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.