Tag Archives: Waterloo

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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Bedlam at Bedrock

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Let’s start by you pressing play on this. Y’know, for a little background ambience as you read on:

**************************************************************************

It was April 5th, my son’s 5th birthday, and I’d spent all morning with him opening presents and spoiling him rotten. Then came the evening, and a party.

Although this was no party for my son, this was an event that Erik Bruce and I went and got completely destroyed at the XOYO club in London. And what a night it was… I’d just dropped my boy, Bam, home, and was sat around at my place getting impatient and waiting for Erik to come pick me up.

However, impatience and I don’t get on at all, so I did what I do best – I got on it. Beer and bag flowed, and by the time Erik arrived I was practically dancing around my front room to one of Erik’s own mixes (as linked above, and which you should be listening to now!)

Erik Bruce and Scott Andrews

Erik Bruce and Scott Andrews

We hit the train to Waterloo, getting more and more tanked, and talking to Erik about music is like talking to me about being an idiot – it’s something we’re both experts on. I could grill the man over music and mixes for hours, and his knowledge of all things musical is something to behold. By the time we get to Waterloo, Scott Andrews - an ‘old’ friend from my days in Norwich – is already in the (infamous from lots of my other blogs) Wellesley pub.

Beers and talk flow, and again I’m being baffled by the musical knowledge of my peers. Still, the company is good, and Scott is a very articulate and passionate talker when it comes to music; and combined with Erik’s vast knowledge I’m drowning in a sea of musical bliss. And beer.

It’s time to go, and I suddenly realise that drinking/etc for the last six hours has left me three sheets to the wind, so I allow the guys to take point and follow them in a style akin to a slalom skier; desperately trying to keep his zig-zagging as organised as possible.

We get to a restaurant (I forget it’s name) where we sit down to eat. I say ‘eat’, but I’m rattling like an illegal doctor’s prescription-pill box, so I order a vodka. Yeah, that will sober me up. Erik and Scott order food. Scott eats. Erik looks at his food, and then looks at me with a face that asks; ‘What the fuck was I thinking?’ The moment is made even more poignant when a waitress picks up a rolled-up £5 by Erik’s foot and waves it under his nose (ironically).

“Is this yours, sir?” she asks him.

“BWHAHAHAHAHAAA!” says I.

After the comedy show we set off on foot to hit Motion at the Roadtrip bar, headlined by DJ Sasha Le Monnier.

My Asian Twin. Apparently.

My Asian Twin. Apparently.

Now, this is where shit gets hazy for Jode. I remember drinking more with Scott and Erik, before Robin Thurston (another fine DJ) turned up. We had some photos taken, and I was then accosted by a bald Asian man, who proclaimed himself to be my ethnic twin.

It was all good fun, and we met several more people in here who we would then bump into while in XOYO. The place is pretty big, and the state that Erik and I are in (full of Mandy-liscious goodness and beanos) means we’re straight on the dance floor, and busting out shapes like we’re Diversity on crack. Actually, the state I’m in involves me stumbling around a lot with Erik constantly nudging me this way and that, trying to keep me upright and out of other people’s way… but at least I’m having fun.

Suddenly, the nudging and guiding stops, and I’m at risk of losing myself in a sea of strangers. In the mess I’m in, this would not be good. I realise that I need to maintain a maximum distance of two metres away from Erik, simply to ensure my safe return home to Mama Ruth. However, I hadn’t counted on Nick Muir turning up – John Digweed‘s partner in Bedrock. He stole Erik from me like candy from a drug-induced baby, and the two of them were locked deep in conversation with Scotty. I did what I do best. I staggered, made an idiot of myself, and took pictures.

Nick Muir in a Bruce-Andrews sandwich. Photo courtesy of 'dogshit in the dark iPhone cameras'.

Nick Muir in a Bruce-Andrews sandwich. Photo courtesy of 'dogshit in the dark iPhone cameras'.

