oneintheear

January is dead - Long live January

2012-01-31T11:12:00.000-08:00

January is nearly kaput - and pheweee at times it's been tough. A classic case of post-NYE blues, no dosh and the outside occasionally being colder than the uncovered willy of an eskimo. But despite the standard January fare of chilly despair, there's still been some shit out there worth crowing about. The BDO World Professional Darts Championship at the start of 2012 gave us a reason to get out of bed at the weekends, despite the early departure of favourite Martin 'Wolfie' Adams from the tournament. Our shit telly even decided to work for a brief, wonderful weekend when there were more 'Shanghais in the madness' than you could shake a stick at. The only downer was witnessing Stockport's Silverback lose out in the final. Tony! - gutted for you mate.

January was also large for a delicious cocktail of reasons - not only did we watch a shitload of darts but we started playing it courtesy of investing in a set of 'arrows' and throwing them in the general direction of the board. Many domestic culinary master pieces were nailed. I started a new job. Which I like. Wonders will never ruddy cease...

Winning

The tell tale sign of 'The Child' (our flat mate) being in ... Number 1 - an open loaf

Number 2 - open (obvs) jar of peanut butter

Number 3 - The cupboard door is ajar...

The Child cooking up a frozen soup - Sisters are doing it for demselves...

Barbecue Xpress - Fried chicken stand up!

Mateeeeeeeeee

Poached eggs - In 2012 we're doing things differently...

The sort of sartorial elegance of which even Bobby George would be proud

New shoes

Power, corruption and lies. On a mantlepiece

Darts fucking darts

Taste sensation

Are we not bears?

2012-01-30T13:13:00.000-08:00

Housey housey housey - If 2012 is gonna be the year of 'house' (as Tim Jonze claimed in the Graniad late last year) it may also be the year of the bear. Make it the 2 Bears. The duo have emerged in January with their claws sharp and gnashers bared ready to do battle on the world's dancefloors and bring about maximum uplift.

Their album 'Be Strong' has pretty much every fucker in the universe yapping - including me. Check out what I had to say about it for Stool Pigeon - and check the Toddla T reworking below. It's a total boomer and has been ruling our kitchen on Friday evenings for the duration of 2012. Check it collective babes...

Never Too Much

2012-01-30T12:50:00.000-08:00

Sheffield is the place - and if Sheffield is the place, then 'Never Too Much' is THE lo-fi dance night for the more discerning fan of all things raw, hype, disco and electronic. This has been getting me through the post-Bugged Out! Weekender come down. The horror, the horror! Tracklisting under the widget - widgety widgety...

MASAmatix – In Your Eyes (Maurice Fulton Remix)
DJ Mujava – Township Funk (Crazy P Remix)
Moby – The Right Thing ft. Inyang Bassey (Cosmonauts Remix)
Diskjokke – 1987
Kolombo – Waiting For (Michael Mayer Remix)
Discodromo ft. Hard-Ton – Build a House (Tensnake Remix)
The Knife – Heartbeats (Rex the Dog Remix)
Claude Von Stroke – Beware of the Bird
Osborne – Bout Ready to Jak
Home & Garden – In and Out (D’s Nu Vo Vox) it’s a Derrick Carter rmx if that wasn’t obv
Azealia Banks ft. Lazy Jay – 212
CPEN & JT Donaldson – Next to You (Marko Militano Remix)
Connan Mockasin – Faking Jazz Together (Michael Mayer Remix)
Kraak & Smaak ft. Romanthony – Let’s Go Back (Solomun Remix)
James Blake – The Wilhelm Scream (Poindexter Remix)

Locked Groove is young and big ont' road

2012-01-10T13:13:00.000-08:00

Locked Groove is a Belgian dude who is only 23. 23! When I was 23 I could barely tie my own shoe laces, never mind make the sort of music that would have techno-heads chasing their fucking jaws. This is druggy, druggy, druggy and I freaking love it.

Here's Drowning - and here's what I had to say about it on Hyponik - yagga yagga yagga

Drowning [on Scuba DJ-Kicks] by Locked groove

Jurassic Park!

2012-01-08T14:32:00.000-08:00

Dr Doolittle was a man who forgo interactions with humans in favour of administering love, care and conversation to animals. 'Trailblazer' some people might say. 'Pervert' others might declare. But whatever his true flex was, the notion that animals present a totally different allure to human beings is one that cannot be sniffed at. It's probably possible to watch a rhino taking a shit for as long as it takes for the task to be completed. Adopting the same voyeuristic persona with a human bean would definitely be less appealing.

So it's true dat that animals possess plenty of big, stinky, hairy vibes. And the best possible way to capture those vibes in one fell swoop is by taking a visit to the zoo. Just t'other week we did this by journeying up out of London and into the dark recesses of Dunstable to Whipsnade Zoo. I've no fucking idea where this is in relation to anything but you definitely need to get in a car, get on a motorway and fuck off northwards out of the capital.

This was my first jaunt to Whipsnade and it turns out that the place is much less of a zoo and much more of a safari style park - one can drive around, stop and get out to discuss how easy it would be to steal one of the animals. When we went, it seemed like it would have been almost too easy to p-p-p-p-p-p-p-p-pick up a penguin, stick it in the boot and do one for the surrounding hills. We bottled it. Obvs.

Instead we chose the well-worn path of the gormless tourist and did our best to watch shitloads of beasts going about their daily business. Rhinos, elephants, zebras, lions, tigers, cheetahs, hippos, deer, wolves - you name it, we probably cooed at it and saw it taking a shit. I took a few choice snaps of our savage friends but my favourite part was when we attempted to drive past a pair of camels in the Passage of Asia. This is a bit of gravel path where you can drive through without getting out and go up close to nature's finest. Check the video footage after the photos for the site of a grown woman being sent into a melt down by a camel. In Whipsnade, no one can hear you scream...

Horny

Stick that in yer trunk son

A wild, hairy cow

Just like in Jurassic Park

Hippos love to shit in clean water

Camel attacks tree while we watch placidly

'Adult mooses live a solitary life' - true dat

The back end of a shy buffalo

An unloose moose not in a hoose

Watch yer sens

March of the mallards

Fake scat

Pinch - FabricLive61

2012-01-08T05:14:00.001-08:00

Bristol bass dude Pinch has been a big man in the profession of speaker shaking for time. And his latest mix for Fabric is suitably large on road. It does a pretty fine job of joining the dots between dub, grime, jungle and soundsystem biznarse.

I trotted out some words for Hyponik here - Pinch Fabriclive 61 Review - and this Addison Groove banger is one of the biggest on there. Watch out...

Toronto-shaped dreams

2012-01-07T06:36:00.000-08:00

Disposable cameras used to be a minor pinnacle of image-capturing technology. Overpriced, throwaway and like a red rag to the amateur cos you could just pick 'em up and immediately begin clicking. As part of a very minor experiment (and an attempt to busy my brain with increasingly less important and self-indulgent tasks) I acquired a couple of the bad boys when we did one to Canada last autumn.

In 'omage to Oneman, one of the best, tightest DJs spinning around the current block, I'm gonna 'bite' his notion and use a Tumblr platform for these disposable graphics. I'm pretty sure any images I post up will be about a million years less exciting but f.u.c.k. it who cares.

I also found these videos on my phone while having a little scroll through my memories of the big trip from last year. There are more but some are so incriminating I daren't put them on the Internet. It'll break.

