4 November 2009

BLESS THEIR POINTED LITTLE HEADS

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.

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