Jackie Bleaklook hauled her weary 40-something body from the comforting cocoon of her warm bed and padded slowly into the bathroom. Peering reluctantly into the mirror, she winced at her pallid complexion, which appeared to be the exact shade and texture of cold porridge under the harsh strip light. Letting out a sigh, she acknowledged that she could postpone the doctor’s appointment no longer; this could be something serious. She’d been working extremely hard lately, but a slight feeling of “meh” had deepened into persistent pessimism. She showered and applied her makeup as she always did, day in, day out: painting on a happy smile with her trademark red lipstick and concealing the bags under her tired eyes with copious amounts of concealer.

At the doctor’s office, the empty-nester receptionists clucked and squawked into the phones, defensively covering the appointment booking system like a hen guards her eggs. Trying to get a slot with the GP was an ordeal in itself; she’d almost needed a lie-down after the monumental effort involved. Anyone would think the ladies behind the desk were being paid not to book anyone in. Jackie jostled for a seat in the packed waiting area, attempting to drown out the screaming infants and phlegmy cough of the elderly gentleman next to her as she scrolled idly through Facebook for an hour. She was just about losing the will to live when she heard her name being called.

Gesturing for her to take a seat, silver-haired Dr Spiderscrawl sat back in his chair, pushing his horn-rimmed specs up higher on the bridge of his nose in order to get a closer look at her. “What seems to be the problem?” he enquired earnestly. He had the mahogany skin tone of someone who clearly enjoyed regular Caribbean holidays and as he smiled the corners of his eyes crinkled, softening his face. Jackie took a deep breath and began listing her symptoms: lethargy, low mood, anxiety….the list went on. The doctor stole a brief glance at his expensive gold watch as she continued to rattle off an alarming amount of concerns. Jackie even surprised herself with just how many issues she’d been holding in. Once she started speaking, it was like a river that had burst its dam; the flow was unstoppable. Eventually she closed her mouth and slumped back into the seat, exhausted. She looked expectedly at the doctor. He ummed and ahhed as he took her blood pressure, peered down her throat and checked her breathing. “All work and no play makes Jackie a dull girl,” he concluded, as he removed his stethoscope. “What you need my girl is a rather large dose of….FUN.”

Dr Spiderscrawl started scrawling spider-style onto his prescription pad. He paused, thinking deeply. Changing his mind, he tore off the script and scrunched it into a ball, expertly tossing it into the waste paper basket a few feet away as Jackie looked on quizzically. “Ms Bleaklook, my dear. I’m afraid you have a classic case of Midlife Malaise, brought on by over-work and disillusionment. I’d usually prescribe Prozac and exercise, but in your case it is an emergency, so….”

He reached down into the brown leather holdall which was open at his feet and, much to Jackie’s amazement, produced a large conical flask containing a bubbling bright orange liquid. “What the…?” began Jackie. Dr Spiderscrawl held his palm up in a gesture of silence. “Listen, Ms Bleaklook, he said, in his plummy English tone. “I’m old school….or should I say Old Skool with a K. I firmly believe in the restorative power of a good night out, preferably involving a decent crowd of up-for-it revellers, loud, repetitive beats, lasers and flashing lights. Alcohol is one way to relax from the stresses of modern life, but it has adverse long-term health implications; good-quality house music does not. Fortunately I have just the remedy for you – although this one is a non-prescription drug combination, so I ask that you be discreet. I could get struck off for my, ahem, slightly unorthodox – although highly effective – methods. Not because this potion is dangerous – quite the contrary in fact – but there are pharmaceutical companies who lose a fortune when people choose these alternative remedies.

Holding aloft the conical flask betwixt bronzed and manicured fingers he smiled as he announced grandly: “let me introduce to you…Danny’s Marvellous Medicine.”

“But, but, what’s in it? And who’s Danny?!” stuttered Jackie. “Well, I can’t reveal the exact formula, because even I’m not privy to that top secret information, but let’s just say it’s a heady blend of stamina, house music, euphoria, orange-flavoured smoke, glitter and friendship. The side-effects include indescribable happiness and uncontrollable dancing, as you’re transported back to the carefree days of your youth by the restorative powers of music and freedom. Danny Gould is one of the creators of the original formula. He discovered the chemical reaction quite by accident one day back in 1993, along with his good friend Andy Manston. They decided to name the potion Clockwork Orange. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have other patients to attend to.”

He spider-scrawled on his prescription pad once more. “Go to this address on Saturday night. Tell them you are on my guestlist. Drink the potion there. Don’t be tempted to drink it at any other time or place; it won’t work properly.”

Back at the flat where she lived alone, having subconsciously dedicated a large portion of her adult life to an ungrateful boss, Jackie placed the flask of orange liquid on the windowsill and carried on with her busy working week, barely having time to eat or sleep. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a date or a night out with her friends, who were mostly mums and had different priorities these days.

