How do you get your kicks? There is more than one road to pleasure, not just
the one that goes via wanton, filthy self-destruction, walked with legs
akimbo while grabbing fistfuls of drugs (though, in the current age, you’d
be forgiven for not having noticed). There are many possibilities for living
life to the full, the thread of which is simply the importance of pleasure
itself.
It’s a case of identifying what works for you: whether that means simple
pleasures, guilty pleasures or carnal ones; altruism or even religious
ecstasy. The pursuit of pleasure is about not just raging highs, but
plateaus of quiet contentment and the refreshing power of variety. Asked to
compile an anthology entitled A Hedonist’s Guide to Life, I went for a
pluralist take: less versus more, clean versus dirty. After all, hardcore
hedonism uses a lot of oxygen.
It would be disingenuous to deny that sex, drugs and rampant drunkenness are,
for some, a path to spiritual enlightenment. To get sky-high and unshackle
our inhibitions is to enable a journey of self-discovery; travelling into
the dusty corners of our consciousness can be edifying and enriching. The
enlightened hedonist knows there is more out there.
Hedonism makes us happy. To be euphoric and on the edge is to kiss joy in
flight. Everyone should be free to taste that. Here is a pick from the high
priests of pleasure.
Fleur Britten
THE DJING GAME
Tabitha Denholm is one half of Queens of Noize, the shonky girl duo who
double-handedly gave the art of DJing a shakedown with their shambolic sets,
devil-may-care attitude and eye-catching pants
Have you ever lost entire afternoons tipsily singing along to your favourite
records in daft hats? If so, DJing is the job for you. Not only will you get
paid for this carry-on in ready cash, but you will be serviced regularly
with free booze. When you’re armed with a record box, the trials of queuing,
paying and tolerating moody door people all fade into distant memory. In
fact, all sense of reality can start to slide once you surrender to the
nocturnal world of colourful characters and nameless lounges. And when you
wake up at noon, it is not with the guilt of a day lost, but with the
knowledge of a job well done, and a glorious, if hazy, memory of
puppeteering the crowd into euphoric communion.
Previously, boys became DJs because they couldn’t dance, preferring to closet
themselves in smoky bedrooms, practising on their trophy equipment.
Showmanship consisted of a sweaty man making a Y sign with his body and
pointing. Not cool. Nobody wants to see a pretentious twit in oversized
headphones making life-or-death decisions about the next “groove”. We say
showmanship is crowd-surfing a piñata into a moshpit, to be torn to pieces,
or leading 5,000 high Danes in a session of strip aerobics (really). The
golden rule is: “It’s meant to be fun.” DJing took a wrong turn when people
forgot this – now you’ve just got to let it all hang out. Dance like a loon
and the crowd dances with you. Then you just need to know how to play a
shambolic set. Try this:
Learn by doing Don’t be intimidated by the equipment – a chimp could
master a crossfader. Just dive in: the never-mind-the-gaps school of DJing
is very forgiving.
Form a double act One girl dressed like a flamenco dancer flailing her
arms about is cringeful, two makes an act. (NB: more than two is
impractical.) IMBIBING We recommend slippery nipples (shots of sambuca
floating dangerously on a bed of Baileys). Enjoyed in brisk succession, they
have a narcotic effect comparable to PCP.
What to play Get the balance right. Bring some new sonic treats and
some good remixes. They’ll do the DJing for you. It’s always satisfying to
have the same stuff in your bag as the serious boys, but a whiff of fromage
encourages silliness. If you give the audience everything they want, it’s
like having too many chocolates – it makes you sick.
Happy accidents If something unconventional happens, embrace it. If a
track really bombs, whip it off the decks, snap it in two and throw it to
the baying mob. Falling off podiums, decks, tall people is inevitable –
embrace your war wounds.
DJ crimes Worst of all is the “DJ nod”, which can be traced back to the
“rock nod”, perpetrated by guitarists in boring prog-rock bands who would
screw up their eyes and move their heads up and down to indicate being lost
in a vibe. Also, don’t start saying “spinning” or “dropping” – “playing”
works fine.
Pulling the plug Never finish playing when the bouncer asks you – it
looks like you don’t care. Always wait until they pull the plug. You owe it
to the people.
