Have a Shitty Weekend!

Photo by Kovvalsky

People ask me, they say, "Joe, why you gotta be like that, brah? The weekend is a great thing, it’s a chance for us to see our friends, build relationships, find love. It’s an opportunity for you to shake off whatever may have happened during the working week, let yourself go and find solace in what can be an otherwise disheartening 21st century life."

I say to them: Shut your god damn trap before I weld your teeth to a tractor. If you can’t manage to eke some enjoyment out of the other five days, then why even bother with the two at the end? Face it: You’re trapped on a train bound for a joyless demise, the Hogwarts Express chugging straight into Voldemort’s arsehole, and a couple of white wines and a trip to the Barbican isn’t going to stop that.

Get a refund on that travelcard and stop being such a dire fart, go and do something with your life, for Christ’s sake. Have a shitty weekend, you gutless prick.

Decks And The City
Horse & Groom, 28 Curtain Road

This may just be the most reprehensible thing I've ever written about for Have a Shitty Weekend. It’s something that is so rotten at its core that they’ll have to have a light trap on the door to kill all the flies buzzing around it. Decks And The City is the brainchild of a guy called Ali Miraj, who is a DJ and – get this – banker. That’s right folks, Decks And The City is the chance for all you bankers, investors, city traders and other assorted scumbags to revel in the enjoyment of your own wealth/house music. Naturally, the idea alone of a bunch of City workers congregating to showcase their taste in music is enough to make you give yourself a lava face mask, but where Decks And The City really comes into its own is on its Facebook page.

The event page on Facebook has evolved from the humble e-vite. Used to be you got a little personalised pixel card saying "Come 2 my thing 4 banter!" and a little party popper gif would play on loop – the fun times never ending. Now, it’s a cold blue and white slab for people to click, drone-like, on the "attending" or "not attending" buttons and post shit-eating little messages on the "wall". It also gives whoever organised the party the perfect opportunity to embarrass themselves. I’m not sure who wrote the recap of the inaugural Decks And The City (this being number two), but it reads like the diary of a young Patrick Bateman. It lists the times the DJs played, and what they spun. Mr Chris Jackson Jones, "a City trader with a penchant for dance music production", played some bangers, but in a total curveball move, he was "accompanied by rhythmic bongo and cowbell tapping from Market Risk Manager, Marc Helder, who was joined by his brother, former Arsenal footballer Glenn Helder, who came in especially from Amsterdam to play an unforgettable drum set."

The fun doesn’t end there readers, oh no. It was time for the big dog, the man who made all this happen, Ali Miraj to take to the tables, and what was he going to do? Spin some absolute arse clenches by Gorgon City, that’s what! But Miraj is a busy man, he has shit to take care of, economies to defile. So before the needle had even stopped moving on the ridges of his Crystal Waters white label, Ali "headed to the airport to fly to the US to take part in a panel discussion on government support for infrastructure at Harvard University".

If you can find me a bigger example of total, unmitigated, unwavering, unashamed cuntery in the entire city of London then please, let me know. If any of you are feeling particularly sound of soul, perhaps gather a few mates and head down to the Horse & Groom, and EuroMaidan that place into the fucking ground.*

Jethro
Theatr Hafren, Newtown, Wales

Corr, this guy still going? Jethro is – like Roy Chubby Brown and, to a slightly lesser extent, Billy Connolly – not really a human being at all, more of a face you kind of see on the cover of VHS boxes growing up. The big, stark "18" age rating would prove mysterious to you, especially given that, to a young child, Jethro looks like a pretty innocuous farmer. This made you want to desperately plunder the contents to see just what it was that you weren’t allowed to see, and what secrets this black tape held.

Then you watched it and you couldn’t work out what the fuck anyone was talking about. Jethro’s schtick is that of a simple Cornish farmer who gets drunk and guns down his wife, among other provincial japes. I suppose if you want to go and sit in a room that time has distinctly left behind then book your tickets, otherwise you can just go to the West Country yourself, sit in a pub and wait for a racist in a tweed flat cap to start talking about "wossits" and "them lot".

It really is up to you.

A Place In The Sun Live
Olympia, London

This is listed in Time Out’s "things to do on Mother's Day" section. Nothing says, "Thanks for letting me spew all over you, ruin your life and wipe my arse," than showing the woman who gave you your life some pleasures that she will simply never be able to enjoy. Show her you love her by forcing her to talk to tanned property developers and grinning agents, and watch her slowly crumble into a state of menopause-induced envy over Amanda Lamb. After that, why not take her for tapas, to "give her a taste of the sun" via an ordering system that she doesn't understand and makes her feel old, while her stare pours sadly into the oaken ridges of the table.

Christ, you’re a horrible shithouse, you know that? Have a shitty weekend.

@joe_bish