Madeira Drive, is awash. Awash with bodies alive!
Grooving, moving to the vibe.
I'm right here, right now, doing the slosh In this big pool of muddy water, well water I think!
But with its collection of empty cans bobbing around to the bass beat, it could be drink!
No, my dear, I'm not on the beer. I'm as sober as a judge and it isn't Judge Joules who rules okay.
It's Fatboy Slim and he's having trouble with the wind, It's blowing the needle off the record from the very start, but I don't notice it, bless his heart.
Splish, splash, splosh, soaking shoes, socks, feet I don't care, I put my white gloved hands in the air, white, so clubbers see them coming and don't get an upper right, under the chin.
I jump to the beat.
It's a mud bath, but I haven't got tiger feet for I'm in my leopard, zebra and panda wear.
Some people think I'm acting the goat, but I'm just a young at heart, crazy mixed up kid!
The rain falls, pitter patter, but that doesn't matter The moss, the mad hatters, all packed so closely together, are all virtually dry.
They endure the weather.
What a fantastic gig.
I lift my feet from the thick sticky mud, more suited to a pig.
Slip and slide away, Off home for a meal and bed, while others off to an aftergig party, go in their tread.
Praise him and all who made the day for this dancing fool.
Stage crew, marshalls, first aiders, street cleaners, council, PC Plod, one and all.
Praise you, Norman, for today, DJ, you are my God.
Peter Turner, The Drive, Hove
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