When you bug out, you usually have a reason for the action

Saying that you dance to metal music is a little bit like saying I stroked a cat when really I flattened it with a sledgehammer.  About four hours earlier I was getting ready to go out,  with the complimentary can of double dutch and a bindhi, trying to find the most metal clothes I could find in my wardrobe (read pair of MDF shelfs).  When I was a teen it was alright because I used to dress like a tramp most of the time anyway so I’d fit in well at metal concerts but I tend to feel if I dress like I do now I’d look like a supply teacher at a drum and base concert.

I have another bindhi, can and a redbull for novelty value (which has a taste similar to shoving pennies in your mouth) and walk towards the shabby Brudnell Social club in Hyde Park.  It’s got a bit of a retro northern feel to it, like a Pulp Music video.  Beer is cheap enough so before the first band has even come on I’m about as drunk as Father Jack and half as coherent.  On come the first band, a Primus tribute band, who manage what a lot of tribute band don’t and actually manage to sound like the band they’re mimicking.  They go through some of the better Primus tracks, like my name is mud and jerry the race car driver, and it takes me back to driving around fields getting stoned at sixth form at lunch, where we’d just play about three different primus tapes for about half a year.

On come the Rage tribute band, fronted by a girl that sounds a hell of a lot like Zach de la rocha, and everybodies up and jumping so I get up as well and it’s not long before I’m dancing like a loon.  This is where my bight ends as far as my memory allows me, though I remember bits of a coaster and a bearded guy, and throwing a slice of anchovy pizza at a cat.  People get annoyed on nights of drunkeness when their memory plays up on them, but I reckon it’s a favour.  Ignorance is bliss.

~ by mcjeff on March 19, 2007.