Ah, don’t we just love it when we go down to the smack? The spiritual bosom of deep house in Whitstable. tVC have been on/offing, mainly onning it must be said, at pubs in Whitstable since the dawn of prime. Faffing and fucking about in exchange for measly amounts of quaffage of the lowest, most despicable and nasty drug ever to pass the lips of man and woman on the planet; beer.
From my point of view it has cost me dear; both tVC and alcohol. Those in the know and who have followed the infamous and unfortuitous ups and downs and sideways meanderings of the tVC near do wells through the years will be yawningly familiar with the many trips, spills and falls that have befallen all who have ever attended even one of the Cabbaged at the Smack gigs. DJ’s mysteriously get better at mixing, suddenly have new found fame thrust upon them and get massive amounts of really high priced booking both home and abroad. All for just playing down the Smack. Once.
People who have come to dance and be merry or drown their sorrows or celebrate some good thing in their life with their fellow sloshers and sploshers invariably end up the wrong side of midnight with their hands down someone’s trousers fiddling with some play dough, whispering sweet nothing into some ear, well I think it’s an ear, invariably end up fielding questions from their partners or parents the next day wondering about whether their sanity is still in the room and suspecting all sorts of crimes against babies, small animals and humanity when all they did was ‘go down the pub for a “few” beers and listen to, or play, a few tunes’.
Ah, the joys indeed of the Whitstable underworld of kitchens in houses drinking crème de menthe from stilettos, rolling cigarettes from tea bag droppings, telling anyone who will listen how you can’t remember getting that latest tattoo of Chinese characters that you thought meant ‘peace and harmony’ but actually translates as ‘I’m a smelly arse’. Listening to the drunken meanderings of some crackhead caught on a continuous mobeus loop of self flagrentary and fragmentary introspection that even their Freudian analyst would find indecipherable but basically translates as ‘I think I’m a fuck up and don’t know what to do about it. Can I sleep with you or if not will you put the kettle on?’ when in actual fact they are perfectly sane and normal in their behaviour.
The rallying cry of’ all back to yours’ can often be heard, but not in my ear, just before 10 cars full of wazzocked lunatics follows you home then proceeds to trash your house before leaving it knee deep in empty beer cans, empty bottles of cheap Tesco’s fizz and cigarette dumps extinguished in your favourite plant pots. Was that, insert latest boy/girl on a bender / lost my job / relationship / house name here, who shat in the cat litter tray, cracked a couple of lines of plain flour or frutose out that they bought in the pub from some twat who tries to pass his wares off as 'drugs', on the record that was playing. after that? Time to swap clothes with the myriad of beer stained dresses in the ‘lost property box’? And why do they always have two or three rice crispies stuck to their arse once their trousers invariably end up round their proverbial ankles? I’ll never know. Whatever, it always makes a great photograph.
It’s just the pressure of that high powered highly paid job with shed loads of responsibility that justifies my excessive and extreme weekend of ‘letting my hair down’ or ‘relaxing’ or ‘did I really do/say that?’ that enables us all to actually turn up on a Monday morning to our lovely career jobs and sit in front of that desk / classroom / computer monitor and churn out another week’s worth of self congratulatory, self justifiable guff and stuff for the man; or maybe that’s just me. It probably is. Either way you can’t have one without the other.
Partying may be social, funny and a blessed release of pent up tension and frustration but we all know how necessary it is. Don't we? Go on, let it all out. The massive carbuncle caused by restricting our lives needs release and this very act is somehow tolerated by society because as the man knows no one is coming back to work on Monday if all they allow is space for us to sit in our rocking chairs, knitting cable knit sweaters and going to bed at 10am after a nice cup of Horlicks.
Long live the party. Long live the Smack. Long live the weekend.
Next gig 9th October 2010 at the Smack, Middle Wall, Whitstable with Mike SU, Rosie, Si and Oz. Afterwards we’re all back to YOUR house. Bring your own Rice Crispies.