with us this night. Moving beyond his usual feet first wind ups he emanated a positively gruff attitude most of the evening even when at the end I asked how the bar take had gone he said “all right”. All right? All right? The place was heaving from start, er, well, middle, to the end of the night and everyone was pissed on Steve’s beer. “Two pints of Hurimann Steve,” I ask. “That’s it” he says. “That’s your tab run out. Spent. You lot are really pissing it up the wall tonight.”

Brummy Jon well sorted out the kit and she sounded beautiful. Si juggled his kids and when the baby sitter arrived he joined us in the bosom of grumpy old Steve and his tiny pub that smells of sprouts and castrated, wet pitt bull terrier. Sometimes. Once we’d managed to turn the World Darts tournament off the 50” plasma TV that dominates the bar we were off. “I’ll turn the sound down” says Steve. “Sorry mate”, I reply, “We come out to avoid the TV not to listen to house music with the darts playing out”.

Out celebrating his 40th birthday was Simon Stonehouse and his entourage of, what we call, The Whitstable Dad’s. These guys used to be the fucking boys! The Dogs’! Out every weekend, pockets filled with cash, partying like there’s no tomorrow, staying up till all hours, travelling and DJing everywhere, from Brighton to London and back again, farking having it big time. Know what I mean? Then marriage, then kids, then middle aged spread appeared. Music took a background step. Family and work began to matter more and more. They, in effect, grew up and became adults with adult responsibilities. But, hey, once in a while they all get together and get hammered. Ish.

Like at Genies birthday party last week round at Nick Dent’s. I’d been off DJing at “Ribbed” in Margate but managed to get back to the Bubble by 3am-ish and popped in to Genies party as a night cap kind of thing. Warren was busy DJing, as he had been most of the night, and everyone else was still up and running at full alcohol and whatever level. Man, they were smashed. Big time. Big shout out to Nicki Billington and Wendy for an excellent couple of really nice conversations. Wobbly but good. Nick D had gone to bed so I missed him. Everyone else was on good form and feeling rather jolly and interacting in really positive ways. Indeed the hub bub of conversation was drowning out the music somewhat.

Si Bounds was already blagging away like billio and managed to extract Warren off the decks and give me the nod. I was a bit fucked by this time and just wanted to head off home for some rest. I wasn’t listening to him anyway. I was thinking of toast. Two slices I think. One I would butter while it was hot, straight from the grill so that everything was a bit melty; and one I would let cool a little so the butter would stay a bit firmer for longer. That would have to wait; as will the acknowledgement of that toast joke to Daniel Kitson.

Eventually, after nearly getting away (I was already in the street heading for the car), Si came out to get his tunes from the car. “We’re on!” he says. I reluctantly get mine as I am loath to piss on his DJ chips and his puppy dog enthusiasm never fails to motivate me. I head back indoors, get on the decks and promptly stand on a stretched wire behind the decks that just happens to be the mains lead for the amp and the decks. The whole room is silent. Warren shouts “Haa, haa. You stepped on the power cable.” I plug it back in. Ten minutes later I do it again. In the dark I hear “haa, haa”. This is the first time I’ve heard the “leave me out of it” sound system in action. Only half of the two stacks are working. I take the rest of Chris Ribbed’s “stuff”. It fails to keep me awake. I go home.

Anyway, the Whitstable dad’s are out in force for Si Stonehouse’s set at the Smack. Si and I ended up back at an after party some months ago and he ended up spinning a few of my tunes and having a real nice time. He’s given up DJing out or buying tunes a long time ago when the wife and family came along. “Tell you what” he says. “I still have my old tunes in the loft gathering dust. I might just get a few out.” I encouraged him to do just that and next time I bumped into him he told me he’d managed to get an old deck working and was sorting a set out. He played this set down the Cabbaged night at the Smack some months ago and was now, tonight, playing yet another set. Next? Buy some new tunes and he’s back in the fold.

