Monday, May 14, 2007

 

Beep-beep-beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeppppppp!!!

People are always banging on about how banging the banging scene was during the banging days of rave. Well let me tell you, it was banging.

The early 1990's was a real whizz-crack time for me and anyone else who liked to head into the Kent countryside in a drunk-driver's Metro with thumping baselines bursting through a miasoma of MDMA fogged synapse. Or somethink. I was quite a face on the jungle scene. People would see me chewing my face off whilst 'picking apples', 'stacking boxes' and 'getting stuck in a revolving-door' and they'd say "Oh! There's Goodballoon. He's quite out of his gourd. What a wanker." They were, of course, absolutely correct. It was the literal truth.

I.

Was.

A.

Wanker.

But that was the great thing about the rave scene; no one held it against you, and if you tried to hold it against them they pushed it away. I loved the free-spirited, communal-living, 'no logo' vibe of the whole affair. As soon as I realised what was happening I thought, "There must be a way to make some money out of this." I was right.

I became a police informant. As soon as I knew the identity of the party-throwers and the likely venue I would call the drug squad who would immediately send four-hundred of their very finest. These gentle souls would then come to whichever airfield the dance was being held at and quietly explain that everyone would have to go home. I can't begin to guess how many braincells I have saved over the years through my conscientious use of the emergency services. I am truly a hero.

And a wanker.



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