By Saturday she was exhausted and considered not obeying the doctor’s orders, but by mid-afternoon her curiosity got the better of her and she could ignore the flask no longer. Lifting it gently from the windowsill, she carefully removed the cork stopper and took a tiny swig of the bubbling orange liquid. “It’s probably just Berocca,” she mused as she swallowed it down. “He’s expecting a placebo effect.” Within minutes, she knew it wasn’t simply an effervescent vitamin supplement after all: her head crackled and fizzed as if she’d eaten popping candy; she felt alert…and she was sure she could hear the faint sound of 90s house music in the distance. How strange.

Feeling suddenly energised, she hurriedly shimmied into her favourite party dress (which only now was she realising she hadn’t worn for years), wedged her feet into teetering heels and applied the sparkly makeup she’d have worn back in her clubbing days. Stepping back from the mirror, she admired her appearance. It had been a long time since she’d looked this glamorous. That potion had definitely stirred something within her. She took another small swig, before slipping the flask into her sequinned handbag and silently closing the door to the flat, the address the doctor had given her tucked into her jacket pocket.

The chilly September air took her by surprise, and she felt suddenly silly and self-conscious as she tottered to the station and stepped onto the tube dressed up to the nines. She clutched her bag in front of her bare legs, the outline of the flask against her body and the doctor’s words ringing in her ears providing some reassurance.

As she approached the venue she was aware of hordes of very animated people, all heading in the same direction. Jackie was pleasantly surprised to see that they were mostly the same age as herself, and appeared to be highly excitable. Knowing that she’d have a job getting the potion past the octopus-like bouncers, and reasoning that she was almost inside the venue, Jackie nipped around the corner, yanked off the stopper, and downed the orange liquid in one. Wiping her mouth with the back of her hand in a most unladylike fashion, she stifled a belch. She caught the eye of another middle-aged woman doing the same, who winked at Jackie and tossed her own now-empty flask into a nearby bin. “First time at Clockwork?” she enquired, noticing Jackie’s nervous demeanour. “It won’t be your last.”

Finally entering the venue some time later, having queued with thousands of other partygoers eager to get inside, Jackie was instantly energised by the music: heavy bass reverberated in her chest and uplifting vocal house music caressed her ears, the words to which she was surprised to note came instantly flooding back, despite the fact she’d not heard them for years. Her feet were moving uncontrollably to the beat and she had the urge to throw her hands up in the air. She grabbed a vodka Red Bull from the bar before jostling through the crowds to get to the dj booth, by which time she’d finished her drink and was determined to focus fully on the serious business of dancing like no-one was watching. Because, well, nobody was.

Everywhere she looked people were smiling and dancing wildly, the dj seducing the crowd with soulful house music interspersed with heavier, dirtier beats. A bongo player accompanied the music and people were singing at the top of their lungs to their favourite tracks, heads thrown back, completely unselfconscious. Suddenly a welcome blast of icy air from a smoke machine hit her, cooling her sweaty body, before a giant glitter cannon exploded, sending thousands of pieces of metallic ticker-tape up into the air before landing on the writhing throng. A cheer went up. Jackie looked around her at the incredible sight of so many happy faces and realised with a jolt that she felt emotional, tearful almost. She hadn’t had this much fun in…well, forever. How had she missed all of this for so long? When had she decided to spend so much time working that she’d forgotten to have fun. How had that happened? She’d lost herself. She shook her head, sad for a moment.

She was roused from her sombre thoughts by a gorgeous tall, dark-haired guy dancing in front of her, who she realised was gesticulating wildly to attract her attention over the din of the music. Making the universal motion of bringing an invisible drink to his lips and raising his eyebrows questioningly, he put a strong arm around her waist and guided her gently in the direction of the bar. Smiling contentedly, Jackie danced towards the bar, taking his hand as he turned to kiss her on the cheek.

“Oh yes,” mused Jackie with a giggle, making a silent promise to herself to seize as much fun as possible from now on, “Clockwork Orange is just what the doctor ordered….”

Are you suffering from Mid-Life Malaise? (Trust me, it’s a very common affliction). Clockwork Orange takes place every six months in London, in March and September, as well as a weekend of events in Ibiza each July. For more information and to become a member check out the Clockwork Orange website here. 

Sam x

Fancy reading my back-story before you go any further? You can find my other blogs at:

www.costaricachica1.blogspot.com
www.samgoessolo.blogspot.com
www.mummymission.blogspot.com
www.worldwidewalsh.blogspot.com

Follow me:

Twitter: @SamanthaWalsh76 (Life:ABird’sEyeView)
Facebook: @lifeabirdseyeview
Instagram: @lifeabirdseyeview

The post Danny’s Marvellous Medicine appeared first on Life: A Birds Eye View.

