London Dungeon vibe?

After moving down to London we decided to embrace both the past and the future by throwing an impromptu Halloween party. Cue radish buying (to make eyeballs for the punch - Thanks internet), picking up plastic dolls from Whitechapel market and purchasing more booze than an octopus could brandish a multitude of large sticks at.

Myself and Jeff decided it would be a judicious move to host the ‘gathering’ as notorious blogger and allotment tender Josef Fritzel and his wife/daughter/sex slave. I put on a fake pair of eyebrows, grew a fat back and donned a badge proclaiming ‘World’s greatest dad’. Jeffers did the decent thing and threw on a wig, applied some bruises (to disguise the real ones I’ve been dishing out) and tied a ball and chain to her leg.

It was obviously maxi vibes all round. Other notable guests were Amy Winehouse (complete with cig butts in the beehive), a clockwork doll, Tomas from the Orphanage, Rupaul, a doctor, French maid and a natural disaster plus plenty of other hot looks too numerous to mention.

Other big tings involved the bathroom door. The lock had been sticking since we moved in so I duly took the time out to write a note warning folk of the potential dangers as well as an emergency number to ring in case of trouble.

It wasn’t until at least sixish in the am that some poor swine got stuck in there for two hours. Obviously I had to take a turn at this (as I have a penchant for kipping in bathrooms whether that be the floor or in a gentlemen’s position).

After three hours lovely Dan (who’d passed out in the front room) let me out about midday. To celebrate we slugged half a litre of JD down our nek holes, before I had to lie down once again, this time in bed. As I said maximum vibes all round. It wasn’t until weeks after that we realised the neighbours had left a note of complaint. Thankfully someone had eaten it. Again very strong…

Here are some of the images that were left on my camera, as visual fingerprints incriminating everyone involved. Hopefully the feds will never get their mits on them. Avert thou eyes….



Fritzel's daughter meets Rupaul uptown



Winehouse vs Fritz



Disastrous

Movement and Vibe

The last few months have been a blur. Big tings have gone down with the main one being upping sticks in Sheffield and heading down to the capital.

In between times we’ve been to the Bestival festival, narrowly avoiding trench foot and raising bloody hell amid the mud bath. The highlights almost too numerous to mention. Dancing in torrential rain wearing a rizla parka chanting ‘Fuck the Rain’ was a particularly strong look.

Rough Disko tottered towards its 4th Birthday in typical fashion. The delightful DJ Mowgli proved his worth both behind the decks and as an eating machine at the Ethio-Cubana restaurant in Sheff. Here’s a selection of candid shots, showcasing how we’ve been rolling…



Caned and the gang



Got any biscuits chum?



Tired Timmy



Little sausage?



Mowgli - get him ladies!



Mowgli in the freaking mix



Mowgli meets the Wicker uptown




Loading the tune cannon



D.A.N.C.E

Cooling Towers go down

The fate of the Cooling Towers in Sheffield saw a lot of hot air being pumped out across the land. Like a pair of greying withered tits on prime time telly, they prompted anger, lust and confusion in equal measure.

Instead of lamenting their demise, we decided to get seriously on it, then watch them fall. Seeing them go down was pretty gut wrenching but the mind altering sudofen we ingested soothed the pain.

The best bit was standing next to the ring road in party hats. We exploded poppers (of the paper nature - not amyl), jumped up and down while narrowly avoiding getting run over. Big, big vibes. Here’s some shots from the aftershow back at ours. Heavy.




Man of Mystery...



Campaigner and minor celebrity catches some zs on a packet of skins.



On it.

Catch up

Fined



Boozing



Suited and booted



rave up



Caught red handed

Jeff went to Barcelona at the tail end of July. I couldn’t afford the trip but was honoured enough to be invited to play records at a wedding of a chum of the Gag Reflex’s in Birmingham.

The pair of us were as chirpy as a pair of burglars staring at an empty house at the prospect of providing a suitable heinous soundtrack to the big day. Somewhat unsurprisingly, our lack of forward planning turned out to be our undoing.

While I made the inevitable, yet classic error of overindulging the evening before, we set off late (after dining on a Gregg’s for breakfast) and ended up 50 miles away from Brum with an hour before fingers and rings were to meet.

Against all the odds (and speed limits on the outskirts of Brum) we made it. But I forgot my tie and had to get mysen to the charity shop. Cue standing outside the church in the searing heat for an hour chin wagging with the wedding vehicle driver and supping from the bride and groom’s big day mugs while the vibe was going romantic over time inside God’s gaff.

The next few hours unfolded in a similarly disastrously and awkward way. We landed a parking ticket while looking for some wires, I had to spend a few stolen hours in the boudoir as there were certain parts of the meal I wasn’t invited to. Then we had to drive to Stourbridge to gatecrash a family bbq to try and pick up some turntables after discovering cd-js were the only music making business supplied.

Even then, we didn’t get to play records due to the dude in charge of the turntables moseying off with one of the decks during the speeches.

