It's a tough call, really. Spend weeks on end away from home, being blamed for every fault by a gang of petty backstabbing losers, or...
Hmm, tough choice, that. As they say in Holland; 'Doeeeee!'
Friday, October 23, 2009
Phoned In
I'm in Australia again. Actually New Zealand today, since last night. And back to Adelaide tomorrow. Very little to report otherwise, apart from the fact I'm being gently nudged out of my job after 3 years and will soon be Daddy Daycare.
It's a tough call, really. Spend weeks on end away from home, being blamed for every fault by a gang of petty backstabbing losers, or...
Hmm, tough choice, that. As they say in Holland; 'Doeeeee!'
It's a tough call, really. Spend weeks on end away from home, being blamed for every fault by a gang of petty backstabbing losers, or...
Hmm, tough choice, that. As they say in Holland; 'Doeeeee!'
Monday, August 10, 2009
Endless Summer?
A few words (some real, some made up) I could gladly never hear or read again.
Staycation
Barbecue summer
Second-home allowance
Helicopters (more of)
Berlusconi
Tombstoning
GaGa
Yes, this is just a list of the stuff that's currently fucking me off. If you're British and you've picked up a paper in the last three months you'll understand.
Monday, June 22, 2009
Sunrise, Sunset II
I didn't bother trying to stay awake for the drive from LA. In the past I'd got drunk as a monkey before check-in but this time I had reason to go straight to bed. After the usual petty grumbling about his room from the same petulant wankshaft, I got into a real bed around 3.30.
I was awakened from my fuzzy slumber at 7.15 and almost went back to bed, but soldiering on, I packed my bag and went downstairs for breakfast.
Following a quick trip to the bus to raid the beer fridge, the cooler was packed and we were on our way to Mission Beach, San Diego. Sitting on the near-deserted beach at 8.30 in jeans and a jacket, ominous clouds overhead, I was wishing I'd stayed in bed.
Not being the greatest swimmer, I let my regular off-day buddy Crabman go first. The other guy, Lobsterboy, had his own board and suit so he would act as instructor.
When I finished laughing my ass off at watching Crabman get dunked by the waves, it was my turn. lobsterboy, in broken English, gave me the very basics on paddling out, surviving breaking waves and sitting up on the board.
Then he high-fived me, said 'you are surfer now!' and fucked off.
Now, I know a lot has been written about the sea and surfing. Surfers have a certain 'you wouldn't understand, mere land-person' attitude. But there's definitely something special about it.
Once you're in there, paddling for dear life to catch up with your buddy, regularly rolling under the breakers or getting ripped from the board, the sea is a beast. It doesn't want you there, wants to dump you back on the sand. I knew standing up would be a struggle, most likely would never happen on my first day. I knew it would be tiring. I wasn't anticipating a David & Goliath-style battle of wits.
I expected the tide would be regular, like that part in Papillon where he counts the waves, times his leap and in doing so avoids the deadly rocks, instead being flumed harmlessly out to open sea and escape. This was not the case. Some waves were only feet apart, so that if you survive the first lashing, you find yourself scrambling in a trough, a bigger wave breaking right over you.
It's a weird feeling to be belly-deep in water one second, then be 15 feet from seabed the next. Or to be thrown from your board, the waves roaring over your head and the force of the wave dragging you by the ankle back towards shore. In 2 seconds you can be 30 feet closer to the beach, coughing and spluttering, stinging from the shock of the wave or maybe the board hitting you on the head as it's forced from the water.
Pretty soon we were all exhausted, and collapsed on our little spot of safety with a beer. For Lobsterboy it was simply hair of the dog, for us a hard-earned reward. As the tide died down and the waves got more crowded, Lobsterboypassed out, so Crabman and I went out together for a while, laughing at each other's misfortunes.
This time I felt different about the waves; less frightened yet more wary. Up to now I'd been fighting against the sea, and unless you're that guy with the blue penis in Watchmen, that's pretty much an unwinnable battle. Now I was treating it more like a difficult friend; employing techniques to get my way, treating it with caution and respect.
Being rushed towards the shore at an unexpected pace, I managed to stand for a brief, shining half-second before tumbling into the surf in a foot of water. Lobsterboy seemed to sense it, as he rose from his coma to witness the glorious moment.
And yet, something overshadowed this shining day. As you all know, yesterday was Fathers' Day. This one was different for me, as rather than being the one who had to buy a card, I actually received a card.
But being away from Trousers Jr and Mrs Trousers was more difficult than I ever imagined it would be. It's difficult anyway, being so far away and knowing Mrs T is raising him pretty much single-handed.
But seeing young fathers on the beach with their sons, digging sandcastles and throwing balls? Yep, there was sand in my eyes yesterday. That must have been it.
I was awakened from my fuzzy slumber at 7.15 and almost went back to bed, but soldiering on, I packed my bag and went downstairs for breakfast.
Following a quick trip to the bus to raid the beer fridge, the cooler was packed and we were on our way to Mission Beach, San Diego. Sitting on the near-deserted beach at 8.30 in jeans and a jacket, ominous clouds overhead, I was wishing I'd stayed in bed.
Not being the greatest swimmer, I let my regular off-day buddy Crabman go first. The other guy, Lobsterboy, had his own board and suit so he would act as instructor.
When I finished laughing my ass off at watching Crabman get dunked by the waves, it was my turn. lobsterboy, in broken English, gave me the very basics on paddling out, surviving breaking waves and sitting up on the board.
Then he high-fived me, said 'you are surfer now!' and fucked off.
Now, I know a lot has been written about the sea and surfing. Surfers have a certain 'you wouldn't understand, mere land-person' attitude. But there's definitely something special about it.Once you're in there, paddling for dear life to catch up with your buddy, regularly rolling under the breakers or getting ripped from the board, the sea is a beast. It doesn't want you there, wants to dump you back on the sand. I knew standing up would be a struggle, most likely would never happen on my first day. I knew it would be tiring. I wasn't anticipating a David & Goliath-style battle of wits.
I expected the tide would be regular, like that part in Papillon where he counts the waves, times his leap and in doing so avoids the deadly rocks, instead being flumed harmlessly out to open sea and escape. This was not the case. Some waves were only feet apart, so that if you survive the first lashing, you find yourself scrambling in a trough, a bigger wave breaking right over you.
It's a weird feeling to be belly-deep in water one second, then be 15 feet from seabed the next. Or to be thrown from your board, the waves roaring over your head and the force of the wave dragging you by the ankle back towards shore. In 2 seconds you can be 30 feet closer to the beach, coughing and spluttering, stinging from the shock of the wave or maybe the board hitting you on the head as it's forced from the water.
Pretty soon we were all exhausted, and collapsed on our little spot of safety with a beer. For Lobsterboy it was simply hair of the dog, for us a hard-earned reward. As the tide died down and the waves got more crowded, Lobsterboypassed out, so Crabman and I went out together for a while, laughing at each other's misfortunes.
This time I felt different about the waves; less frightened yet more wary. Up to now I'd been fighting against the sea, and unless you're that guy with the blue penis in Watchmen, that's pretty much an unwinnable battle. Now I was treating it more like a difficult friend; employing techniques to get my way, treating it with caution and respect.
Being rushed towards the shore at an unexpected pace, I managed to stand for a brief, shining half-second before tumbling into the surf in a foot of water. Lobsterboy seemed to sense it, as he rose from his coma to witness the glorious moment.
And yet, something overshadowed this shining day. As you all know, yesterday was Fathers' Day. This one was different for me, as rather than being the one who had to buy a card, I actually received a card.But being away from Trousers Jr and Mrs Trousers was more difficult than I ever imagined it would be. It's difficult anyway, being so far away and knowing Mrs T is raising him pretty much single-handed.
But seeing young fathers on the beach with their sons, digging sandcastles and throwing balls? Yep, there was sand in my eyes yesterday. That must have been it.
Sunrise, Sunset
In a world of mid-life crises and weekend motorcyclists, my dad remains a true man of the woods. Just as the sun will rise in the early maudley, so my dad would turn up filthy at 5 oclock every night and eat his tea whilst watching Neighbours. I used to believe him when he'd come back with a bag full of fish on autumn nights, saying he'd opened the back doors of the van by the riverbank and the fish just jumped in.I regret the fuzzy contempt I held for him when I was 19 or so (ten freakin years ago!) and working with him as a lumberjack. In my defense I was a terrible pothead- waking up at 5am to drive to Scotland and drag a steel rope up a muddy hill was never going to be easy. Tree-murder is a pretty dangerous job. Nature will bite back at any given opportunity. Despite a catalogue of injuries, he still finds time to get on the European history trail with this, his 1938 Matador, lovingly restored from scrap.
Now aged 69, he's still out there making his own living, and a couple of years back he and his lifelong friend 'Dangerous' Ken built my sister's house. And a damn fine job they did, too.Easily as hard and as resourceful as Jason Bourne, I'd say. Obviously this is a bit of a mushy post, but I feel my dad deserves some credit, even as I continually let him down. Happy Fathers' Day, Beardface.
Saturday, June 20, 2009
Postcards From a Hedge: San Francisco
Three shows down, another day off. I like this tour.