Sooo, it’s 6 weeks now until we hit Ibiza for the Clockwork Orange weekender bender and as I sit munching my Kettle Chips and M&S Victoria Sponge Muffins (which are, by the way, orgasmic) with all the restraint of a deranged Cookie Monster, I’m aware that at this rate I’m going to end up with a butt like Kim K on Bossa beach. The unairbrushed, lumpy version, I mean.
But wait! I wanna look boss on Bossa…not the boss of a chip shop. Now, we all know that the best way to get slim and slinky for Ibiza is…to go to Ibiza. A few days of relentless clubbing with just a few scraps of tapas tossed back pelican-style as you pit-stop between parties is the best diet going. For those of us who can’t squeeze in a pre-Ibiza Ibiza trip, I’m told there’s always these: Slenderiize magic drops.

Under the watchful eye of my fellow party-loving pal, the Super-Slender Slenderiize Seller (try saying that after a few cocktails down at Mambo’s) Lisa Jo, I’ll be following the Drop To Drop Programme for 28 days in the run-up to the holiday, starting on 1st July. So I’m hoping it’ll be “Hasta lluego, heifer” and “Hola, snake-hipped slinkstress!’ Can I pull it off? Watch this space…

1st July – 4 weeks to go!

Uh-oh! The Ibiza countdown has begun and I’m no closer to looking like a model than I was on my last diary entry. A model tank, maybe. Since I ditched the Marlboro Lights ten months ago I just can’t seem to stop eating all the pies. And cheese. And drinking all of the wine. When I said I was planning on “having it large in Ibiza” I was referring to the parties, not the portion sizes. I sigh at my reflection in the mirror. Mate, if you’re a fat clubber, you’re clearly doing something wrong. Avid dancers should be nimble and limber…not carrying excess timber. “You need to do the Ibiza Shuffle a bit faster my love,” I murmur under my breath as I clutch at my muffin-induced muffin-top. I’ll need to be bloody turbo-charged to dance quickly enough so no one can focus on my Non-Mum tum at the beach party at the end of July.

Do TFL make Food Baby On Board badges, I ponder? Well they should, I think, as I grip the pole with my bountiful butt-cheeks for balance whilst riding the packed tube and flipping through Elle magazine’s fashion section, which is awash with wafer-thin waifs.

But all is not lost! I started my Slenderiiz drops this morning: 15 drops of the 100% natural remedy under the tongue 30 minutes before brekky, lunch and dinner, healthy balanced meals (albeit smaller portions than I’m used to, as the recommended calorie allowance is 1250 a day – eek!) followed by 45 drops of the night-time formula in the evening, a few hours before bed. I’ve pored over the approved foods list, stocked up on green tea, fruit and veg, ditched the bread and pasta and have downloaded the Lose It! Calorie Counter app on my phone (they don’t mention what the “it” is you’re likely to lose – the will to live, perhaps?). All I need now is an orthodontist to wire my jaw shut and I’m good to go.

So, here are the obligatory before pictures – cringeworthy but necessary evidence, I guess. I’ll be checking in weekly with my progress, followed by a final update at the end of the 28-day programme. Obviously the proof will be in the pudding (or lack thereof)….

8th July – 3 weeks to go!

So I’m one week into the Slenderiiz Programme…and I’m actually killing it! I know, I’m as gobsmacked as you are! I’ve been taking my drops religiously and following the diet by eating around 1250 calories a day, selecting only foods from the approved foods list below…and so far I’ve lost half a stone! (and eight hours – be warned that if you attempt to go on the lash one night on this diet you will get very drunk, very quickly. Eek!)

But…people are already noticing and commenting on my weight loss. I surprised myself last year by giving up smoking effortlessly after almost 25 years on the evil weed, and now this! Will wonders never cease? I do think the drops are having a big effect, as I’m not getting cravings for naughty foods (I’d usually eat crisps and cakes like they’re going out of fashion), and whilst I don’t feel completely full after meals like I used to, I’m not chewing my own arm off in starvation either. I actually think I’ll be able to keep this up for the entire 28 days (and possibly beyond), whereas if truth be told I feared I’d fall at the first hurdle. I’m planning meals in advance and stocking up on the good stuff. I think my fridge has gone into a state of shock – it’s never been so full of green objects. And we’re eating all the veggies instead of feeding them as USOs (unidentifiable shrivelled objects) into the bin, which I’m ashamed to admit happened often in the past.

So far, so slender! Wahoo! Another update next week!

15th July – 2 weeks to go!

Two weeks into the programme, and my body is a temple (before, it was more the buddha sitting inside the temple). I’ve turned into a proper avocad-ho; Sainsbury’s have had to review their stock levels of the green stuff. I’m spending less on food (because the portion sizes are that much smaller), which could actually counteract the cost of the drops in the first place. For the first time, I’m beginning to agree with Kate Moss – she’s right, nothing does taste as good as skinny feels. The weight loss has slowed somewhat, which is frustrating as I’ve only lost a few pounds this week (taking my total weight loss to nine pounds in two weeks), but I’m getting addicted to the lighter-than-air feeling that comes from ditching white carbs. If it’s “no carbs before Marbs”, then this is “no pizza before Ibiza.”

