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We ask DJs about their best holidays!

We've all had a memorable family holiday. Often remembered for all the wrong reasons. This correspondent will never forget one week spent in Herodsfoot (Cornwall). The only attraction was a red phone box; it rained constantly and the highlight was my sister yelping with ecstatic joy when someone landed on Old Kent Road, playing Monopoly.

The only day it didn't rain, we got stranded on a beach. Dad banged his head on a boulder while signalling for a helicopter. We should have gone to Butlins.

Which is exactly where hardcore dance heads are going this weekend! Those looking to get 2013 in full swing could do worse than scoring a chalet in Bognor Regis for the second instalment of Bugged Out Weekender. With last year's launch event winning plaudits for its jam-packed line-up, this year promises to be even bigger. From Blawan to Bicep, Dave Clarke to Disclosure, this varied selection of the most wanted of the underground reads more like a list of headliners than a festival line-up.

Spread over three days and with all the mod cons of a good ol' fashioned holiday location, take your most sugar-charged, crazy clown fun trip ever, remove the Red Coats, and multiply it by a thousand. It's gonna be bangin'! 



"I recall a three week family holiday to Fort Lauderdale, Florida and I came back to the UK with an American accent!"


“Back in the early '90s, I went with my family to NYC for a week. With the help of a DJ cousin, I ended up spending the entire time shopping for vinyl, saw the inside of Watts Distribution, went to my first warehouse party thrown by Frankie Bones and his crew. Saw Tenaglia, Murk, and MAW at some party (that's probably famous) and tried "stuff" that changed my life. My family never knew a thing, unless they read this now. Ha! Thanks to this week, I'm the upstanding man I am now.”


“When only small, my parents elected to take the family on holiday to Hailing Island. My mother came down with measles. She was itchy and furious. Her mood was not improved when I was pulverised by local youths whilst defending the honour of my 'national' football team. That week I had decided I was Scottish, from Dalkeith as I recall (I'm English). It was very testing keeping up the accent. Further disaster came in the form of projectile vomit over an unfortunate stranger on a hovercraft and an encounter with the head of a dummy on HMS Victory. My final act of reckless holiday hi-jinks was to take out the chalet window as I re-enacted intergalactic warfare with the aid of various bits of beach flotsam, showering my ailing mother with glass, and ensuring we never returned to that cursed spot.''