When I arrived at the Royal Festival Hall it was already dark. As I went in to the main entrance I recalled an earlier happier time when I went to see Motorhead with Myfwt and Jamie, you may have even read about it right here.
I found my way to the function room and walked in due, due to the clement October weather I suddenly realised that I was perspiring like a fucking pig just as a room roomful of total strangers gave me the once over simultaneously. A rivulet of syrupy sweat raced down my cheekbone and disappeared behind my jaw. Where the fuck was my client? I scanned the room dead casual like, I stepped back towards the bar area nearly sending a tray of drinkies over some big mouth berk giving it large on corporate responsibility. I grabbed a drinkie, nice drinkie, and drained it.
Standing in a room full of strangers that you’ve been invited to associate with is very peculiar. You have one thing in common with each and every one which forces you into a corner, either one makes oneself known to them as they’ve clearly noticed you (‘who was the sweaty cunt who nearly threw the shampoo over Brian?’ Etc.,) or one courts attention by looking wistfully out of the window as if trying to recall romantic poetry. I did both; the wistful window shit can only work for a few minutes, as can fiddling with your mobile suavely ‘reading’ non-existent text messages from all of your high-powered associates, so I was forced to hover round a bloke who looked liked he’d had a few and get in there. He was blabbing away to 3 subservient business types, I reasoned that if I targeted the mouthpiece he’d be forced to pass on my gratuities to his audience thus rolling the social ball. As he was pausing for breath I jumped in, introducing myself and reaching out a clammy paw in one badly coordinated move, he looked momentarily startled before suspiciously shaking my hand with a visage of abject confusion. As if cued in by Peter Hall my client appeared, ‘oh, I was just about to introduce you…’ she said to both of us. I was in.
Being much smaller than the Albert Hall, the Festival Hall space is much more intimate, ‘thanks’ to my client I was very close to the orchestra. It was only when I was taking my seat I discovered my ticket had cost fucking £75. To make matters worse I’d also been given a ticket for my un-guest, I’d forgotten to tell them Myfwt was away, which was rather embarrassing. £75 down the pan right there, well at least it wasn’t my money. Easy come easy go, eh…
The Chicago Symphony orchestra are reputed to be one of world’s best, the conductor I was informed, is a genius, my boss had earlier informed that he had a reputation for being a right cunt too. Either way, none of this meant anything to me; I was about to lose over two hours of my life. Of course I tried to get into it, concentrate on what was happening, offset the yawn factor with the visual experience when what I was hearing got dull and vice versa. Nothing helped, not even the bloke playing the Clarinet who went the colour of a ripe Strawberry every time he put the reed to his fat lips. After the first movement of Tchaikovsky’s 6th I was in a fucking coma, the disgusting coordinated coughing and hacking from the so-called posh when there was a break between pieces pulled me back from the brink of death, I’ve seen better manners in anal porn.
After what seemed like weeks there was a break, I nipped off for a fag and a slash and got back to the function room in time to drink some fruity fucking cocktail thing. The second half was due to be shorter; shame the booze wasn’t helping speed things up a bit. I returned to my seat, the conductor ponced back on with his nose in the air and initiated another archaic drone from his underlings. Christ, I’ve not been as bored as this since got so ill I couldn’t get up to turn off Country File, another piece finished, cue a bust of fucking hacking, and off we were again, the final piece, the home straight at last. It went on for ages and bloody ages until, suddenly a burst of applause signalled the end.
Oh Joy! I clapped for my life, the conductor pointed at members of the orchestra who he thought deserved adulation, the egomaniacal wanker, and they dutifully stood to swelling cheers and shout of ‘bravo’ Then they all stood up and the conductor bowed, he glided out the room with his head held high, the applause continued, some cunt shouted ‘more’, ‘no way motherfucker’ I thought, this gig’s scheduled to finish at 9.30, it was 9.30! Ha! I clapped harder, the conductor came on again to receive more adulation, he fucking loved himself, and then off he went again. The applause was unbroken; I waited for it to die down before leaving like a scalded rat, but the clapping had seemed to intensify, surely they weren’t hoping for an enc… Oh Christ no.
To my horror the conductor called for calm and addressed the audience. I couldn’t make out what he was saying, I was praying he’d just keel over, but I heard the word ‘Schubert’ and before I’d a chance to scream ‘Noooooooooooo’ off they all went again. A miserable dirge rose from the musicians, this was the sort of shit they played as the Titanic sunk, fucking hell, I’d seen Motorhead in this very place less than 4 months ago, I’d have gladly swapped the Chicago Symphony Orchestra to watch Lemmy checking his clockweights for lumps. Another age passed, when they finished this time I wasn’t going to hang about, fuck my clients, contacts, job, I was out the door. Gone in 60 seconds. I was free.
I rattled home on the tube infuriated that my Friday have been stoved in and that due to the time I may not make it to the off licence to procure life saving wine. I made it, just, and got back in time for the start of Phone Booth, what a load of fucking shit. No idea what time I went to bed, I rocked out after that.
On Saturday I got up in time for the F1 qualifying and to check my emails. Yesterday after posting the Anti Nowhere League vid on youtube I went out checked out their site. I last saw The League 15 years ago in a shut venue called The Jolly Boatman in Hampton Court. When I was a kid it used to be a café and mum would take me there for ice cream, and there I was 15 years later being sick in a bin. I digress.
The site http://www.antinowhereleague.com/ has a posting for a splendid single called ‘Mother, your a liar’, that’s ‘your’ not ‘you’re’. Being a pedantic little shit I decided to post Animal an e-mail to tell him. Not expect anything back I was rather chuffed when I received an amusing reply.
After the F1 and the fucking shopping I went out to meet with Frank at the pub, we had a couple in the midst of a load of Rugby types resting after the England/Aussie match. I went back home and rocked out until the small hours.
Full of trepidation I flicked on The Chinese F1 at 11.30 with a kipper on my lap (it was on a plate dear reader, I’m not falling for that one again) only to watch Hamilton’s team, McClaren, make the worst decision in history since someone bought George Best a pint. The upshot was disappointment personified but he’s still in with a chance. Fuck, though.
I decided a blast on the black bitch was the only solution so I headed off to the country to see my sis, bro in law and my still very new niece. It was a beautiful autumn day, warm with touch of crispness, the light was bright and sharp and I gave her a right handful, not my niece, my black bitch… I hung about for a couple of hours watching her blow bubbles and chatting with her parents whilst drinking tea and smoking tabs (outside of course).
The evening passed slouched in front of the box eating and drinking, I had Monday off; I could push the boat out as far as I wished. On Monday I didn’t get up until 1pm, I was free of any hangover, had slept straight for nearly 12 hours and Myfwt had left me a message saying he was coming back a day early. Acer. I took a long bath, ate another kipper and spent the remaining afternoon writing before hooking up with Frank for a couple of Theakston’s prior to the return of Myfwt. I must admit, when she did finally arrive it was jolly fucking nice to see her.
Cunt news just in. Following the row last week I can now confirm that the mother of his hairy kid and indeed, the hairy kid are no longer in the building. This means no more screaming from junior or indeed, them, but it could signal the restart of his wank jelqing career resulting on him embarking on the ‘I’m a cunt of such magnanimous vastness I should fucking die, now’ tour, the tour will take place nightly in a dirty little corner his grief hole. I will, of course, be the sole audience member of the ‘show’. I’m willing to show extreme anger and hate in his ludicrous face just to show my appreciation, for an encore I will kick his teeth in.
Right, its Anti Nowhere League week, this is one for the laydeez
futile screamings from a git 