RIP Phil. My thoughts go out to your family, friends and all supporters of Motherwell football club. I can barely begin to comprehend the loss.
Sunday 30 December 2007
Phil O'Donnell 1972-2007.
RIP Phil. My thoughts go out to your family, friends and all supporters of Motherwell football club. I can barely begin to comprehend the loss.
Monday 17 December 2007
Prick Young.
Been a while since my last post but in the football spirited nature of this blog so far, I thought I should have a go at the worst problem in Scottish football. The Scottish media and Chick Young in particular, leave me climbing the wall in anger. I'll try and pretend that I'm not in the slightest bit bitter or sour but thats how I'll hit it, so here we go.
Chick Young's article that tipped me over the edge.
What absolute nonsense this man speaks. The thing that really bothers me about it is that the article isn't even well written. It is simply a stream of consciousness spurting from his ginger 'St. Mirren supporting' bald head. It really begs the question as to whether his work even has an editor. Rubbish attempted jokes and a suggestion that perhaps Motherwell won't keep their run going and a suggestion of dodgy refereeing which went Celtic's way (From the non-Rangers fan). While I thoroughly agree with the sentiment that more people should go to Fir Park on a saturday, Chic's inability to write properly gets on my rag.
Then we come to the television coverage. I bless the BBC for their decision to put highlights online this year and thus sparing us the hell that is the analysis of Scotland's take on the beautiful game by Grant Stott, Andy Walker, John Colquhoun and occasionally, resident of the seventh circle of Hell himself; Graham Speirs. This of course is after the top quality match commentary of Archie MacPherson. The BBC broadcasting at full time on a Saturday is equally as woeful as we are treated to the definition of 'face for the radio' Stuart Cosgrove and 'Robbing overpaid git' Pat Nevin. Stuart Cosgrove's attempts at 'lighthearted humour' ends up sounding like jokes your gran would make and Pat Nevin seems to have carried on his running around in circles from the pitch to answering questions.
The real shame of this however, is that Scottish football is as competitive as it has been for a number of years. Discounting the Old Firm and Gretna, every team is as competitive as one another and for the first time in several years, the Old Firm are eminently beatable. Celtic's inability to defend properly and find anyone but McDonald to score and Rangers inability to play anything but 5-4-1 leaves them both vulnerable at the moment. I accept the fact that when Rangers and Celtic are punted out of Europe then they'll go back to concentrating on the league, but it'll be a nice ride until then.
Like I said, I've possibly only noticed due to Motherwell's fantastic run at the moment, but compared to Match of the Day and Final Score for the Premiership where we have coherent and sensible analysis by men who generally come over intelligently (Ian Wright excepted), north of the border, we're expected to put up with these complete morons. Surely if the package was altogether more professional looking then perhaps more of the general public would be tempted to part with their cash in order to actually go to the games, but this is a different rant altogether.
In other news, I've finished uni for the year, wearing shorts in december is stupid and drinking is great fun. Related news is this: Paul Quinn, David Clarkson and Steven McGarry have performed the biggest changes I've ever seen in a player, Ross McCormack is a quality player and Stef Hughes was the best piece of business performed this summer. Oh, and McGhee is a miracle worker for doing all of this.
Chick Young's article that tipped me over the edge.
What absolute nonsense this man speaks. The thing that really bothers me about it is that the article isn't even well written. It is simply a stream of consciousness spurting from his ginger 'St. Mirren supporting' bald head. It really begs the question as to whether his work even has an editor. Rubbish attempted jokes and a suggestion that perhaps Motherwell won't keep their run going and a suggestion of dodgy refereeing which went Celtic's way (From the non-Rangers fan). While I thoroughly agree with the sentiment that more people should go to Fir Park on a saturday, Chic's inability to write properly gets on my rag.
Then we come to the television coverage. I bless the BBC for their decision to put highlights online this year and thus sparing us the hell that is the analysis of Scotland's take on the beautiful game by Grant Stott, Andy Walker, John Colquhoun and occasionally, resident of the seventh circle of Hell himself; Graham Speirs. This of course is after the top quality match commentary of Archie MacPherson. The BBC broadcasting at full time on a Saturday is equally as woeful as we are treated to the definition of 'face for the radio' Stuart Cosgrove and 'Robbing overpaid git' Pat Nevin. Stuart Cosgrove's attempts at 'lighthearted humour' ends up sounding like jokes your gran would make and Pat Nevin seems to have carried on his running around in circles from the pitch to answering questions.
