Have a Shitty Weekend!

Photo by Antti Sepponen

The brighter it gets the more unbearable people become. You may have mistaken this phenomenon for what is colloquially known as a "vibe". The shirtlessness, the public boozing, the happiness on display. These people aren’t happy, they’re just high off UV rays. They don’t know what to do with themselves so they sit around in parks getting shit-cannoned and listening to UK garage. It’s like a giant, expansive, photosynthesised madness and it only really gets unleashed at the weekends.

So here’s my tip: Don’t bother. Stay indoors. Go in your own garden if you must, but really just standing next to a window will produce the same effect. You’ll get the same level of sunlight you just won’t have to be in the company of your fellow boorish fuckboys. If you MUST though, try one of these things, so at least your weekend will be absolute gash and ward you off going out again in the near future.

Tawagoto no shuumatsuwo sugosu [戯言 の 週末を 過ごす], pricks.

The House Of Holi
Until Saturday 22 March – Devonshire Square

There’s nothing the white man loves more than a heady bit of cultural appropriation. Dreadlocks, bindis, chopsticks – there is nothing he/she won’t ape to either internally mock or desperately revere. Go to Brighton, it’s fucking rife down there.

Keeping with tradition, The House Of Holi invites all you pale peepers down to Devonshire Square for India’s festival of colours. They are building a party-pod inviting "City workers to swap their ties and heels for protective suits" and lob paint at each other.

I wouldn’t hold as much vitriol for this if it didn’t specifically advertise for City workers in the listing. Fuck those guys, why do they get to go and cover each other in colourful paint? They should be cemented to their swivel chairs getting bone, lung and stomach cancers. You also get a five-course Holi-inspired meal for £45, which presumably won’t be doused in fucking Dulux. Make sure you wear a sari too, so as to garner extra scorn from actual Asians, you putrid cultural tourist.

I Love The 80s Vs. I Love The 90s
Saturday 22 March – Jazz Cafe, NW1 7PG

This has no right to call itself a "versus" unless blood is spilled in Camden. I want to see people in novelty period attire, with blow-up guitars and microphones, battering the living shit out of each other on the lock (with locks). Guys and gals dressed in what a joke shop dictates as the fashion of the era.

Clearly this is only going to be two kinds of music: hair metal from the 1980s and Britpop from the 1990s. There will be no NWA. There will be no Skinny Puppy, just the same shite you can blurt out while you burp the taste of Jaeger and spinster spit. Hark back to when "everything was good" and later reflect on how "everything is shit now". It’s a sure fire way to end your night in the bath with the toaster.

Also: it’s in Camden, which is second only to Mitcham in the place-in-London-you’d-happily-destroy-with-smallpox stakes. If you’re a tourist and are for some reason reading this by accident: stay away from Camden. There is nothing there for you, unless you want a PacMan grinder and some neon blue white man dread hair dye, in which case, dunk your heat in one of the vats of boiling oil lining the street food bit.

Photo by Jamie Taete

Thriller Live
Lyric Theater, 29 Shaftesbury Avenue, London, W1D 7ES

Come one, come all, and see the reanimated corpse of a race-switching, baby-dangling suspected paedophile at the Lyric Theater! Perhaps that’s a bit unfair, but what is the point of going to see some stage school alumni perform songs by dead musicians? Les Mis, Wicked, fucking Spamalot, I get it; the characters are just that – characters. They’re amorphous blobs that anyone can be to varying degrees of quality.

But shit like Thriller Live and We Will Rock You and the inevitable post-death Lady GaGa minimal phantasmagoria show serve no other purpose than a theatrical, observable professional karaoke. The only person I want to see performing Michael Jackson songs is fucking Michael Jackson. Can you imagine anything more depressing as an artist or musician than just dedicating your life to playing the successes of other people? It’s enough to make you neck a baggy of propofol and benzodiazepine and have a coronary in your Los Angeles home.

@joe_bish