Big up yourselves each and every time

If you're a lover of all things bass, then you'll probably have been locked into the Boiler Room at some stage over the last 12 months. It's a club night held in the capital running between 8 and 11 on a Tuesday evening - with the killer ting being it's streamed live on the internet. The concept is tent trousering for those sausages turned on by watching DJs in action. Plus the bibbles in the audience make for some uplifting/depressing sights depending on how much you hate the sight of men with haircuts in plaid shirts having a knowingly good time...

We had the opportunity to check out the Red Bull Music Academy link up that the Boiler Room had organised last Tuesday. Typically for RBMA, who seem to have pockets sans bottoms, the line up was fresh as fuck with Diplo and Jackmaster both present and Dillon Francis repping the Moombahton side of tings. However, fate conspired against us as we were misinformed over the location of the party. We ended up in Elephant and Castle banging on the doors of Corsica Studios - while the actual bash was taking place in an old furniture shop somewhere in Dalston.

Instead of opting to rush back across the river to try and get in, we gave up and instead headed to Wetherspoons located on the Elephant and Castle roundabout. We sat outside and had some pints while shooting the shit, which felt very much like being on holiday. It wasn't exclusive but was arguably more enjoyable than standing listening to the Boiler Room's nob head MC deploying his favourite catch phrase: ould say: "Big up yourselves each and every time". Arguably.

Beam me up

It could be too much exposure to the sun but ears have been veering between these two tunes for much of the past 24 hours. Permanent Vacation style house and overblown alt rock from the Raspberries. ? Go down south on these two...

Two million pints in 4 24 hour days

This year's bank holiday system is a generous minx make no mistake. These short working weeks, extra long weekends are the stuff that dreams are made of, if dreams could last for 96 hours. It'd be life affirming to have an actual 96 hour dream after we've got through them to get over them such is the relentless pace. Spring has sprung and everybody round our way is living their dreams out of a blue plastic carrier bag. Which on first evening is lovely but, by the time you crawl through to Sunday, one's body is screaming at you to avoid the pub. If at all possible...

The first one was massive - Falling asleep, falling asleep there, meeting weird, yet friendly men in cars, watching gigs in pubs so hot that you'd think your face would melt off, italo disco nights, then sobering up, eating Nando's and biking about in shorts. It wasn't long enough and meant that the three day working week seemed to go on forever. Shorter weeks are the right way forward...



In the face



Where the magic happens



Safety



Next level



The Severed Limb



Second breakfast



Morning



Brewser



Ginster PR hype



Pussy



A stout dragon



Bugs



Al fresco fry up - big scenes



Coco Disco down at the Alibi #dalston

Julio Bashmore Father Father

Fell in love with this Julio Bashmore tune the other week - it's been a soundtrack to sitting in the kitchen and talking total shit. Harped on about its charms for Resident Advisor. Check the link for verbose syophancy...

Julio Bashmore Father Father Resident Advisor Review

The wind of change

Change is in the air - it's spring and ting and progression is agwaning. There was a clear out of both personnel and objects in our gaff. This is the sort of shit which we found...



Croquette business



Sarah Mini-beenie



Old skool bin vibes



Fresh. to. death

Twit twoo?

Everyone has a competitive streak. It can be big or small and sometimes only emerges in the aisles of Tesco when you're fighting over the last tub of taramosalata. But competition and sporty business has been higher on the agenda of late than usual. This is cos the London marathon went off the other Sunday, which is definitely more of a competition than fighting to get your orders in at the bar. Although some boozers can be very busy. Props to the runners and ting. My sister and buddy both put themselves through it but I found it draining enough just watching it...

Perhaps more exciting than the run itself was the news that another competition was taking place alongside it. That's right. A painting of an owl was up for grabs. Not just any old owl but one painted by the father of a comrade who was raffling said bird off to raise money for his participation in the 26.5 mile endeavour.

The image of the owl provoked mass hysteria. There was a bidding frenzy with people throwing money into the pot and screaming: 'I got to get that bird'. Needless to say, the tickets I'd got were a crock of shit and didn't get us anywhere. But you can't deny the potency of that owl image. It's intoxicating...



A better, more responsible, younger sibling at the finish



Losing tickets - only 254 off

Sleep deprivation

Not going to bed can sometimes be a marvellous thing - sometimes it can also be a hideous thing. But Saturday was marvellous. Despite inadvertently locking chums in the gaff, spending a mild fortune and probably becoming a little bit thicker due to the starvation of oxygen to the brain and the vast intake of gaspers. What evs - it's fucking summer. This is how it's going down. You know how we're rolling. The phone died at about hour 36 but these were some of the images that will stay with us.






The carrot soup was a lot



On the brink