Thursday, 23 July 2009


We made these for the birthday of one Weens. They took fucking ages. Our kitchen don't have any windows. Cue sweats...

Kevin Saunderson in Shoreditch...

It's been a bit of a wait to reflect on the events of da other weekend. We went to check Kevin Saunderson and Inner City in a car park in Shoreditch and we had a right old time but Inner City were a real pisser. Like reaching for a piece of fine stilton only to find that it had turned and gone all green. Deeply Disappointing. The photos say more than a 1,000 words even though I tried to spin it out for Resident Advisor. I could have been nastier. Maybe next time...

Resident Advisor Kevuin Saunderson review

Inner City doing their thang

Bored onlookers


My face is melting because these drugs don't work. Again.

Fuck off mate

Stop it

Two men for chicken. Flex.

These fucking drugs STILL don't work. Kevin! Kevin!


Bizzy B

Eventually got round to vibing on this. Bizzy B is a badman. Read all about it on here...

Bizzy B Retrospective review for Fact...

Tuesday, 21 July 2009

Grace Jones in the summertime

‘I’ve got the William’s Blood in me’. That’s Grace Jones’ battle cry. I’m not 100% sure who William is, what he did to find himself dancing round her veins or even how he got in there. Whatevs though Wills. You should be well chuffed that she’s made such a strong tune out of your dalliance. And you received a holler from a psychiatrist’s wet dream. Wow.

Myself and the brethren went to Somerset House to watch the 60 plus Jones shake her toosh just the other week. At one stage during the two hour show she screamed ‘I think I’ve got brain damage’ which was pretty self aware for a grandma who, a few songs earlier, had been humping a pole and flashing her thong at an audience made out of bears and pensioners.

My man describes her as being ‘sweet like Amazonian chocolate’. My ma reckons she’s violent, even though her performance as Mayday in the James Bond film View to a Kill was fictional. Whatever your thoughts are you should go and check her live show. It’s well wild…

There she is - Can you see her?

Smoking outdoors proved to be a lark

Pole dancing appreciation flex

Duck Sauce

This is exciting. A-Trak and Armand Van Helden. Rubbing each other down in disco duck butter. Perhaps not the most aesthetically pleasing image you've ever come across, but for the ears it's a little treat indeed ... Here's a Youtube-esque rip.

Sunday, 12 July 2009

Kanye Vest

A pair of tits.

It’s been a big week for checking out ‘legends'. Or tossers depending on yer perspective. T’other Sunday we managed to score tickets for Kanye West at the Wireless Festival on the Sunday eve in Hyde Park. It was a weird old day as the line up stank like an old man’s bridge in many parts. Alesha Dixon resembled a cutprice Beyonce straight out of Iceland’s two for one range. Diversity were the dancing troupe from Britain’s Got Talent. Yep. That's right. Buuuuuuuulllllllshiiiiiiiiiittttt.

And there were hundreds of kids squawking about the place. Little bastards. It wasn’t until Tribe Called Quest’s Q-Tip jived around the stage that there was anything worth giving your ears over to. By this stage the doobs, cider and sunshine were all taking hold, the children were melting away into the night and we got a right bounce on to the ‘Tip’. What a bad man, especially the three rewinds of Award Tour.

While Q-Tip was willing to get his fingers dirty, Kanye was an altogether more ego-tactical proposition. Equipped with a space-age set, leather gloves, trench coat, shades and a quartet of ladies with their tits out covered in gold, it lurched from the top smart to the extremely self-indulgent. The new material was reminscent of waving an aural wand in a massive cave. The sense of disappointment was removed by the intense high we got on during his set. Phew.

Kanye with his dancers

Baked and bored (waiting for Alesha Dixon to fuck off)

An incredibly strong look. The bottles were empty


Competitions are usually all about winning and losing. But in Shithead there are no winners. There is the shithead and those lucky (or skilled) enough not to be.

After necking a few lovely pints at the boozer, we purchased a big bottle of gin (‘just in case’) and got the cards out. Good job the booze was bought as we needed it when it reached 4am, the thirst was still on and the scent of losing was thick in the air.

Quiet contemplation

Victory never tasted so sweet

Sultry way with the cards

The smell of Shit(head) is in the area


Check oot a few of my boring thoughts on Bottin’s Horror Music album here.

William Bottin is a synth freak with a passion for Vincent Price and vampire films. It’s peculiar, danceable and very italo. Oh yes.

Saturday, 4 July 2009

L VIS 1990

Not sure what his name stands for but I freaking love this. It's very silly indeed.

Culinary delights

You know it's gonna be a hype day when this fella confronts you first thing. Then you look on the floor and the bones of last night's bird are rattling round on the floor.


And last weekend I had a Chorizo scotch egg. I'm a culinary Christopher Columbus sailing along on a sea of grease and snouts. See you in A&E.

A right piece of shit

In the world of words tings are looking pretty bad. The crunch has led to many magazines crumbling or biting the bullet and taking their thoughts online. It maybe deemed a tad rich coming from me who spends most of my time churning out bullshit for use on the internet, but it is a shame - there beats nothing than buying an actual magazine you can grasp in yer mitt and twat flies with, wipe yer arse with or use to skin up on. You can’t do any of those tings with a web page. Or not yet anyhow.

Thankfully, a new publication has recently launched which could save everything. James Brown, ex-editor of Loaded and Peaches Geldof have hooked up on the amazingly awful Disappear Here. I picked up a copy from a ladies changing rooms in Shoreditch (where I spend a lot of time). It was gathering dust as if the fella who ran the boutique was embarrassed to stock it. Having read it he was right. It’s fucking pants. But at least it’s given cretins a wage. Check it here.

Major Lazer-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r

Major Lazer’s album finally hits the UK on Monday all proper like and for once the hype and media sizzle is properply justified. Diplo and Switch are two dudes who have worked with MIA (in Diplo’s case even made the beast with two backs with her) and survived with their careers intact. They must be on pretty potent stuff in their digital dungeon.

What I’ve heard so far of sounds like those two have been chugging on big, fat buckets of ganj, then throwing anything they can find into the cauldron. Spaghetti Western guitars, horses and murderah’s all bouncing to the dancehall beat. They’re playing at Bestival in September and I’m pretty excited to see how they’re gonna turn the Lazer into a live ting and inject some of the ridiculous A-Team-esque back story into it.

From this footage it maybe just randoms dancing to Diplo’s laptop while Switch smokes fags and throws the sort of shapes usually made by dads at weddings.

Incidentally Switch is one of my heroes not just for this musical ability. Word has it that despite his age the man has one of the largest appetites in dance music for pure, unadulterated hedonism. Check out these images from Fabric taken at a Get Familiar evening sometime in 2007. They tell quite a story...

Switch in a fucking right old mess at Fabric