San Francisco must be one of the most popular cities with tourists. I'd google it, but, you know.
The famous cable cars are literally dripping with humanity, hanging off the side and filming their progress. It was like Delhi but with more knock-off Ed Hardy. My regular off-day buddy and I jumped on and were barked at by the guy cranking the handbrake (nice brown uniform, by the way, kamerade) to get all the way into the cart. Being over 6 feet tall and having to stand, I saw absolutely nothing as we chuntered along. Still, Ive done it once before and we didnt pay for it so suck it UPS guy.
After gorging ourselves we hit the harbour and hired bikes, though I was tempted to sack it off because of the aggressive style of the Eastern European touts.
Quick tip Malgorzata- when I'm at your desk with my wallet out, you don't need to shout in my face about your great rates. It's pretty clear Ive made my decision to pay 8 bucks an hour to ride your boneshaking deathmachine.
Nor do you need to shout when you're pointing out the route to the bridge. In fact just shut up. It's that big red thing over there in the distance. I'm pretty sure I'll find it. If not I'll just send up a flare and you can shout directions to me from where you are.
Anyway- if you're thinking of hiring a bike for the 2-hour bridge trip in San Francisco, don't be fooled- if you ride as hard as you can and don't stop to take a picture, you might make it in 2 hours. if you want to enjoy the experience at all, that shitty paperboy's bike is going to cost you at least 40 bucks.
Suffice to say I spent 24, I barely had time to touch the ocean, we didnt quite make it to the centre of the bridge before turning back because fuck taking the ferry back over. And the pedal finally broke on the way back down the hill. I'm also pretty sure some courier said 'go home' to me as he passed on his way to racquetball practice. Asshat.
Moaning aside, we did have a lovely wander around the Roman replica Exploratorium (or did I hear that name in an episode of South Park?) I'm pretty sure the Doors were photographed there at some point.
I'd also say that San Francisco is a beautiful city from afar- it doesn't look like an American city. Reminded me more of Marseille.
Suitably thirsty from our ride *forced march* we headed for a bar with the idea of stopping for one or two. Alas we chose a bar with 68 beers on tap and closed it about eight hours later. There was a brief respite when we went to the harbour and got crabs. That's what she said, barump-tiss!
Yep, live on the scales, cruelly boiled to death a few seconds later. I think it's the agony they go through that makes them so delicious. We also ate 16 oysters and a carton of calimari. If you're on the harbour, skip the pricey restaurants and buy off the street. I only shat liquid for the next day and a half.
To be fair that was very likely more to do with the samplers of beer. I tried at least 8 before we settled on Downtown Brown. There's a Hugh Grant joke here somewhere, surely? As bars go, Jack's is great, but I was surprised there were so many English in there. True to form they ignored the 66 other choices, settling instead on Bud or Strongbow. Everyone was very friendly anyway. One cougarish woman even over-friendly. My mate is still suffering from her backrub. But she was one of the 5 people to ask if we were a couple. No idea what gave them that impression.
The cablecar ride home was blurry but, again, free. God bless ze UPS.
San Francisco must be one of the most popular cities with tourists. I'd google it, but, you know.
The famous cable cars are literally dripping with humanity, hanging off the side and filming their progress. It was like Delhi but with more knock-off Ed Hardy. My regular off-day buddy and I jumped on and were barked at by the guy cranking the handbrake (nice brown uniform, by the way, kamerade) to get all the way into the cart. Being over 6 feet tall and having to stand, I saw absolutely nothing as we chuntered along. Still, Ive done it once before and we didnt pay for it so suck it UPS guy.
After gorging ourselves we hit the harbour and hired bikes, though I was tempted to sack it off because of the aggressive style of the Eastern European touts.
Quick tip Malgorzata- when I'm at your desk with my wallet out, you don't need to shout in my face about your great rates. It's pretty clear Ive made my decision to pay 8 bucks an hour to ride your boneshaking deathmachine.
Nor do you need to shout when you're pointing out the route to the bridge. In fact just shut up. It's that big red thing over there in the distance. I'm pretty sure I'll find it. If not I'll just send up a flare and you can shout directions to me from where you are.
Anyway- if you're thinking of hiring a bike for the 2-hour bridge trip in San Francisco, don't be fooled- if you ride as hard as you can and don't stop to take a picture, you might make it in 2 hours. if you want to enjoy the experience at all, that shitty paperboy's bike is going to cost you at least 40 bucks.
Suffice to say I spent 24, I barely had time to touch the ocean, we didnt quite make it to the centre of the bridge before turning back because fuck taking the ferry back over. And the pedal finally broke on the way back down the hill. I'm also pretty sure some courier said 'go home' to me as he passed on his way to racquetball practice. Asshat.
Moaning aside, we did have a lovely wander around the Roman replica Exploratorium (or did I hear that name in an episode of South Park?) I'm pretty sure the Doors were photographed there at some point.
I'd also say that San Francisco is a beautiful city from afar- it doesn't look like an American city. Reminded me more of Marseille.
Suitably thirsty from our ride *forced march* we headed for a bar with the idea of stopping for one or two. Alas we chose a bar with 68 beers on tap and closed it about eight hours later. There was a brief respite when we went to the harbour and got crabs. That's what she said, barump-tiss!
Yep, live on the scales, cruelly boiled to death a few seconds later. I think it's the agony they go through that makes them so delicious. We also ate 16 oysters and a carton of calimari. If you're on the harbour, skip the pricey restaurants and buy off the street. I only shat liquid for the next day and a half.
To be fair that was very likely more to do with the samplers of beer. I tried at least 8 before we settled on Downtown Brown. There's a Hugh Grant joke here somewhere, surely? As bars go, Jack's is great, but I was surprised there were so many English in there. True to form they ignored the 66 other choices, settling instead on Bud or Strongbow. Everyone was very friendly anyway. One cougarish woman even over-friendly. My mate is still suffering from her backrub. But she was one of the 5 people to ask if we were a couple. No idea what gave them that impression.
The cablecar ride home was blurry but, again, free. God bless ze UPS.
Postcards From a Hedge: Vancouver
I'm kind of over cities. But when we got to our hotel in Vancouver, I actually felt like I was on holiday. And for once, a holiday I'd like to go on.
After 36 hours without sleep, I'd planned to go to bed for a while, crawl out for dinner and drag myself back to my room. But as soon as I stepped off the bus at the hotel, the air and the mountain views revitalised me so I took a long walk around Stanley Park and along the harbour.
Some places I take an instant liking to, and can imagine myself bringing the family for a real holiday. This place is currently topping 'the List'. Sea planes, whale watching, bears on Grouse Point, great affordable food.
On the second day we ate our bodyweight in sushi for 10 doolars and got us some beaver. Or at least, we went to Beaver Lake.
So yeah, if you haven't been, go. Just don't be surprised when you don't want to leave.
Bonus Material
Vancouver's versatility (and lower costs of course) mean a lot of TV shows and movies are filmed there. The front of the hotel was turned into a casino for Pierce Brosnan's latest vehicle Percy Jackson. Let's just hope he doesn't sing, eh?
After 36 hours without sleep, I'd planned to go to bed for a while, crawl out for dinner and drag myself back to my room. But as soon as I stepped off the bus at the hotel, the air and the mountain views revitalised me so I took a long walk around Stanley Park and along the harbour.
Some places I take an instant liking to, and can imagine myself bringing the family for a real holiday. This place is currently topping 'the List'. Sea planes, whale watching, bears on Grouse Point, great affordable food.
On the second day we ate our bodyweight in sushi for 10 doolars and got us some beaver. Or at least, we went to Beaver Lake.
So yeah, if you haven't been, go. Just don't be surprised when you don't want to leave.
Bonus Material
Vancouver's versatility (and lower costs of course) mean a lot of TV shows and movies are filmed there. The front of the hotel was turned into a casino for Pierce Brosnan's latest vehicle Percy Jackson. Let's just hope he doesn't sing, eh?
Mailed In
Fear not, dear reader, I haven't fallen victim to the current trend of ditching blogging in favour of loser stuff like getting a job that doesn't make you want to bang your head repeatedly against drywall.
I am slightly busier than normal but the main reason is, I'm on the west coast of the USA and it's hot as balls. Being English, I get my shirt off pretty much as soon as the hail stops.
So I've been outside a lot.
I have a nice camera and I figure it's time to start putting it to use on here, so I'm starting a regular post. Since I'm on tour at the moment, it's going to be travel themed.
I'm off to think up a witty title. Could take a while.
I am slightly busier than normal but the main reason is, I'm on the west coast of the USA and it's hot as balls. Being English, I get my shirt off pretty much as soon as the hail stops.
So I've been outside a lot.
I have a nice camera and I figure it's time to start putting it to use on here, so I'm starting a regular post. Since I'm on tour at the moment, it's going to be travel themed.
I'm off to think up a witty title. Could take a while.
Friday, May 22, 2009
How to get ahead in your armpit II- The Re-Dressing
In the previous episode, Pretty Boy went to Pittsburgh and got his boil lanced. This week, our hero and his owner take on the mean streets of Detroit...
It went from scary to weird to hilarious. First the runner drops us at the wrong hospital, but we are given directions and put on a shuttle bus. Then another shuttle bus, whereupon Pretty Boy sees the word 'emergency' and decides we should go in, even though it clearly isn't the ER we've been directed to.
