So, there I was, in a strange city with no girlfriend and everyone I knew there was a friend of hers. At least the fucked up chair lying in the downstairs neighbours' flower bed made me glad she hadn't come home, the chair wasn't too valuable but its sentimental value was through the......nah. Anyway, i'd been in her flat for 24 hrs, trips to get alcohol aside, and realised I was looking at the habitat of an organism in metamorphosis, the girl I had known was gone. Books I'd never read & music I'd never listen to were strewn around the room alongside clothes I'd never seen and condoms I'd never wear. For all I knew, she wasn't in the arms of some waiter who'd been after a one night stand and bit off more than he could chew, but was in fact in a pod somewhere waiting to grow wings before emerging as an angel.
Her surprisingly understanding live in landlord then took me to somewhere she thought i might receive a little help, and before lunch I found myself telling a stranger all about my woes for nearly an hour, which I didn't mind because I love to tell one sided of stories of my past. However, after a while longer I noticed the person I was talking to was saying nothing. I had expected to be told where I could say for a few days with only 60 quid to my name, or be given the name of a lawyer in case I faced charges over the destruction of the fruits of Pappy's labour(not to mention the window and the neighbour's prized flowerbeds), but nothing, no input whatsoever. just a smile and the occasional nod. It was then that I realised that the landlord's description of the people as Samaritans was literal, not a way of saying they were good people and could offer any sort of practical help. Even more dejected, I left to wander the streets for a while with two big bags that I couldn't put down. This being 90's Britain, and me speaking like I might be Irish in a coastal town meant Alert Condition Amber in "Can I leave this bag here for half an hour?" terms. Thank Fuck I'm not Muslim, it must be like that for them all the time.
After a mild panic attack and a quick phone call to my parents to pretend all was well, I remembered the couple who had driven me to Bristol from a Faith Camp my Christian friends had took me to earlier that year. At the time I'd tagged along to get to Peterborough and then hitch-hike on to Bristol to see my girlfriend, then felt obliged to stay on to avoid going to hell for abusing the kindness of God's True People. It was an interesting week, and probably the only such week that year in which I knew I was in safe company and wasn't taking any drugs(apart from a brief stay in hospital to avoid being brought to court and put in remand..........but that's another story.). Anyway, Mike and Theresa had picked me up on the last day and gave me a lift to Bath,where they insisted I stay for lunch before I took a 15 minute bus to Bristol and spent the following fortnight reunited with my Girlfriend. At the time, they had said if I ever need anything I shouldn't hesitate, etc. Thinking "Yeah, but everyone says that" I phoned them and Mike came to drive me over to theirs. As I began to talk, I just burst into tears, telling my story through bubbles of snot and intermittent stuttering/quivering fits. At least that hadn't happened at the Samaritans, I'm sure the awkwardness would have been unbearable. Anyway, I stayed with them for a couple of nights, before finding a bed in a men's hostel in St. Jude's, Bristol. It was pretty grim, but at least I wouldn't be going home with my tail between my legs to face the wrath of a vengeful and petty bunch of middle aged cops and drug dealers. Mike even gave me £40 as he dropped me off at the door. I phoned them a couple of times afterwards, but didn't go to see them because I honestly felt that they had done more than enough for me already, and I never again wanted to think about the circumstances in which I'd had to ask for their help.
It didn't take long for me to find some work on a building site, and a quick couple of chats with the other agency workers soon taught me how to inflate my hours for the time sheets, leaving me pretty well off at the weekends. I felt a little awkward going out on my own, but the only people I met were people in the Hostel and guys from the site, who were OK, but kept trying to get me to play poker with them on Friday nights, taking my naivety of building site operations as a sign of general innocence that could provide easy pickings. Another night out with guys from the site somehow degenerated into a bizarre(and thankfully fruitless) hunt for homosexuals to batter with baseball bats on Clifton Downs. Despite all that, I did have some good times and soon found a squat along the road where there was constantly someone on the decks, and where I first met Dennis, aka "Easygroove", a legend on the Bristol Underground scene who thought he was real hot shit, despite never getting to the heights of his contemporaries like Grooverider or Roni Size. kind of a mixed bag, he could be gregarious or paranoid, generous or downright selfish and thieving and his personality was reflected in his music:- he was either brilliant or shit depending on his circumstances. He took an instant dislike to me because I said I was into Chicago house, like DJ Sneak, Derrick Carter, Green Velvet and all that crowd, though I did like something from all styles of dance music. He then spent ages droning on about UK Garage and riddim and tekno dread and God knows what all before smoking all of someone else's crack then disappearing in to the night.
Although it was quite seedy, it was good to be around something familiar. Not having any records, apart from 5 or 6 compilation albums I'd bought, I only messed about on the decks once or twice although I did learn one thing from this. you don't need to know the records you play inside out to do a set, in fact the random factor can add something you could not calculate and it also keeps your attention on the record at all times, or should if you are any kind of DJ. Not having my records was strange, but absence makes the heart grow fonder, as they say. Also, I had a few musical epiphanies that would not have happened if I'd been stuck practising all the time, as I'd been for the past while. Dope Smugglaz were on the essential mix one night, inspiring me to get out loads of the saturday night mixes I'd taped but never really listened to like DJ Sneak and Derrick Carter(hence my ill fated comment to Easygroove), Deep Dish, DJ Funk and Dave Clarke, Daft Punk(the all time best Essential mix ever) Other things I had on tape like Coldcut "JDJ" and Talking Heads "Speaking in Tongues"(a private joke with myself at the time) became touchstones to what it was all about for me. I listened to them as music for recreation, sure, but also as though they were lessons being directed at me.
After a month or so, I missed my records more than the girlfriend though I just couldn't bring myself to make the call so I could go and get them, things had ended so crazily that I half expected her to have thrown them away. Eventually, I was at a pub Dj night next to St. Nick's market, Las Iguanas, I think it was called and I got talking to one of the DJs about music and he told me if I wanted I could play, I was welcome to try out. The Ex-Girlfriend's (I don't want to say her name, and making up one feels wrong for a true story) house was only 15 minutes away, so despite the female promoters clear disapproval and claims that they only needed a rare groove DJ for some reason, I set off to get my records. I phoned the ex to say I was on the way, only to be told that it wasn't the right time and she wasn't ready to see me. I wasn't looking for a reconciliation, I just wanted the records, but as during my explanation I sensed she had already entered high drama mode. Thinking it had to be done eventually anyway, I ploughed on determined. When she didn't answer the door, I simply climbed the drainpipe and went in the window. Of course, that is technically burglary, and therefore a police matter which they didn't hesitate to come and discuss with me in person. "Now here is your records, so you have no reason to go round their again, Young man", the arresting officer said two hours later as I was discharged from Broadmead station. Thinking he couldn't be more right, I walked back to the hostel convinced I would never catch a break.
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