Toddla T in Toronto

Canada's Wonderland

Krystal Klear and Olivier Daysoul make beautiful slow jam

2012-01-05T04:40:00.000-08:00

Slow jammmmmzzzzz - Not the preserve but the sensually inclined calling of the horn. It's not often any true slow jam emerges in this day and age but Krystal Klear and Olivier Daysoul have combined creative juices to produce a pure killer. I challenge you to not get the horn listening to this. Go on. Try. It's impossible...

I tickled out a little review for Hyponik over here. Oooh matronnnn.

Metal Jacket - Trevor Jackson

2012-01-03T11:57:00.001-08:00

With the New Year now mounting our collective frowns like a vicious slug, it's the turn of all musically-inclined magazines, websites and periodicals to list and line up their great hopes for the next 12 months. I'm doing my best to keep up with all the new names and faces out of all the fresh young pups, but it's hype to see old flame Trevor Jackson move back into the frame. He's got an ace looking compilation/mix emerging on Strut Records in February. Check the mini-mix below for a sly preview of the goodness which lies ahead...

Metal Dance - Promo Minimix 2012 by Trevor Jackson

Decemberrrrrrrrrrrrr

2012-01-03T11:32:00.000-08:00

2011 has come and gone in a right blur of activity - Here are the last few weeks of December in fleeting, shaky-handed camera glory. Check it. Don't wreck it.

New year, new diary, new vibes

The last Scotch egg of the '011

Christmas dinner innit

Cleaning up spillages on Christmas day

Bagel-tastic

Our new flat mate - equipped for all weathers

Ben's big, fuck off bath

Post work's do mash up

Xmas office suffering

Darts!

Total darts!

Stating the obvious in pen and post it notes

Shoreditch pizza in the house

Secret Santa speaks

Numbers turn a car park over

2012-01-02T13:44:00.000-08:00

If you've taken just a small amount of notice of the sort of shit going down in electronic circles over the last 12 months, then your ears should be well familiar with the work of Glaswegian label Numbers.

Hudson Mohawke, Rustie, Jackmaster, Spencers and Goodhand are the men at its core but their releases and dances have incorporated sonic action from the likes of cohorts Deadboy, DJ Pierre, Redinho, Jamie XX and other key electronicy, wonky players.

To celebrate what has been a mammoth year for the crew, they hosted a huge party in a central London car park for their dedicated followers, who turned out in their droves to pay their respects via the rave. The bill was a wet dream for any fucker who reckons their fingers are wrapped around the pulse with much of the aforementioned Numbers team representing heavy stylez.

We arrived already in a half mangled state to witness Deadboy and Spencer sparring over a snarly mixture of fresh fire and older electronic classics before Hudmo sent the place totally upside down. The oddly shaped gent played a crunchingly heavy mixture of r'n'b and classic hip hop as well as many of his own big 'uns to send the car park spiralling into overdrive. It culminated in R.Kelly's Bump'n'Grind, which was a fittingly daft conclusion to a sweaty, party hard set of b.a.n.g.e.r.s.

Our collective sense began to deteriote rapidly at this point. One of our number was lost down the front out of his box on two bottles of cheap plonk while the rest of us were baying hard and boogieing strong. Rustie carried on where Hudmo left off with a large locker of hyper-real tackle whereas Jamie XX and Jackmaster were slightly less garish with a more standard selection of house. Although this was how it looked from where we were standing. Which was near the back. We left before the dawn close to go back round our ends and sing-along to Coldplay albums for an hour before straddling the hay. Big business from a big, young team. Do your maths 2012. Numbers are coming for you...

No pain, no gain

2011-12-27T04:30:00.000-08:00

The Christmas party circuit is one synonymous with binge drinking, memory loss and acute embarrassment. All three are a total given. Year after year I've limped back to see my parents for a couple of days at Christmas with a sore gut, a red face and a long list of apologies. Doing daft, cringeworthy shit while being out of yer gourd on beers is, at this time of year, how you say, standard.

However, this December I managed to push this 'feeling' onto a whole new level by consuming enough red wine to brain myself on the steps of Bank Tube station. I managed to knock myself out and subsequently woke up in A&E. I didn't stir until the morning after the night before, only to find myself in a ward full of elderly, crying types in Whitechapel hospital. I was down to me pants, hooked up to a drip and incapable of remembering how I ended up there. Whoops? Whoops indeed.

Props to any well wishes and for one Bob Funkhouse for coming to get us out of there with a fresh pair of jeans and a t-shirt (they'd cut the clothes I was wearing during the incident off due to me being out cold). After the patient hospital folk agreed to let us go, we walked home via a lasgne and watched DVDs for the rest of the evening. There's definitely a lesson in this somewhere as long as I choose to listen. My ears are open. Fo' sure.

The best way to recuperate from a fall is to watch Bridesmaids and listen to pounding future bass. Obvious int it...

From the penthouse to the pavement

2011-12-12T09:29:00.001-08:00

It's not often you get props from your heroes - so I spent much of the other Wednesday walking on the metaphorical cloud nine after getting a big up from Chic main man Nile Rodgers. He'd happened upon a review of our experience at the Warehouse Project in Manchester back in November. He was down with our party vibes. And this is coming from a man who died 8 times in one night. That's quite a feat...

Adrian Sherwood - Dub Be Good To Me

2011-12-05T13:27:00.000-08:00

I had the rare opportunity to ring up a dub legend just t'other week. Adrian Sherwood has been kicking the music industry at a low frequency for over 30 years so to celebrate this he's playing a few select shows and releasing as many records as possible. I was bequeathed his mobile number and asked to get to the bottom of him. You can read the results of our little chat below...

Click here for Adrian Sherwood interview

Chic @the Warehouse Project

2011-12-01T13:15:00.000-08:00

November nights offered up a multitude of musical riches - but perhaps the fullest aural money bags were provided by Chic at the Warehouse Project up in Manchester. We were so giddy about witnessing them that we turned down an invitation to stick cat food up our conks at a party the night before. I know. Early(ish) to bed instead of staying up all night talking shite. That’s how seriously we were taking Nile Rodgers and Chic’s showing.

And up early we were - I was prancing round our kitchen listening to Spacer at half nine in the A.M. And reading about Jeff Mills spectacularly blowing out his gig, despite being offered a fat wedge and a limo from Manchester airport to Store Street where the WHP is currently located. Our journey was always all about Chic - so we didn’t give a shit that the wizard had decided to throw a wobbler and not bother showing up.

Despite the early start, we still almost missed the train. Almost. But thankfully, when it pulled off we were ensconced in our seats discussing death and swearing very loudly within ear shot of a young child. The journey was most pleasant. Lagers and big talk. We were even greeted at the platform by our kind host and driven to his gaff where we were treated to a donner meat pizza and a full fridge of lager. This is probably the sort of treatment Mills would have received if he could have been arsed. Mate. You bit your nose off here to spite your face.

When it came to lift off we were already royally rolling - the classic donner meat, bifta, strong lager combo had set our brains at a pretty high. Once inside, it was all about Chic and poppers. Lots and lots of poppers. Losing the lid on the original bottle met we had to buy a second dose while chain sniffing the first batch until there was nothing left other than our red faces and blistered minds. So by the time Chic came on to rapturous applause, we were in the cavernous arch way going totally fucking ape.

Despite their lengthy time in the game, Nile Rodgers and crew showed no signs of age or illness (Rodgers has bee battling cancer for time) and lifted the place off its feet wrapped in a bear hug of bright lights and even brighter disco. We completely lost our shit as they ran through their best bits at break neck speed. Spacer, He’s the greatest dancer, Lost in music, We are family - all performed in a lean, medley style - Johnny Marr even came on at the end in add a touch of Mancunia to Le Freak. It was big.

