WEEKENDER 36
WALLOP! AVIN IT! LONG FINGS! WRONG UNS! NOOSE-BEARERS! WEEKENDER
GOES BACK TO BELGIUM AND BRINGS THE FEAR! AND! THE LOATHING!
DOUBLE WALLOP!
"Fuckin' 'avin' it," chirruped Gordon at numerous points over
the weekend, and he wasn't wrong. We were. And it's a decent
philosophy to have. Fucking is obviously a good thing, and spending
one's life on a constant quest for the acquisition of "it" aint
bad either. And once you've got "it", well, you're away, aren't
you. And so. We came, we saw, we walloped, but not in that order.
But where last time round our trip to Belgium was all lushness
and georgosity, this one did have it's share of Fear, Loathing
and Shit In Pants. What did you expect? I am reverse Midas,
but so what? I've learned to live with it and so should you.
The crew this time, as lead by shy and retiring indie superstar
DJ and Hairy Turk "Evil" Erol Alkan comprised of Gordon, porn
obsessed tee-total 'avin' it geezer and handy-man, Adam, not
me, older, wiser (ish) and thinner of hair, and myself, who
you already know full well. North London posse with a trolley,
soon to be off it. The trolley, that is.
Once again, Dirk picked us up, and pissed himself laughing on
sight of me (why do Belgians always do this? Am I a clown? Put
here to make you laugh? Huh?), which was charming. Good to see
the old swine though. He is still tanned and twinkly of eye,
and still insists on driving like a crazy person, like all other
residents of Gent. And when we got to Gent, it was nice to see
that that Belgian hospitality was still in full effect. Take
Stefan for instance, Soulwax's blonde, happy front-bloke, who'd
bought his English guests a gift of 10 Pills. And not just common,
bog standard pill Pills either. It just so happened that a friend
of his was flogging an old scooter, and happened upon a
bag of 200 ecstasy tablets he'd stashed away in there eight
years ago. Back in the day, when pills were MDMA, and you didn't
need four to make you squishy. Geezer!
Anyway, it was Friday, and there was much to be done - eating,
drinking, being merry, all that. But first we needed to check
into our accommodation, The Soulwax Studio.
Last time we were there we described it as "full of silver things
and lights and record decks and masses of crazy computer equipment
and shitloads of records in the bathroom". Well, that's still
the case, sort of, but it is now so, so much more. After some
four months of graft, it is now a palace. It's colossal for
starters, a never ending maze of rooms and Stuff. You go in
through the kitchen, which is like any kitchen, apart from the
French 60s film still that constitutes the wallpaper, and the
space age dish washer. Then you go through there into the main
room, which is massive and features an antique mixing desk,
banks of keyboards, drum machines and samplers, computer stuff,
black leather furniture, and a proper DJ box with neon lighting.
In the corner there's an old arcade machine, playing brick smash
or whatever it is, and round the corner from that there's a
lounge, with MTV and PlayStation and nice magazines. There's
a room with a drum kit, sound booth, guitars etc. later made
noisy by Erol and David Soulwax, there's a bathroom with crazy
disco lighting, a toilet with UV lighting
and elephants, a bathroom with a jungle for a ceiling, a bedroom
with full tiled wall mirror, bed featuring built in radio alarm
and telephone, stuff, stuff, and more Stuff. Stefan worried
that we "might not have enough room". He needn't have anyway,
given the events that were to happen, but anyway... Soulwax's
studio is any self respecting music bod's dream hangout. It's
the bomb. And it's directly above a very cool bar that stays
open until everybody goes home. We went there later, but first
David, smaller brother, vicious sense of humour and Puck-like
attitude took us a place called the Charlatan where an ex Evil
Superstars bod was playing. "He's the most handsome man in Belgium,"
a pretty young thing gushingly informed me. "Not anymore," I
countered, but I don't think she got the subtlety of that one.
Never mind. Said Evil Superstar has taken on something of an
Alt Country lovelorn troubadour role, and fair play to him.
Bit boring though. So I drank more of that Duval stuff that
sends you mad. Maybe that's what the man outside with a plastic
bag on his head had been up to. He was gurgling and waving a
spoon about when we left. I wanted to
bring him back to England and take him to Camden. That place
is full of drunken bums, like my friend Jeremy, but none of
them wear plastic bags on their heads, or wave spoons. You're
lucky if you get one in a Santa Claus suit these days.
Later on we all found ourselves in Club 69 (Souixante-neuf).
Remember last time, when I thought it was a club proper, got
terribly mashed and hung around outside the toilets all night?
I crashed and burned at around 5, as I recall. Well, not wanting
that to happen again, I took it a little easier on the free
cocktails, although not too easy. The delightful Abidy, sporting
his name on his T Shirt and beaming constantly, had fashioned
a new thing with mint and champagne and vodka (I think), and
there was plenty of that. Sex On The Beach never fails either.
