05.10.2010 - 4:02 p.m.

In a hectic modern life everyone clings a little to the few certainties we're presented, if you know something to be so then that knowledge buoys you up with fuzzy reassurance, here follows some slices of last weekend, replete with breakdowns and confirmations of certainties in equal measure.

Bedrock's eleventh birthday last year featured jon digweed play a blinder of a set, full of variety and interest, on the basis of that experience we attend their twelfth birthday and are presented with (in order) jon's opening set, carl cox and then jon's closing set, in order they were: fair enough, blinding and wank. Where's the consistency ? we've noted that this on/off behaviour affects all the big trance producers who are knocking on in years and maybe can't be arsed any more, disappointing. If carl hadn't been there there'd have been a riot. So we see the mantle of progressive trance (it's what you expect from nights like Bedrock) turned into non-progressive trance through the medium of bored musician. When you have to listen to (seemingly) the same track over and over for three hours, the mind tends to wander elsewhere.

Of course for people who hate dance music it all sounds the same anyway, but their views are null and void due to their continued fawning over floppy haired indie hipsters.

Usually in these cases the mind doesn't time have to wander off due to a stacked queue of ingestion priorities, subsequently it's propelled at high velocity into the stratosphere which is pretty much the point of the night. The rocket fuel this time was more mandy of a grade that is hard to believe, considering that it's probably produced by gangs in a makeshift lab somewhere we're constantly amazed that every year it gets better and better. This ain't no bullshit hillbilly meth shaken up in a two litre pop bottle in the back of a broken down chevy, someone somewhere is working to very high standards, and for this we thank you eastern european gang chemist man.

I only had one dose that night, knowing already that there's no point wasting it on a two pop strategy for just a proggy trance night, had the noise comprised of balls out, floor shaking psy-trance then i could have been tempted but as it was we scooted out an hour early just to avoid jon continuing to take the piss with our ears, or taking a musical piss in our ears. As it happened one dose was enough to loft me into the upper reaches of fucked up anyway, to the point where i was seeing two of everything (which is a new one) and had to shut one eye to reduce the number of mobile phones in my hands down to one in order to write a text on it, this was a source of great amusement to my colleagues.

Anyone who ingests even occasionally knows certain truths, like don't neck a half gram of high grade rocket fuel especially if you've already had at least a half gram prior to that, this isn't a place for macho men to prove their manliness, dance, bump into people, hug and smile, manliness doesn't enter into it. One of our number (who i'd never met before) chose to believe that he had something to prove, at this time i'm not sure who to, but he felt the need anyway. The point at which his eyes rolled up into his head and his legs failed and he was shaking violently and uncommunicative to all stimuli was also the point he was taken to the first aid room and subsequently hospital, way to ruin the night for your cousin who then felt obliged to stay with your broken arse due to bloodlines or some shit like that.

Even though the victoria underground line was shut this time i'd like to give a shout out to the humourous train drivers. The victoria line starts (or ends) in brixton, the clubbing capital of london, the tube opens at 6am and the first train pulls out shortly after. Most clubs also empty at about 6am, the first train out of brixton is usually filled with the inhabitants of the previous nights clubs. So when you're huddled on the train bound for another club or bed and spliff, waiting for it to pull out, sometimes just sometimes you'll get a disembodied voice of the driver over the tannoy filled with homely paternalistic tones,

"hello all you little people snuggled up down there in the warm, we'll get you home soon don't you worry about it"

bless him, i do wonder if the railway people have a name for the first train out of brixton as they're clearly aware of what their cargo is comprised of, i think it's sweet that they care enough to take the piss a little.

Four of us returned to a flat in camden to chill out before departing to our seperate ways (we live north, south and west of london as well as the owner of the flat) it was here that the other three proceeded to munch through all the remaining ingestables. Being sensible and returning to an empty house i chose to straighten up a little so dabbled lightly where they ran amok, but i stayed long enough to watch them crush up and then snort some pills, the rationale behind the decision was impeccable, but more than that i wanted to see their faces as the horrible gift that just keeps on giving gave to them the pain that goes with snorting pills.

We also played 'one degree of separation' which is like 'six degrees' but just one sixth as complex. It turns out that one of the old DJ friends of the camden dweller now resides in brighton and also knows my mate who came up from brighton, this was only discovered because the linking person has an unusual name, it's the little things that make us smile and we like it.

My journey home was uneventful, spent with headphones in ears and staring out the window at the damp countryside speeding by, there was also just enough speed still in my system from the aforementioned dabbling to keep me warm. Even though i'd changed my t shirt there's a lingering odour that can only be gained by spending a long sweaty night in a club. It's a sea change since the smoking ban has been brought in, whereas the dancefloor used to roil to the smell of hundreds of fags being puffed, now the smell has been replaced with what was always present under the layer of cigarette smoke, the smell of BO and sweaty bodies. It's a known fact that you don't go to dance clubs to 'pull' someone, between the faltering consciousness, the broken drug face and the unholy smell it's clearly not your proudest moment, no matter who you are or how wonderful you think you might be.

I started the journey in euston on my own on a two seat section next to the window, at the next stop a girl sat down next to me, at the stop after that she left, whether she got off the train completely or moved to an empty seat elsewhere in the carriage i didn't check, however i know for sure that you don't want to sit next to me unless your nose doesn't work. It occurred to me that i could have warned her but that might seem a bit sociopathic, better she discovers for herself, it won't take long. Mwahahahahaa.

Blue monday was spent mostly in bed, this is the only place where one feels safe enough, even today the emotions are wobbly, i'm not talking to anyone if i can avoid it. It's a commendation to the eastern european gang chemist that i feel like this from just four small crystals of his wares. Plenty left over for a better (harder/faster) night another time, actually the way it's going, enough to last me into 2012 (i don't go out so often now)

I've also got a massive craving for MacD's tonight so i've obviously burned all the shit out of my body and need to replace the departed empty calories with new and updated empty calories.

Happily my baby returns from her holiday tomorrow night so we can get back into each others arms again, i do miss her just as she misses me, normality is when we're together every night, as soon as our numbers come up we'll be free of work obligations and able to be together all the time, magic that will be, just magic.