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.

Here’s a little taster of some of the things we spoke about:

TANIA: Tell me about yourself…

SAM: From the Deep Heat cassette tapes of the late Eighties to the current Knee Deep In Sound podcasts on iTunes, I’ve always loved vocal house, deep house and techno. Aged 17, I had my first taste of Ibiza on a Club18-30s holiday with my 12 female BFFs, returning religiously each year before settling on the White Isle aged 21 to work the summer season of 1997 and star in the Sky1 fly-on-the-wall documentary Ibiza Uncovered alongside my pal Kez Wells. It was this programme, the first-ever reality TV show, which spawned a whole new genre of guilty-pleasure television. This led to various TV appearances, magazine and radio interviews as well as several documentary follow-ups. We loved living in Ibiza so much that we did the same stint in ’98.

Tania is live on FunkySX 103.7fm on Mondays and Thursdays 3-5pm. Click here to listen to Funky SX or go to www.funky.sx

 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 I’m A Guest On FunkySX radio appeared first on Life: A Birds Eye View.

I fell in love with clubbing long before I was old enough to set foot in one. Well, legally anyway.

At fifteen, I papered my bedroom walls, door and even the ceiling with flyers for raves and club nights, signing up to the Flying Squad mailing list to have all the latest party invites posted to me. I would eagerly await their arrival, marveling at the trippy graphic designs and poring over the intriguing details of all the upcoming raves in fields, manor houses and other off-limit locations.

Okay, so I wasn’t allowed to actually go to any, but it didn’t stop me listening to the pirate radio stations on my old stacking stereo system, making my own mixtapes and plotting my escape to run off and join the circus of parties.

It was around this time that I first became aware of a magical little island in the Mediterranean Sea that was set to become an important feature in my early adult life and beyond: Ibiza.Ibiza (pronounced eye-beef-ahh in my downmarket teen dialect) popped up regularly in the various dance music magazines that I had started buying, such as DJ and Mixmag, and I became focused on the idea of jetting off, sans parents, for a party-packed package holiday with my fellow female schoolmates to this mystical floating clubber’s paradise.One evening, I recorded a TV show called The Rough Guide To Ibiza, hosted by the glamorous Magenta Devine and that was it, I was officially obsessed. I’d sit there in my school uniform, gazing transfixed at the screen as beautiful exotic dancers clad in feather headdresses, towering heels and jewel-encrusted bras paraded through the streets of Ibiza Town, promoting the night’s festivities ahead of their later stints in the club, where they’d be gyrating to pumping house music on the stage at Pacha. I’d rewind the VHS and replay that TV show ad infinitum, or until my Dad came in and commandeered the remote so he could switch over to the footy.

To my absolute amazement, in 1993, not only did my parents agree to allow me to go on a two-week jaunt to Ibiza on a Club 18-30’s holiday, but so did the parents of my fellow 17-year-old besties….all eleven of them.

Our naive Olds were obviously under the illusion that since we were all intelligent, well-behaved and well-performing grammar school pupils we’d be more than capable of taking care of ourselves. Well, we may have breezed through our Eleven-Plus exams, but we hadn’t all got full marks in that most important of life lessons….common sense. Some of us may have even bunked that particular class.

Imagine a room full of hyped-up puppies bounding around, tails wagging furiously, multiply that ten-thousand-fold, and you still won’t come close to conjuring up the excitement we all felt as the cheap early-morning red-eye flight filled up with fellow teens and twenty-somethings. As we soared skywards, everyone on the plane was chain-smoking and guzzling alcopops (pilot and crew probably included) despite the early hour. Why? Well, because we could, of course. Duh!

There were no smoking bans in those days, even on tube trains or aeroplanes, so we flipped open our little armrest ashtrays and puffed away. It was an airborne party from take-off.
Rip-off baggage charges had yet to be dreamt up by the money-grabbing airline fatcats, so our suitcases were jam-packed with every item from our wardrobes (I remember opening the doors and just scooping the whole contents out and into the case), along with a ton of make-up, beauty products and about ten pairs of shoes.

My beloved ‘ghetto blaster’ – a giant black plastic monstrosity – and a selection of my favourite cassettes were also vital items of luggage, the stand-out tunes of the summer being Mother’s ‘All Funked Up’, Nightcrawlers ‘Push The Feeling On,’ Aftershock’s ‘Slave To The Vibe’ and ‘Give It Up’ by The Goodmen:

 

 

 

The Poniente Apartments overlooking Kanya beach were basic at best, but to twelve buzzing young birds on their first foray to The White Isle, it was The Ritz. We squeezed ourselves six to an apartment to keep costs down and within minutes the two adjoining rooms looked like a bomb had gone off, as cases were flung open and clothes tossed over shoulders in an unpacking frenzy. It was boiling hot, we’re talking ninety Fahrenheit (no metric measures for us!), so we were stripped down to inappropriate hotpants and vest tops with a Budweiser in each hand before you could say “Hola Guapa!”

