CHCC in the Sun 2013
Party Report
Submitted by macx (macx) on March 10 2021
Written by Grip
Beer and Upvoting in Skovballe - a Savage Journey to the Heart of the Commodore Scene
CHCC in the Sun 2013 as percieved by Grip / Senex
***
"Jesus", I thought to myself as I tried to cram the last but perhaps most vital thing into my backpack - my computer, "this will be one heavy bag."
In fact, not only was the bag so stuffed it was bursting at the seams - the outside of it looked rather like a christmas tree, adorned with my newly purchased, neon yellow sleeping bag and tent. A bargain at the nearby shopping mall, I hoped to hell that there wouldn't be any rain in Denmark during my stay, since the single-ply fabric of the tent would have a hard time even withstanding morning dew, by the looks of it.
***
Rattling along on the bus to Malmoe Central station, I was having second thoughts. Perhaps I'm not cut out for camping in the Danish countryside after all? Some of the other passengers were glancing wearily at me. Oh, I could see what they were thinking: "A city boy with with a $30 tent? You won't last a day, whereever it is you're going."
Putting my doubts aside, I scurried off the bus and bought a train ticket to Copenhagen. The main travel route from Copenhagen to Svendborg, via Odense, had already been arranged and paid for: I was supposed to wait at the train station in Copenhagen and meet up with a northerner called ZZAP69, travelling from the deep woods of Smolandia. We would then continue our journey together.
At this point, everything worked out as planned. ZZAP69 arrived on time, carrying with him an enormous bag.
"I managed to fit all my special equipment in there", he said with a smile. "At one time, I even managed to cram a 1084 in there with all the other stuff."
After a knowing discussion on special party equipment transports, we felt the need for sustenance. Failing to find any, we settled for McDonalds.
***
The train ride to Odense was a salute to the marvel of western engineering. Not only was the ride smooth and trouble free, the amazing Great Belt Fixed Link contains the world's third-longest suspension bridge, the main span being 1.6 kilometers. You'll have to go to Asia to find a bigger one. Clearly visible from our cabin window, it was a perfect backdrop for our discussion on social policy, career choices, family and dating. I couldn't have found a better travel companion.
In Odense, we were scheduled to switch trains to Svendborg. We knew, now, that we were close. Our anticipation rose and you could smell the very essence of demo scene in the air (it smells oddly like stale tobacco and Danish lager). Knowing that our personal physician, MacX, would pick us up by car in Svendborg, excitement about the event grew. Finally we stepped off the train at our station: Svendborg West.
Svendborg West was a deserted industrial area, closed down for the summer vacations and worryingly detached from the promised wonderland of Commodore Hacking. Furiously banging the keys on his phone, ZZAP69 managed to establish contact with the pick-up crew, MacX and Kaze, who engaged in a daredevil car ride from Svendborg Central Station. Thanks to a complete lack of disregard for speed limits, they shortly arrived at the scene of our geographical fuck-up, greeting us with 9% ABV beers.
"As your physician I advice you to drink this, or you won't be allowed in the car", MacX declared as he handed us the cans.
***
Stopping only to stock up on beer and cheese, our arrival in Skovballe was perfectly timed. Before us, spread out like a tablecloth in the sun promising fine dining, was the beautiful Danish countryside. Miles upon miles of fertile fields, ripe with crops in varying greens, yellows and tans. There, white and mighty, lay Casa MacX. An old stone villa, annexed with a newer, retrofitted building containing T.U.D.D - The Ultimate Data Dungeon. On the patio, a few danes were already hitting the beer hard but I had no time to waste - I had to raise my tent before the drunken antics got completely out of hand. After struggling with vicious carbon fibre sticks and tent fabric for a good ten minutes, there she was: As yellow as in the default VICE palette. Shortly thereafter, more tents followed. In the end it looked as if a badly planned, primitive gathering of survivalists and foragers had taken over the garden.
However, foraging was hardly needed. Within minutes, a local by the name of Aage arrived with a bucket of freshly caught and boiled shrimps. Beer in hand and slices of white bread readily available, we set out on a frantic shrimp peeling mission. Having a very delicate flavour, not even lemon or mayo was needed to offset the shrimp. Just plain, white bread and good quality Danish butter.
You need to do a lot of peeling to top one sandwich, though. The Danes were clearly falling behind. Shrimp expert Aage was peeling furiously, but was he fast enough?
"What the hell guys, even the Swede has gotten the hang of it by now!" he exclaimed, looking at my decent-sized pile of shrimp tails. The atmosphere grew denser. Could the slight Danish hostility be turned around?
Yes, it could. But that would be jumping ahead in time. Bear with me.
After luring MacX's 70+ year old neighbour, Poul, over for a few brews and forcing him to play dWCave, sausages were grilled. And what spectacular sausages they were! Carefully crafted by the local butcher, using only 100% beef from the island of Taasinge, where Skovballe is situated, no better dinner could have been served.
