Raver tots: Beats, bass and breast feeding mums in the club

Fag ends, puddles of manky old ale and a mum breast feeding her little baby. An incongruous combination you'd imagine but one thrown together by the concept of the 'baby rave'.

While clubs attract dancers of all ages, those with babies and young children may find it harder to get out of a Saturday night, bosh a load of garies and still remain capable of looking after their brood on a few minutes of teeth gnashingly brief shut eye. So step forward the kiddy rave concept. Obviously, they're not full of families all bog eyed and crazy but they do provide two hours of raving vibes, complete with actual DJs in an actual gnarly club. For anyone sans kids, they could well be seen as an appalling attack on the wide eyed evangelical hedonism of early acid house, equally as grotesque as the sober Morning Glory fitness dances. But for those with them who miss getting loose? It's almost like the real thing. If not pretty fucking weird.

The baby rave we went to took place at Hangar in London Fields on a Sunday afternoon with drum and bass legend Nicky Blackmarket on the ones, the twos and maybe even the threes. Going in at 2pm means rather than a salubrious fitness vibe, it feels more like you're taking your kid to a bizarre after, after hours party at a gritty club. You get searched going in, then park your buggy next to all the others at the door of the club amidst the puddles of detritus from the previous evening. Inside, it's £5 a warm Carlsberg and full of mums necking rum and cokes while their children run totally amok.

With the soundsystem cranked up to standard club levels, strobes set to stun and Blackmarket laying it down amidst some glitter cannons, it feels pretty similar to a student drum and bass night with the exception of the soft play area and the scally kids throwing themselves around just like their parents used to when they could get off their nuts. We lasted two hours before it all got too weird and we had to leave, clutching our hard fought Carlsbergs and went to the nearest playground to go and decompress. So in many, many ways, not too different from past lives at all...

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Big nuptials in da house

We had a delectable time at the wedding of our pals Dom and H-bomb. Not only were there scotch egg canapes, but it was a top service and a delicious feed, made even tastier by watching one of our chums expose raw emotion. Never has the Peasant in Clerkenwell witnessed such tears. We were also lucky enough to play the wedding disco. Props to Jill Nando's on this one. Smashed it up good and proper innit.

Les happy couple

A bit of the bash

Scran

Insane tears

Catch up

Fined



Boozing



Suited and booted



rave up



Caught red handed

Jeff went to Barcelona at the tail end of July. I couldn’t afford the trip but was honoured enough to be invited to play records at a wedding of a chum of the Gag Reflex’s in Birmingham.

The pair of us were as chirpy as a pair of burglars staring at an empty house at the prospect of providing a suitable heinous soundtrack to the big day. Somewhat unsurprisingly, our lack of forward planning turned out to be our undoing.

While I made the inevitable, yet classic error of overindulging the evening before, we set off late (after dining on a Gregg’s for breakfast) and ended up 50 miles away from Brum with an hour before fingers and rings were to meet.

Against all the odds (and speed limits on the outskirts of Brum) we made it. But I forgot my tie and had to get mysen to the charity shop. Cue standing outside the church in the searing heat for an hour chin wagging with the wedding vehicle driver and supping from the bride and groom’s big day mugs while the vibe was going romantic over time inside God’s gaff.

The next few hours unfolded in a similarly disastrously and awkward way. We landed a parking ticket while looking for some wires, I had to spend a few stolen hours in the boudoir as there were certain parts of the meal I wasn’t invited to. Then we had to drive to Stourbridge to gatecrash a family bbq to try and pick up some turntables after discovering cd-js were the only music making business supplied.

Even then, we didn’t get to play records due to the dude in charge of the turntables moseying off with one of the decks during the speeches.

The highlights included the obvious romance, wolfing down curried mutton, getting well shitted and heading to the Rainbow club in Digbeth on the hunt for rave-action. We topped the weekend off by driving through Cock Alley on the return leg…

Field Day was supposed to be one of the highlights of the summer - last year had been a gloriously messy day full of sunshine and drugs but was one of the most badly organised events we’d ever attended - a proper piss up in a brewery style sit.

However, we’d bought tickets again in the hope that the organisers would get it together enough to employ more than five bar staff and deploy over 20 portaloos for ass deposal action…

This time it wasn’t the lack of tings which ruined the do but the claustrophobic presence of numerous feds and sniffer dogs operating on the door and inside the arena and the aural poverty of the line up.

I was ‘stop and searched’ but managed to get my stash through the police net by lying - (when was the last time you smoked cannabis sir? - I can’t remember - possibly Thursday?) and judicious use of extra clothing (stashing the gear in socks)…

The intense rain on the day meant we took a detour to pick up water proofs - so by the time we got in and dealt with the feds most of the good stuff had gone… The Notwist, Foals, and Telepathe were among the musical low points. But we predictably got battered in the end anyhow…