19 January 2011

Always show the talent respect my friend.

  
Sitting there with Brummy Jon on Saturday afternoon, chewing the fat, as it were, we were getting all indignant about something important and spitting feathers of fury. I was partly doing it because after having a bit of a morning with a lovey dovey lazy lie in, then a whacking high calorie fried breakfast whilst giving the old Guardian a nice slow reading, I needed to check up on my old chum.


By midday I was gagging for some activity and after a somewhat excessive big fat green one and a little lick of my mum I thought I’d go out, exchange contracts with the guy I was buying some land off – obviously more on this when the summer arrives – and give my old mucker BJ a visit.

With the stereo on high volume and some fresh CD capers from Oochie Oochie on the stereo playing just loud enough below the threshold of the in car speaker system so as to enable clear, precise listening yet not high enough to cause too much distress and alarm, not only to myself but to the old ladies pushing their trolleys along the road to the Co-op to, maybe, steal some salmon for the cat. Since I saw a biddy do it once in the Co-op I think they all do it all the time.

The world is a fine place. The sun shines and the air is warm. With dilated pupils and conversations swirling in my brain I drive the smooth drive of the middle aged man in a middle aged man’s car through the middle aged town to visit my middle aged friend. I drive and a police panda car populated with gum chewing, uniform wearing youths cuts out of the junction in front of me. They are looking mean and looking for trouble as they scan the street for potential criminals. The biggest story in town this week is "Whitstable pupil sent home from school for wearing the wrong kind of shoes". They tail-gate the poor sap in front. I thank God for the anonymousness of a 'teacher’s car' and the camouflage of wrinkles and grey hair and look forward to a full tilt afternoon and a quiet evening at home recovering whilst watching the three blu-ray films I picture on top of the TV at home. It’s all looking gravy. Good job they are not behind because my brake lights have been out for a few days. Must give old AutoTune a ring and book it in.

“Hope you haven’t forgot you said you were going to come to the ZedHeads gig tonight”, said Jon after another couple of green dooby’s and two cups of tea.

“Course I haven’t”, I lie. “I’ll see you there later”. What’s a man to do? Facebook is a scourge on society and I can’t even pretend to have a social life as the words ‘I’m Attending’ spring back in the face like an elastic band of torment.

Oh well, a few hours down the New Inn in the Bubble then a nice early night, I think. The phone rings. It’s Margate Jon.

“Hey, I hope you haven’t forgot about my party tonight? Come along whenever you want we’ll be going all night”.

“Course I haven’t”, I lie, again. “I’ll see you there later”.

Now I’m in damage limitation mode. Bang goes my buzzing afternoon sojourns around town then a nice dip on the sofa in the evening. How will I be able to stay awake? I return home and play tunes to myself and C for the rest of the afternoon and get a reasonably deep and chilled set together ready for the evening’s shenangs. C creates strange mushroom like creatures from rubber whilst I play through the boxes of tunes. It could be love.

Things like length of awakeness never used to bother me throughout my teens, my twenties, my thirties, even my forties, but for some reason I’ve recently become obsessed with going home to my own bed and sleeping in it rather than getting fucked and hanging out with other melting types talking shite well into Sunday evening. Now staying awake forever has become somewhat of a low priority for me these days. I still like to DJ out and about but I now love to get in there earlyish, do my do and look forward to having a cup of tea and watching Harry Hill when I get home. One does love ones Sundays these days and one does realise too often these days that DJing and partying dun'arf take up a lot of your spare time don'it?


Down the Corridor, sorry The New Inn, which is under new management, again, the ZedHeads are just finishing off their first set as I sit down with a pint of Oranjeboom. Shit and weak lager being the order of the day and only one pint too, as I’m driving down to Margate when the band finish and the pub shuts around 12pm. By the time everyone who wants to go but doesn’t have a lift has blagged a place in my car I am fully laden and all comments about the price of petrol and how donations would be gratefully accepted fall on deaf ears as usual. Still my friends are lovely if parsimonious and I would indeed do anything for them if they asked which, of course, they never do.

The Zedheads say lovely things to me about the review I did for them the other week and perform their well oiled set with perfunctory easiness whist we ignore them and bawl and shout nonentities into each other ears over the loudness of it all. We are of course right in front of one of the speakers. It may be loud but it sounds very clear; which is nice.

The new manager, only been there a few months, is already developing a reputation as a bit of a ‘shouter’ amongst the powerfully frownful muso lobby in Whitstable; that is he shouts at the bands when they run over time and has a tendency to be a bit of a ‘plug puller’ too.

Always show the talent respect my friend.

I’m coming down like a sack of shit and do the old yo-yo impression of being tired one minute and talking 10 to the dozen the next. Having been topped up accordingly we cram into the car and head for Margate and Margate Jon’s 60th birthday party.


This is no sitting around having polite conversation with relatives whilst eating sausages on a stick here. A full on rig pounds techno and house out in the front basement room whilst the kitchen is full of people surfing the edge of consciousness. "Plenty more volume in the pipes" says Stoney. A couple of frozen neat Stolichnaya’s later, happy birthday Jon, I negotiate an early slot on the decks for around 2am. MJ sorts me out some of his new art work which I buy from him for £50 as a birthday present. It looks great. He said he will give me more pieces.


By four, five five thirty am the disparate lift blaggers are assembled. Turning down polite requests to stay and get completely fucked we hit the open road as the sun begins to rise. Another weekend under the proverbial belt. I promise myself a real quiet one next weekend. Honest.

I receive a text from Margate Jon on Sunday night before I retire to bed, hoping to ease the pain of yet another sleepless weekend before the onslaught of work on Monday. It says; "Sorry, spent all money on wine, beers and spirits. Please send more."

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