Let me hear you say...REWIND!
I was relaxing at home last saturday evening (you know the type of thing: a well-stocked cheeseboard, an couple of ounces of quince and a full-bodied red), anticipating a quiet night of sedentary gastronomic excess to recover from last night's festivities, when I receive a message informing me of much the same type of activities being in progress at a friend's flat and would I like to join them. Well, not wanting to seem like the anti-social type, I duly quaffed my claret, picked up my coat (see "My magic new coat" for details), and headed out into the cool, lamp-lit Catalan night.
It had been a while since I had seen these particular friends, so, ever the dandy I vested myself in some of my favourite attire of the moment: that is to say, I put on the same t-shirt and cords that I've been wearing solidly since I bought them 3 months ago. To top off this extravagant outfit, I solemnly took down my fine new coat (see "For f**ks sake, I'm not going to click on this just to find out about a new coat you've bought" for details) and, stopping momentarily to admire my reflection in the french windows of my kitchen, set off into the warm, shadow-filled Spanish evening.
I was singing a little ditty to myself as I wended my way through the narrow passageways of the old part of town, at ease with the world and looking forward to nothing more than some good conversation (or at least someone to direct it at), and perhaps a hand of cards or two. Imagine my surprise when, having barely crossed the threshold, I'm informed that we (the assembled quartet) are not to be partaking of the refined pleasures I had envisioned, but that rather we are going to...a rave!
Now, having recovered from the initial shock of this unforeseen proclamation, I cast my mind back to the first (and only) rave I had ever had the misfortune to attend. It took place in a field somewhere outside Cambridge, approximately two and a half years ago. I had been lured to this location with promises of xanadu-like decadence, exhibitionism and general debauchery of the most torrid variety. Gripped by the conviction with which I was relayed all this, I took little persuading in getting into a "Panther" cab and weighing anchor out into the hot, shrouded Cambridge twilight. Now, a lesser man might have been disheartened to discover, some thirty minutes (and £15) later, that the location of this bacchanalian orgy was, shall we say, not quite as straight-forward to find as some of the party had previously believed. Strangely enough, none of the revelers which we encountered on our search (when all pretence as to knowing the way had been given up, and we had had to resort to the ignominy of stopping to ask every passer-by) seemed to have the faintest idea what we were talking about. Eventually, we seemed to be on the right track; our tenuous trail of clues leading to a small, damp field about 5 miles outside the city. Taking a leap of faith, we abandoned the relative comfort of the taxi to make our way into the searingly hot, pitch-black South-Eastern witching hour. Several minutes, and a few bramble / nettle-related altercations later we emerged, triumphant, ready to rave like several young adults had never raved before. At first, my companion's remark of, "There aren't many people here - it must just be getting started" sounded so full of hope. This was a hope which was swiftly bludgeoned to death by the rounders bat of cruel reality. What we had found was, in actual fact, 23 people between the ages of 14 and 17 who had somehow got hold of a generator, a microphone, and the record collection of a mentally-handicapped infant. I was later informed that the incoherent shrieks emanating from the speakers were, in fact somebody's attempts at "Freestyling", and not the aforementioned 'special' child's attempts to regain their stolen vinyl. Bearing in mind that the highpoint of the evening was the 5 mile walk back (in persistent drizzle) to Cambridge, I feel it would be fair to say that the whole experience was indeed, 'Unforgettable', for all the wrong reasons.
Despite then, the warning bells sounding in my head, I was determined to make the best of what the evening had to offer. So, once again I set out into the frankly by now inconceivably brutal heat of the impenetrable inky-blackness of the autonomous region of North-Western Spain now so late that it was technically the next morning.
After what seemed like hours of torturous progress through the rain, we began to climb up, well, right up the side of a sh***ing mountain. The howls of protest from the peugeot's engine became mixed with my own, as we flirted with certain death, weaving up the thin track, precipitous drops on either side. It was with great relief that I kissed the ground (a la His Holiness Adolf Von Nazi-c**t) on leaving the car alive. Upon raising my head from the floor, I caught sight of a grand, somewhat dilapidated hotel. Some of the downstairs rooms seemed to be emitting flashing lights, and loud music (of a type that one's father might describe as "A mindless racket"). This rave was already proving to be quite different from my previous one...(to be continued)