Diary of a Wasteman: Birthday weekend of lingering unknown fear
Birthdays are a time for joy and celebration. I was born on this date in a pool of viscera, screaming, and wishing I was in a vagina. So what better way to celebrate this by getting so mashed that I end up in a pool of viscera, screaming and wishing I was in a vagina? NOTHING, that’s what. And if you disagree, I will exercise my right to waive all sense of social contract and FIGHT you, cos it’s my birthday you bastard, have some fucking respect.
Every year I have delusions of grandeur about my birthday, thinking that I might actually do something of note, like go to Oktoberfest and fight Germans whilst I disrespectfully wear their traditional leiderhosen with ironic disdain, or hire out a mansion in the countryside, drink Courvoisier, and drive around the grounds in a golf buggy in fast forward, like P Diddy in a Benny Hill film.
That would make a great weekend to read about, but SHUT UP, because actually all I did was do the things I do every weekend, but with added tenacity because I know that I can be an embarrassing mess and someone else has to pick up the pieces.
Anyway, I was on a journey, and it began with The Hydra: 3 Chairs. Last time Hydra hosted Moodymann was one of the best raves I’d been to, Dam Funk was supporting in a random Hackney warehouse and my friend tried to chat up one of the Moodymann girls but failed, and Moodymann brought Ma Dukes and played Dilla, which was the music equivalent of seeing an old friend in your favourite local pub.
So on the back of that I had high hopes going into this night, even though it was being held in a club called ‘Fire’, a name which gives the impression that it might sell vodka red-bulls to V-necked goons at a discounted rate, when in fact it actually sold all beverages to everyone at an insanely expensive rate, so expensive in fact that when I decided to buy a round (thinking I was billy big boots as it was pay day) my hand dissolved upon touching of said round, at which point I let out a blood curdling scream and writhed about on the floor. Not really, but 5 for a bottle of beer, fuck me. That thing was harder to endure than a queue full of buzzheads that could only talk about queuing.
Still, you can’t make an omelette without pissing off all of the eggs first and this night was no exception. Once in the club all thoughts of overpriced beer and long queues melted away in a warm blast of disco/tech/house glory. Yes the 3 Chairs room was overcrowded, but the music was so good you soon forgot about everything else and boogied the fuck down. And I mean DOWN. Theo Parrish was the ringleader throughout the night keeping things flowing nicely, but really the main attraction was Moodymann. When he came on it felt like your cool uncle at a wedding turning up and instantly pulling that girl you had your eye on. He controlled the crowd perfectly with a succinct mix of house, disco and some basslines that could bludgeon you to a really enjoyable death. When he dropped this:
I could’ve sworn I felt a tear roll down my cheek. Then I realised I was so high that crying was impossible, and all thought was swept away in a flurry of un-rhythmical dancing at the back of the dance floor.
Then my friends got kicked out and it all went pear shaped. It’s that ultimate club conundrum, do you leave straight away and all enjoy the night together in the barren wasteland of “outside”? Or do you say fuck them and carry on swimming in delicious bass? We ended up choosing the middle option, which was to stay for about 45 minutes more, then when guilt had overcome our senses leave; only to realise they had already gone home.
Once we had successfully managed to chuck my now exceptionally wonky friend into the back of the cab we all piled back to drink pints of red wine and try and remember the amazing tunes we heard.
Upon waking, I immediately reached for the Sulpadine Max. If you haven’t equipped yourself with this shining beacon in the fight against comedowns then you are losing the battle and I pity you. A brain numbing mix of caffeine, codeine and paracetomol that dissolves in water and mixes like a fucking treat with Berocca. Try it. It makes you feel oblivious to everything outside your brain, in a good way, like this:
After a few of these we head to Northcotte Road in Clapham, which is like being caught in a Gap Yah flashmob, where people wear gilets and cream chinos and look at you with clean faces and distracted smiles that seem to make me feel unnerved for no discernible reason.
Once sat down, we drink all day whilst shouting at football on a giant TV and drinking bloody marys till we weren’t embarrassed at the fact that we were shouting at a giant TV. Maybe this is why people with gilets don’t hang out with us?
Moving swiftly on, we prepare for the house party. This is where things get weird and scary. We’re all back at mine, cracking on to a few Hendricks and tonics, because I feel fabulous. Then my friend from work comes over, and has brought his insidiously tall older brother with him. Now, I usually don’t bother with work mates. They usually start fine in the work environment, but when you place them into an out of work setting the context you built your friendship on (i.e. work) shatters, and all that remains is the glaring fact that you wouldn’t of been mates if you weren’t jammed together everyday.
Plus when they invite their weird older brother to your house party and they trip the fuck out on acid and freak out everyone it can get problematic. It all started well, with us ingesting a tab each and shooting the breeze with all of the perfectly coiffed party goers. I am feeling soft and at peace with life in the garden, sitting down and smiling at my friends in way that probably freaked them out. Then some trouble kicks off with a random human, who probably wasn’t even saying anything weird but because of my heightened state of awareness I instantly think is trying to undermine me. “Aha!” I think. “I know best! He can’t undermine ME! You sir, are purposely stirring up trouble!” Except this came out as “Arr yuu been a cuhnt on purpoose?” in a horribly embarrassing slur which led to Mrs Wasteman escorting us into a cab.
Now this is where I begin my trip in earnest. I am now fully convinced that my friend and Mrs Wasteman have contrived a ploy in which they are setting me up for a birthday suprise back at my house. I keep thinking the totally normal things they are saying are in fact coded hints about the massive reveal that will be suddenly bursting from behind the sofa. This never comes, in fact the only suprise comes in the form of the insidiously tall older brother suddenly going west, attacking Mrs Wasteman. Now, I’m still thinking this is all a massively intricate ruse:
“Aww, look! They are even pretending to wake up all my house mates with screaming and violently kicking out that tall guy, just to convince me its all real! I truly have the best friends”.
All this had a sinister musical edge because they only tune I would let anyone play was this:
On repeat. 15 times.
When I come to its Sunday and everything is a fearful blur; including the stains of tomato juice on my carpet. I am in a massive daze that not even Sulpadine can cure. I don’t fully grasp what happened but it creates a sense of lingering terror that I can’t shake.
Then in the evening. still in this stupor, I have a lovely Chinese buffet with my mum. What?! Shes made me chocolate cupcakes! YES! I LOVE birthdays!