Post Glee Club celebrations saw the morning and afternoon come and glow. After a few brief hours rest and recuperation it was time to use the hire van one last time. At 9pm, the fluffcore gathered for that evenings sojourn. First Jump at the 414. Oz guesting with Luke (Deliverance), Mark and Ben (Circosis) and Grub (Internationally famous DJ). An offer from Mag Mart to leave the rig and lights up from Friday was politely refused. The in-house rig, lower vol., but done its duty.
At 4-ish it was time to move on. Hackney Bus Station, off Mare Street had been squatted and a party was two days into a weekender. Aah, our spiritual roots; dodgy strong drugs, special brew, tattoos, dreads and dogs. With the travellers raging full on and an eclectic music policy veering from the Ruts in the "punk" room to boinging banging techno to Gracie Fields "We'll meet again" to hard house it kept the illegal threats to democracy happy and dancing. An indoor free festival no less.
Everyone was even covered in mud. I felt a little conspicuous for some strange reason. Three gentlemen on the door were "taxing" everyone trying to enter the "free" party.
"What sound systems are here?" asked one of us.
"Don't know", explained one.
"Are you actually connected to this party in some way?" we say in our best Tejen accent.
"No", he replied, "we're just taxing people that come in."
All indignant now, "Well it's a free party and we're skint so we're not paying anything."
"Well you're not getting in unless you do." And to his two partners with a grin on his face, "Ain't that right?"
Now I know why I felt conspicuous. Now, exercising the theory that the more we talk the less we pay, 15 minutes passed before it was agreed on the not inconsiderable sum of £15 for eight of us. Being mugged in such a polite bur threatening way was never so much fun.
Once inside, dark, labyrinthine and for some reason, muddy. Loud. A good vibe enveloped the cavernous, echoey depot. We all felt the two fingered attitude to authority and the Criminal Injustice Act not only a fun way to build moral (i.e. a good excuse for a party) but somehow something , well, punky. Can't understand why the police are so reluctant to step in and break up the party. You'd think we were potentially dangerous or something.
Later, getting bored, a rumour got to us that, a gathering was happening on a site near Lenham in Kent, where we'd recently done a party. It was all the info we needed. Our Oxford chums, veterans of last month’s erroneous yet brutal clearance of a squatted warehouse party, would be there in all their technocoloured glory. Three farm buildings were still in use. The morning people were warming up. It was 7am. I think. As if on cue people were beginning to emerge a little unsteady on their feet. The bobbles in a wubble tith a wilt. The breakfast club. After saying hi to Alice and Carol the three sets of decks in various out buildings around the disused farm needed serious investigation. Techno predominated but tucked away in a barn, up some wooden stairs was a small group of people listening to some house music. After a slow word with the DJ, something along the lines of him saying "hurry up and get your tunes out coz I'm fucking knackered coz I've been playing for hours and hours", the tVC, let's take over every party we go to, bandwagon had a new spiritual home.
Four jolly, laid back hours later, and with the cool, strong Hurliman calling the KLF (that's the Kent Lager Front if you didn't know), we packed up, bade farewell to our new chums and sought the Sunday Soakers at the Neptune in Whitstable.