Because the Brewery bar is still shut the town is full of people looking for a night out. tVC benefited from this tonight as the bar was rammed with lost souls in search of a good time. The Brewery Bar invokes strong feelings in the town. It fills, or at least used to, every weekend with what Malcolm Tucker from TV show “The Thick Of It” might call "arse plasma" from "the hideous mirrorworld of fuck”. They then proceed to drink, bitch and fight each other well into the early hours of Sunday morning.

Outside, after the gig, on the pavement, we're stacking the rig up ready to load up in the vehicles. Alex Bird is loudly ranting in a pissed up into his latest victims ear; this time, Kate Dixon's. He's standing too close to her, gesticulating with his hands. We need all hands on deck to move the stuff and I'm standing like a lemon making sure no one nicks the decks from the pavement; "Alex," I ask, "Can you keep an eye on this kit whilst I go back in the pub and get some more out?" Quick as a flash he shouts; "No."

Alex seemed to me, briefly, in that moment, to personally personify in that attitude, he displayed there, to me, on the pavement, that he was indeed arse plasma from the hideous mirrorworld of fuck. Then the feeling passed.

14 November 2009

a stumbling, mumbling, coherent, intricate, infinitely complicated human bonding process unique to 20th Century Kent


Downstairs, IN HELL, a motley crew of renegades, rouges, medieval brigands, immaculately dressed clubbers, immaculately undressed travellers, wide eyed babes in arms and, er, the more mature, experienced clubbers flailed and intertwined love and limbs, tattoos and dreads, slap heads and smiles in a stumbling, mumbling, coherent, intricate, infinitely complicated human bonding process unique to 20th Century Kent.

Unspoken rituals, rules and codes of behaviour were strictly observed. For example, in their dances the tVC crew vie with one another in the performance of spectacular bumbles and gurns. Flinging themselves on the floor they often land on their knees and then throw themselves on the floor again with scarcely a pause. Extreme physical strength and stamina, bred of drinking too much Herliman, is a characteristic of the male, and indeed the female, dancer. The deck gurus, elevated from their lowly status of "daft trainspotting tosspots" are now regarded as the joyous bringers of much recreational happiness. And, despite their unattractive features and low intelligence, they do hold a special place in the hearts of us all.

Grabbing us by the spherical objects, tickling our fancy, providing a nice soundtrack to our inner explorations and vibrating our diaphragm in a most pleasurable manner were the following disc jockeys: Nick (sticking to the game, improving daily and for starting it off). Clive FX (playing a particularly fine blend of groovilicious housiness. "Really fucking good"). Rob Phelps (as ever, solid, dependable, reliable and, erm, unpredictable). Liam (deep, repetitive, almost transcendental). Ed (what can we say? Original, left field and out on his own). Kier (with us from the good old days at the Millers Arms in Canterbury. Sarah White at the helm. Dare we say, through rose tinted specs, halcyon days? Oh yeah, wondering off there. Kier's DJing? What some would call "spotless"). Tom (gives the mercurial duo a spacious edge). Tejen (what's that tune called that goes Bom Bom....Do It Man...Bom Bom? Classic or what? DJing was, as usual excellent. But you need more time). Oz (continues his unrelenting search for the nearest and newest bandwagon to jump on in order to imply his false social and political morals on anyone who will listen. Which is no-one. DJing? Played too late). Simon Stonehouse (for your humble reviewer, the best set of the night. Fresh from eight hours kip, he revived the morning sesh for the die-hards with two and a bit hours discy jockular jollity 'till 10.30am. Not forgetting Guest Jasper who was as one PP put it "well all right". Now officially on the subs bench).

UPSTAIRS Mark Dettmar surprising with a well thought out, mellow, set superbly mixed (once he'd settled in). Mark Shimmon, acidy and trancey, played early (don't ask) and left early with only half his fee. His partner, Micheala, due to give birth any second. (Now the proud parents of a bouncing baby girl, Chloe).

It was of course, Golden Boy, or Sherlock to us, who we were waiting for and he certainly didn't dissappoint.When his first tune went on everybody upstairs sprang up, ran to the balcony , and the downstairs atmosphere erupted. Pumpcious. Cheeky.