The eve culminated in retiring to our chum’s gaff to listen to Bon Jovi, watch Platoon and spend the next 12 hours twitching before boarding the train and returning to the smoke. A whistle stop tour of Manc for the a real disco extravaganza. Chic smashed it. Very good times…

You can read my Resident Advisor review of the evening by clicking here - it's gushy as fuck...

#havingalovelytime

#havingaverylovelytime

#havinganevenloveliertime

Train scran

Grainy proof that we were there - in body if not in mind...

Hitler was nice to dogs

2011-12-01T11:23:00.000-08:00

Ooof - November has been a right vibe. A total vibe. Sleepless Sundays, delicious dining experiences and late, late nights spent listening to grunge and smoking cigs dreaming of the future. It's been a lot, passed in a flash and seen us avoiding bed for entire weekends. Thankfully my camera phone has ably documented some of the key moments and blurs. I've forgotten what the other ones were. It's like the late Tony Wilson once said: "When forced to pick between truth and legend, print the legend." True dat.

Omens with buffalos an' that

It's a quail ting

It's a roast ting

Saturday night in

Celebrating the arrival of a fresh pair of headphones - gangsta

Hackney tragedy

Good night sweet prince

Club Butt

A dock off leak

'hahaha useless fucker'

Factfinding crew

Night vision Ginsters

Heat

Pretty Green

Highly desirable artworks in Westfield

It's a pie ting

Mr eggy face in da area

Black pudding crew

Drinking sourz at Factory Floor

It's a hangover ting

Oof

A stolen moment at Kiss the Fist

Pre-Factory Floor dinner flex - yagga yagga

Con I carn't

Acid flex

Yeah boi

That cat is a fucking cunt

Suck the bones

A delicious rioja on a Sunday

Hello mate - You're fucked now. You really are...

Classic Is Your Friend

2011-11-15T14:31:00.001-08:00

'Things that go bump in the night' is a phrase usually set aside for Halloween and the ghoulish and the ghastly. But it could also serve as a neat tag line for Classic Records and the line of thumping house music they've been pushing since the label opened its doors back in 1995. Manned by two house music heroes, Derrick Carter and Luke Solomon, Classic has proved to be a platform for injecting some of club music's finest moments into both ears and dance floors. Think Sneak's 'You can't hide from your bud' and Metro Area's Pina plus equally fruity electronic business from the likes of Swag and Matthew Herbert.

After a brief hietus following the 100th release, the pair recently decided to re-boot the label via digitising the back catalogue and making it available for all. And to celebrate, they've been running a series of parties under the banner of 'Classic is Your Friend'. We attended the one in London which was conveniently situated at a warehouse space in Hackney Downs, just a hop, skip and a stumble from our hood. In fact, the very same space where we'd got down to Oneman and his Standard Place crew just t'other week.

The vibe for this bash was much more housey and less hoods up compared with Oneman's bash. But the main room was where it was at - smoke - music - dancing - smoke - music- dancing - smoke -music -dancing - smoke. Rob Mello was dropping some seriously warm business to begin with while the smoke started to billow but it was the big DC who really showed the place what was what. He played a blend of uplifting housey house with the odd bit of disco lobbed in for good measure. But the beats were well bendy and matched our bendy feet until we couldn't bend dem limbs no more. Then it was time to retreat back to the gaff (after a brief skirmish with a shopping trolley) to keep the bend bending. Mint. Bendy. Night.

This mix from DC was the sound track to the warm up and the warm down. Still can't stop giving it some...

DERRICK CARTER - The Oki-Ni Hot Lunch Mix by Elite Music Management

Kiss the Fist vs a school night

2011-11-15T03:40:00.001-08:00

Kiss the Fist returns to the London Fields pub turntables this Thursday evening for a four hour excursion into the electronic cosmos. Friday nights down at the Fields have been the scene of many disco crimes, much memory loss and subsequent paranoid hiding underneath the metaphorical duvet. It's a school night and work is definitely on the cards the following day so hopefully behaviour won't get as unhinged as previous outings. However, never say never....

Box Jams Volume Oneeee

2011-11-14T15:38:00.001-08:00

If your heart beats to the electronic sound of the Hague or the cosmic wizardry of the Motor City, then you need this first Box Jams mix in your ears. Put together by our Sheffield buddies Juliun and Pat (of C90 and Rough Disko notoriety respectively) it's an hour plus run through a collection of jacking and acidic computer music. It's got some right monsters on here. I've been bumming it for the past few hours and doing some moves in the kitchen which are attracting some weird looks off the nosier neighbours. Fuck them. They've obviously never felt the full force of the Severed Heads. If you're in Sheffield, then they're throwing a do this Friday. Check their business here...

Box Jams Volume One by boxjams

They should be taken outside and shot

2011-11-14T15:34:00.000-08:00

While the past eight or nine weekends have been full of wild times, the weekday evenings have been somewhat more sedate and bluesy. Just tied myself to the stool in the kitchen and devoured as much musical business as possible. Here are the fruits of ze labours...

Click here for Hyponik review of Sepalcure's self titled debut album

Click here for Hypoink review of Dave Clarke's Fabric mix

Click here for Hyponik review of Space Dimension Controller's Pathway to Tiraquon 6

Click here for a Stool Pigeon review of Mosca's The Wavey EP

Click here for a Stool Pigeon review of R&S's IOTDXI compilation

A public inconvenience

2011-11-10T15:35:00.000-08:00

I'm a big fan of bogs. Aka latrines. Aka 'the Kaiser'. Aka the WC. Indeed partaking in a gentleman's wee is one of life's largest pleasures. Mounting the porcelain is perhaps the best way to get a bit of space in which to strain, enjoy a read and think about what the fuck's going on out beyond the immediate confines of your four walled palace. Like Andrew Weatherall and Sean Johnston's club night, A Love From Outer Space, it's "an oasis of stillness in a world of ever increasing velocity". Or as the Stone Roses may or may not have said: "Stop the world. I'm getting on."

Public toilets are a wilder beast - there's summat much more feral about doing one's business in a room where the only thing separating oneself and other strangers is a few strip of chipboard. Plus there are other associated condiments. The glory holes. Will there be any paper on which to wipe? Then there's the potential threat of being on the wrong (or right) end of a 'cottaging'. Almost anything could happen.

Worries aside, a Friday evening just t'other week was hung around the opening of a toilet in the George and Dragon boozer on Hackney Road. Those chumps behind Sheffield fanzine Go had retiled the ladies as a lament/celebration to the plight of the public toilet. They'd done a fantastic job on the grouting in what must be one of the busiest and sweatiest pubs in the world. Not only was this a glorious load of arty lardy de dar but it was pretty adept at holding a tinkle. I took a leak in there and can confirm that as a toilet, it worked wonderfully. So it manages to both functional and art at the same time. Nuts innit? You can go and take a leak in there until Dec 14th.

