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!