Paul Hayes, after a, er, brief negotiation, relegated the pound-meister Warren and Third Lung to the 8 'till 10 spot. By the time they had set up and played the party was virtually over. Real sorry lads. A better spot guaranteed next time we work with each other.

And finally...a mention must go out to Martin and Maurice for the sounds. Chirpy and Chipper. M looking after the baby whilst M had a kip in the van. Burning the candle at both ends after doing a fashion show that same afternoon).Rob "Siricom" Lights, due down from Nottingham with his strange images and video jockeying skills failed to show due to transportation entanglements (don't ask). Next time, "I'll be there!".And, this is the last, promise, Roy, the venues owner. Cheers mate.

12 November 2009


The first of an occasional series documenting the adventures of S and P "out on the town".


Havin escaped Faversham pubs and male crap chat, we cruised through the rain mist and mud of Romney Marsh. Our mission; to enter previously uncharted party territory. with orders to ignore John should we by chance see him there. He did have a ticket.

Friendlier to some than others the security tried to deter us with a cry of "are you ravers?" Well.....with lots of blag, luck and downright cheek we avoided the mega £12 entrance fee. The first bonus point of the evening. We entered yet another pre-fab shack filled with a large crowd and the atmosphere of a high school prom.

A different generation of party peeps from us oldies, but with a perfect mixture of consumerables, including Sue's special honey bread, optimism reigned. Pam was prodded poked and elbowed by a gaggle of Just Seventeen readers, whilst a Gollum-a-like tried to salivate on my neck all night. John was wearing his helpless face, surrounded by short women. Oops! John who? All those shirtless, strutting steroidal men. You know there is one piece of your anatomy that steroids don't enlarge guys. The intense heat was broken by the lovely fans that reminded us of "Perfect World" and the drumming in the indescribable garage room that definitely didn't. The cold taps gushed forth with blue dyed water. Unnecessary, unhealthy and uncool.

Sounds, on an adequate sound system, were too hard for me, but Pam, grinning and gurning, stomped the night away. Two DJ's I recognised from the party I'm not allowed to mention the previous week. Just as my eternal optimism was being replaced with despair (and gaining an hour seemed unbearable) I heard a new tune. For the next two hours, LUCCI, in his red and black hat, played a brilliant set and had everyone blissed out in the dancefloor. New tunes we heard the following day at Paul and Nick's. The second bonus point. Poor John was dragged home early and missed the best bit.

A deceptive drive home for Pam, who asked why the party mobile was going so slowly, and the clock said 90mph. Driving through Dingley Dell heading for the Sunday Soakers in Whitstable we saw a mad dancing figure on the horizon. It was Aaron, walking home from DJ Nameless after a second party (that I must not mention. So much censorship in a free paper.) A fun night out with two bonus points. More backdrops, clear running water and some positive vibes needed. In my opinion, for £12, your customers deserve a bit more.

More "Girls Nights Out" reports soon!

11 November 2009

Yoghurt weaving.

So, it was with a heart and being of unbearable lightness that the tVC bandwagon croaked out of Whitstable in Lin’s superfast Audi something at 9.30 something, or “9 on the dot” as we call it, with Simon still pulling up his underpants from his various sleazy doings hours before, Oz still grumbling grumpily about anything to anyone that would listen, which was no-one. Lin, pleased she wasn’t driving for a change, so smiling even more than she normally does and Clare, fresh from a mad bout of stalk manufacturing cackling hysterically at the prospect of downing house doubles ahoy of dark rum and black current till her piss turned purple. Don’t ask.

It was a night of many contrasts, to tedious to list here, but suffice to say they were all going to be boring literary ones like wind and rain contrasting with, er, dry and warm. Luckily the drive took all of 10 seconds as we strained to hear Tiiiiiiiiiimmeeeeeeeeee Westwood on the radio bang out the new hip hop selection. The volume was so low I thought I was in a orange scented mini cab coming back from a crap nightclub, stemming back the puke, listening to a local radio station specifically designed to pacify drunken thugs.