This graffiti was on the toilet's wall - it wasn't me

Nando's - A journey to the largest in the west

2011-11-07T11:59:00.000-08:00

To live by the chicken and to die by the chicken - it's probably better than a sword. Or at least not as sharp. Unless it's a bird with a particularly large beak. But what evs. The birds they serve up at Nando's are a particularly fine bunch. Especially as they've been frame grilled and soaked in the delicious Nando's juice. But I'm preaching to the converted. Everyone knows how good Nando's is. Last Thursday I had what Time Out would describe as an "eating epiphany" by way of an adventure out of the E8 post code to the new shopping extravaganza that is Westfield. Everything in this joint is massive. Everything. But the Nando's there is summat else. According to rumour and hearsay, this is the biggest eaterie they own. You see it from some distance when you're leering past La Senza and got half an eye on the window of Primark. You have to approach the beast via escalator. But the journey through the crowds and shit shops is worth it. You get there and basically immediately cream your pants. I wasn't even hungry but still managed half a bird, the traditional two sides and numerous refills of coke.

When the Nando's staff came over to collect our plates of bones she had to double check that she could take them away. Her explanation? "Some of the customers just like to sit here with the bones for a bit. One woman got really angry when I tried to take them away even though she had finished eating."

Nando's. Props. That's just how good you are. Suck those bones dry...

A feast

A call to arms

Consumption

2011-10-31T15:23:00.000-07:00

Scran in all forms has been high on the menu of late. And in all its forms. I've actually made some proper meals. Just like a real person. That's right. It ain't just a bandage to patch up the bits of you which have fallen off the previous evening. There's been some big business going down in the kitchens of E8 and beyond. Believe...

'Autumnal fayre'

Overpriced bog roll

Jerked

Useless little bastard

Israeli-affiliated Scotch eggs - never again

Post-midnight street urchin yummles

A delicious, hot bird

Mumsy's roast

'The Child', aka 'The Barbarian' cooks - and this is what it looks like

The best thing to happen to me all week...

2011-10-27T08:18:00.000-07:00

... is getting a retweet from Artwork outta Magnetic Man. And it was about baps. In Gregg's. I can now officially die happy...

Standard Place 1st birthday - Let's dance...

2011-10-26T13:51:00.000-07:00

Warehouse parties in the east end of London town are ten a penny. Inboxes, flyers and posters constantly pop up promising today's dancers grimy nights in 'secret warehouse spaces' all propelled by a Funktion One sound system. But many of these forarys fail to deliver on the pre-match hype in terms of space and sonics. As a result, it's become easy to ignore the deluge of bluster and promotional blurb.

The Standard Place 1st birthday bash was a different matter. The venue, in the dingier end of Hackney Downs, was an actual warehouse where you could imagine real men in white coats slaughtering animals during daylight hours. And the Internet anticipation was something else. The promoters had a steady drip of line up revelations in the week leading up to the do, only unveiling the full girth of their aural menu on the actual day of lift off. Benji B, Oneman, Artwork, Jackmaster and Joy Orbison on the same bill is summat not to be sniffed at. So when night descended, we were totally crackling and at the front of a very lubricated pack of ravers wandering around Hackney Downs in search of the party.

Once we found the bash and clambered inside it, the vibe itself was next level. Being keen beans, we were pretty much the first punters up in the place to find Oneman laying down some serious UKG bizness in a dimly lit and metallic space. And as it filled the vibe went from abbatoir to pure bassy chaos. We were all over it, shaking our bits down at the front like a right bunch of fan boys to a fine blend of funky, house, hip hop and garage. Benji B dropped Drake's Headlines which sent our crew into serious spasms, including one team member taking it in turns to projectilve vomit and sleep in the smoking area. Oneman returned and kept the pressure tight But the cheap bar got the better of us and meant we were forced to leave just as Artwork was preparing his wonk for the dance. We walked home, stayed up until dawn and spent much of the next day unconcious in bed. Big night. Big vibes. Standard Place is anything but...

The Mcdonald's Breakfast rap

2011-10-25T15:46:00.000-07:00

Mcdonald's describe their latest addition to the hangover crew's morning menu as a 'Delicious sausage, bacon, egg, potato rosti and cheese with ketchup or brown sauce'. They weren't wrong about it being delicious. And, according to the Mcdonald's website, it (disappointingly) doesn't contain any sulphur dioxide. Although it could be accused of resembling the inside of a dead, prehistoric reptile which has put some serious hours in slaving away over a deep fat fryer.

Yum?

Yum.

Hudson Mohawke @XOYO

2011-10-25T15:22:00.000-07:00

If you were to put the majority of the fresh new players in contemporary electronic squelches together in a line up, you’d be hard pressed to distinguish one from the other. Baseball caps, hoods, buttoned up shirt, skinny pantaloons, Vans, attitude - stand to attention.

So props to Glaswegian Hudson Mohawke for doing his bit for the less immaculately turned out - he’s a big fella with lumps and bumps a plenty but somewhere within that frame is an ever burgeoning electronic hero on the brink of exploding. His biggest headline gig to date in the smoke showed just why the great and good of US r’n’b are getting their expensive knickers in a twist over his sonics - and why everyone else should be soggy with anticipation for his new album - the man has skillzzzzz.

After dining extravagantly at the nearby Wetherspoons (the Masque Haunt - the verdict? Great. What else?), and being greeted by an erstwhile blogger at the door looking for a spare ticket (Key ‘modest’ quote; ‘It’s pretty successful’) we entered XOYO’s interiors. And what did we find? Surprisingly, a ginger haired dude ripping up some serious funk on keys and a talk box to about 3 punters, one with a terrible tache doing his best to throw some serious dad-shaped moves. But bibbles aside, Redinho was the name of the man reeling around the stage, and one of the much feted new breed doing his business for the Numbers staple. Numbers has been one of the key platforms to elevate the likes of Hudmo and fellow Scots Rustie and Jackmaster to the big league. And although the talk box may be Redinho’s one trick, it’s definitely one worth keeping your ears peeled for.

Canadian producer and DJ Jacques Greene was up next with a sound closer to the r’n’b proffered by Hudmo - his latest mix for Allez Allez is a good indication of where this 20 year’s old musical head is at - somewhere between the syrupy chart hop of Drake and the heads down tech of Martyn. Although his mixing skills were, in some ways, refreshingly awry, his tune selection was bang on the money and had the now full room moving with him.

Jacques Greene Allez Allez Mix by DummyMag

So to the finale and Hudmo’s many layered, purple take on all things thunderous and electronic - He's definitely not one for much for visual pea cocking. With the exception of a light show and big screen featuring a raging Incredible Hulk, he spent the gig swaying behind his control panels but his music packs a powerful and seering punch.

Beginning with a swirling take on Bjork’s Crystalline, Hudmo spent the next hour or so conjuring up a bass heavy storm from his numerous knobs and buttons. Imagine a white Timbaland for a new generation which, in both physical shape and sound, the Scot bares more than a little resemblance to. Satin Panthers, the name of his latest EP, is a neat encapsulation of the electronica he’s pushing, it's heavy enough to feel it in your guts but with enough delicacy and decency to rely on more than just brute force. He led us by the hand through a set of mostly new materials before coming to a juddering climax with his first release, the bootleg of Tweet’s Oops. Rustie’s debut record may have just dropped to much acclaim but Hudmo is a few steps ahead. This maverick playa’s got plenty of play left him in. Play on…

Rider?

Bang Face 8th Birthday Party

2011-10-24T13:21:00.000-07:00

'Bang Face Never Dies' - The slogans daubing the walls, t-shirts and signs of the Bang Face Hard Crew are one of the many mind altering joys to revel in when getting down to ravey business at this monstrous celebration of underground electronic dance. ‘You only live twice’, the title of a James Bond film, would be an apt tag line for a Bang Face party. So it was vaguely fitting that the 8th birthday bash for the home to all things ‘neo’, ’rave’ and ‘Armageddon’ coincided with the birthday of James Bond actor and perennial gentlemen rogue, Roger Moore.