The hardest part of the diet is dining out. I’ve tried to avoid it as I don’t know what’s in the food and I don’t want to undo the hard work, but on Tuesday Mum and I went to Bluewater. Lunchtime rolled around – one glance at the list of restaurants and it’s not hard to see why the UK is following in the footsteps of the USA with its obesity crisis: McDonald’s, Burger King, Five Guys, Eds Diner, Byron Burger, Pizza Express, Pizza Hut….

We settle on Bella Italia as they have some relatively healthy-looking options, and when I explain our predicament to the waiter he produces a giant tome the size of War And Peace which turns out to be their calorie guide. It all seems too much like hard work, so we decline their offer to dust off the giant book and instead settle on the most sensible things on the menu and hope for the best.

As I’m on holiday from work, where I’d typically be on my feet for nine hours, I’m aware that I’m not burning as many calories as usual. On Sunday morning Andy and I go for a run, which leaves my face the same beetroot shade as my hair, my legs like jelly, and I almost throw up three times.

However, the real challenge will come next week when we’re relaxing and eating out in Alicante for a week’s holiday at my parents villa…eek!

22nd July – 1 week to go!

The holiday gets off to a much healthier start than we’re accustomed to: we swop the usual calorie-laden Full English (with accompanying bubbles) at Gatwick for a fruit salad and a cuppa, salivating as surrounding holidaymakers tuck into their pukka tucker. The flight is the journey from hell: having reluctantly paid Ryanair’s rip-off fees to sit together, I soon wish I hadn’t bothered when the seats turn out to be between three screaming babies and their gymslip mums, who proceed to bash me with iPads and cover me in melted chocolate throughout the flight. Emergency prosecco takes the edge off, but the sugar-laden booze does nothing for my waistline…

After the obligatory celebration of arrival in sunny Spain with a bottle of ice-cold Cava on the seafront, we stock up on the good stuff at the supermercado – meaning we can prepare our own meals at the villa, thus retaining some control of portion sizes and what goes into them. The week is spent sunning ourselves by the pool, eating healthily and swimming. I do of course use my drops, but falling out of my regular routine whilst on holiday means that I slip up occasionally. I also indulge in the odd vodka limon and several copas de vino blanco, but, well, I am on holiday – it’d be rude not to. Despite being careful with our food, the halo slips towards the end of the week and I can’t resist a supersize Burger King at the airport on the way home. Old habits die hard! Upon return to Blightly I’m appalled to discover I’ve put on 4lbs during the holiday – gah! (I’m not sure what I expected, since alcohol is super-calorific and therefore strictly off-limits on this, and any, weight-loss programme). I now have only 3 days until we jet off to Ibiza for the Clockwork weekender. Can I redeem myself and get my weight loss back on track, taking my total loss back to 9lbs by the end of the programme this weekend? Watch this space….

28th July – time to fly!

The big day has finally arrived! I”m on the last day of my drops diet and it’s now time to leave for the airport and party our little socks off! So, how did I get on? Weeelllll, I didn’t lose quite as much weight as I’d hoped…half a stone in total….BUT considering I was on holiday from work for three weeks of the total four of the diet, lying by the pool for one of them, drinking wine and vodka cocktails (not in the same glass, obvs – that would be wrong), eating out and not doing any real exercise to write home about, I don’t think that was too bad a result. I reckon if you exercised like a demon and cut out alcohol completely you could easily lose three times that. Easily. I amazed myself by not having a single slice of bread, potato or crisp (…actually, I might have had a packet of crisps, but only one) for the entire month, and have consumed more fruit, veg, cous cous and general healthy stuff in this last four weeks than in the past year. I’ve never come anywhere near 5-a-day before now (unless we’re talking five units of alcohol) yet this has been a breeze. Enjoyable, even. I actually feel like I’ve changed my attitude and lifestyle, not just shed a few pounds and taken some magic drops.

Can I keep it up? That remains to be seen, but I’ll be doing my best to stick to the approved foods list and a healthier diet as a way of life from now on. Anyway, I’m off to shake my (slightly smaller) booty to house music on Bossa beach with the rest of the Clockwork Orange crew. Hasta lluego, amigos!

Wish me luck!

Sam x

If you’d like to try the Slenderiiz Drop To Drop Programme for yourself, contact Lisa here or follow her VIP page here. 

Fancy reading my back-story before you go any further? You can find my other blogs at:

www.costaricachica1.blogspot.com
www.samgoessolo.blogspot.com
www.mummymission.blogspot.com
www.worldwidewalsh.blogspot.com

Follow me:

Twitter: @SamanthaWalsh76 (Life:ABird’sEyeView)
Facebook: @lifeabirdseyeview
Instagram: @lifeabirdseyeview

The post Getting Slender For The Ibiza Weekender appeared first on Life: A Birds Eye View.

