
One of the worst things about having crippling overdrafts and debts to pay off is that you tend not to be too fussy about the gigs you accept. A state of affairs which often leads to moments of blind panic when you rock up to what you were led to believe was an 'electro' night with a bag full of Egyptian Lover twelve inches and find out that the promoter's benchmark for electro is in fact Robbie Williams Rudebox opus and you have a club full of people expectantly waiting to get edgy as fuck to Calvin Harris remixes of [...]