Many of the monikers for flicks featuring this secret agent lothario wouldn’t look out of place on the backs of the Hard Crew - ‘Live and Let Die’, ‘A view to a kill’ - I’d pay serious dosh to see this vibe flipped and reversed with Moore starring in a film using a Bang Face slogan - perhaps ‘The only thing I’m fucking tonight are my prospects’.

Anyhoo, Bang Face has come a longgggg way since it’s inception eight years ago in a seedy toilet of a venue in Shoreditch. Although in this case, getting older, does not equate to growing up - leave your pipes and slippers at the door unless they‘re over sized and bright green. Now based around a massive three day weekend blow out at a holiday park in the spring, the 8th birthday business was the night’s return to what many of the BF faithful deem to be its spiritual home at the Electrowerkz in Islington.

The online anticipation for the all night Friday evening showdown was massive- the neon corners of the Internet where the hard crew interact was bowing over with froth - and with good reason. The weekenders have proved to be life affirming affairs - so condensing the three days of madness into one evening was an enticing prospect to hardened dance floor warrior - when we arrived, we were confronted with queues round the block and the rousing clarion call of bass…

The Electrowerkz proved to be a suitable den of inequity for shady rave behaviour - spread over a myriad number of caves, we spent the evening lumbering from room to broom cupboard constantly hit by inflatables, slogans, headgear, balloons and darkness. In the seediest corner of the club, where break core proved to be the soundtrack of choice, cages adorned the wall - one could pretend to be an animal in a zoo - which was a fitting look for the collective state of mind as the night wore on.

Although we clocked numerous players (Dave Skywalker, The Teknoist, Normski, Tango & Ratty to name a few) it was down to Sheffield’s Squires of Gothos to smash the last two hours in the main room - which proved to be sheer carnage. With tops off, top hats on and a stage invasion, the duo battered the stamina crew with high-vis bass music until the place fell in on itself around dawn time. As we left in search of an after party, Normski was skulking outside in the shadows in full Bond villain make up and street cleaners did their best to wipe the rave from the street. Yet again Bang Face failed to disappoint - we came away with more new chums and wrinkles than we had before - it’s an irresistible hard dance extravaganza which can’t help but bring a grin to the chops… Roll on the Christmas party…

Ps. They finished on this...

Double You - Please Don't Go (Squire Of Gothos Bootleg Bashdown) by OFF ME NUT RECORDS

Trapped in a rave cave of emotion

Serious

Piff

Four Tet and Modeselektor

2011-10-10T14:47:00.000-07:00

Despite all this recent galavanting, there's been a truck load of sizzly new electronic business running around. Check out the below yarns spun on the new Four Tet Fabric mix and Modeselektor album Monkey Town below...

Four Tet Fabric Live Hyponik review

Modeselektor Monkey Town Hyponik review

Berlin by the latter is undergoing heavy rotation round our way... Check it...

Entering the Dirty Thirties

2011-10-10T11:55:00.000-07:00

30 years old. Ouch. Despite acting as an indicator of ever-advancing death, it's a nice looking number. It's much less jagged and ungainly than 29. But the aesthetics should supposedly reflect your state of mind. Gone is the time for undecision. It's time to know who you are and where it is you're at. I entered my 30th year the other week and can confirm nothing has changed. I still don't know what time it is. Thankfully there were two days of hard shindiggery and sloppy shenaniganry to wade through to commemorate the date. I didn't have time to think about anything too hard. Like what the fuck it is I'm doing.

Instead our club crew Kiss the Fist repped hard and fast down in the bowels of the Baby Bathhouse in Stoke Newington. Our evening culminated in a 'stirring' rendition of 'Come on Eileen', shots of jager and me sen having an undignified piss down an alley.

Saturday was one full of surprises. From waking up on a mattress at a mate's gaff, to eating a fry up with liver to an actual real life surprise do in the evening. I was tricked. The gathering featured rubber gloves, Manchester eggs (like scotched ones except with pickled eggs and crisps rather than your bog standard hen's egg and bread crumbs), a Gregg's and southern fried chicken platter - but the crowning glory was taken by the dessert - a Frank Sidebottom cake.

Never have I felt more touched. Big up to everyone who repped. And big up the culinary smorgasboard crew. It was emotional...

A birthday painting gift - a collection of slightly sinister clowns

Hash pipe - all the way from the East

The arms of dolls - in a glass case - embedded in the bar of the Baby Bathhouse - standard

Set 5 Mixed grill breakfast - note liver - goes well with a pint

Frank Sidebottom cake

Frank Sidebottom cake in a cocktail

Getting done up the wrong 'un by Grace

Nando's - before

Nando's - After - bones sucked dry

It's a cheese cake ting - stay classy

Once upon time in the West - Toronto part deux

2011-10-04T10:37:00.000-07:00

I said hello to the first morning of being 30 in the same way many mornings of my supposed adult life have been greeted. With a desperate need for a glass of water and an explanation. But despite the memory loss, and the pain in the collective gut, we spent the next four days lording it up like princes. Proper princes.

On Friday we discovered it was Toronto's 'Beer Week' - and subsequently wandered round in the torrential rain until we found Bar Volo and it's extensive selection of micro-brewed ale. We consumed enough of their boozes to make friends with some Sheffield ex-pats, fell in love with the bar maid (again), ate a veal burger, then headed to Toddla T and Roska's show at the Mod Club. Behaviour took a turn for the lairy - we quaffed their beers, jived on the stage with the other liggers and acted like we owned the joint. Which we blatantly didn't. And woke up with the stench of guilt in the air and a business card belonging to someone from Vice magazine.

Our Saturday vibe was based around travelling from the penthouse to the pavement - via a limo natch. Turns out shitloads of the 'taxis' in Toronto are posh as fuck - so we made the five minute journey from the opulent hotel to the tidgy hostel in an extravagant a style as possible. Then entered a room as big as a thimble - stylez. But our low key dwellings inspired the trip to even more ludicrous heights...

We took a boat to the islands on Lake Ontario and wandered round a creepy, deserted children's fairground before heading back to dine in a greasy style at Hooter's. Canada's Wonderland was our destination the day after - here the vibe was all about scaring oneself witless on the ginormous roller coasters - I've never wailed so much. The Behemoth took the prize for its stomach churning drop but my eyes were glued shut for the duration. Like a little girl. Standard.

Our trip to Niagara the day after was dismantled by our own hand - we got too fucked up in the nearby Irish bar to make the hostel bus we'd booked - but being resourceful chaps, we set off anyway. And, after a train ride, a bus journey and a lengthy walk we found one of the wonders of the world. Then gave it five minutes of ogling before gipping off in search of the nearby Casino to lose the rest of our dollar dollar bills y'all.

That was that - The flight back was much like our jaunt out there - Fuelled by vodka, juice and cinematic treats with a side helping of Erasure before going into work on no sleep and answering shitloads of emails. Oooof. Props to Toronto for having us. And all the folk we drank, danced and drunkenly shouted at. You were all too kind...

Second breakfast as a 30 year old

Halloween cards - these fuckers are berserk

Steeze

Tee hee

'beater in an Irish bag - keeping it classy

Canada knows what time it is - NEVER FAKE IT

Delicious micro-brewery business

It's a veal burger ting

L.O.V.E

Roska doing his ting at the Mod Club

Toddla TTTTTTTTTTT

Ligging it up proper stylez with T-dilly

Stage business

The healing power of Quince

Our first hotel

Our second 'hotel'

Sound advice

Dogging styles

Art?

