Week 18 - Hors d'œuvre

Week 18 – Saturday 30th April + Sunday 1st May – Camden Crawl, London - £63.50

One Royal Wedding and Eighteen Gigs

“If you can’t handle us, get out of the kitchen.”

There are gigs, and then there are gigs. This edition of Gigaweek doesn't actually include any gigs, but that doesn't make it irrelevant. Well, no more irrelevant than all the other editions anyway.

Our gig for Week 18 was less of a gig and more of a gig, which can mean only one thing: absolutely nothing.

It means it was time for our first festival of the year, and fittingly I managed to squeeze in 18 gigs (well, I say gigs, but I mean gigs).18 gigs meaning 18 performances by bands or musicians. In this sense, your average music festival is made up of hundreds of such, distinct gigs, but as this particular festival is spread over only two days, as far as Gigaweek is concerned, in the words of Sandro’s idol Gimli the dwarf, it still only counts as one.

Alongside us on our excursion to the big smoke were (in order of increasingly accurate names): Little P, Kimbo Slice, P. Mushy, Salazar, K-May and the insufferable Cousin Bish. Among us, only P. Mushy and K-May had previously attended the Crawl, and they guaranteed us only one thing: Ice Lollies.

A great festival is like a double-edged sword: pointy.

With over forty venues being utilised throughout Camden and Kentish Town for Camden Crawl, and gigs galore throughout Saturday and Sunday, from midday to well after midnight each day, it was inevitable that we may get to see some sensational stuff, but we’d also miss some sensational stuff too.

With so much fine entertainment to take in, you’d be forgiven for thinking that this special edition of Gigaweek may be more music-centric. Forgiven, but naive nonetheless.

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Our jaunt coincided with the most important event of all time bar none, Will & Kate’s wedding. 


“And there was me thinking Will was gay,” I'd said when I heard the news of the impending nuptials.


“You're thinking of Will & Grace again,” Sandro replied. 


“Oh yeah. I hope Just Jack and Karen get invited.”
 

We arrived in London via Megabus on Thursday, quivering in anticipation. Being a wild Royalist, Sandro was covered head to toe in Union Jacks, while Cousin Bish and I were wearing our own wonderful white wedding dresses, feeling grateful that peasants such as us were allowed air. 


London was evidently buzzing with similar excitement, with Union flags prevalent throughout the streets. With the Wedding preoccupying everyone, we decided to have a night in at the studio apartment that we’d be calling home for the next four nights, and entertained ourselves with a thrilling game of Buzz. Tim Vine rounded off the day and a record breaking 377 jokes later, Sal was his new biggest fan, as her repeated cries of “they’re just ‘Dad’ jokes” and “that’s not funny” demonstrated.

I barely slept for excitement on Thursday night, rising early on Friday. After treating everyone to one of my trademark full English breakfasts (of the: you make it, I’ll eat it variety) we headed in the direction of Westminster Abbey.


Astonishingly, despite purchasing our invitations in good faith from the honourable gentleman C. Tickets, we were turned away by the pedantic Welsh guards, who insisted we had ‘tickets to some gig’ rather than invitations to a wedding. Enraged, I denounced the Royal family there and then and became a staunch republican, by becoming the landlord of a pub for the second time.


With our plans in tatters, we spent the day feasting our eyes on the endless wonders of Camden market, and drinking in some of its finest pubs, in particular The Monarch, which we trashed to show the Royals what we really thought of them.

In another act of treason, The Monarch bore witness to the creation of new super-boy-band Heat. Expect big things from these boys, whose members Boil, Simmer and Smoke were on fire as they treated onlookers to a rendition of their first ever single ‘We’re So Hot, You Gotta Blow Us Out’, due to appear on upcoming debut album If You Can’t Handle Us, Get Out of the Kitchen. With lyrics like, “Boil is boilin’, simmer is simmerin’, smoke is smokin’. It’s hot in here, we’re not jokin’,” how can they fail?

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In spite of rumours to the contrary, neither Cousin Bish or I are childish men, and it would be foolish to believe that we’d nicknamed certain parts of our bodies 'Lengthy' and 'Mr. Pecker' respectively.

After a long days drinking, there was only one more stop for two such rational thinkers: Subway. Speaking in Irish accents for the length of our visit, which is a perfectly mature and sensible thing to do, we asked the staff the question on every fair-minded individual’s lips: Kate or Diana? The results were a surprise, with all four of them plumping for Diana.

As we left speculating as to who Prince Harry would choose, a scuffle broke out behind us. From a distance we saw a figure crash to the ground after a knockout blow. A minute or so later, a short, curly haired man with a large cut on his cheek stormed past, with a girl crying and grasping at him as she followed.

He swung an arm, forcibly brushing her off, and she fell to the floor. Cousin Bish and I raised our eyebrows, and looked on. The girl picked herself up and chased after the man who stormed on unabated. When she caught up to him, she latched on while he tried to shrug her off, and they both stumbled to the floor and grappled for a moment, like a pair of angry fish. Fish with arms that is.

Lowering our eyebrows, Cousin Bish and I decided it was time for intervention. By the time we got there, the man had risen and stormed on, calling back angrily in a Scottish accent as he went. Perhaps he had heard our Irish impressions and wanted to impress us. Clearly, he had been scared off by the sight of our imposing physiques.

The girl had a pair of badly grazed elbows and was cursing the Scot through tears in her thick cockney twang. After using our famed soothing skills, she settled on a bus stop next to a man and his dog, and explained her version of events. Even the dog agreed that the Scot was out of order.

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The Scotsman soon returned and we found ourselves in the middle of a heated argument. Being the brave and compassionate souls that we are, Cousin Bish and I started to inch away, before the Scotsman referred to us directly. 


“You’ve got these two guys with you, who could batter me,” he said. I puffed out my chest and swelled with pride.


