“You play ata two oclocka so we will picka you up ata ten and a quarter, ok?”
“Err can we make it a little later because that’s nearly four hours before I play. Let’s say eleven, alright?”
“Hmm I will need to a speak to da boss”
‘Da Boss’ must have agreed to my outrageous 11o’clock tantrum and Phillipe collected me in a rather huffy state at 5 minutes to. We drove to Peter Pan Club in Riccioni at furious speed and, once there, walked into a scene I’ll remember for a long time.
Now, to give you some background, I’m on crutches, having taken a tumble skiing the day before, without my pre-match grade 2 trim, and wearing my standard dj attire of hoodie, jeans and battered sneakers.
I HAVE NEVER SEEN A MORE BEAUTIFUL SET OF PEOPLE IN MY LIFE. Men AND women, all looked like they had just smashed their way out of the Ralf Lauren window in town………….All waiting for me so they can order their dinner.
I get hastily introduced to a few supermodels and parked between two of them. I can’t believe I’m wearing my hoodie when those around me are sporting shooting jackets, cravats, tailored jeans and all look, basically, fucking gorgeous. SPOT THE DJ!!
I make polite conversation to a lovely Florencian next to me while my periferal vision does its best to persuade me I’m in an Imax cinema showing ‘Moulin Rouge’ and nibble on exquisite courses laid before us by barely visible waiters.
Italians like a big show as part of their nightlife experience and, during dinner, singers, acrobats and dancers all paraded the dancefloor and restaurant until the local dj beckoned the crowd with sexy low slung house.
It didn’t take long for Peter Pan to be packed to the rafters and I was soon escorted, crutch in tow, to the area behind the dj booth where, once again, I stood out like a sore thumb between the mannequins and models and grooved the best I could on my bum cheeks.
I always like to go for a pre-set tinkle so, about 10 minutes before I was due to play, I mouthed to Phillipe that I was just going to head to the toilet. He looked at me wide eyed, gazed out across the heads of 1500 people, dropped his head to focus on my crutch and raised his hands to his head. ‘It’s ok’ I assured him, ‘I’ll do it’. Crutchless, I limped through the throng and tried to swim with the tide to take me to the other side of the club and 15 minutes later I was back, exhausted, dripping with sweat, and clutching my memory stick like some kind of golden key. A golden key that would take me back into a world in which I was comfortable. A key that meant that my clothes no longer mattered (to me) and, in fact, that my hoodie, jeans and battered trainers were totally appropriate. I sunk the memory stick into it’s USB port (Freud would have a field day with that) and called up my intro.
The rest of the evening is a haze of confetti cannons and flame throwers, disco lights and drag queens and I played for 3 hours until 5.30am when the last of the crowd were kicking their way through the floored debris and hobbling through the exit. I won’t forget Peter Pan for a number of reasons but mainly because it’s what a club should be, an experience, a techni-colour tsunami that leaves you dazed and confused with a little wry smile on your face.
Many thanks to @peterpanclub and the people in attendance for an unforgettable night. To the wonderful MC Tanja Monies for looking after me behind the decks! To Phillipe and the Armani models. Hope to see you again Ax