Perving in the park

Right porker

Lost

At sea

CORN DOG - it's a fucking CORN DOG

They take Halloween seriously

Hooters - the 'Bleu Burger' meal - pot of fat on the side

Boneless wings residue - no idea how they get them boneless

A moment of na... zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

Taking the boat to Hooters

Canada's Wonderland - security just out of shot

The Psyclone in action

The entrance

We went on this

And this...

And the Vortex

Stomach wobbling burritto - settle the nerves with summat trumpy

Whac a Mole - We got beaten by a child

Go Karting

Bricking it at the wheel

Massive fuck off prizes

We went on this

And this

And this - The Behemoth

And this...

Then finished on this...

Throw the Ring - we bought 60 rings - won dick all

The elusive rings - fuck your rings

Leaving Wonderland

The shack

Waking up to realise we'd missed our coach to Niagara due to being too fucked on beers and jager

What we could have done

Consolation dog

2 dogs in the claw are worth 4 in the bush

Our mission - bus, train and lengthy mooch

Found the fucker

Niagara Falls - the town - like Blackpool but with more meat

Curiosities

Niagara knows what time it is

Close up of the zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

To the Casino to try and regain all the dosh we spunked in Hooters

HIGHER

Stern words in the gents

Sex and the City fruity

First pay out didn't cut it

In the zone

Worried about leaving the hobs on

Loser

Cash collection point

400 bucks later...

The train back to the hostel - utterly fuck off massive

The bottom of our road

They do tings differently here

The final munch in Canadia - philly steak and beers

Proof we were here

Our hostel

Burger ting

Our pervy limo driver to the airport - wife in Canada - 5 young girlfriends in Cuba - EEK

Fuck you later Toronto

Airport bar - last of the denk

Final jager on Canadian soil - emotional moment in the bar

Even more emotional moment on paying

Plane entertainment

Our vessel back

Work desk - 9.25am on Wednesday - no sleep since Monday - thanks a lot

Once upon a time in the West - Toronto part uno

2011-10-03T13:25:00.001-07:00

Many great trips have humble beginnings - and for some folk there ain't nothing more humble than 'slumming it' in a Wetherspoons before boarding a flight to somewhere nice. I'd go as far as saying there's nowt more satisfying than a fried breakfast and a pint of Stella before taking on an adventure. And the more like a 'spoons it is, the better. So it was when we went to Canada in the middle of September. It ain't a real 'spoons but the boozer in Heathrow's Terminal does a very good impression.

Ostenibly this trip to the North Americas was for work purposes - a financial conference - but the whole endeavour was taken in through eyes both wild, wide and wandering. Not least cos I hit 30 while we were out there. And enjoyed about four hours sleep on the Friday before having to get up to make it to the airport to board our flight the following morning.

Despite this, right from the get go, it was pure shits and giggles. This was the first time I'd voyaged across the Atlantic so I was especially delirious from the off.

Events unfolded in a haphazard, yet spectacular way - we got shitted on the plane over. Then hit up Hooters. On Sunday we whooped at a baseball match. Then I journeyed up the CN Tower with my eyes closed in the evening, where we drank fine wines and sucked on oysters. Much of the week's evenings were spent working - then followed by attempts to drown ourselves in jager bombs. And almost drowning ourselves in hot wings.

These are the first set of images charting the highs and lows which went down in advance of reaching the dirty thirties. Expect more blurry snapshots of food, beers and wheezing. Big up Air Canada. Big up the accomplices. You can't test the team!

The first pint - Saturday morning - 10ish in the am - 'beater

Our transport. A Boeing. Natch.

Microwaveable roast - delectable

Sophisticated consumption at altitude

More sophistication. More altitude

The least sophisticated consumer on the flight

Have you ever shipped a goat?

Hungry for the power

Empties

First jager bomb. In Hooters.

Half of the first 50 hot wings. They look like the claws of crabs

The naughty CN Tower sneeking a peak

A fuck off screen in a fuck off sports bar

LADS

Hooters

Bats and ting

Beer one

Beer 2 - crack 'em

Beer 3 - yes yes

Beer 4 - bleurgh

Man-sized Red Bull

Dogs all round

Dog face

Lift-based japes

Get me another dog

Oysters - up the CN Tower

Scared at the top of the CN Tower

The people look like ants

Higher than I've ever been before

Bear - at the bottom of the CN Tower

You'll never get me up there again

Gin and Tonics

Canadian beer

Hotel window - pre-conference

Shit solo meal - only receipted item of the trip

Sports bar flex

Again

Last hot wings of the 20s

Ready

Ooh-er

Hot wings emporium

Free booze

Sock it to me

Drunk

Catwalk show on final evening of the conference

RIP Mehdi

2011-09-13T11:44:00.000-07:00

Knife and fork town

2011-09-13T11:30:00.000-07:00

Despite the no sleep no eat chaos of the past few weeks, culinary treats have also featured high on the menu. In a desperate bid to prove it's not just powders and poppers, here's a few highlights. Do as the colonel and lick them fingers girl...

Eating beans while watching every dad's favourite secret wank fantasy Sarah Beeny

It's a work cake kinda ting

Fishy beetroots

B-day cake bizness

A heart attack fry up - Momma's secret recipe - extra grease

'Open to temptation'

Godfrey the ginger bread man - now deceased. RIP Godfrey - I enjoyed eating your brains

Diddums

Stoned solo cheesecake mission

Chilli tings - feat. 'erbs

Work desk real ales - only crack in case of emergency

Kiss the Fist's summer madness

2011-09-08T12:29:00.000-07:00

Kiss the Fist is lurching into the autumn with not one, but two September hoe downs. The first goes down at our local boozer, the London Fields on Saturday (10 September - Outlook sync crew ready). The second is a shoot out at the Baby Bathhouse in Stoke Newington. In between this two poles of dates, I'll have reached 30. To commerorate this terrible time, and the end of summer/the world itself, Def Stef aka Chinchilla Price aka Jill Nando has put together this tasty little mix. Go on. Have a nibble...

Summer Madness by ktf

Goblins

2011-09-01T14:34:00.000-07:00

August Bank Holiday is always a biggy. Three days off work at the end of the month is the chocolate covered teat at the culmination of summer. This delectable boob of a weekend acts as a curtain falling on three or four months of waiting, yearning, even bribing the sunshine to come and stay a while. Show a bit of fucking commitment you fucker. But no. It never ever does. Standard.

Now it's September, you can stick your short shorts in the bin, dust off your coats and scarves and look forward to six months of pure, unadulterated misery. Entering autumn isn't exactly the seasonal equivalent of chaining yourself to the inside of a coffin with burning matchsticks under your nails. But now we're entering the hinterland of never knowing whether to take a jacket out or not. It isn't great which ever way you gaze at it.

As such the final three day weekend afore Christmas is all about going in hard - and this one was no exception. Friday was a work business and the National Express trip up to Sheffield to see wonderfully familiar faces for 'Never too much' disco shenanigans at the Washington and a wedding do the day after. The culinary highlights were numerous - 'Chino's' is a notorious late night eatery on Abbeydale Road which stays open until dawn serving scran which you wouldn't wish on your worst enemy. Even the kind of character who robs your pastie, stabs you up and cheats on one of your nearest and dearest deserves better munch than this. No matter, at 3.30am after ten pints and a boogie, we lapped that hot muck right up.