We go into the waiting room, the only white people (apart from the armed guard), speak to the sullen jobsworth at the desk and put Pieter's name and time an a clipboard. In the corner is probably the fattest guy I've ever seen, clutching a pair of hot-pink running shoes. The woman next to us is eating Cheez-its and occasionally burping/hacking/prolapsing.
Someone has their name called and a guy who looks like Wee-Bey in The Wire got up and went to the desk:
"This guy come in 20 minutes after me, he gettin registered before me. I jus had a kidney traaaansplaaant, you don't get me in there soon so's I can get mah medsin, ahm gonna hafta start doin sumtin."
He receives pretty much the same blank stare we got when I said "Good afternoon, we're looking for the walk-in center? My colleague needs to have his wound dressed."
The waiting room starts to fill up. The thing is, people are just walking in and ignoring the desk; they weren't signing the clipboard as far as I could see. Anyhoos we're finally called to the bulletproof glass and Precious Byrd processes Pretty Boy. A woman behind us calls her mother and goes into a spiel:
"Come get me up out this mu'fucker. I stay here any longer ahm gonn start hurtin folks."
Maw: "Why? What's wrong?"
"Ah got chest flutters and mah head hurts"
Maw: "No, I mean why you wanna leave?"
"These dudes getting registered before me and I was here before 'em."
Maw: "Maybe he got a serious condition'
"It ain't that serious"
Maw: "How you know?"
"Cause ah seen 'em walk in.."
She rants for another minute or so before leaving in faux-disgust.
Fucking genius. It's becoming clear that the desperately poor in Western society are lacking pretty much anything more than the most rudimentary survival skills. But the sense of entitlement required to plonk yourself in a seat and expect the staff to know who you are and what's wrong with you seems a little much.
Anyway, a few uncomfortable minutes and we go through to Triage, where I overhear the nurse asking Pretty Boy about prostitutes and marijuana.
Then we go into a curtained room opposite some guy who looks like he's 5 minutes from death and explain, again, why we're there, where he was treated last time and so forth. The nurse is nice, kinda like Barbra Streisand with a tongue stud. She and the doctor are pretty shocked that the doctor in Pittsburgh gave him antibiotics but told him not to take them unless there was a flare-up. They pull his sterile strip out and decide that, for safety's sake, it's tetanus time.
Then it gets weird. Another doctor comes in, then the ward supervisor, then a woman called Hightower; the Customer Service Officer. I suspect she's ambling for free tickets. Then I overhear Pretty Boy can't be discharged until the International Officer comes by for an interview... So the international guy comes in, takes all his payment information, again. Checks his card and so forth and then Nurse Babs returns with the tetanus jab.
She's already given him 2 painkillers and she starts cleaning the.. insertion spot, for want of a better word.
Suddenly her arm jerks back in this Psycho/Jason Voories motion and Pretty Boy pretty much wet his pants. "No! No, not like that" "Please, no, it will hurt too much!" and backing away from her until he almost falls off the bed. I can see pure fear in his eyes. He's silently begging me to whack this psycho with a drip-stand so he can escape in his bed-gown.
It. Was. Piss-funny.
Nurse Babs is reassuring. She's dealt with whining pussies before, evidently.
"Come on, baby, I won't hurt you, it'll be real quick.' He's squirming and whining and looking at me, fucking terrified. I'm in stitches. I think the old guy across the way even perks up.
So the nurse uses a bit of machismo reverse-psychology and says 'come onnnn, be a man.' (Pretty Boy was born in 1988. eeeeeeeeeep)
He doesn't like that, and with a bit more coaxing he calms down and she jabs him, right to the hilt. He didn't feel a thing.
It went from scary to weird to hilarious. First the runner drops us at the wrong hospital, but we are given directions and put on a shuttle bus. Then another shuttle bus, whereupon Pretty Boy sees the word 'emergency' and decides we should go in, even though it clearly isn't the ER we've been directed to.
We go into the waiting room, the only white people (apart from the armed guard), speak to the sullen jobsworth at the desk and put Pieter's name and time an a clipboard. In the corner is probably the fattest guy I've ever seen, clutching a pair of hot-pink running shoes. The woman next to us is eating Cheez-its and occasionally burping/hacking/prolapsing.
Someone has their name called and a guy who looks like Wee-Bey in The Wire got up and went to the desk:
"This guy come in 20 minutes after me, he gettin registered before me. I jus had a kidney traaaansplaaant, you don't get me in there soon so's I can get mah medsin, ahm gonna hafta start doin sumtin."
He receives pretty much the same blank stare we got when I said "Good afternoon, we're looking for the walk-in center? My colleague needs to have his wound dressed."
The waiting room starts to fill up. The thing is, people are just walking in and ignoring the desk; they weren't signing the clipboard as far as I could see. Anyhoos we're finally called to the bulletproof glass and Precious Byrd processes Pretty Boy. A woman behind us calls her mother and goes into a spiel:
"Come get me up out this mu'fucker. I stay here any longer ahm gonn start hurtin folks."
Maw: "Why? What's wrong?"
"Ah got chest flutters and mah head hurts"
Maw: "No, I mean why you wanna leave?"
"These dudes getting registered before me and I was here before 'em."
Maw: "Maybe he got a serious condition'
"It ain't that serious"
Maw: "How you know?"
"Cause ah seen 'em walk in.."
She rants for another minute or so before leaving in faux-disgust.
Fucking genius. It's becoming clear that the desperately poor in Western society are lacking pretty much anything more than the most rudimentary survival skills. But the sense of entitlement required to plonk yourself in a seat and expect the staff to know who you are and what's wrong with you seems a little much.
Anyway, a few uncomfortable minutes and we go through to Triage, where I overhear the nurse asking Pretty Boy about prostitutes and marijuana.
Then we go into a curtained room opposite some guy who looks like he's 5 minutes from death and explain, again, why we're there, where he was treated last time and so forth. The nurse is nice, kinda like Barbra Streisand with a tongue stud. She and the doctor are pretty shocked that the doctor in Pittsburgh gave him antibiotics but told him not to take them unless there was a flare-up. They pull his sterile strip out and decide that, for safety's sake, it's tetanus time.
Then it gets weird. Another doctor comes in, then the ward supervisor, then a woman called Hightower; the Customer Service Officer. I suspect she's ambling for free tickets. Then I overhear Pretty Boy can't be discharged until the International Officer comes by for an interview... So the international guy comes in, takes all his payment information, again. Checks his card and so forth and then Nurse Babs returns with the tetanus jab.
She's already given him 2 painkillers and she starts cleaning the.. insertion spot, for want of a better word.
Suddenly her arm jerks back in this Psycho/Jason Voories motion and Pretty Boy pretty much wet his pants. "No! No, not like that" "Please, no, it will hurt too much!" and backing away from her until he almost falls off the bed. I can see pure fear in his eyes. He's silently begging me to whack this psycho with a drip-stand so he can escape in his bed-gown.
It. Was. Piss-funny.
Nurse Babs is reassuring. She's dealt with whining pussies before, evidently.
"Come on, baby, I won't hurt you, it'll be real quick.' He's squirming and whining and looking at me, fucking terrified. I'm in stitches. I think the old guy across the way even perks up.
So the nurse uses a bit of machismo reverse-psychology and says 'come onnnn, be a man.' (Pretty Boy was born in 1988. eeeeeeeeeep)
He doesn't like that, and with a bit more coaxing he calms down and she jabs him, right to the hilt. He didn't feel a thing.
How to get ahead in your armpit
This tour is weird. I have a lot more free time, thank God. See, one of our crew (let's call him Pretty Boy, as he's 19 and looks like he came fresh from tryouts for Boy Story II- Back to the Log Cabin) arrived on tour with a medical problem. He likes to pretend he doesn't speak good English and he definitely gets treated a bit preferentially as he's basically everyone's kid brother. So muggins here gets to escort him on his trips to the E.R. See, Pretty Boy has something that looks a bit like this...
Only bigger and more angry. I'm talking Oprah when the wireless mic guy has eaten her fudgecake angry.
Zing!
Now I would put my severed dick in a tub of Ben & Jerry's and go back to bed rather than go to A&E on a Sunday morning, but when pretty Boy started flashing the armpit around, it looked like it was time to jump in cab and head to the laughin'est place in Pittsburgh(TM).
If I'm honest, I was just glad to get out of the office and into the sunshine. I figured I'd be left in the waiting room and could soon sidle off to sun myself and look at buildings. Fortunately even the youth of Pittsburgh aren't as ridiculously irresponsible and brain-dead as the Brits, and it was pretty quiet. We signed in, went into Triage and then waited for a nurse and a doctor.
I figured by now I was pretty much here for the duration and I was looking forward to watching medical professionals slice that fucker open and squeeze of some pus. And so they did. Pretty Boy was pretty much just yelling 'fuck... fuck... it's too much... fuck...too much... fuck as they anaesthetised it, squeezed out the evil and rinsed it with salt-water. The doctor then packed the wound with sterile gauze, dressed it (terribly), gave him some Vicodin and antibiotics and we were on our way without paying a dollar.