HOW TO PICK A HORSE IN A PADDOCK
Sir Clement Freud, who is related to most other Freuds, has owned
racehorses for most of his life. He would not still be working had they run
faster
Gambling: there is but one rule. If you mind losing money more than you enjoy
winning it, keep away – play solitaire, move to Bognor Regis, whatever.
I have always believed that betting within your limits is wholly pointless. To
spend time, energy and intellectual capacity working out which
horse/dog/athlete is going to come first, then backing your opinion with
insufficient ammunition to realise the price of a case of decent champagne,
is pathetic. As Wordsworth wrote: “High heaven rejects the lore of nicely
calculated less or more.” What you must do is plunge. Feel real pain when
selection is stuffed so that you can rejoice at the magnitude of your win.
Let us now concentrate on making money at a racecourse. There are those who
bet because of the horse’s name, the colour of the silks worn by the jockey,
the number on the saddle cloth. If that goes with being at odds of less than
33-1, coming from a reasonably successful yard and being ridden by an inform
jockey, then there’s no reason why not.
And don’t change your mind – absolutely nobody wants to know that you nearly
backed the winner.
If you go to a racecourse, it is a bit pointless to sit in the restaurant and
watch the action on the TV screen behind the bar. You can do that at home,
where you are likely to eat better food and sip less expensive drinks.
Before each race, visit the parade ring and look at the horses as they are
led around, mounted and cantered to the start. They mostly look alike, until
you examine them with care. Some are grey, others range between dark brown
and light chestnut, and many have blazes of white on their faces or legs.
None of this has anything to do with how they run. Very fat horses – said to
show a lot of “condition” – are best avoided. In a sprint race, go for the
one that has the biggest bum, as long as he looks well (shiny coat) and the
stable lad/lass manifests an aura of cheerfulness.
Make your selection and bet with whichever bookmaker gives the longest odds.
An elementary knowledge of maths is necessary here: 11-10, 6-5, 5-4 and 11-8
may all be available somewhere. Smart folk take the 11-8.
The sure way to come home poor is to have the same bet on every race. Vary
your stakes: £500 (which in racing terms is “a monkey”) on one race, then a
proper heavy bet on another in respect of which you feel more strongly. Back
to win, not each way (which means first, second or third), if the odds are
10-1 or less. Don’t bet to win money – bet to fly first class to Las Vegas
and stay at the Wynn hotel, or to buy a large white truffle or a gold watch
with platinum hands and diamond movement. When you lose, modify your
expenditure for a while, like a few nights of dinner at McDonald’s or
Nando’s.
JOIN THE JET SET
Oscar Humphries is a failed social climber whose address book is shrinking
like the waning moon
Life in the jet set is an endless stream of boats, planes, beautiful women,
conspicuously dressed men and exotic animal skins made into horrible
clothes. Life is dedicated to pleasure, one long group holiday that
dot-to-dots its way across the Med in the summer and, in the winter, Gstaad,
St Moritz and St Barts; with, in between, breathers at the Meadows, the
Priory or some Scientology “chillout facility”. It’s not a hard club to
infiltrate: all you need to be is very attractive and willing to sleep with
morbidly unattractive men. Or be rich, or appear rich.
Buy a Rolex Jet-setters love a watch – ironic, considering their
disregard for punctuality and lack of pressing appointments.
Quit your job The jet set don’t work. They acquire. They invest. They
are invested in. The girls start niche fashion labels. The boys are in the
shady world of oil or minerals. Or they “just chill”. The only 9-5 they know
is their tanning regimes. They might work a little over long lunches at Club
55, in St Tropez, via their BlackBerries; play with your PDA a bit and it
will be assumed you are managing your empire.
Go shopping The men wear frayed jeans, a shirt open to the navel and
loafers without socks. Their fashion icons are Gatsby, Studio 54’s Steve
Rubell and Flavio Briatore, possibly the worst-dressed human being on this
or any other planet. The girls love an It bag and a bit of Jimmy Choo (but
can’t quite muster the courage to ask Eurotrash’s poster girl, Tamara Mellon
– whom they met once – for a discount).
