Random Slices #9

After a week away rolling about chin deep in cowshit in the countryside, Random Slices has returned to dictate to you what you should be doing with your weekend in the city. What a fucking hypocrite.

 

 

Trannies? Roof top bars? Screenings of Whatever Happened to Baby Jane? Hot tub raunch? I’m not even going to bother expanding on the above: If you don’t want to go and check out Sink the Pink on Saturday night on Netil’s lustrous roof then you’re obviously part of some kind of right wing militia or something. Get involved.

 

 

The Rare Kind agency have taken over a small space in the heart of the Soho sex district and have put on a group show featuring a range of artists on their books. Each artist has a single hand pulled (fnarrr) sceen print on display, including works by Daddison, Victoria Topping and 10 Foot’s infamous music map. It’s all high quality stuff, affordable – generally in the range of £30 – £60 per print – and also, if you get tired of the art you can pop next door for a quick Hebredian two pump special, or something of the sort. It’s on for another week, all info here.

 

 

Yes, that’s right, Tearmageddon. There’s a new cultural fad developing, not sure if you’ve noticed it, for crying your fucking eyes out. It started with the Olympics – win something: weep; finish last: weep; get banned for sticking nandrolone up your bum: weep. The paralympics took it up a notch and then it just exploded. Turn on the telly and watch for more than ten minutes and you will invariably find someones wobbly bottom lip coming into shot. Baked a cake that didn’t quite turn out right? weep. Baked a cake that turned out perfect? weep. Just been told you’re not very good at singing by someone who’s also not very good at singing? weep. It’s endless, absolutely endless. I have my own socio economic theories about why this is happening and how it may signal humanities' last lap (hence, the name: Tearmageddon), but I won’t bore you with that claptrap – instead, I’d recommend getting involved. Go out on Friday night and neck a few jimmy saville’s (i mean e’s) and come Sunday evening you’ll be weeping your little fucking eyeballs out at the sight of the go compare advert. Girlfriend offers you a cup of tea? weep. Mum calls to ask how to fix the computer? weep. You’ll soon pick it up.