At the club it was Ribbed night. Ooh I was coming over all polysexual as I chatted up and had my photo taken with all 3 of the gay men there; otherwise it was the usual selection of Margate nightlife shaking their booties on the floor. Luckily the booze was cheaper than the watered down warm piss the Neptune pub in Whitstable usually serves (bangs table with flat of hand in poor impression of Sach; “SWOT!”) Although, saying that the booze is pretty much cheaper everywhere than the Neppy. After Nick Unite did a sterling fall on his sword warm up it was time for Soz, or Oz and Si, for the next couple of hours. Oh how we laughed at the decks being 10 metres apart and the notion of sub bass speakers under the stage – it was no notion – monitors right next to the decks and deck on flight cases all conspiring wickedly to provide massive amounts of extremely annoying feedback every time a record was played. “At home”, say Dantix, lining up to come on next, “I have my CD decks on top of my speakers”. Yeah, right Dan. Feedback loops are the bane of every left thinking, dinosaur, sorry old school vinyl DJ and just because you CD DJ’s can down 50 billion tracks for 10p each doesn’t cast gloom or even piss on the chips of the vinyl DJ’s ability to carefully scrutinise every vinyl release for at least 2 half decent tracks before parting with £7.99 for a record that is fucked the first time you play it on some clubs decks with knackered needles on them that are 5 years old and just totally devastate the grooves with one play never to be heard properly again. Of course we always ensure we have spanking new set of cartridges and needles with us at all times at an average cost of £80 to £120 per pair.

The next hardest bit of the night after trying desperately to get two tunes to actually mix into one another was me desperately trying to find some fucking drugs that half worked on my rave ravaged middle aged carcass for more than half an hour and may indeed lift my mood up just one tiny fraction from the perpetual bad temper I tend to have as my default mode because I work with fucking Herbert teenagers with bad attitudes and even worse maths and English grades and who smoke too much dope and can’t even write or spell properly and who are destined to have large families then end up in prison coz they are all really fucking shit criminals. Alas this was not to be; I did manage to procure some “MDMA” that, when I tested it with my ecstasy testing kit when I got home came up as “fuck all; you’ve be ripped off again you cunt; when you gonna learn your lesson”. So I tried some class A’s. These immediately emptied my wallet of, hey listen to this, REAL MONEY, in exchange for some powdery substance that proceeded to make me feel slightly more anxious than the anxiety I felt when I had the MDMA. I know! Beer! Sometime you just got to stick to the classic old school hit. Know what I mean? Has anyone else noticed how club accoutrements just seem to be getting worse and worse? Because I have, just don’t get me started ranting and raving about it.

I’m staying in next weekend. Yoghurt weaving.

10 November 2009

a blunted, laid back and very knowledgeable crowd


Big pull DiY fill 7th Heaven to the gills with a blunted, laid back and very knowledgeable crowd of deep house devotees who heaped offerings on the bi-umverate fluff gods. All hail o' bringers of much joy.

Arriving bang on time within 15 minutes they were watered and bundled onto the decks. We couldn't wait. From first to last note the floor heaved heavenly. Two and a half hours of perfectly formed art.

What a fucking shame it all had to end at two. Redundant licensing laws get right up our collective nostrils. A generous smattering of old school travellers mingled with the house whores, techno terrorists, hand-bag fascists (one of whom moaned, very loudly, ALL night. No prizes for guessing who). Plus a good sprinkling from around Kent (Ashford, welcome to the party, Maidstone, Dover, Folkstone, Margate, Whitstable, Lamberhurst - all over. Including several braces of Canterbury studentdom.

It was truly a gathering of the souls. Austin and Nad. Chris and Sharon. Russell's birthday bash. Dom. Martins monitor giving a little feedback for the first time ever. Soon sorted out. A great tape (feedback included) coming out of the night. Copies of which are floating around. One on its way to Nottingham.

