To our Fat! Faithful

There is one day to go until the CTF Birthday Bash! We are positively wet with excitement here in the office and we don’t want to hear any lame excuses from you like your girlfriend’s ill or you don’t have anything to wear… just make sure you’re there!

We’ve got a load of interviews and mixes from some of the DJs performing and this month’s episode of the ever entertaining fatmail for you… check ‘em out:

Interviews with Duke Dumont, Micky Slim, Baobinga + Reso: http://www.thefatclub.com/chewthefat/

Mixes:                                                                                                                                                                                                 Duke Dumont http://www.yousendit.com/transfer.php?action=batch_download&batch_id=bVlCK2VpeFV0QTFjR0E9PQ

Reso https://rcpt.yousendit.com/611094675/a16b5b55afc71158454bff4e5619e97f

Baobinga http://www.sendspace.com/file/z6z8dq

///////////// FATMAIL DEBTMAIL ////////////////////

download Calendar Girls When future historians trawl through the wreckage of the memory of 2008, they will surely note some significant events. Some will mark ’08 as the year that the tumescently spoilt cxck of global capitalism exploded in a vicious ejxculation of shame, covering us all in the rancid debt-juice brewed up in the capacious pinstripe trousers of a thousand greedy strap-ons in the City.

Others will remember Britain collectively overcome with patriotic hysteria when some British cyclists cycled faster than some other cyclists in Beijing and this country suddenly united under one groove for the first time since ecstasy had us all touching each other’s backsides in a field near East Grinstead in the early nineties.

And others still will only recall joyously wacking off to Channel 5’s erotic pre-midnight documentaries.

But, as we prepare to celebrate our 11th Birthday here at Fat! we will remember this as the year that The End came to a close. An era of music, love, party and enduring mediocrity. An era of dancefloor highs and cultural lows. An era when women were women, and men were standing closely nearby grinning lasciviously. We wish we could say that we will cherish the memories of the good times, but sadly the horse-pills have erased all of those. All we have left are the vague pangs of guilt, shame and a rather pronounced chafing of the lower perineum.

But what happened to The End? Luxury apartments, that’s what. Where once a veritable microcosm of under-evolved humanity rubbed their sweaty faces up against each other to the endless throb of a tech-house kick-drum, now a handful of over-privileged snot-xrses will sit sipping lattes and smugly braying how lucky they are to live so close to Agent Provocateur. It can only be a sign of the crazy times we live in.

Yet, the global financial crisis means little if your only assets are piles of spectacularly useless vinyl records that would be unlikely to even provide a welcome diversion for a feral wolf-child emerging from 20 years solitary confinement and sensory deprivation in a Belgian dungeon. But records is what we’ve got, and we’re gonna continue ruthlessly flogging them to you at every opportunity we get, until the bailiffs come for the very shirts on our back. Even if it means subsidising our income by hawking handjobs on Hampstead Heath, like most of the music industry will be doing by 2009.

But the show will go on. Other highlights of the year so far include:

1. Another memorable season in Ibiza. Record numbers of horse-pills were inserted up rotund xnuses and the recorded rate of nasal prolapses set a new EU record. Ibizan locals enjoyed almost unprecedented numbers of semi-neanderthal Britishers sloshing through their own vomit and urine on the streets of Ibiza’s capital.

A suitably banal summary of this summer can be viewed on the latest We Love… videocast: http://www.vimeo.com/1778763

2. Thousands came out to Troublestock to honour and serve, using their money for something slightly more useful than keeping us in mandrax and imported viagra, by contributing to Paul Arnold’s recovery fund from Leukemia.

What triumphs could possibly happen next?

THE END OF THE END OF THE END

Rumour has it that 10,000 club-trotting Italian sex-pests will be staging a mass leer to register their objection when The End club, their favourite stomping ground, closes at the end of the year. Whilst news has also come in that London Zoo’s gorilla enclosure expects a sudden influx of new inhabitants as The End’s door staff collect their P45s. While in east London, the big brains behind Matter offer thousands of clubbers the abject misery of traipsing through the windswept wasteland of London’s docklands only to be humiliated on arrival by the sight of their own hideously gurning visages projected onto three thousand foot monitors inside the venue.

But if you think clubland’s lost the plot, wait until you see the line-up we’re plaintively hoping you’ll think is cutting-edge for this month’s Chew The Fat! It’s time to cut your losses and invest with your feet into a debenture of diabolical music at our veritable feast of credit crunk, debt-hop and drum’n’bailliff.