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.

 

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.

Ageing raver: I love the glitz and glamour of clubbing almost as much as the music itself

Those Bird’s Eye Viewers who have the dubious pleasure of being acquainted with me in real life will know that I love to party – the whole process of pondering which outfit to wear for weeks in advance…which accessories…perhaps buying a blingy new pair of heels; selecting false eyelashes and face glitter whilst out shopping, head tilted as I cradle my iPhone on one shoulder, chattering away to my mates as we come up with a group game plan for the forthcoming shindig.

I love clubbing; I pride myself on the fact that there’s barely a cool club in London I’ve not frequented and had never been turned away by a clipboard-bearing Door Whore…until of course I went happily trotting upto the red ropes of the Mummy Club, beaming away expectantly, eager to come in and join the fun.

The glamorous young MILF on the door took one look at me – looked through me into the depths of my empty barren womb – and promptly declared “You’re not on the guest list…you can’t come in,” before turning on her stiletto heels and dismissing me with a flick of her wrist. Oh. Never one to be beaten down so easily, I had several attempts at IVF before returning to the Mum Club once more. Again, I was turned away. “Your name’s not down, you’re not coming in…”

“Not even with a mate who’s a member?” I begged, my dignity rapidly being replaced with desperation. “I’m not expecting a freebie, or even concessions, I’ll pay full whack” I whined.

“Uh uh,” replied the door staff sternly – all the commotion attracting quite a crowd of Mum Club regulars; members who were by now regarding me suspiciously through narrowed eyes. Who was this Non-Mum imposter, attempting to infiltrate the Mummy Club? What was she doing here?

Crestfallen, I slunk off homewards, yanking off my false eyelashes as I blinked back tears; scrubbing off my Glitterlips on the tube. I was devastated to be turned away. I vowed not to be beaten…

Years later, feeling strong and positive once more, I made a conscious decision not to let the whole experience of being turned away from the Mum Club continue to get me down. I had a lightbulb moment – an idea so obvious that I instantly wondered why I’d not come up with it sooner: I’d open my own club.

This club would be exclusively for women who’d also been turned away at the entrance to the Mummy Club; those who had done everything they could think of to be allowed entry: eating the right foods, hanging around with mums, trying to look like a mum even, before turning to fertility treatment as a last resort – but for whom the doors to the club remained resolutely closed. Then I decided to open the door a bit wider: to allow other women into the club, ones for whom The Mummy Club was never an attractive venue, but who would like to hang out with other Non-Mums anyway.

My club? The Non-Mum Network.

It may just be a virtual club at the moment – picture a chic and bijou little members-only establishment: expensive but comfy oxblood leather sofas; soft lighting; free-flowing cocktails being served by hot bartenders; an achingly hip DJ spinning tunes in an alcove – low-level at first before ramping up to fever pitch as we all get relaxed and tipsy, confiding in one another in the chill-out area. Who knows, one day I might have a real life Non-Mum Network venue – a physical place for women to come to meet other women for lunch or workshops. I’m dreaming big.

If you’ve also been denied entry to the Mum Club, the one club you most wanted to get into, whilst everyone around you is breezing into it just by flashing a wristband, fear not.
Why not add me as a friend on Facebook, search on Facebook for the Non-Mum Network under ‘groups’ or just click here to go straight to it. It’s a closed group so everything said in there is for members’ eyes only. I’ve also got a Non-Mum Network public page.

So if you’re not a member of the Mummy Club, come and join us instead. We’ve got bouncers on the door to keep the mums out, just in case a few try to slip in under the rope, as I did with their club . You need never feel alone as a Non-Mum again…

Ibiza 2006: smiling with my imaginary baby (I didn’t realise at this point my Non-Mum status was permanent)

#The Non-Mum Network

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 The Non-Mum Network appeared first on Life: A Birds Eye View.

Sparkles Lips: add some glitz to your lips

They say you should never wear glitter over the age of 40…or is it 30? Whatever! I say to hell with them and their rules – whoever ‘they’ are anyway! ‘They’ are probably the hoity toity, buttoned-up Fun Police – the conservative rule-followers who also disapprove of holidaying in Ibiza (so common!) and clubbing at any age after graduation. Well ‘they’ can just push their horn-rimmed specs back up their aquiline noses, quit quoting endless dos and don’ts from the play-it-safe rulebook and go back to finishing the Guardian crossword – ’cause we ain’t listenin’!