 

If moving to tranquil Sevenoaks was like double-dropping super-strength valium, then a trip back to The Big Smoke is like a shot of adrenalin to the heart.London, like any drug, loses it’s impact after several years of hits. You get used to the rush. To the uninitiated – a country-dweller, tourist or infrequent visitor – the city hits you in the face with all the subtlety of a shovel. Like a tornado it sucks you in, spins you around and then unceremoniously spits you out, like the cyclone in Kansas stealing Dorothy and Tonto from their home.

The human body is a resilient and adaptable marvel. You only have to study a commuter for the evidence: after decades of the daily schlepp from the ‘burbs they have adapted accordingly. Darwin’s theory of evolution suggests that animals evolve according to their environment: so it follows that commuters adopt a hard outer shell, fixed, forward-facing gaze, and immunity to their surroundings in order to survive the tough daily grind; the dog-eat-dog fight for survival. It’s every man for himself. In short, you become hardened and immune to London – which includes its bright lights and dazzling charms, as well as the pitfalls of the polluted, overcrowded city.

But take the aforementioned human out of London for a period of time, and they soften once more. Then, when returning to the city as a visitor, rested and re-energised, the sense of awe is restored; stiff necks now fully mobilised as they crane to see skyscrapers; blinkers come off tired eyes as they open them wide in wonder.

This has been my experience. When working in the capital day in, day out, the slog of the journey and the sheer effort required to get through the day began to erode at the joy of the experience – in much the same way the sea wears away a cliff face. But now, a few years down the line and currently working closer to home, fully recovered from the exhaustion and soul-destroying monotony of it all, I’m able to return as a visitor – a tourist almost – on a purely social basis with renewed vigour. Like computers, most things work again after a control-alt-delete reboot, or by simply unplugging for a while – including humans.

I’m like a kid at Christmas when travelling into town, senses heightened in anticipation. Instantly absorbed by the madding crowd as I step off the train, the energy hits me: surging through my body like a jolt of electricity – as opposed to a baton over the head during my former incarnation as a worker ant. My head is like an owl’s: almost rotating through 360 degrees as I attempt to take everything in – the architecture, shops, restaurants, bars – not to mention the deafening noise that such a hive of activity invariably generates.

Long nights out in London take on a hypnotic state as we drift from bar to club to afterparty, carried on a sea of cocktails and chaos, pinging from one venue to the next like silver balls in a pinball machine.

 

Magic Roundabout: located in the middle of Old St roundabout

A recent night out at The Magic Roundabout: one of my fave haunts…

Suddenly it’s time to go home, and no sooner have the lights come on than we’re in a taxi; whisked away from the choppy murkiness of the Thames and back to the still waters and serenity of Sevenoaks. When we awake bleary-eyed to hazy recollections we wonder if it was all a dream; one glance in our wallets tells us it was not. Oh well, it was worth it, we all agree; the memories sustain us throughout the corporate humdrum of the working week ahead.

Until next time, London…or should I say, next payday…

I love you

 

photo credit

Buy tickets to Knee Deep In London via RA here

Tired of London, tired of life: my ever-increasing London ’17 to-do list, ticking them off as I go…

Jan: 
Tobacco Dock NYD 
Groove Odyssey @Ministry Of Sound 
The Magic Roundabout 

Feb:
Forge and Co Shoreditch 
Mulletover at East Bloc 

March: 
The Breakfast Club 
Call Me Mr Lucky 
Clockwork Orange at Koko  

April:
Knee Deep In London at The Printworks
Old Street Records

May:
Norman Jay Up On The Roof @The Prince Of Wales – MayDay Bank Holiday Special
WeR Festival (I know, I know, that’s Essex not London)

June:
Jamiroquai at The O2

July:
Lovebox

August:
Elrow Street Party
51st State
SW4

TBC:
The Steelyard
Brixton Electric (been before – good times)
Queen Of Hoxton (an old fave)
The Hoxton Pony (ditto)
Village Underground (been before and enjoyed)
Dalston Superstore
Proud Camden
The Roundhouse
The Jazz Café (saw Too Many Zooz here – great fun)

Have you got more suggestions for my London ’17 To-Do List? Hit me up!

 

Sam x


Fancy reading my back-story before you go any further? You can find my other blogs at:

www.costaricachica1.blogspot.com
www.samgoessolo.blogspot.com
www.mummymission.blogspot.com
www.worldwidewalsh.blogspot.com

Follow me:

Twitter: @SamanthaWalsh76 (Life:ABird’sEyeView)
Facebook: @lifeabirdseyeview
Instagram: @lifeabirdseyeview

The post Knee Deep In London appeared first on Life: A Birds Eye View.

photo credit

It’s Sunday evening after the previous night’s clubbing, you’re slumped in the local old folks’ home wearing a pair of stained, too-big jeans, which you’re sure until recently were the perfect fit.
Suddenly, over the course of what feels like only a matter of days, your body appears to have withered and contracted in the manner of a grape morphing into a raisin, any last vestige of fecundity disappearing with the last drops of moisture. As you lick at the spittle in the corners of your mouth hoping for some relief from the dryness, you realise that a couple of young lads are eyeing you with suspicion from across the room, marveling curiously at the events that may have preceded this old vessel coming to be washed up in this depressingly dead part of town.

