Directed by James Price
More videos at: youtube.com/group/shitdisco

"My plans for the evening were pretty modest ones to be fair. The priorities were clear enough in my haggard brain anyway: 1) Stay in. 2) Stay out of trouble. It was simple, fool proof. A nice ideological straight jacket designed purely to keep my irreversible lust for debauchery in its metaphysical cage.

Indeed, I had planned to sit down and watch Philip Schofield and his "Dancing on Ice" farce on the telly, feel normal, try to inoculate myself from the horrors of another day. Yet, no sooner had I placed my anus on the comfy chair I'd arranged, with my mug of cocoa in hand, than a message came through from the horrible ether. My mobile was buzzing and chirping in the corner. I tried to concentrate on Philip's sniding countenance, ignore the strange and as of yet unknown code that my mobile contained. But the message read: 'Cancelled the gig in Dublin so the retard bus is coming back to Glasgow. We'll be there in a few hours. Darren.'

Shitdisco were on their way back to torture me once again. I gnawed at my arm, let out several agonising whimpers, and then for sheer catharsis I masturbated softly into a nearby handkerchief. I almost ate all the powdered Cillit Bang in the bathroom out of depair aswell before someone pulled the stupid little plastic snoon out of my paw. The memories of last time at Bestival still stained my brain as though these maniacs had literally sawn the top off my skull and poured a mixture of ecstasy and Buckfast in there. I had a good job now, I was able to pay the bills and eat real food nearly every night. Life was getting better for me. I was certainly rehabilitated to some extent, but still fragile. This was not really what I needed.

Four hours later and I was out with Shitdisco, sat next to a girl at a party, telling her friend that her eyes 'looked like really big 8-balls'. Philip Schofiled and the live phone-in seemed another world away now. We were at a party somewhere, I have no idea how we'd gotten there, but it was along Sauchihall Street somewhere in Glasgow.
Afterwards we headed down to Shitdisco's hotel. A five-star fucker. We snorted a few pills (crushed with my NHS medical exemption card) off the excellent glass tables. My mind is a blank after this, all that's left to trace it is several phone numbers written on my arm that I never rang, thinking it best to simply wash them off and sever all connections.


Sunday passed, I went to Shitdisco's gig feeling horrible, fell asleep in a Chinese restaurant with my face in my food. Then came a horrible Monday morning. Darren and I went out to relax in his caravan for a while before the van arrived. It was then that we discovered that Darren's wheel-mounted home had been smashed to bits some time in the night, all the windows knocked through, the kitchen area he'd assembled smashed to bits and the swine had even drawn swastikas all over everything in spray paint. The caravan's guts had been well and truly pulled out. Even the sink that I remember starring at for ages one night last summer whilst crawling around the floor of the caravan on acid searching for grubs had been obliterated. I felt remorse, almost believing all the lies I'd told Mr. Khan for almost a year that I'd inherited it off a dead relative.




I was morose but I've never seen Darren so angry. He insisted that I go and get the out-of-date fireworks I had stored in my room at home to blow up pets when they died. I went and procured them. When I came out he was holding a massive plastic tube. 'Stick one of those in the back of this fucking thing and light it,' he snapped, all wild-eyed. I did as he said seeing no sense in arguing. It took a while to get the thing lit but when it was he missed with this bazooka shot and the screeching rocket went flying to our old place of residence: 61 West Princes Street, where it exploded with glory. Darren almost succeeded in blowing both of his former homes up in one. Likely it was Mr. Khan who totalled the caravan, or some of his henchmen anyway, it wouldn't surprise me. I think Darren had intended to blow the thing up to end his pain, it was his way of letting go and saying goodbye, to blow something to pieces, just as we had with Borg the goldfish when he caught Tom Selleck disease, a condition where fish grow a moustache and then mysteriously die. I spared a thought for poor Borg as we headed for the van to go.

We hurtled down the motorway towards Leeds doing about ninety and I immediately started putting alcohol away like air, not stopping until the journey had come to its end. By the time we reached Leeds I was reeling and my eyes looked like mouldy tangerines. The gig at The Met was great, Shitdisco rammed the pop hole until it burst and its flourescent guts spilled into every orifice of my body.

After the gig Shitdisco were scheduled to play at a house party. At about one o'clock we were in the van again. At one scary moment Ryan, the tour manager & driver, jumped out of the vehicle as it was stopped at a traffic light saying that he was 'going home'. He's Welsh. This didn't stop him. We were all confused, and a bit scared, or at least I was. Ryan was the one who was supposed to be the most together out of the lot of us, the one we could al depend on. Nevertheless, Jan quickly grabbed the wheel and we were away again. Soon we made it to the aforementioned party with all the gear.

The living room was incredibly small. Some people apologised. It was no problem though. We moved the gear in and the band began to play their set without microphones. The place kicked into action. Some guy came flying over the crowd and into my face, knocking my glasses off. I considered biting him on the face as he apologised but thought better of it. Surprisingly no police arrived, normally there'd be at least a few riot police sniffing around, the litmus test for a knowing whether you'd had a good night, all the boxes ticked etc - but perhaps that's just a Glasgow thing. After the band had finished we all went out and had a refreshing balloon of laughing gas in the garden to get us back in the mood.

Damage to the house was minimal, occurring at the landing area at the top of the stairs. Every stick of wood that once made it up had been ripped apart, some pieces I noticed even had teeth marks in them.

By the time I came out of my hopeless trance it was morning, light enough to go outside and watch people go to their works. We walked through a park and back to some guy called Paddy's house where Party Marty and I applied fake tan to our legs. Martin's transformation was much more impressive than mine though, his legs going from maggot-white to Bert Reynolds-bronze in seconds just like on the adverts. There was a genuine glow about his face as he sprayed his legs and kept repeating with glee: 'I've never had a tan in my life.'

When Martin passed me the bottle I saw my chance to make my getaway, rather shrewder than Ryan's escape several hours earier on. I sprayed him in the eyes with the fake tan and made my getaway as his echoing screams chased me down the stairs. I leapt and ran, the idea that I might finally be heading home to safety and normality again filled me with a child-like glee and caressed my stinging brain."

- TOLSON