They say you should never wear glitter over the age of 40...or is it 30? Whatever! I say to hell with them and their rules - whoever 'they' are anyway! 'They' are probably the hoity toity, buttoned-up Fun Police - the conservative rule-followers who also disapprove of holidaying in Ibiza (so common!) and clubbing at any age after graduation. Well 'they' can just push their horn-rimmed specs back up their aquiline noses, quit quoting endless dos and don'ts from the play-it-safe rulebook and go back to finishing the Guardian crossword - 'cause we ain't listenin'!
I've never been particularly fond of being told what to do, so I'm not about to start now. I've always had plenty to say for myself - too much, perhaps. My mouth does have a tendancy to run away with me: I was born lippy. But I'm an upstanding member of society and have never been in trouble with the law, so if the only crimes I'm committing are those against growing old gracefully then I think a mere caution is ample punishment, don't you Officer?
Sparkles Lips in Holographic Pink
Yes, glitter sits in your wrinkles and shimmer shows up your crow's feet, but does anyone really care? I'd far rather see someone out having fun, eyes crinkling, head thrown back and giggling uncontrollably with a bit of glitter settling into her laughter lines than a perfectly stylish yet stony-faced ice maiden.
There's a time and a place for everything of course - the glittery lips I'm demoing in the clip below are not geared towards the school run (the dried glitter has the texture of sand so will probably remove several layers of little Johnny's delicate peachy skin as you kiss him goodbye on the cheek at the gates) or zipping round Sainsburys (people will assume you've pulled an all-nighter and not slept yet), but on a big night out or a summertime festival they are perfect: fun, frivolous and - in my humble opinion - 40 year old-friendly.
I know I have major crow's feet around my eyes and in a few years will resemble a big blonde shar-pei, but having a strong sense of humour is what's got me through life thus far, so I wear the resulting laughter lines with pride. And besides, I'd rather crinkly eyes from smiling than deep frown lines and a furrowed brow.
So tear up the rule book (and that boring Boden catalogue whilst you're at it), whack on the tunes to get you in the mood and get out the glitter pots, girls! It's time to shine bright like a diamond and join the glitterati. Let's sparkle, shimmer and shimmy our way through life while we still can (if we listen to the nagging naysayers it won't be long before the ol' knees give way and we won't have the option anyway, eh?).
If being covered in a fine layer of fairy dust makes you happy then go right ahead, I say. I'm sure even the most fastidious of fashion rule-followers would agree: the best accessory you can wear - whatever your age - is a smile. So you may as well make it a sparkly one...
I've always liked the idea of being an 'IT Girl.' That's IT as in rhymes with fit, not IT as in Information Technology. As a teenager flicking through the glossy pages of Vogue (in the newsagents, before putting it back and buying More magazine), my secret ambition was to be an It Girl (well I didn't want my grammar school education going to waste, did I?).
I had visions of being an effortlessly chic and stylish siren, wafting in and out of parties, dry martini dangling from one perfectly manicured hand, on a cloud of Chanel number 5. It all sounded so glamorous, such fun - and so easy. You simply loitered casually around the swankiest bar you could find, primped and bouffed to within an inch of your young life, and your Prince Charming would appear in a puff of smoke (well, through clouds of cigarette smoke at least - you could smoke in bars in those days) and sweep you off your stiletto-clad feet...and into a life of elegant luxury.
Only that never happened. The slight flaw in my plan was the fact I lived in Bexley and not Bayswater, and the swankiest bar in town was....The Polo Bar. Where the men were chavvy rather than chivalrous. And not even men, it turned out. They were mostly pimply boy-racers named Dave or Steve, driving pimped-up Escorts and sporting snyde Ralph Lauren polo shirts with the collars turned up. You know the type: more no money than new money. The hours spent getting ready for a night out felt like a waste of make-up as soon as you got to the bar and had a quick scout about, talent-spotting. Jeez, the totty sure was thin on the ground. The fellas I seemed to attract like drunken moths to a flame were more Mr Potato Head than Mr Head of Finance.
I had a go at hanging around the King's Rd for a while in my late teens, but the cliquey Hooray Henry's seek out their own, and the Sloane Rangers could sniff out a Cockney (or Mockney, in my case, having been born in Kent) at a thousand paces - even (especially?) if it's doused liberally in Erith Market knock-off Chanel. Or perhaps it was my Joker-style attempt at a brick red pout that put them off (I was channelling Heath Ledger's interpretation of The Joker long before he was even a twitch in his dad's pants).