I’ve never been particularly fond of being told what to do, so I’m not about to start now. I’ve always had plenty to say for myself – too much, perhaps. My mouth does have a tendancy to run away with me: I was born lippy. But I’m an upstanding member of society and have never been in trouble with the law, so if the only crimes I’m committing are those against growing old gracefully then I think a mere caution is ample punishment, don’t you Officer?

Sparkles Lips in Holographic Pink

Yes, glitter sits in your wrinkles and shimmer shows up your crow’s feet, but does anyone really care? I’d far rather see someone out having fun, eyes crinkling, head thrown back and giggling uncontrollably with a bit of glitter settling into her laughter lines than a perfectly stylish yet stony-faced ice maiden.

There’s a time and a place for everything of course – the glittery lips I’m demoing in the clip below are not geared towards the school run (the dried glitter has the texture of sand so will probably remove several layers of little Johnny’s delicate peachy skin as you kiss him goodbye on the cheek at the gates) or zipping round Sainsburys (people will assume you’ve pulled an all-nighter and not slept yet), but on a big night out or a summertime festival they are perfect: fun, frivolous and – in my humble opinion – 40 year old-friendly.

I know I have major crow’s feet around my eyes and in a few years will resemble a big blonde shar-pei, but having a strong sense of humour is what’s got me through life thus far, so I wear the resulting laughter lines with pride. And besides, I’d rather crinkly eyes from smiling than deep frown lines and a furrowed brow.

So tear up the rule book (and that boring Boden catalogue whilst you’re at it), whack on the tunes to get you in the mood and get out the glitter pots, girls! It’s time to shine bright like a diamond and join the glitterati. Let’s sparkle, shimmer and shimmy our way through life while we still can (if we listen to the nagging naysayers it won’t be long before the ol’ knees give way and we won’t have the option anyway, eh?).

If being covered in a fine layer of fairy dust makes you happy then go right ahead, I say. I’m sure even the most fastidious of fashion rule-followers would agree: the best accessory you can wear – whatever your age – is a smile. So you may as well make it a sparkly one…

Now you’ve got your glitzy lippy sorted, why not try glitter eyes too? Crank up this old club classic and get yourself in the mood to party….have fun!

The post Born Lippy: My Guide To Getting The Sparkliest Lips In Town! appeared first on Life: A Birds Eye View.

photo credit

“I got chiiills, they’re multiplyin’…..”

Don’t worry, I’m not about to launch into a rousing rendition of Better Shape Up from Grease – not least because with a slight hint of a ‘tache and pasty un-made-up face I look more like Danny than Sandy right now. No, I’ve got chills because I’m sick.

Since we live in a ridiculous time when “sick” can now mean both violently ill and also amazingly cool, allow me to clarify: I’m sick in the old-fashioned sense. Did you really think a forty-something woman would be using the word in the new trendy slang way? Nah. That would not be “sick”…that would be embarrassing.

Sam…or Slimer?

So I’m sitting in my bed, bolstered by pillows and cushions to keep me bolt upright, since whenever I tilt even a few degrees to one side I leak snot like some kind of Ghostbusters blobby thing oozing ectoplasm, when it suddenly occurs to me: I’ve not been ill for ages. Sure, I’ve had the odd hangover, but that’s entirely self-inflicted and doesn’t exactly classify as illness; I mean, anyone who downs wine, jäger bombs and cocktails over the course of a lively evening hardly expects (or deserves) to wake up feeling full of beans, right?

No, what just struck me was how rarely I feel as rubbish as I do now, which is as an extra from Thriller might do (i.e freshly dug up) and ergo, how lucky I am. I can’t remember the last time I had a day off sick from work. Certainly not in the last two years (and I’m not about to start now: no-one likes a Sicknote). Health is something we all simply take for granted…until it’s not there.

Just as we don’t really appreciate our parents when we’re kids – the endless dinners prepped, expensive trainers, school trips, dad being our personal taxi service, ferrying us about (mine still does sometimes – cheers Pops) – we also don’t always appreciate feeling “normal”…until we don’t. It’s just taken as a given that we feel fine, thus allowing plenty of time to focus on the big stuff – like the size of Kim K’s ass, Queen Bey’s baby news, or our mutual loathing of Trump.

