During the Deutsch-Amerikanische Freundschaft (DAF) gig on Saturday, someone was farting the most awful clouds of brown air. After a while the whole of The Carling Academy resembled a Navvies Portaloo, though, despite this, I remained an active participant of proceedings, despite the duo’s blend of Electro-punk not being my default position when it comes to my taste in music.
The crowd, a mixture of punks, goths and the sorts of people that like Soft Cell were pleasant enough. I managed to pass from the back of the tightly packed venue to the front bearing 3 drinks with a succession of ‘excuse me’s’ and ‘thank you’s,’ which says a lot about the crowd. Having said that I’ve noticed the English have a natural respect for someone’s desire to imbibe and would no more disrupt a determined drink-bearing colleague than they would spurn an invitation to meet with Stephen Fry, indeed, I was being actively aided in my passage, which is possibly what would happen if I were to meet Stephen Fry.
IC and I had already exhausted ourselves the previous evening with too much booze and a club, in which her flatmate Mary was operating buttons to make congenial pumping noises. There seemed to be vast numbers of ‘us.’ I say ‘us’ because quite a few if IC’s and Mary’s friends were down for the weekend, most of which I’m happily familiar with and it was jolly nice to move about a place bumping, inebriated, into familiar and similarly inebriated faces. Despite sticking to either rum/coke or whisky/ginger, the hangover on Saturday was revolting; we’d gone to bed at around 3 or something and were forced to get up early to make the sizable sojourn to my parents place to celebrate dad’s birthday with a family lunch.
The bus took fucking ages to get to Waterloo and when we did get there were no trains going anywhere near my parents due to planned engineering works we’d not planned on. Already late we had to take the train to my sisters so she could drive us back to my parents, this involved going right out of London. To make things even more skin-ripping, the usual 25 journey was to be an hour and a half in order to circumnavigate the so-called planned engineering works, which we discovered later, hadn’t been planned at all the lying cunts.
We arrived for lunch almost an hour and half late. It was a case of arrive, eat (roast beef and all the delicious traditional accompaniments) and leave, though the short time we did spend there was quite lovely and my niece was being perfectly alright with my being there despite my feeling like cock spittle. I think IC’s presence helped as the neice one rather likes her and I was defaulted into her fastidious affections.
The journey back to the East End was equally as ludicrous. My parents kindly drove us to a station out of town to catch a train which arrived quite promptly. This bit of good fortune was short lived. The train set off a snails pace, a pace is sustained for about ¾ of an hour before stopping at a station and then, no shit, reversing the way it had come. I could’ve screamed, I think I yelped instead as IC sat silenced by the fact her jaw was resting on her lap and her fist was half way down her throat.
We abandoned the fucking train at Richmond and suffered the hour-long trek overland to Hackney. By the time we arrived home the flat was already full of pals tanking up for DAF. We joined in of course and all was once again well with the world.
After the gig we took a bus to a venue near Dalston for a party that required a ridiculous password, ‘Batwings.’ IC was nearly refused entry on getting it wrong, and I was nearly thrown out the door by discovering the password and yelling it to IC in earshot of dozens of punters not invited. After a bit of wrangling (swearing and lying) I gained access, but we were not all so lucky.
The venue was great, a huge stark room over a pub decorated with black balloons and candles and small bar in the adjoining box room. Initially it was just a handful of some of the DAF fans but as the place filled up the crowd became worryingly ‘beautiful’ (in a trustafarian/media sense) and progressively stuck up. I spent most of the night chatting to Indy who was carrying off a look that, with one false move, may indicate he supported extreme right-wing politics. I have to say we all looked rather bloody cool under the circumstances as it was getting increasingly clear that this party was one of those places to be seen in, so IC and I left. (Just in time too, apparently 10 mins after we went Mary’s friend was physically attacked by some drugged up homosexual for thinking she said ‘Depeche Mode are cunts, ’ unbelievable.)
The expected hangover on Sunday was a non-starter; we got up late and headed to Clapham for a very, very late breakfast (eggs benedict, delicious) after dropping into the Up Market in Shoreditch so IC could get her sister a gift for next weekend and nipping into Tesco in the city to get some stuff for supper. I was looking forward to seeing the F1 highlights later. I wasn’t expecting to walk into a fucking supermarket and have the results of the race broadcast to me from 20 or so behemoth flat screen TV’s hanging from the ceiling prompting me to yell, ‘what the fuck are TV’s doing in here!’ as IC sensibly removed herself from the side of her screaming, thoroughly pissed off partner in the fresh fish isle on the other side of the store. Suitably recovered we got back to my gaff at 4-ish and unwound from the previous evenings indulgencies: bath, food, Curb Your Enthusiasm… you get the picture.
Just before I leave you with some DAF (splendid video) I’m glad not be in the shoes of Jackie Smiths husband. It’s bad enough, one would imagine, to be caught by ones wife for secretly viewing hard-core pornography and having to explain yourself. He’s had to stand in front the world’s media and publicly apologise for being a wanker, in addition, the subsequence of his masturbatory proclivities has caused irreparable damage to his high profile wife’s career in government, and the government who employ her. I almost feel sorry for him, as if being married to her (for the time being at least) isn’t bad enough.