And then - more beer, with a big glass of pure Icelandic vodka on the side. Things were starting to get slightly blurry. Fractions of memories - little glimpses of drunken stupor from that evening - still flashes before my eyes. Ecstatically praising Elgar's "Pomp and circumstance". A few words exchanged here and there in an unintelligible amalgamation of Danish and Swedish. Mumbling something about being too drunk, I apparently stumbled to my tent far too early in the evening, first of everyone to hit the hay. The tension was gone - the Danes had won. But was there no communcation on this party? Had I deteriorated to the level of a dumb beast?
No. Of course not. That bar was set by one of MacX's dogs, who's got a soft spot for enjoying a beer or two. But by then, I had already passed out in the sweet embrace of liqour and summer heat. And a very yellow tent.
***
"Yellow", I thought, feeling a slight discomfort in all the parts of my body named in modern medicine. "It's so fucking yellow. Where are my glasses? Ah, carefully positioned between me, my sleeping bag and my matress. That makes sense. What is that other feeling? Ah, my bladder. That's it. Well, only one thing to do."
Stumbling out of my tent, slowly moving away to urinate, I spotted one single silhoutte still adorning the patio in front of the house. What time was it - four in the morning? Five? The crack of dawn was upon us, that soft Scandinavian summer morning brightness. The one person still soldiering on turned out to be ZZAP69, flying the Swedish flag, defending our honour. We had a quiet chat about everything and nothing before he finally had to crash. Me, I was nursing my hangover. I craftily stole a few spoonfuls of someone's instant coffee and swallowed down two Aspirins that I had luckily brought with me. Then I went for a stroll along the slowly awakening countryside, listening to a rooster confidently declaring that a new day had begun.
***
Oh, boy, what a day it turned out to be. MacX had chartered a small bus, complete with a local driver, Kenneth, who had actually owned a C64 back in the day. This gave us confidence enough to climb into his bus and let his steady hands take us along the bridge over Sioe sound, and then further on to Langeland, where we would eat and drink our breakfast at Oelogbroed - "Beer and bread".
Truly, beer and bread was served. That and pulled pork, sausages, burger patties, coleslaw... And for me, the already frowned-upon Swede, apple juice. No beer for me yet - my booze-weary body wouldn't allow for that, I felt.
"As your physician, I advice you to get married", MacX explained knowlingly, while halting the waitress and introducing me to her as a decent man with a proper job and sound values. "He's from the old east of Denmark - Scania", he continued, as the slightly bewildered waitress tried to find herself in the roars of laughter from the rest of us. "You should put out signs all over town: Swedish man looking to settle down in the south Funen archipelago." Was I blushing? Perhaps. I slightly regretted not having ordered a beer to strengthen myself with.
***
With Kenneth driving us back to Skovballe, we engaged in a discussion on Swedish politics during the ride. We were not entirely happy about it. We did however get slightly happier when we once again stopped to top off our beer and snacks supply. Later in the evening, Kenneth returned with his bus. By then, I had already started on the beers and had found time to hastily and drunkenly draw a slightly wonky hires picture of an alien visiting Skovballe and CHCC for the very first time. Much like me, in other words.
This time, we went no further than Svendborg. Starting the evening with some pretty damn tasty burgers (and beer), we then continued to the old town square for dessert and more drinks. Shortly thereafter, we went looking for that true Danish bodega feeling.
Rasmus: A bar situated in an alarmingly non-relaxing proximity of the train tracks leading to Svendborg Grand Central, this is a true slice of what Denmark is all about to Swedish teenagers usually frequenting pubs in Copenhagen. Smoking is still allowed inside. Drinks are cheap and plentiful and, wait - WHAT - a Danish bloke is complaining about the thick cigarette smoke? This is unheard of - but the suggestion to find another place to drink appealed to all of us, once we spotted the crazy cat lady performing a faux cellphone call to an imaginary friend while nursing what could only be a glass of vodka with white wine essence in it. When a woman that's obviously totally disinterested in reggae music is sporting dreadlocks, you know it's time to move on.
Around the corner from Rasmus lies Kahytten, a maritime-themed pub where we all found seats in the aptly named corner called "Monkey Island". Our merry crew of LucasArts fanboys shed a few tears and then continued to order a respectable amount of beer, all the while enjoying cigarettes and the nineties rock music playing loudly on the PA system. I felt then and there that Denmark is like Sweden - only for adults.
At just the right moment, Kenneth came along in his bus to pick us all up. A few Danes stayed behind to make the town a perilous place for maidens and madams alike, but most of us headed back to Skovballe. Fuelled by gallons of beer, deeply enclenched in the euphoric waves of savage drunken debauchery, the decision to make a demo came suddenly. Persuading Cruzer to code a scroller was easy. I was happy to see my lame picture in a proper demo and Devia saw it as his task to supply both the music and the scroll text.
