Motherfuckery is the new religion... so you'd better start saying your prayers!

It's been a while since I've taken the time and thought to produce a piece for this blog. The sheer effort involved in experiencing and chronicling the Motherfuckery that I witnessed at the Booze Tube drained me of every last drop of creativity I possesed.

Sure, every weekend since has brought with it wholesome portions of Motherfuckery; and yes, I wanted to document it for the World and his Wife to read and experience, but I have been unable to. I've suffered some form of synaptic breakdown, affecting the route between my brain and the page.



It became apparent that I was in desperate need of remedy. And I found it...

MUH THA FUH KAREE

take 3 times at the weekend
and as often as you can
during the week

KEEP OUT OF REACH OF CHILDREN

A disused car park in deepest, trendiest Shoreditch was to serve as the location for this shock treatment.

The same contingent of Usual Motherfucking Suspects were to serve as my companions during this gruelling course of nervous re-generation.

The Surgeon Generals, presiding over the operation were...

MSTRKRFT

We met at Liverpool Street Station. We were a ragtag bunch, with very little to show for ourselves bar a very shiny Dolce & Gabbana watch that had been found at 5am in a drunken stupor, and an £80 on-the-spot fine that had been issued for urinating against a tree at the Wireless festival whilst "making no effort to conceal it from the public". We were sitting on both ends of the fiscal see-saw; flashing exuberant wealth while (literally) pissing it away. But material possessions count for nothing when you are about to embark on a voyage of such epic Motherfuckery.

"It is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than it is for a man who's pockets are filled with all kinds of unnecessary flotsam to enter the Kingdom of Motherfuckery..."


and off we trotted to

Hewitt Street car park. It's a great name for a car park, on account of the fact that
a) It's on Hewitt Street
and
b) It's a car park

It's all there, in the name. Nice and concise.

It is, however, a rubbish name for a music venue. But we didn't let that dissuade us from the night of greeeazy filth that MSTRKRFT never fail to deliver.


Upon entering the car park, the first thing we saw was a line of portaloos. These, coupled with a system of drinks tokens (bought at a separate bar) to bypass local licencing laws, added to the illusion of a good, old fashioned illegal rave. In fact, they could've pulled the wool right over our eyes if it wasn't for the fact that most of the crowd were pretentious fools, drawn in by a romantic ideal of listening to fashionable music in the most derelicte of surroundings. We had our work cut out. If we were to make ourselves known, to really leave a lasting impression on these poor misguided creatures, we were going to have to unleash the absolute Magnum of Motherfuckery. We were confident in our success. I made use of a portaloo and then proceeded to Airfuck my way around the dancefloor, thus signifying our presence in the room. People were amazed. People were disgusted. People were aroused. People were starting to get MOTHERFUCKED.

I set off for a brief investigation of the venue. This didn't take long, as there wasn't much to it. There was one smaller area with a shocking DJ. You could've thrown eggs and flour at him and he wouldn't have been able to mix a pancake. I headed upstairs and found the main dance area. A long, thin area with a high, beamed ceiling... and only one wall of sound at the front, seperated by the DJ stand. With no evidence of any subs at the rear of the room to fill the space with a bit of dirty bottom end, I had my immediate suspicions that the sound quality was going to be mediocre at best. I was right.

<Look at these chumps. Sitting down on a crowded dancefloor. Fancy that! Sitting down! On a DANCEFLOOR!!! THEY'RE SITTING DOWN ON THE DANCEFLOOR!!!!!

Nothing a swift Airfuck to the face wouldn't sort out.
This was the only point in the night that i was glad one of the portaloos had leaked all over the floor.




<This guy was living in a metallurgic nightmare, seemingly having had his legs dipped into molten gold during a Year 9 Gym lesson. Either that, or he was wearing gold tights with his old P.E kit. Or maybe he works in Covent Garden entertaining tourists for loose change and finished late, leaving him without enough time to complete his shower ritual.


It doesn't really matter, because whichever way you look at it, he's a cunt.







MSTRKRFT's set tore the place to pieces. The Motherfuckerometer went off the scale, bringing out people's most bestial urges. Some were sitting on people's shoulders. Some were hanging off the speakers. Some were attempting to emulate the Airfuck, but didn't have the Air-stamina and Air-climaxed in their Air-pants. The lacklustre soundsystem ceased to be an issue, and, crowded though it was, if you felt your dance space was being encroached upon, you had merely to pull an Airfuck out of your pants and the cheeky brutes would be sent running for the hills. At 5.30 am, the Canadian filth-mongers called it a night and we were ejected from the car park.



We found ourselves at Liverpool Street Station once again. As we sat waiting for the Underground to open, a chap appeared and sat down near us. He looked a bit ropey, and sure enough, he fell asleep on the floor. It was decided that what would really pep him up would be to tie his shoelaces together. He awoke just as the final tug was being performed and asked, rather sheepishly, if we'd mind tying them back up for him. We obliged.

The Undergound opened at 7 am. We said our goodbyes as the group was split, and I went back to a pal's place in Borough. As I was lying down, staring at the ceiling, I thought i could see shapes moving on the ceiling. I started to panic. Had I overdone it a little? Had I motherfucked myself into oblivion? Is it possible that I had overdosed on Motherfuckery, the first recorded case? No. What i could see was the image of the street below being refracted by the double glazing of the window as it was slightly open, and thus projecting a perfect moving picture of the street below. I asked my pal for confirmation. It was confirmed. We lay for hours, watching this private, real-time Google Earth with sound, until we eventually succumbed to Sleep's lulling call.

I awoke feeling surprisingly well rested. We went for a spot of pub lunch. We walked back and saw some pretty paintings on walls. I watched some of the Wimbledon final. I lazed about and finally left gone 10pm. I arrived home shortly before midnight and headed straight to bed.
Lying in my bed, and, with no refracted street scenes to distract me, my mind came to the conclusion that, for the time being, my Motherfucking days are over. I need time off to think up the ultimate Motherfuck; a Motherfuck as pure as the driven snow, yet efficiently filthy. Rumor has it that it is to be sought out at Reading Festival. So, until then, farewell.