“S’up lads?” you enquire through glazed, rheumy eyes. They look away, embarrassed. It’s at this point you realise with a jolt that these young whippersnappers are mistaking you for…..a resident.

“Nah boys!” you correct them, attempting to laugh through cracking voice. ” I don’t live here! I’m not a…..whispering in hushed tones as you glance around….geriatric!
Christ, I’m only about twenty years older than you two!”

Their eyes widen with shock as your trembling hand reaches out to show them a recent selfie on your Iphone. There. There it is. You’re wearing the same top, same jeans, but you look….decades younger.

“See?” You implore, incredulous. “I’m not a pensioner you fools. I’ve just been to Clockwork Orange.”

The awkward silence is broken with peals of relieved laughter and high-fives as you explain that, overcome with post-party guilt at not having visited your grumpy Gramps in the local care home for a while, you decided to pop along this evening before a busy week back at work tomorrow.

“Blimey, mate, you’re doing it all wrong!” one of them laughs, reaching over to pat their  dear old nan’s arm, who’s looking on, confused, as his brother pops another boiled sweet into her gummy mouth.

“You wanna take a tip or two from our mate Sam. She’s as old as the hills but she follows these simple rules that MUST be adhered to as an ageing cheesy quaver.”

He pulls his plastic chair in and leans closer as he prepares to share the hallowed secrets.

“Now listen up, and listen good…..”

1. Always follow the 1/4 rule
To avoid looking like one of the Rolling Stones’ older meth-addicted brothers, only go on a bender one week in four, tops. At 18, someone’s only gotta start the sentence “D’ya fancy coming to….? and you’re there : showered, flossed, fluffed and waiting by the front door.
At forty, you’ve gotta be a bit more selective. Pick and choose your nights with care. Whereas before you’d go to the opening of an envelope, now you want the ensuing three-day hangover to actually be worth it. And who wants to bust those well-honed moves surrounded by a load of spotty oiks off their nuts on some random plant fertiliser they’ve bought off t’internet, eh?

2. Don’t peak too soon
When you’re buzzing with excitement about the upcoming festivities, it can be tempting to celebrate the night before with a few cheeky beverages. Big mistake. What starts as a cheeky chupito often ends up surrounded by empty wine bottles on the morning of the big party itself. Fail! On the night before the rave, barricade yourself in the house, turn your phone to silent – smack yourself over the head with a shovel if you need to, but DO NOT, I repeat NOT, get on it! You’ll ruin the main event.

3. Be prepared
Remember the boy scout motto. You’re old. The post-party hangover is gonna hurt. Fact. Minimise the damage by getting your beauty sleep and eating well beforehand. Take Milk Thistle (liver protector) and 1g Vitamin C (antioxidant) every morning. Oh, and drink hot water with lemon for a few days prior. Aloe Vera juice is pretty good too.

4. Make the most of it on the night
You’ll be brown bread soon enough. Get those stylish yet deceptively comfy shoes on and dance like your pathetic little life depends on it. Rave face on, hands in the air, reach for the lasers and grin like a Cheshire cat, safe in the knowledge that most of your mates are tucked up in bed fast asleep, whilst you, you absolute legend, are defying the laws of both nature and gravity and are having it with a largeness those lightweights can only dream of. Take it all in : these memories will need to keep you going til the next party, so make sure you stow them away well.

5. Recovery position
Once you’ve raved to your heart’s content, get yourself rehydrated, chuck a load of multivits and a fistful of 5-HTP down your gullet and hibernate until the next permitted soiree in four weeks’ time (see rule 1). By all means make a cheeky foray to celebrate a mate’s birthday, have a post-work drink with a colleague, but do NOT be tempted to go flat-out hardcore raving on a weekly basis. That way trouble lies. And remember, what goes on tour, stays on tour. At your age, don’t be tempted to overshare. If someone asks “Good weekend?” over the water-cooler on a Monday morning, a simple “yes” will suffice.

“That’s it. Simples. You got that mate?”

“Mate…..?”

Having shared these pearls of wisdom, the young lads glance over at the foolish old graver (grey raver) to check he’s taken it all in, but it’s pointless – the clubbing casualty has succumbed to the heat of God’s waiting room (aka Sevenoaks Retirement Village) and is unconscious; furry tongue lolling out of the side of his downturned mouth.