The day after was a wedding do at Sheffield Town Hall. The commitment of man and woman until death do 'em part is obviously a brave and wonderful thing. Props to the happy couple. But even more vibes for having the balls to invest in a three tiered pork pie for the reception fodder. Say no more. The eve lurched from the civilised surroundings of the town's head offices to the dank and dingy environs of Corporation, Sheffield's premier rock club. What occurred is a fuzzy blur but somehow I was back on a train at 9.30am on Sunday heading back to the smoke still in my wedding garms clutching a copy of Viz and a can of Guiness.

Supper at Chino's

Sheffield council's planning department get it spot on

GOODTIMES NEVER GO BAD

'We're not worthy of your pork and pastry product' flex

A sane meal featuring something green - wimpy

Corporation toilets - rocking that authentic trainspotting vibe

Big shit - 'global domination' beckons

Pissed on a train on a Sunday morning

The thinking man's library

Breakfast

Sunday unfolded in a suitably chaotic fashion - The Notting Hill Carnival is a busy, mad vibe anyhoo but when you ain't been to sleep for more than four hours other than on a chair and a toilet, embibed a skinful and started working on the hallucinogens, then shit can take a turn for the surreal. Bellowing this in a shirt and tie at Papa Joe's sound system stands out...

As does Diana Ross's No One Gets the Prize - this one got laid down in our gaff at about 3ish just before the neighbour with the crutch and dodgy hip took it upon herself to do everyone else a favour and shout at us until we turned it down. Whoops.

Turns out there's nothing more prone to making you feel paranoid than having an elderly neighbour with a crutch hollering at you when you're fucked up and wearing wedding garms. So when Monday appeared after another fitful little sleep, it was full of fear and (self) loathing. Instead of giving up and staying in bed moping, I scuttled off back to Carnival for a honk on the Red Bull Music Academy's Major Lazer party. I missed it last due to ingesting a funky green pill and falling asleep in another man's garden on the Sunday eve/Monday morning, so determination was etched deep within me to somehow reach this year's bash.

Equipped with no map, no smiles and no clue it took us an hour of wandering before eventually stumbling upon it. But they let us in to witness the fitness of Dillon Francis, Brodinski, Jackmaster, Oneman, David 'Ramjam' Rodigan, Toots and the Maytals and finally Major Lazer to throw down the carnival gauntlet. There were plenty of big musical looks going on and the booze, as with past years. was totally free. Which is a life threatening vibe for those not prone to saying 'NO'. That's been the story of August. Never saying no ever again. Props all those who put us up and put up with us over the final firework of the summer. Unlike the club night on the Friday at the Washy, it was almost too much...

Free boozes

What happens to you when you drink free boozes

Part of the weekend never dies

How is he? In himself?

2011-09-01T14:08:00.000-07:00

While we're getting a little video flex on, here are some of the bangers that have been making the summer. Whether it's been coming down hard on the top deck of the number 30 travelling to work on a dark Monday morning, sweatily dancing outside in Croatia or at work at 4.30 on a Friday, dreaming of raves and chemical sunrises, these have been three of the biggies.

It's a Hackney kitchen review ting

2011-08-31T13:02:00.000-07:00

Despite the extreme acts of sleep deprivation, a number of reviews have been birthed during August. In spite of all this bad behaviour, pen has been put to quill at the most ridiculous of times.

Sheffield brethren Toddla T has let loose his second album proper and lo, it's right proper. He's got a right roll call of who's who in UK bass business - check me thoughts out below;

Toddla T - Watch Me Dance review for FACT

I've also bashed one out over Martyn and Throwing Snow...

Martyn - Masks HYPONIK review

Throwing Snow HYPONIK review

The goat's cheese gets fingered

2011-08-22T12:34:00.000-07:00

Moments of real eroticism don't come passing through our kitchen that often. At least when I'm there. For all I know, waterfalls of sweat, saliva and spunk may course through it on a daily basis. But if this is the case, then my fellow home dwellers are either very quiet or just really good at mopping up. However, when I'm kicking about, there's so not so much as a mouse puckering up. So I was taken aback when I was not only privy to summat pretty pervy but also managed to capture some of it on my camera phone. It's proper X-rated stuff so if you're a bit of a fridge and don't like having certain sensory bits and bobs tickled in ways you ain't experienced before, then you should probably blindfold yourself and throw your computer out of the window...

Won't you walk the wheel with me?

2011-08-22T12:15:00.000-07:00

There's been plenty of tittle tattle running through the rest of da month - Here's a few choice moments...

Jager bombs for breakfast - that's how we do

Construction king

Pride

Pure unadulterated wee man joy

Fuckin' heck

Travelling men

Flat mate's nan on the altar of fresh pants - fresh looks all round

Obelix - original badman

Hello my only friend

Smingey roast

Field Day 2011 - 'I appreciate that'

2011-08-20T07:43:00.001-07:00

You'd think getting pished up at a festival near your gaff would be easy-percy-ingles-peasy. But Field Day has been something of a rainy albatross round our collective neck of shits and giggles since its inception in 2007.

Back then, we travelled down to London from Sheffield on the lure of a freebie, only to realise the day before that we weren't on the guest list and the do had sold out. Being hardy, dedicated party folk we swallowed our pride, manned up, drank cava and bought an overpriced ticket off a tout only to be met with fuck off massive queues, fuck all booze and acts which were so quite they were barely audible. We strained to hear Justice's debut UK live show and drank wine out of re-sealable glasses. Which, with hindsight and despite everything, was a pretty strong look.

Subsequent years proffered equal amounts of ball/heartache - rain, dogs, cops, stop and searches, mud, queues, and more rain all added up to an event that most of our crew wanted to avoid rather than seek out. However, this year the vibe was different - the line up looked hype, the weather strong and we were determined to have a suitably large time and banish the personal demons of previous years. And, lo, with a little bit of luck, a little bit of foresight and a large amount of money we achieved just that.

The key was getting murked from almost the moment we woke up. Any worries about the long arm of the law or missing acts soon banished once one's eyes were rolling around and exploring the back of one's skull. By 3pm I was in the press queue coming up like an absolute mother. By 3.30pm, and despite being told to stop smoking by one of the gatekeepers, I had done a little dance of victory past the feds with dogs and was in the Bugged Out! tent hollering at the sun. From that moment on, it was almost too easy. We had a life-affirmingly splendid time prancing, sweating and pouting our way through the day and evening. Field Day 2011 - thanks for having us... Here's my review for Hyponik...

FIELD DAY REVIEW - HYPONIK

Enjoy your clams cocksuckers

2011-08-20T07:39:00.000-07:00

'Up all night talking shite' is a neat little mantra which nails the vibe of summer 2011 thus far. The last few weeks have been a real non-sleepy rambling madness with nights continuously melting into days, then turning back to night with the only refreshment being a few snatched hours on our sofa. Certain images stick in the mind - waking up surrounded by beer cans with chums in kneeling positions. Rainbows. Tablets in the sofa. Meeting shouty Chinese blokes in MX-5 convertibles in the midst of the witching hour. Ear syringing. Fry ups. Dentists. Wobbling around fields. Sunshine. Chaos. Soul searching. Personal demons. One pot dishes. The last few weeks have knitted a rich emotional tapestry of massive ups and crashing downs - it's had it all.

The month began with a little trip down to Hackney Wicked. Set in Hackney Wick (obvs), it's a festival which provides shitloads of creative types and arty chancers with an opportunity to show off their talents. Or lack of depending on your perspec. For the rest of us, it's an excuse to drink cans in the street and not be lambasted for total alcoholics.

