Jeremy Dennis is Jeremy Day (cleanskies) wrote,
Jeremy Dennis is Jeremy Day

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bad lights/party maniac

Staggered home last night, couldn't think or move, hateful head, full of bad lights. Sudden thought occurred, what if it's caffeine withdrawal? Because after Saturday night I'm off the coffee, though I managed a quarter-cup of tea this evening so I'm not doing too badly.

But on the other hand everyone I know is sick and grouchy and curling up (and in Damian's case throwing up) so it's probably just SOMETHING GOING ROUND.

Saturday night, following Friday when I overindulged rather at Tinyjo's party, I decided I'd take it easy, so I put in a hard morning watching CITVLive (ahh, the Diviine Cat Deeley) a hard afternoon's work at the Oxfam Bookshop, and then got into my friend Adrian's car and went to a tiny-rave in Milton Keynes (stopping off briefly for lunch with Ruth, Matthew and Mum, and the continually growing fish).

We drove along all the Hs and Vs in Milton Keynes, then finally down a long windy tree-choked drive, and yanked the energy drinks out of the boot (Adrian was no perkier than I was) and headed towards the light. Turned out the light was a bonfire, lighting up the front of a huge rotting vicarage, columns supporting a crumbling door-frame, warped windows wide to the November air, thin trad jazz spiralling out into the smokey darkness, and the faint underbeat of the music system warming up out back. Upstairs was a dangerous attic. Downstairs was a cellar containing an abandoned schoolroom. Inbetween were two floors of house party of altogether larger dimensions than you usually encounter. There were UV lights in the Hall, overstuffed cushions in the lounge, a grand piano in the music room, a red standard lamp in the bedroom and a bottle of poison in the kitchen. Wahey! Let's play tiny-rave cluedo!

... we chose the guy with the fireworks in the paddock, and swopped pyromaniac tales as we worked our way through six maxi-selection boxes, occasionally enlivened by the odd rocket fired at the neighbours or into a tree. Our sparklers were disappointingly bendy (they've all been this year, new regulations or what? "All sparklers must bend when poked into a child's eyeball."?) but three reams of dot-matrix printer paper ("my d-phil", she called it) perked us up no end.

Somewhere inbetween this I realised that the fact that Tescos had been out of Red bull was a problem. You see, we'd bought RAC1234 and a bottle of Reloaded Red instead. But Adrian didn't like the Reloaded Red and anyway he was driving, so I drank it all. And some RAC1234, too. I tried to dance it off, but the music was too slow and kind of dull (e-music, no good unless you're totally bombed), and then I just circulated, twitching.

Thankfully, around then, pyro-guy found more fireworks, while throwing the fire-work rubbish onto the bonfire, just in time, so instead of "LOCAL VICARAGE PARTY ENDS IN TRAGEDY" we got "LOCAL VICARAGE PARTY WAKES RESIDENTS AT 3AM". Fantastic. And then I found a fence to burn, which kept me happy for a while.

A bit later, things were winding down. The really caned guy was playing with the bonfire, there was a zombie sat in the jazz room, and anyone who could still move was dancing. We'd brought sleeping bags, but Adrian said, (twitch-twitch) "I'm thinking about just driving back," and I said (twitch-twitch) "I'm up for that."

It was a great drive home. The last few fireworks were fading in the sky, the streets were empty except for taxis and cop-cars, and Adrian had just been to the record fair so the music was brilliant. Music's always good in Adrian's car.

There you go. RAC1234 leaves you fit to drive and as for Reloaded Red -- Kids, just say no.

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