WARNING: MAY CONTAIN ALCOHOL, DRUGS, AND FUCKED-UP GURNING FACES.

It all started with this track:

And it all ended with us being unconscious on a broken down train.

In August this year, DJC-Kay and I went to the SW4 Festival so that I could finally get to see my favourite DJ, Sasha. We came, we saw, we conquered. I got home and listened to some of Sasha’s mixes and came across the Kalkbrenner remix of the track I’ve linked above. I fell in love with it, found a Kalkbrenner Essential Mix and decided there and then that I needed to check this guy out.

A quick google search revealed he would be playing at the Koko club in Camden, London, so I bought some tickets and then asked if anyone in the wonderful land of Facebook wanted to accompany me.

Step forward Stretch and Becki Beavis! My bitches for the day.

November 13th arrived, and we hit the boat to the mainland at 8.47, and I was on the vodka and pharmaceuticals by 8.48, and in Portsmouth boat terminal at 9.15 topping up our coke bottles with vodka. I know how to treat my ladies.

Our train rolled into Waterloo just after 11am, and we were due to meet Stretch’s sister – Kerry Heverin – at Victoria Station.

But first I had to take care of something. You may  remember in past blogs that I could never remember the name of the pub that you have to go downstairs to, based in Waterloo station. Well, now I know.

The Wellesley. I made Stretch and Becki come in there for a drink with me just to find out its name! And – as we walked in – a guy came running up the stairs, bumped into us, shouted “DRINK!” and then  promptly walked himself down a dead end.

He was easily one of the least weird people we’d meet this weekend.

Victoria Station was our next destination where we finally met Kerry. We were half-cut, she was like a hungover, hyperactive Leprechaun, and Bex and I stood back and let them jump up and down and shriek in their Northern Oirish accents. I think only dogs could hear them.

The Shakespeare was the nearest pub to where we stood, so, by default, was where we headed. Finding a table, the four of us sat around allowing Kerry and I to get acquainted. I say ‘acquainted’, but she spent most of the time saying things like; “Jody Jody Jody… you are really bald, aren’t ye?”. It also took her under two hours of meeting me to call me a ‘cunt’.

I decided to escape for a cigarette, and slipped outside. Where Kerry found me and continued her incessant talk AT me. I was saved by a drunken old man staggering down the road, who came straight up to us and introduced himself as “Harry Kewell Fuckwit-Cuntington.”

Seriously.

This is when I discovered Kerry and I have the same sense of humour… as we both invited him in for a drink with us.

Harry sat down with us, and informed us that he’d just been kicked out from next door. We laughed, and were about to order him a drink when the above average looking barmaid (I was almost fully steaming by now) trotted over and told him he had to leave.

Apparently, when he said he had been ‘kicked out of next door’, he meant he had been kicked out of the NEXT door of this very same pub.

Harry was amusing, and brightened an already funny day up, and as he went to leave, he leant over to kiss Becki… and his teeth fell out of his fucking mouth.

It didn’t end there. i had to escort him to the door, and then hold his hand as he took an almighty jump from the step outside to the pavement below.

It must have been a jump of all two inches high.

With Harry gone, we stood outside mourning his departure, fags in hand… when suddenly a

man all in gold turned up and cheered us up. Kerry talked at him a lot, we had photos taken with him, and then he left quickly. I’d like to think his name was Goldie…

Next stop is Kings Cross, where we hadn’t booked ourselves a hotel. This is where I made my first schoolboy error. I’d forgot my fucking bank cards. I was wedged up with notes, but the Travelodge only took cards… via online booking… and tried as I might I could not get the girl on reception to take my damn money.

Luckily Kerry had her card. I gave her the cash, and – after a stupidly long time of trying to use the two computers in reception – Kerry finally booked the room over the receptionists phone. Yes, it was as much arse ache as it sounded.

We dumped our gear, and hit the vodka bottles we just bought, boozing it up in true pikey style to get ready for Koko and Kalkbrenner. The receptionist ordered us a taxi (the first useful thing she’d done) and just before it arrived we bombed the MDMA that we’d stashed with us.

I don’t do a lot of MD, only on special occasions, and this was the second time this year; the first being SW4. Becki was nervous about it, as she apparently becomes a ‘complete nuisance’, but Stretch was easy about it, and I was just out for a good fucking time.

And not many people can do it better than me, if I do say so myself.

The queue for Koko wasn’t too bad, and the stream of people actually ended right at the door to a pub. We decided to join the queue by sitting inside for a drink. Vodkas all round, and Kerry stated that she had to wait for her friend… Darren, I think his name was… but I knew that any second the MDMA would rip me a new one, so I said that I had to get in Koko before they had to peel me off the ceiling of the pub.

