The Cosmic King reaches a milestone

Last weekend was another large one. Almost too large for the brain and body to take. After embarrassing myself on Friday, Saturday was the Cosmic King's birthday. Following a breakfast involving a hearty, artery sludgifying black pudding scotch egg, it was time to continue playing up to parody. We took a trip down Old Compton Street to search out the original strength formula room odouriser, then burrowed our heads in boxes of 12 inches. We found this monster for 20p.






Beautifully packaged words



Pouring over the FT's obituaries



The evening was a suitable celebration befitting of the Cosmic one's 30th. Embarrassing images of the past coupled with a strong cake, delicious beers, solvent abuse and outlandish dancing. We even ended up at a house party with a PA in the front room and a floor buckling number of people dancing to the best Modular releases from 2006. Too strong.



Eyeing up the goods



Down the hatch



The Cosmic King goes mutant



Vogue



Bashy denim vibes

Midweek deviancy

Benj B's Deviation night went down in the bowels of CAMP yester eve. Skream was the guest player hammering out a one off disco set. We were right down the front on a school night. Today has been all about manning up and gross acts of moral turpitude. Eek.

Two men vs a pot of gherkins

During Tuesday nights at the fag end of winter you have to make your own fun. Skintness has descended like a murky fog, your guts hurt from overegging the boozey pudding at the weekend and there's nowt on the telly.

The only thing for it is to get on the bike, get to Lidl and buy a kilo jar of gherkins. These vegs are the most phallic tings I've ever seen. Like a jar full of pickled nobs from the 16th century that eccentric diary keepers would host on their desks for inspiration. Difficult to get into let me tell you...

Saga Africa launch bagel delight

Post zoo over da weekend was not as animal fuelled but still suitably savage. We headed straight down from Camden to Shoreditch for a deliciously metrosexual cocktail (it's all about the confidence) before nipping over the road to the Legion for the Saga Africa compilation launch party.

Put together by Radioclit, the record is a collection of artistes born out of the Very Best. Unbelieveably the dudes on the compilation manage to coerce the sonics of afro-house and house electronics into surprisingly fresh sounding bedfellows. Thankfully the vibe is much more hype end gutter than Womad.

So the compilation is ace, and despite the Legion being populated by too many twats to mention and particularly pricey drinks, most of the night was hanging off the chain. The first two dudes, Douster and Myd, absolutely slayed it. Tropical house with drops deep enough to drown in...

This is some of the tackle they were fronting. I'm bouncing on the poof in our front room while I'm laying this verby shit down - it brings the taste of overpriced Sailor Jerry's and coke straight back...







The last dude Lazy Flow was a slightly different kettle of French fish. He rocked up in a flat cap sporting a chain straight out of Barley, then proceeded to bully his mates off the decks with his silly set up. The young cocker acted like a right tool for the rest of the eve - he played the Ghostbusters theme, then insisted the camera man dude catch a great shot of a slice of staged mix. Grow up mate.



Eyeing up bagels post Legion



Lazyflow ensures the camera points the lens at him



Lazyflow in da mix - note Barley chain. Nob.



Lazyflow bullies better dj off the decks



No room for the ego

Large amounts of offal-based strength

The month of February has been characterized by great displays of sheer strength. Last Saturday was perhaps the third weekend on the trot where I slept little, laughed hard and woke up on a Monday without wanting to leap off the roof of our flat. This has nowt to do with approaching the weekend with anything resembling moderation and everything to do with pushing so hard that the vibe is off the cliff. What would Kevin Rowland do? He'd burn it down.

Friday eve was spent enjoying a large helping of offally cuisine. I've never dined on the bits of meat that Macdonald's usually throw away. But funnily enough, at My Old Place, they were delicious. Even the intestine was lovely until it cooled and then carried the strong, earthy taste of pure, unadulterated shit. The first potential skat scene of the weekend.

The next day we took a trip to London zoo. Props to the anteater, the aardvark and the gorilla for daring to eat its own shit with such unadulterated glee. I have never seen anything quite like it.



A deadly, yet retiring snake. Who would have thought...



Spitty flex



Glitter flex



Jedward



Piranhas on the lose


Long necked vibes



He wasn't there. Lying bastards

Lydia at the Nelson's Heads

Despite being in the big smoke, pubs with strong characters can sometimes be tricky to source. So imagine the collective rapture when we happened upon the Nelson's Head just off Hackney Road last Sunday.

A house pug named Lydia, the fattiest dead bits of pig pub food in the world ever, wifebeater and Kate Bush on the juke box. It was only after one of the patrons tipped me the wink on the way in that I realised it was yet another gay hotspot that we'd stumbled across. My social circle is currently revolving like a fly around a fist. Almost too strong...



Tude



Instant death



Boy



Young love

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...