Sandro's Supplement - Week 13

The King Blues

"You don't know your own postcode?

The problem with mugging a 16 year old girl for her e-ticket is the questions asked by the staff on the door at the venue. On her first appearance of gigaweek the evil Salazar appeared destined not to even make it into the venue. Luckily a handsome stranger stepped in - "It was my girlfriend's ticket but she couldn't come," interjected Sandro before reeling of the reference number when it was requested (28792494 for all you reference number aficionados).

Salazar isn't really evil and she hadn't mugged anyone but got the ticket off our friend Kimbo Slice who was busy fighting for her supper and couldn't make it. Unfortunately Salazar wasn't up to the simple blaggers task of lying to the doorman and had simply announced that she didn't know her postcode. Luckily our hero had averted yet another crisis.

I know what you’re thinking. The style of writing (shit) is the same but the Sandro abuse has been replaced by Sandro-love. Well let's get rid of that. The shit writing I mean. G couldn't make it to this gig because he was on his period or something. So this is Sandro's Supplement. The most swearingest rooting tootingest blog in the west. Clunge-monkeys.

I was going to see the King Blues and as I love a contrivance I decided we'd start in the same place we'd started for Blues King Larry Miller - the George. I was joined by Mushy P and Salazar and as G wasn't in attendance there was some seriously normal paced drinking going on. We sunk pints and battleships at a rate of knots before leaving to meet K-May who would be our driver for the evening.

After we jazzed it down to Brizzle (the journey was fairly uneventful but I know how you like it when G makes stuff up so lets say.... we ran over Mike fucking Tyson with hilarious consequences. Good enough?) we thought we'd start at Start the Bus. Whilst I've had some fairly eventful nights in there this one wasn't one of them. We drank some lager that wasn't that nice so we drank some other lager which wasn't much better. Then chicharita (little P if you don't speak español), Lucy Clarke and their band of merry women turned up. One of the merry women went to get one of the other merry women from the train station and got lost herself. Hahaha... do you find that funny... hahaha... whatever.

By the time we'd had three drinks it was time for the gig and obviously the tediously told events of the first two paragraphs occurred. Once inside the Bierkeller the fun really began.
The support act were just finishing and I know that mug G would have found out about them for you but you've got Google so find out yourself. I'd never visited this place before but the size and atmosphere impressed me and I thought - to the bar! Obviously it was Mushy Ps round and he was procrastinating so I got him moving with a patented Sandro Wet Willy (why use a wet finger when you can use your cock eh!)

The only thing you can drink in Worzel country is Cider and my Tommy was going down a treat. K-May was sipping a lemonade but when I looked over at Salazar, Mushy P and Chicharita they were getting their tongues into a Snatch. Sorry Natch. I'd never heard of it either so I went to the urban dictionary:

1. Abbreviation for naturally.
People who use abvs are cunts


5. A secret society of natch's. The society has very strict rules and and is very selective of their members. The meaning of natch is never spoken and is held only among those who go through natch cycle. A natch is someone who lives by the code of the natch.
People in this secret society are homophobic cunts.


7. The best corporate brand of cider from Somerset, or in fact anywhere in the world. 5% alcohol content and the best dry flavour possible, contributing towards the amazingness of this drink.
Normal person: Hey, want some blackthorn?
Well-Mannered person: No, I don't drink poison, I drink Natch.
Well-Mannered people are racist cunts.

Anyway it was interesting to drink something different but ultimately Natch is fucking minging cider. Like drinking from the back end of a human centipede. Don't try it. And certainly don't try it again.

So the gig eh... King Blues.... who I'd text Chicharita two days earlier to describe as 'Shit'

Well. I was just being a miserablist and I hadn't even listened to them at that stage. They were..... actually.... quite.... ok.... good even.

As I didn't have to look after G I even decided a little dance may be on the cards. I left Mushy P and K-May at the back and walked five yards in front of them to dance.

From the first song Let’s Hang The Landlord the skanking started. Obviously I'm too old and too cool for that kind of thing but once I was sure no-one was watching I was skanking like a skanky skunk from scankdinavia. i.e. badly. They set the room ablaze with Set The World On Fire and the musicality of Mr Music Man was very musical. Out Of Luck and I Got Love seemed quite contrary but maybe the singer pulled between songs.

And Headbutt - what a song - reminded me of that kiss I had in Glasgow. Their fake finish with The Streets Are Ours left everyone clamouring for more and the refrain was sung until the band appeared back on stage.

And then. For an encore. Fucking Poetry. Fucking Feminist Poetry. About Shampoo. Five Bottles of it. The man they call Itch came on and did some poetry. Fuck me that was shite. Obviously none of those five bottles of shampoo are Head and Shoulders if he's still itching. Cunt.

And just when you thought it couldn't get any worse... It didn't obviously - I already said they were good - can't you read you Reet. They finished with the Heroes song Save the Cheerleader, Save the Wo.... sorry the cracking Save the World, Get the Girl. Great tune to finish. Great Gig. Much enjoyed.

After the gig the King Blues were heading to the Croft for an aftershow party and Little P, Lucy and the girls were going with them. Whilst gigaweek protocol clearly states never leave a man behind it says fuck all about women and my famous laziness meant I couldn't turn down the ride home. I got in the car, said adios and ate a family box of chicken.