'I'm getting twatted on Sunday and taking Monday off. I suggest you do the same. Regards, your boss' said the piece of paper which I peeled from the floor of the master bedroom. A peep into the bathroom reveals nothing. Well, I say nothing, there's a guy in the gigantic bath with bubbles and rose petals up to his chin, grinning. I look around in search of who could have written it. The paranoid monkey in me searches for my boss. My boss is not here. Could he be here getting twatted somewhere in the cavernous venue? I vaguely hope so.
What I can see from where I stand must be described.
A four poster bed has been shimmied up against the wall and on it stands a minotaur, shaking his fist above his massive head, roaring and bouncing. There are probably about a hundred people crammed into this formerly immaculate hotel bedroom. On the door stands a bouncer. It's been a one-in, one-out situation ever since the fawn making everyone dance stepped up to the tables.
A pair of Pioneer CDJ-400s rest on a desk beside the bathroom door. Behind them a topless, painted madman is hurling fireballs of monstrously heavy, glitchy turbo crunk into the crowd - who are reacting appropriately by creating an undulating carpet of flesh, whirling limbs and bared teeth. People are actually screaming.
The fawn is in good company. In front of his decks, a clutch of woodland nymphets skip and frolic as if they are in a forest of bluebells. Satan himself is grinding his teeth with satisfaction, swirling his red cape and completely having it, clutching a bottle of Jacks to his chest. Absolutely everyone is dressed to the nines, looking blisteringly sexy and in complete disarray at the hands of Your Niece - the creature with the beats. Outside the bedroom a couple of horned Demons stand muttering while the bouncer bars the door. Cupid spins in languid circles, awaiting entry, swigging cava, bow and arrow slung over his back.
This is the long-awaited, oft-rumoured, much-discussed, absolutely notorious Secret Garden Party Bacchanalia Ball. The creation of this event has caused panic, stress and sleepless nights for some. But you don't want to hear about that.
Tonight's venue is a killer. The Dex Club in Brixton, which, when opened up and combined with her male sister venue The Prince becomes a great, big, respectable and unrecognizable nightclub. Downstairs, El Nino and Ben de Queer play back to back swing, boogalooo and early 50s jive. In the main room, Son Of Dave headlines, playing a brilliant, jingling, jangling, upbeat set which has the crowd whooping and eating out of the palms of his calloused hands. From the depths of the dancefloor, a lone trumpeter calls out in answer - or maybe question – and so begins a medley across the crowd.
As with their very excellent festival, there is an almost baffling expanse of things to taste. There is so much on offer tonight that you have no hope of seeing everything. Better to relax and be carried with the breeze. In one corner, a speed-hating session is taking place. In another, people are jotting notes to be pinned on a public board courtesy of Hermes Messenger Service – presumably where my boss intended to leave his generous and encouraging memo. Upstairs on the roof of the building, mischief is being pushed out willy nilly by all and sundry. 'Do you want to make love?' a very gorgeous girl enquires. 'Yes' is the only answer to that. And so she upturns a massive jigsaw onto the table, the united pieces read: 'LOVE'. The entire club is plastered in grins. It's electric. The hot tub is full of naked people. Gods and Goddesses are dangling fruit from the balcony using a fishing rod, trying and succeeding to get the fruit into the mouths of unsuspecting passers-by. (Oh what the fuck's that? Just got a wayward banana in the mouth.)
'Bacchanalia' is the name given to the annual parties held in Dionysus' honour and - as with all the best parties – they are mainly comprised of drinking, dancing, shagging and lunacy. All four activities are occurring in varying measures here at the ball. Any party which occurs in such a grand hotel is asking for people to crack open their most debauched sides and let them fly. Of the two hotel rooms which are open, one is the afore-mentioned 'Micro-Rave', the other is Heaven. Quaint and archaic classical music plays to the people nestled cheekily onto the double bed, amid the roses, ivy and white linen. Mischief is everywhere.
The Dirty Au Pairs have kept their identity a secret. No one knows who - or what - they are. In every press release it says they hail from Estonia and their names are 'Sissy' and 'Olive'. When they step up to the tables in the main room it becomes apparent that they are a couple of vaguely familiar but unidentifiable DJs - both in drag. The one in the purple satin number makes a start immediately, wig swinging, by dishing out some classic house while the blonde provides a deep, tribal, hypnotic hook on the percussion. It works an absolute treat. Whoever they are they're clearly accomplished and well versed in fuelling the dancefloor with slick beats. They pull off the set with such incredible style you can almost forget they are both wearing ballet pumps. Almost.
The venue and the people without exception look absolutely incredible. Top class costumiers Prangsta have played a massive role tonight - dressing all the organisers and many of the 500 guests – but everyone looks great whether they've hired a costume or not. Fancy dress is such an integral factor in any good party – and has come to characterise the antics of the Secret Garden crew and all their events.
When 6am comes, it's an unwelcome guest which I want to tell to fuck right off. Go back from whence thou came – you are not welcome here. And while I'm at it, never darken my door again. For the people here - most of whom are accustomed to the ways of the Secret Garden Party festival - tonight is like the Thursday night. The Beginning. We are all just getting warmed up, engines purring, bodies limber, minds, erm, sharpened and ready to roll on for at least another three days.
So, prematurely ejaculated onto the mad streets of Brixton, dressed as a woodland nymph with a Dirty Au Pair wearing purple eyelashes by my side and a pair of glittering horns on my head, I'm ready to skip back into the underworld, charge my glass and dance for the rest of my life.
Long live the Secret Garden Party.
Keep your ear firmly adhered to the ground for the next SGP event – rumour has it it will be in April...
You can read our review of last year's Secret Garden Party here.
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Photos courtesy of Emma Bailey.
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