To the top of the Shard and back again

Nothing I says I love you more than a Valentine's Day gift which involves confronting a deep and irrational fear, which is so glued to your very soul that your guts melt and become all sticky at the very thought of it.

No matter what I do, I'm deeply terrified of heights. It may not be the height itself but the fear of falling which keeps my pants moist and my hands shaky. I even come over all funny on escalators. Yeah. What a milksop. But this year on Valentine's Day it was the experience of going up the Shard near London Bridge which was the vibe. It's 72 floors up to the top of this monument. So it's high fo' sure. And the sights are immense. On a clear, sunny day (which was luckily for us, the background to our visit) you can see for miles and miles and miles and miles and miles and miles and miles. Even when, like me, you couldn't go too close to the edge... 

Woaaaaaaaah

Aliens beckoned us

Edgey

London - in all its smelly glory

Crazies going close to the edge. Stop it you loons

Waaaah

These people looked like ants and they weren't even that far away

I like CDs and I want (some) of them to stay

Like most folk in their early thirties, CDs have been a thing for more than half my humble existence. And because they were once the best way to consume sound (and I'm unable to chuck anything without some serious heart-wringing), there are stacks and stacks of them lying around our gaff - fucking hundreds of the wee shiny little bastards.

I've lugged them from one rented place to the next for yonks, playing increasingly small amounts of them in lieu of listening to albums I really wanna check on Spotify via the tinny, shitty laptop speakers. Why am I so pathetically loathe to get rid of them? Each one has some sort of memory, shitty or otherwise attached. Whether it was the first splurge of discovering Fopp and their three quid bargain bins or going without lunch for a week in a bid to save enough coin for a CD single by a no-mark indie band I was infatuated with at the time, there's something behind each one. Anything else? Well laptops sound like a pair of tins being bashed together by a chimp who's sticking sugar up its arse. CDs also used to be fucking expensive back when writing a song could make you any money so it feels like you're lobbing pound coins into the fire by getting rid of the bastards.

I've been wrestling with the dilemma of binning them, the main obstacle being that I'm too disorganised to back anything digital up so keep losing everything every time my computer dies. However, as part of a controlled experiment, I'm flogging some CDs to raise dosh for this marathon (zzzzz) attempt all via our work intranet. There's a mixed bag of shit going up for sale but I've shifted some 70 quids worth. Which ones have shifted you (don't) cry? Anything to do with Zappa, Led Zepp, Bowie, The Smiths and bands of yore while the DJ Semtex grime mix has gone untouched. The buyers are almost all blokes aged 25 and above which (possibly) proves something about how old habits die hard/I'm not alone in being a CD keeping weirdo/blokes love CDs or something else entirely. But if you're looking for tangible facts (and being a lover of physical product this is exactly what I'm after) the only real thing to happen is that (some) of these CDs are here to stay. Certain dinosaurs may have been eventually wiped out but the ones round here are still breathing...

I've got A Guy Called Gerald on the phone

For those not in the know, A Guy Called Gerald is a Mancunian, acid house hero. He's been in the game for time but played an important role in the advent of electronics in the UK and beyond with his beats laying down the blueprint for what went on to become house and jungle.

He's basically big in the game and before Christmas I got him on the phone for an interview. He's right opinionated about his music as well as the raw deal the industry has given to him and fellow artists who are only in it for the music. Man. Considering he's viewed as a pioneer (and rightly so), he's got a chip on his shoulder the size of the Hulme Arch Bridge about the state of dance music today. Interesting business which you can check out in our chat below... 

A Guy Called Gerald interview

Before Christmas, this remix of Gerald's monster Voodoo Ray emerged from Jeremy Deller and Optimo. It's magnificent...

