At O Children's Crib

Crispy was the night as we hastily head to east London hot-spot On the Rocks. We were packed to the brim with idealistic expectations, while this particular 'hot-spot' had different ideas. It wasn't so much of a hot-spot as it was a luke-warm bath. Honestly, it was emptier than a Scottish pay toilet. Which by the way is defamation at its best. Who in their right mind would pay for a toilet? Dig a hole for Christ's sake.

So we're at On the Rocks and it's bloody shit, but fortunately it wasn't too long before some added incentives saw us taking charge of the d-floor. And I mean really carving it up, we were literally on fire. No joke.

After hosing off we found ourselves on Kingsland road heading northbound to the ever-seedy ever-open Russian Bar. I remember a tall black guy in a hat, thanks for the drink, and a whole lot of sweaty bodies rubbin' up against me. Almost a minute after accepting said man's gracious offer, the bangin' beats had ceased and my retinas were burning like something else. The bulbous artifice shone down like the almighty eclipse and we bleary-eyed contenders headed for the exit. No sooner had we ventured out had Harry from London's O Children! stopped us in our tracks. He offered us his house and some equally bodacious tunes. We accepted. After a pit-stop at the off-license, thirsty like a camal, we eventually made it to the up-and-coming muso's house. The 15 of us sat in a make-shift circle. In the hope of painting an accurate portrait it is necessary to note that I only knew three of the circle grazers. The rest were decoration, to say the least. Anyway, there was a whole lot of messy business going down and not surprisingly, I am experiencing difficulties verbalising these hazy memories into a legible display. So I won't.

I talked to Harry about the work I do with online site Don't Panic. Harry reminisced about being interviewed by a fellow from Don't Panic, a chap whose arrival was ridden with tardiness and the stench of a boozy afternoon. Needless to say Harry's thoughts on the interview were equally as flattering. Firey red-head Sarah requested a preview of the O Children debut album & within minutes (or so it seemed) Harry had burnt a copy and placed it in Sarah's clammy little hands. Prying it from those tenacious digits would be a mission that I was in no state to undertake.

CD-R in tow we bid our farewells and left the premises. Dawn was upon us and the contours of the grimy street paraphernalia were becoming visibly clearer. And then there were the birds... Those damn birds.