Despite the extreme acts of sleep deprivation, a number of reviews have been birthed during August. In spite of all this bad behaviour, pen has been put to quill at the most ridiculous of times.
Sheffield brethren Toddla T has let loose his second album proper and lo, it's right proper. He's got a right roll call of who's who in UK bass business - check me thoughts out below;
Toddla T - Watch Me Dance review for FACT
I've also bashed one out over Martyn and Throwing Snow...
Martyn - Masks HYPONIK review
Throwing Snow HYPONIK review
Wednesday, 31 August 2011
Monday, 22 August 2011
Moments of real eroticism don't come passing through our kitchen that often. At least when I'm there. For all I know, waterfalls of sweat, saliva and spunk may course through it on a daily basis. But if this is the case, then my fellow home dwellers are either very quiet or just really good at mopping up. However, when I'm kicking about, there's so not so much as a mouse puckering up. So I was taken aback when I was not only privy to summat pretty pervy but also managed to capture some of it on my camera phone. It's proper X-rated stuff so if you're a bit of a fridge and don't like having certain sensory bits and bobs tickled in ways you ain't experienced before, then you should probably blindfold yourself and throw your computer out of the window...
There's been plenty of tittle tattle running through the rest of da month - Here's a few choice moments...
Jager bombs for breakfast - that's how we do
Pure unadulterated wee man joy
Flat mate's nan on the altar of fresh pants - fresh looks all round
Obelix - original badman
Hello my only friend
Saturday, 20 August 2011
You'd think getting pished up at a festival near your gaff would be easy-percy-ingles-peasy. But Field Day has been something of a rainy albatross round our collective neck of shits and giggles since its inception in 2007.
Back then, we travelled down to London from Sheffield on the lure of a freebie, only to realise the day before that we weren't on the guest list and the do had sold out. Being hardy, dedicated party folk we swallowed our pride, manned up, drank cava and bought an overpriced ticket off a tout only to be met with fuck off massive queues, fuck all booze and acts which were so quite they were barely audible. We strained to hear Justice's debut UK live show and drank wine out of re-sealable glasses. Which, with hindsight and despite everything, was a pretty strong look.
Subsequent years proffered equal amounts of ball/heartache - rain, dogs, cops, stop and searches, mud, queues, and more rain all added up to an event that most of our crew wanted to avoid rather than seek out. However, this year the vibe was different - the line up looked hype, the weather strong and we were determined to have a suitably large time and banish the personal demons of previous years. And, lo, with a little bit of luck, a little bit of foresight and a large amount of money we achieved just that.
The key was getting murked from almost the moment we woke up. Any worries about the long arm of the law or missing acts soon banished once one's eyes were rolling around and exploring the back of one's skull. By 3pm I was in the press queue coming up like an absolute mother. By 3.30pm, and despite being told to stop smoking by one of the gatekeepers, I had done a little dance of victory past the feds with dogs and was in the Bugged Out! tent hollering at the sun. From that moment on, it was almost too easy. We had a life-affirmingly splendid time prancing, sweating and pouting our way through the day and evening. Field Day 2011 - thanks for having us... Here's my review for Hyponik...
FIELD DAY REVIEW - HYPONIK
'Up all night talking shite' is a neat little mantra which nails the vibe of summer 2011 thus far. The last few weeks have been a real non-sleepy rambling madness with nights continuously melting into days, then turning back to night with the only refreshment being a few snatched hours on our sofa. Certain images stick in the mind - waking up surrounded by beer cans with chums in kneeling positions. Rainbows. Tablets in the sofa. Meeting shouty Chinese blokes in MX-5 convertibles in the midst of the witching hour. Ear syringing. Fry ups. Dentists. Wobbling around fields. Sunshine. Chaos. Soul searching. Personal demons. One pot dishes. The last few weeks have knitted a rich emotional tapestry of massive ups and crashing downs - it's had it all.
The month began with a little trip down to Hackney Wicked. Set in Hackney Wick (obvs), it's a festival which provides shitloads of creative types and arty chancers with an opportunity to show off their talents. Or lack of depending on your perspec. For the rest of us, it's an excuse to drink cans in the street and not be lambasted for total alcoholics.
Our day proved to be a right hoot. Loitering in the streets turned into a roof terrace party where a few slangy beers led to a full on room-odouriser-balloon-based dance party which ran deep into the night. Two of us didn't want the fun to stop so we rang a mini bus and headed off south of the river to Vauxhall to Fire for some euphoric house, plant food and bottom pinching. Vibes. It was like how DC10 may well be but with less girls and far, far too many man. I woke up on a tube in Wimbledon at ten in the am and spent the rest of the day attempting to find the part of my soul which I'd sacrificed on the altar of meow meow. Whoops.
E Pellicci fry up - next level fodder feat. extra chips
Dogs on mugs - ready
Day time balearic hype
Dusk hides balloons
It's a disco ting
It's a fucking late/early ting
Tuesday, 2 August 2011
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
Paris - conclusive proof we were there fior all of 30 minutes
Hello - what's your name?
Breakfast on the train to Munich
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
Zagreb's erotic billboards caught our collective eye
Hello mate how are you?
A Love from Outer Space sets sail
Waiting for the bar to open
The Old Man of the Sea lays something serious down
Smoking yacht rock styles
Getting too close to our man
Dancing at sea
A view from the bed squad
Classic pan flex
Trying to find the on-button - at this stage? Worried. Very worried
Ooodles and scroodles
Derrick does disco
Overheating on the dancefloor
A fish platter...
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
I've left the hob on again
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...