It took me a while to work out what it was. Why were some fans of popular music trio The Motorheads so unusually restless and, if I’m to be brutally honest, carrying on like pricks? The last few times I’ve had the honour of seeing these gentlemen the audience has been relatively sedate but this evening loads of middle-aged men, most with shaven heads, were engaged in the pre-mosh activity of wrecking. Why was this? Why?
Then I noticed, it wasn’t just gentle English types, there were Northern people, the Scotch were there, but most overwhelmingly, German types.
It was a Saturday, I couldn’t think of the last time I’d been to a gig on Saturday. Now these fellows had all day to get to Brixton safe in the knowledge a lazy Sunday laid ahead. This had inspired these blokes to let down their proverbial comb-overs, they could wheeze-out with impunity then recover before work on Monday…
Aside from this the evening was marvellous. Apart from not being let out to smoke for twenty fucking minutes after the support had cavorted off. Two clearly unwell old women were holding back 500 hairy-arsed headbangers as their colleagues prevaricated over crowd barriers with a view to sorting out an enclave for the smokers whilst simultaneously preventing passing people from slipping into the venue for nout. It was appalling actually, I told one of the security staff that it wasn’t really fair to put two old dears in charge of the doors with hundreds of angry men bearing down on them. He looked at me as if I was ET lap dancing.
But it was still a splendid night, they played all their hits and despite the drummer nipping off for a pee mid way through the set, you’d never know they’re almost due for their bus passes.
The weekend had got off to a cracking start, one of IC’s mates was staying with us from Italy so it seemed rude to not take him out, get him plastered and make him eat a big pile of Thai food. We didn’t over do it mind, to my surprise I was in bed and up relatively early and we headed off to Oxford Street with Patti in tow. It was only when we got there it dawned on me that I a. didn’t want to be there and b. had no reason to be there either. Shit.
To make matters considerably more dreadful Oxford Street had started Christmas in earnest -brass-blowing Santa’s playing carols, wankers in big-head costumes ‘for the kids,’ steel bands, choirs etc. -and thousands of pushy, dour-faced shoppers running about like Cholera. IC and Patti were shopping in earnest, the former looking for shoes, the latter for a dress as I slouched along, cold, annoyed and getting increasingly hungry. More out of boredom than anything I popped into GAP to see if they had any black hoodies, seduced by a miserable Morrissey song I hung around longer than I should and lo and behold I didn’t just find a black hoody, I found one that was lined for extra warmth. It’s worth harping on about this item, so long as you wear a half decent jacket over it, you need no more than a tee underneath for maximum seasonal weather-beating warmth. It’s marvellous.
I felt much better after my purchase, even more so after pork and tofu soup at the Japanese eatery we found ourselves in prior to departing for home. I waited for Lenny to get back from the West-End and we set off at 6-ish. After arriving at Brixton we met up with Ned and Frank in a packed-pub, it took me so long to get served we actually left and managed to find a half empty gaff with good food on offer, Lenny ate and we drank beer until it was time to go to see the band.
After the gig we lucked out again. We were ushered into a bar, again, half empty, and invited to have a few drinks before saying farewell to Frank. Ned and Lenny joined me on the bus and we went home where IC and Sue were waiting for us. A small impromptu party happened and we saw the day off at 4-ish.
Sunday IC and I made a bit of a mistake. It was beautiful day so on the way to the park decided to have a pub lunch, wine happened, my bro joined us a few hours later and we stayed until dark. The weekend was seen off in front of the telly with pizzas and more flaming wine. When will I learn eh, reader
Here is that miserable Morrissey song, in my opinion the only good thing the bugger has done.