So my plan backfired.
By my early twenties I began to wish I'd studied IT instead of Latin, as any hopes of living in a penthouse in Knightsbridge with a gaggle of daschunds and an oligarch began to evaporate like my cheap synthetic fragrance. It was looking like I was just going to have to fend for myself. How very modern, I sighed. I still dressed up like a Disney princess on a night out, ever the optimist, but alas I was just a donkey making an ass of myself in a sea of Shreks.
Since I wasn't interested (or capable, probably) of being a doctor or a vet, and had zero interest in horticulture (I was more interested in hotty-culture), it quickly became apparent that Mr Chandler's Latin classes would be as much use in my future endeavours as a chocolate fireguard. The other occupation best suited to a Latin speaker is a Latin teacher, and judging by his rhino-hide skin, horn-rimmed glasses and miserable downcast expression, Mr C's career path wasn't a line of enquiry I was inspired to pursue.
So it was an endless merry-go-round of beauty and make-up artist jobs for me. Yes, Dear Reader, I'm afraid I ended up working in Harvey Nics instead of shopping there. Ah, the irony! I think I was subconsciously hoping some of the wealth would rub off; that by making up the faces of the It-girls, one day I'd meet a sister-from-a-richer-mister whom I'd instantly bond with; she'd whisk me off to Bond St for shopping and cocktails, before introducing me to her trustafarian brother and heir to the family fortune, Tarquin.
But alas, it was not to be. Oh I met many a Tarquin, for sure, but he usually had a bejewelled Tamara on his arm, looking down her perfect aquiline nose at me with smug condescension. She'd give a visible shudder as I thanked her with my weak vowels (chucking in a bit of gratuitous rhyming slang just to watch her wince), before snatching her bag of pricey products and turning on her Valentino heels to clip-clop off for a (liquid, fizzy) lunch on the 5th floor (because eating in public is sooo vulgar, sweetie).
Fortunately, life on the shop floor doesn't call for IT skills. There's no need to be tech-savvy when your day-to-day business involves comparing the merits of various caviar face creams. We specialised in soft skin, not software. By evening we were out clubbing, not poring over computer manuals: I prefer techno to technology. I'm more familiar with fish 'n' chips than microchips...and if you mention gigs I picture music concerts. Which is why I come unstuck in the modern world.
I love to write, but when it comes to code and formatting - forget it. You may as well be speaking in Japanese. My eyes glaze over and I zone out. If I'm having trouble sleeping, I whack an Excel tutorial on YouTube and I'm snoring quicker than if I'd swallowed a fistful of Valium. You know you're a technophobic dinosaur when your two-year-old nephew takes the ipad out of your hands with a sigh, before expertly flipping through the apps to find the one he likes.
My mind boggles when I'm blogging and I have a technical issue. Whenever someone praises my blog, I laugh nervously, terrified they'll discover I'm a fraud: one-finger tapping it out on an ancient Amstrad. That's a joke, by the way. I have a beautiful baby named Mac - well, her full name is MacBook - and she's been keeping me awake all night just like the real thing. I look blankly at her while she makes noises at me, wondering when I'll learn how to look after properly. These things don't come with a manual, you know (oh no actually they do - I was confusing her with a real baby for a moment there).
Somehow, amidst the travelling, the partying and the chaotic noise of life, I forgot to tick the achievement box marked "PC literate" on my CV (Curriculum Vitae - see, fluent in Latin). Anyone will tell you I'm the most un-PC person, in all senses of the term. I'm a 40-year-old I.T virgin.
So if anyone fancies popping my Apple cherry, I'm all yours. No gooseberries allowed, just a right pear of sorts. I'll whip out my Blackberry and let's get fruity. I've got all-you-can-eat data on the Orange network so we can really go bananas. I'm not taking the pith, I'm just a bit of a plum on the 'puter.
Sorry. I'll stop.
It would appear my puns are about as good as my IT skills - and my fruitless attempts at becoming an It-Girl.
Fancy reading my back-story before you go any further? You can find my other blogs at:
Whatever your preferred pronunciation, most people who visit The White Isle never go just once: the island is a magnet. If she were a woman she'd be a fearless rubber-clad dominatrix, mercilessly reeling you in then spitting you out; she eats guileless tourists for breakfast.
