Liverpool

Everybody knows how much of a shit-hole the North is, the frankly horrendous accents coupled with a cultivation of violence and destitution create an overwhelming disparity from the South. The time had come for us to truly test our moral boundaries and venture into the depths of hate and indigence for a night out in the 2008 European Capital of Culture burglary.

We arrived in Liverpool mid-afternoon. As we left the train, the stench of sewage and abundance of scallies was rather overwhelming, but after a few hours of acclimatising in our nearby apartment we were ready to prowl the streets in search of entertainment. Unfortunately the only shops in Liverpool are Poundland's, the only pubs are Irish and the only restaurants are McDonald's. Furthering our frustration was the inherent language barrier, rendering it nearly impossible to converse with anyone.

Local Liverpudlians.

So after a few hours of doing fuck-all we headed to a friends place in Birkenhead, where we started getting our drank on. We liked Birkenhead, despite its horrifically high crime rates the people were lovely and they hated Scousers almost as much as we did. However, our taxi back to Liverpool was what we can only describe as very distasteful. The driver was a fat, racist pig with a real dislike towards to Southerners. Moreover, he thought of himself as a Northern Lenny McLean, claiming that he was threatened with a knife and overpowered the antagonist by utilising his bountiful amounts of hate. Fat prick.

We headed into the first bar of the night, the infamous 'Slaters Bar', famous for its 'Quad-Vod' drinks. For just £5 we were served four shots of Vodka and a WKD in a pint glass, they should sell this shit everywhere. Needless to say, two or three Quad-Vod's later, we were in fine shape for the club.

To combat Northern Alcoholism, heavy fines are in place.

As we arrived at the club we noticed that it was a gay bar. Why our 'tour guides' decided to bring us there must've been some kind of sick joke. We wanted the real Scouse experience, violence and tarts, not gay's and poppers, we can get that shit easily enough in Brighton. Luckily, our experience in there was short-lived. We headed into a local Kebaby on the walk back where we were welcomed by a variety of Southern hating, brainless cunt's. One of the lads decided to pick a fight with the brick shit-house of Liverpool, needless to say, that was a fucking dumb idea.

The next day we were forced out the apartment at the crack of dawn, as we're such nice guys we made sure the apartment was left in as shit of a state as possible. Thoughtful. We ended the trip with a fry-up, a couple of cans of Kronenbourg and a few spins down the bookies. Oh, and yeah, one of us did get robbed, so all of our presumptions of Liverpool were very, very true. yep, geddon!

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!

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!