Freaky Friday

There seems to be a bit of a role reversal situation going on in my house. Daughter dearest looks at me disapprovingly as I break the news to her that I am going out. Tonight. It is a Sunday. She gives me the evil eye, lectures me on why it's not a good idea to go out on a Sunday night, and when she sees I'm not moving from my stubborn teenager stance her face goes into ‘bent out of shape’ mode. She tries her utmost to make me feel guilty for pulling this on her, but I refuse to, because I’ve spent the previous three weekends at home (yes I do count them) and rarely venture out to party on a Sunday night because it is so inconvenient, what with not having the other unpaid babysitter available (aka Dad) to do a shift she has to go sleepover at a friend's house.

Apart from not wanting to disturb Clarke’s routine, another reason why I rarely do Sunday night raving is it makes me feel a bit weird. As a lapsed Catholic, the teachings of the nuns - who said my sister and I had the devil in us (think my sister got a raw deal) - still exerts some influence. I feel positively heathenish flinging up foot, and slurping the devil’s brew while dressed fashion slut style on the Lords' designated day of rest. Add sex into the equation (lawd god please do) and you have the recipe for a week of repentance for the weekend's sinning.

But I did have a good reason, we were out to celebrate Suzie Wong’s birthday. Admittedly we had already celebrated on Friday, but the ‘shubeen’ we chose was not up to par. Firstly, it was (as usual) devoid of men, deserted, and host to a hen night. A few Absolut Cosmopolitans, chased with some wine numbed the pain, and we raved it out until the music began to jar us.

It was the same story on Sunday night. The damn place was empty with maybe thirty people dotted around. Suzie Wong's sister Gee, and her friend Lou, were with us, they'd just got back from a ravers holiday in Antigua, two weeks of sun, sea, and bashment on the beach. The problem is, there were as usual more women than men. And as we know, most women do not really like other women. Women are more 'ganged up' than men these days. Everyone's got a crew, and as soon as you step foot in the dance, each crew is vying to be centrestage and attract the attention of a few crusty men in ugly shirts and name brand DJs. So it was a case of 'weave-ons at dawn'. Grown women (some as old as 40 something) waging bitchy wars, and going on stup-id.

We went to a weekender a few years back for my birthday. We were in a dance and this fat beeyatch pushes me out of the way to get past, not like accidentally, she shoved me. I don't know whether it was the fact that she looked like the back of the No.88, and I didn't, that upset her. So I'm like 'can't you say excuse me?'. She dashes her drink all over me. I kicked off like Cleo in Set It Off. My friends held me back and stopped it turning into a fight. I was so VEX. Why do these women go out of they're way to make trouble with other women? And think that they can get away with it?

Some of the women are DJ-fuckers, so they get territorial, and because they're connected to certain DJs, have been going to the raves for years (get a life) they act like they own the place. Turns out she was connected to namebrand DJs, she was 'family'. But my girls are also connected, and are seen as family, so the DJs apologised to me. The fat bitch didn't. So we all went back to the chalet, I changed my clothes, and we put on flats (just in case) and went back to the dance and continued raving. The 'disrespect' culture that is the cause of violence among young black men, is similarly exhibited among some black women (and the token white girls that attend these events who sometimes feel they have more to prove - being a minority and all). I haven't seen any fights, but if a dance is crowded with women, bitching breaks out and the toilet turns in a war cabinet.

Gee said similar stuff was going on in Antigua, a 'girl' pushed her out the way when she was getting off the coach. Where is the love? Gee set her straight, in the nicest possible way. Not. But by the end of the holiday all the 'girls' that had been 'trying it' with them, were asking to take their picture. No meaning. We're all going to the next trip to Malaga next year, so let's hope the women stop drinking that 'Haterade' before then. I ain't looking to break my Marc Jacobs heels on no weave.

I finally rolled in at 2am smelling not so fragrantly of Jack D and duty-free cigarettes, I picked Clarke up on the way back and as I put her to bed she sleepily hugged and kissed me, and told me she loved me. I guess the roles have returned to normal.