GRUNK can be aptly likened to a grim discharge that dribbles and steadily oozes from a penis that's championed STI bingo twice over, combined with the clear-up after a bukkake tea party; they're disgusting, need a shed load of disinfectant, but are reminders of an especially fun time. The ridiculously noisy, endearingly weird, but extremely loveable grind-meets-necropunk five-piece from Rugby, England revel in their proclivities for the debauched, disgusting, and downright disturbing, which are as entertaining in the flesh, as they are through headphones.

With "subtlety" removed from this rambunctious collective's vocabulary and a clear predilection for the obscure and distasteful, GRUNK thrive on living life loud and ride on the ejaculatory waves of grind's harsh aesthetics, all while they epitomise blitzed up, sensual necropunk sonic porn. "Tales from the Stupidity Vortex" encompasses everything mayhemic and chaotic, ensuring that even the thematic is completely off-the-chain weird and fun, ranging anywhere from jars of bodily fluids and wrestling dinosaurs, through to fast cars (which is actually pretty normal) and falling in love in space. If you can think it, GRUNK probably invented it.

True to the genre, the tracks last about as long as the guys probably do in the sack, but equally, what they do pack into an average of just over sixty seconds a song is filth of the highest order. The best way to succinctly describe the tools of GRUNK is "carnage", which when blended with a lo-fi production, gives the sort of DIY, homemade authenticity you want to enjoy this expert noise at its best. As much as subtlety doesn't feature in the band's music, neither does order or anything vaguely linear in fashion, and that's EXACTLY why GRUNK are so bloody excellent.

Asides from a little control in the narrated intro, the splatter of "Radiator Spunk" serves up a full facial of noise, wielding the noxious funk of a spotty teenage lad's crusty wank sock throughout. In fact, it's so effective in ejaculating its filth over you, you couldn't be blamed for thinking it just got you pregnant. The disordered aggression continues in something a little more 'tuneful' on the ears in "Godolkin the Iconoblast" with some juicy riffs furiously served up in amongst a vocal cock-measuring contest between Ollie and Ramón. Who has the biggest set of pipes? Well, between the yawping and the grunting squeals, it's hard to tell, but they're both keenly executed and eager to please. "Iron Coffin" takes us for a spin with blasts and mayhem, while the anthemic "Fuck You Terry" is as catchy as the clap, and "Sir Kennington Brown" dives into a punkier mix slathered in grind leprosy at the end. "Look at the Flowers" is far from beauteous with its hideous concoction of noise-fuelled atrocities and the abrasive gutturals of "Urgleburgle" will straight-up have you feeling harassed.

At this point of "Tales from the Stupidity Vortex" you really will be on the cusp of an aneurysm, and if you're not, the harsh dynamics of "The Life and Times of Luchasaurus" will tip you there. In fact, if you haven't got the aroma of burnt toast in your nostrils after the frenzy of "Double Singularity", please seek help: this album is going to pound you harder than a Tory gangbang.

"Tales from the Stupidity Vortex" does what it says on the tin: if you're expecting smooth virtuosity, you'll be bitterly disappointed. However, if you're a fan of the more extreme side of the metal spectrum, have a penchant for sonic sodomy, and cream yourself over people abusing their instruments and themselves, you'll love GRUNK. This album made the earth move for me and performed full-blown "Grunkilingus", making me froth my own flappucino in appreciation of this especially unique level of fuckery. Once you've visited GRUNK's house, be sure to wipe your feet on the way out, mop up your mess, and decide whether you want one lump or two with your special coffee.