After some unproductive arguing, including accusations and denials regarding who hit who, we took him to one side to persuade him to call it a night. 


“You two could batter me,” he said, evidently drunk. 


“You’re lucky we haven’t!” Cousin Bish replied, flexing his swans. With P. Mushy and Sandro arriving to back us up, we managed to persuade the Scotsman to leave without further incident.


Despite the girl angling for us to take her back to our apartment, and Cousin Bish angling for us to take her back to our apartment,  we took our leave once we were satisfied that she was okay. It was clear she was fine when she said “He’s a weirdo, I’m studying at the eighth best university in Britain,” which was completely relevant.

At last we returned to the flat, where there was still time to finish the day with a drinking game that requires no explanation: the mighty Buzzrection.*

*If you would like an explanation on the rules and nature of Buzzrection, tough.

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Saturday

Week 17

Week 17 – Saturday 23^rd April – Newport Arena, Newport – Beady Eye (£27.50)

“Prepare to witness, the greatest front-man of all time. Well, except for Damon maybe...”

Only two days after the magnificence of Metronomy, we were at it again. Sandro and I were among a group of nine extremely brave and adventurous men stepping into the unknown, a dangerous place known as Newport. Of course, I wouldn’t dream of insulting Newport, because that would be a rather shit dream, and my dreams usually involve naked bungee jumping.

It was a Saturday on which Cardiff City were playing Queens Park Rangers in a mouth-watering clash between the two top teams in the Championship, for whom promotion to the Premier League was merely a formality. . .

Unfortunately for myself and another of the nine, everyone’s favourite bad-jumper wearing computer geek J-Mo, our own commitment to trying to play football meant that we were unable to attend. Instead, we would meet the others later on, for our best attended pre-gig pint of the year.

After an entertaining but disappointing 2-2 draw, J-Mo and I met the slightly dejected, not-so-magnificent seven at The Prince of Wales, where they were listening to Kenny Loggins. The seven were: Sandro, P. Mushy, Gavlova, Flapjack, Uncle Benjammin, Jimbo Richards and Nicko B, each boasting traditional Welsh names.

We were the elite. The best of the best. The top 0.01% of Cardiff City fans, and in Flapjack, the bottom 0.001% of Swansea City fans.

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On the train, while sipping our refined Marks & Sparks French lager, J-Mo repeated his declaration that Liam Gallagher is the greatest front-man of all time. The claims of Mercury, Jagger, Plant, Bono, Tim Harrington and Ryan of Brum were all brushed off. More importantly, J-Mo also revealed that he refuses to eat anything less than eighteen inches worth of sandwich from Subway at a time (two foot-long subs being his preferred option), thus rendering his opinion null and void.

After Uncle Benjammin had shaken off a couple of rowdy local stragglers in the toilets of The John Wallace Linton pub, we made it from the station to the Newport Centre. It was my first visit to the multi-purpose leisure centre, whose surprisingly spacious hall can probably cram about 2,000 people inside, with room for an extra 200 in the swimming pool.

The bar upstairs overlooked that pool and was full to the brim with young lager louts wearing Pretty Green T-Shirts (J-Mo had wisely worn a bad jumper instead), as drinks were forbidden from the main hall. 


“What kind of venue doesn’t let you have a fuckin’ drink on a Saturday night?” Liam would later say, to widespread cheers of approval. J-Mo and I battled our way to the bar and came away with a couple of pints only to met by a seething Sandro.

“Where’s mine?” Sandro said.

“What d’you mean?” I said in surprise.

“I asked you to get me and Nicko one,” he said.

“No you didn’t,” I replied.

“Yes I did. I text you,” he insisted.

I checked my phone, 1 unread message read: “Get me and Nicko a pint you scumbag. If you don’t I’ll tear your vegetables off.” 


Whoops. Goodbye vegetables.

“Well, you can never rely on text orders in a busy bar,” J-Mo said smugly, “Crash and Burn Sandro.”

“J-Mo. . .” Sandro said leaning in. “You stink.”

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It was an almost pitch black danger zone in the main arena, and we made our way unsteadily downstairs to stand with the masses. If there was any support, we didn’t see it, instead Manchester’s favourite tunes blared out, with especially well received airings of 'I Am The Resurrection' from The Stone Roses and 'Sit Down' by James.

Liam’s new band then appeared to roars from the crowd and inventive chants of “Liam! Liam!” Liam instantly pulled off his trademark fan’s favourite move, the hands-behind-the-back- lean-in-to-the-mic pose, (which helped inspire my own pigeon dance, and the behaviour of various angry pigeons). The crowd were already in raptures as the soaring riffs of 'Four Letter Word' got the show underway.

While the chants were for Liam, and he’s essentially the main attraction, Beady Eye are essentially Oasis minus Noel (Oasis’ line-up at the time of their demise that is). Never lacking in confidence, apparently one of the main reasons they settled on the new name is so that they fall between The Beach Boys and The Beatles in your alphabetized record collection or iTunes library, although that suggestion has also been refuted as, “a load of bollocks,” by Sandro.

Unfortunately there was no chance of mistaking Beady Eye for Oasis, not just because Noel was quite an important member, but also because they refuse to play any Oasis material. A brave move you could say, to not rely on guaranteed crowd pleasers like Live Forever, Wonderwall, Cigarettes & Alcohol, Rock ‘n’ Roll Star and many more.

At £27.50 a ticket, it shows they have a high opinion of their first album, Different Gear, Still Speeding, but as Sandro always says, “If you’ve got it, flaunt it.” All present were obviously Oasis fans, and no doubt hoping to hear at least one of the classics. Liam was adamant that it wasn’t gonna happen though, in which case my suggestion would be to reduce the ticket price. By about £27.

