It’s taken far too long to get home today and once again, now here, I have an hour before trekking off again to do another gig. No peace for the wicked as they say, which I suppose is fair, as if you’re wicked you probably want to incite wars anyway. No peace for the peace lovers would be far more means. No peas for the wicked would be bad too as they’d be deprived of a great source of nutrients. Or no piece (of cake). I’m just saying. It strikes me as mental that in today’s day and age (both of those things) it can take so long to travel places. We left Cardiff at 11.45 today and I got home at 4pm this afternoon. THAT’S 4 AND A QUARTER HOURS! Virtual insanity and other bland Jamiroquai songs that can be used as exclamations! That’s with traffic and a tube and a bus, but still, when oh when will I just sit in my jet box pod ship and be able to traverse the land in a matter of minutes? Sometimes I feel advances in technology aren’t being made in the areas that count i.e. me and everything I need.
If I could zip zap in super speeds everywhere then last night, instead of kicking around in Cardiff post gig I could have come home and avoided watching humanity disappoint me again. To be fair, it was entirely my fault. I have known for many years that I shouldn’t go to nightclubs anymore. I use the term ‘anymore’ in a very specific way as well. When I used to go clubbing it was a certain kind of establishment I would frequent. Turning a blind eye to the places who’s lighting bill costs numbers scientists can’t imagine and plays terrible cheesy music that is specifically designed to bore into the brain via the ears and deaden any emotion until you are a bundle of apathy, I would only really stomp my face off at drum n bass, hip hop and funk nights. The primary aim of these nights would be to have fun and listen to awesome music. Should any lady action occur then it was a bonus but I wasn’t entering the evening with the intention of hunting and fucking something like a predatory male. So no, I suppose I’ve never been ‘clubbing’ in that ‘drink till our eyes bleed, sleep with anything that moves and all sing ‘Come On Eileen’ together’ way that so many do. In the same way I’ve never been to Shagaluf, Ibiza or anywhere that promotes such things and while I may, right now, be coming across as a snob, I am one, so there. Fact is though, I’ve still very much enjoyed myself and a no point has that been anything to do with the Outhere Brothers (I struggled to think of someone more relevant. I feel this may hammer the nail into the coffin that I am no longer on any kind of lower level with those young adults).
Last night myself and one of the comics chose to stay in the nightclub once the gig had finished. I’m not sure why. I didn’t particularly want a beer after a gig that involved several people who appeared to be dead from the neck up, a prison warden who admitted to punching inmates and a man who told me his friend ‘is called Craig Ball and he’s only got one ball. See if you can throw that out there’ with the assumption that I’d be very pleased with such information. I purposefully didn’t mention any Hitler references and it seemed to annoy the crowd who wouldn’t know imagination if it hit them in the face in the form of a dancing unicorn with rainbow hair belching the German national anthem. If anything we all left the stage feeling as though they’d sucked the life from our souls and had my bed had a phone it would have made several very swift calls asking for my whereabouts and when I’d be back.
But no. Against better judgement, we stayed and I watched as the evil hordes entered. Every woman was wearing heels that were so high up I suspect if they fell over they’d be on their back like a beetle until helped up, and collectively all their clothing could’ve been stitched together into one jumper for a fat man. Every man looked as though he’d spent time doing weights until the very second he’d left the house, parading around all biceps and stupidity in the sort of v-neck tshirts that only massive pricks wear. I wanted an analogy but that’s the only way I can describe it. They then all danced around each other in a tribal fashion until they all seemingly randomly pick a partner and grope each other tirelessly in the corner. It was like watching a David Attenborough documentary if the BBC decided to take even his shows the way they have done everything else. I saw mating dances, aggressive battles for the other sex (after I left I was told one ogre man threw another down the stairs in a display of ‘being a proper cunt’) and people drinking as though it was going out of fashion. Oh and three women told me I’d be ‘well fit’ if I lost the beard. I told them they were wrong, I liked the beard and that I didn’t in anyway want their attention. The orange faces were hurting my eyes and I was far too sober to put up with such opinions on my favoured appearance.
I shouldn’t be surprised I felt so depressed by it all. These places aren’t designed for me and I am far too cynical to even enjoy them on an ironic level. Maybe its good they exist otherwise the people that occupy them would be elsewhere on a Saturday night and I may return home for a gig to find them being obnoxious in my living room, which would be far worse. So well done those night clubs. I’m glad I’ve had a timely reminder of why getting old is ok, and I shall try my very best to firmly lodge that realisation into my head and head home to watch Newsnight Review while they all have fun like crazy kids. Grumble grumble grumble.
Here’s something I watched that has cheered me up considerably:
I saw that once above Brighton beach with a considerable amount less birds and stood steadfast stuck with awe, just watching them, for about an hour. Bloody amazing the world sometimes. I just hope we don’t discover its their version of going clubbing on a Saturday night.
IN OTHER NEWS! I HAVE A NEW VIDEO ON YOUTUBE! Its from this year’s Edinburgh show and if you could like, watch, share, comment, eat, dance, punch or whatever else you do with it, that’d be aces.