Memories.......
Just before last Christmas I wrapped myself
in copious layers and braved the frozen Northern air to meet up with Eddie
the Slim. We were off to a gig. I am Kloot were playing at
Manchester Cathedral. I quite like I am Kloot and was happy to fork
£18 or whatever it was to see them, but I must admit to being more intrigued
by the notion of the Cathedral as a venue.
Dating from the 15th century this Gothic
magnificence is as fine a place as any for the more understated type of
gig. AC/DC would probably find it restricting but Hayseed Dixie would
be just right. On this particular night Kloot were just perfect.
Low key songs of angst were sombrely suited to the gloomy interior.
The only drawback was that it was cold, but then again outside it
was bloody freezing and snow was blowing.
Two impromptu and extremely busy bars had
been set up at the rear serving a range of bottled beers which added to
the overall ambience. I was a little fearful that there would be
no alcohol on account of the Lord and everything so that was an added bonus.
It was a great night apart from one little
grumble. The toilets were an absolute disgrace! Not, I must
add, due to the defecatory habits of our fellow gig-goers, but the facilities
on offer.
Three distressed cublicles leaning against
the east wall devoid of light and tap water. Moreover, three UNISEX
distressed cublicles. Standing in the queue as the snow whipped around,
slowly shuffling forward with a sense needful dread was not a pleasant
experience I can tell you. Finally getting in one of the damn things
was akin to a particularly tough Krypton Factor task. Pitch black
for a start. Any light would have be acquired by opening the door
as you took to the task in hand with a shuffling queue of onlookers to
witness your every move. To add an extra frisson of excitement to
the whole enterprise, each cubicle was pitched at a slight angle. It
was a memorable enough experience standing up, God knows what it must've
been like squatting above it. And no hand washing facilities either.
And there was me thinking cleaniness was
next to Godliness.
Post gig we retired to one of Manchester's
finest hostelries: The Hare and Hounds on Shudehill - Just round the corner
from The Band on the Wall. A Joseph Holts pub and a mighty fine one
at that. The interior is all Victorian tiles and mahogony. It's
a compact little place and a pint of Joey Holt's bitter will set you back
about £2:00. The trouble with Holts' beer is it doesn't travel,
so to try it at it's best you'll have to come to Manchester. Worth
it though.
Slim and I were on our second or third pint
when a couple in their early thirties sat at a nearby table. They
overheard us talking about the gig and assumed we had been to see Weller
at the MEN Arena. They had and started telling us about how great
he was. In between this they somehow manged to convey the fact that
they had a three quarters of a million pound house in Worsley and had dragged
themselves up from the backstreets of Salford. It was obvioulsy a
tale perfected in the constant re-telling and we wondered how many other
poor buggers they had bored rigid. Swanking my Mother would've called
it.
During the husband's critique of Weller's
performance he pointed out the the Modfather had performed quite a number
of Beatles' numbers. This upset him apparently: "why does he
have to spoil it playing shit by them Scouse bastards?"
Shit. From. Them. Scouse. Bastards.
Arsehole
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