The highlights included the obvious romance, wolfing down curried mutton, getting well shitted and heading to the Rainbow club in Digbeth on the hunt for rave-action. We topped the weekend off by driving through Cock Alley on the return leg…

Field Day was supposed to be one of the highlights of the summer - last year had been a gloriously messy day full of sunshine and drugs but was one of the most badly organised events we’d ever attended - a proper piss up in a brewery style sit.

However, we’d bought tickets again in the hope that the organisers would get it together enough to employ more than five bar staff and deploy over 20 portaloos for ass deposal action…

This time it wasn’t the lack of tings which ruined the do but the claustrophobic presence of numerous feds and sniffer dogs operating on the door and inside the arena and the aural poverty of the line up.

I was ‘stop and searched’ but managed to get my stash through the police net by lying - (when was the last time you smoked cannabis sir? - I can’t remember - possibly Thursday?) and judicious use of extra clothing (stashing the gear in socks)…

The intense rain on the day meant we took a detour to pick up water proofs - so by the time we got in and dealt with the feds most of the good stuff had gone… The Notwist, Foals, and Telepathe were among the musical low points. But we predictably got battered in the end anyhow…

Rough Disko and a bite

We threw another Rough Disko party at Penelopes in July - It was a ‘residents special’ which translates in promoter terms as ‘we’re skint and we can’t afford any guests’.

However, in this case it was pretty sweet to get the chance to flex a bit of musical muscle from behind the decks. And it went off in a satisfying manner. One of the best moments was when the 'party bus' arrived at 10.30pm with a gang of revellers in tow. It stops off at various places around Yorkshire, transporting piss heads to various locations in search of good times.

This group of shitfaced teachers waltzed in, demanded the new Chris Brown single, smashed a glass and then fucked off. I was glad to see them go.

We’re throwing a series of monthly parties from October. Keep those peepers peeled for line ups…

Afterwards we celebrated by getting on a ketamine tip. It’s an experience which has punctuated the summer like an occasional equine-based bomb blast to the brain. It’s pretty disorientating and results in the user reverting to a child-like state. It is meant for horses so I guess this is unsurprising.

The next eve we missed the C90 party with DJ Rupture due to a bbq engagement in Beighton. It was a delightful experience until a gang of marauding slugs bum-rushed the show. One minute there weren’t any around - the next a whole tribe had started to get jiggy with the burgers. It was unfortunate I’d reached the stage of wolfing down a steak sandwich fresh off the grill. My fragile state of mind led to me believing that the bap I was sticking in my wobbly gob wasn’t stuffed with lovely, fragrant meat - but a gang of hungry slugs. Cue food popping back into mouth, cue little bit of sick in hand, cue giving oneself a talking to. Topping that Jeff bit me.

It hurt.



Raving - this guy was here before we opened the doors and danced around like a loon til the end. Props.



Bite marks

Paris, Paris, Paris, Paris, Paris

A har he har he har he har - A har he har he har - Je vais un lucky strikes muchos grandiose - that’s as far as my fragile grasp on French can flex - so you can imagine the horror with which the channel tunnel swallowed the Eurostar choo choo with our bad selves on it.

We entered France as we do any other situation - hungover, groggy and in need of 850 winks rather than the 17 that were accrued the previous evening.

The journey over was an uncomfortable affair. Squished up in a seat that would have been more at home in a concentration camp than a form of public transport. Obviously sitting next to the world’s thickest couple.

However once descending into fair Paris the inner tourist emerged and decided to strut its stuff like a peacock high on tat.

We did it all - The Eiffel tower, the porn museum, picking up a cock shaped egg mould, going for a freaking boat ride.

Due to unfortunate circumstances we missed Weatherall at the Rex Club and Metronomy at Durr but we did eat a lot of meat…and got a private tour of Parisian streets in a car at break-neck speed thanks to Joss and Anna. Here’s some of the highlights in photo form.

That guy up there was hanging outside the pornography museum. In the background you can just about make out the chair with tongues on it. You sit on it and the revolving spoke of plastic tongues 'licks' your bits until you explode. Well sexy innit.




I was just pissing by



Answering the phone



Answering the phone part deux



Pouting in Paris



Paris is a city of great lovers - even this hunchback is on it



Lost



Day One - Hungover



House of Gyro

Not only that but when we returned to the UK, the crew ended up going for a meal in an Indian restaurant near Tottenham Court Road. They served these dosa parcel type tings but the best bit was when they brought this cheesey monster out. Compliments of the chef... Big...

Edbanger Volume 3

Yo - I did a review of the relatively recently released Edbanger 3 compilation for Fact magazine. Admittedly late but here it is as they neglected to put it up and I don't seem to have covered as much sonic science as I had intended. I still love Edbanger. Those you tube clips of their parties look like nowt else and some of the music on this compilation is totally next level. Some of it is also utter shit but that's hype for thee...

Here's what I had to say....

A case of solid gold hype accompanies the third outing from Edbanger, Paris’ most outrageous electronic party fashionomonstas label. You know the drill by now and if you’re this late boarding the hype bus then you’re probably not fussed or been living in some sort of blogless box.