If you're travelling short distances in the US, say a mile, it's usually quicker to walk for some reason. Plus we wanted to avoid work for a bit longer.
Pretty Boy was now in full patient mode, deciding he should take it easy for a few days and avoid all lifting. Sorry, but what lifting? He's the first guy to finish (after me anyway)and he constantly has 6 stagehands at his beck and call to handle the instruments.
Two days later, I'm helping him with his set-up and breakdown, more from sheer boredom on my part than actual need, and it's time to get his gauze pulled out and the wound redressed. In Detroit...
Only bigger and more angry. I'm talking Oprah when the wireless mic guy has eaten her fudgecake angry.
Zing!
Now I would put my severed dick in a tub of Ben & Jerry's and go back to bed rather than go to A&E on a Sunday morning, but when pretty Boy started flashing the armpit around, it looked like it was time to jump in cab and head to the laughin'est place in Pittsburgh(TM).
If I'm honest, I was just glad to get out of the office and into the sunshine. I figured I'd be left in the waiting room and could soon sidle off to sun myself and look at buildings. Fortunately even the youth of Pittsburgh aren't as ridiculously irresponsible and brain-dead as the Brits, and it was pretty quiet. We signed in, went into Triage and then waited for a nurse and a doctor.
I figured by now I was pretty much here for the duration and I was looking forward to watching medical professionals slice that fucker open and squeeze of some pus. And so they did. Pretty Boy was pretty much just yelling 'fuck... fuck... it's too much... fuck...too much... fuck as they anaesthetised it, squeezed out the evil and rinsed it with salt-water. The doctor then packed the wound with sterile gauze, dressed it (terribly), gave him some Vicodin and antibiotics and we were on our way without paying a dollar.
If you're travelling short distances in the US, say a mile, it's usually quicker to walk for some reason. Plus we wanted to avoid work for a bit longer.
Pretty Boy was now in full patient mode, deciding he should take it easy for a few days and avoid all lifting. Sorry, but what lifting? He's the first guy to finish (after me anyway)and he constantly has 6 stagehands at his beck and call to handle the instruments.
Two days later, I'm helping him with his set-up and breakdown, more from sheer boredom on my part than actual need, and it's time to get his gauze pulled out and the wound redressed. In Detroit...
Stop the train, I want to get off
I'm in Milwaukee today, where apparently swine flu has 'gone airborne'. We're through the looking glass, people. They've recruited Chuck Norris.
At this very moment there is a Belgian at my desk rummaging through a box of 100 assorted bottles of hand sanitizer trying to decide which one will keep him safest - Atomic Apple or Blasting Blueberry.
By the end of the week we'll all be wearing masks and we'll have sacrificed one of the percussionists. The Belgian's still here, the fucking moron.
This is doing my head in- it even started affecting me in Chicago. I was pushing the elevator button with my elbow, flushing toilets with my foot. Every pint was like a dance with death. Or at least a small jig with a sniffle and a sore throat.
Contrary to company advice we did brave the plague and leave our hotel rooms on our only free day amid a twelve-show run. I mean, hello, who's cleaning rooms and serving you breakfast in American hotels? Where did this thing originate again?
Hit Lake Michigan's beach in the morning, sushi for lunch and wound up in the blues part of town watching a country-rock showcase with 3 bands based around Nashville. It was canny good actually. No attitude or posing or preening. Just good, fun country-rock, well-played.
Having stumbled into Little Italy in Baltimore (very Little- it was basically two guys in wife-beaters arguing over a parking space)and walking through Foxtown in Detroit after a trip to the ER, Chicago seemed pristine, leafy, safe. Even serene.
Now if you'll excuse me. I have to go and wash my hands.
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Whatever floats yer boat...
I've no idea why, but this fills me with a mix of awe, contentment and excitement at the same time.
Like father, like son, I guess.
Like father, like son, I guess.
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Ignore everything we've taught you...
Fatherhood, it’s a funny old thing. I went on paternity almost 8 weeks ago, just because we had no shows coming up. Im currently sitting out one tour, and dreading going to the US on the next leg, next month.
(L)Amazingly, I made it to all six of our antenatal classes. I anticipated seemingly endless hours of whale sounds and deep-breathing exercises. But what I actually got was a good grounding on the birth process and some essential tips. There were, of course, a couple of incidents of group massage set to repetitive new-age sounds.
The second week was much the same as the first, and the third much the same as the second. And so on. But repetition works, dummies.
The second week was much the same as the first, and the third much the same as the second. And so on. But repetition works, dummies.
See? The big bonus is, you can rely on the other people there to ask the stupid question you’re afraid to ask. Such as ‘what is a contraction?’ ‘so, the placenta is attached to the baby?’ and ‘what month is it?’
There was a definite atmosphere of ‘expect the worst’. They forgot to tell us to ‘hope for the best’.
The actual labour was a lot shorter than we had been told to expect, clocking in at just over 6 hours. All that massage gubbins went straight out of the window, as Mrs Trousers and Trousers Jr. conspired to skip the boring stuff and go straight into delivery mode; she was 7-8 cm dilated when we arrived at the hospital. On entry into the delivery room Mrs Trousers promptly stripped naked and refused to be touched. I was so proud.
And that’s all there is to say, really. I’m just immensely proud of Mrs Trousers, and our son. Gotta go, I have a baby to stare at…
(L)Amazingly, I made it to all six of our antenatal classes. I anticipated seemingly endless hours of whale sounds and deep-breathing exercises. But what I actually got was a good grounding on the birth process and some essential tips. There were, of course, a couple of incidents of group massage set to repetitive new-age sounds.
The second week was much the same as the first, and the third much the same as the second. And so on. But repetition works, dummies.
The second week was much the same as the first, and the third much the same as the second. And so on. But repetition works, dummies.
See? The big bonus is, you can rely on the other people there to ask the stupid question you’re afraid to ask. Such as ‘what is a contraction?’ ‘so, the placenta is attached to the baby?’ and ‘what month is it?’
There was a definite atmosphere of ‘expect the worst’. They forgot to tell us to ‘hope for the best’.
The actual labour was a lot shorter than we had been told to expect, clocking in at just over 6 hours. All that massage gubbins went straight out of the window, as Mrs Trousers and Trousers Jr. conspired to skip the boring stuff and go straight into delivery mode; she was 7-8 cm dilated when we arrived at the hospital. On entry into the delivery room Mrs Trousers promptly stripped naked and refused to be touched. I was so proud.
And that’s all there is to say, really. I’m just immensely proud of Mrs Trousers, and our son. Gotta go, I have a baby to stare at…
Friday, March 27, 2009
My word, that was fun!
The gig, by the way, was great. Highlights from A Certain Trigger and Our Earthly Pleasures and maybe 10 tracks from the new album. It's always a bit hard to really get into songs you've never heard before, but there was a lot of promise. Paul Smith, so polite and eloquent face to face, just drips confidence on stage.
Muscular, jerky Jagger-dancing and appreciative banter kept the audience rapt.
One new song, he explained to kids who would have no idea of it's existence, was about the revolving dancefloor of the Tuxedo Princess/Tuxedo Royale, a relic of Tyneside nightlife's dubious recent past. This is the great thing about this band- no other band in recent memory (okay, okay, Lindisfarne fans) has put out an album with such regional reference points, while managing to appeal to a broad audience. "Nothing works round here/where cranes collect the sky" he sings on 'I Want You to Stay'. Such a statement can be applied to any modern city, but locals know he's referring to Wallsend's shrinking shipyards. On the next album,'By The Monument' describes waiting for a date or potential loved-one at the standard meeting point in Newcastle. This, I think is one of the reasons for their loyal, steadily-growing local fanbase.
They can also be commended for their efforts in showcasing the North East (Newcastle in particular, I suppose) to a wider audience.
However, the aftermath of this gig has left me a bit disappointed. NME comes into print the next day, and they somehow managed to have a small article on the gig; here's the headline:
'2500 fans turned away from free Maximo Park gig'.
As mentioned in the last post, some former workmates came through for us and we were the last people to get into the gig. There was a line behind us, but 2500? 200, absolute maximum. Still, that's the NME for you. And the information came from the NME in LA. Oooo-kay. I guess all publicity is good publicity.
What's more disappointing are comments on the band's website from fans. One girl sarcastically wrote 'Thanks lads. Queued for 5 hours only to get to the front and be told the we couldn't get in' Bearing in mind, I got there at 5 and got in at 8.30. And unlike most of the kids there, who -unlike me- probably have tickets for their shows in Newcastle in May, I went to the back of the line and waited.
A n y w a y
this is a great band with unique songwriting talent who actually seem to appreciate their fans. Ungrateful, grabbing adolescents that they are.
Keeping up the gig theme, 2 nights later Mrs Trousers and I went to see tabloid abortion Peter Doherty, as a Valentine's present (mwah, darling). I know, opinions are polarised on this guy. I don't buy the rag-papers that seemed so keen on bringing on his destruction a couple of years ago, when he was dating Kate Moss. His music, his personality, even the tragedy of his slide into heroin and crack addiction were lost in the mire of 'shocking' arrests, bizarre activities and model-bagging.