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They played pretty much all their album, plus a couple of extras. J-Mo and Nicko B went particularly mad for it, but we all hopped about intelligently for 'Beatles and Stone'.

'Millionaire', 'The Roller' and “The Slow One” 'Kill For a Dream', were my other personal picks. The other album tracks deservedly earned high praise from Sandro, as being, “not as bad as I expected,” but don’t tell that to Jimbo Richards, who’d fallen asleep on his feet.

Liam prowled around the stage in the manner he has become famous for. I never thought watching a man strut would be so interesting to so many, but you couldn’t take your eyes off him. In place of his traditional tambourine, he carried a towel around the stage throughout, using it to wipe his sweaty brow from time to time, like an angry, badly dressed Tennis player. If you will wear a big coat to a sweaty gig, then you should bring a towel.

When he launched his towel into the crowd at the end, there were chaotic scenes, as fans desperately scrambled for it. Nicko B even head-butted a small child in his vain attempt to claim the sweaty souvenir.

During their two song encore, after much prowling Liam climbed down from the stage and went for a wander among the groping hordes. Sadly he was just out of my reach and the enormous bald man stood in front of me was unimpressed by my caressing fingers. 


“We’re out of here, you’ve been the bollocks,” Liam said, distracting baldy enough for me to slip away unscathed.

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We woke Jimbo Richards up and went back to The John Wallace Linton for a couple of drinks, before catching a train at quarter to 12 back to Cardiff. After initially being refused entry to The Old Library because certain members of the nine were wearing shorts and flip flops (Sandro included of course). 


Most of us gained entry using our persuasive skills (by using the other entrance), while some of us had the one and only Salazar to thank.

Unfortunately, in the confusion, we lost Nicko B.

“He was a good man,” I said to Sandro.

“He still is a good man,” he replied.

“That’s what I said,” I lied.

'You've Lost That Lovin' Feelin’' then suddenly clicked into play on the jukebox, and turning around, two stunningly beautiful women wandered over to me and J-Mo.

 “You can be my wingman anytime,” I said to J-Mo fifteen minutes later.

“Bullshit!” he replied. “You’re a terrible wingman, that’s why we’re going home with Sandro and not those two birds!”

How was I to know they wouldn’t like football?

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April

2-8 - The Sunshine Underground - ✓

9-15 - Pete & The Pirates - ✓

16-22 - Metronomy - ✓

23-29 - Beady Eye - ✓

Week 16

Week 16 – Thursday 21^st April – Clwb Ifor Bach, Cardiff – Metronomy (£10, plus an 'approximate' booking fee of £2.12)

“You’re too drunk and you’re practically falling asleep. Go home and go to bed!”

I’d heard these words more than once before, but usually they're uttered by women, and usually they're correct. Tonight however, the words were neither correct nor delivered by one of the fairer sex. But more on that later. . .

It was a lovely and warm Maundy Thursday and there were two upcoming Bank Holidays over the Easter Weekend which wouldn't waste themselves. It seemed like a good Thursday to get drunk.

I met the beloved Sandro in the beer garden of The Pen & Wig, where I was surprised to find him drinking alcohol. As I made my way to the bar, I noticed a familiar face in the form of a flustered looking Flapjack, who was in the process of being served by the exceedingly busy bar staff.

He was sweating, panting, and badly bruised. Though I tried to duck away before he caught sight of me, Flapjack called me over, revealing that he’d been waiting nigh on half an hour at the bar. He generously offered to buy my pint to save me from the same fate. What a nice man.

Little P, the unfortunate sister of P. Mushy, was also present, but suffered no such problem. She was served by a friend quicker than you can say “Flapjack! Look at that cheeky mare, she’s being served really quickly!”. Unimpressed by this example of blatant nepotism, Flapjack poured his beer over Little P’s head and disappeared in tears.

Sandro and I were then joined by Gavlova and Dante Tyte and the four of us made the walk from The Pen to Clwb Ifor Bach, which was where band of the moment Metronomy were performing. When we arrived, support act Ghostpoet was on stage in front of a fairly packed audience. 

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It was certainly no place for a coat. Having wisely ignored the lure of the cloak room I nonchalantly threw mine into the crowd, before taking the unusual step of buying a drink.

Presumably due to the presence of 14-17 year olds, there was a one drink per wristband policy (I'd been ID'd before they’d reluctantly given me my wrist band), and Dante was unimpressed when the burly barman tried to prevent him from buying Gavlova’s drink. The word ‘jobsworth’ may even have been used.

“I’m just doing my job,” he defended himself.

“Do I look like the kind of pillock who goes around buying drinks for 17 year olds?!” Dante replied. I hid my face.

As much respect as we all had for Ghostpoet (truly the finest of all the dead poets), the heat was too much to handle and we had to get out of the kitchen, so we slipped back outside for some fresh air. Unfortunately the fresh air was full of smoke, but at least it was cool smoke.

When we returned, time was ticking away and Metronomy were imminent. The room was now completely packed and it was even hotter, but I desperately retrieved my coat from a desperate, shivering naked man (Sandro) and we respectfully forced our way toward the front of the crowd.

When we settled, to our surprise and delight, no more than 6 feet away were The Wendys and Buster Douglas, literally soaking up the atmosphere. (Is that acceptable? I literally don’t know whether I should have used the word literally in that sentence. I’m literally all over the place, have you seen me? I’m literally talking shit now. Sorry, I’ll clean my teeth.)

I illiterately said hello, before adopting the penguin stance. 

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Expectations were high for Metronomy. Dante had described them as one of his favourite ever live bands, and their 3^rd album, The English Riviera, had just come out to much of the usual hoo-ha from the critics. Many stars were awarded and very few marks out of ten were left unused, plus Sandro had given them ‘Top Banana’, his most coveted award.