A beautiful night of beautiful music. Kier and Tom in fine support. Holdin' their own. But then again WE know all about the talents of K+T don't we? Flying the house flag. Unfortunately for Digs and Woosh their return home proved somewhat spectacular. Ploughing into the back of another car they wrought considerable damage to theirs. If fact it's a write off. They, however were unscathed if a little pissed off. Life at the top ey?

8 November 2009

They're house fascists.


Loui's housewarming saw the Whitstable rodents soak it up in grand style. They were all there. Dawn ("who's that on the decks? Hmnn? Well he's fucking crap"), Anna ("don't forget! Sherlock tape from Ramsgate"), Lou himself and the new love of his life ("I don't think I'll make it to Digs and Woosh of Thursday. Haw! Haw! haw!"), Pam ("Can I just have a little lie down?"), John ("Where's Pam?"), Kate and Mr E ("I farking lurrve this tune"),Steve Burns Out, Gary, Sue, Toby adding glamour and glitz. Running out of DJ's at 6-ish (shame on you) meant the party fizzled out early. Cheers to Nick Renny for a nice house set. Nick, a slap (on the back) for her warm housey warmings on the deep, uplifting tip (duplifting anyone?). And Oz for exactly the same set he played at the D+W post 7th... gathering. Plus Tom Wells (and his glasses). And Mat (fresh from his three month DJ sourjorn abroad. Playing a hip-hop set here to a distinctly lack lustre response). Don't worry mate. They're house fascists. It wasn't anything personal.

6 November 2009

All the tVC big guns clocked on for deck spinning duties


Bigger house for this one. With a back garden just the right size for the love marquee Samhein never looked so good and we celebrated the Celtic new year with massive love doodles. All the tVC big guns clocked on for deck spinning duties (what happened to Friday night lads?) and jostled, in a polite way of course, for their usual two hour spots.The heavens opened, the camouflage in the kitchen fell down ("that", says one particularly disgruntled party peep, "is annoying"), the fire went out (thank fuck, the heat must have been about 200 degrees 5 metres away), everyone crammed into the house. The DJ thought it was the tune he was playing (daft bastard). The amp "over-heated" "Someone" had put their coat over it (duh!). Spare amp brought out. Plugged in. Two fuses blew. Shite. The H+H had cooled down and was working perfectly again. Luckily. To loud crys of "sorrrt tit owwwt!" we powered up and were off again. Thank you God. Everything going perfectly. Everyone settling down nicely and getting stuck in to the dancefloor. Brilliant.

Then a hand reaches over and rips the record, first off one deck, then the other. Even Tejen wouldn't do anything so outrageous (especially as he was in "Holland"). "Turn the lights on! It's the police!", a voice in the dark shouted in a somewhat aggressive manner. "You're not the fucking police", says a 'coatless' Stevey Sea, "where's your warrant card?" It turns out to be a disgruntled neighbour who didn't realise that if only he'd asked we'd have turned it down. Which of course we did. Oz carried on with his set. First vocal to be heard after this incident? "This is serious music...".

Liam, surprising everyone, including himself, by playing an uplifting, vocal laden set to a great reaction took our psylicibin addled cortex on his spacious soundtrack to machine elf land where we swirled around, playing with some pixies, grew extremely tall and flew around the sky for a bit. Ed and Kier, two separate sets of course, holding their own. Doing a good jobby. A five hour set at the end going to the only DJ that stayed. You who were there at the end know. And now you're on his crimbo card list.

4 November 2009


I can now only think that a demon had gotten into me for now that I feel wrecked and wasted and can only groan at the thought of the weekends activities. It started on Thursday with an afternoons dip into the oceans of psychedelia with the help of our "pointed headed friends", then continued at the Works with the soothing rhythms of Tom and Kier, followed by the extraordinarily mellow and deeply sensual tunes of Digs and Woosh. There follows a car trip to Whitstable and the home of two of our favourite DJ's and there the entertainment continued 'till dawn with Oz and Tim manning the decks.

