DOUBLE DROPPED

So, in September I’m leaving my hometown and heading out to London to study for my BA. As part of creating an identity and also a brand for myself I’m launching a new site to cover similar content to what DD is, just with a little more input from myself. Although I’ll still be posting here too. I’ve got a web designer on board who is currently sorting out that end of things but it’s my job to think of a new name. 

The name needs to be readable, pronounceable, memorable and niche-specific. The audience will be similar to this.

I’m looking for someone to give me ideas because my brain has dried up.

Get a pen and a piece of paper and brainstorm the fuck out of it. Submit your ideas and messages on Tumblr. Only specification is that you’re allowed one submission. If I use it I’ll send you a cheque for £20.

Reblog this. 

JP 

Eighteen years and eight days ago, dear, young, impressionable Kyle was espoused from his mother’s womb in joyous pain.

Alcohol, a staple of the late-teen twenty-something’s diet, and has been since fermentation begun trillions of years ago, in seedy back-alleyways in the dirty belly ofPersia; the prohibition, moonshine, protean all that shit. The point is we love a soak, we love cirocis and we love wallowing in a hangover, dick-measuring how much we drank by how bad we feel. We lap all that shit right up.

According to the BBC we have 141 euphemisms for being drunk. Boogaloo, gattered, goosed and michael fished. Or the personal favourite of mine; ‘nicely irrigated with horizontal lubricant’. Although, Michael MacIntyre disagrees, he reckons if you stick –ed on the end of anything and shout it Uni Lad styley, it can be used to describe that oh-so attractive drunkenness. Tabled, window framed, tea mugged – love it.

So going out on the ‘razz’, ‘town’ or ‘piss’ is indeed a marker of growed-up-ness - ‘cos all the big kids are doing it. I remember turning eighteen (not that long ago): walking into Tesco and buying my own alcohol was such a surreal experience at first, I still got those pre-purchase butterflies that tell you the guy/gal on the tills is gonna fuck your fake ID up. Now all that happens when I walk into Tesco is that the staff know me by name; an identified potential alcoholic buying a variety of shit because he has no idea what it is. He just wants to get ‘locked out of his mind’ – yes, courtesy of BBC.

I think this introduction has gone on far too long and has detracted from the real story.

The story is of a planned extravagant three-day excursion toBrighton. It’s not a particularly hilarious one, but fun, and totally fucking rad duuude. In fact, in pertains to what I was winging on about at the start of this diatribe, wallowing. We did a considerable amount of wallowing.

Upon departure of Ipshit’s progressively more rundown train station we bought copious amount of water and maoam and also, fizzicles, which at the time I though hilarious because it rhymed testicles. C’mon Kyle only just turned 18, we’re all kids here. Our stomache’s were turning from last night antics. Red-cup parties, footie, balloons and booze. We had a nice time. Funnily, Helen’s train ticket cost £100, compared to my £25 one it seemed a little overpriced. We managed to get toBrightonalmost completely unhitched. Even though we didn’t travel on a single train we had reservations on.

Luckily, we have a good friend who was more than happy enough to let us stay at his and show us kids a good night.

We arrived at around five and made our way straight to HMV to buy the mandatory The Streets CD, I think this time it was The Hardest Way To Make An Easy Living. An underated album, an underated album by Isaac. He thinks.

Isaac and co organised their uni friends to go out with us that night to celebrate all-round-nice-guy Kyle’s 18^th.

After snorting copious amounts of MDMA in a too short space of time we ended up at Trash Mondays vs. Jailbait at Coalition. With free entry courtesy of Luke Wright and skipping the queues we felt like VIPs.

The club was an incredible experience, I’ve never been out to a ‘proper’ club, the only place I frequent is Felixstowe’s fantastic Band Box, probably too frequently. Unfortunately sticky floors, cuffed chinos and gingham checked shirts were still rife. But the music easily beats DJ Ca$h using beatgrid over Labrynth. That guy is a Virtual DJ pervert.

We all routinely left the toilet corridor known as the Jailbait dance floor to tentatively snort more drugs. As the night progressed I looked more and more like a wired Marlon Brando with dinner plate pupils, locked-jaws and lively legs. Kyle’s cash was flowing, buying me another rum before I had finished the first. It was an experience.

The next day the wallowing kicked in. I woke up and felt surprisingly spritely, when the grogginess had worn off, the lack-of-apetite-but-pretty-damn-hungry nausea kicked in. This married with something I have come to call ‘fire mouth’ ensured we all felt as bad as we looked. I thought my ballooned lip was bad until Kyle came down and I saw the Zepplin that was attached to what used to be a place to chew food.

We wallowed and pitied ourselves all the way to The Little Shop for breakfast.

After sleeping at Isaac’s for a couple of hours we decided that we were heading out for a second night.

Digital’s Tuesday club night is called See You Next Tuesday. It’s a shit named that reflect the shit vibes from a shit night. Digital was really quite a pooey night, bit of anti-climax to the night before. Perhaps I’m being too mean about it, it was okay, kind of.

That’s about as much as I can be bothered to write.

JP