Blog temporarily made private over the weekend cos Andy Hart found it offensive and was being a dick as always. I had not enough time and inclination to sort it. But now I have.
Photies from Glasgow
hereReport from the weekend in Glasgow below...
Friday - 19:23
I sit, at long last, on the plane,
my fate in the hands of a pilot. I am
helpless.
Not quite enough time in the airport to
buy snacks, too much queuing for security, foreign
folk needing to queue jump to avoid missing their
flight. At the check in desk, so paracitic
credit card chugger. I script in my head what
I'd say, I'd ask if he has a credit card,
one of those, and does he pay it in full
every month. Does the 16% APR look set
to be reduced in line with interest rates and isn't
10.5% profit a bit steep?
The bus dropped us off, leading to
a frantic dash to the check in desk, this
immaculately designed building raped with security
barriers, they look temporary, in that way
that things do after they've been in place for
fice years.
Was running late to get out of work,
firing of a final salvo to Anorak. Why
is it always antagonistic and confrontational
Is it me? No, cos even when I'm not
there Tasty fires salvos, even when I don't
mention stuff, Tasty brings things up.
Maybe he has never stopped loving me.
It ain't healthy, this running through
my head.
"It might help if you asked The
Plimptons to write some good songs" quoth he.
"If they did, would you listen?" Untyped.
The chap sat next to me is getting
frustrated. "Fuck" he says,. The plane isn't due
to leave for another five minutes.
The stewardess with the mic is amusing.
Two lost passengers, are we sure we're
not them? Are we sure we're going to
Glasgow?
Friday - 21:37
The venue isn't open yet, The Beat Club
375 Sauchiehall Street, so I head to ra
Noodle Bar for ma dinner.
Somewhere behind me and to the left a
chap from my first year at university is having
food with his friends.
Since I stepped off the airport bus,
Central Station stop, I've been filled with
glee, I'm home and dry. The streets warm and
embracing, familiar and safe.
This one time I ate in here before a
Belle & Seb gig at the ABC, there was a
crowd of ten or so of us, bickering over eating in
or take away.
Saturday - 00:47
The Beat Club is dark and neon lit when I wander
in, through the murk I see Paul Smith
of Pin Up, and thence emerges Martin Smith
and in the distance Adam, friends. I spot
five or six people, Plimps and entourage. On
stage are some noisy shoegaze Oasis kids. If
they weren't too young I'd figure they were taking
the piss.
Text message from Robbie, he's round the
corner at The State, and seconds later, I'm there
too. Finton Stack, and a chap called Anders, the
name's a little familiar, but I've never seen
him before in my life.
The chaps are there sampling beers
uninterested in joining me at the Plimptons gig
probably awaiting the new album rather than
internecine gigging.
We chat, time passes and I return to
Pin Up Nights.
It was years ago, 1999 when I
first met John D McGonagle, one of the
founders of the Pin Up Nights franchise, him and a chap
called Graham. We'd been competing against
each other in the elections to be student
president at Strathclyde.
I didn't see John D at the gig, thing
slowly fall apart I guess.
Excitement buids before the Plimps take
to the stage. I recognise folk in the
crowd, the smiley foreign lass from
Sounds of Sweden, Chris, Dave and
Katie from the Just Joans, ancient
scenesters from long ago.
The place explodes when the Plimps
take to the stage.
They have the new album in their
minds, still raw, not recorded. The
band all psyched, Rowan smiling eyes
asparkle, Martin overcome by crazed animal spirits,
Cal the youngester fitting in neatly to the six-piece,
Adam twitching by the mic, on home turf, Neil
back to the audience sorting out levels on his
bass, Paul - eyeliner.
Whilst there are still the regular old favourites in the
set, Could I Be Loved and John Major, they
take the opportunity of a full band to play the
more complicated stuff from their 2004 debut
album and earlier demos, The Plimptons Rap
even gets an airing.
Tracks from the third album include Lonely
Old Man, who's MySpace references could date quickly
and Virgin on the Ridiculous, which sounds
terrifyingly like Elvis Costello, Paul Kelly's influence
in the song writing.
Most terrifying of the evening are the
people dancing, looks of glee on the audience's
faces isn't enough, there are mobs of
complete strangers dancing in front of the
stage, folk coming up and shaking Adam's
hand after the show.
What have they
gained since I left?
Text message from the girl, she's just
finished work, Robbie, Finton, and Anders
are there so I head off.
---
The next day, the weather's shite
as we head off to the farmer's market in
Partick, on a quest for duck eggs and
homemade sorbet.
Some further acquaintance from uni is
running one of the stalls, selling porridge oats,
my eyes glaze over as I try to recall
how I know him, but the moment passes.
Robbie and Finto are there,
four of us head to a bearby Polish Deli
for pickles and kabanos. In Glasgow its
still a novelty instead of the norm.
The weather's still crap as we sit
in The Three Judges. I leave myself at
the combined mercy of the others' expert
knowledge of fine beers and ales.
The rain is torrential with blobs of
snows, the girl's feet soaked, when we
call round at my old flat to pick up
mail. A good carrier bag full for
me to wade through an hour later at
the Bon Accord as we're served a
succession of Bloody Mary derived drinks.
The one with floaty nits of horseradish
is unexpectedly
pleasant, but
would be a
task to persuade
others to sample.
An indian
takeaway, the
film Chopper
with Eric
Bana and NCiIS
on the TV.
Its dark and wet out when we
stagger into The Cellers. Used to be the
Brunswick Cellers back in my day, now its still
cold and gloomy but utterly without soul.
Flatmate Alan and his wife Claire are here
for my birthday. They haven't seen us since
the wedding, two months ago, they
bring gifts. I melt in a gooey mess of
happiness, leaving Natalie and Alan to
do the talking. The Wolfknuckles soldier on,
Iain Thornton is still around, no one's
seen Teamie in months, the old club nights
are achanging, naked woman on fliers.
Bis still playing gigs. Working over
Christmas. Teamie appears, the
descent of the Winchester, change, change,
change.
Drinks are drunk and baby its time to
move on.
The weather's still crap as me and
Natalie find The Flying Duck, the entrance
is hidden, but inside its homely. We
strangely see Bis's Sci-Fi Steve fluttering
down the corridors like the fifth Doctor,
before we pay in and retrouve Robbie and
Finto.
The latest version of that crowd is here,
faces missing, far away, unexpected face
now here, like Big Duncan and Wake The
President, last see in London just days
before.
Robbie dragging me to the dancefloor for the Rutles.
Nat dragging me to the dancefloor for some other dancing
Me dragging Robbie to the dancefloor via Gav for Hectors
Natalie taking photies of the boys, looking cool
Fear / jealousy of Natalie and Finto chatting and flicking through my camera, then remembering faith and the phrase 'true blue'
Flashes of years gone by, similar folk dancing similarly
Somethings change, but not everything
Text message from the ex-wife, she'd just finished work and wanted to know where we were, battery on my phone failed before I could reply.
For a few seconds I thought it could be awkward were she with us.
Robbie mentioning some sad news about an ex- in London. Feelings of helpnessness "But I should do something"
More booze, more dancing.
Trying to get Ally to play Pipettes.
Trying to get Ally to put on more bands at the Winchester
Replying to Colin's post on Anorak offline.
Switching on lamps and eating cashew nuts, pilferred from the night before.
Dancing to Stone Roses.
Smiling at Finto and Nat dancing to Pulp. Did I really drag him out to the Winchester?
Did I have fun, damned right, didn't
even have to apply Mental Judo.
Next morning we stagger to the
bus station. A man dies of a heart attack
in Waterstones. I step onto the Megabus
and vanish.
