a
Clubbing Mums
They are the ones who quaff booze, neck pills and wave their middle-aged hands in the air - not caring who cares. They are the ones for whom the beat truly goes on and on and on and on and on... They are the ones who, literally, may bop till they drop, grotesquely rasping ‘last night a dj saved my life' as the disco ambulance lurches to a&e. They are the mums who go clubbing...
That fateful evening would alter the course of Jean's life more significantly than her soon-to-be-dumped drinking buddies down the pub could comprehend. "Seen Jean?" they would enquire among their ranks, much shrugging of shoulders and raising to the roof of whatever-next?-type eyebrows.
"She got really giggly and loved-up," resumes Paul, "Jimmy started messing about on my decks and we were all dancing about in the living room. She kept going I feel fan-tastic, I feel fan-tastic' and stroking my arm and cuddling the cat. Next thing you know, she started going on about trying it in a club.”
Fast forward to 1999 and Jean is now a regular at clubs in and around London (though, mums in clubs are by no means simply a Smoke thing) her favourites including The Gallery (she regards celeb record player Tall Paul as fit', apparently) and Strawberry Sundae. ("You should see the state of her when she comes in from there," snipes Paul, a little unkindly). With considerable urging from SN, he produces, albeit briefly, some snaps of Jean in garish nightlife mode. A typical shot reveals the type of woman one might expect to see walking an Alsatian on park-land, or stuffing damp sheets in a launderette dryer: slightly harassed and hatchet of face. She sports platform trainers, stained lycra attire, sweat and a Class A grimace. Like a still from Mixmag, only older. It is very disturbing.
"At first it was a laugh," Paul concedes, as he ferrets the photographic evidence away (he is anxious Jean should not know about this interview), "a bit of a novelty - having your mum out her box on a podium. All my mates thought it was hilarious, they kept calling her Rosie [a reference to legendary OAP raver of yore, Rosie The Rave Granny] but I started to feel like I couldn't relax, always having to keep an eye on her. Someone told me they'd seen her getting off with some dodgy-looking bloke in the toilets, that made me feel a bit sick. And it's not nice seeing your mum gurn." Poor Paul; his complexion so ashen, his hands shaking like aspen leaves. Having a piss-head, pill-popping, party-hard parent has stripped away his pride, thieved from him his zest: "I'm not arsed about going clubbing anymore..." the voice trails off to a whisper.
Thankfully, it's not total doom and gloom. In the world of homosexuality, a club mum is seen as something of a fashion accessory - on a par with over-sized turn-ups or a bottle of poppers - particularly on the 'hardbag' (old bag) and/or techno scenes.
It would seem the more musical genres into which one pokes one's snout, the more strobe-loving mums are to be found. With the exceptions, in this particular investigation, of drum & bass and jungle mums. There simply don't appear to be any, which is sad and, dare we suggest, a tad ageist. However, big beat proves, surprisingly, more lucrative, perhaps as a result of famous block rockin' radio disc jockin' Ma, Annie Nightingale (she has a son, well-known in Brighton discos, can't remember his name) herself a familiar slouched sight in various nighteries of this persuasion.
"I've started to call her Fatmum Slim," chortles John, a regular punter at many of these drab hoe-downs, about his late-thirties mum and fellow reveller Lucy. "She's well into the Chemical Brothers, Jon Carter. all them lot." Lucy first got into this sort of behaviour not, as more trendy folk would probably claim, at the much trumpeted Sunday Social, but at a cousin's wedding. "There was a party afterwards and the DJ kept playing Josh Wink's Higher State Of Consciousness [not big beat as such, but stick with it]. She was paralytic," sniggers John, imitating moshing mom-style swayings. "I looked up and saw her really going for it with a gang of lads. A few weeks later she starts getting on at me to let her go down Heavenly Social with my lot... She's never really grown up, 'cause she had me when she was really young, she's more like a mate than a mum." [One of those, then]
Fatmum Slim differs from the aforementioned parents in that she looks (just about) youthful enough to 'get away with it', while retaining a smidgen of dignity. However, her penchant for the hard stuff she now so casually sniffs and necks, along with her beloved lager, could soon put pay to that. And were her employers at a Leading Marketing Agency to find out about this new hobby of hers, they would go ballistic, though she's keen on the Ballistic Brothers so might like that. Oblivious, as he is, to the notion that most of us prefer mums to remain forever in the dark regarding our nocturnal shenanigans, John concludes the topic of this amyl house elder in suitably philosophical mode: "She's just having a laugh, isn't she? The mother's gonna work it out!" he roars, proud of his wit.
