Wednesday, 8 September 2010

Get your Bank Holiday murk on

The last few weeks of August were a lot. Almost law breaking in their 'lotness'. Bank Holiday weekend included getting wonky in a field in Andover, Notting Hill and a pair of flats. It proved to be so messy the life of a shy monk held serious appeal come Tuesday morning. Crawling to the bathroom on your hands and knees does not a strong look maketh. Wearing a gown and chanting? Maybe.

There were no tears when work was taken down on Wednesday but it felt like everyone and everything had it in for moi. Even the fruit bowl, which usually shines like a beacon of health during chemically depleted times, seemed to be flashing daggers. Grapes should never be trusted on principle but the ones in the office kitchen looked ready to leap out with their fangs bared. The self loathing levels were so high, sanctuary even had to be taken in the comfort of the family bosom. Mumsy!

Friday started off all nice and relatively safe - Pints in preparation for Barnival, which was a rural do in a barn near Andover. After a vaguley fraught journey, where the car boot got murked and time was spent searching for a pink house, we arrived at a field full of fancy dress, tents and cakes.

It was idllyic and featured some serious skiffle and guitar-based action. As Kiss the Fist, one of our roles was to play some records sometime after midnight. But, after beginning proceedings with two bottles of bubbles while resplendent in card-based costumes and drinking helmet, we/I lost the plot completely between then and a brace of jerked sausages. Memory of playing any records whatsoever is much like many recollections of my twenties - blank.

However, despite the catastrophic levels of consumption, inbetween the swathes of silence there was music, dancing, more music, balloons, music, balloons, balloons and more fucking ballooms. So many balloons. We had/were having such a great time all the records were left outside the tent over night proper exposed to the raw, country elements. Good freaking job it didn't rain. This Womack and Womack slab is the only thing I can pretend to say I could even possibly say we dropped. Either on the floor. Or on a turntable.

Due to the fun of the previous evening, Sunday started slowly and involved a life threateningly large meat injection somewhere mid afternoon on the way back to the smoke. Notting Hill was taken down on the Sunday afternoon and proved to be immensely bashy in spite of the shadow cast by the night before. It was overflowing with mad vibes - bogling, smoke, chicken, red stripe, chicken, smoke and more smoke. 1Xtra's Rampage soundsystem was real chaos where an unhealthy amount of raw spirits appeared to be getting tanked and gun shot salutes were thrown. They ended on this and the place went buck wild.

The evening continued at the London Fields boozer near our gaff where shit seriously went down. 5 hours after entering the pub I was awoken by a man in a garden somewhere near Dalston sans spectacles. This bald dude was hopping mad and, when not spraying death threats in my general direction, said he had called the cops who would really sort me out. He'd also locked us up in the garden so there was no chance of escape until the sirens and blue flashing lights arrived on the scene. The federales lettuce go after taking one look at my bedraggled and highly intoxicated look - but it meant sleeping in by a million years and missing the Major Lazer Red Bull party on the morrow.
As a result, bank holiday Monday was spent staggering round Notting Hill looking for people before randomly bumping into one of my new chums from the night before. The murk continued into a boozer and beyond. And, just over two weeks later, I got my glasses back. They'd been removed during a little sleep I indulged in while at an after party ting on the Sunday. Thanks to Ben for slipping them in the envelope below and looking after them for me...