Becki came with me as we left our Irish friends awaiting Darren, and our ‘adventures’ continued in the queue outside. As we stood in the quickly moving queue, a ‘propa Landan geeza’ leaned over the railing next to me and started spewing swear words at such a rate that even I struggled to figure out what he was saying.

Suddenly I realised that he was spitting venom at the couple behind me, and once he’d finished berating them and left, I had to ask them what the hell had happened. They told us that the ‘geeza’ had offered them tickets while they were already stood in the queue. The guy – who was German – said no, and ‘geeza’ blew up.

Although thinking about it, the other guy was German. Maybe that was enough cause for abuse.

Inside, we grab our drinks as a female DJ plays tunes that already has the several hundred

in there bouncing happily is playing some big, Euro tunes. We join in, and then turn around to find the German guy and his girlfriend dancing along with us. The German guy informs us that the lady DJ is Paul Kalkbrenner’s girlfriend, Simina Grigoriu, the Romanian Bombshell.

We chat and dance, and I ask German Guy whereabouts in Germany he’s from. He tells me a place name that sounds like Luftwaffe, but obviously isn’t, before I turn to his pretty little blonde girlfriend and say slowly to her:

“AND WHERE ARE YOU FROM?”

Her reply?

“Leicester.”

Meanwhile, back in the pub next door… and the MDMA has gripped hold of Stretch tightly by her throat. And then released it. What happened next wasn’t pleasant.

Although me to tell it to you as her sister Kerry told it to me. While reading this, speak it aloud, and in a Northern Irish accent. It will help colour the situation.

“So then, Jo-dee, lemme tell ye wa’ happen’d. There was oi, sittin’ there all pretty loike, when Stretch ‘ere suddenly started makin’ faces loike a choo-choo train. ‘Er cheeks kept blowin’ out and oi suddenly realised that she was gonna boke! [*translation: boke means to vomit] Oi was a little fookin’ worried, Jod-ee, bu’ Stretch managed to get ‘erself to de bathroom. Unfortunately, she barged into me on ‘er way, and oi dropped me fookin’ phone, and smashed de fooker!”

Here, Stretch takes over the story:

“Fook me, oi jus’ about got de toilet door open before I sprayed it everywhere! It were loike water from a high pressure ‘ose! I pasted dat fookin’ toilet. Oi feel sorry for de next person dat went in dere…”

Back inside Koko while Stretch was redecorating the pub, Becki and I were dancing. And dancing badly. The MD had gripped us strong, and our dance moves involved a lot of holding onto each other, bumping into other people, and saying various things like; “Imma

fuuuucked…”; “Where did we park the spaceship?”; “Please call my mum…” and the usual shit.

Luckily, the Europeans around us are more forgiving than our English cunterparts, or they were just as spangled, and they danced along with us. At some point I vaguely recall someone holding me up. It was either the German guy or Jesus, or Paul Kalkbrenner’s Number One Fan, but my memory is understandably sketchy over all this.

After a little while, and the manic, amazing rush had been ridden, and we were fully on our way to Wonderland. Kalkbrenner was on set, the light show enthralled us, and the beat of the music held us and wrapped us in its sounds. All around we could see mobile phones and cameras held aloft as everyone seemed to be filming the opening track of Kalkbrenner’s set – one of my favourite tracks of his, “Des Stabes Reuse“. Below is the video. At around the 6.01minute mark you can hear Miss Beavis utter the words “I am off my fucking trolley” as she then cackles like a mad cat woman. I laugh when I hear it even now.

All above us in the balcony rooms people dance, but I can’t get the light in the place to do a photo justice, but believe me when I tell you that the sight is magnificent when you’re absolutely fucking rendered.

We dance and dance, and then I realise that Stretch and Kerry still haven’t joined us, and – as if by magic… or by copious amounts of drugs – they suddenly appear. This is great for me, as Stretch and I hang off of each other for the next two hours of the set. Poifeck.

We’re all together, even the elusive Darren (who I can’t recall at all, so I’m starting to think

that the girls just made him up so that they could fuck with me), and we’re having one of the best nights ever. Paul Kalkbrenner is a European Demi-god, and every track he puts on and every drop he makes has the crowd yelling and cheering. You have to remember that this DJ is bigger than Lady Gaga all over Europe… guess sometimes those foreigners do have better taste in music.

There isn’t much else to tell about Kalkbrenner and Koko, but we all danced the whole time. Apart from when another ‘geeza’ wobbled up to us and offered us “Anyfink yoo fackin’ waaant yoo caaaants”. I can’t remember what I said but he actually went to the bar for something, so Becki grabbed me and said that we’d better get the fuck out of there.

So we did. And ran downstairs to find Stretch.

Who we found talking to the same fackin geeza.