My first foray to the islandwas as an impressionable 17-year-old schoolgirl, astounded and delighted in equal measure that my parents, along with those of my eleven closest girlfriends, had permitted us to go. Hence followed an annual pilgrimage to get our 2 week fix of fun and frolics - until two weeks just wasn't enough anymore. Like an addict, I'd built up a tolerance and required ever-more hits to get my sun-drenched kicks. In 1997 I decamped to Ibiza for the season, filming Ibiza Uncovered and working at The New Star. I spent May til October in my happy place. Ditto '98. The trips continued thick and fast and in 2005 I was married in Santa Eulalia to the Englishman I'd first met on the island in 1998.
Fast forward to 2016. After 15 years together the marriage is finito and I'm instead returning to the island with my fella Andy and our gang of trusty party devotees for our pal Keith's 40th birthday celebrations at the big one: Space closing. Only this is not just the annual end-of-season shindig, this time it's closing FOR GOOD. Terminado. Even typing these words brings a lump to my throat and a tear to my eye. (Or is that just the post-party blues?).
Space, my favourite club on Earth, is no more. Get a grip, you might say. It's only a nightclub. But those that share my passion about the island's club scene will understand my dismay. The heartbreak. Because Space is (was!) not just any club. It was a meeting of minds, a coming-together of individuals from all walks of life, united in our love of top-quality house music.
I remember the first time I stepped over the threshold. It was 1994, I was eighteen, and on my second jaunt to The White Isle, the first having been largely centred around the West End of San Antonio. By the second year I was a bit more clued-up. We'd been to another club until it closed and then taken a taxi to Space. It was around 7am and I instantly fell in love: with the "freaks" as they were affectionately known, the music, that "anything goes" freedom. As I'd just starting working in the City, reluctantly joining the rest of the grey, suit-clad rat-race, this was a welcome relief from the humdrum conformity of the dull workforce of London town. Gazing around me in awe, I greedily drank in the scene.
The open-air terrace was bathed in warm sunshine, blissful house tunes carrying across the dancefloor like manna from heaven. It was fairly empty at that time, having recently opened at 6am in order to catch the after-hours crowd eager to continue the party. Peacock-like transvestites mingled with androgynous types in 6in black platform boots, piercings and bondage gear; a blur of wild wigs and brightly-coloured make-up as they strutted around to the beat of the music, whilst hippy types lounged in white robes and tie-dyed smocks, draping their dreads over the backs of wicker chairs as they smiled lazily through fugs of blue smoke. The atmosphere was of relaxed hedonism, a laissez-faire attitude making you feel instantly at ease, despite the bewildering array of crazy outfits and huge kohl-lined eyes. The interior of the club was altogether darker in all senses of the word: heavy pounding beats and a pitch-black dampness as the sweaty crowd gyrated to the beat.
It was in 1997 as a fully-fledged "worker" that I became a regular at the club. My boss Juan, the moustachioed and mischievous owner of The New Star (and well-known on the island), would take us to the club after our shift and the door staff would wave us in for free. Particularly memorable was the opening party, when what felt like the entire San An workforce were doing the "Ibiza Shuffle" in time to the uplifting sounds of "You're Free" by Ultra Nate. I can clearly remember looking around the club as we danced, high on the terrace steps, giant fans blowing our hair back, planes soaring overhead due to the proximity of the airport, as we chinked our vodka shots with cries of "Salud!"'
"This is awesome!" I shouted to my girlfriend, Kez, over the music. "I love it!" she agreed with a high-five. Judging by the Cheshire-cat grins and wide-eyed awe of my fellow party-goers, we weren't alone in this sentiment.
Tuesday mornings were always eventful. Manumission, a weekly party held on a Monday night at Privilege (formerly an aircraft hanger, then Ku), was a vast club regularly attracting upto 10000 revellers. I had a "job" of sorts with the Manumission entertainments team, the vague description of which involved dressing up in various outlandish costumes and performing random tasks such as peeling potatoes on the dancefloor or using a plastic lizard as a phone - the more random the better.
The shenanigans would then continue at Space Carry On, where the weird and wonderful would crawl out of the woodwork to party at the club. Even on those busy mornings there was plenty of room to dance, with vast fruit platters being passed around and groups of people relaxing on double beds, chatting. Props such as beachballs and inflatable toys were volleyed about: it was basically a playground for carefree adults who'd raided the fancy-dress chest. We Love (held on Sundays) was another favourite - in part due to the novelty of full-on partying on the sabbath, whilst everyone back in Blighty was munching a roast or slumped on the sofa, slippers on, watching the footy in a near-catatonic state.