The real shame of this however, is that Scottish football is as competitive as it has been for a number of years. Discounting the Old Firm and Gretna, every team is as competitive as one another and for the first time in several years, the Old Firm are eminently beatable. Celtic's inability to defend properly and find anyone but McDonald to score and Rangers inability to play anything but 5-4-1 leaves them both vulnerable at the moment. I accept the fact that when Rangers and Celtic are punted out of Europe then they'll go back to concentrating on the league, but it'll be a nice ride until then.
Like I said, I've possibly only noticed due to Motherwell's fantastic run at the moment, but compared to Match of the Day and Final Score for the Premiership where we have coherent and sensible analysis by men who generally come over intelligently (Ian Wright excepted), north of the border, we're expected to put up with these complete morons. Surely if the package was altogether more professional looking then perhaps more of the general public would be tempted to part with their cash in order to actually go to the games, but this is a different rant altogether.
In other news, I've finished uni for the year, wearing shorts in december is stupid and drinking is great fun. Related news is this: Paul Quinn, David Clarkson and Steven McGarry have performed the biggest changes I've ever seen in a player, Ross McCormack is a quality player and Stef Hughes was the best piece of business performed this summer. Oh, and McGhee is a miracle worker for doing all of this.
Sunday 11 November 2007
Hoping for a miracle.
Its been a bit too long since I last posted, turns out I need to post another retraction; Alan Hutton is good. Fed up of having to retract things so I'll sort this one out properly.
Amdy Faye is the worst player in the Scottish Premier League.
Instead of a retraction next time, I will literally eat a hat if he's not still awful. A man who has clocked up two starts, two half time substitutions and two losses, (Ok, I ignored his three minutes against Aberdeen, but they were already three up, what could go wrong?!). I think I might actually have found a reason behind this though, don't laugh, seriously. While hunting for some Amdy Faye stats to prove his comedic abilities I came across a glorious piece from the 2002 World Cup entitled; The Curse of Amdy Faye.
Amdy Faye isn't cursed. He's just pish.
Things are more or less steady. Working two or three times a week in the union, I've learned my timetable which is better than carrying around a tatty little piece of paper and I've not managed to fail anything yet. All is well for now and there is nothing to panic about. Later there might be a problem but just now: A-O-K.
I get my essay back next week.
Anyway. I've been working at the Union for a while now and becoming worryingly close to being a part of the furniture and even more terrifyingly, perhaps even making some 'friends'. Since I've been there I've noticed a few things and the main one is that there isn't a rifle above the bar.
For me, it seems obvious. If you don't want any trouble then place a reaction and deterrent in full view of all patrons. Its a quiet Thursday evening in Mono, theres only the three of you on the dance floor, there really isn't a need to squeal like banshees is there? Can't sing, then don't do Karaoke and even if you do it, don't shout it louder than the last idiot. Have some dignity, please, theres no need to wear that little. Hence;
Amdy Faye is the worst player in the Scottish Premier League.
Instead of a retraction next time, I will literally eat a hat if he's not still awful. A man who has clocked up two starts, two half time substitutions and two losses, (Ok, I ignored his three minutes against Aberdeen, but they were already three up, what could go wrong?!). I think I might actually have found a reason behind this though, don't laugh, seriously. While hunting for some Amdy Faye stats to prove his comedic abilities I came across a glorious piece from the 2002 World Cup entitled; The Curse of Amdy Faye.
Amdy Faye isn't cursed. He's just pish.
Things are more or less steady. Working two or three times a week in the union, I've learned my timetable which is better than carrying around a tatty little piece of paper and I've not managed to fail anything yet. All is well for now and there is nothing to panic about. Later there might be a problem but just now: A-O-K.
I get my essay back next week.
Anyway. I've been working at the Union for a while now and becoming worryingly close to being a part of the furniture and even more terrifyingly, perhaps even making some 'friends'. Since I've been there I've noticed a few things and the main one is that there isn't a rifle above the bar.
For me, it seems obvious. If you don't want any trouble then place a reaction and deterrent in full view of all patrons. Its a quiet Thursday evening in Mono, theres only the three of you on the dance floor, there really isn't a need to squeal like banshees is there? Can't sing, then don't do Karaoke and even if you do it, don't shout it louder than the last idiot. Have some dignity, please, theres no need to wear that little. Hence;
M1 Garand
Wikipedia claims that; The M1 was used heavily in World War II, the Korean War and, to a limited extent, in the Vietnam War.
