Everything I can remember about Obscene Extreme 2011

Which energy drink branded megatour package at the beer-brand venue will you be taking in today then, my friend? Poor Western World, for all its success and prosperity and network of crystal clear soundboards, its success has shunted top tier grindcore and crust punk off the radar by creating an enviroment about as welcome to DIY, tofu-pressing values as a Coca Cola Popemobile. Thank MOSH001 then for the Czech Republic's annual grindtopia Obscene Extreme.

The sound is occasionally shitty, the big screens alternate between showing the actual bands to showing horror movies, kids' TV and porn, irritating old hands insist on loudly recalling a time x years ago when they could buy a hundred beers for a fiver, and there's no shortage of fashion disasters emptied out from the overflowing squats of Berlin, Budapest and Bratislava. Vice magazine would clap their little pudgy hands together and squeal with glee, setting up the DOs/DON'Ts for life.

This review is very, very late, and subsequently all I have to offer a series of disjointed memories. No apologies though, I do have a project job and I don't owe you anything at all.

Entombed are the perfect festival band, because they're FUCKING ENTOMBED.

Skitsystem definitely happened.

Benediction arrive late on the Thursday, storm through a killer set and spend the rest of the weekend drunk and over-excited, like they're peering through the mirror into their own mispent collective youth, sniffing glue and watching Discharge.

The Varukers are the band of the weekend, no doubt. Great presence, great fun, great snarling Cockney stage banter (I know they're not Cockneys), Benediction and Brutal Truth look on with absolute delight. Bands like The Varukers are the reason punks in Europe still wear Union flag shirts and patches, nobody does blue-collar, working class pugelism like anarchopunk survivors.

Kofola, the Czech equivalent of Coke, is much nicer than Coke – it's really tangy and not as gassy, and comes in a beautifully ergonomical bottle. Also, you get to feel as though you're sticking a middle finger up at capitalist pigdog west while enjoying the only legit culinary experience you can have in the Czech Republic if you don't want beer-fried dumplings wrapped in pork.

Though Brutal Truth play a double-set, the entirety of their new album plus a regular set, it only feels like it lasts about six minutes. BOOO. Was that because they're so bloody good, or because I was so drunk I was well on my way to doing a chocolate sick?

Instinct Of Survival feel as though they should be Americans or Swedes, given they spend so much time looking perfect, like they have little pictures of Deviated Instinct stuck up on their big flash-bulb covered dressing room mirror.

Rotten Sound are furious, treading that fine line between contrived perfection and genuine rawness.

Magrudergrind got an unexpectedly foaming reaction, given how ambivalent OEF's audience can be about American bands sometimes. Good for them, you will never, ever get bored of watching Magrudergrind, regardless of how many times you've seen them.

Last Days Of Humanity cancel every single show they ever play so I can't remember if I actually saw them, but one band was this year's Rompeprop – dancing bananas and rumbling, gurgling swamp-grind– and I can only assume if they turned up it was them.

Brujeria had a stage invasion to that fucking Marijuana song. Amazingly, the worst thing about them will never be their music, it'll be the money-grabbing, petulant cowboy from St Helens, Jeff "Am I not punk now?" Walker. Jeff, you're a cunt.

I got drunk, had a cocoa Trek energy bar and threw it up again later. Nicest tasting vom ever.

I also chipped a tooth somewhere, somehow. Perhaps biting down on a railing while grindcore entered me.

Photographers at festivals who alternate between shooting bands and taking wierdly voyeuristic photos of attractive girls like their appearance is somehow public property are extremely gross, creepy and wrong, and need to urgently stop doing so.

Come with me next year, yeah?