Over the summers I've been to Ibiza countless times, with a hiatus in recent years as I travelled to South and Central America and Asia instead. Whilst the island has always been a favourite destination of mine, I love discovering new countries - and besides, for the price of a long party weekender in Ibiza you can live like a queen for two weeks in Thailand.
Regardless, as soon as we heard that Space was closing for ever, it was a no-brainer: we simply had to go. Like visiting a dying relative, we knew it would be nostalgic, sorrowful and bittersweet, as we vowed to give it a good send-off and say our last misty-eyed goodbyes. We weren't the only ones: apparently there were around 16k other people with the same idea. It was touch-and-go as we raced to be amongst the first 4000 to secure one of the coveted online tickets - with each limited release selling out in seconds.
Once in possession of those Willy Wonka-style golden tickets, we set about choosing our outfits and cramming our carry-ons with glitter and heels. The excitement built day by day, as we ticked dates off the calendar, counting down the sleeps until the party to end all parties. After a 27-year run, this would be the final farewell, a 20-hour extravaganza featuring over 100 of the world's top DJs.
Eventually the big day arrives....
We're careful not to go too hard the night before, which is no mean feat in Ibiza where parties are in abundance and temptation is at every turn. When we awake the sun's already shining on our shenanigans: it's a glorious day. We gorge on the hotel breakfast buffet - it could be a long time before we get our next meal - which includes complimentary jugs of sparkling wine to get the party started. Easy tiger! I've got to get my Space Face on yet and those 2 inch false eyelashes are fiddly as hell. A sozzled Barbara Cartland is not quite the look I was aiming for.
There ain't no raver like a wrinkly raver, but fortunately us girls are a dab-hand with the warpaint: soon we're glossed and bouffed to within an inch of our lives. You can't polish a turd....but you can roll it in glitter and stick a bindi on it.
Early afternoon, and we're just revving up into 5th gear at Bar 45 where Brandon Block and Alex P are getting the party started, when suddenly the killjoy Policia Locale rock up and flip off the music, slapping the bar with a whacking great fine for good measure. Bastardos!
By now we're chomping at the bit to get to the club and trot happily along the Bossa streets, excitement building with every step as we approach Space. To our joy, there's barely a queue (we're lucky, it's over 2hrs long soon after) and we step into the pumping Flight Area, instantly bumping into some familiar faces. We say our hellos with a hug and a high five and have a dance, before heading to our favourite part of the club, and where we'll spend the majority of the day and night: the Sunset Terrace.
Unfortunately Jon Ulysses has just finished his set, which you can listen to here, but at least we get a chance to chat to him and a few other old faces, before getting down to business on the dancefloor. The air is filled with the sounds of tune after classic tune, accompanied by singing, laughter and the unmistakable blast from an air horn. The sweet house music is like food for the soul. Kez and I dance up by the fans for old time's sake; if we close our eyes for a moment it could be our nineties heyday all over again.
It's busy, but not uncomfortably so, and the atmosphere is electric: hands-in-the-air happy clappers determined to make this final Space mission a memorable one. It's just a sea of toothy grins and crinkly-eyed smiles as far as the eye can see. The energy is contagious.
Barbara Tucker belts out funky feel-good melodies, then we check out the other rooms before returning to the terrace for Smokin' Jo's cracking set. Next up are the legends Alex P and Brandon Block: these dudes created the terrace and there's no way we'd miss their lively set. As expected, they deliver tune after bouncing tune, served up with their characteristic cheeky style and a side-helping of charisma.
The freaks are conspicuous in their absence, which is a shame. I miss marvelling at the old woman with the eye patch in a tatty wedding dress, battered plastic kid's doll held aloft. Or the guy who dances with a full-size shop mannequin. There's no sign of Metal Mickey either, with his hundreds of chains and piercings. That's not to say people haven't made an effort: there are plenty of decorated hats, sequins and sparkly pimped-up outfits, beaming faces adorned with gems and glitter. I'm sure I catch sight of the huge-hatted Vaughn and pals from the Funky Room at Pacha.