So this post contains no big revelation; it’s just a simple expression of gratitude for my health. I’m not particularly religious, so I’m not quite sure who I’m addressing it to – not God, exactly. The Universe?

It’s the same when it comes to discussing the ageing process. Of course I’d love to be gazelle-like (or maybe Gisele-like?) forever – springing about all plumped and pumped with the vigour of youth – but getting older is actually something to be proud of. I spend my days peddling “anti-ageing” products in my job as a beauty boutique manager – it’s big business – but why are we so ashamed of getting older? Yes, I’d rather look like Bambi than a taxidermist’s mishap, but a lived-in face shows character and experience. It says: “Oh I could tell you a story or two…..” delivered with a sly, crinkly-eyed wink

photo credit

I reckon we need to change our attitudes towards ageing. I mean, we made it this far – so many don’t. The alternative to getting old…is not getting old at all. I know plenty of amazing people whose lives were cruelly snatched like a rug from beneath their feet long before their time – some in their twenties and thirties or even younger.

Of course I bemoan the crow’s feet when I look in the mirror as much as the next person, but the overwhelming feeling is gratitude that I’m actually still here. I’ve put my body through a lot over the years, but still it soldiers on and serves me well (even if it is starting to creak and click a bit in protest).

So although from the outside it might look like a sorry scene in my bedroom this Sunday afternoon: me slumped in bed during the day clad in fox-print peejays (well Andy did say to “buy yourself something foxy”) accessorised with a big red bulbous hooter, sore from being blown umpteen times – I’m actually feeling decidedly upbeat.

Feeling bleugh: Netflix and a chill

I might on the surface of things be feeling fifty shades of meh; the scene more “Netflix and chills” than chill, but underneath the mountains of Kleenex and trashy magazines is an ashen-faced 40-something who’s actually bloody grateful.
Grateful that this is just a cold.
Grateful that in a few days I’ll be right as rain.
Grateful that by next weekend I’ll be back to drinking wine and dancing with friends and taking my health for granted all over again….

About last weekend…clubbing with the gorgeous JenKat

But in the meantime, I’m just chillin’.

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 Netflix and Chills appeared first on Life: A Birds Eye View.

Ibiza.
Eye-beef-ahh.
Ee-beez-a.

Whatever your preferred pronunciation, most people who visit The White Isle never go just once: the island is a magnet. If she were a woman she’d be a fearless rubber-clad dominatrix, mercilessly reeling you in then spitting you out; she eats guileless tourists for breakfast.

My first foray to the island was as an impressionable 17-year-old schoolgirl, astounded and delighted in equal measure that my parents, along with those of my eleven closest girlfriends, had permitted us to go. Hence followed an annual pilgrimage to get our 2 week fix of fun and frolics – until two weeks just wasn’t enough anymore. Like an addict, I’d built up a tolerance and required ever-more hits to get my sun-drenched kicks. In 1997 I decamped to Ibiza for the season, filming Ibiza Uncovered and working at The New Star. I spent May til October in my happy place. Ditto ’98. The trips continued thick and fast and in 2005 I was married in Santa Eulalia to the Englishman I’d first met on the island in 1998.

Fast forward to 2016. After 15 years together the marriage is finito and I’m instead returning to the island with my fella Andy and our gang of trusty party devotees for our pal Keith’s 40th birthday celebrations at the big one: Space closing. Only this is not just the annual end-of-season shindig, this time it’s closing FOR GOOD. Terminado. Even typing these words brings a lump to my throat and a tear to my eye. (Or is that just the post-party blues?).

Space, my favourite club on Earth, is no more. Get a grip, you might say. It’s only a nightclub. But those that share my passion about the island’s club scene will understand my dismay. The heartbreak. Because Space is (was!) not just any club. It was a meeting of minds, a coming-together of individuals from all walks of life, united in our love of top-quality house music.

I remember the first time I stepped over the threshold. It was 1994, I was eighteen, and on my second jaunt to The White Isle, the first having been largely centred around the West End of San Antonio. By the second year I was a bit more clued-up. We’d been to another club until it closed and then taken a taxi to Space. It was around 7am and I instantly fell in love: with the “freaks” as they were affectionately known, the music, that “anything goes” freedom. As I’d just starting working in the City, reluctantly joining the rest of the grey, suit-clad rat-race, this was a welcome relief from the humdrum conformity of the dull workforce of London town. Gazing around me in awe, I greedily drank in the scene.

