Are you ever too old or posh to take drugs?

I was reading an interview with novelist Tony Parsons in the Observer Magzine last Sunday, in which he proclaimed "drugs are ridiculous for anyone over 25." That seems a particularly wild statement. A lot of people these days haven't even moved out of their parents' house by 25, and are still going to raves well into their thirties. 25 seems a little premature to wield the "look at that twat" axe.

Maybe I'm biased. I don't see what is so ridiculous about taking drugs anyway. (I presume we are talking about recreational substances here, not injecting-into-your-eyeballs smack and crack addictions - more on which later). Speaking as someone who went out and took drugs more or less for a living, and exceeded Mr Parson's cut off point by about five years, I don't really understand his second comment: "Whatever a person's age, [drugs are] always a dead end," he rattles on. "You are always chasing (and failing) to recreate that first hit."

Really? If I'd been trying and failing to recreate that "first hit" (excuse the arcane drug-speak) every time I graced the dancefloor, I would have got fed up with it all long before I did. Besides, it's entirely possible to get just as totally mashed the 50,000th time as the first, if you know the right dealers.

Which one Chelsea billionaire and his missus allegedly do. Tetra Pak heir Hans Kristian Rausing and his wife Eva have been nicked on suspicion of possesion of crack cocaine and heroin after being caught "trying to smuggle small wraps of drugs into a function at the US embassy"

According to the Evening Standard, Mrs Rausing is a keen tennis player and patron of a drugs charity - but this image of a functioning 'crackhead' does not compute with the stuffy newspaper which goes on to reveal: "it also shows how crack has risen out of inner city ghettoes and been adopted by some middle-class drug users." No shit! Speak to anyone who goes out in East London and they'll tell you of Bank Holiday crack banquettes and arty farty types who love an occasional pipe. When are the media going to get with the programme? No one is too posh or too old to take drugs.

Dance round your handbags

Current urban faves Wiley and Skepta have followed up their DSK-sampling 'Wearing My Rolex' with the highly imaginative 'Rolex Sweep'. Even though the lyrics are almost identical (champagne for me, champagne for you, some bollocks about watches), the new track - which samples some 90s hard house grooves - has spawned a dance to go with it: The Rolex sweep...

Here's a couple of gentlemen showing us how it's done (and not looking that much like Whigfield in a car park, honest):



This sort of palaver made me think about the weird and wonderful world of Crasher dancing back in the late 90s:



Which has now evolved (via pinching bits of the hard house 'spoogie') into something a bit more bonkers - Tecktonik - on the continent:




As you'd expect, all of these dances look much better after you've had a few...

Happy birthday Mixmag

Mixmag magazine is celebrating its 25th anniversary this month. I'm pleased to say I've been writing for them since 1995 (apart from when the magazine went all 'tits and bums' during the dark years of 2002-2006).

When I was a wayward teenager - having left school at fifteen with no qualifications or ambitions - writing about going clubbing and listening to dance music seemed like the ideal job. I'd stand in WHSmith flicking through to Dan Prince's Club Country column, or Pembo's Five Star Clubbing and read in total awe of their amazing adventures. Clubs editor of Mixmag in those days (1992) seemed like the best job in the world... luckily I got to find out that it was all that and more, when I was finally made clubs editor in 1998.

For five years I visited practically every club in the UK - from hard as nails techno clubs, (including one which took place under an Indian restaurant in Paisley, the waiters behind the bar) to girlie glam clubs, I did them all, and lived my dream. I even got to write my own version of Dan Prince's column... mission accomplished.

These days Mixmag has moved on. But their 25th birthday issue pays homage to the artists that have been highly influential over the years. They made a little video at the photoshoot: Goldie seems to be enjoying himself, (and not at all the same person who threatened an old editor with violence when he was unhappy with an interview). Norman Cook is still wearing his Hawaiian shirt, Claire Manumission looks like someone's mum, not someone who once pulled a Union Jack out of her fanny on stage in Ibiza. Ah, we're all getting old. But most of us are still at it!

Flakey DJs

This week I have been mostly getting let down by flakey DJs who obviously think I pay my rent with shirt buttons. Let me tell you, music PR is a thankless enough task without having to do it for free, mateys.

DJs are notorious bare-faced blaggers though - like this pair of chancers who managed to push their way in to every club they approached armed with nothing more than some 'ironic' shades and a record bag.

My first book

Last month I finished writing my first book. I was really pleased with myself, as I'd been working on it since July 2007 and couldn't believe that I'd managed to write 70,000 words about regularly getting off my head in dark, licensed premises (it's a clubbing memoir). I was so proud, I even took a picture of the manuscript.



I sent it off to my publisher (and here's another tale, a warning about not accepting the first contract that comes your way, such an amateur) and waited for his response.

And waited. And waited. And then discovered he was on his second skiiing holiday of the year so far. I'm not sure whether he still even wants to publish my book - maybe he was off his head when he signed it? He's moved the launch date around three times, we can't agree on a sub-head, he's not commissioned a cover, and worst of all, he's not even mentioned me on his blog. Not once! (Although he and others on his list seem to have some happy political banter going on in his comments section). Am I being a typically whingy author? Or am I right to be concerned about his lack of concern? All I can do is wait.

Rave flu strikes again

Urgh, I've been struck down by a clubbing lurgy this week and have been forced to stay in bed and watch A LOT of awful telly. Meanwhile, The Boyfriend has departed (from the terminally bad Terminal 5) for a lads' weekend in Amsterdam. I wonder if he can bring me back one of these?

Farewell to the Gallery

I spent many Friday nights down at Turnmills in Clerkenwell back in the day (and many Saturdays too). The Gallery on Fridays was my local, a place where I could pop down "for a quiet one" and then end up rolling out of the door at eight o'clock in the morning having danced and laughed my arse off all night. In 2000, I moved to Sheffield and then it was a bit of a slog to get back down for the evening. More's the pity.

Now the Newmans have sold up and are moving out, so last Friday (Good Friday, of course) would be the last ever Gallery at Turnmills. And it was the best night I've been to in seven years. The line-up was an old skool special: Seb Fonatine, Tall Paul, Sister Bliss, Judge Jules and in the back room, Alex and Brandon and even Clockwork Orange's Andy Manston for good measure.

It was busy, but thankfully, not ridiculously rammed. I recognised some old faces, and even got chatting to a few new people - something that just doesn't really happen in other clubs in London. I wasn't the oldest person in there, in fact I felt positively sprightly, as I whooped and cheered on the dancefloor (Paul played the instrumental of 'Toca Me' and me and my friends nearly cried). I broke into the DJ booth when Jules was on for old times' sake, drank his champagne and made off with half a bottle of his vodka. I wore a silly mask. I harrassed Alex P... I felt ten years younger and we all wondered what it would take to make a night as good as this again.

Then I spent the rest of the Easter weekend recovering. My god, I felt like I'd been mangled in an industrial accident. Every muscle in my body ached, I slept more than twelve hours a day, and spent the rest of them lying under a duvet on the sofa. I lost my voice. For three days. And now, four days later, I've got a stinking cold. But it was so worth it.

The only downer about the night was that promoter Danny Newman missed it through illness. So, wishing you well, Danny. Get well soon.