(To explain - many moons ago, I used to write a little bit - and i developed some stuff that people found amusing - well, ish at any rate. For these articles OFB or Old Fiery Breath refers to my Wife and most knew me as Aladinsane anyway. Oh - these were written for a 'merkin audiance so that explains some of the terms....Anyway - enjoy a blast from my past).
A hard rock band can attract a strange audience, and such was the case last weekend.
Myself and old fiery breath had gone out with some friends. The night had started with a discussion about who was going to drive. For some strange reason, she cannot understand that when we first flipped a coin to decide who was driving, it was not just for that night, but for life... When she started to get violent - no, not in the physical way, and reached for the Decorating and DIY catalogue, i agreed to a compromise. I said we would share the driving and do half each. With a smile,(I assume it was smile as I could see her fangs, sorry teeth), she said that was fair.
She was not so happy when I said I would do the first half, and drive us to brewery where the gig was. For some reason i was so far in the sticky brown stuff i needed a shovel to get out - i had neglected to mention that the gig was being held in a brewery.
They say a picture is worth a thousand words. The look I received was the complete works of Shakespeare. Ask any married man, and he will tell you - the silent stare is the most frightening thing in the world.
Old fiery breath's stare would make Medusa cry with jealousy. It was going to be long night...
As i drove to pick up the friends, I took care as there was freezing fog - at least it was warmer outside than the atmosphere I was driving in.
"Perhaps some music?" I ventured as an icebreaker
Within a few minutes Nimrod was blasting forth - sometimes she can be so subtle.
We arrived and parked up.
"As you are driving home, may I have the pleasure of buying you coke?"
Teeth again...
I got to the bar, and smiled - five real ales, including one of my personal favorites, "Headcracker", guaranteed to stop legs working after 5 pints. As i waited to be served, i looked around at the other punters.
First off, i noticed some spotty geek waiting to be served. All of fifteen, wearing nice clean clothes, and trying desperately to blend in. This is very hard when most of the punters are hairy arsed bikers, wearing the obligatory uniform of leather and tattoos. The barman nodded at the youth.
"Pint of bitter shandy please"
The barman just looked at him
"We don't do shandy - have a pint of real beer"
Grasping his courage, the lad nodded.
The barman smiled and poured a pint of headcracker.
"There you go son - get that down you. Will put hairs on your chest - even if they do belong to Josie here" he said nodding to the bearded lady working behind the bar with him.
The lad gulped, and sipped his ale, then took a few mouthfuls. My cynical nature made a mental note to look for him later.
After being served - 3 pints and a coke - extra ice to help cool her down, we repaired to the side bar to crowd watch and quaff.
First up i noticed a young couple, obviously out on a first date. She had dragged a friend along as moral support; he had just brought his acne. The two girls were dancing in a bored manner to the piped music, while Romeo sort of quivered alongside them - of course you can't dance lad; you're white and you are male...
While i mused over what was in store for Romeo – a lifetime of cynicism is helpful i find, the support band started playing. They sounded awful - the drummer treated each song as a race, while the bass player was lost after the count in. The lead guitar didn't and the screamer, (the term singer was too much of an exaggeration), yelped like hyena with flatulence. They looked even worse, skin tight spandex pants with slashed t shirts and big hair.
It was a very good job they were all female - the hairy arsed bikers were most impressed.
Meanwhile Romeo was trying to do what he had seen people do on rock videos - fist in the air bouncing up and down. Admittedly this is impressive if you are one of ten thousand at a bon jovi gig, being one of one at a crappy bar in Lowestoft does not quite work...
Fully aware of the stare burning a hole in the back of my head, I repaired to the bar – time for more sherberts. At the bar were two sisters – they had to be sisters… no one has eyebrows like that unless they are brothers in Oasis or are otherwise related. These two ladies were pretty in a rough kind of way – but what set them off was the clothes… designer dresses on each. Now I thought that looked great and it accentuated their lack of height – both were about 5 foot 3 tall; and obviously time had been spent accessorizing as they had little Gucci bags. The bloody great steel toe capped boots were an unusual addition how ever. I was torn – did I concentrate on the boots, or watch the dance of the caterpillars on the foreheads... My contemplation was spoilt as Spotty Geek pushed past me.
“Beer pleashe” he slurred.
Mental note to self – keep a close eye as that was a pavement pizza waiting to happen.
So back I weaved to our spot, beers in hand. Now, there is an expression over here – Mutton dressed as lamb. We use this when an older lady, tries to look younger than she really is by the subtle application of make up and wearing younger clothes. The reason why I say this – as I put the pints down, I saw Mutton Dressed as Mutton.
