Friday saw the first intense play of this year. I still feel new year hasn’t really been celebrated until there’s been a whole day of pain, terror and bloodshed – just ask Tony Blair. Or the population of Afghanistan.
It wasn’t great forward planning – She-Who-Reckons-She-Ought-to-be-Obeyed was driving home the following day and I had to go back to work. And playing, when it goes right, leaves one or more participants a bit stunned afterwards – the brutality hangover, if you will.
I believe it’s the endorphins that flood the body during play that leave the receiver half-in-half-out of a mild subspace for a day or two afterwards. Not great if you work as a watchmaker or a bomb disposal operative, I have to say.
Left to my own devices, I’d happily scene to abstract instrumental music – Throbbing gristle, Miles Davis, Navicon torture technologies and so on. So, it’s a bit of a head trip, being folded, spindled and mutilated to Journey. And T.Rex.
That aside, She-Who-Reckons-She-Ought-to-be-Obeyed lights up like a Christmas tree with an erection when she has the music she loves surrounding her and some sort of hitty thing to hand. Which makes it all worthwhile. So much so, in fact, that I’m still slightly spacey, writing this, days later.

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