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hirezTravelling Pete was the one who discovered it.
He staggered, half-cut, into the swamp-bogs of some Camden dive while the support band were on and lurched sideways into a cubicle so as to avoid a cider-puking crusty. The cubicle that he lurched back out of was in the Duchess of York, Leeds. It was 1983 and The Three Johns were taking the stage.
The way Pete tells it, he was drunk enough not to notice and buttonholed the bloke who wrote 'Attack on Bzag' to complain at length about these modern bands who were ripping off old post-punk outfits. He also says that he told Andy Taylor that he looked much better with his hair back on and that he has no recollection of how he got back to Camden on the right day.
We all just assume that the woman who drives the beer-scooter knows when and where you live.
I handed Pete a pint of lager and slumped carefully into my own corner of the scruffy couch. We were in the top bar of the Electric Ballroom. Outside it was 1994. Inside, the mood was glum. Nick and Rose had filled an ashtray with label-confetti carefully picked off a succession of lager bottles. Bob was hunched over his cider, crumpled stetson pulled low over his forehead.
"We've lost another one," he said quietly.
There was a silence. No-one really wanted to ask the next question. Rose was finally braver than the rest of us.
"Where?"
"The Constitution in Leamington," said Bob.
He looked sick. It must have been one of his own old places. It's like a kick in the stomach when it first happens to you. Years of your life boarded up, gutted and then 'redeveloped' by a mob of bastards. Friends, weird bands, squat-parties, drunken exploits - all summarily deleted from consensus reality.
"Shit. I went to see The Cravats there," I said.
Bob looked up at me.
"Really?"
"Yeah. They were terrible. I was so disappointed that I went back twice more, just to be sure."
Bob drained his glass.
"We should go somewhere. You know. Celebrate or something."
"I'm not sure that's quite the word, but I concur," said Nick. She pulled a flyer from her bag and unfolded it. "Since it's a summer saturday, we could go to the techno night at the Axiom. The courtyard will be open and there'll be drunk people playing with fire."
"Excellent plan," I said. "The element of danger does make an evening go with a bang."
He staggered, half-cut, into the swamp-bogs of some Camden dive while the support band were on and lurched sideways into a cubicle so as to avoid a cider-puking crusty. The cubicle that he lurched back out of was in the Duchess of York, Leeds. It was 1983 and The Three Johns were taking the stage.
The way Pete tells it, he was drunk enough not to notice and buttonholed the bloke who wrote 'Attack on Bzag' to complain at length about these modern bands who were ripping off old post-punk outfits. He also says that he told Andy Taylor that he looked much better with his hair back on and that he has no recollection of how he got back to Camden on the right day.
We all just assume that the woman who drives the beer-scooter knows when and where you live.
I handed Pete a pint of lager and slumped carefully into my own corner of the scruffy couch. We were in the top bar of the Electric Ballroom. Outside it was 1994. Inside, the mood was glum. Nick and Rose had filled an ashtray with label-confetti carefully picked off a succession of lager bottles. Bob was hunched over his cider, crumpled stetson pulled low over his forehead.
"We've lost another one," he said quietly.
There was a silence. No-one really wanted to ask the next question. Rose was finally braver than the rest of us.
"Where?"
"The Constitution in Leamington," said Bob.
He looked sick. It must have been one of his own old places. It's like a kick in the stomach when it first happens to you. Years of your life boarded up, gutted and then 'redeveloped' by a mob of bastards. Friends, weird bands, squat-parties, drunken exploits - all summarily deleted from consensus reality.
"Shit. I went to see The Cravats there," I said.
Bob looked up at me.
"Really?"
"Yeah. They were terrible. I was so disappointed that I went back twice more, just to be sure."
Bob drained his glass.
"We should go somewhere. You know. Celebrate or something."
"I'm not sure that's quite the word, but I concur," said Nick. She pulled a flyer from her bag and unfolded it. "Since it's a summer saturday, we could go to the techno night at the Axiom. The courtyard will be open and there'll be drunk people playing with fire."
"Excellent plan," I said. "The element of danger does make an evening go with a bang."
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no subject
Date: 2010-05-23 12:51 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-05-23 11:26 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-05-23 11:42 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-05-23 07:36 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-05-23 11:31 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-05-23 08:32 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-05-23 10:59 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-05-23 11:29 am (UTC)It seems to me that I could wait for someone else to write about my life, or I could get on and do it myself.
no subject
Date: 2010-05-24 05:38 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-05-24 06:07 pm (UTC)If one or other of us grovels back through this very LJ, you'll find the original ideas for Parallel Cheltenham and Schroedinger's Cider-Puking Crusty, which comfortably pre-date yon film.
no subject
Date: 2010-05-24 06:18 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-05-25 03:49 pm (UTC)Great line. I'm naive here, but have you written any books?
no subject
Date: 2010-05-25 04:05 pm (UTC)