Your eyes are like spanners - every time I look them, my nuts tighten

There was no January detox in our hood. Although we took the foot off the drinking gas somewhat, we didn't come slamming to an emergency stop like all the magazines tell you you should. Two fingers to that. Instead we've remained at a low level of drunkenness, enough to get through the working week with a solid spike on the pintometer of a weekend. And now we're in February, we can get back to the normal routine of having enjoying dollops of drink whenever we feel like - hurrah. 

Shit has been real throughout the early part of the year. After the glory of the darts at the Lakeside, there's been injections of culture (visiting London's Roundhouse for a showing of Fuerzabruta), delicious scran (at Mussel Men in Dalston) and the ridiculous (buying a 4kg of onions for £2 - still eating the bastards now). Here are some of the highlights... 

On the travelator

On the telly

Work shoes

Custard on toast

Dancing bear

Rabbit in a cabbage

Zoom in - turns out A Guy Called Gerald has liked a picture of my sister standing outside Greggs

Mucky breakfast

Oh deer

Monolith

Reservoir up past Stoke Newington

Mussel Men's Sunday Roast

London Roundhouse - Fuerzabruta

Cameras ready, prepare to flash

Biggie

Baked camembert

Love scratchies

Lads

Hero

Lamb tagine

Safety first

Pregnancy vs acid trip

Yeah bozo

Wu 4 eva

Eggy

Tony Bleurgh #williammorris

Singing bastards

Kiss the Fist present; We Run Tings

To help us hit this marathon fundraising target, we're throwing a party. All proceeds go to the running fund innit... Check the spiel below;

We Run Tings - feat. KTF Allstars (Ashley Bibble, Jill Nando, Jimpotent),

Pat Mandu,

Brother 2 Brother…

Playing yacht rock, italo, disco, rave,

Saturday - February 22nd Marquis of Lansdowne's Basement - Kingsland Road, Dalston.

9 until 2 - £4 in...

It’s February and 2014 is all over us like a disgusting, rabid bear. It’s been grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrizzzzly.

To welcome the new year, the ever-so slightly longer days and Jill’s recent lottery win, we’ve decided to reanimate the skanky corpse of electronic disco party Kiss the Fist.

The original team of Domination3000, Jill Nando and Jimpotent are back on speaking terms after coming to blows last summer over the ownership of a bag of piss porn - all it took to get the band back together was a hit of amyl, a firm handshake and a side order of hot wings.

After bringing in New Year’s eve with a rabble rousing night of Hi-NRG, italo, wedding disco and yacht rock at Clapton’s latest gentrified grief hole the Crooked Billet, we’ve decided to do it all over again in the guts of our favourite boozer, the Marquis of Lansdowne.

This one is a ‘benefit gala’ with all monies raised on the door going to Jimpotent’s marathon fund. The twerp is attempting to run the London Marathon in April and raise £1,500 for charity Kith and Kids.

If you’re feeling sorry for him, then you can donate on his page here - http://uk.virginmoneygiving.com/JimOttewill - if not, you can come down to the Marquis of Lansdowne’s basement on Saturday 22 February, egg him and get your freak on in our charity disco.

Joining us will be our chums Pat Mandu, Bob Funkhouse and Danny M - these long-term friends of Kiss the Fist will be bringing large buckets of additional vibe and hot sonics to our soiree. Pat is big in the game, being addicted to speakers and played with Andy Blake – Danny M does tings in Leeds and Bob is well good at drinking Kronenberg.

Come down and get firmly involved…

Having a chat with Genesis P-Orridge

Not many human beings have turned their very existence into a living, breathing work of art.

But then not many are as nuts, confrontational and as fearless as Genesis P-Orridge. Originally born as Neil (from Hull), he/she has pushed themselves to the limit in terms of what the human body is capable of in the search for some form of artistic truth.

Pandrogneny, love, weird music, endless projects, Hackney, Hollywood, fires at Rick Rubin's gaff, Scotland Yard - trouble, controversy have followed Genesis through their life.