Where to start. Well – the silver lame boob tube was a struggle to comprehend. Partly as they are not often seen, and partly because they are not supposed to sit over rolls of belly – I could imagine it would be hard to decide where the boobs stopped, and the bellies began. As she lifted an arm, I could see the roughened skin from where she had shaved – well – I assume it was that – it may be where she lit her matches to light her hand rolled cigarettes.
The midriff was bare, bar a pierced navel. I can imagine that the piercer had taken one look at his next client and sent his assistant to a vetinarian supplier to get a bull ring – trust me on this – it was not pleasant.
The skirt – oh god the skirt – black leather – it had to be patchwork, as unless a hippo had recently been slaughtered for it’s hide, it was not going to be one skin. It was short as well – so short you could see the top of the fish net stockings. (I tried hard not to look but my eye was drawn to the flesh bulging over the top of the stocking).
To cap it all so to speak – ankle length stiletto’s – bright red – the kind of thing that the wicked witch wore to piss Dorothy off in the wizard of oz.
The hair of course was bright platinum blonde – but she must have spent hours dying the roots brown to get that amount of clash just right.
This had shocked my system so badly I finished my beer fast – I needed the numbing affect of alcohol to comprehend what I had just seen.
Returning to the bar, I saw the fabulous eyebrow sisters were being stalked by Thing. I have no idea on Thing’s real name, but Thing fits rather well. Imagine six foot five of grease, wearing the standard leather cut offs, and with wild hair over the shoulders – you know – that Mad Rasputin monk look. To try and distract from the hair, Thing had a pierced nose – not a delicate stud in a nostril either. A bleeding great spike through the middle. Now Thing was on the pull tonight – and he had gone to special lengths to that aim. He had washed his hair – shame that it now looked like a wild Pube transplant. He had also combed his arm fur – very cleverly as well – the tattoos that were spelt wrongly were covered up, while the more simple ones, “Mum” and “Dad” were proudly exhibited, fur neatly parted around them. The look of sheer joy on the eyebrow sisters face as they each received a Thing flavoured sweaty arm pit on a shoulder as he put his arm around them was a joy to behold – another one to check on later I thought as I carried the beers back.
The support band had finished – well – the drummer had finished before the rest, and they had all sloped off the stage, pausing only to sneer at Romeo, and the main band were coming on stage. A few interested people were starting to congregate at the front of the mosh pit, and I decided it was time to convert the beer I had consumed into lager.
Gents toilets at a gig are pretty rough at the best of times.
Gents toilets with 200 odd hairy arsed bikers who exist on a spice food diet are just plain nasty
Gents toilets where the aforementioned hairy arsed bikers have been drinking real ale all night are unreal
Only one phrase can describe accurately what they were like – Chemical Warfare
The eruptions from peoples nether regions were so bad I swear they were in colour – great clouds of purple and yellow smoke were wafting around.
As I stepped in, I nearly tripped over Spotty Geek – he was chatting with Hughie on the floor – I tiptoed around his pavement pizza, held my breath and made it to a stall – I remember praying that no one struck a match….
After several minutes starved of oxygen, I needed a restorative beer. I headed back to the group to get the next round of beers sorted out. I turned to ask the light of my life if she wanted another coke. I was going to comment on the fact that a few pints of ale were a far better aphrodisiac than oysters – then I realised it was probably the half lighting that was making her look good, and being aware that we were at the nail sharpening, sorry filing stage, I decided just to drink more. (I was tempted to offer sex as well, but I have found that a nail file in the goolies removes the thought pretty damn quick).
On the way back from the bar, the main band started playing – and then I saw it.
There is always one who takes the term “heavy Rock” too literally.
Tonights fat rock chick was all out there. She had the tattoos, she wore the studded leather belts with pride – and she was the size of a small house.
If she was a groupie for the band – I felt for them – women like that can turn a straight man gay.
They say black is a slimming colour.
Is it bollocks.
I dread to use the term, but her dress was first seen as a 4 man hike tent – all she had done was cut two arm holes and torn an opening for her head.
She did not dance – she undulated – once she started moving, it was hard to see what bit was going to stop first.
Now they say love is blind, or more accurately, blind drunk. Thing had given up on the eyebrow sisters and had wandered over to look at the band – his eyes met hers and they moved together as one. The floor had been bouncing with the bass guitar – now it moved with a frantic body heavy beat of its own.
As more people became aware, they watched the start of an idyllic love blossoming – and all went weak at the knees for the first kiss.
(And none of that Hollywood pecking crap either – she grabbed his hair and pulled him to her….)
As the band finished the set, I emptied my pint pot and looked at Old Fiery Breath :
“I do like to watch love in action”
She smiled sweetly:
“Enjoy watching – its as close as you are getting for a long long time….”
A Peculiarly English Night of Hard Rock
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