Tag Archives: Alan Fitzpatrick

A Man Like Sasha…

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Cash has been a bit tight of late; I’m behind on rent, water bills, and credit cards… so I decided to use my money wisely.

I bought tickets to a boat party on the Thames to go and see my friend Robin Thurston tear shit up.

And today’s partner-in-crime was the youthful, but messily-experienced, Mr Aaron Parsons.

Regular readers to my blog will know the score – we get heavy before we even get on the boat. And we get heavier when we get off the boat. The beers, vodkas and narcotics are plentiful, and the train trip flies past… although I’m not sure if it’s down to the ruination, or simply because I can’t take my eyes off of the girl sat across from me. She’s small, hot, and clearly way out of my league, but – in true Jode Style (ie, smashed sideways) I believe I have a chance with her…

Up until the point I try to speak to her and tip vodka all over my leg, resulting in Piss-Pants Jode, and One Gone Hot Girl.

Waterloo, as ever, is our destination, and I’m watching the hot girl disappear into the crowd as Aaron and I figure our plan of attack. We hop onto a tube, all the way to Temple Mead where we head to the local Walkabout pub; complete with rugby fans and football fans watching different games on the surrounding TVs.

Mr Parsons and I decide that we’re going to rate each and every toilet cubicle that we enter to conduct our ‘business’ in for the day; so far the train bogs (spacious, well lit, decent loo seat to rack lines up on) are much better than Walkabout’s loos (cramped but well lit, and a dodgy toilet-roll holder to rack up on). Trust me, if you ‘partake’ then you need to know these things. They have books about the best restaurants in London, and maybe it’s time they had one on which are the best Big Smoke Bogs to do cocaine in.

Aaron, Shorts, and Simon

We meet Robin and some of his friends; Simon, Brendan, and a girl who we dub ‘Shorts’ as we both miss her name… because we were staring at her shorts. Those shorts were shorter than my attention span.

Vodka’s downed, and we cross the road to the small jetty where there are boats moored up. Aaron and I dive into the first boat, and I pop downstairs to use the toilet. It’s tiny, and cramped, and almost impossible to do anything other than piss in (how inconsiderate), but that isn’t what stopped me from ‘anything’.

It was the guy who came and tickled his foot under the doorway.

Now, if you don’t know what ‘cottaging’ is, allow me to break it down for you;

Men enter toilets – man #1 enters cubicle – man #2 waves foot under toilet doorway to attract attention of man#1 – man#1 opens toilet door – man#2 enters cubicle – man#1 enters man#2.

Now, even if I did partake in cock – which I do not – the toilet is way too small to administer a rogering in, and I exit the loo with a ‘too cramped in there, mate’ to the cottaging guy who is stood at the pisser, pissing, while trying to remain nonchalant.

In hindsight I probably should have said; “I’m not gay, mate”.

I go back up to the (poop?) deck and tell Aaron about my mis-encounter.

“Would you recognise him again?” he asked.

“Sure, he was wearing black loafers.”

Off the boat, and we walk the ten feet to the next boat that will be hosting the Electronic Sessions. The boat looks like it’s made of matchsticks, and is called the Golden Flame, but we’re fucked, so fuck it.

We’re on, and first stop are the toilets.

Now this shit looked like Spaghetti Junction; men (obviously, it being the mens) were stood around the small compartment, pinching powder onto each others hands and handing out pills and dabs of MDMA like it was a fucked-up and free sweet shop. I met two Laaaaaaandan guys in here who force-fed me drugs. I tried to fight them off. Honestly.

For the record, all the narcotics we had on the boat were shit. Other than our own. We were on there from 6pm-11.45pm, and the drugs were not much cop at all.

The people, on the other hand, were simply fantastic. Being cooped-up in a boat that resembled The Orca from Jaws was a great way to meet new people. In my slightly hazy state, I didn’t get many names, but I got some great photos. One guy I did meet was Ken Lalobo; the man looked like a younger, better-looking Marcel Desailly, and was an absolute Hug Monster. I don’t recall either of us saying much, but he laughed EVERY time he saw me, and hugged me even more.

I liked Ken. He was a lot of fun.

The music was good, and we cut rugs to whichever DJ was playing above or below, as we waited for my man to step up and spin; enter Robin Thurston – the man who had made all of this possible for Aaron and myself.

Robin spins a mean set, and I say that not just because he’s my friend, but because he spins a mean set. The crowd had been getting up and going for it for a while, and then Robin got behind the decks and everyone stood.