The club is filling up now so we escape upstairs to the Premier Etage for a breather - space to dance, chat and relax in the huge padded chill-out tube. It's out to the Flight Area for Carl Cox, then later the pitch-black Main Room for Josh Wink, Sasha and Erick Morillo. Wink plays Higher State of Consciousness; the smoke cannons chuck out huge gusts of cooling dry ice as the beat drops, the force of which is almost enough to blow you over. The beams of the lasers light up the crowd, which, as you'd expect, is going completely wild.
By now it's almost 6am and we've been in the club for 13 hours. Due to some areas closing, it's uncomfortably full and exhausting trying to move around the club in the scrum - dangerous even. Wearing spike stiletto heels was a rookie error: my balls are killing me. As much as we planned to stay til the final dance, Andy and I decide to drop the shoulder and head home. Kez follows close behind. Our most hardcore buddies stay till the very end, including Keefster the birthday boy, and turbo-birds Jenny and Katherine. I must admit to being a tad disappointed in myself for being a lightweight and not hanging it out when I see this awesome shot of the final moments...
photo credit: Tatiana Chausovsky
It's a marathon, not a sprint....fortunately we sprint marathons. After a quick pit-stop at the hotel to shower and change we get a second wind and head back out to continue the party: first at Tantra, then at Bora Bora, which is nothing like the dancing-on-tables extravaganza of the old days, but a nostalgic treat nonetheless.
Soon we're surrounded by our fellow Space cadets, whose impressive stamina saw them dance til the very end and listen to Carl Cox and (the owner) Pepe's speeches and the final tune of the night: Angie Stone's Wish I Didn't Miss You...
They pull up a seat and we excitedly compare notes...and memorabilia, which is mostly varying-sized chunks of the famous Space terrace wall. Everyone who attended got a ticket to collect a free Space tote bag filled with goodies: a cd, Space tags, a Space t-shirt and history-filled memory card - annoyingly we lost our tickets and missed out on these. Amateurs! Hey ho. We spend the day drinking and chatting to friends old and new at Bora Bora before jumping a taxi back to the hotel to grab our bags and head off to the airport, Blighty-bound...
The Burger King in Departures doubles up as Ibiza's second A&E: battered-looking clubbing casualties are slumped on every available surface, half-heartedly chomping on a Whopper (likely the first thing they've eaten in days) and vacantly gazing off into the middle distance.
It's time to go home.
Ibiza. This island leaves you fragile as a china doll that's been smashed into a hundred tiny pieces, then haphazardly glued together by it's seven-year-old owner. But Beefa, like our first love, you'll always have a special place in our hearts...and we wouldn't have you any other way. So, until next time, it's...
¡hasta luego, mi amiga!
Fancy reading my back-story before you go any further? You can find my other blogs at:
Oh festivals how I love thee! Dancing in a field, sun shining, arms slung casually round the bronzed shoulders of a bunch of beaming mates - you can't beat it. That's a Kodak moment right there. When I'm on my deathbed, flicking through my mental back-catalogue of fondest memories, there will definitely be a couple of festival snapshots thrown in: squinting in the sunshine at the camera, carnival-style carnage all around.
Although this love of mine, this festival fondness, it's not unconditional - not by any means. These festivals of fun are not beloved offspring who can do no wrong. No, I love them just as long as they comply with a strict list of prerequisites:
1/ There must be sun...or at least a pretty good chance of it. None of this mid-May madness. (Yes, Glastonbury, I'm talking to you).
2/ An abundance of covered dance tents are essential in case of rain (although rain is, of course, forbidden).
3/ They must last just one day - no camping required.
4/ Must be easily commutable from Kent.
Not too much to ask, really. Funnily enough, "mashed mud-wrestling" does not make my festival shortlist.
Does that make me a proper festival-goer, or a half-hearted charlatan, merely dipping a toe in the muddy festival waters?
Well, you certainly won't catch me in grungy hippy get-up, gleefully caterpillaring through the gunk at Glasto, or giving a cheerful thumbs-up as my flimsy tent floats downstream in a downpour. Even if the backdrop is my favourite band, belting out killer beats.
The problem with camping? It's in tents (....intense?). Ba-dum-tsh!
Don't get me wrong, I have enjoyed camping in the past, but we're talking sleeping under the stars alongside Ayers Rock in the Aussie outback, or perched atop a misty mountain in Peru whilst on the Inca Trail.....not festering knee-deep in mud under the slate skies of Somerset, catching the down-wind whiff from rows of overflowing pissers.