So what we have basically is the rifle that beat the Germans in World War II and my guess is (although I'm no expert) that it would splatter kneecaps like, well, a hot piece of metal in skin. Plus, I'm fairly sure its the one from Medal of Honor, so we can all get some practice in.
To more important matters. Next weekend brings the alignment of the planets and the biggest weekend of my life. Scotland play Italy at Hampden and the tickets are in, the Kilt is lying on my sofa and the hairdresser says he'll make us look like idiots. All bets are off as to the result and I'm afraid to say that when we win, it may be another few months before I update this or resurface at all. Scotland should probably go;
------------Gordon---------------
Cafu--Weir--McManus--Alexander/Naysmith/McEveley
------------Hartley---------------
Brown--Fletcher--Ferguson--Big Lee
----------McFadden--------------
Hope springs eternal and with McFadden the day can always be his. I worry about the left back spot but the rest of the team picks itself. Let set aboot them and as one great scholar once said;
'Aye, they eyeties can only make ice cream'.
Believe.
Wherever it takes us, whatever it takes.
So what we have basically is the rifle that beat the Germans in World War II and my guess is (although I'm no expert) that it would splatter kneecaps like, well, a hot piece of metal in skin. Plus, I'm fairly sure its the one from Medal of Honor, so we can all get some practice in.
To more important matters. Next weekend brings the alignment of the planets and the biggest weekend of my life. Scotland play Italy at Hampden and the tickets are in, the Kilt is lying on my sofa and the hairdresser says he'll make us look like idiots. All bets are off as to the result and I'm afraid to say that when we win, it may be another few months before I update this or resurface at all. Scotland should probably go;
------------Gordon---------------
Cafu--Weir--McManus--Alexander/Naysmith/McEveley
------------Hartley---------------
Brown--Fletcher--Ferguson--Big Lee
----------McFadden--------------
Hope springs eternal and with McFadden the day can always be his. I worry about the left back spot but the rest of the team picks itself. Let set aboot them and as one great scholar once said;
'Aye, they eyeties can only make ice cream'.
Believe.
Wherever it takes us, whatever it takes.
Wednesday 1 August 2007
Retreat! Retreat!
Cuellar signs, looks good, what do I know anyway? At least now they've signed Whittaker they won't keep banging on about Hutton being the 'best right back in Scotland'.
A fair chunk of time has passed since my last blog, a few things have happened.
* I got a job. If you're applying through clearing to Dundee university, you're coming through me.
* My T in the Park tickets never came.
* I acquired around 3 litres of various rums.
* I discovered some new bands.
* I lined up another job for term time in the Union.
* I got overdrawn as fuck.
* I travelled over 3000 miles in a Fiat Punto.
June started fairly leisurely, I had no job, no resits and hardly any cash. A twelve hour shift at the Graduation Ball topped up my bank nicely and my newly acquired overdraft set me up beautifully for our trip to Spain.
I should probably explain that since February, I've had a ticket for the largest music festival in Spain; Benicassim. Beast and Glen decided that instead of taking the relatively simple trip to Oxford and repeating our drunken escapades at Truck, that we'd move on from harassing middle England and take our particular talents to continental Europe. Before leaving, the score stood somewhere around this:
Middle England 0 - 1 Scots on Tour.
Continental Europe 0 - 0 Scots on Tour.
Truck Festival 0 - 0 Benicassim
Despite having the ticket and knowing that we were going, the minute and insignificant detail of 'How do you get to Spain?' was not addressed for some time. At this point, a drunken fan rampaged across the pitch and pour beer through several orifices. A drunken conversation between Beast and Glen centered around travel eventually led to; 'You know what'd be funny, we could DRIVE to Spain'.
Common Sense 0 - 1 Drunken Nonsense.
Despite the sheer scale of the task that is navigating France and Spain, the seed of an idea was planted and it was decided, (In my own defence, I was reminded that driving meant I could stow crates of Tennents Lager in the car.) that the three of us would pile into Clarabel (Glen's trusty Punto) and take off at high speed. The trip went something like this;
Day 1- Friday 13th July.