The open-air terrace was bathed in warm sunshine, blissful house tunes carrying across the dancefloor like manna from heaven. It was fairly empty at that time, having recently opened at 6am in order to catch the after-hours crowd eager to continue the party. Peacock-like transvestites mingled with androgynous types in 6in black platform boots, piercings and bondage gear; a blur of wild wigs and brightly-coloured make-up as they strutted around to the beat of the music, whilst hippy types lounged in white robes and tie-dyed smocks, draping their dreads over the backs of wicker chairs as they smiled lazily through fugs of blue smoke. The atmosphere was of relaxed hedonism, a laissez-faire attitude making you feel instantly at ease, despite the bewildering array of crazy outfits and huge kohl-lined eyes. The interior of the club was altogether darker in all senses of the word: heavy pounding beats and a pitch-black dampness as the sweaty crowd gyrated to the beat.

It was in 1997 as a fully-fledged “worker” that I became a regular at the club. My boss Juan, the moustachioed and mischievous owner of The New Star (and well-known on the island), would take us to the club after our shift and the door staff would wave us in for free. Particularly memorable was the opening party, when what felt like the entire San An workforce were doing the “Ibiza Shuffle” in time to the uplifting sounds of “You’re Free” by Ultra Nate. I can clearly remember looking around the club as we danced, high on the terrace steps, giant fans blowing our hair back, planes soaring overhead due to the proximity of the airport, as we chinked our vodka shots with cries of “Salud!”‘
“This is awesome!” I shouted to my girlfriend, Kez, over the music. “I love it!” she agreed with a high-five. Judging by the Cheshire-cat grins and wide-eyed awe of my fellow party-goers, we weren’t alone in this sentiment.

Tuesday mornings were always eventful. Manumission, a weekly party held on a Monday night at Privilege (formerly an aircraft hanger, then Ku), was a vast club regularly attracting upto 10000 revellers. I had a “job” of sorts with the Manumission entertainments team, the vague description of which involved dressing up in various outlandish costumes and performing random tasks such as peeling potatoes on the dancefloor or using a plastic lizard as a phone – the more random the better.

The shenanigans would then continue at Space Carry On, where the weird and wonderful would crawl out of the woodwork to party at the club. Even on those busy mornings there was plenty of room to dance, with vast fruit platters being passed around and groups of people relaxing on double beds, chatting. Props such as beachballs and inflatable toys were volleyed about: it was basically a playground for carefree adults who’d raided the fancy-dress chest. We Love (held on Sundays) was another favourite – in part due to the novelty of full-on partying on the sabbath, whilst everyone back in Blighty was munching a roast or slumped on the sofa, slippers on, watching the footy in a near-catatonic state.

Over the summers I’ve been to Ibiza countless times, with a hiatus in recent years as I travelled to South and Central America and Asia instead. Whilst the island has always been a favourite destination of mine, I love discovering new countries – and besides, for the price of a long party weekender in Ibiza you can live like a queen for two weeks in Thailand.

Regardless, as soon as we heard that Space was closing for ever, it was a no-brainer: we simply had to go. Like visiting a dying relative, we knew it would be nostalgic, sorrowful and bittersweet, as we vowed to give it a good send-off and say our last misty-eyed goodbyes. We weren’t the only ones: apparently there were around 16k other people with the same idea. It was touch-and-go as we raced to be amongst the first 4000 to secure one of the coveted online tickets – with each limited release selling out in seconds.

Once in possession of those Willy Wonka-style golden tickets, we set about choosing our outfits and cramming our carry-ons with glitter and heels. The excitement built day by day, as we ticked dates off the calendar, counting down the sleeps until the party to end all parties. After a 27-year run, this would be the final farewell, a 20-hour extravaganza featuring over 100 of the world’s top DJs.

Eventually the big day arrives….

We’re careful not to go too hard the night before, which is no mean feat in Ibiza where parties are in abundance and temptation is at every turn. When we awake the sun’s already shining on our shenanigans: it’s a glorious day. We gorge on the hotel breakfast buffet – it could be a long time before we get our next meal – which includes complimentary jugs of sparkling wine to get the party started. Easy tiger! I’ve got to get my Space Face on yet and those 2 inch false eyelashes are fiddly as hell. A sozzled Barbara Cartland is not quite the look I was aiming for.