Invest in property The jet set live everywhere and nowhere. Buy places
in New York, St Tropez and London, an Argentine cattle station and a house
in the Hamptons. Buy a private plane, a big yacht and a Riva Aquarama motor
boat to get you to it.
Find a mate The guys like models, but, if their oil business has gone
belly up, will settle for an ugly heiress with models on the side. The girls
like movie stars, polo-players and boys they went to school with.
Go to a party The jet set have panic attacks if they think they have
failed to make a guest list or, worse, gone to an inferior party.
Memorise the following Boys: your favourite film is Scarface. Your
favourite book is anything by Bret Easton Ellis, apart from the last one,
which you found a bit weird and “quite hard”. Your favourite sexual position
is doggy. Yeah, baby, yeah! Your favourite designer is Flavio Briatore. Your
fantasy dinner guest is Gisele. At this point, they will “high five” you and
you will be in.
Girls: your favourite book is . . . you have never read a book in your life.
Your favourite sexual position is . . . whatever the nice man in the
sealskin bomber wants. Your favourite designer is . . . Cavalli. Your
favourite restaurant is . . . you last ate solids in 2001. Your favourite
song is . . . anything by Jay-Z, whom you met through James Blunt, whom you
met through Petra Nemcova.
CYCLING IN THE CITY
Mary Wakefield has a fancy bike and a death wish
To describe cycling in the city as the best means of transport isn’t good
enough. That’s like calling skiing a way of getting from the top of a
mountain to the bottom. Biking around a city is about harnessing the power
of legs and cogs, honing judgments and risking death or awful maiming
several times a day, just for the sheer pleasure of it.
Hop like a rabbit Every city cyclist needs to know how to hop the front
wheel up a steep curb at speed. It’s an essential manoeuvre for short cuts
and for sudden shopping impulses. However, the rabbit hop will make you the
sworn enemy of all pedestrians. For this you need . . .
The zombie stare However slow you go, pedestrians – or Pavement People
– will curse you with violence. Don’t be offended or afraid, just make like
a zombie and stare blankly into the middle distance. On no account try to
reason with them. Their rage knows no bounds.
The hunt Pavement People like nothing better than patrolling public
parks in search of cyclists who have strayed from the designated cycle path.
If they spot you, the race is on. They will let out a great holler and run
towards you, waving frantically. Under no circumstances stop.
Stairs Cycling down stairs is fun. There are stairs worldwide to be
conquered: the long flight in front of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, in
New York; the stone steps of Trafalgar Square, in London; the Spanish Steps,
in Rome; and, best of all, the 466ft Potemkin Stairs, in Odessa, which lead
straight into the Black Sea.
Hands free Unlike their more laid-back country cousins, city cyclists
are show-offs, swooping round corners with a mobile in one paw and a cup of
hot coffee in the other. Remember, though, it’s okay to drop your coffee in
a life-or-death situation.
HEDONISM IN THE HOME
Jenny Éclair, a stand-up comic, is 47, which is – unfortunately – closer to
60 than 30. These days, she likes “an early night”
The trouble with being an ageing hedonist is that hedonism starts to hurt – it
gets you round the back of your neck and, on particularly bad days, leaves
you dry-retching, barely able to stand, the corneas of your eyes peeling
away with dehydration.
The lily-livered among us would take these physical manifestations as a sign
to give up and join a book club – and, may I just say, there is nothing
wrong with joining a book club, as long as you only read filth. The rest of
us have reinvented a new style of hedonism for the middle-aged, with the
accompanying motto: “Keep hedonism in the home [it’s cheaper and you’re less
likely to be arrested].”
For starters, I don’t go out drinking any more – what’s the point? You pay
silly money for poor-quality booze, which you drink standing up while some
idiot DJ in a stupid hat plays something you’ve never heard before at a
zillion decibels. What’s more, you are surrounded by younger, prettier
versions of what you used to look like before you got fat and bitter and all
the thread veins around your nose burst.
Why put yourself through all that mental and financial torture when you can
drink indoors? I love drinking at home. It’s marvellous: none of that
worrying about getting back or forgetting where you live because you’re
already there, in front of the telly, in a towelling robe. Towelling robes
are great – they’re like an all-in-one nappy, soaking up any spills.