Ah, yes, the scroll text. It was to be a gross display of everything that is righteous and funny about the scene. A totally evil roasting of everyone present at the party, I was deemed "a sorry excuse for a Swede" suffering from a "stupid Swedish alcohol intolerance". Apparently the only decent person around, according to the scroller, was of course Devia. The laughs we all got from this scroll text stayed with us all weekend, and it still brings a smile to my face. If you fail to see the fun in being taken the piss out of every once in a while, well, you're missing out.
***
By now, the whole situation was turning into a long-winded binge of slowly dissolving our internal organs in beer. Could I perhaps find my tent? Yes. Could I sleep in it? No. Something about the wind swaying it back and forth was not compatible with my - admittedly low - level of mental coherency. I heard imaginary voices speaking to me: "Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to carry your sleeping bag into the house".
After some fumbling around, I finally managed to somehow wrap my body in a deceitful spiral of stuffed yellow fabric. Falling onto a nearby Chesterfield couch I was soon fast asleep. Or, at least, my delicately beer-pickled brain found a few hours of rest, informing the other parts of my body that, well, you had a good run but this might be it.
***
Coffee. The cure-all. Most of the guys around swore to me that beer, in fact, was the cure-all. I remained slightly discouraged and went back to the kitchen to make more coffee. That short walk ended up in three guys, myself included, making a 30-40 egg scramble complete with pan-fried sausage and various hot and spicy condiments. A fine breakfast for hungover sceners. It was in fact so good I get hungry just writing about it. MacX had arranged this egg delivery, along with chartered buses, delicious sausages, Icelandic vodka and fresh seafood, proving himself to be one of the best and most hospitable organizers on the scene. Seriously - thanks!
***
"As your physician, I strongly advice you to get started on the beer." MacX again - hovering over me and ZZAP69 as we were watching old C64 demos on real hardware. "I've got this 10% ABV brew here, and you're needed on the patio, drinking heavily."
This would be the third day straight of advanced boozing. Not that I'm complaining, you see, just stating the facts. I engaged in an animated discussion with Benjamin, a local islander who had never seen a C64 but still beat me in dWCave. Not that beating me in dWCave is hard, mind you. But still. I chalk it down to his giant hands, thumbs the size of baseball bats, pounding away on the joystick. My dWCave high score? At least I did better than old Poul.
MacX was running an amazing hardware show out on the patio. He had pulled out a PET, some other antique pre-64 Commodore machine and a multi-coloured galaxy of dongles, cartridges, FPGAs and gadgets. This was coupled with a lot of C64:s and a VIC-20 hooked up inside the house. It's true what they say: Once you get locked into some serious computer collecting, the tendency is to push it as far as you can.
After a couple of hours of drinking, hunger hits you like a punch in the stomach. MacX manned the grill, once more handing out delicious sausages made from local Highland Cattle. Again we gorged ourselves on fine Danish produce. Aage brought newly harvested potatoes that were subjected to an experiment: Can they be smoked/baked on the grill? Yes, they could, after a while. With a pinch of salt they were delicious. Eat your veg, kids. Your life may depend on it.
Following the meal was a night of true, unadulterated Commodore Scene activity. Another demo had to be made, to counter the gross downvoting of our first one. Cruzer did the coding, ZZAP69 supplied the music, I drew a crappy logo and we combined our forces in the scroller. Fuckings to downvoters. A joint Camelot/Senex venture, it quickly rose in the ranks of CSDb. But why was it suddenly labeled "fake demo"? Why all the gratuitous downvoting? A few disgruntled guys, now churning away on pure scene spirit and breathing evaporated alcohol, decided that countermeasures were in order. The group FAIC was formed. People were banned from CSDb. Proper drama orchestrated from the heart of the Danish countryside. Was it entirely proportional? Perhaps not, but then again, this was truly the heart of the Commodore Scene. We had found what we came for.
***
The constant intake of fermented brews was starting to take it's toll on most of the visitors. One by one they dropped off, finding a place to sleep or, rather, pass out. In the end, Devia, Kaze and me were the only ones awake. After Devia had fallen asleep with his face on his keyboard, Kaze and I watched a few Amiga 500 demos. Finally, Kaze decided that enough was enough, snugly wrapping himself in his sleeping bag.
Who was still standing? That's right. Swedish fuckings to alcohol intolerance!
***
Come monday, we were all feeling quite brittle. No beer for breakfast today. Just the slow hum of the coffee maker and exhausted people packing their things, helping MacX to clean up. The long journey home was ahead of ZZAP69 and me. After a drive around the beautiful island of Taasinge, we were dropped off at the train station in Svendborg. We said our goodbyes, thanking MacX for his hospitality. It was not a sad goodbye, but one of hope. We knew that we'd meet again soon, at BFP in Helsingborg.
Switching trains in Odense was a perilous task. The schedule was tight, we were tired and slightly confused. With minutes to spare, we found our train. Breathing a sigh of relief, we collapsed into our reserved seats, knowing that we were on our way home.
---
|
|
|
