10 February 2011

‘fucking old tosser who does knitting at the weekend’

After a choppy visit to Canterbury and T-Cake Maxx in the afternoon, a new pair of trance trews was procured for the evening’s festivities much to my satisfaction. It was my unfortunate predicament to further secure a babysitter for Cottage Pi’s two teenage boys in order to enable him to attend to his DJing duties that night. To do this a pair of DKNY cargo style pants was bought for the old gf in exchange for two hours of her time later that evening. She would have done the babysitting duties anyway as I had asked real nice but I thought to cement the deal with an early Valentine gift would also ensure her future cooperation in any DJ slash teensitting inevitabilities that were unforeseen but desirerous.



The Brewery Bar in Whitstable, or we locals call it “The Green Machine”, has of late garnered a whole spate and rash of unasked for negative feedback. Rated 4.8 out of 10 by BeerInTheEvening it’s probably well deserved.


A group of five 17 or, for the sake of the Brewery Bar’s license, 18 year olds, were stood in a circle in the toilets talking very loudly, for some reason. Groups of rouge males in the toilets en masse only means one thing to me, or rather two. Either they’ve just... oh you know what I mean. I was fine with it anyway, pushing past them politely to get to the urinal one of them made some disparaging comment directed at me. A portent of things to come? I replied that at least I was using the toilets for their designated purpose.


The main complaint from the oldie clubbers is that it’s all gone a bit underage at the Brewery. Their draconian method of photo identity requirements which are then photographed didn’t seem to be evident tonight. Last time they even demanded ID from the DJ’s. Not this time though. This may or may not be an opportunity for the younger members of the clubbing fraternity to frequent the said establishment.


We were playing that night with a DJ slot warming up for headliner Nicky Blackmarket. I had absolutely no intention of staying in the club that late for such banging nonsense, as I probably wrongly perceived it would be, but the early crowd were thick in number and on the dance floor sharpish shuffling away to some deep house which of course, given the circumstances of playing to a crowd who neither listen to nor dance to our music, the BPM was slowly and inevitably rising from a comfortable 124 to around 130 in a matter of one hour; which was cool as it actually got them on the floor.

Simon had his boys that weekend and we had to arrange a babysitter for a few hours while we did a quick hit and run on the club. Nicky Blackmarket changed his DJ slot and we got an extra half hour, which was nice. Si came back to the club later anyway after we’d gone back to his and relieved the babysitter; a generous gift from Clare who didn’t really want to go out as she was recovering from some bug or something that made her lethargic for a couple of weeks with constipation. He said the toilets were awash and the music banging but it was OK. We were glad for the promoter Martin Bird who got a decent crowd in and reasonably behaved themselves. Next month there will be no big DJ taking all the money, and hopefully we’ll get another slot God willing.


As an afterthought I was in work the next and casually mentioned that I’d warmed up for Nicky Blackmarket to the teenagers I teach. Amid gasps of incredulity and ‘fuck offs’ I had to ring Martin Bird, the promoter, and get him to confirm that I actually had done as I’d said. Suffice to say my status for the day went from ‘fucking old tosser who does knitting at the weekend’ to temporary DJ hero. I thank you.


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