Joseph Mount is the Devonian musician who Dan described as “the Man. He basically is Metronomy.” The founding member of the band, singer, guitarist, keyboardist, writer, composer and producer. Apart from that, apparently he does sweet FA. We shouldn't downplay the contributions of the other 3 members of the band of course, driver, roadie and Johnny Drama.

Despite a critically acclaimed second album, 2008’s Nights Out, Metronomy remained pretty much off my radar, and I wasn’t sure if their electronic stylings were really to my old-fashioned tastes (apparently this thing called dancing was encouraged).


My concerns were unfounded. Mainly because we were too tightly packed to do much dancing, but also because they were good. So good in fact, that they were very good. So very good in fact, that they were good.

Good is understating it actually, they were awesome. Full of energy, invention, ideas and infectious tunes. I’d say nobody went home unhappy, but Gavlova was there and he was still grumbling about Cloud Nothings’ sideways drummer. They bent genres like Uri Gellar bends the truth; electro, indie, electro-indie, disco, dance, electro-indie-disco-dance, electro-spoon-bending, you name it, somebody’s made it into a genre, and Metronomy can play it. 


An entertaining accompaniment to the music was provided in the form of the synchronised chest-bound lights that were worn by each member of the band, and flashed in time with the music to create an impressive light show.

The English Riviera’s relatively slow burners 'We Broke Free' and 'Love Underlined' got things going before a couple of dancey numbers from Nights Out. There was a pretty even mix of tunes from 2nd and 3rd albums throughout, the sole exception being the excellent instrumental 'You Could Easily Have Me' from debut album Pip Paine (Pay The £5000 You Owe).

Everything they played had a dance element to it, with plenty of tunes that had the crowd jiggling in every direction, including Nights Out’s 'My Heart Rate Rapid' and The English Riviera’s 'Corinne', but recent single 'The Look' especially, made my pants want to get up and dance more than Dr. Hook ever did.

Holiday was a highlight, with Mount’s distorted vocals making it clear that he was in no mood for monogamy. “So you want me to yourself, well you must know, that won’t happen,” which is a shame because I think he’d make a fine husband, ladies.

Mount engaged with the crowd throughout, sadly without a “m’lover” in sight. He made it clear that they weren’t going to fuss about with an encore, and the decision to play straight through was welcomed by all in Clwb’s sauna, especially those within sight of a sweaty, naked Sandro.

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Impressed with Metronomy, we headed to glam for its famed Indie Night, where I intended to try out some of my new dance ideas, such as the Pigeon and the Zoidberg. Unfortunately, as you’ve probably guessed, it wasn’t to be.

Sandro had disappeared and planned to meet us inside, but decided to offload his trusty rucksack to me (no, that's not a euphemism). I queued with Dante and Gav who were ushered in ahead of me, before the doorman asked me what was in the bag.

“I dunno,” I answered carelessly. “It’s my brothers. Clothes I expect.”

“Open it up,” he commanded.

“Ok, sure. Hmmm, where’s the zip?” I said aloud, fumbling with the bag.

After a while searching in vain for the zip’s slider, the doorman lost patience.

“Go over to him,” he grunted at me, showing me to a 2nd doorman, whose name was Knobhead. As I walked over to him cheerily, he unhooked the velvet barrier rope from its pole, and told me to go for a walk and have something to eat.

“That’s a very nice suggestion of you, but actually I was intending to go in there,” I replied happily.

“You’re too drunk. Go for a walk and have something to eat,” Knobhead reiterated.

I could scarcely believe my ears. Moi, drunk? Sacrebleu! I’d only had 6 drinks, and I can manage at least 7 before becoming a drunken mess. However, I decided not to argue. 


Partly because I was hungry and the idea of going for a walk to have something to eat appealed to me, but mainly because he was bigger than me and probably better at arguing.

So I went for a walk, and I had something to eat. After about 20-30 minutes I returned triumphantly, looking forward to sharing the news with Knobhead that I’d taken his advice. I was pleased to see he was still there and he obviously recognized me because on sight he unhooked the rope once more.

“Ahh, Knobhead! Is that the VIP entrance is it?”

“Go home mate,” Knobhead said.

I was astonished.

“W-What?” I couldn’t believe it, “Why?”

“You’re too drunk, go home, and go to bed,” he said.

He’d changed.

“What do you mean? I’m not even drunk! I took your advice and had some food!” I slurred.

“Go home mate,” he repeated.

At that point Sandro appeared, having entered Glam while I was gone. I’d made him aware of my predicament via the joy of text.

“Is it because of the bag mate?” he asked Knobhead.

“No, he’s too drunk,” the stubborn bouncer replied.

“I’m not drunk, I’m just friendly,” I defended myself.

“I saw you! You were practically falling asleep in the queue,” he said slanderously.

“Knobhead, that’s a blatant lie and you know it,” I said aghast.

“He’s only had 6 pints. I can vouch for him,” Sandro vowed.

Knobhead looked at him in bemusement. “I don’t even know you!”

Shockingly Knobhead isn’t one of the 5 people who read Gigaweek.

“Google me!” Sandro said, confusing himself briefly with Danny Cipriani, to no avail. 


Sandro and I briefly looked at each other with puzzled expressions. There was no getting around it. Knobhead was adamant that I wouldn’t be going inside, so the question was whether I was worth the hassle of everyone else leaving, and heading elsewhere.

Nearly an hour later, I completed the long, lonely walk home. . .

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April

2-8 - The Sunshine Underground - ✓
9-15 - Pete & The Pirates - ✓
16-22 - Metronomy - ✓
23-29 - Beady Eye

Sandro's Supplement - Week 15

Rival Schools

                        “I’m tired. You try having another human being inside you!”

Umm no thank you. I am Sandro and no person is going inside of me. Maybe a girls pinky finger but that’s as far as I’m going. Oh fuck off - there’s no children reading - I’d be surprised if there’s any fucker stupid enough to still be reading after 15 weeks.

