Domination 3000 and the deeply doggy stag

Many boys will make a transition to adulthood via the (arguably) manly ritual of a stag do. Apparently Henry the VIII started this binge drinking tradition and anyone who didn't turn up to his, no matter how water tight their excuse, risked the threat of death. Even if Henry did plan to hold it over four days of wine tasting, tank driving and clay pigeon shooting somewhere on the outskirts of Brussels.

Our boy Domination 3000, (now of course a man) was one of the latest to join Henry in his noble pursuit and let me tell you the 'lolz' were hanging out from early doors.

For 'early doors' was the official starting time of this gonzo expedition. Our day raised it's hairy face in the Wetherspoons of Liverpool Street Station, a boozer unlikely to be frequented by many of us again. It seems to be the chosen meet up boozer for the racists of the capital to gather at dawn's crack to eat bad breakfasts, drink bad pints and get harangued by the up all night crew. They deserve all of the above and much, much more.

With disgusting scrambled eggs and strong Bloody Marys curdling in our bellies we took the train to Romford, an area of East London where the fingerless-gloved fingers of gentrification have yet to reach. It's novel for a bit and then faintly depressing but we didn't hang around the centre too long. No way, for our 20 plus strong crew were destined for the gleeful, adrenaline pinching head rush of the greyhounds. By mid morning we were already several pints/bets deep in and let me tell you, there's nothing quite like the thrill of placing a two quid bet on a hound called 'Quentin's stained middle finger' while supping on a sub three quid pint and baying at a track.

For two hours hound racing was our thing. We studied the form, placed the bets and even won some shrapnel from the wise old men who understand the perplexing science of 'the odds'. But at 2pm, a clarion sounded. Our chariots had arrived to swoop us off our fit and take us the next and final segment of the day.

If there are any future stags out there wondering how best to travel from Romford dogs to a pub in Highbury, then there is only one way to do it - by hiring a stretched hummer. Two arrived to scoop us, complete with music, champagne and a bantering bald headed driver. After navigating a 19 point u-turn in the car park of the dogs, we were off straight into a queue, then crawled our way back to Highbury. Our journey featured many impromptu piss stops, much smashing of glass and plenty of off licence trips while stuck in traffic. It meant that by the time we reached the pub, everyone was bladdered beyond belief and that set the tone for the rest of the afternoon. People slept, everyone drank and a quiz was played. Apart from that, it's very, very unclear but fellow stags I salute you. Well done to everyone. See you all at the wedding...

A disgusting spoons breakfast - scrambled eggs tasted like Bobby Ball's hair

The happy stag

Manly methods of consumption - who needs chairs?

Uh oh - someone's have a skinny mocha with two shots

Welcome to Romford - god's own country

The unwieldy stag partah, having a lovely time in Romford

First stop - the dawggggggs

Here it is - Romford dogs in all its bejeweled glory

Studying the form

Nothing says stag do more than a jug of Carlsberg

Dinner Carolina came good

Many ladz

Triple parked

Winning big

Our wheels to the next watering hole

The stag about to mount his steed

Inside its all whirlwind, heat and flash, and lads. 

Poppers crew

Stud muffin

The stag

The end 

Run for your lives

In Stephen King's the Running Man, Ben Richards has to escape his hunters. He can go anywhere in the world and in the film, Arnie Schwarzenegger plays the protagonist romping through a storyfull of high camp, drama and sexplosions. Running the Birmingham half marathan was almost nothing like it.

Indeed there were no explosions and little in the way of high camp but Brum is undoubtedly a total vibe due to the proper normality of everything and the lack of gentrified pubs stuffed with idiots wearing silly hats (like London). We landed in the city far too early, had to get changed in an icy car park and then spent 15 minutes tooing and froing between toilets before huffing and puffing our way around the city for the 13.1 miles. The pint at the finish line was one of the tastiest of the year thus far. Life-affirming stuff in the west midlands...

Caterpillar - first of the season

Bumbag crew - not balearic

At the finishhhh

Kendrick had a dream

There are many things one likes doing on Monday nights after work but they don’t often involve hot footing it up the backbone of the UK to the midlands to go and watch a gig. Usually following Sunday’s cold beer sweats, mild fear and hot flushes, the first day of the working week is one to be endured rather than enjoyed. Your standard Monday finishes in a large hot meal and an early night in a bid to ease the panic and make the next four days more palatable. 

However, on a Monday eve at the start of the sweatiest July we may have ever had, we went into work hungover, slogged through the office hours, then scarpered off to Euston to train it up to Brum to catch a gig by US hip hop hero Kendrick Lamar. When booking the tickets, our adventure seemed like a reasonable proposition. But the reality was we were spending the best part of 100 notes on a Monday night out in Birmingham when we all lived 200 plus miles away. It was even more ridiculous when the majority of the party all needed to be at their desks the next morning for more work-based pain. Indeed some suffering was on the cards as the final choo choo home meant we wouldn’t be tucked up in bed until near 2 in da am. 

But without such agony we wouldn’t have had a chance to witness Kendrick in full flight. And fly he did with a live act that sounded satisfyling meaty to the ears. Rather than just the two turntables and a microphone vibe that we were pessimistically anticipating on the journey there, he brought a full band to a crowd which was far more Saturday night in Ayia Napa than a sticky Monday eve in Brum. 

The Guardian’s Mark Beaumont has recently been banging on about the difference between gigs in the capital and those across the rest of the country. His premise is that those outside London are always more appreciative of watching music being performed in the flesh. And he’s correct. Us in the south have enough going on to be disinterested when it comes to catching a show. The mosh pit at the Birmingham Academy put going to a gig in London into sharp contrast. And this initial burst of heavy slap and tickle was only to the ‘EDM’ flexing warm up DJ. Oof.

The mosh only became more fierce when Kendrick appeared and proceeded to dance us through the finer joints on his second album Good Kid, M.A.A.D City and beyond. Bitch Don’t Kill My Vibe, Swimming Pools (Drank) and Money Trees all sounded fucking large when they barrelled off the stage and sparked the baseball-hatted, weed-toting hoards to pummel each other and those aroud them even harder. 

Kendrick’s svelte self and super live outfit managed to sound both fucking lean and even more fucking mean during their 90 minute set. He conducted the crowd through an explosive sweatfest which culminated in one all mighty jump around before vanishing in a cloud of crowd moisture leaving us to the last train and a mighty drunken snooze. Kendrick definitely has had a dream. It's loud and has taken him all the way to the midlands and beyond. This kind of hip hop should neverrrr stop.

mosh pit

Godlike

Kendrick

Monday night in Brum