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!

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!