I had a job interview in Dundee for the University and as far as I knew, a gig to play in Glasgow. Glen had decided to hang around in Dundee for some Kaddish and Archives action and Beast was slaving over some chips in McDonalds. As soon as my interview was over I piled onto a Megabus and headed for Glasgow, only to find out the gig was cancelled and so a train to Carluke. Glen's Kaddish action was cut short by a blown amp and then stretched to breaking point as he drove from Dundee to Carluke via Glasgow in horrendous rain. Beast kept flipping burgers. Eventually after arriving in Carluke with Vicky, Glen seemed close to death. His incessant giggling hiding his realisation that we were driving to Spain in the morning. Juice was drunk, lights switched off and Glen, Vicky and I caught some sleep. Beast told a customer that Big Tasty sauce was not available.
Day 2 - Saturday 14th July.
Bright and early, we all struggled out of bed and loaded the last of the gear into the car. Just as we were about to leave, Beast and Mags pulled up in the Beastmobile and so a hair raising trip to Bogside was avoided. Finally ready for the big off, Clara pulled out of Old Bridgend and headed for Frome.
A fairly uneventful day in all, apart from the apprehension of a 'Terror suspect' a mile or so down the road in front of us. We arrived in Frome, a three way high five went spectacularly wrong and all three boys wandered into Vicky's house with sore faces. After some generous hospitality, we wandered down to Vicky's local with the promise of Cider dangling like a carrot on a stick. 3 pints of 'Black Rat' (Basically the Tennents Super of the Cider world) and Glen hits the floor, as does Vicky. Beast and Graeme feel fine, and all is well.
Day 3 - Sunday 15th July
As lazy mornings go, this Sunday morning was pretty lazy. Watching Good Charlotte tear it up at Rock Am Ring did little to encourage movement from the sofa. Eventually we roused and headed for some lunch. A stop in Bradford on Avon was however, a good idea. With cooked breakfasts large enough to feed the whole of Africa or half of Johnny Vegas we were set up beautifully for a leisurely drive to Plymouth. The road to Plymouth was fairly boring, until we came upon a handily placed sign for the myth, the legend, Buckfast Abbey. With Glen storming over two lanes to get to the sliproad there was one thing for damn sure, three Scotsmen were going to visit the Holy Grail.
National Sterotypes 1 - 0 Dignity.
We took a good half hour wandering around the grounds, (The gift shop was shut-devastated) taking pictures and generally getting far too excited about an Abbey.
Sadly, we had to leave and didn't see any Monks. The rest of the day was fairly uneventful as we got to Plymouth, stumbled upon a Rangers bar and had a pint of Tennents and then headed for the Ferry.
Ferry entertainment really is akin to setting a bag full of cats alight, and then amplifying the sound. With this in mind, Glen and I hit the cocktails as Beast looked on with disdain. We headed back to the cabin, slept and snored.
Day 4 - Monday 16th July
The longest day in the history of man. After getting off the Ferry at Roscoff and getting mildly lost in the town of Roscoff we got on the motorway and started heading south. The journey was characterised by several recurring themes;
* French service stations are awful.
* Things in France are cheaper.
* Rain.
A lot of rain. Once we got going the cities starting toppling like dominoes. Rennes, Nantes, Bordeaux, Toulouse, Perpignan. Bordeaux to Toulouse was by far the worst of these, as it appeared Mother Nature had a personal vendetta against us. It could've had something to do with our 'carbon footprint' growing to the size of Andre the Giant's, but I don't care, that bitch has shit on us.
Mother Nature 0 - 1 Scots on Tour.
We powered through the terrifying rain, spray and trucks and managed to reach the Spanish border. A quick stop allowed us to fill up on 'Burn' and 'Dark Dog' energy drinks, Pro-Plus and Skittles. The next few hours are a bit of a wired blur, but by now frustration was starting to grow. We'd managed to complete underestimate just how far Benicassim was from the border and latterly, just how far it was from Barcelona. Around 3am however, we finally reached the town of Benicassim. Although we assumed we'd now 'arrived', we were painfully mistaken. Despite being the biggest festival in the country, the Spaniards had managed to keep it a secret from the people of the town. An amazing feat, but easily executed by not putting up a single sign or acknowledgment that the festival was in fact going on. After the best part of an hour we finally managed to find a helpful policeman who pointed us in the direction of Bonet campsite. One more hairy U-Turn on a three lane trunk road and we'd made it to a car park. It was at this point that the worst moment of the trip occurred, and Glen uttered the five worst words in the English language;
'I can't find my ticket'.