There ain’t no raver like a wrinkly raver, but fortunately us girls are a dab-hand with the warpaint: soon we’re glossed and bouffed to within an inch of our lives. You can’t polish a turd….but you can roll it in glitter and stick a bindi on it.

Early afternoon, and we’re just revving up into 5th gear at Bar 45 where Brandon Block and Alex P are getting the party started, when suddenly the killjoy Policia Locale rock up and flip off the music, slapping the bar with a whacking great fine for good measure. Bastardos!

By now we’re chomping at the bit to get to the club and trot happily along the Bossa streets, excitement building with every step as we approach Space. To our joy, there’s barely a queue (we’re lucky, it’s over 2hrs long soon after) and we step into the pumping Flight Area, instantly bumping into some familiar faces. We say our hellos with a hug and a high five and have a dance, before heading to our favourite part of the club, and where we’ll spend the majority of the day and night: the Sunset Terrace.

Unfortunately Jon Ulysses has just finished his set, which you can listen to here, but at least we get a chance to chat to him and a few other old faces, before getting down to business on the dancefloor. The air is filled with the sounds of tune after classic tune, accompanied by singing, laughter and the unmistakable blast from an air horn. The sweet house music is like food for the soul. Kez and I dance up by the fans for old time’s sake; if we close our eyes for a moment it could be our nineties heyday all over again.

It’s busy, but not uncomfortably so, and the atmosphere is electric: hands-in-the-air happy clappers determined to make this final Space mission a memorable one. It’s just a sea of toothy grins and crinkly-eyed smiles as far as the eye can see. The energy is contagious.

Barbara Tucker belts out funky feel-good melodies, then we check out the other rooms before returning to the terrace for Smokin’ Jo’s cracking set. Next up are the legends Alex P and Brandon Block: these dudes created the terrace and there’s no way we’d miss their lively set. As expected, they deliver tune after bouncing tune, served up with their characteristic cheeky style and a side-helping of charisma.

The freaks are conspicuous in their absence, which is a shame. I miss marvelling at the old woman with the eye patch in a tatty wedding dress, battered plastic kid’s doll held aloft. Or the guy who dances with a full-size shop mannequin. There’s no sign of Metal Mickey either, with his hundreds of chains and piercings. That’s not to say people haven’t made an effort: there are plenty of decorated hats, sequins and sparkly pimped-up outfits, beaming faces adorned with gems and glitter. I’m sure I catch sight of the huge-hatted Vaughn and pals from the Funky Room at Pacha.

The club is filling up now so we escape upstairs to the Premier Etage for a breather – space to dance, chat and relax in the huge padded chill-out tube. It’s out to the Flight Area for Carl Cox, then later the pitch-black Main Room for Josh Wink, Sasha and Erick Morillo. Wink plays Higher State of Consciousness; the smoke cannons chuck out huge gusts of cooling dry ice as the beat drops, the force of which is almost enough to blow you over. The beams of the lasers light up the crowd, which, as you’d expect, is going completely wild.

By now it’s almost 6am and we’ve been in the club for 13 hours. Due to some areas closing, it’s uncomfortably full and exhausting trying to move around the club in the scrum – dangerous even. Wearing spike stiletto heels was a rookie error: my balls are killing me. As much as we planned to stay til the final dance, Andy and I decide to drop the shoulder and head home. Kez follows close behind. Our most hardcore buddies stay till the very end, including Keefster the birthday boy, and turbo-birds Jenny and Katherine. I must admit to being a tad disappointed in myself for being a lightweight and not hanging it out when I see this awesome shot of the final moments…

photo credit: Tatiana Chausovsky

It’s a marathon, not a sprint….fortunately we sprint marathons. After a quick pit-stop at the hotel to shower and change we get a second wind and head back out to continue the party: first at Tantra, then at Bora Bora, which is nothing like the dancing-on-tables extravaganza of the old days, but a nostalgic treat nonetheless.

