Sorry, got a bit side-tracked there.
Yeah, so, tonight... Jo's mentioned to me that someone who knows someone she knows is playing a gig at a bar that I know, the bar in question being the magnificently named Fighting Cocks in Kingston (Upon-Thames, not Jamaica).
Now I haven't been to the Fighting Cocks in a few years, not since my brother's band went tits up just as they were about to play The Garage in Islington and I'd designed them a super-looking t-shirt.
Aaaah... those were the days. Crammed in the tiny back room of that manky bar, sweat running down the wall (at least I assume it was sweat...), and 50-odd crazed nutters jumping around as if they were completely oblivious to anyone else being there... Why am I getting all nostalgic about this?
No, really?
The alternative, of course, is to sit at home and watch Big Brother with some Doritos dippers and some, er, dip. And I know we should be all holier than thou when it comes to Pete's Tourette's syndrome, but c'mon, the only reason seven million people are watching it is to see him shout the word "WANKER!" every two minutes.
Yeah, I think I'll go to the gig. It's only three quid to get in.
3 comments:
But nobody at the gig will be acting like Zed from Police Academy and shouting "Chwank!" every few seconds....
Or will they?
Well I might now...!
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