The party doesn’t stop at Victoria Park for Lovebox; they’ve just announced the massive names joining them after hours at some of London’s best clubs.
Heidi (pictured), Shy FX, Soul Clap, Oneman and festival founders Groove Armada are some of the names on the post-festival bills, with The Laundry, Village Underground, Oval Space and Shapes hosts.
Artists from a range of genres play at the two-day festival on July 17 and 18 including Rudimental, Bonobo, Annie Mac and Snoop Dogg.
The decision to spend the summer working in Ibiza wasn’t a particularly considered one. A few weeks after drunkenly proposing the idea to a couple of mates back home, there we were, checking into a beachside hotel for a fortnight. My aims for these 14 days were simple: get a job, find somewhere to live and be thrifty with what little money I had.
Two weeks passed in a haze of sunburned days and twisted nights, and I found myself jobless, homeless and skint. I find myself seriously considering selling drugs – going as far as placing an order with a notorious San Antonio dealer – but the thought of getting caught, spending Christmas in a 6x9ft cell, the submissive wife to hairy man named Pablo, acts as an overwhelming deterrent. I even contemplate the H-word: home.
Eventually I answer an advert in the Ship Inn looking for PRs for a new night at one of the big clubs. Not only do I get the job – which, it transpires, pays in grams as well as much-needed Euros – but a workmate points me in the direction of a vacant, one-bedroom basement flat. It’s dark, damp and smelly, overrun with cockroaches, has no natural light and offers little change out of €800 a month. I take it.
“Is it possible I use your shower?” the Slovakian witch is asking me as I splash towards her in an inch of water.
“It’s flooded. It’s fucking flooded. Again!” my flatmate shouts as he walks in the front door. He’s barely audible over the sound of Luciano’s remix of Los Updates ‘Getting Late’, turned all the way up to tinnitus, and the chatter of the 30 or so people camped out in my living room and kitchen.
“The shower?” I ask the witch, thinking I’ve heard her wrong. “Yes. Is it possible?” comes the reply. “I have some problem – with the pee,” she adds, pointing to her crotch. I hear something expensive-sounding shatter in the living room just as the witch enters the bathroom, slamming the door behind her.