Oh Hello. Didn’t see you there.

Despite having already completed my Gigaweek with “the actually not called Pete” and the Pirates on Wednesday I was dragged by the ballsack all the way to Camden for a special edition of the always popular Sandro’s Supplement.

I blame K-May who had bought tickets for P-Mushy for some pagan festival that celebrates the birth of someone who looks like me, who was born very close to when I was,  whose name is very popular in Latin America - like mine - and who loved to rock out with his… toes out.

Yes before YMAS it was XMAS and K-May had decided to buy the P-M and herself tickets to Rival Schools in London Town’s Camden Town’s Electric Ballroom. Then however - despite P-Mushy being “P-Mushy ugly” as previously described by your regular author she let him touch her with his ding-dong and was thus too tired to make the trip. Lazy mare.

Anyway your hero again stepped in and volunteered to accompany the mega-nosed one on a Megabus to the not quite Megacity. We bought tickets and, deciding traveling back from the big smoke on the same night, also booked a double room the size of a postage stamp where later that night your hero would be poked by something a bit bigger. That aforementioned nose…

On the journey eastwards my I-Pod shut down and I was forced to converse with Mushy-P. Obviously we discussed the usual filth - namely the profit margins of Megabus, which we imagined weren’t very large based on the half full bus. We did find out one interesting fact during our research - buses in the Greater San Diego area have an average fuel consumption of 6 miles to the gallon. And if you read that and thought that was interesting fuck me you’re a dick - go back to reading the regular authors inanities you twat.

After we had reached Euston, dumped our bags and the P-M had got his hair-spray out we went straight to the local watering hole and were met by two rather lovely people from Bolton. I say lovely - he was an ex hoolie and she looked like Worzel Gummidge but if you hold these things against people you’ll never get laid - I took Worzel from behind and the hoolie did the same to P-Mushy. Twice.

After a brief conversation about the merits of rival firms and football teams and said hoolie’s Bolton and Man City tattoos we decided to leave. And twenty minutes later we eventually got away from them. I won’t call them cunts for delaying us because I’m sure they’re fans and they had the Bolton Evening News so they can definitely read and, in spite of my previous comments, they were actually quite nice.

But I do have a reputation to uphold.

Cunts.

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After another stop on the road we reached Camden High Street and walked to the venue - it was half an hour till doors at this time but as there was a support act due on before Rival Schools - who were themselves not the main headliners - we decided to indulge in another drink or two.

Firstly we went to the famous World's End where we were charged £9.20 for two Magners by some dick behind the bar and then on to the Bucks Head where we charged £9.20 for two Koppabergs by some cunt behind the bar. I quickly decided that the bar staff weren’t as nice as in Cardiff where that much money would buy nearly three pints in some places but P-Mushy claimed that was just “London Prices.” What does he know - I told them I was from Cardiff but they still wouldn’t charge me “Cardiff Prices.” Bastards.

To make things worse whilst P-Mushy’s Kopparberg was a nice clear pear cider-y colour mine was a very yellow piss-y colour. I had to respect the barmaid’s talent of peeing into a closed bottle but the anger was too much – all I’d done was asked if they’d charge me a reasonable amount for my libation. As regular Gigaweekers know I’m not a violent man – I’d not hurt any of You Me At Six – but this was too much. I amp***ted the wo**ns l*g with the ser**ed e**e of a bo**le t*p and sh**ed it right up her cunt.

 

By now it was 7 O’clock and we beat an exit to the venue. On entering the venue P-Mushy was too interested in the price of cider to realise that Walter Schreifels - he of week 4 fame - was busy singing 69 Guns - a beauty of a tune off the new Rival Schools album. It turned out that this was track four of a 12 track set and there was no pre support band - which made me very angry. So I **** ***** ******* ****** anally **** **** monkey **** ****** ** *** ****** *** potato. Poor girl. I feel guilty now.

Anyway we got our ciders and barged towards the back of the front (or the front of the middle - you know the place) of the crowd to get the perfect view. Unfortunately for P-Mushy his nemesis from the Sunshine Underground came and stood in front of him and he was forced to ***** her to ***** with his nose just so he could see.

To be fair to Walt and the boys, despite only seeing nine songs they played a blinder and the crowd were enraptured. It’s hard to pick a best song – ok a second best song – but oldies like Undercovers On, Good Things, High Acetate and Hooligans for Life were complimented by the newbies Shot After Shot and Choose your Adventure. Unfortunately we’d missed Spotify’s favourite song - Wring it Out - and one of mine in Everything Has it’s Point but the finale more than made up for it.

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After a bit of Bon Jovi-ing - Walted Dead or Alive (I know - I’m a genius) - we came to the Schools’ marquee song - the one that had made P-Mushy fall in love with the band way back in 2001 and introduce them to your hero. Used for Glue is the perfect end to any set with a riff so good it makes you wish Jimi had spelt his name properly (cos he’d still be alive if he hadn’t spelt his name like a cunt). And the lyrics are sung with a fervour that makes you wish you’d never given that girl your prick stick.

Despite there still being another band to come there was a mass exodus from the venue - Trail of Dead were clearly not the main draw tonight. We decided we would get with the exodus - mainly because we wanted to watch some football but also because Trail of Dead - no matter what their pile cream licking, armpit shagging, inbred fans may say - are shite. Shitty Shitty Shite Shite. Fact.

We were directed by a bouncer towards a pub which supposedly had Sky Sports. But couldn’t find it. So we asked another bouncer. Then another. And another. Until we reached the first bouncer again and decided to give up on the football and get with the program. We hopped over to the ever popular Lock 17 fully knowing it would be full of alcohol and one particularly attractive woman and sat outside to try and get a Moon Tan. (Fuck me this blog is going on a bit - I feel like a right cock now I’ve realised how much I’ve written. Anyway…..)