Releasing Nick Muir from his grasps, Erik and I started cutting some rug again. The night flies by; I vaguely remember meeting a guy called George Barnes (very friendly, and turns out we have a common friend in Brighton of all places!), and then I was introduced to Claire Yarranton and her boyfriend/husband/partner/I-forget-which – who also turn out to have multiple friends with myself and Erik. I’m introducing you to all the above people as I have a feeling they’ll all be turning up in future blogs; especially as we all seem destined for the Ministry Of Sound on May 26th for Sasha. If you fancy it yourselves, then simply let me know. It will be biblical.

Digweed keeps rolling, and the sounds are phenomenal; bringing me down from my cloud but keeping me euphoric. He plays until time, the last three tracks he plays batter us with his unique sound… and we love him for it; soaking up the beats and the vibes as the room of people bop and dance as one.

This is the shit that I live for. Some people think that I go to these events to pull women, and rubbish like that. If I wanted to, I could pick up my phone, call some girl up, and do it without all the hassle and fun of a night out in London.

Guys like me… people like us, we look at our calendars and count the days until the next musical event is on that we can plan our lives around. I/we might be smashed, but even in our states the music moves us, flows through us. Cliches or not, it’s true.

We live for the music.

Scott, Idiot, Erik, and Robin.

Scott, Idiot, Erik, and Robin.

I can honestly say that I spend most of my waking day listening to music. I was once a massive film buff – a movie nerd – but now, as a writer, it’s no longer films that play on in the background of my life. It’s always music. Mostly mixes.

But I digress. The music finishes, the lights go on, and Erik has since informed me that we stood in line for the cloakroom for three-quarters of an hour. I remember hardly anything, except for Claire talking to me. About something. I think.

Goodbyes all round, and apologies to Robin, who I have been really horrible to. I think I did it in jest, and he’s still speaking to me. Plus he’s invited me to a boat party on the Thames before the aforementioned Sasha gig next month, so I figure he’s forgiven me. Or he’s gonna push me off the fucking boat. Either way, it will be another good story to tell.

Erik then makes me walk for miles and miles and miles. We try hailing a cab, but they are all busy. Erik has since informed me that the Bedrock forums told him that no taxis turned up for a very, very long time.

So we were right to walk. However, I stub my toe, walking in a straight line (!) as we march, and it hurts like hell. Erik tells me to man up, and I limp on. I’ll post a picture of the toe that led to epic Facebook statuses at the end of this blog.

We hit Waterloo again, thanking whoever it is watching over us (Saint Marx, Patron Lord of Drug Fiends?) that the train is almost in. Now this is where I pretty much lose my mind. We fall asleep in our seats, before I roll off, laying in the middle of the floor on the 8am train during rush hour. I was completely unconscious, and Lord Marx knows how many people must have stepped over me. Or avoided our carriage completely.

In the end a woman conductor wakes me and makes me move. So I skip the seats again and lie against the wall. On the heater. And burn myself. Erik wakes me in Portsmouth, and as we leave the train, asks me if maybe I should put my other trainer back on.

I’d taken it off because of my bad toe.

Wanna see it?

And try on a little mix from Scott Andrews while you’re surfing the net afterwards. I was going to throw a Robin Thurston mix in, but it looks like he’ll be the main feature of the forthcoming Sasha blog, so I’ll get him to make me a special mix just for that one!

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.

Fear and Loathing in Los London

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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 Kewell Fuckwit-Cuntington

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

Goldie.

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

Kalkbrenner and Grigoriu

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.”

Leicester Girl, German Guy, and Isle of Wight Idiot.

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

Kalkbrenner's Number One fan in Kalkbrenner t-shirt... and his other hand is cupping my arse. Seriously.

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

The Three Amigos.

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.

Koko - not Kalkbrenner night but gives you an idea of what it was like.

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.

The Hallway to Koko

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

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.

Kerry. 'Nuff said.

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…

Please don't show my mum this picture.