This must be the most intense smattering of blogs ever produced here! And I don't need to type a word.
Bevenita and I were going to go to a Squat Rave on Friday evening - I was busy, she fell asleep. But she woke me up at 7 the next morning, to squee that the rave was still on and would I like to come, right then.
Well, why not? She only has a bus pass, so we spent the morning travelling down - I bought breakfast from Tescos, and later in the day called my folks. Mum reminded me Not To Do Drugs and to Stay Safe. We ultimately arrived at a clapped out office block in the shadow of the Battersea powerstation. It didn't look like much, but when we got close the building seemed to pulse, like a cat bristling with anger.
We passed through the door saying "No Tresspassers". Inside felt rather like a school, although perhaps that was the old-school-disco decor. It had been transformed into a club; there were three "rooms", a foyer, a chillout zone, and other areas which groups had colonised - one I found with a television; under the stairs, I found a man sleeping in a pile of cushions. Hastily erected signs or graffiti on the walls pointed the way to toilets, cloakroom and the organiser's area.
I'll get this out of the way first: for a nominally illegal party in a dilapidated building covered in last night's drug paraphanalia, I have never felt safer. Certainly not in a club. It lacked the nastiness of Guernsey clubbing - sticky floors, small-minded-desperation reeking off every stranger, very dark shadows anywhere the lampposts forgot. For a small, "safe" island, I've never felt in more danger than St Peter Port on a Friday evening. Nor did it have the obnoxious, hip-hop-video-audition vibe of London clubs - with everyone trying to make an impression in the most anonymous manner possible.
The squat was populated by imperfect people, and I felt very comfortable exploring the building on my own. There was something genuinely joyous about this DIY party: free entry, bring your own booze (or whatever), no expectations just people who like music. The party had started on Saturday morning - we arrived at about 11o'clock on Sunday, and was to continue until sometime Monday.
We emerged from a series of grubby corridors into the "psy-trance" room, the only place where music was still going on. The party had been broken up by police at 3AM, so there were only about 20 or so people around. The "main stage" upstairs was huge and deserted, and even more incredible: it felt like being on a prog cover. The walls were all draped with paintings (fractals, Ganesh, things like that). All over the roofes, the floors, stretched between walls with holes cut were stretched brightly coloured sheets. Neon spiders weaving webs; rather like a cheap fairground ghost house. All told, just one of the most beautiful things I've ever seen.
Time passed. I worked out how to dance - which is pretty easy to music designed for zombies to shuffle to. I also did some hooping and have some truly intimidating bruises to match my new, truly intimidating skillz - I can now walk, twirl, hop and in general, dance while keeping a hoop going, as well as transferring it between my midriff and above my head. This did not look very graceful, especially in comparison to Bevenita - who is almost certainly in the top 10 most beautiful things I've ever seen once let loose with a hoop. Ultimately, she went off in a bus to a festival, and I headed home for a doze...
Bevenita and I were going to go to a Squat Rave on Friday evening - I was busy, she fell asleep. But she woke me up at 7 the next morning, to squee that the rave was still on and would I like to come, right then.
Well, why not? She only has a bus pass, so we spent the morning travelling down - I bought breakfast from Tescos, and later in the day called my folks. Mum reminded me Not To Do Drugs and to Stay Safe. We ultimately arrived at a clapped out office block in the shadow of the Battersea powerstation. It didn't look like much, but when we got close the building seemed to pulse, like a cat bristling with anger.
We passed through the door saying "No Tresspassers". Inside felt rather like a school, although perhaps that was the old-school-disco decor. It had been transformed into a club; there were three "rooms", a foyer, a chillout zone, and other areas which groups had colonised - one I found with a television; under the stairs, I found a man sleeping in a pile of cushions. Hastily erected signs or graffiti on the walls pointed the way to toilets, cloakroom and the organiser's area.
I'll get this out of the way first: for a nominally illegal party in a dilapidated building covered in last night's drug paraphanalia, I have never felt safer. Certainly not in a club. It lacked the nastiness of Guernsey clubbing - sticky floors, small-minded-desperation reeking off every stranger, very dark shadows anywhere the lampposts forgot. For a small, "safe" island, I've never felt in more danger than St Peter Port on a Friday evening. Nor did it have the obnoxious, hip-hop-video-audition vibe of London clubs - with everyone trying to make an impression in the most anonymous manner possible.
The squat was populated by imperfect people, and I felt very comfortable exploring the building on my own. There was something genuinely joyous about this DIY party: free entry, bring your own booze (or whatever), no expectations just people who like music. The party had started on Saturday morning - we arrived at about 11o'clock on Sunday, and was to continue until sometime Monday.
We emerged from a series of grubby corridors into the "psy-trance" room, the only place where music was still going on. The party had been broken up by police at 3AM, so there were only about 20 or so people around. The "main stage" upstairs was huge and deserted, and even more incredible: it felt like being on a prog cover. The walls were all draped with paintings (fractals, Ganesh, things like that). All over the roofes, the floors, stretched between walls with holes cut were stretched brightly coloured sheets. Neon spiders weaving webs; rather like a cheap fairground ghost house. All told, just one of the most beautiful things I've ever seen.
Time passed. I worked out how to dance - which is pretty easy to music designed for zombies to shuffle to. I also did some hooping and have some truly intimidating bruises to match my new, truly intimidating skillz - I can now walk, twirl, hop and in general, dance while keeping a hoop going, as well as transferring it between my midriff and above my head. This did not look very graceful, especially in comparison to Bevenita - who is almost certainly in the top 10 most beautiful things I've ever seen once let loose with a hoop. Ultimately, she went off in a bus to a festival, and I headed home for a doze...
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