Especially when he drops tunes like this:

And that was Shorts taking a photo of me at the beginning – and this is the photo she took:

Gimp.

Robin Thurston had the crowd on its feet the whole set, and we thanked/congratulated him afterwards. I think Ken hugged him… no… I know Ken hugged him. Ken also hugged me. A lot.

Another reason Aaron was stoked about this boat party was because two of his heroes were playing; Prok and Fitch. He’s seen these guys before, and they were playing downstairs after Robin’s set. The Gods of Scheduling had smiled upon us.

Their set is strong, and you can see just how popular the boys are when everyone are still on their feet as they drop a heavy version of a Jimmy Somerfield song:

If we weren’t on the dancefloors, we’d be in the toilets, and if we weren’t in the toilets we’d be out on deck. We made some good friends that night, and I regret not having gotten some names; but the boat party was a success, even if I felt it did run an hour too long…

It’s time for some Ministry of Sound.

I’ve been here before, after the SW4 festival last year where I saw Sasha; and now I’m returning to the MOS… to see Sasha.

One of the very first CDs I ever bought was one of the Global Underground series where he mixed in San Francisco. Ever since then I’ve followed his music, his albums, his mixes, and he was the primary reason I went to SW4 last year. He and Alan Fitzpatrick are, without a doubt, my two favourite DJs right now.

So, when Robin invited me to the boat party, and then added that Sasha was playing the MOS afterwards, it was a done deal.

I wrote about winning the lottery a while back, but I could adjust what I’m going to spend my shitloads on: I wouldn’t give up writing, but I would throw myself at it. I would follow all my favourite DJs around the world, enjoying the new cities and truckloads of drugs, and I would write and review the lot. I would be the modern day Hunter S Thompson, and I would be better at it. And I wouldn’t care if no one read it as I would be filthy fucking rich anyway. Peasants.

Sickeningly, both my phone battery and my camera battery die a death the moment we get there. I’m gutted. Devastated. But thank god for YouTube. This is MonsieurB‘s video of the entire set, squashed down into 12 glorious minutes:

The set is AMAZING, and I mean AMAZING. I’ve heard Sasha a thousand times over the last, what… twenty years…? But this set was harder… darker. It thrived, and the packed room danced all night long.

I think he played for six hours, but it probably was shorter; drugs have that effect on me, and the pills we scored in there were as glorious as they usually are in London. They certainly shit on the ones we had on the boat.

The night progressed; the music enthralled us all, the mix hard and dynamic, and people constantly cheered and clapped. I was fully immersed and loving. Every. Second.

Outside on a brief cigarette break, a guy comes up to me, and we indulge in one of my more memorable/surreal conversation:

“Hey, you’re from the isle of Wight, aren’t you?”

“Er… yes.”

“You know Tommy Harding don’t you?”

“Er… yes.”

“Do you want some pills?”

“Er…yes.”

Aaron and I hit the dance floor again, but neither of us are really feeling it as Sasha winds his set down. The pill-power is fading and we’re both flagging, so we leave.

I have no fucking idea how we reached Waterloo station, but I do recall both of us being absolutely off of our faces. We stand outside for a cigarette and remain standing there loooooong after having smoked them. I simply stare at the floor that moves and pulsates, while Aaron stares at an array of diggers across the road.

“Do…” he said, a little nervously. “Do you see those diggers fighting each other?”

“It’s time to go home, Aaron,” I say, and off we stumble, into the horizon.

And on that horizon we got caught racking up drugs on the train table by an old couple, who must have alerted the guards, who came and looked in through the window just before we reached Portsmouth.

Luckily we’d done the lot.

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New Years Eve in Fabric 2011/2012

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I’m sat here trying to desperately remember what happened just over 24 hours ago and I’m struggling. New Years was a mess for myself and Becki Beavis. I would ask her to fill in the blanks but she was as much of a state as I was. Let me unscramble my brain cells and see what I can do about it…

It all started at 5pm New Years Eve after I’d dropped Bam home and cracked open the vodka back at mine… *cue hazy flashback scene*

If you’ve read my blogs then you’ll know that my journeys always start boat, train, underground when we hit London and this time was no different. However, I managed to spice the journey up a little this time by receiving a challenge from Darren Boynton and Erik Bruce. The dipshits challenged me to write ‘Happy New Year Darren Boynton (and Erik Bruce)’ on a piece of paper and get my photo taken with a policeman. I thought I’d shake things up slightly, and get photos with everyone. Here’s the first: Hitting Waterloo Station in London was surreal. Everytime I have ever been here it’s been rammed full of people going to work, and while there were still many people here, there were no where near the numbers to which I was used to.