People who profess to know nothing and care less about music were bound to see him as a talentless, waste-of-space junkie. But even people who thought they had their finger on the pulse of music were quick to lambast him and deride his abilities. These people, of course, own albums by Razorlight and the Kaiser Chiefs.
The Libertines were produced by Mick Jones, and Jones went with Doherty when that ill-suited ship faltered and sank. Jones brought the hands-off production approach of The Clash to The Libs, and also to Babyshambles' first effort.
Here lies the difference between Doherty and Johnny Borrell or fat Ricky...
Doherty can go into a studio with a song, do a few takes on a four or eight-track and they'll pick the best one, mistakes and all. 'Up the Morning' on Babyshamble's debut album is a perfect example. It takes a while to start up, scratches and clicks throughout, and ends with Doherty stumbling off, presumably to the gin-cabinet or his crack-pipe, and falling over.
Like it or not, this a musicianship and quality which Razorlight and their like will never, ever possess. If proof is required, track down the BBC documentary about the Sgt Pepper's tribute album which came out to coincide with that album's 40th anniversary. The premise was to record the songs in the spirit of the times, using only 4-track recording equipment and techniques available to the original artists.
Unsurprisingly, both Razorlight and the Kaisers struggled, pleading with the crew to stop filming. Neither band knew how to actually play the song they had shown up to record. These are bands who have an album put together for them by a producer, then have to learn how to play their parts. they could learn a lot from someone like Doherty. In fact, they could learn a lot from Busted.
Zing!
I was talking about a gig, wasn't I? Right. Part of me had high hopes for this gig, and the rest of me was dreading it. I've had tickets for Babyshambles before, and Doherty was arrested en route. There was a mini-riot apparently. Interviews in the press were instilling me with hope, as he seemed, not clean, but almost clean. Blur's producer Stephen Street had been drafted in, who in turn had brought in guitar legend Graham Coxon to add an air of professionalism to proceedings.
The gig was vastly different to the Maximo experience. Whereas Maximo's crowd comprised of sensitive, hoodie-wearing nice people who spend too much in charity shops, Doherty has the kind of car-crash appeal which brings in the Sun-reading, wannabe hooligan crowd. Most of the guys were douched up and there were rafts of girls dressed like strippers on the traditional Monday shopping-trip. The queue for the toilet was about as big as the queue for the bar, if you catch my drift. The air was thick with aggression.
Typically, he was a half-hour late coming on stage, enough time for a nasty fight to break out near the front. He came out alone first, looking dapper in a suit and his trademark daft hat, and gave the crowd a little of what they wanted with 'I No Longer Hear The Music' from the Libertines' funereal second album. This song brilliantly sums up Doherty's predicament- he fears his persona will forever overshadow his music. He played it beautifully, no slurring or stumbling, and to rapturous applause introduced Graham Coxon and the rest of the band to the stage for his new single. A couple of numbers later he brought out a strings-section for some new numbers. Giving the rest of the band a break, he performed the Libs' first single 'What a Waster' and 2007's surprise hit 'For Lovers' - the rights to which he sold in a pub, no doubt for the price of an evening's entertainment.
Queueing for a drink, I asked the two older guys in front of me what they thought so far. They weren't impressed. They seemed even a little disappointed. Yes, he looked and sounded great, but that wasn't waht they were used to. They didn't like his new stuff- it sounded 'too whirry', like the Last Shadow Puppets. An All-Saints attired Boro-guy behind me was similarly disappointed. I had to admit, 'The Sweet By-and-By' sounds a bit like Chas and Dave doing the theme to Steptoe and Son. But this guy was saying that was a bad thing...
Doherty is doubtless still struggling with his demons. Stooping to pick up everything the crowd would throw on stage, and obviously drinking to take the edge off his craving, he seemed to be flagging by the end of the show. But a show it was, and strange as it may sound, I was proud of the guy.
Muscular, jerky Jagger-dancing and appreciative banter kept the audience rapt.
One new song, he explained to kids who would have no idea of it's existence, was about the revolving dancefloor of the Tuxedo Princess/Tuxedo Royale, a relic of Tyneside nightlife's dubious recent past. This is the great thing about this band- no other band in recent memory (okay, okay, Lindisfarne fans) has put out an album with such regional reference points, while managing to appeal to a broad audience. "Nothing works round here/where cranes collect the sky" he sings on 'I Want You to Stay'. Such a statement can be applied to any modern city, but locals know he's referring to Wallsend's shrinking shipyards. On the next album,'By The Monument' describes waiting for a date or potential loved-one at the standard meeting point in Newcastle. This, I think is one of the reasons for their loyal, steadily-growing local fanbase.
They can also be commended for their efforts in showcasing the North East (Newcastle in particular, I suppose) to a wider audience.
However, the aftermath of this gig has left me a bit disappointed. NME comes into print the next day, and they somehow managed to have a small article on the gig; here's the headline:
'2500 fans turned away from free Maximo Park gig'.
As mentioned in the last post, some former workmates came through for us and we were the last people to get into the gig. There was a line behind us, but 2500? 200, absolute maximum. Still, that's the NME for you. And the information came from the NME in LA. Oooo-kay. I guess all publicity is good publicity.
What's more disappointing are comments on the band's website from fans. One girl sarcastically wrote 'Thanks lads. Queued for 5 hours only to get to the front and be told the we couldn't get in' Bearing in mind, I got there at 5 and got in at 8.30. And unlike most of the kids there, who -unlike me- probably have tickets for their shows in Newcastle in May, I went to the back of the line and waited.
A n y w a y
this is a great band with unique songwriting talent who actually seem to appreciate their fans. Ungrateful, grabbing adolescents that they are.
Keeping up the gig theme, 2 nights later Mrs Trousers and I went to see tabloid abortion Peter Doherty, as a Valentine's present (mwah, darling). I know, opinions are polarised on this guy. I don't buy the rag-papers that seemed so keen on bringing on his destruction a couple of years ago, when he was dating Kate Moss. His music, his personality, even the tragedy of his slide into heroin and crack addiction were lost in the mire of 'shocking' arrests, bizarre activities and model-bagging.
People who profess to know nothing and care less about music were bound to see him as a talentless, waste-of-space junkie. But even people who thought they had their finger on the pulse of music were quick to lambast him and deride his abilities. These people, of course, own albums by Razorlight and the Kaiser Chiefs.
The Libertines were produced by Mick Jones, and Jones went with Doherty when that ill-suited ship faltered and sank. Jones brought the hands-off production approach of The Clash to The Libs, and also to Babyshambles' first effort.
Here lies the difference between Doherty and Johnny Borrell or fat Ricky...
Doherty can go into a studio with a song, do a few takes on a four or eight-track and they'll pick the best one, mistakes and all. 'Up the Morning' on Babyshamble's debut album is a perfect example. It takes a while to start up, scratches and clicks throughout, and ends with Doherty stumbling off, presumably to the gin-cabinet or his crack-pipe, and falling over.
Like it or not, this a musicianship and quality which Razorlight and their like will never, ever possess. If proof is required, track down the BBC documentary about the Sgt Pepper's tribute album which came out to coincide with that album's 40th anniversary. The premise was to record the songs in the spirit of the times, using only 4-track recording equipment and techniques available to the original artists.
Unsurprisingly, both Razorlight and the Kaisers struggled, pleading with the crew to stop filming. Neither band knew how to actually play the song they had shown up to record. These are bands who have an album put together for them by a producer, then have to learn how to play their parts. they could learn a lot from someone like Doherty. In fact, they could learn a lot from Busted.
Zing!
I was talking about a gig, wasn't I? Right. Part of me had high hopes for this gig, and the rest of me was dreading it. I've had tickets for Babyshambles before, and Doherty was arrested en route. There was a mini-riot apparently. Interviews in the press were instilling me with hope, as he seemed, not clean, but almost clean. Blur's producer Stephen Street had been drafted in, who in turn had brought in guitar legend Graham Coxon to add an air of professionalism to proceedings.
The gig was vastly different to the Maximo experience. Whereas Maximo's crowd comprised of sensitive, hoodie-wearing nice people who spend too much in charity shops, Doherty has the kind of car-crash appeal which brings in the Sun-reading, wannabe hooligan crowd. Most of the guys were douched up and there were rafts of girls dressed like strippers on the traditional Monday shopping-trip. The queue for the toilet was about as big as the queue for the bar, if you catch my drift. The air was thick with aggression.
Typically, he was a half-hour late coming on stage, enough time for a nasty fight to break out near the front. He came out alone first, looking dapper in a suit and his trademark daft hat, and gave the crowd a little of what they wanted with 'I No Longer Hear The Music' from the Libertines' funereal second album. This song brilliantly sums up Doherty's predicament- he fears his persona will forever overshadow his music. He played it beautifully, no slurring or stumbling, and to rapturous applause introduced Graham Coxon and the rest of the band to the stage for his new single. A couple of numbers later he brought out a strings-section for some new numbers. Giving the rest of the band a break, he performed the Libs' first single 'What a Waster' and 2007's surprise hit 'For Lovers' - the rights to which he sold in a pub, no doubt for the price of an evening's entertainment.
