Like That.

This is a chair, I like it, so I posted an 'artistic' picture of it on my blog which consists of no formatting, a meaningless title, 3 words per post and an archive of shit photos that will never be seen again (thank fuck).

This horribly dry dynamic which seems to have saturated the 'hip' youth of today really grinds our gears. The hilarity ensues when one examines the deep irony which plagues these quite frankly, gay blogs. For those of you who are involved in the publication or production of these shit-stains on popculture, please read our points of advice:

• First things first, no one wants to know what you actually think, what you actually care for and least of all what you consider artistic (this is ratified by the integral lack of views and comments).
• Secondly, the notion of individualism? Your 'individualism' when down the shitter when you copied the other over 9,000 faggots doing the same thing.
• Thirdly, linked to our second point, you are not Terry Richardson. Take photo's of interesting shit and perhaps you'll get somewhere. We don't want to see your nameless sheep of a friend standing infront of a brick wall with some post-ironic slogan on his or her t-shirt.
• Fourthly, blogspot is not a fucking résumé, you're not going to get spotted and given the job of your repressed life by sitting on your MacBook posting photo's you took of abstract objects with a vintage lens, in fact, you'd be better off selling your arse on Craigslist. 
• Finally, you are just being a pretentious prick trying to show off your latest camera lens, don't cover it up with some minimalist rhetoric, we see through your crap.

To all the culprits behind this theatre-of-shit, please realise that your pathetic work is not interesting, enlightening nor entertaining so please stop this pitiful self-obsessed display of arrogance.

yep, geddon!

Trash Mondays? Exactly!

So we decided to dip our testicles into another student shit-hive, Trash Monday's, on every Monday night in Coalition, Brighton. So, where to start, well, first off, the fucking que is piteous. Whoever the fuck calculates the timing is almost certainly high on PCP. The doors open at 10pm, I know, right? It's free till 10.30, which doesn't come as a fucking surprise considering the only people in there are the staff. However, the real problem we have is that by 11pm, yeah, just 30 minutes after the 'free-entrance' closes the que reminded us of going through US customs post 9/11, hey, how can it take an hour to get a hundred people through the fucking door? These guys aren't even searching people, which will probably bite them in the arse one day.

Finally we get to the door. It costs £5 to get in if you weren't intelligent pathetic enough to put your name on the guestlist over 9,000 days before the event starts. We personally feel that £5 is pretty expensive for a student night in Brighton, especially considering it's on a Monday. For just twice that you could have a considerably better Friday night in Fabric, which is regarded as one of the worlds best clubs, go figure. Moreover, the drinks, Australian piss-water at £2.10 a pint, that's a good start, but perhaps they should sell beer instead. Shots and vodka mixers are along the same price lines too, so given the option, we'd stick to straight shots and then pop bottles.

The tagline for the event is, rather ironically, "Cool kids only, no c*nts", we say ironically because every last son of a bitch in there is a cunt. Management should try adopting the West End tactics of refusing entry to those who have just had a load of alcopops down Oxygen or some other class striving crass achieving West Street hell-hole. Perhaps they should kick people out that get in punch-ups as well? We saw a couple, both times the antagonist was told to calm down and then allowed back in to sweat more testosterone and grope helpless sluts.

If we got a dollar for every shit-sucker wearing AllSaints, Topman or a low cut t-shirt, Carlos Slim would have competition. Although, no one would expect anything more from the people who watch 'I'm A Celebrity, Get Me Out Of Here Now!' every day, listen to JLS and consider 'Clash of the Titans' a good film. Finally, the music. Pretty standard music, gay songs for a gay community. But, they did save some good stuff for later on, by which time all the faggots had left for late night karaoke, all the 'lads' had beaten each other shitless and passed out on sofas and all the sluts were getting fucked in the toilets, which by the way, were filled with puke, blood and shit.

yep, geddon!

Milkshake @ Ministry of Sound

Practically everyone has heard of Ministry of Sound and its legacy as a nightclub and record label. We decided to head down to their student night known as Milkshake to see what the 'hype' was about.

