I've been on the interview haul this week for the Stool Pigeon inkie magarzeene.
It's involved walking to Elephant and Castle and Islington due to being too skint to afford public transport, then chin wagging with Hot Chip-affiliated house boys the 2 Bears and dancehall queen Lady Chann.
Her ladyship was bothered/perturbed enough to tweet about the 'experience'.
I think this is called pulling the wool over someone's eyes. Readeh.
... about Sunday night the better. What happens in the London Fields, stays in the London Fields. However, the music on display was too strong. Wham were a highlight. Getting to bed past 2 was not. Hey ho...
Thursday night saw us down at the Scala for Red Bull's penultimate party - 12 X 12 - an evening full of dance music heavyweights taking their best tune and stretching it out for 12 minutes. Why? Who knows but we, like nearly everyone else who rocked up, were there on a freebie. Who cares why.
Although the night itself had all the vibe of a corporate Christmas lunch, we made our own fun by getting pissed, smoking doobs and hanging with the 'celebs'. Jazzie B, Arthur Baker, A Guy Called Gerald, Shy FX and a fake Andy Williams were all papped. We hobnobbed with other members of the glitterati, aka totally fucked PR people and Observer journos too shitted to even speak.
We even asked Gerald how much Red Bull was paying him to tarnish his legacy of acid house in such a manner. My one regret (apart from not getting in until gone 3am. Again) was never having a chance to ask Heaven 17's Martyn Ware what the fuck he was thinking in providing the gakked up crowd with a karoake take on Temptation. I think we could have been watching an old man breakdown. I guess he could argue he was overseeing the breakdown of 'youth culture' in thrall to an energy drink.
Whatevs - the turn up for the books was hearing him not maim Heaven 17's Let Me Go. Such. A. Big. Tune.
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.
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.
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...