Shrugging, they glance over to acknowledge his spritely grandad, who simply raises his eyebrows and gives them a knowing smile. With twisted arthritic hands, he slips his Dr Dre headphones out of his bedside cabinet, places them atop his wispy white head, then carefully presses ‘play’ on Jason Bye’s latest Clockwork set on his Ipad.

Index finger pressed to his lips in a silent sshhhh, he indicates to the lads not to wake his slumped, slumbering grandson as he double-taps his Google app and with slow, deliberate movements, slips on his half-moon spectacles and types four words into the search engine…

“…Cheap…flights…to…Ibiza.”

Sam x


Fancy reading my back-story before you go any further? You can find my other blogs at:

www.costaricachica1.blogspot.com
www.samgoessolo.blogspot.com
www.mummymission.blogspot.com
www.worldwidewalsh.blogspot.com

Follow me:

Twitter: @SamanthaWalsh76 (Life:ABird’sEyeView)
Facebook: @lifeabirdseyeview
Instagram: @lifeabirdseyeview

The post One Foot In The Rave appeared first on Life: A Birds Eye View.

What is it that makes me so particular about partying? Well for a start, they are bloody good fun. But it’s more than that : a decent knees-up has three stages….the build-up, the night itself, and then the gossip-fuelled post-mortem, whereby I’ll dine out for weeks (sometimes years) on the flashbacks and anecdotes of a memorable night, basking in the afterglow of a successful shindig.

At the age of 40 my love of all things fun has not diminished – quite the contrary. At 18 the nights and possibilities seem endless, it’s impossible to imagine that the raucous rampaging will ever stop. By 40, you’re more aware that the opportunities for wild nights of dancing with abandon upon a sticky bar are somewhat limited.

Therefore, when they do present themselves I grab them with both gnarly hands. It’s not that I myself am not up for the craic….no, no, no! As a childless woman I can do pretty much as I please – my parents are not yet peeing themselves and drinking their meals through straws, so I’m currently carefree. The majority of my party-loving pals, are, however, time-poor parents.

Partying and parenting, I’ve discovered, do not go hand in hand. Of course there are some things kids and clubs have in common : both keep you up all night and leave you feeling jet-lagged and jaded by the morning. But only one will make you smile for years to come, providing lasting memories that will carry you right through to old age….unlucky, parents!

Ok, ok so the fruit of one’s loins may fill you with pride, but I reckon when they are crowded round your deathbed waiting for their slice of your wedge, it’ll be the flickering images of dancing, laughing and raving on a beach in Ibiza or Thailand as a vivacious twenty-something that’ll be playing out behind your papery eyelids as you take your last breath, not the endless pooey nappies or the heated rows with hormonal teenagers.

One by one, my clubbing comrades succumbed to motherhood, and I had a silent memorial service for each of the fallen ravers, our social scene taking a hit every time one of my previously party-loving pals dropped off the radar to raise another little ruffian. What had previously been a big enough group to fill the entire tube carriage as we teetered and tottered on skyscraper heels on our way to a club, gradually diminished until it was just a handful of the hardcore hailing a cab. These days, it’s mostly just me and my fella.

Except, that is, for one event that never fails to fill the dancefloor with an army of forty-something thrill-seekers – Clockwork Orange : a bi-annual London clubbing extravaganza, with a cheeky jaunt to Ibiza thrown in every July for good measure. Thank Christ for that! I was in serious danger of being THAT wrinkly old bird bustin’ moves on a dancefloor full of fluffy chicks, that sad creature refusing to let go of her misspent youth, who the cool kids nod towards with a mixture of pity and admiration, that woman over THIRTY who would still dare to dance.

But amongst my fellow Clockworkers I fit right in – for one, we’re all old birds (or blokes) and we all share one common goal : to immerse ourselves in some proper old school house tunes, dance til our high heels are ground down to stumps and our faces ache from beaming (or in some cases, gurning).

At our age, we’ve no time for trouble-makers, competitive flirting and bitching, or general posing and pouting. For us, it’s all about the love of the music and the genuine desire for each and every fellow raver to have the best night ever. It’s taken weeks, months, even years, to get some of these old faces back on the party circuit, so we all appreciate the effort everyone has made and respect each other accordingly. From baby-sitters to hotels, shoe-horning into skinnies and carefully filling the cracks that have mysteriously appeared in faces since those early raving days, getting a load of like-minded ageing cheesy-quavers in one place takes a LOT of preparation. And that’s just the DJs.

Once a weekly occurrence in our twenties and just part of our regular social routine, clubbing til 6am as a responsible adult is now a major event. The wardrobe of suitable dancing attire is likely replaced with suits, sensible shoes sitting where sparkly stilettos used to reside.

