The party

A party in Archway, the 1987 summer of love generation, awash with drugs, fuelled by acid punch. So different from parties where alcohol is the main intoxicant, such a different ambiance. Saucer-eyed hippy girls speaking breathlessly about how working in a psychic bookshop changed them so profoundly. Another, showing off her lotus position, babbles nonsensically in a mid-Atlantic accent while the Wizard feigns interest in her mind. Her idea of a sartorial party accessory was a purple hula hoop. B told me about her relationship ordeal and resulting damage with ‘Paradox’, a charismatic dreadlocked poet who teaches telepathy, practices free love, and follows the Mayan calendar. Equador, a blue-eyed magician with putty coloured ringlets, dazzles me with sleight of hand tricks. Everyone is friendly, in slow motion, exchanging dreamy stares and faux significant smiles. Alot of sitting around on cushions in the L-shaped “Goddess room”. The house is lovely. I was inappropriately dressed, having come from another event, in non-hippy attire, short black dress/heels/stockings and suspenders! Oh well, the blokes seemed to enjoy it.
I meet Bubbles, a fellow ex-lido resident (coincidentally saw his ex, Becky, who I haven’t seen for years, in Hoxton last week), still drunk, still honest, still lovely. “2002, 2003, 2004, 2005” he nods to me enthusiastically. “Yeah” I agree, not having the faintest idea of what he is talking about. Then the penny drops…”Great years for activism, we really played some tricks on the government, I dropped some fire crackers on May Day, never even got caught…great protests” he expands. Yes they were. That huge demo against the Iraq war in 2003, a million Londoners on the streets. The anti G8 camps. May Days. Dsei. Fairford. Strange to see another activist in a scene where nobody is angry and everybody thinks they can change things by positive thoughts and wishes alone…