P-Mushy was approached by a “homeless” trying to sell his last Big Issue. The P-M being a sucker - why are all my companions suckers - handed over £2 and went to take the paper. However the clearly unbadged vendor - scamming homeless irish* twat or Shit from know on - kept it saying he could sell it on again if P-Mush let him keep it. After a brief row the Shit left with his magazine despite your Hero pointing out that the Big Issue was “A hand up, not a hand out.”

I sat sagely by hoping that my companion would learn a lesson for next time before visiting the ladies. When I returned P-Mushy had a cut on his face and the Big Issue in his hand and there appeared to be some Shit floating in the canal. For the second time that night we beat a hasty retreat.

Not much exciting happened after this point - we went to the Monarch, got lashed up till three in the morning and the night finished exactly as my previous supplement did, with a family sized portion of chicken.

* He wasn’t Irish but it’s called artistic licence fuckers.

Week 15

Week 15 – Wednesday 13^th April – Millennium Music Hall, Cardiff – Pete & The Pirates (£8)

“Why are Pete & the Pirates called Pete & the Pirates?”

Only a fool would have fallen for Sandro’s trick question of the day.


“One of them is called Pete and the others are Pirates,” I answered confidently.

“No. Because they arrrghh!” Sandro replied gleefully. I didn’t get it.

At the time we were sat in The Queens Vaults on Westgate Street, watching the first half of Spurs’ doomed attempt to overturn a 4 goal deficit against Real Madrid. 


 The menu for Week 15 of Gigaweek featured the aforementioned Pete & The Pirates, who, like The Sunshine Underground, were playing at the Millennium Music Hall. For the first time this year we’d be visiting the same venue for the second time in succession. It was a truly historic night.

We arrived in time to catch the last couple of songs from a local band called My Very Best, who were playing to an invisible audience. On closer inspection, there were human beings present but sadly they were all standing at the other end of the room, leaving an audience sized vacuum in front of the stage. It must have been encouraging for the band.

After buying a couple of beers, Sandro and I took up a position slightly closer, but with enough distance for us not to make a spectacle of ourselves (we didn’t want anyone thinking we were fans or something). 


Unfortunately, the toe-trodder from our last gig was nowhere to be seen. Presumably, she was busy standing two feet in front of wherever P. Mushy was.

-------

“Is this the first time that we’ve seen The Wendys and Buster Douglas at a gig this year?” Sandro asked me, which was strange because I’d seen neither The Wendys (long-suffering mother of Salazar and K-May) nor Buster Douglas (her boyfriend), so I asked him if he’d taken his medication. He hadn’t. 


“They’re behind you,” he replied, and he was right. Like us, they’d been watching the football and were going to give the second supporting band a chance before deciding whether or not to return to the pub for the second half.

Next on stage were another band of local boys, inventively named OK, giving ample opportunity for a lesser man to make a terrible joke or two. They were facing an uphill battle to get us on-side. We’d earlier glimpsed their ginger curly haired lead singer wandering around in a cardigan that disgusted Sandro to his very core. I liked it.

Their opening song was pretty encouraging (although it should be noted that all present were embarrassed by the jumping antics of curly ginger cardy guy). 


Seemingly unimpressed, The Wendys and Buster Douglas decided to return to the pub.

Ok encouraged the majority of the crowd to move closer to the stage early on, and both the singer and guitarist were very chatty between songs. In my opinion that was a good thing, but those of a more cynical disposition may have found them annoying. Sandro found them extremely irritating; I thought they were OK. I was right in at least one sense. 


Clearly enjoying themselves and trying hard to work a fairly sparse crowd, they asked the audience to cheer them off once too often, before disappearing to a chorus of boos (from Sandro).

-------

Following a quick trip to the little boy’s room, Sandro returned wondering if it should be renamed the big black man’s room. I decided that might be considered racist, so probably not. 


He was referring of course, to the men who can often be found in club toilets, sitting on stools and offering a range of chewing gums, lollipops and, more importantly, deodorants.

“No spray no lay,” you may have heard such a person say, before expecting you to pay a pound for the privilege of using a hand towel.

“I think people may be uncomfortable with the idea of going to the big black man’s room,” I said racistly.

“If they are racist maybe,” Sandro replied.

“Maybe the racist ones are those who only allow black people to do the job,” I said wisely.

“Maybe. I’m yet to see anyone who isn’t black in that coveted role, hence my idea for the new name. Besides, who's comfortable with the idea of going to the little boy's room?” Sandro asked.


“Paedophiles perhaps?” I suggested.

“Undoubtedly. How about: the big black boy’s room? Everyone’s happy then,” Sandro said enthusiastically.

“Except the racists, who may feel unwelcome,” I said. “And women.”

“Don’t worry, they’ve got their own room,” Sandro said.

“Who, the racists?” I asked.

“No, women,”  he replied.

“So that’s why I never see them. I wonder if they have big black women in there,” I was tempted to say, but didn’t, for fear of being considered even more racist.

“If they don’t, then there’s a gap in the market that I’m tempted to exploit,” Sandro would undoubtedly have replied, being a big black woman himself.


Whether the powers that be (who name toilets) should consider the feelings of racists and paedophiles, was not discussed, as Reading’s finest arrived just in time to disturb us. 

-------

Pete & the Pirates, took to the stage to whoops and cheers from the packed audience of at least 3 dozen. 


“They must be the least cool-looking band I’ve ever seen,” Sandro declared generously. 


“Looking cool and being cool are two very different things,” I replied knowingly. “Take me for instance: I may not look cool to the untrained eye, yet my friends know me as Iceman.”

“True,” Sandro replied, “but that’s because you were stripped naked and thrown into an ice bath in school. They also call you Señor Cocktail Sausage.”