Soon we’re surrounded by our fellow Space cadets, whose impressive stamina saw them dance til the very end and listen to Carl Cox and (the owner) Pepe’s speeches and the final tune of the night: Angie Stone’s Wish I Didn’t Miss You…

They pull up a seat and we excitedly compare notes…and memorabilia, which is mostly varying-sized chunks of the famous Space terrace wall. Everyone who attended got a ticket to collect a free Space tote bag filled with goodies: a cd, Space tags, a Space t-shirt and history-filled memory card – annoyingly we lost our tickets and missed out on these. Amateurs! Hey ho. We spend the day drinking and chatting to friends old and new at Bora Bora before jumping a taxi back to the hotel to grab our bags and head off to the airport, Blighty-bound…

The Burger King in Departures doubles up as Ibiza’s second A&E: battered-looking clubbing casualties are slumped on every available surface, half-heartedly chomping on a Whopper (likely the first thing they’ve eaten in days) and vacantly gazing off into the middle distance.

It’s time to go home.

Ibiza. This island leaves you fragile as a china doll that’s been smashed into a hundred tiny pieces, then haphazardly glued together by it’s seven-year-old owner. But Beefa, like our first love, you’ll always have a special place in our hearts…and we wouldn’t have you any other way. So, until next time, it’s…

¡hasta luego, mi amiga!

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 Space: The Final Frontier appeared first on Life: A Birds Eye View.

The alarm rudely shakes me from my slumber: 2.30am. I groan and roll over, noticing the bed is empty. Andy’s not only up, he’s showered, dressed and sitting by the front door next to his suitcase. Someone’s excited for our Amsterdam city break….An hour later and we’re on the road, hurtling towards Gatwick and a three-day break in the buzzing (in all senses of the word) city: it’s time for a spot of Amsterdamage.This weekend has been a no-brainer: Andy is a ‘Dam virgin and having secured the August bank holiday Monday off work, a quick search of flights threw up returns with Easyjet for £200 each. Pricier than at other times, but not bad for a peak weekend in the height of summer, when the rugrats are off school and pushing the prices skywards. Next, over to my trusty Booking.com app to locate a top-rated hotel. When choosing a hotel I tend to go with customer reviews rather than star ratings necessarily, and it’s always served me well. You don’t need to go 5-star to get an amazing experience; often it’s the less obvious places with lower stars but brilliant reviews that I like the best. Which is just as well seeing as I’m Sam Walsh, not P Diddy.

Volkshotel, in the East district of the city, looks interesting and is ticking lots of boxes : a cool lobby bar/cafe, classy rooftop restaurant and nightclub with panoramic views of the city, plus a secret basement cocktail bar and club. Chuck in a sauna and hot tubs on the roof and this little gem is sounding right up our Straat. A quick check with the hotel’s own site tells me it’s cheaper to book directly, so I do that and a few clicks later we’re all set: 2 nights at £90 a night. So for under £300 each we’ve got ourselves a cheeky lil jaunt organised – sweet!

After the compulsory rip-off breakfast at Gatwick which sets us back almost as much as the trip itself, it’s a short hop across to the Dam, and we arrive in less than an hour. At Schipol airport we purchase a 3-day travelcard for €25 each and then it’s a short journey by train and tube to our hotel. The underground in Amsterdam is immaculate – I dread to think what tourists make of our bio-hazardous carriages in London – and there are little LEDs on the tube map which show you which station you’re at as you travel – genius! We could use these back home, to avoid the mass pile-ups at the bottom of the stairs as clueless tourists squint at the tangled spaghetti of tube lines.

We jump off at Wilbautstraat and the hotel is directly opposite, so we check in, check out the hotel facilities and chill out for a bit before heading to the lobby bar. The sun is shining, the lobby is trendy and the Sauvignon is cold – what more can we ask?

We relax and take in our surroundings: there’s an industrial, warehouse feel – all concrete walls, exposed pipes and quirky soft furnishings. The staff are all good-looking hipsters, and there are arty types lolling on sofas tapping away into Macs and generally being creative. The East of Amsterdam is the cool, creative district of the city – much like East London, I guess. The building itself used to be the headquarters of a newspaper and there are little touches that hark back to this: the hotel has it’s own free newspaper, Volksnews, for example.

After our liquid refreshments, we jump the tube for the few short stops into the centre of town to explore the city – almost being mown down by the hundreds of cyclists whizzing past our noses in the process. We squint in the bright sunshine to check the coast is clear to cross, our nostrils twitching like Bisto Kids due to the fragrant aroma of cannabis being carried on the breeze.