Now aged 64, it's been quite a life and just before Christmas, I got the chance to interview Genesis . It was a peculiar, bewitching hour on the blower to him/her in their New York flat. Genesis spins a great yarn. Check out both parts below for the full run down...

Genesis P-Orridge interview Part 1

and

Genesis P-Orridge interview Part 2

Darts

January is a depressing time of the year but imagine how bleak it would be without the darts at the Lakeside.

After the excess of new year (and our new year stretched long, long, long into new year's day which led to a bit of boo hoo), it always takes us a wee while to get through the paranoia and rediscover the unquenchable thirst for lager we enjoyed throughout December. But this year, on January 5 it was darts o'clock. We had no choice but to man up and get our drink back on. Not swilling ale down your gob and down your front at the darts is as unthinkable as walking past a Gregg's and not ducking in for a chicken bake. Outrageous.

We watched the highlights of the first day at the Lakeside to get us in the mood for our first round session on the Sunday of this year's competition. From our first viewing, Alan 'Chuck' Norris definitely marked himself out as a real contender. It was the combination of his winning way with the arrows, confident pot noodle chat and 'Asbo darts' case for his spears. He had all the makings of a star. A Saturday evening viewing also ensured that by the time Sunday morning rolled around, we were knowledged up, thirsty and ready.

Getting the train to the Lakeside felt like we were on the train to nowhere. The only clue that this was the darts express was a man dressed as a Saudi oil baron and the group of 'lads' in Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle attire. Other than that, it was just a bunch of morose-looking blokes eating M&S butties with all the vim and vigour of a day at work ahead. Even when we disembarked in Farnborough, there was no way you'd think there was an important sporting event going down in the near vicinity. It was as dead as fuck.

After a taxi ride to the Lakeside complex, we bundled our way inside the Lakeside - it feels like a massive working men's club in the 'arena'. It's one massive boozer with a darts board on a small stage - but you could feel the magic in the air. We found our table and bought a jug of pissy lager which set the tone for the afternoon. We got carried away during the first match while watching Japanese pretender to the throne Hiroaki Shimizu against Christian Kist and downed the jug amid all the shouting and throwing of arrows. It set the quaffing pace for the rest of the afternoon.

While we caughy some serious arrows, the bits in-between the matches were almost as fun as we sought to meet some of the 'stars in the building. BBC presenter Colin Murray was caught outside having a gasper and requested that, while he would happily sign an autograph, he'd prefer not to have his photo taken smoking a cig. No worries Col - but sign my Ryan Gosling autograph book yo. He did. Nice one.

Feel the magic

Martin Wolfie Adams stumbled into our path and was game for a photo, as was Robbie 'Kong' Green while we caught up some of the refs for a pose and a grimace. As we got more pished up, the subjects of our photos widened to embrace members of the shit-faced crowd including a woman dressed up as a character from Avatar, The Mask, a smoking priest and a collection of Oompa Lumpa's. By the time the final match wrapped up at 9pm, we'd gone cross eyed and become firm 'friends' with our fellow pissheads sitting at our table. All the gallons of Carlsberg made venturing into the nearby bar/club seem like an amazing idea. This was where the drunker contingent of the crowd (who must call Farnborough home) stumble about drinking as much pissy lager as they get in their gullets without passing out or getting in a ruck. We left after one of the Oompa Lumpa's (from Brum) announced he was a military man and had killed some 80 men. His faintly depressing words sent us off in a taxi to our nearby Premier Inn on the other side of Farnborough. But neither of us can remember getting into. The next day I woke up farty, bloated with half my memory, a dry mouth and an overwhelming feeling that we'd been part of something truly amazing. That my friends is pure darts...

Me and Colin Murray

Wolfie and me

Kong and Kathyyyy

180!

A smoking priest. Probably not a real priest.

Avatar meets the Mask in the darts...

Oompa Lumpa

Just justin'

One of the refs

The wolf of Lakeside

Clapping like darts-loving bastards