Determined to rinse us whilst we still had pockets full of pesetas, the 18-30 reps set about the serious business of parting everyone with their hard-earned cash, acquired mostly from various Saturday jobs in hairdressers, hotels and shops. In an effort to kill twelve birds with one stone, they backed us into a corner of the bar following the ‘welcome meeting’, plied us with ominous-looking shots of something cheap and luminous, and convinced us that if we didn’t sign up to all their trips we’d be social outcasts in our apartment block, shunned by our fellow fun-loving holidaymakers, who’d be trotting past us smirking as they headed off on all the exciting excursions. Spirits consumed, and our own spirits eventually broken, we handed over the majority of our cash, shrugged, and headed down to the beach.

Every detail of that first holiday is forever etched on my memory. Well, the bits I was conscious for anyway. Which is probably about a third. The days were spent on the beach, whereby we’d line up our twelve identical lilos and bronze (ie burn) our tender teenage skins to a crisp, rotating at regular intervals like suckling pigs on a spit. Nothing to worry about, skin cancer wasn’t invented in those days.

When the scorching Balaeric sun became too much to bear, we’d trot out to sea and line up the aforementioned lilos along the length of the safety ropes, tucking the ropes attached to lifebuoys under our heads so that we could doze lazily without fear of being washed out to sea. The bass from the pumping house music at Kanya would drift across the ocean – soothing our ears as the waves gently rocked the bobbing airbeds. Bliss!

We quickly fell into a routine – rise at lunchtime, chuck on bikinis, eat cheap English fayre such as beans on toast or burgers and chips. In those days, food was merely fuel.Well, we didn’t want to waste our precious drink money on such boring necessities as food, did we?  The lazy sunbathing days were broken up with games of cards (Shithead or Blackjack), as well as the occasional boozy party boat trip or hair-raising ride on the banana boat. The girls would sing Simply Red tunes to me in jest at my sunburnt skin, as my fair colouring turned an increasingly alarming shade of puce in the glare of the midday Med sun.

As the sun went down, it’d be a bunfight to get ready for the evening’s events. Imagine the carnage of twelve teenage girls, packed six to a bathroom like spruced-up sardines, attempting to simultaneously shower, primp and preen, hairdryers all blowing in unison, make-up everywhere, music pumping from my tinny old stereo. Clothes were strewn from every available surface, sticky drink-stained worktops were littered with half-empty beer bottles, the air thick with a heady mixture of Impulse and duty-free Anais Anais, Poison and Samsara.

The EDS (Early Drinking Sesh) was all part of the prepping process, and by the time we tottered out for the evening we were all ‘refreshed’, in high spirits and a little unsteady on our high-heeled Top Shop sandals. We’d dance the nights away in San Antonio’s West End, in venues such as Nightlife, Trops, Gorms Garage and Koppas: free-entry clubs that the British PRs (or props as they were often known) would coax us into on the premise of free shots and group discounts. Their eyes would light up at our huge gaggle of giggling girls, and we’d be ushered into the bar before we could protest. Which to be fair, we didn’t do very often. We’d dance until dawn, taking occasional breaks to sit sipping cocktails and people-watching outside the clubs on the bustling strip.

The most memorable night came courtesy of Es Paradis, a stunning pyramid-shaped labyrinth of a club filled with palms, podiums and posers. Having been given a fistful of free-entry flyers, we set about throwing some shapes to all the latest floor-fillers, awaiting the ‘piece de la resistance’ – the Fiesta Del Agua, whereby the dancefloor filled up with water for the last tracks of the night, and everyone jumped and splashed about in waist-deep murky water in the name of fun.

Obviously the foam and water-parties of old would never work in these tech-obsessed times, but we’re talking about the early Nineties here, when Smartphones were merely a twinkle in Steve Job’s eye. We didn’t have to stress about destroyed Iphones, (nor incriminating photos ending up on social media within seconds) or our hair going frizzy, as  ‘mobile’ ( ie ‘housebrick’) phones were the sole preserve of yuppy bankers, and our hair was already of the kinky afro variety as we’d not yet been blessed with straightening irons. When I speak to young girls about the ‘good ol’ days’, they look at me open-mouthed in horror when I inform them that there are people still alive today who grew up without phones or GHDS, those now-essential hair-taming devices.

If someone chucked me in water at a club these days I’d be livid, but I can clearly remember the euphoria of sloshing back to our apartments at sunrise with soaking-wet clothes stuck to our skin, the dye seeping out of cheap China-made garments, flat hair plastered to our pinheads.

On ‘excursion’ nights, we’d be herded like groggy cattle by the holiday reps on a by-numbers pub crawl or hypnotist show, drinking cheap toxic spirits and eyeing up the other groups of tourists, who all seemed to come from just around the corner back home.

Those two weeks were a rite of passage, our coming-of-age celebrations which will stay with us all forever. We squabbled, gossiped and bonded our friendships with a superglue that remains stuck fast even now, 23 years later.

 

It was the cementing of our life-long girls-own gang, and my love of those ladies remains as strong today as ever. My budding romance with Ibiza was also sealed on that trip, although little did I know at the time that I would end up living on the island, and ‘starring’ (I use that term loosely) in the first-ever fly-on-the-wall documentary, Ibiza Uncovered.

But that is another story…

 

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 San An Shenanigans: Twelve teens hit Ibiza 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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