Yep, Geddon!

Liverpool

2011-02-16T17:12:00.003+00:00

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.

2011-02-01T15:49:00.002+00:00

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.

2011-01-24T14:22:00.003+00:00

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?

2011-01-08T20:55:00.000+00:00

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.

2011-01-03T23:45:00.000+00:00

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.

2010-12-07T00:01:00.004+00:00

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!

2010-11-30T19:55:00.004+00:00

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

2010-10-14T15:14:00.001+01:00

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

2010-10-01T15:21:00.002+01:00

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!

Eye-tal Grease Balls

2010-07-22T20:28:00.000+01:00

Hello all, sorry about the lack of posting over the last week. The reason being, we've been busy doing lots and lots of things, although, none which are worthy of mentioning in a blog which comments on practically anything. You get it.

A friend introduced us to a new sub-culture known as Guido's. Luckily they don't exist here in Britain, at least not in their pure form. The best way to describe this scathing species in British context would be Chritiano Ronaldo meets club hero, with an Italian ancestry.

There's a brilliant article over at Encyclopedia Dramatica which basically sums them up in the most filthy way possible, "they display the outward appearance of an oven roasted over-inflated Miami clubfag due to orange spray tan and glow in the dark teeth". yep, geddon!

She Was Asking For It

2010-07-13T14:48:00.007+01:00

Today I managed to stumble across what is probably the foulest video game ever made.
‘Custer’s Revenge’(released in 1982) tells the story of General Custer getting payback for the battle of Little Big Horn. He manages this incredible feat by dodging arrows for eight levels, the whole time completely naked and with a massive boner.
The game was banned in a few states in the USA and was condemned by almost everyone who came into contact with it. Critics also said the game played like shit and the graphics were poor even for an Atari game.

I probably need to mention that after Custer dodges all those arrows he finally gets his ultimate revenge... by raping a Native American woman. In the game’s defence most people probably never saw the end as it’s supposed to be really difficult, like the back of the box says; ‘she's not about to take it lying down, by George!’

Yep, Geddon!

Failbait!

2010-07-13T13:55:00.000+01:00

Yep, Geddon! has been at it again. Trawling the filthy streets of Brighton looking for the worst venues and events imaginable. Prepare for another cynical opinionated blow at Brighton's night life scene, fuck we don't know why we even bother, but we do.

It was a nice Monday evening when we set out, not the warmest but warm enough to get by without a jacket. Well, for the first 40 minutes or so at least before we got caught in a shitstorm of rain, yep, in the middle of July. Please?

Obviously, looking like drowned rats is not the best way to start an evening. However, it probably was the highlight of the evening. As we arrived at Life, we got in free which is always a plus. Although, it didn't take us long to realise why we got in for free.

To put this as nicely as we can, it was shit. We understand that it was the launch night to a new event titled 'Jailbait' which had previously been at New Hero (one of Brighton's lowest venues), so we weren't exactly expecting much. We were on the other hand expecting a big crowd, naturally with a launch night surely? Wrong.

It wasn't just the absence of people that made the night bad. The music was inconsistent, there were times where we'd be singing along to Dr. Dre, then there were times when we had to physically leave the room as a result of repugnant musical choices. The 'crowd' were an issue for us as well. The best way we can describe the very few of them that were there, would be this:

Monday night's aren't the best in Brighton, in fact, before 'Jailbait' the only other option was 'Trash Monday' at Coalition, which, unless you're looking for a cluster-fuck of prepubescent college kids experimenting with legal highs and stinking like cat piss, we'd avoid at all costs.

You have two options for Monday night clubbing in Brighton, both equally as lamentable as each other. Our advice, avoid Monday nights. Save your precious money you frugal shits and go somewhere decent later in the week. Although, if you do decide to head down, get very drunk before hand, that way you don't have to remember anything. Finally, yep, geddon!

"I liked them before they were cool."

2010-07-10T18:10:00.001+01:00

We've been to our fair share of 'Hipster' hideouts in our time, from 93 Feet East to Santa Monica beach, however, nothing has quite compared to 'The Jazz Place' (Brighton) on a Friday night.

The night didn't start badly, in fact, sitting in a park drinking straight Bacardi on the rocks was more than satisfying for a broke Friday night. When it reached about midnight we decided to head to 'The Jazz Place', initially under the personal assumption that it would be, well, a Jazz bar? When we arrived, we were greeted by reasonable entrance fee's of £3 to £4. Despite the relative emptiness of the place, it wasn't too bad inside. We bought a drink, took a seat and then began to listen to what we can only describe as 'abhorrent' music.

After the drinks were finished, we went out for a smoke. Around 30 minutes must have elapsed before we decided to head back down. As we re-entered the venue, we noticed something very different. It seemed that in the 30 minutes or so that we had been outside, dozens of Hipsters had infested the place like flies on shit. The shear stench of vegan food, B.O. (as a result of the incessant reluctance to remove their grandparents sweaters) and pretentiousness flooded the air. We couldn't stop laughing when our 'not-the-sharpest-tool-in-the-shed' friend told us that "we [were] in a gay bar" (which we weren't). In fact, it took a good while explaining to him that he was incorrect.

As previously mentioned, we aren't alien to Hipster-ism, but there was something distinctly vile about these ones. Personally, we believe in Libertarian views, freedom of speech, expression and all the rest of that crap. Thus we condone what they do, we wouldn't question why they do it (mainly because we'd get some shit-heap of liberal green agenda for an answer) and we definitely wouldn't impose there decisions to look utterly ridiculous.

Although, tt is near enough impossible not to be critical when one blogs about such a scathingly oxymoronic sub-culture. These are the kind of people which claim to be accepting of others, when in reality they look down at those who eat meat, vote mainstream and haven't bought everything they own from a fucking vintage shop.

But, because we're such nice guys here at Yep, Geddon! we've decided to help those who actually want to fit in, we would advise the following for beys:

Tight jeans, preferably ankle swingers, or if not, pin-rolled.
Converse, vans, brogues, boat shoes or low-cut plimsoles with wooden soles (?).
A baggy t-shirt is essential, go shopping with the intention to be an extra in 'The Wire'.
Stupidly tight denim jacket (even in the summer heat).
Big rimmed non-prescription glasses, think Clark Kent.
A canvas summer bag, that's right beys, a handbag.
Finally, an ironic mustache coupled with a messy bowl cut.

And for birds:

Look like a 1940's housewife, the less skin showing the better.

And for those who don't want to fit in either avoid 'The Jazz Place' on a Friday night like the ebola, or head down with a .44 and do Brighton a massive favour.

If you've managed to get this far (we personally would've stopped reading after the title), you deserve stripes. Unfortunately we can't dish them out, but, we can give you advice, and that is;

yep, geddon!