3 June 2010

crawling on all fours and talking absolute shite

SEVENTH HEAVEN

Another Thursday rears it's impatient head, and yes, it's absolutely pissing down, again, so it must be 7th H. day. The gale force winds (75 miles an hour in Herne Bay) , start to die down late afternoon, slightly, to enable us to carry Lampy's speakers up the fire escape, whilst he wallows in the pub. And thus begins the fortnightly ritual, not yet routine, of draping the plosh interior with ever more muddy, beerstained backdrops.

Now Ey, How ya Diddlin' fucks off however, once he scents the first sniff of work, so it's left on Louies capable shoulders, who seizes the chance with relish and handles the job with gusto, carrying speakers up and down the stairs non stop, sometimes the same speakers, up the stairs and down, and up again and down...(This was after he'd arrived at the Club with his pulsating bass clutched firmly in hand, which he then proceeded to plug in and jam along to Oz whilst he was practising, very loudly, until he was politely asked to...fack orf.)

DJ's tonight - Nick, Timo, Tejen and Oz deliver, yes that hoary old cliché is about to be reeled out yet again, 5 hours of effortlessly mixed housey delights to the assembled party peeps. Nick started the ball rolling, cracking the US tinged, deeply up whip, and for some reason looking like she was having a lot of fun (I think she forgot where she was, despite sad and desperate attempts by Tongue Boy to put her off and Oz trying to get her to buy him pints, mid mix!) Followed closely by Timo, who deported himself most admirably, that strange thing happened, that happens every fortnight. One minute the clubs empty, and it seems like it's gonna stay that way, and then with the blink off an eye, something almost magical happens, and the club's full of happy, smiling faces, or rather, bloated, sweaty ones with rolling eyes, and sweaty armpits, and that's just Pam , Nick and Steve.

The Whitstable contingent was very thin tonight, with only a couple of reps managing that arduous journey along the murky, rain drenched, highwayman infested, pot-holed track that doubles as the road to Canters.

However, by 11.30, everyone was seriously getting down to business, with full hands in the air jobs already being indulged in, shamelessly. The floor was particularly relaxed and friendly, never have so many steps been stumbled up so glamorously. What pleasure was communicated by the effortless jumps of the dancers, as they gave expression to moods and emotions which would defy definition. The tVC crowd can convey gaiety perhaps better than any other mood, all dazzle and sparkle. Louies prances on the speakers were lyrical and purely classical in their poses, and the crowd stood back and admired the speed and precision of Walters' dance and Lampy's expression of radiant joy.

Tej pulled off a real crowd pleaser, swiftly followed by Oz who slapped out his shiny 12" to the delight of the crowd. Dawns speaker straddling antics were sorely missed, but there is a bevvy of young pretenders, just waiting to grab her crown.

And then as the lights were unceremoniously switched on at precisely 2am we were all kicked out into the chill December air ("all right, we've 'ad ya money, now fook off, reet?"), it was off to a certain Si. K. Delics milk drenched boudoir in Chavland, a veritable male pleasure palace, which was duly trashed by a horde of very well misbehaved drink addled, not so young party animals, who spent the next 5 hours crawling on all fours and talking absolute shite. Nothing changes.

Kwik tripp to the porn shop, sorry newsagents, with Pimple, a quick run through of 'try to shock the newsagent, granny, feminist' routine, watched by admiring scouse wannabe. Off to a small seaside town, where a round of the 'worst tasting Hurlimens I've ever had in my life' is not drunk, one of the party leaves to puke in the loos (but she's only a woman, so what do you expect?), and never really recovers. Then to another pub, where a young male of the Northern variety is spotted by the guv'na trying to help himself from an unattended pump (oo er), and thus duly banned, then a swift rendezvous to the principle party peeps haven on earth, for, yet more beer, chat and the evening begins, yet again, for some.

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