But in popular culture in the 1990s, drugs were everywhere, all the time. They certainly don’t need to show off about them. “Suicide Tuesdays” were a legitimate excuse for being in a foul temper at work.ĭrugs haven’t gone anywhere, but I would suggest that today’s young people perhaps have a slightly more enlightened attitude about when and where to take them. Of Mondays when Radio 1 Breakfast Show DJs would talk nudge-nudgingly of overcooking it at the weekend. Popular T-shirts included Hysteric Glamour’s “Junkie’s Baddy Powder” - in the Johnson’s baby powder font - and “Techno” in the Tesco font. Soft drinks were advertised with rave graphics. Of “superstar” DJs like Sasha and Danny Rampling. Of triple-mix CDs called things like Havin’ It Ibiza II Mixed Live by Alex P & Brandon Block. The era of superclubs like Cream in Liverpool and Renaissance in Mansfield.
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History dictates that clubbing as we know it became a thing in this country with 1988’s “Summer of Love”, but it was the next decade when everyone worked out how to monetise and make it mainstream. But drugs run through the 1990s like the proverbial stick of Brighton rock. He entered rehab in 2009 and hasn’t touched drink or drugs since. Today, Norman Cook is a reformed character. On the back of a CD on his living-room table, he has laid out four lines of cocaine. We will visit a night called Mr Fabulous and Mr Mental Present: Fabulous and Mental!, among others.īut before we leave, Cook suggests a livener. The plan is that Cook will take me clubbing around Brighton as a backdrop to my profile of him. It is a Saturday afternoon in January 1998 and I have come to interview Cook for a magazine I’ve started working at, The Face. Cutting up bits of Dick Dale-style surf guitar with a thumping breakbeat and a looped sample (“Right about now, the funk soul brother/Check it out now, the funk soul brother”), the track is called “The Rockafeller Skank” and will soon become ubiquitous. In an upstairs back room, I’ve interrupted Cook tinkering away on a new song. “Whoever is DJing in Brighton invariably ends up here,” he says. Around the clubs of Brighton, the property is known as “The House of Love”, partly on account of its décor, and partly on account of its reputation as a place of hedonistic shenanigans. I can see that Cook manages his accounts on an outsized smiley calculator. There are smiley teapots, smiley mugs and smiley clocks. “I’m a useless party fiend who’s not a role model for anyone and who’s got nothing intelligent to say apart from ‘Let’s ’ave it’,” as he puts it.Ĭook’s house is covered in yellow smiley faces, rave culture’s adopted symbol. Opening the door of his home on a minor terraced street in Brighton, Norman Cook, 35 years old, tall, balding, and who makes music under the name Fatboy Slim, introduces himself with the following question: “Are you a caner?”Ĭook means: do I take drugs? Just off the train from London and with a head still nipping from the night before, I laugh and say, “I guess I’d put myself in that camp, yes.”Ĭook, famously, is a card-carrying caner.