For those with short memories these are the ice-cool collection of Frenchoes with short fuses who love their metal to wear leather, their hip hop to swagger and bass to slap you round the chops wearing knuckles dusters carved from some of the harshest, ballsiest bass-bin breaking electronic dance out there.

Led by Daft Punk’s manager and moustachioed party boy Busy P, the third label compilation is a patchy, day-glo affair which has been lampooned across blogs and internet forums for not carrying the same weight as the previous two.

To these ears not much has changed. Edbanger have always been all over the place, a small record label who wield a massive amount of clout on the cyber waves and who enjoy partying, smoking and drinking as much as they love making music. As with the previous collections the bigger names don’t quite cut it. SebAstian shows off his muscles by throwing the devils horns on Dog with a bass riff reminiscent of Rage against the Machine, Uffie does her shouty hip hop ting on Robot Oeuf and Mr Oizo may as well have not left his boudoir for all the impact Minuteman’s Pulse has on yer lobes.
It’s down to Pedro Winters himself to show your ears where it’s at with Protect and Entertain feat dot veteran MC Murs. As fat as Mr Winter’s tache, this is a hip hop pastiche full of niggas, hoes, dicks (theirs is as ‘big as texas’ apparently) and possessing an illicit electronic snake for a backbone. As an album opener (and a ‘hip hop’ track from Edbanger - only as confusing as having the jigga headline Glasto I.e not very) sets the bar high…
Elsewhere it’s the least obvious moments that set the party torch paper alight. Dj Medhi brings the disco to the table, DSL the hip hop and Feadz a scatter gun electronic house (with added smut from Spank Rock). Add to this more ace artwork from So Me and you’ve got yourself a party. There maybe some duffers and yep they’re all over the place, but you wouldn’t really want them any other way…

Below's a hot remix from wonky Italians Crookers. This pair love bassline, house and are, as they say, totally killing it right now.

Check it...

The Rugby Ball

The day after Rough Disko was total fucking agony. After collapsing into the sack around breakfast time, my deeply shitfaced sleep was terminated before we’d made it to midday. I had to shake a wobbly leg as we were due in Wolverhampton for a ball at Jeff‘s brother‘s Rugby Club.

I’d never been to one before. During the hazy days of studying, they seemed to be mainly populated by posh tools from the home counties who used them as ways to show off the contents of their wallets and trousers. But the idea of dressing up now is a freaking treat. The week up to it was spent scouting out potential outfits which I fucked up totally by hiring a pair of trousers that a 13 year old girl with an eating problem wouldn’t be able to fit in. Cue frantic ringing of chums in an attempt to locate a pair of pantaloons that would allow me to breath. Props to Andy Pembs for coming through at the last minute and making up for my poor movements. Following the pick up of a pair of pointy shoes and a lengthy brushing of teeth we were off to the party…



new fucking shoes friend



Ancient couple getting all cute and freaky on the dancefloor



Drunk fireman Sean

On arrival we were surrounded by big burly rugby players. I was a little groggy when we descended but one fellow took pleasure in informing me it was gonna be a late do and that a lot of booze would be sank. It took me a while to realise he was taking the piss but thankfully he was so fucked later I could rip it out of him without receiving a cauliflower ear (which appeared to be de rigeaur - no one told me otherwise I would have spent the previous night getting in a fight rather than getting in a mess)…

There was a Tom Jones tribute act (second in last year’s Britain Got Talent natch), a ton of orange war paint, a great deal of mutton trussed up like lamb, dancing, shouting, several wedges of fine cheese, a hog roast and a drunk fireman. All wrapped up in a lovely Wolvo twang. It was top. Ta-ra in a bit.



Wetting the whistle



Lovely, stinky, lovely cheese



hype?



The Tom Jones impersonator



Laying it down



Vibe?



tit



Raw bloody nostrils the morning after

DJ Mossadon in Sheffeeeel

Oh oh here’s a bit of business on what’s been happening Sheffield style people…

We threw a bash last month with electro DJ Mossadon who journeyed all the way down from York for the June Rough Disko freak out. Go (RIP) were responsible for the beautiful flyers and we snuck around Sheffield in the weeks before like a trio of slobby wolves brandishing these pretty promotional tools at anyone who’d listen and many who didn’t. The street team even braved the tie-die wearing, poi throwing and chick pea gobbling hippy fest that was Peace in the Park to try and spread the legs of the vibe even further…

Unfortunately the attendance was sub-sub-sub-low but big up to Mossadon and brother in arms Def Stef for taking the time to do their thang down at Penelopes.

Here’s the eye candy for youse - didn’t quite catch Mossadon in full bass wobble but you can see the sweat and tears outside. The despair was translated into the half litre bottle of Teachers that’s been hanging around my flat since Zombie Disco Squad rejected it back in December. Some people have no taste…



The team



Mossey laying it down for all 17 punters



Another money-making evening...