It may only be an hour from London, but the atmosphere and laid-back culture of the city is a world away: coffee shops abound with plumes of blue smoke billowing from the entrance, prostitutes pose in the doorways of the Red Light District casually proffering their wares. I must say, the girls look a lot more buff than the last time I visited; this lot have been working out by the looks of it! The last time I was here most of the women looked a bit…dare I say….jaded. These hookers are no strangers to a spot of BodyPump and regular HIIT workouts judging by the muscle definition (not that I ever go to a gym myself, y’understand – I just follow fitness bloggers in the hope of getting in shape by proxy). Or perhaps it’s a case of needs must – they look like they won’t be taking any grief from lairy punters, that’s for sure…

I roll Andy’s tongue back up (which is currently lolling on the cobbles like a faulty roller blind) and we continue on to Dam Square, stopping occasionally for various refreshments. A typical Dutch platter of Bitterballen, various meats, cheeses, breads and pickles keeps us going on our rambles around town. We admire the multitude of flowers, rickety buildings, canals and houseboats, before topping up our sugar levels with tea and cake before heading back to the hotel to prepare for the evening’s festivities…

We dress up for our Saturday night shenanigans and head up to Canvas bar on the 7th floor of our hotel for a cheeky cocktail before heading into the city centre. Its a balmy evening; the cocktails are delicious, the crowd is made up of model material locals and we sit out on the comfy terrace which is lit with string lights, has stunning 360 degree views of the city and is – in a word – stunning.

It’s tempting to stay here as the hotel club will be kicking off in an hour or so, but we tear ourselves away and make tracks to Nieuwmarkt for a delicious Thai meal at Chao Phraya. We meander around the Red Light District again, stopping occasionally for a drink, before heading to Supper Club for the nightclub element of the establishment, Upper Club. Being one of the top haunts of the city, I wrongly assume it’ll be playing house music (the website lists Tech House) but to our disappointment discover it’s actually exclusively R&B, my least favourite genre. The club is jumping, but it’s just not our scene, so we stay for a while (having paid €15 each to get in) before heading back to our hotel at 2am to check out Doka, the basement club. A colourful peacock of a drag queen toilet attendant shows us the secret entrance (hidden behind some vintage lockers) and we are delighted to discover a super-cool hidden gem of  a club, the DJ spinning funky house and dirty disco beats to an achingly hip yet friendly crowd. Now that’s more like it!

By 4.30am it’s time for bed and we take the lift to our room to catch some zeds…Zzzzzzzz

The next day we decide to do the obligatory cultural stuff, after a traditional Dutch breakfast in Waterlooplein, alongside the flea markets. I don’t know if it’s partly due to the mild hangover I’m experiencing, but I find Anne Frank’s house particularly traumatic today (my second visit) and am in bits by the time we get out of there. I feel so sad, reading excerpts of her diaries, her burning desire to be a journalist or author and being able to relate to that ambition, as well as angry that she died at such a young age (16) without being able to realise her dreams.

The staircase hidden behind a bookcase which led to the secret annexe which concealed the family

If only she knew that her diaries would be published in over 70 languages and her book is one of the most widely read of all time. The fact that she died in the concentration camps only a month before the end of the war and never got to see her book’s subsequent success makes it all the harder to swallow. We watch a poignant video recorded by her father Otto (who was the only family member to survive the war and died aged 91 in 1980), who was handed the diaries after her death and had no idea she’d written them: “Parents never truly know their own children,” he said. Needless to say, I’m a gibbering wreck by the time we leave her house…

To lighten the sombre mood, we have a spot of lunch by the canal with a nice glass of wine, and eat a brick-sized slab of carrot cake each (don’t judge -we just love cake!) before exploring the city some more, followed by a chilled evening at the hotel, by which time I’m mentally and physically exhausted.

The next morning the sun is shining once again, so we have about a 6-course breakfast (the buffet mentality strikes again) at the hotel (they serve up a feast – really top drawer), before heading to the Van Gogh Museum, where Andy is almost lynched by security for taking photos (we got some good shots though!). Then as it’s such a beautiful day we take a lovely long stroll around Vondelpark, before more cake (what can I say – there are delicious-looking bakeries at every turn), the flower market, and a final al fresco meal of Argentinian steak at La Vaca.

      

All too soon, it’s time to go back to the hotel and collect our luggage, before catching the 9pm flight back to London. There are 29 ways to say goodbye in Dutch, but I think we’ll settle for “tot de volgende keer” (till next time), as we’ll definitely be back…..

Next stop……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 A ‘Dam Fine Weekend 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

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