Queueing for a drink, I asked the two older guys in front of me what they thought so far. They weren't impressed. They seemed even a little disappointed. Yes, he looked and sounded great, but that wasn't waht they were used to. They didn't like his new stuff- it sounded 'too whirry', like the Last Shadow Puppets. An All-Saints attired Boro-guy behind me was similarly disappointed. I had to admit, 'The Sweet By-and-By' sounds a bit like Chas and Dave doing the theme to Steptoe and Son. But this guy was saying that was a bad thing...
Doherty is doubtless still struggling with his demons. Stooping to pick up everything the crowd would throw on stage, and obviously drinking to take the edge off his craving, he seemed to be flagging by the end of the show. But a show it was, and strange as it may sound, I was proud of the guy.
Well I've been waiting here for hours/ it's getting cold, position closed
I can take or leave most bands these days. I’d imagine it’s pretty exhausting keeping up with what’s new. Plus, of course, it gets difficult to look up to someone ten years younger than yourself, or a band a few years older than myself, trying desperately to hide their age with comfortable hats and trotting out trite soundbites.
But, I decided to dust off my gig-shoes for one of my ongoing obsessions earlier this week- Maximo Park.
My job tends to put me in the same cities (even the same venues) as bands I’d love to see, but usually we’re a few weeks apart. Mrs Trousers actually has 6 tickets for the Newcastle shows in May, but I’ll be in America.
Last week Maximo Park put details on their website of a free gig showcasing new material with less than a week’s notice. The first 250 entrants could also buy a one-off 7” single, all profits of which would go to No Surrender, a cancer charity. I was pretty excited, but given the first-come first served basis and the fact that it was being held at the College, I didn’t hold out much hope, especially as Mrs Trousers is now 37 weeks pregnant.
The day rolled around and I knew that I had to give it a try, even though there were comments on the site from schoolkids saying they’d be outside from 1.30 to collect a wristband at 7pm. I certainly wasn’t going to subject my lady to that, but we both knew I'd spend the evening (indeed, the whole week) twisting and turning, wondering 'what if?....'
I wrapped up a bit and ventured out. Arriving at 5, there was already a healthy queue, but I figured it was about 150 people. I engaged in a bit of blokey chat with Mark, probably the only other guy there who could muster a beard. A few minutes later , no-one had joined the line behind us, but at least 10 kids had slinked in in front of us, joining friends or simply scanning up and down the line until they saw a face they vaguely recognised. Freakin kids. Finally a couple joined the line behind me, having driven up from Pontefract, 2 hours away.
Time edged on, the sun went down, the wind picked up and the line in front of us was swelling. The line behind, not so much. The queue tightened a bit and we had to move away from the protective wall , exposing us to a bitter wind. Mark went to speak to the security guys and we learned the theatre had a capacity of 300. This wasn’t looking so good anymore.
Still, by 6 I was resolved to stay until the bitter end. Mark’s sister joined us and Mrs Trousers decided she would join me at 7 – the assumption being I would blag her a wristband or she could join us at the entrance. So began the slowest hour of our lives. My new-found friends and I were doing our best to stay upbeat and positive, but the cold was sapping our resolve somewhat. Officials worked their way up the queue, offering band T-shirts for a donation to the charity. I got the smallest one available, for Trousers Jr. Sadly, most of the kids seemed to see this as a freebie and took what they could, giving nothing.
Mrs Trousers joined us just after 7, but we hadn’t really moved. The queue had widened, but no-one was being let inside. Another fact-finding visit to the security guys revealed plans to let the queue in 25 at a time.
7.30 and no-one had been let inside… Finally, groups were trickling inside and we began to slowly move down the line towards the barriers. Counting the number of groups going in, it was a struggle to stay hopeful.
Nearing the front I got a look at the security crew and realised they all used to work with me back when I was a bar manager. I called Awful Alan over and introduced Mrs Trousers. He told us we should just make it inside. Our little group felt their wait had been rewarded.
Finally we were at the front of the queue;the next step was to the holding pen to be issued wristbands before being allowed inside. Alan released the catch and let us through, the Pontefract couple first, then Mrs Trousers and I, and Mark, but stopped his sister. We all stopped and explained we were together and Alan let her through. There were no wristbands left, but they let us in anyway.
We got a 7” and got the T-shirt signed for baby Trousers, but we were a bit too cold for witty banter with the band. For their part I’m sure they were sick to death of signing stuff and smiling politely as people told them how cold it was outside.
Say what you like about bouncers, but if they know you and you keep them sweet, they'll work wonders for you...
Stay tuned for a gig review, and the aftermath...
But, I decided to dust off my gig-shoes for one of my ongoing obsessions earlier this week- Maximo Park.
My job tends to put me in the same cities (even the same venues) as bands I’d love to see, but usually we’re a few weeks apart. Mrs Trousers actually has 6 tickets for the Newcastle shows in May, but I’ll be in America.
Last week Maximo Park put details on their website of a free gig showcasing new material with less than a week’s notice. The first 250 entrants could also buy a one-off 7” single, all profits of which would go to No Surrender, a cancer charity. I was pretty excited, but given the first-come first served basis and the fact that it was being held at the College, I didn’t hold out much hope, especially as Mrs Trousers is now 37 weeks pregnant.
The day rolled around and I knew that I had to give it a try, even though there were comments on the site from schoolkids saying they’d be outside from 1.30 to collect a wristband at 7pm. I certainly wasn’t going to subject my lady to that, but we both knew I'd spend the evening (indeed, the whole week) twisting and turning, wondering 'what if?....'
I wrapped up a bit and ventured out. Arriving at 5, there was already a healthy queue, but I figured it was about 150 people. I engaged in a bit of blokey chat with Mark, probably the only other guy there who could muster a beard. A few minutes later , no-one had joined the line behind us, but at least 10 kids had slinked in in front of us, joining friends or simply scanning up and down the line until they saw a face they vaguely recognised. Freakin kids. Finally a couple joined the line behind me, having driven up from Pontefract, 2 hours away.
Time edged on, the sun went down, the wind picked up and the line in front of us was swelling. The line behind, not so much. The queue tightened a bit and we had to move away from the protective wall , exposing us to a bitter wind. Mark went to speak to the security guys and we learned the theatre had a capacity of 300. This wasn’t looking so good anymore.
Still, by 6 I was resolved to stay until the bitter end. Mark’s sister joined us and Mrs Trousers decided she would join me at 7 – the assumption being I would blag her a wristband or she could join us at the entrance. So began the slowest hour of our lives. My new-found friends and I were doing our best to stay upbeat and positive, but the cold was sapping our resolve somewhat. Officials worked their way up the queue, offering band T-shirts for a donation to the charity. I got the smallest one available, for Trousers Jr. Sadly, most of the kids seemed to see this as a freebie and took what they could, giving nothing.
Mrs Trousers joined us just after 7, but we hadn’t really moved. The queue had widened, but no-one was being let inside. Another fact-finding visit to the security guys revealed plans to let the queue in 25 at a time.
7.30 and no-one had been let inside… Finally, groups were trickling inside and we began to slowly move down the line towards the barriers. Counting the number of groups going in, it was a struggle to stay hopeful.
Nearing the front I got a look at the security crew and realised they all used to work with me back when I was a bar manager. I called Awful Alan over and introduced Mrs Trousers. He told us we should just make it inside. Our little group felt their wait had been rewarded.
Finally we were at the front of the queue;the next step was to the holding pen to be issued wristbands before being allowed inside. Alan released the catch and let us through, the Pontefract couple first, then Mrs Trousers and I, and Mark, but stopped his sister. We all stopped and explained we were together and Alan let her through. There were no wristbands left, but they let us in anyway.
We got a 7” and got the T-shirt signed for baby Trousers, but we were a bit too cold for witty banter with the band. For their part I’m sure they were sick to death of signing stuff and smiling politely as people told them how cold it was outside.
Say what you like about bouncers, but if they know you and you keep them sweet, they'll work wonders for you...
Stay tuned for a gig review, and the aftermath...
Friday, February 27, 2009
Outta my way, jerkass!
Ah, repetition. I'm in Stuttgart again, trying to remember where to put the merchandise. This is my last show in over 2 months, so I'm trying my best to be super-efficient, so as to leave on a good note and not be replaced while I'm on paternity leave. That said, there's not really much to do.
For anyone interested, here's my post from last time I was here- it has ineffectual middle-class terrorists...
http://dancanrant.blogspot.com/2008/02/welcome-to-stud-garden-dont-touch.html
In other news, mothers- hold onto your daughters, rabbits- stay in your holes; I am a motorist...
Yep, I've crashed a couple of cars, but I've never owned one before. I think I managed to pick up a speeding ticket within 5 minutes of getting behind the wheel (stupid 50-zones and signs being blocked by AA vans) but I finally understand the satisfaction a manly-man gets from polishing his throbbing beast on a Sunday morning.
Cleaning the car was alright, as well.
Hey-oh!!
For anyone interested, here's my post from last time I was here- it has ineffectual middle-class terrorists...
http://dancanrant.blogspot.com/2008/02/welcome-to-stud-garden-dont-touch.html
In other news, mothers- hold onto your daughters, rabbits- stay in your holes; I am a motorist...