Staggered home, slept, got up,ate, washed. Well, it's Friday night. Time to party. Return flight to Whitstable and up more stairs. Rang the door bell. "Who do you know here?", was the question we were asked on the door step. Lots of mumbling, someone vouched for us I suppose 'cause we were eventually let in. The night got better and better, wilder and wilder. Who was it who tried to squash me in the hall? And why?

Thanks to all the DJ's who played, whoever they were. Even the poor, hapless guy who tried to entertain us with a "hip-hop" set. A very brave, brave thing to do. He still probably doesn't know how lucky he was to escape with his life. Thanks also to Loui for everything else and at last everyone had departed. I've woken up again. After three hours sleep. It's Saturday. The children playing in the street tell me that. Time drags but soon it is evening again. Off to Whitstable, another house party, still more people, some fresh, some bearing the scars of the previous nights, some looking remarkably healthy considering.

The party is at full tilt when it is invaded by an enemy spirit or enraged neighbour tearing the discs from the decks. The live crowd begin to growl and hiss or so I'm told as I'm now on my way, to or from; on a mission to rescue a missing friend from the bed that had claimed her. The mission turns out to be highly successful and we return in triumph. The music no longer playing in the garden is still pumping inside. One or two people are sitting in the marquee but it is too dark and spooky in there for me, so I return to the house to dance and dance as if enslaved by the music or possessed by some "Ju-Ju" spirit.

The "pointed headed" ones reappear and are greeted warmly by the revellers. We drink their health with an amber liquid tasting of honey and lemons. The night whirls on and on like a spinning top let loose in the minds of all those gathered together to celebrate the Celtic New Year. Whose house is it? What went on in the front room? People went in, I saw no one emerge. These things remain a mystery and all I'm left with is the lyrics from Digs and Woosh's tune "you are my friend" and a knackered body. Thank you everyone.

1 November 2009


Well, what can I say, apart from what a weekend! Beginning on Thursday, and ending, for some of us, on the early hours of Monday morning. LF 10 topp of the popps goes to Now Ey, How Ya Diddlin, for diddlin very well thank you, all weekend. He was even spotted smiling a couple of times.

A big thanks to our Nottingham chums, 'Digs and Woosh' who came and titillated our senses so beautifully, warming us up for the weekend to follow. The tape that is circulating of their set, has had grateful recipients phoning up HQ in tears (literally, although the tears were probably stimulated by other things as well). Unfortunately the timeless aural splendour of the tape has been marred by feedback problems (to the extent of nearly blowing the speakers if listened to in transit) which were noticeable on the night. When Mag Mart, sound man extra-ordinaire, blah, blah and so on, was asked by Digs, Woosh, Paul and Nick in unison on bended knee, pleadingly, near tears, to "do something about the feedback" responded in useless, smiley, how does my equipment work mode "nahhhh, sounds all right to me." Maurice I hope you're reading this, coz you're worth every penny mate!

Good to see the place rammed to the rafters with so many lovely, glowing party peeps, although the Whitstable posse was noticeable by it's absence. Lightweights.

Spotted - Austin "I'm hal.." falling off his stool, in his new designer togs and leather wellingtons, bought by his mum, Chris and Sharon fresh with the joys of parent hood looking very well and happy, Russ celebrating his 21st, Dickie and Gail, limbering up in preparation for their Skin 2 appointment the next week, a certain chap from Ramsgate being forcibly ejected, Computer Gary, Pam, John, Sue and Aaron all on day one of the mammoth bender to follow, Wide eyed Toby, Nick and Sara fresh from the vigours of intellectual, political debate, Trudi who had all the clothes apart from those she was still wearing stolen, which understandably totally ruined her night, and ours when we heard about it, sorry Trudi. And loads of lovely chums from far flung corners of deepest Kent, not spotted for a few months, as well as lots of soon to be chums.