As we approached the club, located in one of the dingy-est boroughs of London, we couldn't help but predict a viciously crap night. After trawling through streets rife with scag-rats, the raw stench of piss and suspect characters on every corner we finally arrived.

Before we headed out to tha' club, we did have some reservations (as would any sane minded person attending a student club night). Thus, we weren't shocked when we were greeted by swarms of foul students dressed up in stupid outfits. Take Pee-Wee Herman, on coke, post paedophile charges and you have an accurate characterization of the clientele.

We finally made it to the que which took around an hour, of which most was spent going through security checks. We needn't not rant about that as it's pretty self-explanatory (baring in mind the location). Although the fact that women only wait for one tenth of the time that men do is quite frankly sexist, next, black people will be waiting two hours and Arabs will have to have background checks before they're granted entry.

When we entered the club, we looked around and got a couple of watered down beverages (at least it wasn't Australian piss-water) and headed straight back out the door. Or, we thought. As we headed out some fat Asian guido exclaimed his intentions to 'clap' us. What this faggot meant by 'clap' is beyond us, what was funny though, was his groveling apology just seconds after he'd hit his Coke high.

All in all, our prior predictions of the night were met. Which means, fuck all, yep, geddon!

Proud Galleries

So, it's the first club based post from us in a while, and we can assure you, this is a scathing one. Last night we decided we would check out the infamous Proud Galleries in Camden Town, London.

Proud is one of the most notable clubs in North London and has a long history of famous names from Nirvana to Bob Dylan, leading us to believe this could be actually be a decent event.

However, much to our disappointment, the club is a rotten cesspit composing of hipster shithouses and post-ironic thrift store whores trying to be cool. Don't get us wrong, the venue itself wouldn't be bad if you don't mind sitting in converted stables or dull art exhibits while getting 'crunk'.

There's honestly way too much to criticise about this cancerous club. If you enjoy pretending that you're having fun listening to horrible remixes of classic songs and drinking over-priced Australian piss drink (Fosters) at £4 a fucking pop, then go right ahead.

Otherwise, hit the west end. yep, geddon!

Eye-tal Grease Balls

 Hello all, sorry about the lack of posting over the last week. The reason being, we've been busy doing lots and lots of things, although, none which are worthy of mentioning in a blog which comments on practically anything. You get it.

  A friend introduced us to a new sub-culture known as Guido's. Luckily they don't exist here in Britain, at least not in their pure form. The best way to describe this scathing species in British context would be Chritiano Ronaldo meets club hero, with an Italian ancestry.

 

  There's a brilliant article over at Encyclopedia Dramatica which basically sums them up in the most filthy way possible, "they display the outward appearance of an oven roasted over-inflated Miami clubfag due to orange spray tan and glow in the dark teeth". yep, geddon!

She Was Asking For It

Today I managed to stumble across what is probably the foulest video game ever made.
‘Custer’s Revenge’(released in 1982) tells the story of General Custer getting payback for the battle of Little Big Horn. He manages this incredible feat by dodging arrows for eight levels, the whole time completely naked and with a massive boner.
The game was banned in a few states in the USA and was condemned by almost everyone who came into contact with it. Critics also said the game played like shit and the graphics were poor even for an Atari game.

I probably need to mention that after Custer dodges all those arrows he finally gets his ultimate revenge... by raping a Native American woman. In the game’s defence most people probably never saw the end as it’s supposed to be really difficult, like the back of the box says; ‘she's not about to take it lying down, by George!’


Yep, Geddon!

Failbait!

  Yep, Geddon! has been at it again. Trawling the filthy streets of Brighton looking for the worst venues and events imaginable. Prepare for another cynical opinionated blow at Brighton's night life scene, fuck we don't know why we even bother, but we do.

 It was a nice Monday evening when we set out, not the warmest but warm enough to get by without a jacket. Well, for the first 40 minutes or so at least before we got caught in a shitstorm of rain, yep, in the middle of July. Please?

 Obviously, looking like drowned rats is not the best way to start an evening. However, it probably was the highlight of the evening. As we arrived at Life, we got in free which is always a plus. Although, it didn't take us long to realise why we got in for free.