I ignored Sandro’s facetious comments and looked back to the band. The lead singer, who we naturally assumed was called Pete, drew the crowd in close to the stage and politely shook hands with a few members of the front row. He introduced himself as Tom, to our mutual bewilderment. 


It turns out that two of the other members of the band are called Pete, but amazingly, none of them are actually pirates.

Tom told the audience that he and his fellow pirates always looked forward to playing in Wales as he and the drummer have a Welsh Dad. 


“They must be brothers,” Sandro deduced. 


“Or sisters,” I added sensibly.

Sandro’s declaration that they weren’t as cool-looking as You Me At Six was influenced by their fashion sense. 


The singer wore a blue jumper that would have embarrassed even the most shameless of jumper fans (our friend J-Mo). Elsewhere, one of the Petes was a tall bespectacled bassist who looked enough like Danny Wallace for me to remark as much, and the other Pete was a guitarist and vocalist who donned a specs and baseball cap combo that had Sandro gagging on his cravat. 


Meanwhile, the other guitarist wore a green and white hooped top almost fit for a real pirate. Regardless of what the drummer was or wasn’t wearing, I was left with countless ideas for my own wardrobe.

-------

The Pirate and the Petes played a riveting set, to a small but enthusiastic audience. There was a healthy mixture of songs from their debut album, Little Death, and promising new material which will no doubt be included on upcoming album, One Thousand Pictures. 


Stepping off stage looking for further interaction, front-man Tom criticized the flimsy barricade that separated the stage from the front row. 

 “It’s as though they’re trying to protect us from you. You’re not going to hurt us are you? Why would you? Why would anyone?” he joked.

“Because of that jumper!” Sandro called out in disgust.

“What’s wrong with this jumper?” Tom replied in good humour, although there was genuine pain in his eyes. “It was in the cupboard when I moved into my house.”

Even his jumper didn't spoil the show though. Mixing clever and light hearted lyrics with jangly guitar riffs, it was an exhibition of classic indie pop. There were the tunes that made their debut album so much fun, such as 'Knots', 'Bright Lights' and the perfect 'Mr Understanding' all featuring, and other highlights like the slightly heavier 'Blood Gets Thin', 'Jennifer' and new song 'Cool Black Kitty', a song about a cat, which tells you all you need to know about how seriously they take themselves. Very.

Most recent single 'Come to the Bar' further increased my expectations of their next album and prompted me to go to the bar, but the highlight of all highlights may have been upcoming single 'United', which amazed my ears so much they started flapping. Hopefully 'United' will get some decent airplay and attract the larger audience their music merits. 

After a fine gig, there was just enough time before last orders for us to finish our evening with a first trip to Bogiez, the new incarnation of old Cardiff favourite Barfly. Pitching itself as a Rock and Metal bar and nightclub, and therefore playing heavier stuff than Barfly generally did, paradoxically it was a lot lighter and less dingy than the fly ever was, although to be fair, so are most cupboards.

I'm sad to say, we won’t be going back in a hurry. 

At closing time, one of the bar staff became inexplicably impatient with me and positioned his beardy face inches in front of my non-beardy face, all but forcing me to down the remainder of my pint, which was at least half full. 

The cheek of the man. I’d only bought it an hour before.

-------

April

2-8 - The Sunshine Underground - ✓
9-15 - Pete & The Pirates - ✓
16-22 - Metronomy
23-29 - Beady Eye

Week 14

Week 14 – Sunday 3^rd April – Millennium Music Hall, Cardiff – The Sunshine Underground (£12.50)

“What do you mean you’re not coming out for dinner? I went through 26 hours of labour for the pair of you!”

It was Mother’s day, and like all good sons, Sandro and I had made plans of our own. Of course, we believe that every day is Mother’s day, and rejected conventional gifts, instead rewarding our deserving mother with a truly heartfelt gift; the gift of love. 


Admittedly, that's just another way of saying we were too tight to splash out on any real gifts, but don’t tell her that. Besides, everyone knows childbirth isn’t really that bad.

We found ourselves at Big O’Neill’s on St. Mary’s Street in the late afternoon. It was there that we met regular guest Gigaweekers, Gavlova and P. Mushy, for a couple of pre-gig pints in spite of some severe hangovers. It had been P. Mushy’s birthday the day before, so I’d thought of a good excuse, and went to get drunk elsewhere.

The special Mother's Day gig was just around the corner at the Millennium Music Hall, which is in the Millennium Plaza by the Millennium Stadium, which was built around the turn of the Millennium, to the tune of 'Millennium' by Robbie Williams, much to the disgust of Gary Barlow fan Ed Milliband. 


The Millennium Music Hall has been one of Cardiff's handful of music venues for a couple of years now, having previously been known as Sub 29. It was a nightclub before that, and it’s fair to say that it’s a tad dark and dingy, but it has a decent capacity and seems to be attracting more and more gigs.

Before nipping inside, we made a quick trip to a nearby cash-point, where we were approached by a man wearing a drunken homeless man fancy dress costume. He asked for 30 pence to allow him to catch a bus home to see his mother.

'On Mother’s day! What a touching story' I thought gullibly, and with admirable generosity I handed over, not 30, but 50 (fifty) pence.

“Thank you ever so much,” he said graciously, before turning to Gavlova and asking for more. Gav sent him packing, and I was left with a slight suspicion that my 50p wasn’t going towards a bus fare after all.

I’d fallen for one of the oldest tricks in the book. The old ‘Bus fare to see my Mother on Mother’s Day’ scam that all grifters know, and make millions out of each year. I’m sure I’ve even seen it on The Real Hustle.

