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

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

‘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: