One More Night.

We at Yep, Geddon! love degeneracy, debauchery and engaging in devious activities on a regular basis, so we decided to coin a phrase for our viciously squalid lifestyle; 'One More Night', literally meaning, well, one more night. It would be pretty vice to consider this activity as a game, but we do, and there are strict rules. Normally, one would start mid-week, and 'roll through' for as long as humanly possible, there are negative repercussions for those who:

• Wash.
• Leave the group. / Sleep outside the designated house.
• Stop drinking when others are still drinking.
• Stop smoking when others are still smoking.
• Stop taking drugs when others are still taking drugs.
• Sleep when others are still awake.

The rules are not to be broken at any time as the winner of One More Night is decided on the basis of who broke the least rules. For example, hypothetically speaking, 'Justin' decided to play One More Night with a few others, but he only lasts one night. In such an instance, Justin is the loser of the game. However, there are bonus points available for those who:

• Vomit/Fall ill and carry on.
• Dabble in sexual activities, the rawer the partner, the more points.
• Pass out and continue after.
• Get in a fight.

As you can imagine this 'game' is scathing and only the strongest, most repugnant people will survive.

So, last week we decided to play One More Night starting on Thursday night, we started off by downing a bottle of rum each and attempting to go clubbing. Our first stop was Brighton's latest hipster cesspit, the Green Door Store. We don't remember much, but we do remember the fact that there were only two people in the venue, so we decided to head down to Oxygen on West Street instead. As expected of any West Street venue, the sheer stench of testosterone and Sambuca was overpowering and the calibre of cunt was dangerously low, so we settled with a few shots and decided to take a trip to Shameless at Life, arguably the worst 'student' night in Brighton. We arrived just after midnight, there was no que and the music was far from eclectic, so the fact that they refused us entry was probably for the best. After arguing with bouncers for no reason for a couple of minutes we headed home, a couple of the lads passed out on the walk but a couple of slaps round the face and they were back on it for One More Night.

The Green Door Store, taken with a vintage feel (of-fucking-course).

The second night was almost as base as the first. Again, we had a couple beers and necked a bottle of spirits, this time Vodka, and again we went to the Green Door Store. This time however, the place was packed to the point of one in one out. The musky smell of vintage attire and Red Stripe polluted the air and the lack of what anyone would consider music made this venue rather undesirable, so we decided to head to a party we'd heard of through the grape vine. We say party, we lied, it was a room of ten fifteen year old guys and a couple eighteen year old girls listening to JLS. We've never seen anything like it, it was horrendous, the only thing we could do was hijack the music and smoke weed, which we did, much to our dismay. After a couple of hours, we realised that we were in shitsville and the last train to civilisation was departing, so we dipset. A few kebabs and a couple of beers later, we'd passed out yet again, but this time at home, unfortunately.

Wahoo, no the girls don't look like that, and take it from us, this place ain't West Beach.

The final night was the best. Our friends twenty-first birthday. Again, we had a couple of beers and some Vodka. But, this time, the soldiers were out, which ment, it was time to hit West Street with full force. We decided to go to perhaps the shittest bar/club we've ever set foot in, called Wahoo (or something shit). The clientele were rowdy as fuck, the music was cheesy as fuck and the girls were raw as fuck, so what better way to end One More Night. Ten Jaeger bombs and some yayo later, a fight was on the brew, bonus points were looming. Unfortunately, some of our militia were too scary for these sorry prats, so a grovelling apology was all we got.

The next morning we understood that One More Night had to come to an end. We'd had about ten hours sleep, a hundred grams of tabaco and one meal the whole weekend. The only liquids had been alcoholic, the only food had been high in fat'n'shit and our hygiene levels were quite frankly unacceptable. Saying that, as soon as we got up we cracked another beer for the road, One More Night? Yep, Geddon!

A 'Sport', really?

Normally British TV consists of a lot of shit, but it seems that recently the regular shit-opera's and Babestation traps have been nudged into the dark by what certain fuck-wits consider a sport. Darts.

As patriotic Brits, we understand the value of throwing a tiny spear into cork in the corner of a pub, especially after a few pints. What we don't understand is how this is in any way a sport. We all have to divvy up the pennies to that backward shit-show of a broadcaster, the BBC, even if we don't watch it. I thought this was a free-country, amirite? Apparently not.

Typical dart supporters.

Either way, we feel sorrier for the cunts paying with their blood sweat and tears for Sky Sports and receiving more darts, as opposed to, say, Football? People want to watch sports, not pathetic pub games.

The whole thing is pretty hilarious though, most of these guys are on their last legs, a couple of old fat prats working up a sweat over throwing darts. Sometimes we watch darts to see if one of them will have a stroke mid-play, probably as a result of an over 9,000 calorie a day diet, knocking back 10 pints of Irish-feces and a couple of Donner's a day. Unfortunately, there doesn't seem to be quiet enough exercise involved to kill these pricks, just enough to make them sweat like a lesbian in a fishery.

Dart player, pre-myocardial infarction

Please, for the sake of our wellbeing, stop airing this pathetic game, oh and stop calling it a fucking sport. It's not. We're off now, going down The Basett for a couple of pints and a game of darts, 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!

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!