Hitting the Wellesley as is our tradition when we hit London, we’d got our drinks and sat down for 30 seconds before the lady sitting next to me asked me to look after her bags and coat. I shrugged and said ‘sure’. Well, she didn’t look like a Muslim extremist so I figured we were safe. She returned and I went to the loo.

While I managed to ‘bag’ one cubicle THREE lads went into the one next to me. I’m sure it was so they could carry on their discussion about local politics, but there was a lot of giggling and nose-blowing while they were in there. I came out of my cubicle and was stunned to see the place full of men waiting to use the facilities. I cleared my throat loudly and gave it a real panto-cry of ‘boy, there sure are a lot of people in here now‘, trying to give the cubicle kids a heads up. One of them then called out, in a posh old ladies voice; “Er… I’m awfully sorry but I’ve run out of tissue paper! Could you please all fuck off and find me some?”

I was laughing as I left. Not sure about the others though.

Drinks drunk, tube taken and we’re in the Barbican area of London, heading for Fabric. The area seemed pretty sparse so I asked a nearby doorman if there was anywhere nearby where we could get a drink, ie, down the stairs into the club/bar behind him. He pointed at a pub behind me that had more lights gleaming than a Christmas tree. I’ve no idea how I missed it! Drinks drunk, again, and I went back to the doorman for… If you read the ‘legendary’ blog that was Fear and Loathing In Los London you’ll recall that I got searched by a man on the door of Fabric who found what he was looking for down my shorts.

No, not my cock.

This time we came prepared. We did our drugs in a phone box before we went in and then stuffed the rest in Becki’s phone case and down her bra. It ain’t pretty, but it’s effective. Alas, it also proved a touch too sweaty when we tried to perk up later that night…

I got such a half-arsed searching at the door I felt offended and almost went looking for my tormentor from last time, but we were in and that was all that mattered. Now, I don’t

Room Two

know about anyone else, but we got lost in Fabric last time… and we got lost in Fabric  this time. I had to ask a fucking steward where Room Two was… …as this was where the man I had come to see was playing. Alan Fitzpatrick. He started at 9pm and we got there roughly twenty minutes afterwards, and as we entered he was dropping Adam Beyer’s ‘Twist’ track, which I love love love. I thought it would make a good first video so I started filming it… which resulted in an impromptu dance-off between two lads:

Being early it wasn’t quite full up, which gave us the freedom of the dance floor. We spent pretty much the next 11 hours here just tearing the place up. More and more people flocked to the room and soon we were rammed in the corner right under the DJ booth, as Fitzpatrick played a set so formidable the room was soon packed and the crowd were yelling and cheering at every drop. The man has come so far in the last year its phenomenal.

A steward called ‘Rich’ was stationed at the bottom of the stairs between us and Alan Fitzpatrick and I can’t remember how or why but me and Beavis kept plying him with vodka for the rest of the night and got him pissed! In fact, so pissed I managed to squeeze this in: After a while, Beavis thought it would be funny to tell Rich that I was friends with Alan Fitzpatrick. Rich then asked me; “Do you want me to go and tell him you’re here?” Now me, being three sheets to the wind, agreed. Rich ran up the stairs, asked, Fitzpatrick refused (saying he’d only ever spoke to me online) so I did what I do best. I carried on being smashed out of my face and danced.

Fag break and we ventured outside. Now, I told you things were hazy, and I can’t remember who, but someone sold me a couple of pills. £10 a pop these bad boys, and they were better than the shit back home on the Isle of Wight. It took a good half hour to come up but soon we were back in Room Two throwing shapes as AF played on. His set was fantastic, and he cemented himself as my favourite DJ around. Once he’d finished his set I accosted him and apologised for drunkenly trying to visit him in the booth but he was cool. I think. I was space-monkeyed, remember.

I also then got a photo of him and reminded him that he’d promised me an MP3 of his SW4 set back in August!

Our dancers-in-crime for the rest of the night we’re two lads and they’re girlfriends… I think. The two guys were very friendly and chatted away with us the whole time. Then I mentioned I’d been to SW4 and one of them shouted: “I knew I knew you from somewhere!” he shouted and gave me a big hug. He then spoke to the other friend and he was soon laughing and hugging me and patting me on the back. I swear I had never seem these guys before in my life, so I did what amused me most… and went along with them.