Our time at Koko was up, but not until we’d heard and seen Kalkbrenner play another two or three encores. We more than got our monies worth, and the man plays an amazing set. I’ll definitely be back to see him again. I’m just glad we managed to catch him on his Icke Wieder tour to promote his new album.

But our night wasn’t even close to being over. We headed back for the Travel Lodge, sunk some more vodka (this time with added Red Bull), and generally sat around suffering as the MD wore off. We were struggling, but Becki had a word with herself, I manned the fuck up, we all pumped ourselves with more drugs than a branch of Boots carries, and by 1.30am we were back in another taxi on our way to Fabric.

We queued outside – again, not a long queue – and the three girls were called to a separate doorway by a lady bouncer while I stood behind two guys waiting to go in. The man on the door was thoroughly searching them, and I suddenly realised that the wrap of bag stuffed into the waistband of my boxer shorts probably wasn’t as well hidden as I thought it was.

He searched me. He searched me good. He put his hand around my arse (outside my jeans), and then around my shorts (inside my jeans), before he pulled out my wrap and held it up in front of me. I raised and eyebrow and shrugged, and waited for him to say those words that all clubbers dread…

“I think you better come out the back with me.”

But he didn’t. He threw it on a table next to him (probably for his own consumption later… I kinda hope so, as it was good gear) before he went at it AGAIN around my shorts.

“Man, what else you got in there?” he asked as he stepped back.

I had nothing, and told him so. And to prove my point I said; “Here, look,” and started to take my jeans down.

“What the fuck are you doing, man?” he yelled, and pushed me INTO the club. “Get the fuck outta my sight!”

I was in; drugless, but in. Kerry, Stretch, and Becki all stood at the top of the stairs looking confused, asking me what happened.

“I’ve been violated by a big black man.” I whimpered.

Fabric as a club, is pretty good. The layout might be a little confusing, or that might be the MDMA that still rattled around inside me. The people inside – bear in mind that this is the ONLY night I’ve ever been there – were pretty much idiots. Fop-haired young men, dressed like they’ve been kicked out of the audience of Never Mind The Buzzcocks, and girls who looked barely old enough to be in the place.

Plus everywhere we looked there were people wearing silly and strange hats. I flicked my hood up to join in, and three seconds later had the hand of security on my shoulder telling me to take it down. Becki bought with her a hat with ears and long baubles hanging off of it. I wore this for the next three hours and no one said a fucking word.

The night went past in a semi-blur. Becki and I were fueling up on double Red Bull vodkas – with shots a lot bigger than back home, but at a cost of £9.50 each – while Stretch and Kerry drank vanilla vodkas and raspberry vodkas.

We hit the dance floor, as per usual, but the throng of people and idiots that were stumbling around were proving to be a problem, and I didn’t fancy fighting my way to the stage where everyone looked like they were having fun. If I had still been in the throes of Mr MDA then I would have.

Instead, becki and I joined Stretch and Kerry in a dark corner, where I stomped my feet until the end of the night. At one point the girls wondered off for a cigarette, but I stayed put.

As I stood there, stupid hat bouncing, feet stomping, a man around my age stepped up to me, wiggling his hips.

“Hi,” he said, smiling. “Wanna dance?”

“No thanks,” I smiled back. “I’m not gay.”

“Are you sure?”

“What? If I want to dance or if I’m gay?”

“Either.” he replied and strutted away to the dance floor.

He’s probably lucky, because if I was still ruined I would’ve danced with a lamppost. And probably would’ve tried to fuck it.

While Stretch and I were acosted by a right space cadet of a girl who looked like Lisa Loeb, (of “Stay (I Missed You)” ‘fame’)Kerry spent most of the time talking at a guy who was clearly gay. Well, clearly gay to the rest of us but not our Northern Irish friend. It was his bright pink t-shirt, and the throngs of gay men who came past stroking him and high-fiving him that gave it away.

Eventually, the days antics caught up with us… and by ‘us’, I mean Kerry, but she had been on it the day before, and I was starting to struggle myself, so we headed back to our Lodge in Kings Cross.

It wasn’t long before we were all tucked up in bed… for an hour… before we had to leave our hotel rooms. We went to Camden where we sat in a Spoons, blowing out of our arses, and it wasn’t long before I tapped out.

I needed to get home. I needed to get on that train. Stretch stayed with Kerry in Waterloo, at the Wellesley Pub (I know its name now!) and Becki and I hit the train.

Finally we managed to sit in a comfy seat, feet aching, eyes bloodshot, laughing at everything we had done. Exhaustion overcame us and we slipped our headphones in, music pumping softly into our ears as our heads fell together and we drifted off to sleep…

…before the fucking train then broke down before leaving Waterloo and we had to get off of it.

Shit cunts.

Allow me to leave you with this little gem of myself and Becki, that perfectly captures the essence of our weekend, and probably says more in this picture then I just have in over 3,000 words…