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...