I’ve not been going out much lately. This is partly due to me trying to cut down on my drinking (but more about that in another blog post next week) – but mostly because I’ve been working really long hours and feeling exhausted. Also, I’m skint!
With the exception of a Buster Shuffle gig at the 100 Club recently, I’ve not been out on a school night in about 6 weeks. The gig was bloody brilliant by the way. I was supposed to go out last Thursday. I was pretty excited about it – I polished my head, put on some red trousers and everything – but when the day came I had a horribly tight work deadline so had to cancel at the last minute. This has been happening a lot of late.
Bearing this in mind, I was really looking forward to going to Hackney Weekend last Sunday (24th June). This was a free 2-day mini festival put on by BBC Radio 1 in Hackney Marshes, East London. The line-up was packed with big stars (so I’m told) – including Plan B, Jessie J and Florence and The Machine.
Now I can’t complain too much, what with it being a completely free event all, and everyone knows it’s not like me to moan – but what a right shambles it was.
Firstly, it’s been raining a lot lately – so Hackney Marshes lived up to it’s name – it really was a swamp. Secondly, the security was so tight – it took me 2 hours to get in (and also meant there was little chance of me scoring any drugs while in there). At least it reduced my chances of getting stabbed somewhat, although with the benefit of hindsight, perhaps it would have been a better experience if I had been.
I finally made it into “the marsh” at about 2pm – only just in time to see the start of Plan B. He’s the fat chav who starred in Harry Brown, playing himself no doubt. He was actually very good but it went downhill from there. Next up was Jessie J. She was incredibly hot and a very good dancer, but that’s about it. She didn’t do a lot of singing, preferring to hold the mic out towards the crowd and getting them to do it for her. I hate it when they do that. I paid good money to see you. Except on this occasion I didn’t. Still, thanks love. She also talks in a strange cod-rasta accent. I hope she was trying to be ironic. But probably not. I’d still shag her though.
After that I spent a lot of time sitting down and getting steadily drunk (at exorbitant prices) on frothy watered down piss. Carling I think it was called.
The place was running alive with excited underage girls jiggling around in skimpy clothes. Made me feel quite uncomfortable to tell the truth. A 7-14 year stretch inside, any which way I turned my head. I didn’t know where to look. Trouble is, I knew exactly where to look. I felt like a dirty old man, sitting in a field. Which is pretty much what I was.
Florence and The Machine were on after that. No idea who they were, but everyone else leapt instantly to their feet and started grooving. They were shit. Poor man’s answer to Joana and The Wolf if you ask me. After that the headliner was on. Can’t remember what her name was, but she was a young black girl. Possibly Jamelia? I went home.
On my way out, I had to walk past a gang of Asian teenagers with little beards and funky ridiculous-looking baggy trousers. Possibly some sort of religious thing? “Harry Hill” called one of them when I was past them. Very clever and well thought out, that. I was in no mood to go paki-bashing, and even though the one who shouted out looked like the fat stupid one from the Arabian Tales (you know the one who’s always losing his donkey?) – I didn’t turn back and say anything. I wouldn’t do that, I’m far too polite.
Got home in time to see the end of the match where England got knocked out of the football. A splendid end to a marvellous weekend.
F. T. W