14 February 2010



tVC's solstice caper was a guarantied heave-ho-ho-'kin-ho 100% grin-a-thon. The over the top antics of previous 7th's was wuss fodder for sock knitters. Overkill central was the foot on the floor destination as the hedos' OTTed consumptive consumerables in an heroic attempt to neck a near fatal cocktail of mind bending things and alcohol as one notch above unconsciousness was achieved as quickly as possible. And that's PDQ. Well Austin was. And he wasn't there.Forget stumbling eye rolling antics and think purple bloated tongues and lax sexual morals. Fly's and legs flung open in a crumpled post-Borgia decadence Bosch would blush at. And that was just us at HQ before we went out. Arf.Tangentopoli's "coming of age" (missus) was forgotten (have you tried reading small smeared print with double vision in a chuffing club?) as some serious gobbling took place. And that was just ...aah...no names eh?The DJ's mee-owed and spat like half a dozen cats in a sack; so no change there. But spots were worked out with Tejen manfully submitting to the first spot post clarty at HQ on condition "no play" at 7th. Why, we asked? We were to find out much later.Now! This music; this event; these people; cement. It's so damn powerful it's overwhelming in its intensity. Stimulated synapses? Serotonin surges? Biology alone cannot explain the high level of sub and unconscious primeval and intellectual connection.These times. Swirling through my mind. Not always immediately assimilated. A retrospective, layered emotion, driven forward never to step back. Reinforced with each successive gathering. A drive. The pleasure principle. He-do-nism. Say it again. Speak it loud. Shout it out. Savour the exquisite syllables floating on the air as the tongue gently brushes the palette. He-do-nism. It's a verb.

Well, all the rumours predicted it was gonna be a stonka of a night, with a full on Whitstable posse in the area, and it lived up to all expectations, with the club full to bursting with mad, up for it, genial, smiley faced clubbers, chums and general mad bastards, racing to start the New Years festivities as soon as possible.Deck wizards were the full tVC crew, keeping it deep and laid back (even Keef was spotted dancing to it!). The floor was a heaving, throbbing mess from 10 till 2, with everyone exhibiting their most revolting habits and body parts (so no change there then). The sound was what could be called a mite louder, with a couple of tiny speakers added for good measure by Lumpy, and was enjoyed by the jumble of flailing limbed, starey oot eyes, stumbling, eye-rolling, snogging, gurning, seating, teeth grinding, gusset wetting hordes. Lots of new faces and lots of old (no, not Martyn and Maurice, or Walt). The Whitstable crew were out in hedonistic excess; Mr and Mrs back in their rightful role as prince and princess of the floor; Dawn as queen of the speakers, and her apprentice Anna; Sarah, Polly and Cathy (Walts new fashion consultants); Watson seen shaking a leg (or was that just shaking?) whilst grinning uncontrollably; Now Ey not diddlin away as he had work the next day (I kid ye not!!) and was knackered, so by the time he woke up to the idea that as he was at a party he'd better start partying, the party had ended; Jodie actually awake and not lying down unconscious somewhere; Torchy and Swishy (yes!) ex VJ's extraordinaire coming out of their early semi-retirement and S getting his bell out at the end for old times sakes. After of course it was back to that certain abode situated in a sleepy seaside town where nothing ever happens apart from episodes of extreme debauchery and totally out of order behaviour, and where everyone is a complete and utter, total nutter. And the night moved up a notch, swiftly carrying on from where it had left off, with banana central swiftly being reached etc., etc., etc., ad nauseam. Nunc est bibendum.