dj jonny moirée hops on the mashed-up bangwagon, and brings you a hearty meal of mashed bangers—the best banging tracks, all mashed up in jonny’s big beats blender. chunky electro with sweaty r’n'b, slick synthpop with punky pop. mashed bangers pulverizes jonny’s previous popstarz manic mix hands down—47 songs from 45 different artists crammed into 21 tracks spanning 76 minutes. can you handle it?
- Go Toxic [Yaz vs Britney]
- Rockafeller Rock Shack [B-52's vs Felix Da Housecat vs Fatboy Slim]
- Smells Like Emerge [Fischervana]
- Heartbreaker Music [Glitterati vs Madonna vs KLF vs Bowie]
- Pure Love Energy [Information Society vs Benny Benassi]
- Girl Wants (to say goodbye to) Rock and Roll [Christina Aguilera vs Velvet Underground vs Communards]
- Spin Me Harder [Daft Punk vs Dead or Alive]
- Glamorous Trick [Kelis vs Shelia E]
- Can’t Get You to Shut Up [Black Eyed Peas vs Kylie]
- Justin’s 17 Scene [Justin Timberlake vs Ladytron and Felix Da Housecat]
- Feelin’ Lola Good [Shapeshifters vs No Doubt]
- Seven CeCe Army [Ce Ce Peniston vs White Stripes]
- Power Slut Kiss [Har Mar Superstar vs Prince vs Avenue D]
- Don’t You Want Me Slow [Human League vs Kylie]
- Eple Off Your Shoulder [Jay-Z vs Royksopp]
- DJ Rock Your Buffalo Body [Justin Timberlake vs Neneh Cherry]
- David Byrne Was Born in Dumbarton [Talking Heads vs Franz Ferdinand]
- Laura, Honey… [Moby vs Scissor Sisters]
- Dirrty Kiss [Holly Valance vs Christina Aguilera]
- I Don’t Wanna Shout [Mario Winans vs Missy Elliott vs Tears for Fears]
- S Clubbed to Death [S Club 7 vs Rob Dougan]
props to all of the original mashup bootleggers, including idc, dj tripp, go home productions, mcsleazy, popbastard and the rest!
a few weeks ago i had a party.
500 people showed up.
650 litres of vodka were consumed.
37 mojitos and
14 cosmos were spilled.
there were 2 scottish davids,
2 former lloydies,
2 irish princesses,
1 faggot rapper, and
1 porn star
in attendence.
0 neighbours complained.
1 flat was warmed.
60 photos were taken.
it was just past midnight, and i was waiting for .darian to come out of the vip room. it’s the perfect time of night for a saturday night at .heaven… the bartenders are friendly and sweaty, the boozers are boozy whereas the users aren’t crawling out of cubicles on all fours—yet. sipping a virgin vodka-and-coke, i’m stood outside the heavy wooden door like a bouncer, except i’m not intimidating—in the least. approachable, you might say.
a cute little 18yo boy, dressed from head-to-toe in white, steps up and asks, are you eric bogs? i do what i always do in situations like this, immediately look around for fbi agents or a gang of ninjas. call me paranoid, but living as a member of the ygm [young gay mafia] means you’ve got to stay alert at all times. like those adverts on the tube, i’m always vigilant… do not leave boys unattended, this may cause a security alert.
he’s cute, but definitely not familiar. under a raised eyebrow i say, umm… maybe? i mean, why do you ask?
he looks up, cocks his head. so you’re really eric bogs? i shrug, and reply, well, yeah, i guess so. who are you? he giggles like a gaysha geisha girl and runs away.
dance. shmooze. grind. flirt. smile. drink. joke. gossip. snog. chat. sip. blag. avoid. smile. dance.
4am and i’m still bouncing around the club, like a pinball being wizarded bing bing bing bing bing. gave up on cruising around 1am, and am now just flailing around dramatically [and soberly] from room to room. dancing is therapy, lazers are my god, the dancefloor is my shrine, basslines are my prayers, and sweat is my elixir.
triumphantly emerge into the balmy morning fog, start walking towards trafalgar square. a cute pakistani lad runs up and starts walking alongside. you’re eric, right? eric bogs? confused, again, i look at him to try to judge what’s going on. yeah, what’s your name? he laughs, i knew it was you! i interrogate him, but he reveals nothing. i don’t feel tricked, i don’t feel angry or scared… i feel amusement, certain that there are hidden cameras somewhere, or someone’s been spreading [presumably good] rumors about me.
brighton really recharged my mojo. although i didn’t sleep a wink, walked back and forth across town for hours, and spent hours dancing away in a sweaty tent, i felt mentally energized throughout. in the same way that a good night sleep can leave you exhausted, a very active [aherm] trip left me ready for more.