"My mate Jimmy gave her a pill four years ago," rues Paul, son of ‘rave mum' Jean, "and that's when it all started." The 'it' in question is 42 year old Jean's almost half-decade descent into devotion to hard house clubbing. "She'd been diagnosed with depression 'cause she'd been made redundant and split up with her boyfriend," Paul recalls. "We were round our house one night watching telly and Jimmy came round with some pills. It was only a Wednesday, or something, but that's how we were, then. She never minded me smoking puff or drinking and she knew we were doing pills all the time. She asked Jimmy to let her try one..."
That fateful evening would alter the course of Jean's life more significantly than her soon-to-be-dumped drinking buddies down the pub could comprehend. "Seen Jean?" they would enquire among their ranks, much shrugging of shoulders and raising to the roof of whatever-next?-type eyebrows.
"She got really giggly and loved-up," resumes Paul, "Jimmy started messing about on my decks and we were all dancing about in the living room. She kept going I feel fan-tastic, I feel fan-tastic' and stroking my arm and cuddling the cat. Next thing you know, she started going on about trying it in a club.”
Fast forward to 1999 and Jean is now a regular at clubs in and around London (though, mums in clubs are by no means simply a Smoke thing) her favourites including The Gallery (she regards celeb record player Tall Paul as fit', apparently) and Strawberry Sundae. ("You should see the state of her when she comes in from there," snipes Paul, a little unkindly). With considerable urging from SN, he produces, albeit briefly, some snaps of Jean in garish nightlife mode. A typical shot reveals the type of woman one might expect to see walking an Alsatian on park-land, or stuffing damp sheets in a launderette dryer: slightly harassed and hatchet of face. She sports platform trainers, stained lycra attire, sweat and a Class A grimace. Like a still from Mixmag, only older. It is very disturbing.
"At first it was a laugh," Paul concedes, as he ferrets the photographic evidence away (he is anxious Jean should not know about this interview), "a bit of a novelty - having your mum out her box on a podium. All my mates thought it was hilarious, they kept calling her Rosie [a reference to legendary OAP raver of yore, Rosie The Rave Granny] but I started to feel like I couldn't relax, always having to keep an eye on her. Someone told me they'd seen her getting off with some dodgy-looking bloke in the toilets, that made me feel a bit sick. And it's not nice seeing your mum gurn." Poor Paul; his complexion so ashen, his hands shaking like aspen leaves. Having a piss-head, pill-popping, party-hard parent has stripped away his pride, thieved from him his zest: "I'm not arsed about going clubbing anymore..." the voice trails off to a whisper.
Thankfully, it's not total doom and gloom. In the world of homosexuality, a club mum is seen as something of a fashion accessory - on a par with over-sized turn-ups or a bottle of poppers - particularly on the 'hardbag' (old bag) and/or techno scenes.
It would seem the more musical genres into which one pokes one's snout, the more strobe-loving mums are to be found. With the exceptions, in this particular investigation, of drum & bass and jungle mums. There simply don't appear to be any, which is sad and, dare we suggest, a tad ageist. However, big beat proves, surprisingly, more lucrative, perhaps as a result of famous block rockin' radio disc jockin' Ma, Annie Nightingale (she has a son, well-known in Brighton discos, can't remember his name) herself a familiar slouched sight in various nighteries of this persuasion.
"I've started to call her Fatmum Slim," chortles John, a regular punter at many of these drab hoe-downs, about his late-thirties mum and fellow reveller Lucy. "She's well into the Chemical Brothers, Jon Carter. all them lot." Lucy first got into this sort of behaviour not, as more trendy folk would probably claim, at the much trumpeted Sunday Social, but at a cousin's wedding. "There was a party afterwards and the DJ kept playing Josh Wink's Higher State Of Consciousness [not big beat as such, but stick with it]. She was paralytic," sniggers John, imitating moshing mom-style swayings. "I looked up and saw her really going for it with a gang of lads. A few weeks later she starts getting on at me to let her go down Heavenly Social with my lot... She's never really grown up, 'cause she had me when she was really young, she's more like a mate than a mum." [One of those, then]
Fatmum Slim differs from the aforementioned parents in that she looks (just about) youthful enough to 'get away with it', while retaining a smidgen of dignity. However, her penchant for the hard stuff she now so casually sniffs and necks, along with her beloved lager, could soon put pay to that. And were her employers at a Leading Marketing Agency to find out about this new hobby of hers, they would go ballistic, though she's keen on the Ballistic Brothers so might like that. Oblivious, as he is, to the notion that most of us prefer mums to remain forever in the dark regarding our nocturnal shenanigans, John concludes the topic of this amyl house elder in suitably philosophical mode: "She's just having a laugh, isn't she? The mother's gonna work it out!" he roars, proud of his wit.