Saturday late afternoon, sat in Mary’s hairdressers in Clerkenwell watching vast chunks of my hair float listlessly down to hell, I watched my re-birth with a mixture of amusement and trepidation, Mary giggled behind a veil of clinking flashing steel, ‘Johnny Rotten circa 1977,’ I’d mentioned it by means of trying to describe short hair that wasn’t kempt or tidy, in this respect she did a stunning job. I’m still not used to seeing my moon-sized forehead, having hair sticking out my cranium like the amateur flora and fauna of an inner city allotment, but I am happy with this new hirsute creation. More importantly, IC fucking loves it. Go me… so I went right off after to see Motorhead.
Friday had begun slowly; IC had suffered a less than easy day in her office that had resulted in her having to work late. Nonetheless, we made it to the restaurant by 9 and were instantly cured of all weekday bothers by the surroundings, dark oak-panelled dining room with rococo finishings and the menu, Japanese fare, all looking right pretty with wine arriving at our elbows. We ate sushi, sashimi and deep fried oysters and rice, noodles… we unwound in the most agreeable manner, and I’m delighted say IC footed the bill too.
I slept in Saturday morning, IC popped off to do some work and I took time to quickly clean Brutta, conscious that I was doing a bike-clean for the first time in my garden, which made the job rather pleasurable. After some shopping I had a very late breakfast with IC and by mid afternoon I was heading west to get my head grated. The journey after my slicing was shit. I had to take a bus to Holborn, central line to Notting Hill, district line to Hammersmith, all undertaken without i-pod, book or paper. By the time I arrived at a pub lurking up Fulham Palace Road it was bucketing it down with rain. As it wasn’t even 6pm yet I was able to grab a table with the newly arrived Jerry and John and beers began to disappear in earnest. Jamie arrived half an hour later and we remained in a darkening pub until 7.30 or so before taking ourselves off to The Odeon via a final boozer, now solid with Motorhead types, and had one more.
The Odeon was heaving with large hairy blokes but for all the swaggering and gurning you couldn’t be safer if you were in a tearoom in Tunbridge Wells. Some of the blokes had even brought their kids along; at least I hope they were their kids… After wrestling for position at the merch stand I bought another beanie (I buy one ever year I see them then lose it just after Christmas) and then did the same at the bar. We saw the end of Girlschool’s set that featured a reluctant Lemmy for Please Don’t Touch (never thought I’d see that btw, marvellous) then got some more beers. Jamie and I missed the beginning of The Damned (and New Rose, annoyingly) but they tore through most of their classics with X-Factor enthusiasm, not bad for a bunch of 50 year-olds. I was particularly delighted to hear Curtain Call, a few year back one of our pals knacked himself and they played it at his funeral. At the end of the set Captain Sensible did a few seconds of Happy Talk before being literally carried off (still playing, a-ho-ho) by a bear-sized roadie. Marvellous.
After more beer Motorhead finally came on stage. By now I was separated from my crew but, beer in hand, I settled in a spot to the left near the middle. Perfect, nice and loud, no cunts leaping about and space to unwind. Seeing Motorhead is a bit like seeing funny old relatives, albeit raucous warty ones, as I’ve seen them virtually every autumn since I was 18. I find it extremely comforting when they play, the only other band that have this milk and honey aspect on my being is Hawkwind, and we’ll come to them in a couple of weeks.
After locating my mates on the other side of the auditorium, Jamie and I, now rather pissed, decided to head up the front. Following much pushing and shoving we got right up to the barrier where we were merrily crushed right under the shadow of Lemmy’s bass, I recall I was laughing my head off for about 20 minutes in this thundering din as we were subject to waves of heaving bodies crashing to and fro… By the time they finally left us following a protracted bout of Overkill I’d I yelled myself hoarse and was in possession of one of Lemmy’s picks that had been sheepishly handed to me by a little Indian security guard after it landed short of the crowd-proper. I was dead chuffed.
The fucking journey back was a nightmare, apparently I nearly got into two fights but I’m not sure of any peripheral circumstance. After a harrowfying tube excursion we alighted at Bethnal Green and waiting for an age in the pissing rain, thank fuck for my Motor-Hat. We finally arrived home where a less that sober IC joined us for a post-gig blow out and we wrung the last remaining drops out of a killer Saturday.
Sunday: after blowing off into his retching face, I let Jamie out of the garden and invited IC for breakfast, a bloody great fry-up in the excellent greasy spoon round the corner. It went a long way to fixing me for the rest of the day. IC and I spent a good few hours being pathetic and lazy and then with Mary and Matt bussed it to The City to see a friend celebrating a decade of being in London. The venue was okay looking but let down hugely by the fucking crooner music (Andy Fucking Williams and the like) played at ear splitting volume. Against my better nature I had a couple of glasses of wine (it was one of those places) and settled into the conversation, well, what I could hear bearing in mind I’d just seen the loudest band on earth the previous evening, and just as I was getting into the swing of things we left for home.
IC and I rounded the weekend off with some supper and at 10pm Mary and O came over to watch Sunshine on my new-and-not-much-used TV. The horror of Monday bubbled away in my seething guts as the film climaxed; I even regret my decision to abstain in hindsight.
No Piqued tomorrow, I’m in Birmingham for the Bike Show. Tune in on Wednesday to be subsequently bored shitless by my largely isolated peccadillo of two-wheeled things that aren’t bicycles or scooters.