woke up sunday morning entirely too early, like at 7am, with a smile. i’ve only woken up in my new bed 20 times or so, and the sun beaming in does get me going in the morning. jumped up, grabbed some brekkie and decided to go for a stroll…
i still don’t quite understand vauxhall. it’s seedy yet respectible, it’s dirty yet safe, it would seem. just full of contradictions… like, the sleaziest most drug-fuelled afterhours clubs [.beyond, crash, fire, etc.] are within spitting distance of mi5. to be honest, i think i’m perfectly happy being so close to .heaven and hell…
strolling towards the river, i pass the new bus station they’re building next to vauxhall station. the bus station, uncannily looks like a very slanted, very elevated ramp… similar to the incredibly tall chicago skyway tollroad where i grew up in indiana.
sunning myself along the albert embankment, things started to heat up as throngs of shirtless rollerbladers bladed past, sweaty t-shirts swinging out of back pockets as they silently slalomed past.
i cross at westminster bridge, right under big ben. i have this problem, lately, of making eye contact with pretty much every single person i pass. part of it is cruising for hotties, part of it is looking for familiar faces. i’ve gotten quite good at it with my morning commutes through victoria station, where i can process maybe 10 faces a second. smoke was coming out of my ears though as i tried to navigate through the throngs of [literally] 1000′s of tourists, blocking every inch of pavement and tarmac between big ben all the way up into soho.
i was positively glistening by the time i strutted down old compton street, certain i’d run into at least a few people i know. then i realized it was barely 11am, and certainly all of my friends would still be at church. bought some computer stuff and then went right back down south, to the south bank to oogle the skateboarders.
i had worked at waterloo for about two years in total. in that time, i’d seen hundreds of skateboards attempting tricks to varying degrees, from simple ollies rail grinds and vaults over stairs and rubbish bins. i’d estimate that these posers are successful no more than 1% of the time, perhaps making them the worst skateboarders on the planet. you can tell they ain’t keeping it real when the ratio of expensive dv video cameras to skateboards is about 1:1. i pass another poser, but he’s just posing reading a book or something so i leave him in peace.
still shocked with how much energy i have, i think my body’s operating on solar power, as it hasn’t properly seen the sun since our trip to sydney back in march. cruise all along the south bank, past gabriel’s wharf where there’s some sort of old-age festival going on, all the way up to london bridge where i meet up with felix for a barbeque pub lunch.
as part of my new get-down-to-business philosophy, i’m trying to stop being such a flake, socially, and actually make an effort to see friends i’d been missing. motherly felix repremands me for misbehaving the last few times he’d seen me out and about, and after apologizing for about 10 minutes, we quickly catch up and have some very adult conversations over some smoky charred goodness. we part ways, promising to meet up soon [and this time i really mean it].
on the stroll back home, via kennington, i treat myself to a lemon ice cream cone, where i chat with the shy french ice-cream girl for a bit before handing over my pound coin. i walk home, licking the drippings off my hand for most of the way, arriving home quite sticky but content. i needed to re-acquaint myself with my little hometown.
not sinking
i probably shouldn’t blog about the new magazine i’m starting because any information i divulge will be devoured by our psychotic competitor. things are going incredibly well, and every day presents new challenges, new sucesses and general excitement. i was thinking that maybe it’s all too good to be true, then i remembered that i’m one smart cookie, as are the rest of the team.
i probably shouldn’t blog about my day job, because my colleagues are an internet-savvy bunch. but, i’m loving it and have fallen into a nice groove… a nice variety of internetty projects and diverse teams with friendly smart peeps all around. variety is the spice of life, and the variety of work i do each day keeps me on my toes. i had a meeting the other day with 12 different european accents in the room… i thought that sort of thing only happened in the movies?
i probably shouldn’t blog about my trip down to brighton this weekend for brighton pride, with atif and two delightful lesbian coppers. i shouldn’t mention my naughty escapades, as i’m trying to present myself as wholesome and nice and romantic—especially after running into a blast-from-the-past whom i had let slip through the cracks.
i shouldn’t mention the shirtless french bloke on the dancefloor, who did a striptease while spitting water on atif. i certainly shouldn’t mention later friday night, the two 999 operators i, erm, befriended and forced me to endure a solid hour of 80s eurotrash before adjourning to a stroll along the waterfront. i shouldn’t mention frolicking around shirtless [shirtless?! yes, shirtless] in the sweltering wild fruit tent, my mojo lassoing boys left, right, and center. i certainly shouldn’t mention the train journey home, where i somehow got locked in the toilets with [yet another] french lad, much to the bemusement of an entire carriage of country-music singing elderly lesbians. i certainly shouldn’t take photos.
