Wighno tunes?

Question marks hover over the Wighnomy Brothers' heads as both my camera and the crowd ask 'where are all the tunes?' DJ Koze came no closer to answering this question, having forgotten to pack any himself in that mad rush for the airport. Electric Cabaret put on an ok party, big warehouse, dire portaloos etc, tho £4 beers demand five star entertainment and that was sorely lacking. The crowd were edgy and largely unimpressed with the constant 'kill the beat, bring back the beat' school of not really dj'ing at all. When the two teddies eventually made it to the decks, they spent the first twenty minutes wallowing in atmospheric excrement they appeared to be extracting from each other's vast rumps. Had this poo'dling resulted in some cataclysmic break down which promptly booted the lethargic lysergics into a higher gear, we'd have instantly forgiven them, but noooooo. Almost as an afterthought a dull thud crawled out of the bass bins and lay dying on the floor at our feet. We thought perhaps any beat would be a good beat at this stage, but the plodding doof of manure rhythmically plopping to the ground beneath the decks, sounded the death knell for our evening and we headed South.

I'm a miserable clubber at the best of times. I have a magnetic attraction to elbows and glowing cigarette butts and loathe the constant jostling and jabbing that inevitably sends one or other of these items into my eyeball. A particularly insolent crew of Spanish chica midgets chose to surround us on this occasion and jabber incessantly into their phones whilst wielding their marlboros like carcinogenic light sabres in our faces. Is it wrong to want to batter a Spanish chica midget to death with its own phone? I think not.

Praise be to the N35 which carried us back to Tunetopia, a red room jammed with delights and an upstairs neighbour having his own party, it doesn't get better than this. Yet again, we are forced to ask ourselves, why do we ever go out?

B