Electric Elephants get their trunks out in Croatia

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

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?!

9 Jul Favorite Reply Delete

I'm near the m11? I've never heard of the fucking m11. It don't even seem like it's near london. How the fuck did I get here?

9 Jul Favorite Reply Delete

If anyone, and I mean anyone, has any fucking info on how to get out of here then please give us a buzz.

9 Jul Favorite Reply Delete

Honestly. I'm near fucking cambridge. Wurt? I'm about tn start walking down a motorway. Good plan right? Haha

9 Jul Favorite Reply Delete

I mean I think i'm near stansted? But I'm not sure. Unsure http://yfrog.com/kjpajkj

9 Jul Favorite Reply Delete

I was sleeping in a field before. I mean really. I'm absolutely miles from anywhere.

9 Jul Favorite Reply Delete

It's a sign to hertford http://yfrog.com/kejgydj

9 Jul Favorite Reply Delete

Update- in a service station. Still not technically sure where the fuck I am. Or how i've got here. Getting hysterical

9 Jul Favorite Reply Delete

Where am i?

9 Jul Favorite Reply Delete

Woke up in a field. Fuck's sake

9 Jul Favorite Reply Delete

@benjaminbump second hand emulsion mate. Apparently i'm near bishop stowtford? The security card has told me
9 Jul Favorite Reply Delete

Turns out i'm here? Still no fucking idea http://yfrog.com/ke1t7jtj

9 Jul Favorite Reply Delete

Next time I drink jager straight from the bottle I might buy an atlas as well @benjaminbump

9 Jul Favorite Reply Delete

I would never go to bishop stortford sober. Never. It's the arse end of arse

9 Jul Favorite Reply Delete

The milk man was really nice. Almost too nice. Hold tight my no kip crew

9 Jul Favorite Reply Delete

There must have been 'girls' involved in this. Must have been

9 Jul Favorite Reply Delete

Thank fuck the train is here. Thank fuck

9 Jul Favorite Reply Delete

Every time we have a work's do I end up snapping back into conciousness at least 40 miles away from my bed. At least.

9 Jul Favorite Reply Delete

Always on me todd and with no clue how i've got there. No clue

9 Jul Favorite Reply Delete

'I still have last night in my body. I wish you were with me' #jager #bincrew #gusgus

9 Jul Favorite Reply Delete

Right. Back at liverpool street. Where this epic 8 hour journey to london fields via stansted began. Sozzles for rambling

9 Jul Favorite Reply Delete

It's a five minute journey. If you don't pass out. Then go for a walk with randoms. And get in a car. To a field. Near a motorway.

9 Jul Favorite Reply Delete

Next time I sleep rough, I'll do it somewhere other than essex

9 Jul Favorite Reply Delete

Oh-er



And we're back in the land of the living - but where?



Lonely motorway vibes - There's a Suede song in here somewhere...



If only they were telling the fucking truth



Hello



Puerile to the end

Born under a bad bean

When you wake up on the floor of your front room still wearing last night's togs with a mouth like the backend of a bin, one's first thoughts usually turn to scran. And if it's not too late, that of the fried variety. Thankfully, a new joint has opened up almost within spitting distance of our gaff that does more than the necessary - if you want a roast, then our man can do it. If you're after fish and chips, he's gonna get on his knees and batter you a little pollock no matter what time of day it is. Kebab? - this fella has got the fucking doner meat t-shirt mate. However, if you're into baked beans, then you'd better go elsewhere. These ones were so bad they emerged from the kitchen wearing knuckle dusters lampooning your mum. No sir. Seek your beans elsewhere. We won't be making the same mistake twice.



Laughing over really bad beans. You've got to laugh...



That menu - it's a food zoo where everything's raw and wild...

Chaos part deux

Oof - holiday business has meant there's not been much in the way of online updates cos we've been living it hard in the real world. See for yoursens...



Bryony Gormless



Red trouser brigade goin' down



Poulet - roasted



Hometown vibes innit



Breakfasting on pig



It's a pride ting



Pre-Pride cocktails



Sweets



Oh-oh



Geller flex



Murky

Shangaan Electro know what time it is

If ass shaking is an art, then Shangaan Electro would be the dancing equivalent of Picasso. The music made by this South African group is perfect for wriggling your booty to, albeit at speeds which could result in your hips coming clean off if you get too carried away - Billed as 'New Wave Dance Music' these digital, electronic sounds are guaranteed to make you sweat, especially those which move at the higher end of 180 bpm. When they played at the Rich Mix in Bethnal Green the other week, Nozinja, the producer and man at the healm of this outfit, claimed theirs is the 'fastest music in the world'. The thick, fuggy stink of sticky BO that surrounded the frenetically dancing crowd on what must have been one of the hottest days of the year suggested that his statement could well be true.



The collective were riding a real wave of hype when they landed in East London the other week, fresh from showing Sonar how it goes down. And the hype meant that Rich Mix was packed to the rafters when they wriggled on stage. The Secousse Soundsystem had got proceedings warm from the off with some electronic, housey stylings and this prescription of sound, plus the £4 pints of Stella Black, meant the room was well lubed up by the time the main act appeared.

Shangaan's live flex consists of Nozinja as the ring master behind a pair of decks - Then upfront we have four dancers, each taking it in turns to shake their bits to the sounds of the Shangaan hits. And shake they did, to ever increasing cheers of rapture from the crowd. We'd never seen such moves. By the time they'd got audience members up on stage to attempt to ape the vigorous shape throwing agwaning up on stage, the cheers were almost loud enough to drown out the sound of their beats. Whistles, samples, Guantanamo Bay style boiler suits, terrifying masks and extreme pace is their ting - Catch them if you can...

Under cover of the night

Big tunes have been a-popping over the last seven days like acne on a pubescent's face. Neon Jung is a mate of ace techno dude Lone - it's weird head music.

Neon Jung Just Can't Leave It Alone FACT review



I've had a little slurry of business for Hyponik of late - check 'em below... My favourite is the Kuedo - it's proper wonky businesssssss produced by Jamie Vex'd...

Kuedo - Videowave EP review



Milyoo - Colours/Games review

Hype Williams - Kelly Price w8 Gain Vol. II review

Big Boi is Heaven

Big Boi's album has been a big look round our neck of the aural woods for time - As one half of Outkast and now as a producer and rapper in his own right, he's got a serious rep for tossing out tunes you need to file in the cupboard marked 'large'. So we jumped right on board when news of a solo London gig popped out of the internet - The location for the showdown was Heaven near Charing Crossa and the flex was turntables and microphones. In shades and tracksuit, he bounced through a bevvy of Outkast classics and the biggies from his new one. I missed Shutterbug due to incontinence issues - the fatal error was asking for the now traditional 2.5 pints rather than just the one. It's to save time in busy bar situations with the extra half thrown in at the beginning to give the discerning drinker something to do while waiting for the additional pint to be poured. Not only does it save time, but it gets you 2.5 times more hammered and in an even faster fashion than one normally does. So by the time Big Boi concluded tings, and after a slightly cringey invitation to the ladies in the house to dance on stage with him and his crew, it was before ten pm and were shitfaced. Cue going back to a gaff and cramming as much ganj and lager as possible into our minds. Cue feeling like the world was going to end the following morning. No pain no gain...