i shouldn’t mention these things because i truly am starting a new chapter in my life. yeah, i’m quite happy with singledom right now, after ruining relationship after relationship. but, it’s getting to the point now where the summer’s winding down, and i want to spend time with somebody whose company i enjoy, whose dinner conversation i look forward to, someone who can challenge and entertain me. it’s been a while since i’ve really invested effort in a relationship.
and, after a few years of maxxing out credit cards, loans from friends and apologies to the landlord, i’m getting back on my feet financially, having learned some powerful lessons about trust and friendship. time to climb out of debt, and begin to look to the distant future, where i’m owning instead of renting, i have car keys on my keyring, and some investments in the bank.
most exciting at the moment is the starting of my own business… a business which will allow me to fulfill the goals i had when i started at xy—to educate, entertain and empower gay youth, to have some fun doing it, and to make a bit of cash on the side.
in the meantime, though, i’ll just have to watch out for french boys on the train.
it started out so elegant and classy… our brand new vauxhall flat had been polished from top-to-bottom. rows of cocktail glasses, wine glasses and champagne flutes all lined up on the marble countertops. eric the cocktail maker is rinsing off sticky cointreau, stinging lime juice and fragrant fresh mint leaves off his hands. atmospheric uplifting trance echoing in the background, a warm summer breeze blowing through the lounge while we all sat on the bit-too-warm-for-summer black leather sofas.
every party i throw goes through the same life cycle… i freak out way too much in advance, cleaning cleaning cleaning, and then i just ever-so-slightly freak out when nobody shows up when i expect them to. then, i help myself to a cocktail or four, and before i know it i’m introducing friends to friends [they always know each other already, but it's fun to do], i’m mixing drinks and coordinating drug taking.
you’ll always find me in the kitchen at parties. i dunno why it is, but that’s where i live. as such, i carefully planned my outfit to match our mediterranean-feeling kitchen, with spanish tile flooring and sloppy light blue-and-white tile walls. it’s all about the planning… i made sure to slop in an extra glop of crazy glue into my hair gel recipe for the evening.
all my boys were there to celebrate my new shared home with .greg and wesley… atif, marky, mitch, cousin michael. for a refreshing change, we had some beautiful women [real ones!] bless us by stopping by. we had a subset of the ygm [young gay mafia] as well, marcos [on the cover of the metro last week], .darian [on the cover of manzone] and scottish david [on the cover of gay times i hear].
two peeps from my past stopped by, as well. fred from caltech was there, bringing with him a cute date and 4 years of my repressed university memories. eliel from my webwhoring days in san fran was here as well, and i did my best to protect my straight metrosexual friend from my sometimes nasty gay mates.
the hours flew by, and the party just got louder and wilder. i was soon making cocktails by the jug, people were spilling out onto the balcony, and the stereos pumped up louder and louder, but still not quite too loud.
around 4am or so, we all tiptoed down to .beyond, everyone’s favorite afterhours club. last summer i practically lived in this debaucherous club, experimenting with drugs for the first time, really, and seeing naughtiness that still pleasantly haunts me to this day. sex on the dancefloor. cooking up heroin in the loos. and, really really really amazing music, coupled with a wicked sound system and funky lighting.
i spent most of the evening flirting with fred from uni and doing my usual pisstake of scottish david. the hours flew by at .beyond, we all danced away a good liter or two of fluids, and emerged into the warm morning sun of vauxhall. without a second thought, we popped down the street to fire, the after-afterhours club, which runs from 10am till 6pm or somesuch.
the freaks inside fire make the sluts inside .beyond look like angels. we slid around on the sticky dancefloor, hands in the air to the funky tribal riddims, and then eventually stumbled back home to find loads of people keeping the party going. cousin michael rings from outside, saying he needs some money for his taxi. i go down to meet him, and fall to the ground laughing as he explains how he somehow managed to lose his shoes in .beyond. we headinside for some drugs for breakfast, sex for brunch and a nice steamy shower for lunch, and then out the door enmasse to soho pride.
wasn’t sure if i would like the concept of soho pride, but once i realized it’s just another street party with a few 1000 gay boys, i smile snapped onto my face and my stuart alan jones alterego took over, once again. my cockiness at this point was unbridled, and i just started pointing at people left and right, directing them towards me or telling ‘em to feck off. the boys were becoming even more outrageous, with me at one point pouring my drink over marcos just for sheer comedic value.
carla put some sort of lipstick on me which contained some chemical supposed to plump up your lips. instead, i felt like i’d been stung by a bee and my lips grew to enormous not-cute-for-a-man proportions. my energy/adrenaline/seratonin/caffeine/alcohol levels had plummeted, and i knew it was time to head home.
i carefully planned my journey home from soho to vauxhall, but somehow got sidetracked, ending up on the central line out in zone five. that sucked. a few precarious nightbus journeys and a gratuitously long midnight stumble stroll along the thames to eventually arrive home, to a disgustingly sticky flat.
