Eulogy

My brain is calling me a cunt. Hagop dedicated to join an ill fated jaunt to the Crobar on the Tottenham Court Road. We wanted to a) get drunk and b) say hello to Strobe. We achieved both these goals with ease.

Stop!

Hagop is now mixing Drum N Bass. I don't think I've ever been this hurt by music when hungover since Gav played me that Apex Twin tune made with modem noise.

Continue!

As with all Crobar/Strobe night out combinations, we ended up talking to some absolute characters. I'll try and remember them in chronological order...
Strobe herself: Always a pleasure, never a chore. Was seen as God in the eyes of the Finns present because she could get by in Finnish and worked for most of Sophia's musical idols on Finland's metal scene.
The two Finnish girls Sophia and Julia: Sofia has a unique take on chatting people up - "Guys should just say 'Hey you fucking whore, give me some fucking pussy!' and stop all that 'Do you come here often?' shit." I pointed out that no sober man has the stones to try the success:failure ratio of that phrase!
Alex the Harmonica player: He had three harmonica in D, C and A.
Three random guys hitting on Julia: They were rodheads. The chief rodhead was talking to me in the toilet and as he left he turned his head around to carry on facing me as he was talking about... Something shit. His stream of piss followed the line of his eyes. I just stared in disbelief as this guy pissed from the toilet, to the floor, to the wall, to the floor and back to the toilet again. The guy didn't even notice.
Russel the barman/bicycle courier: He gave us savage measures of Jack.
Some Army officer: Where'd he come from?
I want Hagop to stop mixing and offer me some sweet tea. Outlook: grim.

Artists in the Ambulance

Chilling out in London now for a couple of days before the proverbial hop over the pond. Yesterday was unexpectedly eventful: I was sat next to an American from one of the Carolinas on the way down to London. He and his family (his daughter was hot) were on their way home via Heathrow. The polite conversation making ensued, during which I asked him: "So, what brought you over to England for a holiday?" He confers with his wife before turning to me and informing me (with not even a hint of irony) "Uhrm, yeah we came in on a seven forty seven." Luckily it became apparent that this was a 'separated by common language' comment as opposed to a purely idiotic comment. That and he's well into his scotch eggs, a quality I like in a person.

I met Drew at his rehearsal rooms by Old Street tube station straight from the airport. He was playing a gig in Kent that night so I just about had time to get a buttie and dump my bag in his room while the other guys loaded the gear. The van in question was an old F Reg ambulance that had been converted into a splitter with a wheelchair lift that came in handy for getting the heavy cabs in. All was well till we got to the motorway, where at one point the van had a bit of trouble going up a hill. I say a bit of trouble, what I really mean is that on a slope that my car could belt up at 80 the van could only manage 32Mph.
Flat out.
The gig itself was the first time I've seen The Phoenix Drive live and the first time I've seen drew play since October last year. Turns out... They're really fucking good. So good that I was a mix of impressed and intimidated (from the perspective of being in a band and writing songs).
Now I know that Drew's a good friend of mine. And I know that I say nice things about a lot of bands, but they are that damn good.
Right, I'm hungry, so I'm going.

We love you... Manchester!

And so it begins. I'm waiting to leave for London on BMI flight BD587. I'm a little bored so it's time for Mr. Minidisc to shine! Oh and I have a window seat - cue childish excitement!