Category Archives: brixton academy

a new man

It’s a testament to the mildness of the weekend that I should be so surprised how cold it is today, I mean, it’s still fucking January after all but this morning it seemed colder than Captain Scott’s gaping maw. Not that I saw much of the weather this weekend, on Sunday I didn’t leave the flat, I didn’t get up until 6pm and that was only because I figured that unless I was vertical for at least a portion of the day, sleep might not happen later.

The black bitch doesn’t like this sort of weather and she squarked reluctantly into life this morning. As I rode in to work I past by the various landmarks of my weekend yearning for what was. It’s the most awful thing to do, dwell on what has recently past in the futile hope that you’ll be somehow whisked back to a particular moment in time all pissed up with two lie-ins ahead…

In lieu of being able to physically move there, let’s us take a journey back in time to Friday, sat in this very same spot as I type, shutting down my computer, getting on my bike clobber and leaving to get back home and change. Shortly after that Gee and I met in the usual and we were joined by Frank and his missus for a 3-pint debrief before heading off on the tube to Brixton. We decided that we had enough time to have a quick pint before Korn came on stage at a pub called The Goose. I’m only mentioning this because I’ve never ever been to a place that stunk as much as this. It wasn’t so much as revolting as extraordinary; the gents toilets were so dense with ammonia it was virtually impossible to actually breathe. Hyperbole aside this one, so bad was it that when I eventually did get home I put my Converse and my jeans straight in the wash… Gee and I sunk our drinks in under 5 mins and we went to the Academy. We had a couple in the bar with some of Gee’s friends and Gee noticed that Gary Numan was wandering about within metres of us. I’m fairly sure I’ve mentioned in a previous Piqued that he and I have a history, I met him once a long long time ago, I’d taken it on myself to sit behind him and perform a sarcastic rendition of ‘Cars’ and he asked if I’d ‘like a fucking medal’ -I was 14 and acting as a runner for a one off bank holiday telly show special called Names and Games. Twenty-five years on I walked up to Numan and mentioned the incident, in addition to remembering doing the show, he remembered a rude little sod taking the piss out of him, I took it upon myself to apologise for my precocious behaviour, he found the whole thing rather funny, in not a little surreal, and we shook hands. I’d been atoned.

Shortly after Korn appeared. The atmosphere was strangely restrained, I’m fairly sure the gig hadn’t sold-out because I was able to move without too much problem and whilst the band we right up to scratch, they were too quiet. I’m now sure of one of two things (bearing in mind I have had my ears cleaned lately) that some sort of health and safety shit has been slipped by requiring the volume to be substantially compromised or that cigarette smoke acted as some kind of molecular sound accelerant. We took the tube back to Tooting, grabbed a kebab each, returned home and rocked out with a tin or two of beer. I think we put in a 3am or so?

Either way I was awake by 11-ish feeling strangely okay, probably because I’d stuck to beer and eaten late. I ate breakfast / lunch (a splendid kipper with loads of toast) and undertook the usual Friday hell to the fucking shops. I took a long sobering bath and prepared myself for the evening, Myfwt bro-in-law 40th Birthday at a Brasserie in Wandsworth. Myfwt came over at about 6 and we got ready for the evening, we took a cab to the venue and were plied with champagne and canapés on arrival, both delicious. I knew quite a lot of Myfwt family but hadn’t seen some in years. I slipped into proceedings like a seasoned pro and did the rounds, ending on a table with a chap who I’d met a few years ago and another fellow from San Francisco who was big in the film industry (but without all the attitude I hasten to add). The former fellow had been a drummer in a punk band and had supported The Subhumans back in the day, which served to lubricate our already enthusiastic chitchat. Despite my initial trepidation of having to meet lots of family members and strangers the evening was a triumph and Myfwt and I wobbled home after many long goodbyes.

Myfwt and I returned home and drunk a bottle of Moet that I’d had lying around from some work do and we went to bed blowing bubbles. This should go some way to explaining why Sunday was somewhat subdued.

Gee has just called me, we were discussing Ministry in the small hours on Saturday morning and wondering when they may be playing, lo and behold dates have just been published. It’s small world isn’t it, but I wouldn’t like to paint it.

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full moon fever

It’s the full moon; I’ve just worked it out, why didn’t I notice this before? Up to, during, but seldom just after, Cunt is at his worst. Last night was no exception when he opened his ‘set’ at 11.00pm with a soundcheck. He actually said ‘one two one two, thank you’. There was no one there. Just him.

I pounded the heel my foot into the floor and it went quiet for about 15 minutes. Then the front door went and something unemployed and disgusting appeared out of the gloom. This creature reckoned it could play the harmonica, which wasn’t the problem; it was Cunt shouting someone’s lyrics tonelessly, tunelessly in the wrong order. Myfwt slept through the din while I seethed in the dark, I was compromised by my desire to go downstairs and slam hard on his door/face or remain impassive so as not to wake her up. I opted for the latter, I’m exhausted, she slept like a doll.

Up until then last night was rather nice, despite the fact I didn’t drink. I made salmon and stir fry with Piqued’s Pepper sauce *winks* and we watched Grand Designs on More4. Downstairs the hairy extension was screaming the place down, I’ve no idea where its mother was or what the fuck was going on, but at some point it went to afford the occurrences mentioned at the beginning of the post, or it died.

We watched Curb Your Enthusiasm in bed, Myfwt reluctant at first, apparently Larry David reminds her of me and this is apparently ‘irritating’, but it was such a beautifully crafted episode she couldn’t resist. The Mr. Jew line nearly killed me; really, you should’ve been there. Actually I’m glad you weren’t or I would’ve been forced to call the authorities.

It’s gorgeous day so far, winter sunlight is always the most sublime because it has that air of serendipity about it, and following my night off I have two days of mild socialising. I’ll probably take Thursday off too in order to prepare my liver for Friday, Gee and I are going to Brixton to see Korn which will probably involve our having to be social and shit.

Despite still being in the month of January I can see the end of it, February isn’t much better but at least it’s a moth closer to the start of the motor sport season, which, for me, means Spring and is imbued with misty, happy recollections of my childhood; TV after Sunday lunch with Murray Walker screaming his head off and my dad complaining at his inability to coherently express factual information about drivers and their cars…

Right, I need to get on, it’s busy here.

This is lovely, great video too…