Rave On! Johnny Finger Hits Creamfields

On Saturday afternoon, my home filled up with rave junkies and whorish people from down south who were eager to party feverishly anywhere in Creamfields, including whatever came up on the following day at the international mookfest that is 'The Mathew Street Festival'. "I came here to get it on," said a cranked-up lawyer from Oxford. "This party starts now!"

 

It was 2 o'clock on a Saturday afternoon, and these rubes were already acting like drunken sailors in Hong Kong. I was not prepared for this kind of situation, but I found it hard to resist. Impossible, in fact, so I quickly caved in and went back to my bedroom room to put on my traditional raving suit - a blue silk shirt with paisley pajama pants and a Mongol trappers hat of unborn horse skin. By the time I returned to the kitchen, the partying was well under way, and money was already changing hands for fist fulls of class As. It was like walking into a cockfight. People were screaming at each other and waving fistfuls of sweaty 20 notes. A rich smell of whiskey hung in the air, and even my beautiful live in Polish maid was smoking a cigar. Yes sir, I said to myself, this is my kind of room.

 

I eased through the crowd and settled onto my seat by the window, then I poured a strong drink and began jabbering on the phone as I focused on ordering our minibus. I tossed a flurry of rude insults around the room and waited for the suckers to get angry enough to start drinking absinthe and doubling down on their drug intake, which happened quickly. It is a fatal weakness among amateur partiers, and skunks like me are quick to take advantage of it. Once you get sloppy and lose your senses, it's all over. Today's ravers are tomorrow's blinking toads, dumb beasts with no hope. It is an old story, and I was sure wed see it again on Saturday night/Sunday morning at Creamfields, where my wifes visiting chums from places like Brighton, London and Oxford would join thousands of people in a display that bordered on shame and degradation.

 

The August Bank Holiday is always a bad time of year for amateur drug addicts. They are weak people, as a rule, and they are not built for grueling long distance work. Whatever luck or even smartness that made them feel like winners in the first few hours of Creamfields, has long gone by the time of the dawn, and they are starting to get the fear. Drug intake that seemed harmless on Saturday afternoon, has swollen out of control when the day break rolls around. The maths is working against you, and words like doom and disaster take on a personal meaning. 

 

I say these things not because I want to ruin your Creamfields experience, but because I am a professional partier with a moral obligation on the scale of a genetic imperative to write honestly about the ugly side of raving, as well as the joy-boy, carefree green-grass warm-sun girl-crazy hard-body victory-forever-through-cheap-beer-and-all-night-parties style we constantly see in TV commercials for orgiastic gimcracks like ape-man ab-flexors and fat-free beer and electric cat-litter boxes that glow in the dark.

 

Indeed. But so what? Now back to the story: The visitors jumped the minibus for the venue, I had made other arrangements and would follow on a few hours later. I was hanging around for another delivery from my Columbian connection, brothers who are usually trusted and whose wares you do not test in fear of insult. Unfortunately for me, their package turned out to be less than pure. This resulted in a gigantic double-ended wipeout that destroyed my professional credibility and made me the butt of degrading jokes. My mood turned foul, and I wallowed in rage like a drunken animal. I was humiliated, in a word. For the next 20 hours, I was a poster boy for Idiots Anonymous. Even my wife sneered at me. But not for long. The same two evil bastards came back Sunday night for another drop, and I beat them like gongs. But that story is for another day, back to Creamfields.

We arrived at the entrance sometime around 4 in the afternoon but the place was already a madhouse. Half the ravers had apparently been up since Friday night, unable to sleep and too cranked to talk. The air was foul with the stench of human feces and sweat. By 5 o'clock, huge lines had formed in front of the bank of chemical bogs set up by the organisers. Post-dance diarrhea is a standard nightmare at all raves, and Creamfields is no different. There are a lot of good reasons for leaving a rave, but bad bowels is not one of them. 

There were close to 60,000 half-naked fanatics packing out the special 'dance areas' and generally having a great time. I was nursing a bottle of green Gin and feeling vaguely desperate, but I saw no way to escape. We had made the wretched commitment long ago, and now the time had come. The deal was about to go down. Far across the VIP tent, dressed in a black lacoste tracksuit, and hideous orange running shoes, I saw one of my wifes friends slumped on a leather bench, weeping dumbly and pounding his fists against the floor. I bit my tongue and tried to ignore him, but he cried out when he saw me, and I had no choice, so I paused. "I don't think I can do it," he sobbed. "I am going all to pieces. I am weak and I'm afraid. Please help me"  "Get a grip on yourself," I said sharply "people are watching us!" Then I handed him my green bottle of gin. He grasped it eagerly and put it to his lips, swallowing deeply and rolling his eyes, then he dropped it on the floor, where it bounced and skittered away. "You fool!" I shouted. "You stupid little Bastard! We can't get any more of that stuff until Noon!" "Oh no," he mumbled. " I have money. They will give me whatever I want".

 

Another friend had invited me an after show party, he was looking forward to this more than Creamfields itself. The only problem was, membership in this select band is so exclusive that no list of members is believed to exist! Members communicate with each other by code names, and monthly gatherings are shrouded in secrecy and conducted in what my friend described as "effectively utter darkness." "Many of the members are prominent and extremely beautiful women," he said, and "privacy is our dominant ethic." "Loose lips are sealed quickly," he added, "by fire and other methods, which we will never admit or explain."

 

Needless to say, I didnt make it to this exclusive party. I had to settle on a bash thrown in a down town hotel, full of D list celebs. We still managed to kick up a stink though, I left around 11 am, heading for the Mathew Street festival. Stepping over naked bodies, some foaming at the mouth and masturbating like frenzied gibbons, we passed the manager on the stairs who was leading frightened workers dressed in biohazard suits who were ordered to mop up the mess. The streets were already packed and it was standing room only in many of the pubs. Our minibus driver had abandoned my wife and her visiting friends sometime Sunday afternoon in a dangerous downtown park where criminals lurked in the crowds. When we eventually met up with them, there were nine of us, including six women. We were utterly helpless. So we huddled behind a concert stage where sleazy old men wearing wigs were singing "I am the Walrus," and pretending to be the Beatles. It was disgusting. Our only weapon was a big bag of bogus cocaine and some sort of Mojo stick carried by one of the troop to ward off bad vibes. We waved it at the passing Japanese tourists...it was a long and nasty three hours.

 

 

 

 

 

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