Yep, I've crashed a couple of cars, but I've never owned one before. I think I managed to pick up a speeding ticket within 5 minutes of getting behind the wheel (stupid 50-zones and signs being blocked by AA vans) but I finally understand the satisfaction a manly-man gets from polishing his throbbing beast on a Sunday morning.
Cleaning the car was alright, as well.
Hey-oh!!
Sunday, February 15, 2009
dancanrant - now welcoming perverts
I see someone from not-at-all-repressed footballer's-playground Dubai found their way to my little-viewed site by searching for woman live horse um.. okaaaay. I hope you found what you were looking for. I will now in no way encourage further visits from such degenerates with some alluring labels...
Saturday, February 7, 2009
This just in!! Er, it's snowing. In January. Umm, this is awkward. Yep, sorry, we got nothing...
I'm getting confused. I flew home last Sunday (totally surprised my girlfriend by the way- big points) and when I woke up on the tourbus the day of my flight there was a lot of talk about the weather in England. 'Ooh, all the flights are being cancelled, Danny' and so forth. So of course I start shitting it, and since it's meant to be a surprise, I can't ring anyone for a weather report.
I'd noticed on the Hotmail news page doohickey that Britain was 'bracing itself for severe weather' for about a week already. I'd done some checking and it appeared the South was going to be hit and the North would escape. Ha, tables turned! How do you like that, soft southern shites?
Well, turns out they didn't like it one bit. 900 flights cancelled out of London, and even cancellations as far up as Leeds. Since that's only 90 miles away from Newcastle, I was starting to get nervous. Not helped when we spent 30 minutes parked on the runway. Maybe the pilot forgot his packed lunch or something, I don't know.
Anyway, flying over Northumberland and the North East it was all very beautiful and snow-covered but the airport was actually pretty clear. When I got to my house on the coast, there was no snow at all, no sign that there'd been any and no sign that any was on the way. I had expected the shitty weather to catch up to us, calling into question my return journey 3 days later.
I never saw any snow. However I heard that 6million people took Monday off, terrified of the 'treacherous weather conditions'. I know people take a bit of snowfall as a licence to drive like a chimpanzee on RedBull in mating season but, come on. I'm not even in the country, and I had a week's warning about this. Where were the gritters?
It's only snow, people! It melts in your hand! It doesn't crawl up your nose and eat your brain.
Did I miss my medication this week? Did someone spike my Earl Grey? Or do the news shows and papers have so little to talk about that they're turning a weather pattern into a catastrophe?
I dunno. I saw CNN or Skynews or some tripe last night (I'm in Switzerland, by the way, and this was deemed newsworthy?) and they had a computer demo of how icy, vengeful cold winds from the east invaded the coastline and clashed with low pressure surging up from the south resulting in a fearsome struggle between evil and more evil culminating in a clusterfuck of..... er, soft white stuff that fell on the ground, looked pretty for a while and then melted. I felt kind of embarassed for the newsreader.
Big. Fucking. Whup. I've had it with the media.
Watch out people, the sun is going to come out tomorrow. Do you know how hot the sun is? The surface is 5,400 degrees centigrade!!
It's going to rain next week! Sailors have been known to drown!
Piss off. Here's an idea - on days when there's no news, how about just not putting the news on? Just show a couple of episodes of The Simpsons instead, and fill the paper with tributes to me.
What a Fabulous Bastard
My good mate Simon and I have been threatening to write a sitcom together for about 5years. Sadly, I'm not really very funny. But he is, and it looks like he's finally doing something about it.
Friday, February 6, 2009
Crown Prince of Piss
I've been carrying this particular rant around for a few years now. I feel it's finally time to just unleash that bitch and get it out before my hairline recedes any further. *deep breath* Here goes...
No matter where we are in the world, they all demand Corona. If we don't have it, or if it's warm, they stick out their lips and ostracise me for the night. They continue to peeve about it into the next day. Bear in mind, on a lot of tours you don't get free beer every night. You certainly don't get to choose what sort you would get. And if you did, I should hope you had the taste, nay, the common fucking sense, not to choose this enchanted water.
I'm sorry hipsters, I just don't get it. I share my tour bus with 6 Dutch people. Now, I've covered their strange habits before. Their sense of superiority, their insistence on always taking the same seat. i can forgive that stuff. But this?
No matter where we are in the world, they all demand Corona. If we don't have it, or if it's warm, they stick out their lips and ostracise me for the night. They continue to peeve about it into the next day. Bear in mind, on a lot of tours you don't get free beer every night. You certainly don't get to choose what sort you would get. And if you did, I should hope you had the taste, nay, the common fucking sense, not to choose this enchanted water.Back when I worked in a bar, we would mock the douchewanks who came in and asked for Corona, then got huffed and ordered something else if we had no limes (we would often run out, such was demand for this piss-yellow devil's excreta. In summer, we would get through thousands of bottles per week, and thousands of limes (which even in bulk are about 5 times more expensive than lemons, penny-pinchers).
Granted, I would also mock the smart-arses who would smugly say 'You know, in Mexico they put the lime in to keep flies out, it serves no other purpose' These people have obviously never tasted Corona. With lime, it tastes like, well, a lager shandy in a dirty glass, made with flat lemonade and a squeeze of lime-juice. Without, it tastes like, I don't know.. an angel-fart. Nix, nada, nothing.
THIS BEER HAS NO TASTE!
I've even started drinking Beck's Gold, for fuck's sake! I have even, in my lowest moments, drank an original Beck's or a fucking Brand to avoid another night drinking this chihuahua piss. I'm lobbying for a blockade on Mexican beer. Come on Obama, I demand change. Defend my rights to drink a Guinness or a Rivet Catcher, dammit!
Next time, I'm voting for this guy.
Sunday, February 1, 2009
Here I go again, on my own
I'm in Munich again. Tthird time, as previously featured here and here*. This must be my favourite venue, for the majesty of the architecture, the tragic history and the pretzels. Three years on the trot, and it's been different every time. The first was, undoubtedly, the best. It was a bit later in the year (Valentine's Day to be exact), spring was in the air and I had a dog to babysit. When my boss was still on tour he brought his puppy on the bus, and left him with me a lot. It was a bit demeaning, and I grumbled, but honestly, I was glad of the company. It was the first time I felt any attachment to a venue, the first one that had any character or history.
However, this time I have the best feeling; I've got a great girl and we're in love, in 3 months we'll have a son (unless that doctor guy doesn't know his nads from his tootsies), I'm in control of my more dangerous and damaging habits and I finally understand what the rest of the guys on my bus are talking about. it's still no more interesting, but at least I know they're not slagging me off.
Last year when we came back it was grim. Cold, wet, a building-site in and out. Whole sections of the arena were off limits and there was cement-dust in the air. The disappointment only added to my general unhappiness.
This year they've at least finished workng inside, and the heaps of rubble outdoors are dusted with snow. It was -10 here last night. I assume that's celsius.
However, this time I have the best feeling; I've got a great girl and we're in love, in 3 months we'll have a son (unless that doctor guy doesn't know his nads from his tootsies), I'm in control of my more dangerous and damaging habits and I finally understand what the rest of the guys on my bus are talking about. it's still no more interesting, but at least I know they're not slagging me off.So, on the first day of the second month of the ninth year of the second millennium (may require correction), I wish you all even a slice of the happiness I'm feeling right now.
Don't worry, I'll be back to moaning in a couple of days.
*Not real links. Sorry. Use the search doohickey if you're that interested. Please. The first one is actually pretty good.
Friday, January 30, 2009
Bless you, anonymous woman! And thank you, shitty laptop!
OK. I've calmed down considerably since I tapped out that diatribe last night. I think I was in danger of catching eBay fever again. I had a bad belt-buckle habit for a while a few years back. If I'd won that romper suit, I would have started down a slippery slope resulting in my buying a diamond-encrusted dummy from Puff Daddy. (It helps him sleep, bless him.)
I hope the lady who won that item gets hours of joy cleaning vomit and excreta from it.
So yep, sorry you both had to witness me in the depths of a babyclothes binge. From now on I'm just taking it one day at a time, tryin' to live mah life right. I'd also like to apologise to the recyclable drinks container I brutally destroyed last night.
That said, I'm still pretty pissed off at the handyman who woke me up at 9.45 to change a lightbulb and then had a 15 minute telephone conversation in Dutch. I wish I'd pushed him off his fucking stepladder.
I'm just like a powder-keg aren't I? Humility one minute, white-hot, bottle-tearing rage the next.
But that's the way you like it baby...
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Fuck you, anonymous woman! And fuck you, shitty laptop!
My girlfriend is great on eBay. Like an eagle-owl or something. She watches her prey, for days if required. Swoops at the last split-second. Scoops up her bargain and goes back to her nest to devour it.
In bird-metaphor terms, I'm the dodo of eBay.
To illustrate that point, here's a monkey.
I was just outbid on a sleepsuit. For my baby, not me... Except I didn't get outbid. I got banjaxed by my shitty 9-year-old laptop.
I've been watching this particular piece of adorable babywear for 5 days now. 5 days of checking and fretting. I was actually beginning to treat it as a baby. I'm to blame really. I got sweaty palms as the clock ran down on my coveted item. Fearful of the laptop that time forgot and the temperamental wireless connection, I spunked too early and put my bid in with 20 seconds to spare.
