Balloon party with Mike Skinner and Murkage crew

Clubbing in London can be sometimes be more hard work than the total gleeful hedonistic hit it should be. 'Oh boo hoo mate,' I hear you say. 'Boo hoo - is it getting tough now going out all the time getting murked? Shall I get my oboe out for you and give you a sad tune to commiserate life being so tricky? Honestly you're making me well up over here at your plight.'

No fam, you don't need to do that for it is very much not a REAL problem. But as you probably know the capital is full of a lot of cunts who can turn a night out into an endurance test rather than an ecstatic thrill. Pricey pints, overly sold, nobs everywhere, po-faced people, in a 'secret warehouse location' not having a whale of a time getting on it?

Turns out you need to find a night put on by someone as fucked off with these so-called 'rules' as you. (although I'm not saying that everyone sticks to them - just the majority seem to forget about the joy). Mike Skinner is best known for being The Streets and inventing DIY, post-ecstasy computerised Brummie melancholy and lad biznarse. But is now putting on amazing parties with Manchester's Murkage crew under the banner of Tonga. We went to check them play a rammed Stonebridge bar at Glastonbury and last Friday at the Waiting Room in Stoke Newington - both were off the chain - the latter was small, sweaty with a Wetherspoon's around the corner, no one was being overly precious about mixing, just maximum emphasis on the music and the fucking vibe. At last.

Check out this ace mix for a flavour of the night... and get to know Skinner on his blog. He's a funny fucker mannnn...

Lovebox was a lot

Groove Armada's Lovebox festival went down the other weekend in Victoria Park. In many ways it went off much more than it went down due in part to a strong line up, intense heat and even stronger merch.

We spent the Saturday evening outside the arena listening to the pensionable Roxy Music meander languidly through a smattering of hits and more obscure selections while watching the more messy contingent of the crowd get booted out. One young lady in particular was a sight to behold. Dressed in a leopard skin dress ting, she was unceremoniusly given the hoof before propping herself against a tree and screaming 'You're all cunts' at the top of her lungs. I've never heard such whinging from someone so totally out of their mind. She went for fucking ever.

Another dude in a cowboy hat rocked up sporting slightly more sunny vibes by arriving in a mutant tricycle. He spent the eve peddling up and down the track in front of us giving people lifts with a cart, which, like that girl, appeared to be increasingly on the brink of collapse. Make no mistake - the vibe was strong out there.

Sunday was our day, Grace Jones our woman and it was another scorcher. The afternoon passed in something of a blur, mainly due to a slightly twisted notion that as we were going to work the next day, the murkage should descend much sooner than later. This way bed would come easier, therefore making the forthcoming day at the office a more palatable proposition. Predictably this backfired on a massive scale. It meant we succeeded in massively high levels of self murkage. Headliner Grace Jones is a very hazy recollection. Although I do remember My Jamaican Guy.



Derrick Carter smashed it in the dust of the Rizla stage, which is fast becoming my favourite spot at any festival we visit while Cut Copy provided the perfect soundtrack to jumping up and dwon while smashed on cider. I spent an hour on a park bench after the festival necking beer in a vain attempt to calm down while conversing with a fellow fuck head about the healing qualities of liquorice rizla.

You can find a review of the day I pieced together down here.

Resident Advisor Lovebox Weekender Review

The image above is the singer out of Hard Ton. They release records on International Gigolos, make music which is possibly utter rubbish but have one great idea. That record sleeve. It's amazing...