Slates and slags

I got back to bed in the early hours of this morning after attending the ‘Can’ party held illegally in an old disused warehouse on Reynolds Crescent, off Astlow Street. It was reputed to be staying open until six in the morning and everyone was there: Lee, Guy, Barry, Del, Lindsey, Susie and John Turney. John was in manic form, thrashing about loudly, much to the amusement of everyone else.

We met up in the Frigate beforehand and took taxis to Reynolds Crescent. Half of young and trendy Watermouth seemed to be there—the flat-top shaved back-and-sides check shirt crew who dominate the club scene, queueing several deep and arriving by the car load. We were allowed in in groups of three or four and had to pay £1.50.

The whole thing was a good idea. The warehouse was large and cavernous, sawdust covered floor, an old Mercedes Benz car parked in one corner. The DJs who sheltered behind a barricade of tires and took speed to stay awake. Large banners hung from the ceiling bearing the letters C and A, and there were the usual lighting and smoke effects. Cans of lager 50p in a side room, other rooms full of silent and dusty machinery being used as toilets.

Everyone had a good time, although Lee and I stood apart watching the seething crowd of funsters and indulging in “petit-bourgeois obscurantism” according to Del. The music was mainly funk and soul from the 50s and 60s. As the revelling reached its collective climax, the sweat of hundreds of bodies condensed on the cold ceiling and started to drip like rain onto the writhing mass below.

I sat on the roof of the Merc and talked with Rowan. She told that she's tried to change since her days as a “fucking slag” (expletive pronounced with leisurely emphasis): she said evil feelings were pent up inside her, so I told her she should “relieve them,” which she promptly did by walking over to former boyfriend Danny and slapping him hard across the face twice.

Del cruised around the crowd sending up the whole thing by warming his hands in near proximity to girls’ arses or drooling conspicuously over their bare shoulders and backs. Poor Inga was totally psyched out by his hip-thrust parody come-ons, looks and clapping. She hadn’t a clue what to do and it was hilarious to watch.

J. Turney chatted up countless girls, Guy got completely pissed and I was just bored. Petit-bourgeois obscurantism won the day.

Dad's sent me a letter that included one from the police about the hitching incident of New Year declaring “it has been decided not to institute proceedings on this occasion” and reminding me of my “obligation to comply with the law.” Dad asked for “ a slight readaption to conformity, at least in the method of your traveling habits!” I felt guilty that I hadn’t told them about this, so I’ve written back to apologise.

“I don’t care much about anything at the moment,” is what I told Rowan, which is an exaggeration, but not untrue.