Our day proved to be a right hoot. Loitering in the streets turned into a roof terrace party where a few slangy beers led to a full on room-odouriser-balloon-based dance party which ran deep into the night. Two of us didn't want the fun to stop so we rang a mini bus and headed off south of the river to Vauxhall to Fire for some euphoric house, plant food and bottom pinching. Vibes. It was like how DC10 may well be but with less girls and far, far too many man. I woke up on a tube in Wimbledon at ten in the am and spent the rest of the day attempting to find the part of my soul which I'd sacrificed on the altar of meow meow. Whoops.

E Pellicci fry up - next level fodder feat. extra chips

Dogs on mugs - ready

Fridge master

Day time balearic hype

Dusk hides balloons

It's a disco ting

It's a fucking late/early ting

Electric Elephants get their trunks out in Croatia

2011-08-02T12:01:00.000-07:00

Dwelling in the United Kingdom means ‘Balearia’ is much more of a state of mind than a geographical or physical reality. The shitty weather and perpetual lack of sunshine vibes gives every man, woman and their dog something to gripe about during the supposed summer time months. It’s pissing down. You’re skint. Work is wank. Boo bloody motherfucking hoo.

Thankfully, we’d pre-empted the classic July urge to jump off the nearest roof top by booking ourselves a little trip taking in Croatia and the Electric Elephant festival. So it was a hit of pure joy to not have to go into the work the other Monday. Instead we ventured across to St Pancras and the waiting Eurostar via a skanky Irish boozer for a little adventure across Europe.

Our trip involved boarding the train (and somehow prizing ourselves out of the nearby fake ‘spoons) and whizzing over to Paris with Kronenburg, Viz and Private Eye for company. Then we hit the sleeper train to Munich, followed by a third rail journey from Germany to Zagreb, the Croatian capital.

Civilised it sounds but the first leg was mainly defined by leglessness and sharing a compartment with a youthful German couple who fancied themselves a little overnight, leg-over. To allow them a smoochy window of opportunity, we marauded up and down the overnight choo choo on a mission to seek lager and a smoking zone. We met a lovely scouse train driver who joined us in our endeavours - three might be considered a crowd but it meant when the smoke was hitting the proverbial fan of rules, there was even less chance of the authorities doing owt to chuck us off and throw our nicotine-loving asses into a German jail. Ha.

The second segment down to the Adriatic was all about the buffet car and taking croissants in the face while cruising through the a moutain range. It felt a little like Agatha Christie’s Murder on the Orient Express except with less death - the only thing getting murked were the strong lagers we’d started on immediately post-meal until our relaxed state of mind was dislodged by the train splitting. We had to indulge in a quick, little waddle up the platform to avoid being stranded in the middle of nowhere.

So it was ten hours after we first breached the carriage that we were dumped in Zagreb and lo - it was hot enough to fry ostrich eggs on the pavement. Thank fuck - If it’d been raining, it would have brought on a sudden about turn, a wail and a wee sob. To celebrate nearly reaching our rave destination we smashed up Zagreb with a fellow hosteller, an act which climaxed with two of us drinking the entire contents of a bottle of dodgy looking lemon liqueur in a park with some Croatian youths. I ended up waking up in the dorm in my bunk bed starkers but with my togs neatly folded and placed beside us. Neither of our respective minds can piece back how we found the hostel. What happens in Croatia, stays in Croatia…

After all these hi-jinks, we were feeling well oiled for some festival action. The last part of our outbound leg consisted of an insanely sweaty coach ride and a stop at a restaurant in the hills of Croatia, which exposed a garish collection of taxidermy residing in its guts. Fittingly, the taxi which carried us into Petrcane played Take That’s Back for Good and Walk Like Egyptian. Pure, unadulterated vibes. From this debauched platform, we joined our fellow festival goers on the beach at Petrcane and fucking lived it the fuck up for the next 5 days.

The highlights were vast - raving it up on a boat to Andrew Weatherall and Sean Johnston's A Love From Outer Space while clad in a vest. Shouting at blokes from Leeds. Eating a shitload of delicious fish. Getting a real thirst on for hype on the Yo Yo boat party. Meeting Weatherall, seeing him at numerous eateries over the weekend and getting him to greet us as 'gentlemen'. Derrick Carter playing 'Miss You' by the Rolling Stones. Unabombers playing 'Do You Think I'm Sexy' and the 12 inch of 'Tainted Love'. All in the main stage outside bit in the baking night time heat. Smoking inside the smokiest, most kitsch club in the world - Barbarella's discotheque. Dancing next to the sea at the Beach Bar. The pink cava. Ron Hill's cigs (Sailing edition natch). The air conditioning in the flat we rented from a Croatian family who appeared to be spending the week living in the garage. Props. The massive number of northerners having it large whereever you turned. Going for a very minor paddle with Chinchilla Price. Getting a pedlo flex on. Seeing Ralph Lawson play in the club. Catching up with old mates and making shitloads of new ones. Getting out 1,600 kunas at a time and not giving a flying fuck about the consequences. Did we mention the heat?

It was over all too soon. After 6 days of heady days and even headier nights we were suddenly back in Gatwick carrying chocolate and wearing shorts in the rainy rush hour. But I'm still vibing heavily offa proceedings. I just can't shake this balearic feeling off. Hopefully it'll last until 2012 - cos the idea of going somewhere else isn't an option...

RESIDENT ADVISOR REVIEW

Going supersized dans Paris

Bin crew

Paris - conclusive proof we were there fior all of 30 minutes

Hello - what's your name?

Breakfast on the train to Munich

Breakfast hi-jinks

Taking the views

Breakfast - liquids

Pre-breakfast stomach liner

A Croatian delicacy - dough, cottage cheese interior and burnt flour - dry

Croatian lemon medicine to wash away the taste of the Croatian delicacy

Hangover munch

Zagreb's erotic billboards caught our collective eye

Hello mate how are you?

Scrumps

Veal

A Love from Outer Space sets sail

Waiting for the bar to open

The Old Man of the Sea lays something serious down

Hype

Smoking yacht rock styles

Getting too close to our man

Dancing at sea

White bait

A view from the bed squad

Ruffneck

Classic pan flex

Trying to find the on-button - at this stage? Worried. Very worried

Overly worried

Homemade eggs

Ooodles and scroodles

Derrick does disco

Overheating on the dancefloor

A fish platter...

Dance?

Fucking dance

Morning scrumps!

Man magazines

Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeey

Steak and tings

Not a Tuborg - don't you worry about that

Inside Barbarella's Discotheque - aka the hottest, smokiest club in the entire world

Barbarella hersen

I've left the hob on again

Delicious

Zagreb's finest watering hole

Zagreb airport's warning signs

Decor at the airport - be prepared...

Finished in Zagreb - officially one of the most boring holiday reads ever attempted...

Lost in Essex

2011-08-02T12:00:00.001-07:00

When work parties get out of hand, I usually end up getting lost - the latest one was no exception. Shit got pretty wild after the first bottle of jager was demolished inside 60 minutes - Fuck knows what happened after the second one but I found myself in a field somewhere near Essex at about 3 in the morning with no real idea of how I got there. A low ebb if ever there was one. Here's the Twitter transcript detailing my journey home if anyone actually gives a shit. It isn't a cry for help. I should just stop drinking quite as much...

Right. I've woken up. In a field. Somewhere near colchester. Right. It's ten to 4 in the am. Right. What the fuck?!