Oxygen Thief

Felix

One of the problems with liking house music is that it is mainstream, which means it's pretty difficult to go out and dance to famous DJs in a pleasant environment. If a house DJ is good and gets famous, then he tends to start playing to massive crowds at so called super clubs. Thankfully the era of superclubs seems to have passed, but still while I'm hugely looking forward to going to listen to James Zabiela and Sander Kleinenberg in the next month or so, I'm really not looking forward to going out to dance at Turnmills and Ministry.

So it was with delight that I learned that the very famous and good (© anyone Japanese) Felix Da Housecat was to be playing at the Key, a 350 capacity club in Kings Cross. It got better and better; I had expected that it would be me and George alone, which is good enough, but Dave and Jo wanted to come as well, and it turned out to be possible to persuade Olly to come along, and Matt was already a massive fan, and Kiran had been intending to suggest it anyway, and George brought Chris and Des down, and Des brought Shaby, and then at the last minute Noriko decided to come too. So two became eleven and the night was set.

There isn't much to say about it really - it was a cracking night with great company and an awesome set of DJs. The club was pretty cool: despite being tiny it was well laid out and never really seemed that small. There were shiny shiny disco balls, a lit up dancefloor, plenty of soft couches and a great vibe. The music was incredible, everyone was loving it, twisted or straight and the only problem was that it all came crashing down at 5am when Felix, who'd arrived late, was cut off only an hour into his set when the lights went up and the sound was killed. That sucked.

Entertainment: Olly, bless him, seems to have found raison d'etre — perhaps more accurately his excuse d'etre — a guileless Irish girl who'd never done anything stronger than Guinness before she met him, and who now seems to be driving him to ever greater depths of drug misuse. This is, at least, how he characterises it; I suspect strongly that when she makes an ignorant suggestion which is in line with what he already wants, he tells himself it was her idea. Anyway, while pissed on Thursday night, they somehow decided acid would be a good idea. Three tabs, some speed and 36 hours without sleep and he's sitting on my sofa, sweating, silent and staring straight ahead. Another 4 hours and he's in the club, finally talking, laughing, being basically sane. And then a random guy wearing his jeans really low wanders past our room and bends down to do up his shoes. His builder's crack extends like a fissure in the fabric of the earth and sends poor Olly right back to acidland.