Some buddies told us to head round to their chalet for a party. By the time we got there, we didn’t know anybody inside and it was so cramped that a bunch of us stood outside and hung out. A guy came up and said, “You guys definitely need to come to Belgian Chalet…” and pointed to next door. These guys had lights and a Mr T cut out in the window so we knew they meant business and we joined in and were immediately offered some mystery Belgian booze.
My friend Ry’s mind was blown by my drinking gin and cream soda, which I’d accidentally picked up in the shop instead of lemonade. We poured it into the remainder of my bottle of gin and he passed it around, forcing everyone to take a taste of it as if he was my business manager conducting market research. I said, in my best George Foreman voice, “I’m so proud of it, I put my name on it!”
To which, a girl asked me, “Is your name gin?”
It is now.
At one point, someone got locked in the wardrobe. Others started to shake it with him inside until one of the residents of Belgian Chalet said “whoa whoa whoa…” and made them stop, not because it might break the wardrobe or hurt the guy in there, but because they had lots of bottles of booze balanced on it and if they fell, that stuff would have been wasted. Some dude was breakdancing on the tiny amount of floorspace, people were dancing on the table and then crowd surfing in this tiny room as everyone chanted “Belgian Chalet! Belgian Chalet! Belgian Chalet!”
This became “Elton John! Elton John! Elton John!” which became “Rod Stewart! Rod Stewart! Rod Stewart!” which led to its logical conclusion of “Jamie Oliver! Jamie Oliver! Jamie Oliver!”
I think this and this alone sums up ATP.
All Tomorrow’s Parties weekenders: I salute you. This was the dumbest and best weekend I’ve had probably since the last one. And we saw fucking Television and made some amazing new friends. I wish I could have gone to more of you, but I’m lucky to have experienced you at least once. Take it easy, bro.