Recently, I have been toying with the idea of decanting alcohol into a baby
bottle so that I can just lie on my back guzzling.
I can’t tell you how much money I’ve saved by not going out, because I’ve had
to replace the carpet several times, but I do know that buying booze online
is cheaper, more efficient and a lot less embarrassing than having to
explain to the girl in the off-licence: “No, I’m not having a party.”
“Home” is the only place left where you can smoke. The fact that I gave up 18
months ago is irrelevant; pretending that I can’t face the pub because of
the smoking ban is a great excuse to never buy another round again.
Obviously, with the fags being a thing of the past, I’ve had to find other
things to do with my hands. Masturbation is fine, but it’s very upsetting
for the window cleaner and, like anything, can get monotonous. So what other
hobbies can the non-knitting home hedonist take up? Eating is good. I never
used to bother much when I was smoking and taking amphetamines, but it’s
amazing how much enjoyment middle-aged hedonists can get simply from
stuffing their face. Biscuits are really nice, and there are all sorts of
different types and flavours, so it’s possible to be quite adventurous. Try
a garibaldi dunked in gin and tonic, or absinthe and a custard cream –
really, I can’t understand why anybody is still doing cocaine.
Writing letters to the council about collecting your rubbish is another
domestic thrill. Now, this sounds duller than it actually is, you can really
get off on it. I’ve got a stationery fetish, anyway, so writing anonymous
poison-pen letters to the council in green ink with a special pointy nib can
bring me almost to the point of orgasm.
Talking of which, sex tends to go out of the window as you get older, but you
can always live vicariously. If you have children old enough to be sexually
active, read their diaries. It’s almost as much fun as doing it yourself,
and you don’t need to wash the sheets.
BLAG YOUR WAY BACKSTAGE
Moby has spent a lot of time backstage, both invited and uninvited. He is
nonplussed by how dull backstage experiences tend to be
There’s a common misconception that the backstage area of a rock concert is a
utopia of hedonism and debauchery. The sad truth is, it is relatively
mundane. However, enough rumours have grown into legends to justify a bit of
hype. Kate Moss supposedly shagged Har Mar Superstar while Kings of Leon
looked on; Jimmy Page apparently had a fondness for transvestites and
underage girls, and travelled with a whip . . . I rest my case. At least
there are outrageous riders, like Van Halen’s insistence on no brown M&Ms
in the backstage area, the Smiths demanding a tree more than 3ft high and
Mariah Carey saying: “I don’t do stairs.”
However, also contrary to common belief, it is surprisingly easy to get
backstage. The first and easiest way is to go online and find out about the
backstage pass (or “laminate”) artwork for the band that you are interested
in stalking. Find a clever friend who knows how to use Photoshop and get
them to recreate the pass. Then get it laminated, find some string with
which to hang it around your neck, put on butch, black roadie clothes and
get to the venue early.
Once there, the key to gaining entry is to look bored and mildly purposeful.
Walk through the backstage door, possibly giving a perfunctory greeting to
the security person. Maybe even ask them a peremptory question, like: “Hey,
where’s catering?” Then you’re in. And once you’re in the venue, you’re
really in. The only quasi-restricted area is the artist’s dressing room.
So, now you want to meet the band. Catering is the best place to do this. Hang
around long enough and eventually the band will come in.
If your goal is to sneak into the aftershow party, then you have two options:
a) be a stunningly attractive woman and ask the tour manager where the party
is, or b) pretend you’re from a local radio station, then make friends with
the least popular member of the band. The lead singer gets all the attention
and is the most jaded, whereas the drummer is usually relatively friendless
– he will happily respond to your queries. And remember, the key to success
is to follow the advice of Obi-Wan Kenobi and use the force. If you believe
you’re supposed to be backstage, then you shall be backstage, and nobody
shall attempt to throw you out. Have fun, and enjoy the free luncheon meats.
A Hedonist’s Guide to Life by Fleur Britten (Filmer £13.99). To buy it for
£12.59, including p&p in the UK, call The
Sunday Times BooksFirst on 0870 165 8585