Things were good; I was ahead. Then I had a panic attack and tried to put in another higher bid. Pushing the left click on my mousepad 3 times inside a minute is never agreeable to my computer. So the thing froze. And some bitch (I'd name her but I want to retain a modicum of decorum, so let's just call her Whorebag) outbid my original stake by 50 pence.
I've just torn a plastic water-bottle in half. IN HALF, people. I don't think even Geoff Capes can do that.
But, you can't win 'em all I suppose. I once placed a bid on a brown leather jacket because it was so similar to the one I already owned that I couldn't bear the thought of someone else owning it. Scoring my chicks. Looking all dealer-ish.
I won that but the guy's Paypal wasn't working and I became convinced he was trying to steal my identity. I've never paid for it. Then again, I've never worn it. It's languishing on my dad's coat=rack. And he's never worn it either. Weed was bad for me in many, many ways.
Sunday, January 18, 2009
Public Service Announcement
I started a long-winded post about this, but some things are best kept short....
Be very wary of medication given to you while in foreign countries.
I had bad stomach-ache yesterday. Last time I had intestinal pain this bad, I was hallucinating that there were rocks in my bed and my mam thought I was going to die. Really.
It's the degenerate chemical dustbin in me, but all I saw was '500mg' as the paramedic dropped two of these badboys into my clammy mitt.
In my broken German, I understood 'take one now, and the next one in an hour'. I ignored the stifled laughter as The Devil's Red Cross sloped off, presumably to give a kitten an enema.
So, I popped it out of the packaging, weighed up the waxy bullet in my hand (alarm bells should definitely have been ringing at this point), bit it in half and gulped it down with a swig of camomile tea.
Am I a hero or an idiot?
Is the nightmare over? Can I get up now?
So, that guy who runs that country, you know... He made a big speech, said he'd be retiring to Texas with all that bailout cash his government gave "to the banks". He did the little quotation marks. Was gonna buy Marilyn Monroe's and Joe DiMaggio's corpses and make them do stuff. For his amusement, like.
But no-one paid any attention to that because there was a 'miracle' in New York. The miracle being, I suppose, that the stuff airline companies tell you to do in the safety booklet may actually save lives, rather than just reassure nervy passengers. I'm one of the many who've stopped looking, pretty certain that if we hit water, or terra firma, I'm going to fucking die.
Anyway, I don't want to pour water on the skills of the pilot or anything, and it's great that no-one was injured or killed. So well done, 'Sully'. Nope, what's pissing me off today is this...
WTF, people? If this was in The Onion, I'd be laughing. As it is, I'm just shaking my head. You could elect Jesus as president, and the rest of the world will still laugh at you. Behind your back, obviously. No laser-guided night-vision wedgies for us, please.
But no-one paid any attention to that because there was a 'miracle' in New York. The miracle being, I suppose, that the stuff airline companies tell you to do in the safety booklet may actually save lives, rather than just reassure nervy passengers. I'm one of the many who've stopped looking, pretty certain that if we hit water, or terra firma, I'm going to fucking die.
Anyway, I don't want to pour water on the skills of the pilot or anything, and it's great that no-one was injured or killed. So well done, 'Sully'. Nope, what's pissing me off today is this...
WTF, people? If this was in The Onion, I'd be laughing. As it is, I'm just shaking my head. You could elect Jesus as president, and the rest of the world will still laugh at you. Behind your back, obviously. No laser-guided night-vision wedgies for us, please.
Friday, January 16, 2009
You in the back! yes, you, with the trilby and the hunched shoulders...
So while I was spoaching about looking for cheap laughs at someone else's expense I learned that it's 'delurking week' or something. Well, I'm sorry. I wasn't aware so none of you are getting cards or presents or anything. I promise to make more effort next year. I was just so busy with the baby and Christmas and root canal surgery and my parasitic lodger (I call him 'Bitey').Anyway. I did the right thing and I massaged someone's ego by congratulating him on making me crack a smile, urged on by the medium of shame. So please, feel free to do the same, all you war-freaks who come to look at that picture I posted of a dead German 15 months ago.
Saturday, January 3, 2009
Top ten films I finally got around to watching on DVD or in-flight entertainment
As you may have gathered, I don't get to the cinema much. So here for your glib amusement, my, well, read the title..
Iron Man
I didn’t see all of this as the pilot couldn’t shut his yap for more than 5 minutes consecutively but it had AC/DC, explosions and Robert Downey Jr with a nightlight in his chest so it was a winner.
In Bruges
I actually really loved this. I normally shy away from the Farrell-bag, but he’s great here; sulking around, dragging his feet like a petulant child. The mix of un-PC belly laughs and cruel sadness was just right. Let down only by the lightly sketched love interest. It was obviously necessary but smacked a bit of under-developed college writing. Of which I am an expert.
There Will be Milkshake.. I mean, blood
I’m a bit thick for films like this. Probably why Davey isn’t talking to me anymore because I slagged off No Country for Old Men. But I did enjoy it. Beautifully shot, a Shining-esque soundtrack, brilliant performances from old Daniel and that creepy preacher kid. I liked the ambiguity of the thing; unlike so many films the plot and writing didn’t lead you by the hand the whole way then give you a lolly for not nodding off.
School of Rock
I can take or leave Jack Black. But a harmless cookie-cutter movie that caused my lip to curl into a half-sneer once or twice.
50 First Dates
A weird mix of slapstick and shameless sentimentality, with a perverse undertone. And yet I still enjoyed it and blubbed at the end.
Pan’s Labyrinth
I stayed up late to watch this one night and I really enjoyed the contrast between whimsy and brutal reality.
The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe
Strangely reminiscent of the BBC serialisation way back in the late 80’s or possibly early 90s, I’m far too lazy to check. I also watched the more brutal Prince Caspian this Christmas. The joy of having kids in the house. Disney succeeded in not completely killing it with their own brand of idealism and I didn’t want to smack any of the kids with a snow-dappled fir-branch, so it goes down as a success.
The Golden Compass
Christ. With a lead actress who makes plywood gaze longingly at her performances and swoon ‘wow, she’s just.. so.. wooden’ and Ian Mckellen voicing an alcoholic polar bear, this was about 7 shades of shit.
OK, so it's not ten. But I slept on a tour-bus last night and I've got work to do so get off my back, alright?
Iron Man
I didn’t see all of this as the pilot couldn’t shut his yap for more than 5 minutes consecutively but it had AC/DC, explosions and Robert Downey Jr with a nightlight in his chest so it was a winner.
In Bruges
I actually really loved this. I normally shy away from the Farrell-bag, but he’s great here; sulking around, dragging his feet like a petulant child. The mix of un-PC belly laughs and cruel sadness was just right. Let down only by the lightly sketched love interest. It was obviously necessary but smacked a bit of under-developed college writing. Of which I am an expert.
There Will be Milkshake.. I mean, blood
I’m a bit thick for films like this. Probably why Davey isn’t talking to me anymore because I slagged off No Country for Old Men. But I did enjoy it. Beautifully shot, a Shining-esque soundtrack, brilliant performances from old Daniel and that creepy preacher kid. I liked the ambiguity of the thing; unlike so many films the plot and writing didn’t lead you by the hand the whole way then give you a lolly for not nodding off.
School of Rock
I can take or leave Jack Black. But a harmless cookie-cutter movie that caused my lip to curl into a half-sneer once or twice.
50 First Dates
A weird mix of slapstick and shameless sentimentality, with a perverse undertone. And yet I still enjoyed it and blubbed at the end.
Pan’s Labyrinth
I stayed up late to watch this one night and I really enjoyed the contrast between whimsy and brutal reality.
The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe
Strangely reminiscent of the BBC serialisation way back in the late 80’s or possibly early 90s, I’m far too lazy to check. I also watched the more brutal Prince Caspian this Christmas. The joy of having kids in the house. Disney succeeded in not completely killing it with their own brand of idealism and I didn’t want to smack any of the kids with a snow-dappled fir-branch, so it goes down as a success.
The Golden Compass
Christ. With a lead actress who makes plywood gaze longingly at her performances and swoon ‘wow, she’s just.. so.. wooden’ and Ian Mckellen voicing an alcoholic polar bear, this was about 7 shades of shit.
OK, so it's not ten. But I slept on a tour-bus last night and I've got work to do so get off my back, alright?
Happy new year to both my readers, apologies for the distinct lack of posting in the past six weeks. I resolve to try harder this year so help my black ass.
Just by way of a recap... had the second scan and it's gonna be a boy, which I and my wonderful lady are overjoyed about.. did a 35-hour suicide-watch series of flights from Australia which resulted in an abcess and ongoing root-canal work... decided on a name which will remain secret, at least until he's born... had a lovely albeit far too brief Christmas break.. continued to obsess over Oasis (it's OK, I'm gonna be a dad now, so all worries about being cool are out of the window)... heard the lil' laddie's heartbeat... took 3 weeks off drinking (thank you aforementioned root canal surgery) and didn't struggle at all... and fell in love all over again.
And here I am, back in Germany in winter. Strap yourselves in folks, it's gonna be a long, whiny ride...
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