The First Big Weekend

Sweating the sweat of the distinctly unrighteous, I contemplate my First Big Weekend back on the booze, rendered distinctly old school by my unhappy lack of a Home. My person, as one would expect, is peppered with a bright galaxy of nicks and cuts and bruises. My mouth is not a wonderful place to be. My socks are stiff, my hair lank, my smile crooked and my eyes sore. I had a lovely time, thank you. I danced the dance, engaged in the rich tapestry of humanity. Friday was a huge success – my brother Wade and I Djed at the Great Eastern’s final “beach party”, then later I emceed over a bunch of tunes, some fast, some slow, some pumping, some slumping, some something. Birddog showed up fresh from Bath and just in time to add scratchedy mix stuff. Parties went on in hotel rooms until it was light, when some of us collapsed in a heap on a bed for a little sleep. One of us was a kind of a Kill Bill heroine, a master of some form of fighting with swords of bamboo. “One cut, one kill,” she said. Was it kendo? It seems a while ago, so I am unsure.

And we went to the TDK X festival or whatever it was called, and that was lovely. Erol is a genius. He DJed with his foot. Good times. Old pals. Swimming in booze. Same the next day, 2 Many DJs and what have you. One day we ended up back at Blue’s uncle’s. Blue’s uncle’s is an Aladdin’s Cave of wonderful and weird art.

We managed carnival on Monday. I love Carnival. Then Trash. Old school! Today wake up in mate’s, blinking boozey sleep, 16 year old bedroom wilfully retained in all of its happy glory. Nudey Phil Bush, sunshine, pub lunch, wet shit, warm beer, terrible burger, five chips, banter.

I missed banter the most. I was a hermit for 14 months, I suppose. I am glad. I learnt to make music. I didn’t miss the furry tongue. It was a big wet weekend, awash with booze, and Wade and I lay on our backs in the cemetery at 8 in the morning basking in the sunshine, noticing how far we have not travelled. We are still homeless, still silly, still skint. Life is fabulous, and we are lucky boys. I shall not be drinking booze tonight, I shall watch a video or something.

I was described as a moustachioed oddball rapper in the Evening Standard the other day. It is true! I am! Hooray for me!

Anyway, they cancelled Reggae In The Park. This is not a good thing. Also bad is that the Reading Crowd, a tolerant and delightful bunch historically, bottled 50 and The Rasmus off. LAME.

Dizzee Rascal is so the greatest, and the Nick Cave album is awesome. My boy Jeres has given up beer. Wise in his old age is he getting.