...The next gig was being put on by The Playground at 93 Feet East and on reflection it was some of the most absurd six hours I have spent on the face of this Earth.

You always know when the drugs have eclipsed the reality when the gents are full to the brim with heavy breathing Goliaths. I sneaked across the tiles and to the end cubicle and quietly unzipped my fly, hoping the gentle stream of urine would not alert the primates.

‘You see if you want to kill someone Dame-o, you have to hit him right here,’ [points at throat].

‘I facking luv you’s I do.’

I walked back into the main room and the sweat coated my tongue. The room was filled with, at a rough guess, 50 essex boys, all resplendent in buttoned up polo shirts and perspiring pores. It was madness, there was no other word for it. Dave’s jaw was on the floor as I checked my watch to see if somehow the night had escaped me.  It was 7:30.  Eastenders hadn’t even finished, for fucks sake.

We took cover in the far corner on the type of battered old leather couch you always misjudge the depth of. For the next 20 odd minutes we descended into silence that was only punctured by  poking and prodding for each others attention as we each spotted that these guys favourite drugs experiment had gone very, very right (or wrong, depending on your point of view-Ed).

There was a band in all this that we were here to see, the name was Jumping Ships and for all intentions they were very good and looked the part. Unfortunately my mind wouldn’t leave the adjacent room, and I was unable to give their riff-heavy, Lostprophets inspired tunes their proper due.

The second it was over we all but sprinted to the next room, wondering into the promised land of a thousand mid life crisis’s which had kicked up a level, where every raised surface was covered by the dancing feet of the moronic meatheads. They had taken to the chairs, the bars and the tables, screening in fist clenching rhythmic chant for the DJ to ‘turn it up’.

We could of stayed for hours, for weeks even, but the time was of the essence and we were off to the next venue but not before one last scene that has stayed with me and no doubt will do forever.

 I am yet to mention the Smurf.

He was a midget from birth and for the night he was doused in blue paint and a white Smurf outfit. It was horrific bullying in the worst taste, and he had taken the jibes and cracks of the clientele with good taste all evening. As we were leaving one of the slack jawed Essex boys took offence at the Smurfs reluctance to dance with his perma tanned girlfriend.  The following exchange took place while the Smurf was sat down and the pilled up pit bull stood at the top of a flight of stairs;

Prick: Oi! Smurf! My brother paid for you to facking dance.  Now come over here and facking do it!

Smurf:  I’ve finished mate, leave it out.

[A crowd of twitching and sweating henchmen circle the Smurf]

Prick: Oi! Smurf!  What’s your facking problem?!

Smurf: Seriously, leave it out.

Prick: Oi! Smurf, my Mrs wants to dance and your going to facking do it!

It was something that chilled my bones.  I didn’t do anything, neither did Dave, and we just left with a horrible feeling that the mood of the place was changing; maybe the ecstasy had given way to marching powder. The place was a snarling bear pit waiting to implode and we quickly made our exit.

We tried to put the past behind by us by the time we got to the Queen of Hoxton to see Detachments,  who were the final band of the night. I’m not going to lie- I was starting to come apart at the seams.  The gig was in the basement and as the dry ice billowed around the stairwell we readied ourselves for the last push. They sounded like they were from Manchester and from the cities rich musical history they have chosen to plunder the vaults its early 80’s industrial ear.

The shadow of New Order looms large over the band and never really leaves. However, I do appreciate a good pout so I happily let it pass. Afterwards we meet the band for a quick chat and the (obligatory) picture. They were, as I expected, seemingly pissed off and moody but you wouldn’t want anything to happy clappy would you...?





Thanks to Warren@ The Playground for sorting us out for the 93 Feet East Gig, the lads from Jumping Ships who were very nice, and Dominiko and Eveula for witnessing that gig.  Also to Cath@ Sainted PR who helping us out with Detachments, the guys in the band who clearly had to get off, and witnesses Tim, Paul and Daniel from Sweden, who made us realise telling foreign people how to spell in a very loud nightclub is a right ol' ballache.  Last and not least, thanks to the Smurf.  You made a lot of people's nights.

Posted In Gobshout Gig Challenge, May 10 2010. Words - Chris Barrett