I was fully prepared to take on an evening of painful hill training this evening; that being running up a hill 4 - 10 times very fast until the world starts spinning, its becomes painful to move a muscle and life generally starts fading away in front of your eyes. Good times. However things change.
I woke up from my recurring dream this morning, I was in the company of an old friend, someone I let down a long time ago. When I was at the faithful internship I recalled something stupid I said to them, something which seemed 100% A Ok at the time, but which, months later, like a bullet from the gun of all things depressing, struck me square between the eyes and made me damn near sweat from the annoyance of my ignorance.
Bugger, I thought.
So it was a good thing I received a reminder from my friend mr anthony D that there was a gig going on in Camden tonight. Once again I was invited to London's Vice City, a place which was full of pick-me-ups. Of the good kind. So I decided what was best for my sanity would be a bit of hard partying and merriment as opposed to the crippling pain of a damn steep hill. How right I was.
Little knownst to me we were early indeed, we had time enough to buy some of the cheapest 'hurryletsgetwastedasap' booze our local convenience store had to offer and go home and drink a damn large portion of it too, taking what little we had left in bottles to the gig location.
We met good ole Leander at the station and made our way to the gig, which was the size roughly of the downstairs level of any upstate new york house I have ever been in. Large but good lord not that big. However there was a perfect number of people present, all of which seemed to enjoy a good dance.
The band we came to see were called The Hares, a good little indie group who 1) had the fairly famous Rob Skipper as a lead singer/guitarist and 2) was in the process of shedding its one band member of any true talent and fame winning potential, the bassist. It was critical that we heard them before all was lost.
What we had was a damn good experience beyond anything I could have thought rising this morning. The band were excellent, and played some great catchy songs. I managed to snap some good photos, my camera was acting strange with regards to focus but I caught the buggers in some good freeze frame shots on a number of occasions. After the band ended we managed to talk to both Mr Skipper himself, who turned out to be a lovely chappy, and Mr Dave Danger, the barman who was an ex-semi successful drummer with the Holloways. Mr Danger seemed unimpressed by the recent attendance of the lead Holloways members to the gigs of friends and ex-band mates, hot gross which made the evening even more worthwhile. The niceness of mr skipper and the pleasant atmosphere encouraged me to buy a ticket for the Holloway's on Thur's, which I shall do asap. This all beasts running up hills I might add.
All that remained to be done was to dance like crazed fools to the great selection of post-band tunes on offer, all of which turned out to be absolute classics; The Flowerpot in Camden Town boys and girls, I hightly recommend.
Leander left a tad early to get back and me avec ant left shortly after to grab a train back home. After a memorable conversation regarding which celebrity babe was mostly likely evil (most likely all we agreed on), we went to the D's house and watched meaningless football commentary while cooking the drunk persons favourite meal; "fried anything". Turns out today was friend egg, fried toast and fried tomato day. Fried anything tastes like a £1000 dinner at the Ritz when drunk, there is no substitute.
It took several more hours of football discussion regarding referees and goalline technology before I had to leave at 4am and I find myself here at home typing up the remains. I should probably in future leave such posts to the following evening, as such I feel I am rushing to sleep more quickly in order to wake up in approx 4 hours for athletic training. Good decision you may chime. Damn well wish it had come to me before starting the first sentence at the top of this page.
But what is done is done, and I am damn pleased for sharing it with you. Moral: when life is kicking you in the nuts and you need a pick me up, trust in a friend, a random band, and alcohol to pick you up and guide you to a better place. Just make sure the friend is on your side or shit could get ugly.
This post hasn't been up to scratch! It will take a great next post to turn things around. The Holloways gig on Thursday will be the place to do such a thing. I lack money to invest in such a venture but mr skipper will be expecting me, can't let the old guy down. Promise to bring a much more witty and sober idea to the foray on Thursday evening peeps.But until then, in the words of Maurice (Andy Dick):
Dig a hole and plant yourself!
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