-------

The band playing the MMH were Leeds based The Sunshine Underground, whose first album Raise the Alarm came out nearly five years ago and is highly recommended by P. Mushy. A band with formerly warm fingers, they were initially hotly tipped and pigeonholed with the likes of Klaxons as part of the ‘New Rave’ movement which lasted about 12 minutes, and was probably made up as a joke by somebody’s mum in the first place. 


They released their second and latest album, entitled Nobody’s Coming to Save You, last year to far less media attention.

Support was due from the former front man of The Zutons and his new band. We speculated as to whether it was the ‘proper’ front man Dave McCabe or possibly some unknown original front man, who’d sung for The Zutons when they were still in primary school or something. The Millennium Music Hall was by no means even half full but there were a lot more present than I expected for a Sunday night.

The band were midway through their set at the time, and we were pleased to see that it was in fact the real McCabe and his new band. Unfortunately there were no Zutons classics, but they didn’t sound bad. McCabe seems like the kind of guy who’s still capable of unleashing some pop beauties in the future (if I said any different he’d probably put the head on me). 


“He walks like a Scouser, doesn't he?” I said to Sandro afterwards.

“What does that mean?” he replied.

“I don't really know, but it kind of makes sense don't you think?” I said.

“I suppose. He is a scouser too, so it must be true.” 

At the bar, a chatty bloke with a valleys accent, who was already so sloshed that he was slurring, had built up an uncomfortable relationship with one of the bar staff. He slurred that The Sunshine Underground were an aweshome and musch underrated band, so I decided it wasn't a good idea to tell him that I’d never listened to them, or that he smelled terribly.


When he suggested a tad aggressively that I’d “let one off” (for once I hadn’t), I took my beers and left him to enjoy his own aroma.

Later I spotted him with a group of mates who all seemed in jubilant mood singing along to every song. The Sunshine Underground were playing their last set of shows with bassist Daley Smith who’d recently announced his decision to leave the band. Their fans were drunk enough to give him a good send off.

-------

They impressed and entertained me, which is a lot more difficult than you might think. I had P. Mushy on song naming duties for me, so I knew that the band set the tone early on with a song called 'Wake Up' and continued apace with the rip-roaring 'Coming to Save You', both of which delighted the crowd. I was particularly impressed by the song 'P. Mushy is a Legend'.

Even a newbie like me was entertained by songs such as 'We’ve Always Been Your Friends' and crowd pleaser 'A Warning Sign' from their most recent album.

They didn’t slow down or lose any steam throughout, playing songs that you could justifiably dance or rock out to. I couldn’t decide which was best to do, so I ended up doing a mixture of both: a sort of crazed pigeon movement that led to admiring glances. 


The audience was lapping up the music and my highlights came in the latter half of the set. “We’re only giving you what you want, giving you what you want, giving you what you want, giving you what you want!” the swaggering front man sang in 'Spell it Out' and he was right, except he didn't give me any cakes.


'People With Big Noses are More Attractive' was also an excellent song, and 'Borders' went down a storm, but my personal favourite was another song from their first album, 'I Ain’t Losing Any Sleep'. When they finished on 'Put You in Your Place', they left the stage to rapturous applause.

------

It wasn’t just the music that kept us entertained throughout. Standing centrally but toward the back of the crowd, directly in front of us was an older woman, whose long grey hair suggested she was at least 27. 


She looked like a genuine TSU fan and was apparently accompanied by her entire family, suggesting it may have been her Mother's Day outing.


Singing along and swaying to the music, she slowly moved backwards at the same time, until she settled in a position no more than a foot in front of P. Mushy’s nose (which is about 2 feet in front of his feet).


He stepped a couple of paces to his left to regain his view.


She took a couple of steps to her left.


He stepped a few paces to the right.


She took a few steps to the right too.


He stepped backwards a few feet.


She did likewise.


It seemed whichever way he went she was drawn to him, and he couldn’t get her out of his eye-line.


He went to the toilet.


She went to the toilet too and stood in front of him.


He took a piss anyway.


Her cardigan got very wet.


Enjoying the show, but feeling left out, Sandro, Gavlova and I took up positions at the rear in single file.

If you can’t beat them, do the conga with them.

-------

April

2-8 - The Sunshine Underground - ✓
9-15 - Pete & The Pirates
16-22 - Metronomy
23-29 - Beady Eye

March

Monthly Non-Ramble

¼ Done

The Updated Itinerary so far:

January

1-7 - You Me At Six - ✓

8-14 - Fjords - ✓
15-21 - The Walkmen - ✓
22-28 - Walter Schreifels - ✓

February

29-4 - The Joy Formidable - ✓

5-11 - Jonny - ✓
12-18 - NME Shockwaves Tour (Crystal Castles, Magnetic Man, Everything, Everything The Vaccines) - ✓
19-25 –Les Savy Fav & Frankie and The Heartstrings - ✓

March

26-4 - Larry Miller - ✓
5-11 - Daedelus - ✓
12-18 - Benjamin Francis Leftwich - ✓
19-25 - Elbow - ✓
26-1 - The Thermals - ✓

April

2-8 - The Sunshine Underground
9-15 - Pete & The Pirates
16-22 - Metronomy
23-29 - Beady Eye

May

30-6 - Camden Crawl
7-13 -?
14-20 -?
21-27 - Manic Street Preachers
28-3 -?

June

4-10 -?
11-17 -?
18-24 - Glastonbury
25-1 - Glastonbury

July

2-8 -?
9-15 -?
16-22 -?
23-29 -?

August

30-5 -?
6-12 -?
13-19 -?
20-26 -?
27-2 -?

September

3-9 -?
10-16 -?
17-23 -?
24-30 -?

October

1-7 -?
8-14 -?
15-21 -?
22-28 -?

November

29-4 -?
5-11 -?
12-18 -?
19-25 -?
26-2 -?

December

3-9 -?
10-16 -?
17-23 -?
24-30 -?
31 -?