We carried on partying, the pills doing their job, but they seemed to bring us down a lot quicker than we expected. Fitzpatrick had finished his set, so while Slam was just taking over we ventured back out to the smoking area, or ‘Drug Central’ as it shall now forever be known. I’m not sure if it was because we were running out of drugs, or if everyone just wanted to do my head in, but Drug Central was really fucking with me. Firstly Beavis decided that the hedge behind me was the biggest thing in the world she’d ever seen and kept trying to get me to look. Ok, it might not sound like it was funny, but the severe state I was in and the fact that every drug-riddled ape that walked past and heard our conversation decided to stare at the bastard shrubbery as well. But I would not turn. I didn’t at all for the rest of the night.

Suddenly, after spending the last 7 hours on a solid intake of vodka, I desperately needed water. And I mean fucking needed water more than I ever have in my life. I started asking random people but they all had the tiniest dribble in their bottles or countered my offer by asking me for drugs! Apparently I have ‘one of those faces’. Seriously. I get asked all the damn time. We befriended an Irishman and his girlfriend. I say ‘befriended’ but he was an absolute cunt to me, although we solidly agreed on the fact that everyone hates the English. I pushed this a touch further and mentioned that I find the Welsh to be the biggest racists on the planet (it’s true, suck it up) and I paused after saying it and asked Irish’s girlfriend if she was Welsh. His very pretty, very black girlfriend responded ‘do I look like I’m fuckin’ Welsh?’ in the same Laaandan accent that she’d been talking to me in for the last ten minutes. Told you I was struggling. Irish said goodbye, shook my hand, called me a cunt and disappeared into the night. thus the hunt was back on.

It was now at the stage where I stood in the middle of Drug Central and starting asking in a loud voice:

“People, look at me! Don’t I look desperate enough for some drugs?”

Beavis then shut me up. It was probably a good idea as the doormen were removing various people being sick around us, and I had PRIME CANDIDATE written all over me.

Still…

A small, thin, shaking Ukranian/Russian/whatever shuffled on over to me and said

What a night...

‘drrrugzz’ in his eastern European lilt; although, to be fair, the state I was in he was probably English and my brain translator was on the fritz.

I nodded and I recall telling him that I loved him and that he was a lovely man.

And then he started taking off his belt.

It’s not an uncommon thing to happen around me, and if you check out my last blog I actually made this move myself… again in Fabric…

The foreigner took his belt off and held it towards me.

“Oh man,” I said, “Look, I wanted drugs, not cock… no matter how desperate I look…”

But then he revealed the back of his belt, and snapped it open like an old Kit Kat. The interior leather of the belt split open and revealed HUNDREDS of orange pills, all nestled in a poly lining. It was fucking genius and something that Beavis and I talked about often throughout the night!

At least when I was able to talk, cos those little orange pills fuuuucked us up. You’ve heard the conversations where people bemoan that pills were ‘so much better back in the day’? Well, this pills should’ve been called ‘Back In The Day’ pills. They were fucking immense and one little beano each took us to the fucking moon and back. I didn’t think I was overly bad, but Beavis took some photos of me that shocked even myself!

Oh, and in case you were wondering, these pills pissed all over the MDMA in our last excursion.

Back on the dance floor and we’re back in the groove until one massive wave of pill-power wipes me out in one crushing move; and then I suddenly become that which I had always ridiculed – a dirty little pill head who can barely breathe let alone open my eyes. At one point Beavis and I were both in heavy conversation… with the wall right in front of us.

Luckily I’ve managed to gather my marbles back into their sack by the time Adam Beyer hits the decks around half 3, and his set is tremendous. The battery on my iPhone had died and I will always, ALWAYS regret not filming him playing a dirty, dark version of Joy Division’s ‘Love Will Tear Us Apart’. I remember stopping dancing once I realised what it was… and once I realised just how good it was… and I can still hear it ringing in my ears now. It was an amazing moment in an amazing night.

If anyone reading this can tell me what it’s called or where I can find it  will love you forever. [step forward Shadey Collins and Dean Foster (the latter my dance partner in Fabric!)!! Here's a snippet: 

Fabric was open 9pm till 9am, and we left just after 8am and caught a taxi to Waterloo with our last £20. While sat in the train station I discovered a craving for a strawberry milkshake that was almost as bad as my earlier want of water.

It took my five minutes to get out my seat, three minutes to find the MacDonalds’ downstairs, and another 1 minute to get into an argument and be asked to leave. Apparently they don’t do milkshakes in Maccy D’s at that time of the morning, to which I replied loudly:

“Look, you can clearly see that I’m off my face and really need a fucking milkshake!”