So as Gordon and Adam busied themselves with the attempted acquisition
of "puss", I chatted to another of Dirk's employees, Helmut,
a young looking trouble maker and gentleman, and acquired some
very good cocaine. Erol was meant to be DJing, but the poor
lad was tired and buggered off home after a couple of records,
So I left Gordon and Adam to their terrible business and went
exploring. See, everybody seemed worryingly keen for me to get
laid, for seemingly different reasons, and I was having none
of it. If I am to shag foreign totty, then it shall be on my terms, and
without the help of the local popstars. OK? Haha.
Whatever. But we went to some interesting places, Helmut and
I, where there was much dancing and fun. I have naturally forgotten
a good deal of it, but we wound up back in the Charlatan at
about half seven, which was grand. Sweaty, damp, bustling with
people, and the perfect environment for a coked up pill head
(I'd dropped one of those antique Es by now. It was fabulous).
I got chatting to a gent at the bar who swiftly revealed himself
to be Gent's very own Pete Voss. There's one in every town,
it would seem. This one was called Danny, and plays bass in
dEUS. And what a bitter man he is. We tussled for far too long
about the horrors of the music industry, resulting
in him getting his penis out and slapping it on the bar to illustrate
a point about journalists being cocks or something. Happily
(ish) it ended with him hugging me and murmuring, "you're so
right" repeatedly, before he fell off his stool and shut up.
Can we swap him for Pete please?
At about nine I left the place with a girl. Not sure how I came
to do that, but as it turned out we were going swimming. "People
call me Nessie, but I don't like that now," she noted as we
got into her car. "You have a Loch Ness monster yes? I know
of that."
Funnily enough, we were going swimming, but I wasn't about to
make any carp jokes about that. One of the many things Gent
has taught me is the subtlety of conversation. When the person
you're talking to doesn't understand much of what you're on
about, body language, pronunciation and tone are very important.
Earlier that night I'd been speaking to somebody who'd suddenly
taken huge offence when I said something about "'avin' it."
I dread to think what they took that to mean.And what do they make of Gordon and his "long fings" and "wrong
uns"? But I really should try and apply this new found
art to London. Nobody can ever understand me in clubs, and I'm
always on one. Or four. Sam tells me that her flatmates all
think I'm the Devil, and Adrian backed that up. But I doubt
that modified body language is going to change some people's
opinions. They know me too well.
Anyway, Vanessa drove us back to her place on the other side
of Gent, and dear me do these people have a death wish. Nobody
knows how to drive, well, safely at lest. They career around
as fast as they can, drive out in front of people and attempt
to run over men with moustaches. And they scream in Flemish,
which scares the life out of me. All good fun though.
Vanessa had a modest house, for Gent, long, well lit, with a
jungle out the back. We snorted a good deal of her cocaine (I
have reason to believe that she deals the stuff), picked up
some towels and drove to Blaarmeersen lake, which, despite it
being just 9am on Saturday morning, was fairly well populated.
Small children wandered here, old men wandered there, and Vanessa
removed her pants. But that's Belgium for you. Rude bits all
over the place, and if they're not showing you their bottoms,
they're sticking things up them. And what is with their
nipples? They are constantly poking out, and look rather dangerous
to me. Perhaps their bras are corrosive.
Anyway, when in Rome, do as the Romans do, so when in Gent,
take of all your clothes and leap into a great big bloody lake.
Which I did, and I was quite sure I was going to die, but what
a way to go. Water is a marvellous sensation
anyway, but coupled with cocaine and pills at nine in the morning
with no sleep is akin to blowing up your head with two light
bulb bombs shoved into your eye sockets.
Following that rather bizarre bout of lushness, we drove home
and I was treated to more of that famed Belgian hospitality.
A vein attempt at a bit of kip followed, but it just wasn't
happening. Vanessa drove me back to Soulwax's studio at about
three, and I spent an hour trying to ring Erol to let me in.
And bless, they'd all been worried about me. Gordon was on the
internet looking at horrible pornography, which you could tell
from regular bellows of "Wharrrgh! 'Avin'
it! She's fucking 'avin' it!" On exploration I discovered that
he was looking at pictures of ugly women eating pooh.
"I'm getting fuckin' good at this game," he noted. "Old women,
midgets, you name it. I can find it. The tricks of the trade
mate. 'Avin' it."
I left him to it and went out to find a record shop. And didn't.
Three hours later I was very lost, very sore of foot, and about
to faint due to the intense heat, and all the freshly squeezed
orange juice I'd been supping. They do it right in front of
you, you know.
And nobody seemed to either want to give me directions, or know
where Club 69 was. Until I asked a skinhead in a 'English Dogs'
shirt, who got all excited when he learned I was one of said
Dog's, and wouldn't stop shaking my hand.So
I found my way back, with blistered feet and an increasingly
sore arse-hole. I'm not sure whether that was the result
of Belgian Hospitality or what, but I'd left my boxers at Vanessa's
anyway.
By the time we went out to eat, I could barely walk, and was
on the verge of tears, which everybody found terribly amusing.
The ugly gang of Erol, Stefan, Gordon, Adam et. all bayed like
dogs as I waddled across the road to buy cigarettes. The bastards.
