Your Mum's House @ Punk.

After being barraged with over 9,000 Facebook messages to attend another shit club night in London, we decided it would only be right to see how the event would turn out. The event is titled "I GOT F**KED AT YOUR MUM'S HOUSE", the promoter not only had a reckless disregard for the 'Caps Lock' key, but also seems to be a gutless coward with regards to offensive language. Perhaps the bold letters and tasteless meaning are a marketing ploy to entice more fuckwits than your average club. We were soon to find out.

A Soho shop.

Thursday night is a great night. All the sick fuckers that enjoy playing One More Night  tend to kick start on a Thursday, unless they're badasses, in which case they start on Monday. The venue, despite the name is ironically located in Soho, this must be because Soho was the epicentre of the Punk movement in the 1980s? No. Soho is home of flour dealers, faggots and strip clubs, mainly faggot-strip clubs. Thus, we weren't expecting an authentic atmosphere, understandably.

We arrived around 11pm to a reasonably empty que, no problem there. The price was £5, that was also reasonable, no problem there. However, as soon as we got in we had a major fucking problem. It was as if we'd sailed up straight up shits-creek and lost the paddle as we hit the rocky remains of a bag of nuts. The inherent lack of gender definition baffled us. Furthermore, the naked T-Girl grinding against the bouncers, further escalated the levels of our distress and confusion. Is that shit even legal? We wanted to pop bottles in tha' club, not be molested by the horny mob in some trisexual shit-hive. Some of the thespians in this tragic comedy were so base that even Vice picked up on it. However, If you're looking for a brothel, this is most definitely the place to go.

Excuse us? Courtesy of Vice.

The event definitely wasn't our idea of fun. So we decided the only way to get through it would be to buy some drinks. But wait! What? £4 for a bottle of beer? Are you fucking mad? They had a stinking vintage store selling clothes for £5 at the front door (probably to cover the licensing of sexual activities) but a bottle of beer cost £1 less than a faux-leather jacket? What the fuck kind of sense does that make? Fuck all. Mind you, people should be getting paid to wear the shit they were selling, leopard print trousers? Pill-box hats? Really? Fuck off.

Oh, and the DJ. What the fuck. That's all that need be said. But, don't take it personally, we don't doubt your musical taste would go down a treat in G.A.Y.

Don't take this article the wrong way, we here at Yep, Geddon! are not homophobic, we just strive to find the rawest nights possible (within certain moral limits), and if that includes venturing to seedy shit-holes, we'll fucking do it. And bitch about it after.

yep, geddon!

New Years Eve.

New Years Eve, the glimmer of light through the shit-stained glass that is Christmas. After a week of being stuck at home eating heart palpitating amounts of quite frankly boring food, one would expect that people would be happy to go out and get real messy. So why is it that NYE, by definition, is never what anyone expects?

Although we always have fun on New Years we always look back and think, "well, that was a bit awful really wasn't it". So why is it never actually good? Is it the viciously over-crowded clubs, the promised house parties which turn out crap or the fact that its going to be the start of another shit year for all?  Who the fuck knows. But on the other hand, why is it always fun? Is it the copious amounts of drugs, the generally positive atmosphere or being with friends regardless of how shit the club/party actually is? Who the fuck cares.

We started off drinking at a pal's house watching the game with a couple of buds. As the lads rolled in one by one the drinks got heavier and the music got louder. A couple hours before midnight we headed to the first party, one gram later, it was countdown time, cheesy shit. After midnight we decided to head to another of the parties we had established. From there on, our New Years consisted of trekking in the cold for about 4 hours for various parties, none which we actually attended in the end. On the plus side the fact that we had more drink and narcotics than Eric Clapton seemed to numb the feeling of disappointment as we realised it was time to go back to the original house.

Interestingly, it took four more nights of watching sports and getting high for us to leave that house and face reality. This is the fifth night, so how about it? One more night? yep, geddon!