A trip to Millets is not my idea of fun. Even the concept of "glamping" doesn't get my juices flowing when it's cold, damp and well, BRITAIN, outside. A turd rolled in glitter is still a turd, after all.
I'm slightly ashamed to admit it, but I must confess: I'm a Fairweather Festival-Goer.
As with any long-awaited event, the build up is almost as exciting as the big day itself: there's the circling of the date on the calendar, months in advance. Then comes the rounding up of your mates, the tagging on Facebook with a hopeful "who's in?"
Later comes the ticket-buying, the choosing of an outfit, accessories and those cutesy mini festival essentials that us girls love: teeny bottles of anti-bac gel, mini packets of wetwipes. It's like prepping for a holiday, albeit a very short one.
A fringed cross-body bag is a must for hands-free raving, along with ankle boots as a show of optimism vis-a-vis expected bog levels (wearing wellies is just encouraging mud tsunamis - you may as well do a raindance). Am I too old for bindis and face gems, I wonder? Who the hell cares, they're going on!
The look I'm aiming for is casual boho chic: a floaty summer dress roughed up with edgy jewellery and cute battered boots, maybe a tatty denim jacket to keep out the "summer" chill. Sunnies are of course, compulsory, if only to hide the glazed goggle-eyed expression that often accompanies daytime drinking. I have to admit, the look that starts off as Boho slowly evolves into hobo....and is probably closer to SuBo by the end of the celebrations.
As the party looms, I'll be anxiously checking the weather for imminent typhoons, "watching" rainproof ponchos on Ebay and pondering purchasing waterproof mascara, since the "6ft panda-eyed raver" look is not quite the one I'm hoping for.
Post 40, the windswept matted hair and gothic smudgy eyeliner sported by "real" festival-goers is no longer endearing - you just exude an air of desperation, as if clinging by gnarled nails to one's youth. At best, it exhibits an amateurish lack of prep. No, I prefer ninja-style planning tactics, so that on the day I'm (seemingly effortlessly) ready for any eventuality that the cruel British summer may throw at me.
Come rain, hail or shine (usually all three at once, knowing our country's appalling weather record) I'm there, shaking my money-maker. Hot, dry weather brings it's own set of problems, of course: lobster-like sunburn plus huge clouds of dust that fill your lungs as the moshing masses get into the groove. One day of all that is enough for me.
Yes, I've watched Glastonbury on the tellybox. I've scrolled through mates' messy shots of their "epic Glasto bender" with a teensy sense of envy....but then I remember that it's spring, it's freezing and they will be picking crusty mud out of their belly-buttons for months to come, and I soon get over it. I crank up the heating, pour myself a large Sauvignon and switch to Netflix whilst I wait for the whole unpleasant experience to blow over.
Even in August the UK weather is far from guaranteed. I remember one particularly soggy SW4 festival when the heavens opened the second we laid one besandaled big toe on Clapham Common. It was a total washout. The tents were rammed to bursting with clammy bodies, steam rising from frizzy heads as everyone gyrated to the music like funky drowned rats. When the tents were simply too full to allow any more partgoers respite from the rain, restless revellers huddled together in portaloos or cowered by wheelie bins, their lids flapped outwards to provide a makeshift plastic roof. It was a sorry state of affairs.
And if said portaloos are festering cesspits by 2pm on a one-day music event, I can only imagine the bio-hazardous hell-holes they become during a week-long shindig. I've witnessed Trainspotting-worthy scenes at Lovebox whereby squiffy partygoers, elbow-deep in waste, attempt to retrieve precious iPhones from loos. Shudder. One tipsy girl had accidentally dropped her designer suede handbag into the bowl and was weeping silently as she yanked it from the slurry, door open to allow her to breathe, albeit with one arm held over her nose. Bleugh.
All this unpleasantness is just part and parcel of a festival : the dodgy weather, puke-making portakabins, overpriced cider, dirty burgers and lunch-curdling fairground rides that look as though they're one loose screw away from a disaster.
But let's not forget the real reason we're all here, stomping in unison in this muddy field : our collective love of the music. That sense of utter freedom and carefree abandon that only comes whilst throwing some shapes out in the fresh air, cavorting to your favourite ear candy.
I skip and swirl to the music, hyperactive as I high-five randoms, all of us fully embracing the experience. I suck up the atmosphere....right up until the very last tune, squeezing every last drop from the shenanigans.