We ate at Martino's, that fantastic place from last time that
invented a world famous sauce, and is run by an incredible man
called Yves who seems to have stepped straight out of a Martin
Scorcese film. Stefan tells me he could well have done. A man
comes by every now and again with a huge briefcase, possibly
to collect protection cash from him, and he was a bit of a bad
boy back in the day. Add to that the fact that his is a family
owned business of many a generation, and you have Sal's Famous
part 2...
Anyway, I found it difficult eating my roast beef as I was on
a lot of super duper coke. Yves seemed to notice this, and I
felt guilty.
And so on to the main event... BelMondo @ SMAK hasn't changed
much since last we came, although the hip hop rooms got bigger
and the chill out room doesn't have the sounds of forests trickling
through it... But still it has the largest concentration of
stunning women in one place that I'm aware of. Perhaps Dirk just puts models and porn stars on the guests list.
Actually, I know he does. Gordon couldn't believe it.
His big fluffy head was on constant snap-around, mutters of
"Bristles on that... 'avin' it..." and worse causing some alarm
amongst the crowds. Adam was off being serviced by the girl
he met at 69 the previous night, who Stefan claims is now in
love with him, and wants to move to England. So impulsive, these
Belgians! You're lucky to get called "cute" after three dates
round here. And sure enough, Adam soon disappeared into the
night, hand in hand with his creature. Bless. He hasn't bee
laid for some time, and I did worry about them. But not too
much, as I'd started to come up on two of those antique pills.
Soon I could barely see at all, let alone focus, and my head
was a cacophony of buzzing and near explosion. And Erol was
abso-fucking-loutley 'AVIN' IT by this point. Jacko, Beach Boys,
The Real Wife, Missy, all mashed up and blasting...
Gordon, god love him, gets pissed by association, which I hear
is common amongst reformed tee-totalers. I wouldn't call him
abusive, but lets just say I'm glad he doesn't drink anymore.
He can become quite evil. So it's lucky his bit from last night
sashayed over, having driven 70 miles from a wedding to see
the cunt. Some people just plain confuse me. And soon enough
he was leaving too, hand in hand, to be entertained and bought
cake and God knows what else. Time flies when you're having
fun, and even faster when you are of your mandies in the lushest
club in Europe. So the end was nigh, and out of nowhere Yves
appeared, huge and beaming. I was a mess, and he noticed. He
clasped me to his mighty bosom, kissed my face, and poured forth
advice and worry, and seemed to be on the verge of tears at
one point. "I know what you're doing to yourself," he sobbed,
"You are tembling! Shaking! I have done
it too... I was a dope head, but you must look after yourself!
You must sleep, at least seven hours every day, and eat! Eating
is the most important." What a wonderful man.
And I was off to explore the Belgian after-life. First up was
100% Decadence, so called for damn good reasons. What casualties
lurched about within. A long, thin room, packed to the rafters
with The Hardcore, dancing pretty well considering to some housey
bollocks or other. I lasted 10 minutes, and outside was barraged
with odd questions about Englishness. They don't seem to think
much of us, the Gent youth - everything stops at midnight, the
girls are ugly, etc. I tried to put them right, but some people
don't want to know the truth, because it hurts. And after that
I ended up back in the Charlatan, but that was similarly desperate,
and by now everybody was far too wasted to even try and understand
me that well. So I went back to the Studio, put my key in the
lock... and it didn't work. I knocked the door. No answer. I
kicked the door, hit it with a metal pole, battered on it for
nearly an hour, until my hands were raw and I couldn't strand
anymore. I needed sleep. I was coming down. All I wanted was
to lie down in the warm, and I was outside in the cold. Gordon
and Adam both 'avin' it, Erol asleep upstairs, everybody else
in bed somewhere, Alphabet weeping sad fat tears on a street
in Belgium, as bemused poultry farmers unloaded their vans and
chattered to each other in a language I couldn't understand.
I was Alone, and I hate that.
I AM Karma. Nothing I ever do goes unpaid.
For every stupendous high, a ridiculous Low, and here was mine.
I leaned back against the door, and hoofed it one last time.
One last giant boot... And I shat myself.
It was lucky I'd shoved a load of bog roll up my arse to help
with the ring sting, else my JBs would have been ruined. But
that was enough for me. I collapsed into the pavement weeping,
and fell asleep.
Adam found me half an hour later. He'd had to "do some proper
climbing down drainpipes shit" as his lady-friend's father and
three brother s were coming home. I felt better now he was there.
He rang Erol, but no answer, so he walked his woman to the bus,
and I waited in the poultry farm for him. People kept trying
to get me to sell them stuff, and looked scared when I said
"sorry, English". A man selling geese and second hand bicycles
glared at me. Time passed.
Adam came back eventually. And he rang Erol again, who woke
up, and let us in. Bastard. I evacuated the rest of bowels,
and collapsed into bed next to the Hairy Turk.
As Gordon beamed when he came back later: "'Avin' it mate".
I was. Always.
Adam Alphabet
Bigger big ups than truly cool: Easy E, Adam Not A, Gordo Izzamoron,
Dirk, Stef, David, everybody in Gent who was so nice, the orange
juice makers, Laughing Cow... I love you all. I spoil your country
with Terrible Things and you let me. Cheers... |