I didn’t get the milkshake.

And finally:

Spangled.

South West 4 and the Ministry of Sound Messiness

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I’ve done a lot of exciting things this year, but the build-up to the 2011 South West 4 Festival had got me excited for weeks beforehand. And it didn’t disappoint.

[Disclaimer - this blog is full of swearing, sweat and drug-references. Do not read on if this offends you... actually... if this offends you then you wouldn't read any of my fucking blogs.]

C-Kay and I.

I left the island on the 8.47 catamaran from Ryde Pier after my lovely mum dropped me down there. The train from Portsmouth departed almost straight away and I spent most of the journey Tweeting or messaging my friend, DJC-Kay – a guy who’d supplied me with many, many mixes for my radio show. As thanks, I bought him a ticket for the Sunday of SW4.

Waterloo is where I meet him (ironically passing Clapham Junction which is where SW4 is nearby) and we enter Somerfield to buy some whiskey, where the 29 year old C-Kay gets asked for ID!

No one asked me all fucking weekend.

Quickly into a pub (I forget it’s name, but a mad man with carrier bags sits behind me shouting ‘I’m from Peckham!’ constantly) and we down a couple of drinks before a quick smoke, and then we’re on the tube and heading toward our destination.

We chat the whole way, swapping our favourite tracks while I dig into C-Kay’s past to try and figure out what makes him tick musically (an interview with him will follow in the next few weeks) and we swig whiskey and coke on the train like a couple of alcoholics. Life is good.

We hit Clapham Common and find the festival surrounded by metal fences, huge boardings, and big, burly security guards. These guards would become the bane of my weekend.

I get stopped and searched, and as soon as I pull out my spare boxer shorts adorned in bio-hazard symbols (seriously) the man laughs and sends me through. So, lesson learnt – flash your pants and you’re good to go… something I’ll try to adhere to for the rest of my life.

‘Inside’ the festival we see all the usual Indy Cindy girls and shirtless guys with straw hats and cans of beer, but you can tell there is a string of hardcore dance fans milling around – the kind of guys I grew up with as our musical influences were moulded by guys like Colin Dale, Sasha, DJ SS, John Digweed, et al.

Around us are various big top tents housing different kinds of music. There are the Last FM Arena, We Love Arena, Drumcode Arena and, of course, the main stage. C-Kay and I flit from tent to tent, grabbing vodkas in between, we try and figure out which tent is playing the best music when we come across a crowd that is jumping, beer that is flying, and inflatables that are being smashed into the air by revellers.

The reason – Alan Fitzpatrick. His beats were big and the tent was rocking. This is what we came for.

Alan Fitzpatrick waaaaay in the background behind the decks.

I apologise for being completely unable to tell you which tent and which DJ we saw afterwards, but we bumped into some guys who were throwing Mandy around (those that know will understand the reference) and pretty soon I was more mashed than a pot full of potatoes. Strangely… well, I say strangely, but wherever I go I’m asked if I have any drugs. It’s happened on the high street of my home town, it’s happened to me in other countries. You won’t believe how many fucking times it happened at SW4.

It actually got worse. C-Kay and I were stood on our own in the middle of a mud-patch, in the rain, having a real heart to heart when a small Turkish security guard stepped up and asked C-Kay if I was ‘serving up’ to him! What made it even worse was that I thought he said ‘seven up’… which confused shit even more. This bugged me for ages, as apparently a white guy and a black guy can’t be seen talking together in the middle of a field without it involving drugs. In fairness, I was completely space cadet, but what the fuck?

Back to the music and pretty soon we’re both bouncing around inside different tents, holding each other up, getting muddy and covered in vodka while talking complete bollocks to everyone around us.

It’s a great day. One of the best I’ve had in ages… but it only gets better.

Myself, Dan Formosa and Alastair. Alastair's hat was like a homing beacon for me all day!

But not before C-Kay pulls his Mr Elusiveness’ act. He goes to the loo, I wait outside the toilets… I’m still stood there 20 minutes later. I find him eventually, but this all happens again a couple of hours later. Now, I don’t know what the hell he gets up to, but after I’ve found him we head for the We Love tent to check out the main reason I came to SW4 – Sasha. He’s as good live as I imagined, and soon the pair of us are bouncing, and holding each other up like a pair of alcoholics at a free wine tasting party.

After we’ve seen God for a good long while we head to the main stage where we settle in for a Magnetic Man and Pendulum finale. Neither disappoint and the singalong with Magnetic Man is one of my SW4 highlights.