After it was back to HQ for a hoe-down, whilst D and W sped off back to Nottingham, with an extremely well dressed young chap in close attendance. (We later learnt that they suffered an extremely hairy accident from which they luckily all escaped from unhurt).

Saving ourselves for the weekend, nahhh, not us as the wheels of steel were switched on and Oz began another mammoth DJing set, and upstairs' children woken up mid sleep, again. Nick ducked off early, because she used the old work in the morning routine, but everyone it must be said was in full flow, especially Burns Out, in pride of place in front of the speaker with that look, closely followed by Toby 'the safest parker in town', who likes parking his car in the middle of the road as long as it's opposite a junction. Award for widest eyes of the night still going to Toby, and he was ahead by a few hours.

Friday evening - the easiest party to set up ever. Up a few steps and along a corridor, with Oochie Oochie slipping one in before the festivities to follow on Saturday. Quite literally it appears as we were regaled with details of his lunch box antics. 'I didn't stop till 8'.

Louis turned all arty on us and started hanging the drapes up very artistically, it's just as well the meatheads that turned up later didn't see him, or he might have seen the end of his drape fondling days. Unfortunately his lovely white walls were never to be the same again, as whilst clearing up the next day, they were found to have transformed themselves into a particularly fetching shade of black. It's that cheap paint Nick uses from the Early Learning Centre.... Louis took it like a man, 'it needed a paint anyway,' he lied.

Everything set up, and surprise, surprise, one of the decks was fucked, so a quick phonecall to soundman of the year, and over to Chavland to pick up some decks, where we were treated to a few handy child-caring hints by laughing boy. Lets just say it involved a bowl of sugar.

By 11.30 Nick was already well into her usual effortlessly, and superbly mixed seamless blend of housey profferings. The Whitstable crowd much in evidence tonight, which isn't really surprising as they didn't have to drag their drink ravished bodies more than a few yards. An early attempt by the Jungle posse to seize control of the decks failed miserably, as it was ably fended off by the house music fascists, who in truth had been forewarned of this dastardly attempt and were expecting much more shit than they actually got, and who've had so much practice at fending off unwanted advances of the aural kind that they've got it down to a fine art, of using the maximum of rudeness with the minimum of effect. You're gonna have to be a bit more persistent boys.

Unfortunately, their were a few 'types' that luckily we never come into contact with anymore, but occasionally gate-crash these events and hassle and abuse all the women all night. One had a cigarette stubbed out on her arm (I kid you not) whilst being told to perform a certain action with her legs. Whilst not actually physically abusing all and sundry, they proceeded to spout a torrent of homophobic, sexist shit. Please note, if any of you are spotted lurking at any future events, you're not welcome.

Apart from these idiots, everyone else behaved in their usual impeccable manner. Those spotted for second helpings, Pam, Sue, Now Ey, Gary, John, Toby, Russ, Andy.

Party of the weekend goes to Saturday night however, which went to new lengths in self indulgence. Highlights? Putting the marquee up in between breaks in the rain (no not really), finding that all the noise problems early on where the amp kept cutting out was only due to Steve hanging his coat up on it, (I kid you not), and heard moaning about the stupid farquar who put his coat on top of the amp, trying to change over amps mid set only to find the fuses had blown, finding a knife shitfaced, and some silver foil to wrap round the fuses but forgetting to plug the output into the amp (the next day, the two knives used as a screwdriver which disappeared, were found actually inside the amp, no doubt shorting the whole circuit. Whoops.), Pam and Sue for their mammoth fungus eating escapades, Eds set, the old boy who burst into the room, ripping the records off the decks complaining about the noise, only to have an indignant throng shout at him and tell him Loz=esque, that he was a very rude man, steaming in like that, and taking the records of the decks, and that hadn't he made a noise sometimes, at least once in his youth. He held his hands aloft in weary resignation and fucked off, but we did turn the volume down as well, being afloat in a sea of lovely, friendly people, seeing the love tent in all its glory, dragging ourselves to the pub at 12 for our religious Sunday sesh, for more abuse of the liquid variety. God was I glad to slip into bed...

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