So the pre-Clockwork foreplay is a long and languid affair – there’s the hair, the nails, the outfit, carefully selected to strike the right balance between slinky and slutty, eager to show a hint of leg rather than the whole joint of mutton. We may be looking fierce at forty, but we are also wise enough to know that resembling the fairy off the top of a Christmas tree is not a good look, and besides, glitter emphasizes crows’ feet….even if we do prefer to refer to them as laughter lines.

As the night draws closer, excitement reaches a peak. Going to work doesn’t seem such a chore, as every early alarm signifies one less sleep until the party, and we leap from our beds as fast as our bad backs will allow, the spring in our step coming from nervous energy rather than our new comfy insoles.

On the night itself, it’s a mixture of emotions, the first being relief and joy that most of our mates with tickets actually show up. Of course, there are a few casualties struck down by familial responsibilities – little Scarlett has a fever for example, or ” I’m tired (yawn), I think I’ll stay in with a takeaway and Ant and Dec.” Bore off!

Whereas as teenagers the FOMO (fear of missing out) alone would have dragged everyone from their homes come rain, hail or snow, as adults the conditions have to be ‘just so’ for a night of hands-in-the-air frolicking. Only the most dedicated dancefloor demons will brave the elements to fling down some foot.

The evening’s proceedings commence with prinks (pre-drinks) at a pre-agreed watering hole. The regular clientele gawp as a fleet of ageing peacocks strut to the bar for an energising Vodka Red Bull to get the party started. Suitably refreshed, it’s off to the club early-doors to secure our spots on the dancefloor – us oldies have decades of dancing experience between us, and we take our raving very seriously. High-fiving all the old Ibiza faces and cheers-ing with cheeky chupitos (shots), we settle in for a night of ecstatic catch-ups, wide-eyed with excitement to see all the old raving crew together once more, reunited for a nostalgic trip down memory lane.

We exchange knowing looks as all our favourite Nineties club classics are expertly mixed by the best old-school DJs in the business for our aural pleasure – from Brandon Block and Alex P to Seb Fontaine, Paul Trouble Anderson, and of course not forgetting the legendary geezers who are responsible for Clockwork Orange’s 23-year run: Danny Gould and Andy Manston.

These guys have been bossing the clubbing scene for so long the early pictures of their club nights feature the now-bald Manky with a full head of hair and the silver fox Gouldy without the merest hint of grey. Hats off to the lads whose winning formula of top-quality house music and the friendliest footloose and fancy-free atmosphere has withstood the test of time, drawing clubbers young and old (but mostly old) from all over the country. It’s a veritable party pilgrimage.

As the night powers on full-throttle, glitter-cannons fire ticker-tape into the heaving crowd, the bass reverberates in our chests and our feet stomp in time to the music. Everyday worries and fears are left far behind and we are all fresh-faced sweaty teenagers once more, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed as we throw some shapes, concentrating on cutting rug as if our lives depend on it. Satisfied with the reaction on the dancefloor, the DJs happily engage with their adoring legion of loyal clubbers, whose lives may have taken different paths in the intervening decades but our one true love, the love of house music, is the glue that bonds us all.

photo credit: Daddy’s Got Sweets

Sadly, even the best nights must eventually end, and as the birds start tweeting the crowd reluctantly begins to wind down, ready for the dreaded journey home.

The Walk of Shame is not great at any age, but there’s something particularly painful about stumbling about shame-faced on a Sunday morning on public transport as a forty-something in a dress and heels that causes me to clench my teeth a little harder. Sometimes it’s easier to hit the after-party than face the grim journey, but we’re long enough in the tooth to realise that we’re just prolonging the agony.
Like putting a wounded animal to sleep, it’s better to get it over with as quickly as possible, hence we scurry home bleary-eyed before we all turn into pumpkins. With the amount of orange attire and dodgy tan-jobs knocking about, that particular transformation is a distinct possibility.

Once safely in the comfort of our own homes, we dissect the evening’s events fully, revelling in the glory of another outstanding night. Looking bone-tired, dog-rough and with a monster hangover already kicking in, we’d all agree nevertheless that it was worth it. No-one looks back and remembers the nights they got plenty of sleep, after all.

photo credit

As our bloodshot bulging eyes finally flutter closed, memories of the club nights of our youth merge with these fresh memories as we upload them to our internal hard drives, stored away to be recalled and enjoyed time and again, say on a wet Wednesday afternoon at work, during a particularly dreary commute – or until the next Clockwork club night creates fresh ones in six months’ time.

And at our age, it’ll take us that long to get over it….

Sam x


Fancy reading my back-story before you go any further? You can find my other blogs at:

www.costaricachica1.blogspot.com
www.samgoessolo.blogspot.com
www.mummymission.blogspot.com
www.worldwidewalsh.blogspot.com

Follow me:

Twitter: @SamanthaWalsh76 (Life:ABird’sEyeView)
Facebook: @lifeabirdseyeview
Instagram: @lifeabirdseyeview

The post Regular As Clockwork appeared first on Life: A Birds Eye View.