Enjoy your clams cocksuckers

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Going Beyond Brixton

The other Saturday was a night where we stuck a toe inside the notion of 'party' in its rawest and rudest form. Thankfully it didn't come out covered in sick or with a fist wrapped round it. Just a little bit more vacant than usual.

Tings kicked off in Brixton at the Bring It night, lorded over by DFA/Horse Meat Disco affiliate Felix Dickinson. His shizzle is top notch business make no mistake. If you like your disco a little bit cosmic, a little bit dubby and deeply whacked out on feminax then this should be right up your alleyway.

Check out his soundcloud mixes on here - and his own website over here. Almost too strong...

The business went down in the seedy environs of Medusa's - a suitably dark lair to ingest toxins and throw your hands up in the air. Smoking inside was frowned upon as we found to our detriment. But pretty much anything else goes. Chatting total bullshit to strangers is encouraged. As is drinking and wandering round with your hood up baying at the massive glitter ball tottering above the dancefloor. Standard. The Idjut Boys joined Dickers on the decks and kept it well dark and druggy on the house business until it was suddenly no longer dark and most of the drugs had gone. Whoops.

At 6ish on a Sunday morning there are obviously places you can go to really gild the lily and take the edge off. If indeed, any edge is left. Beyond at Area is definitely one of said places. If you're in the mood to pop another sudofen, sit on another man's hand and dance with dudes sans tops then this is the place for youse.

This video captures the vibe like the proverbial nail on the head...



After a taxi ride (MPV natch), we queued for over an hour to get in with some Welsh dudes. They'd already been in the queue once but the club night changes over at about 5. So they got kicked out into the real world. Rather than calling a halt to proceedings, they'd opted to take a hammer to it and get back inside. And why not? When a Manc tranny wearing a crown with 'pervert' daubed all over it is in charge of queue, it really isn't time to go home. Is it?

My favourite bit (other than the overpriced pints and sucking on tabs outside in the sunshine) was in the main room. The green lazers were whizz, whazz whooing a la Star Wars and the sweat was coming off the gents dancing next to us so thickly you could almost eat it. To top it off a massive black dude in white hot pants and a blonde wig was dry humping the air on the stage to a very hard, house soundtrack. I have never seen the like.

Plus the walk home at ten am past up Whitehall and past Downing Street boosted the number of tourist attractions I've clocked in the smoke by approximately ten. The ying and the yang.

Nose nose mouth mouth nose nose mouth mouth

Valentine's weekend is when custom dictates you get out yer best slacks, put a rose between your teeth and romance 'the stone'. That sort of behaviour is certainly appropriate for some. But maybe not for others.

So for us, we journeyed south of the river to visit notorious Vauxhall hot spot, The Eagle for their Saturday night do Carpet Burn. I may have been slightly naive regarding the title of the night before I entered. But that bubble of stupidity was popped by stepping inside the Eagle's guts. Room odouriser for sale at the cloakroom from a chap with a tache. Erasure on the soundsystem. Kiss the wrist, smell the wrist.



Despite the music veering into Student Saturday night town, manning up (so to speak) was the order of the day. As it stretched on deep into Sunday morning, afternoon and evening. We left Brixton at 6.30pm prompt.

Sunday eve was spent proving manning up doesn't have to come wrapped in a vest. Grunge and fish and chips proved to be suitably sufficient...