Yesterday we played at Passing Clouds in Dalston, a venue which is known for being a hotbed of musical and artistic merit, activism and revolution. And a freakin good time of course.
It’s somewhat our local territory, as myself and Dan live down the road, and I hang out there all the time anyway. This was the first time we’d played in London since our Chats Palace show back in July, and it was rammed to the rafters with party people, many of whom were good friends of the band.
After the show, hearing that there was already a party in full swing back at our house, we headed back there with a van load of the family, including a girl named after a 1960s song, and another one who goes by her initials exclusively. In a cab behind us was Tommy and Merv (see the past chapter “New Orleans”) – as well as some other reprobates that we love dearly. We all went via the shop which never shuts, ever, to get drinks, and headed across the road to our place.
While I was about 50m away I spotted the silhouette of a guy relieving himself in the big flowerpot outside my door. Before I could say anything he opened my door and went inside. I never worked out who it was.
Our living room started to look pretty small with all these people in, and I was busy attempting to navigate the revellers dancing enthusiastically toABBA, while wearing a tea towel and a collander on my head with the handle pointing out in front like a dalek, as if this would somehow help in parting the party, Red Sea style.
On my way to the kitchen to get my fish pie and beans out the oven, I thought maybe the collander would be better back in the drawer, so I replaced it with a white 1920’s motorcycle helmet. Arriving at the kitchen, I discovered various guests valiantly measuring eachothers heights against the wall and writing the corresponding names next to the marks. Tommy was the tallest at 6’9”, and we all took our shoes off in the name of accuracy.
Eventually went to bed around 5:30am. Three people in mine. Glitter everywhere. Divorce dust, they call it.