Then it's onto some afterparty or other, carried along by the surging throng as everyone makes a bee-line for the tube. Several more hours of partying ensue, until we collapse, exhausted, into the back of a taxi as the sun comes up.
I never know where we'll end up - that's all part of the fun - but one thing's for absolute certain: when I do eventually allow my shattered body to succumb to slumber, it'll be in the comfort of my own bed...
For as long as I can remember, I've loved a party. From the 6th birthday bash at McDonald's during which hordes of hyper kiddies were invited behind the scenes to see where the wafer-thin patties were flipped and were permitted to peer into the freezers, to the Crook Log Leisure Centre under-18's discos full of tanked-up teens necking furiously - parties have always been my favourite pastime.
What is it that makes me so particular about partying? Well for a start, they are bloody good fun. But it's more than that : a decent knees-up has three stages....the build-up, the night itself, and then the gossip-fuelled post-mortem, whereby I'll dine out for weeks (sometimes years) on the flashbacks and anecdotes of a memorable night, basking in the afterglow of a successful shindig.
At the age of 40 my love of all things fun has not diminished - quite the contrary. At 18 the nights and possibilities seem endless, it's impossible to imagine that the raucous rampaging will ever stop. By 40, you're more aware that the opportunities for wild nights of dancing with abandon upon a sticky bar are somewhat limited.
Therefore, when they do present themselves I grab them with both gnarly hands. It's not that I myself am not up for the craic....no, no, no! As a childless woman I can do pretty much as I please - my parents are not yet peeing themselves and drinking their meals through straws, so I'm currently carefree. The majority of my party-loving pals, are, however, time-poor parents.
Partying and parenting, I've discovered, do not go hand in hand. Of course there are some things kids and clubs have in common : both keep you up all night and leave you feeling jet-lagged and jaded by the morning. But only one will make you smile for years to come, providing lasting memories that will carry you right through to old age....unlucky, parents!
Ok, ok so the fruit of one's loins may fill you with pride, but I reckon when they are crowded round your deathbed waiting for their slice of your wedge, it'll be the flickering images of dancing, laughing and raving on a beach in Ibiza or Thailand as a vivacious twenty-something that'll be playing out behind your papery eyelids as you take your last breath, not the endless pooey nappies or the heated rows with hormonal teenagers.
One by one, my clubbing comrades succumbed to motherhood, and I had a silent memorial service for each of the fallen ravers, our social scene taking a hit every time one of my previously party-loving pals dropped off the radar to raise another little ruffian. What had previously been a big enough group to fill the entire tube carriage as we teetered and tottered on skyscraper heels on our way to a club, gradually diminished until it was just a handful of the hardcore hailing a cab. These days, it's mostly just me and my fella.
Except, that is, for one event that never fails to fill the dancefloor with an army of forty-something thrill-seekers - Clockwork Orange : a bi-annual London clubbing extravaganza, with a cheeky jaunt to Ibiza thrown in every July for good measure. Thank Christ for that! I was in serious danger of being THAT wrinkly old bird bustin' moves on a dancefloor full of fluffy chicks, that sad creature refusing to let go of her misspent youth, who the cool kids nod towards with a mixture of pity and admiration, that woman over THIRTY who would still dare to dance.
But amongst my fellow Clockworkers I fit right in - for one, we're all old birds (or blokes) and we all share one common goal : to immerse ourselves in some proper old school house tunes, dance til our high heels are ground down to stumps and our faces ache from beaming (or in some cases, gurning).
At our age, we've no time for trouble-makers, competitive flirting and bitching, or general posing and pouting. For us, it's all about the love of the music and the genuine desire for each and every fellow raver to have the best night ever. It's taken weeks, months, even years, to get some of these old faces back on the party circuit, so we all appreciate the effort everyone has made and respect each other accordingly. From baby-sitters to hotels, shoe-horning into skinnies and carefully filling the cracks that have mysteriously appeared in faces since those early raving days, getting a load of like-minded ageing cheesy-quavers in one place takes a LOT of preparation. And that's just the DJs.
Once a weekly occurrence in our twenties and just part of our regular social routine, clubbing til 6am as a responsible adult is now a major event. The wardrobe of suitable dancing attire is likely replaced with suits, sensible shoes sitting where sparkly stilettos used to reside.
