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| Knee Deep in London: Listen to the Knee Deep In Sound Podcasts Here |
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.
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| Magic Roundabout: located in the middle of Old St roundabout |
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| 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 
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| photo credit |
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| 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:Â
Tobacco Dock NYD 
Groove Odyssey @Ministry Of SoundÂ
The Magic RoundaboutÂ
Feb:
Forge and Co ShoreditchÂ
Mulletover at East BlocÂ
March:Â
The Breakfast ClubÂ
Call Me Mr LuckyÂ
Clockwork Orange at Koko Â
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 Caf̩ (saw Too Many Zooz here Рgreat 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:Â @SamanthaWalsh76Â (Life:ABird’sEyeView)
Facebook:Â @lifeabirdseyeview
Instagram:Â @lifeabirdseyeview
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]]>The post Regular As Clockwork appeared first on Life: A Birds Eye View.
]]>For as long as I can remember, I’ve loved a party. From the 6th birthday bash at McDonald’s during which hordes of hyper kiddies were invited behind the scenes to see where the wafer-thin patties were flipped and were permitted to peer into the freezers, to the Crook Log Leisure Centre under-18’s discos full of tanked-up teens necking furiously – parties have always been my favourite pastime.
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.
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| 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.
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| photo credit |
As our bloodshot bulging eyes finally flutter closed, memories of the club nights of our youth merge with these fresh memories as we upload them to our internal hard drives, stored away to be recalled and enjoyed time and again, say on a wet Wednesday afternoon at work, during a particularly dreary commute – or until the next Clockwork club night creates fresh ones in six months’ time.
And at our age, it’ll take us that long to get over it….
Sam x
Fancy reading my back-story before you go any further? You can find my other blogs at:
www.costaricachica1.blogspot.com
www.samgoessolo.blogspot.com
www.mummymission.blogspot.com
www.worldwidewalsh.blogspot.com
Follow me:
Twitter:Â @SamanthaWalsh76Â (Life:ABird’sEyeView)
Facebook:Â @lifeabirdseyeview
Instagram:Â @lifeabirdseyeview
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