I first saw Pendulum when they were starting out in a shitty little club on the Isle of Wight called The Balcony. Oh, how they’ve come a long, long way since then…

Before Pendulum start a small group of Aussies and Brits rush up to C-Kay like he’s a long lost friend before asking me if I was his ‘friend that had disappeared’! It turns out C-Kay met these guys while looking for me while I was looking for him!

We stick with Alastair, Dan, Leticia, and Andy and we’re all bouncing like idiots as Pendulum take off. We’re all in a mess, and loving every minute…

Until C-Kay pulls off the mother of all vanishing acts. We lose him completely. I’ve got his wallet and his phone and Andy and I scour the grounds to try and find him, but it’s like… well, it’s like trying to find a black guy in London.

I start to fret, wondering what’s happened to my friend when the Festival finishes and the guys explain to me that I’ve got very little hope of finding C-Kay and that he’ll probably meet us at the Ministry of Sound, as luckily I gave him that ticket and he (hopefully) still had it on him.

“Ok, that’ll work,” I say. “Let’s hit the MOS.”

C-Kay in the blue shirt, Dan Formosa with the shit-eating grin.

“Er… it doesn’t open for another three hours…” Andy tells me.

Shit.

By a massive stroke of luck the gang inform me that their flat is in Clapham and that I’m more than welcome to stay with them until the MOS opens… as they’re all going as well!

So, Jode’s now sat in a strange flat in London with people he doesn’t know, having lost his friend in the middle of Clapham Common, flaked out on a sofa with a bunch of people as monky-ed as himself. Standard night for me, then.

We hit the MOS just after midnight after a taxi ride where the taxi driver doesn’t have a fucking clue what he’s up to. That’s the second numbnut taxi driver I’ve encountered today… and I thought they all just worked for us back home!

I get searched on the door of the MOS. Twice. And they take my arthritis tablets off me. Oh, and flashing my underwear doesn’t work at all this time. But, we’re in, and we’re dancing after having paid £9 for a vodka and lemonade, but, when in London…

Richie Hawtin – aka ‘Techno God’ – is the star of tonight’s show, but the DJ before him tears it up as well… although I am shit and can’t remember if it’s Marc Houle, Barem, Ambivalent… or all three! Did anyone else who went know?

Before we start throwing shapes at the start of an epic 6 hour dance-a-thon for myself and

Me and Daniel Formosa

Dan, we hit the other room to check out the music… and Dan finds C-Kay cutting some rug by the entrance! Lots of hugging and wiping of relieved brows later and the gang is back together!

But not for long…

Andy is bounced by the bouncers for having a chat with Mandy, and Leticia goes with him as he can’t get himself back in, which leave Dan, C-Kay and I stood outside, smoking, watching them leave.

“Well, we didn’t get kicked out…” Dan says in his Aussie lint and we head back inside.

The place is bouncing and Richie Hawtin is showing us how it’s done. We dance, and C-Kay tells us he’s going to go and get us some drinks.

We don’t see the Elusive C-Kay for another FOUR HOURS. This time we only briefly search, as he now has previous, and we know he’ll show up.

Dan and I don’t stop dancing until 6am. Well, I don’t. Dan stops intermittently to shove his tongue down some girls throat who’s been hanging off of him since we arrived. The boy is smooth, and his accent seems to win everyone over. The bloody convict.

The lights are about to go up, and Dan ‘C-Kay Finder Extraordinaire’ Formosa finds our mysterious buddy again. We leave, jump in a taxi, hit Leticia and Andy’s flat and spend the next couple of hours talking about C-Kay’s mixes, scouring dance videos on YouTube, and generally getting more spannered.

Alas, soon it’s time for me to leave, and with hugs and handshakes all around, C-Kay and I grab another cab back to Waterloo where we both embrace and say goodbye. It’s been emotional, stressful, brilliant, funny, and more than anything – spectacular. We agree to meet up next year with our new friends… but next year we’ll know what to expect.

But I’m not sure SW4 will be ready for our new Super Group – The SW4 Gang. I’ve already got people on the island saying they want to come following my Facebook statuses and messages.

And to Dan, Andy, Alastair and Leticia – C-Kay and I will see you next year for our yearly meet. I got a feeling it’s gonna be even messier next time around…

Oh, and when my mum picked me up off of the boat (that I narrowly caught after having fallen asleep on the train) she told me off for the fucking state I was in. And then banned me from drinking at my sisters’ forthcoming wedding.

Yeah. Right.