So the pre-Clockwork foreplay is a long and languid affair - there's the hair, the nails, the outfit, carefully selected to strike the right balance between slinky and slutty, eager to show a hint of leg rather than the whole joint of mutton. We may be looking fierce at forty, but we are also wise enough to know that resembling the fairy off the top of a Christmas tree is not a good look, and besides, glitter emphasizes crows' feet....even if we do prefer to refer to them as laughter lines.
As the night draws closer, excitement reaches a peak. Going to work doesn't seem such a chore, as every early alarm signifies one less sleep until the party, and we leap from our beds as fast as our bad backs will allow, the spring in our step coming from nervous energy rather than our new comfy insoles.
On the night itself, it's a mixture of emotions, the first being relief and joy that most of our mates with tickets actually show up. Of course, there are a few casualties struck down by familial responsibilities - little Scarlett has a fever for example, or " I'm tired (yawn), I think I'll stay in with a takeaway and Ant and Dec." Bore off!
Whereas as teenagers the FOMO (fear of missing out) alone would have dragged everyone from their homes come rain, hail or snow, as adults the conditions have to be 'just so' for a night of hands-in-the-air frolicking. Only the most dedicated dancefloor demons will brave the elements to fling down some foot.
The evening's proceedings commence with prinks (pre-drinks) at a pre-agreed watering hole. The regular clientele gawp as a fleet of ageing peacocks strut to the bar for an energising Vodka Red Bull to get the party started. Suitably refreshed, it's off to the club early-doors to secure our spots on the dancefloor - us oldies have decades of dancing experience between us, and we take our raving very seriously. High-fiving all the old Ibiza faces and cheers-ing with cheeky chupitos (shots), we settle in for a night of ecstatic catch-ups, wide-eyed with excitement to see all the old raving crew together once more, reunited for a nostalgic trip down memory lane.
We exchange knowing looks as all our favourite Nineties club classics are expertly mixed by the best old-school DJs in the business for our aural pleasure - from Brandon Block and Alex P to Seb Fontaine, Paul Trouble Anderson, and of course not forgetting the legendary geezers who are responsible for Clockwork Orange's 23-year run: Danny Gould and Andy Manston.
These guys have been bossing the clubbing scene for so long the early pictures of their club nights feature the now-bald Manky with a full head of hair and the silver fox Gouldy without the merest hint of grey. Hats off to the lads whose winning formula of top-quality house music and the friendliest footloose and fancy-free atmosphere has withstood the test of time, drawing clubbers young and old (but mostly old) from all over the country. It's a veritable party pilgrimage.
As the night powers on full-throttle, glitter-cannons fire ticker-tape into the heaving crowd, the bass reverberates in our chests and our feet stomp in time to the music. Everyday worries and fears are left far behind and we are all fresh-faced sweaty teenagers once more, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed as we throw some shapes, concentrating on cutting rug as if our lives depend on it. Satisfied with the reaction on the dancefloor, the DJs happily engage with their adoring legion of loyal clubbers, whose lives may have taken different paths in the intervening decades but our one true love, the love of house music, is the glue that bonds us all.
Sadly, even the best nights must eventually end, and as the birds start tweeting the crowd reluctantly begins to wind down, ready for the dreaded journey home.
The Walk of Shame is not great at any age, but there's something particularly painful about stumbling about shame-faced on a Sunday morning on public transport as a forty-something in a dress and heels that causes me to clench my teeth a little harder. Sometimes it's easier to hit the after-party than face the grim journey, but we're long enough in the tooth to realise that we're just prolonging the agony.
Like putting a wounded animal to sleep, it's better to get it over with as quickly as possible, hence we scurry home bleary-eyed before we all turn into pumpkins. With the amount of orange attire and dodgy tan-jobs knocking about, that particular transformation is a distinct possibility.
Once safely in the comfort of our own homes, we dissect the evening's events fully, revelling in the glory of another outstanding night. Looking bone-tired, dog-rough and with a monster hangover already kicking in, we'd all agree nevertheless that it was worth it. No-one looks back and remembers the nights they got plenty of sleep, after all.
As our bloodshot bulging eyes finally flutter closed, memories of the club nights of our youth merge with these fresh memories as we upload them to our internal hard drives, stored away to be recalled and enjoyed time and again, say on a wet Wednesday afternoon at work, during a particularly dreary commute - or until the next Clockwork club night creates fresh ones in six months' time.
And at our age, it'll take us that long to get over it....