 To put this as nicely as we can, it was shit. We understand that it was the launch night to a new event titled 'Jailbait' which had previously been at New Hero (one of Brighton's lowest venues), so we weren't exactly expecting much. We were on the other hand expecting a big crowd, naturally with a launch night surely? Wrong.

  It wasn't just the absence of people that made the night bad. The music was inconsistent, there were times where we'd be singing along to Dr. Dre, then there were times when we had to physically leave the room as a result of repugnant musical choices. The 'crowd' were an issue for us as well. The best way we can describe the very few of them that were there, would be this:

 Monday night's aren't the best in Brighton, in fact, before 'Jailbait' the only other option was 'Trash Monday' at Coalition, which, unless you're looking for a cluster-fuck of prepubescent college kids experimenting with legal highs and stinking like cat piss, we'd avoid at all costs.

  You have two options for Monday night clubbing in Brighton, both equally as lamentable as each other. Our advice, avoid Monday nights. Save your precious money you frugal shits and go somewhere decent later in the week. Although, if you do decide to head down, get very drunk before hand, that way you don't have to remember anything. Finally, yep, geddon!

"I liked them before they were cool."

 We've been to our fair share of 'Hipster' hideouts in our time, from 93 Feet East to Santa Monica beach, however, nothing has quite compared to 'The Jazz Place' (Brighton) on a Friday night.

 The night didn't start badly, in fact, sitting in a park drinking straight Bacardi on the rocks was more than satisfying for a broke Friday night. When it reached about midnight we decided to head to 'The Jazz Place', initially under the personal assumption that it would be, well, a Jazz bar? When we arrived, we were greeted by reasonable entrance fee's of £3 to £4. Despite the relative emptiness of the place, it wasn't too bad inside. We bought a drink, took a seat and then began to listen to what we can only describe as 'abhorrent' music.

 After the drinks were finished, we went out for a smoke. Around 30 minutes must have elapsed before we decided to head back down. As we re-entered the venue, we noticed something very different. It seemed that in the 30 minutes or so that we had been outside, dozens of Hipsters had infested the place like flies on shit. The shear stench of vegan food, B.O. (as a result of the incessant reluctance to remove their grandparents sweaters) and pretentiousness flooded the air. We couldn't stop laughing when our 'not-the-sharpest-tool-in-the-shed' friend told us that "we [were] in a gay bar" (which we weren't). In fact, it took a good while explaining to him that he was incorrect.

 As previously mentioned, we aren't alien to Hipster-ism, but there was something distinctly vile about these ones. Personally, we believe in Libertarian views, freedom of speech, expression and all the rest of that crap. Thus we condone what they do, we wouldn't question why they do it (mainly because we'd get some shit-heap of liberal green agenda for an answer) and we definitely wouldn't impose there decisions to look utterly ridiculous.

 Although, tt is near enough impossible not to be critical when one blogs about such a scathingly oxymoronic sub-culture. These are the kind of people which claim to be accepting of others, when in reality they look down at those who eat meat, vote mainstream and haven't bought everything they own from a fucking vintage shop.

 But, because we're such nice guys here at Yep, Geddon! we've decided to help those who actually want to fit in, we would advise the following for beys:

• Tight jeans, preferably ankle swingers, or if not, pin-rolled.
• Converse, vans, brogues, boat shoes or low-cut plimsoles with wooden soles (?).
• A baggy t-shirt is essential, go shopping with the intention to be an extra in 'The Wire'.
• Stupidly tight denim jacket (even in the summer heat).
• Big rimmed non-prescription glasses, think Clark Kent.
• A canvas summer bag, that's right beys, a handbag.
• Finally, an ironic mustache coupled with a messy bowl cut.

 And for birds:

• Look like a 1940's housewife, the less skin showing the better.

 And for those who don't want to fit in either avoid 'The Jazz Place' on a Friday night like the ebola, or head down with a .44 and do Brighton a massive favour.

 If you've managed to get this far (we personally would've stopped reading after the title), you deserve stripes. Unfortunately we can't dish them out, but, we can give you advice, and that is;

yep, geddon!