Aceeeeeed!!!

This is me right on one. Back in the day of the M25 Orbital madness.

You remember acid house? The whistles? The sirens? The glow sticks? Every fucker wanting to be your friend? All for the price of a refresher that cost you £25 in those days?

If you does remember it, then you wasn’t there.

Contrary to appearances, I fuckin’ hated Acid House. Too smiley. Too touchy. Too feely.  Run by farmers who thought being able to down a gallon of scrumpy in one made ‘em tasty. No, mate, it made you look like a talkin’ beetroot.

Then some proper boys realised the commercial potential. Run the events. Run the security. Run the refreshers! And best of all, they didn’t want to be trudging round muddy fields fighting the local plod and the local inbred haymakers. So they moved it indoors. Into clubs. Into London.

Our little firm did our bit. Rod Rat on the decks. Toot Toucan doing the flyers. Fast Gerald looking after the merchandise in his tardis tortoise shell. I rode shotgun.

And as the music became harder the nights became better. Progressive house they called it. But there was nothing progressive about it.

It was proper geezers in basements full of strobes and smoke. More powdered than pilled. Wearing real clobber. Brogue shoes, button down shirts and, oh yus, leather strides. Crouching down, arses out, struttin’ for all they was worth. On a good night, a couple of ‘em even shat themselves.

Those really was the days. Birds dancin’ in their bras. Superstar DJs revving up the BPMs. Comedowns that lasted a week !

God, I miss them. Let’s get ‘em back, people! Start a campaign. Sign a petition. Write to your local MP.

Bring Back Bangin’!!