Monday, May 14, 2007



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.





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.

<< Home

This page is powered by Blogger. Isn't yours?