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Hidden in darkling Essex, Epping Forest is a fearful place; twisted trees fight for a glimpse of sunlight and long-forgotten Manor Houses loom wearily from the mist. A stout adventurer might see deadly badgers defend the blasted heath tooth-and-nail against vicious, bloodthirsty deer - the gloom is like a blanket, stifling and impenetrable.
Walk a little further and you might notice the light of a campfire up ahead. Further still and you strain to catch distant laughter on the wind. A bone-chilling cry of 'BLUUUMPYYYY!' reaches your ears. Suddenly, crashing through the undergrowth, four dishevelled men appear, quite clearly drunk and maybe even slightly retarded. You can but gasp in horror and suprise: Could it be? Yes it could - the mighty FEAR OF FRIDAYS! You sit and listen to their story. A tear rolls down your cheek and a thrill streaks through your bones like quicksilver as a legend unfolds before your very eyes.
FEAR OF FRIDAYS (known to some as the FOF) is an 8-legged screaming suicide machine wrought from brutal beats, bludgeoning bass, murderous melodies, vicious vocals and awful alliteration. In the finest schizophrenic tradition of good cop/bad cop, they are an effective blend of catchy pop-punk melody and screamo hardcore brutality. They also laugh a lot and jump around like twats.