The look which was painted to Beast's face was horrible, after 30 seconds Glen had resigned himself to the fact that God did not want him to get to this festival. A minute later, the ticket was found. Ten minutes later, we had a tent up and a Tennents cracked open. Twenty minutes later and I was crashed out in Beast's tent.
Continental Europe 0 - 1 Scots on Tour
Tiredness 1 - 0 Desire to drink.
Days 5/6/7 - Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday 17/18/19th July
These days all merge into one really. We spent the first day just scoping out our surroundings and seeing what was going on, we drank big bottles of San Miguel, sat on the beach and jumped around in the sea, complained about how it was too hot to move and generally smelt bad.
We finally made it to Thursday and the first evening of music. Beast, Glen, Fran and her mates and I wandered from the campsite to the festival site through the town. Despite not really knowing where we were going, following the crowd seemed to work well.
Bright Eyes were a pleasant surprise for me, despite never really being that into them on CD their live show with a twenty piece band was fairly pleasant as the sun went down. Iggy and the Stooges were both entertaining and a total let down at the same time. The entertainment came about half way through the second song when Iggy invited the crowd to 'Come and party with the Stooges'. Cue: Mayhem. Punters trying to jump the barrier left right and centre were grabbed by security as Iggy protested: 'NO! Let them up here!'. Apparently festival safety and protocol goes out the window if Iggy says so. The result was impressive as around fifty (a hundred? I've no idea) crowd members danced around with the Stooges. The let down came from Iggy not playing either Passenger or Lust for Life. I mean, you have two big songs that everyone knows and you don't play them at a festival? While heading for the exit we stumbled across a Peaches Geldof DJ set. I learned two things from this:
1. Peaches Geldof cannot DJ, at all.
2. Some people deserve a litre of water in the face, and when they get it, it is brilliant.
Day 8 - Friday 20th July
The day started off like all the others did, hot. We went and got some lunch and headed for the beach. But come early evening, finally, the first full day of music began.
We started out the evening with Rufus Wainwright, which was fairly pleasant. I've always got time for people who can play a piano well, so he got a thumbs up. We sat around outside the tent for Anthony and the Johnsons which while decent to have in the background, was fairly non-descript and not that interesting. We then moved to the main stage to catch Wilco and Dinosaur Jr. Wilco were very, very impressive. Their lead guitarist (Who according to Wikipedia, is called Nels Cline) was amazing. Good tunes and some genuinely talented musicians, culminating into what was more or less Nels Cline and Jeff Tweedy having a guitar off with each other attempting to outdo each other. We then went and caught a bit of Klaxons, but a combination of being right at the back and the fact that Klaxons are totally gash left me feeling a little bored. Dinosaur Jr. were a perfect break from jangly guitars as they riffed and shouted their way through a loud, loud set.
Standing on concrete is hard, so we took a break and sat in front of the big screen and watched The Rapture. I say we, I really mean me as Beast slept through their set and woke up to the opening bars of 'House of Jealous Lovers'. Git.
We then wandered back across to the main stage to partake in what has to be one of the most bizarre experiences of my life. Five middle aged men ran across the stage in yellow jumpsuits with plant pots on their heads shouting PEEKABOO. This, was Devo. Apparently. The show got stranger and stranger as they pulled off their yellow jumpsuits to reveal what looked like a referee's outfit and started throwing bouncy balls around. Oh yeah, and they had a massive baby thing running around as well.
I'm not saying it wasn't fun, I'm just saying I could've been on acid and imagined the whole thing.
Day 9 - Saturday 21st July
Yadda yadda yadda, heat, food, beach.
We got to the arena and headed straight for Albert Hammond Jr. who was great. Obviously his solo material is going to sound like the Strokes, but it was an altogether more chilled out experience. Sadly the power on the whole festival site was playing tricks on everyone and it cut out during his second last song, which was a massive anti-climax and a disappointing end to a great set. We then headed to catch some Nu-Rave. CSS are rubbish and I don't really have a great deal more to say about it. They've got one decent song and even it sounded poor. Thankfully, I didn't have to suffer to long with CSS ricocheting in my ears as we headed across the site to see the always enjoyable Camera Obscura. It was nice to see it wasn't just us that had had trouble trouble traveling as they seemed to have lost a member in transit... Saltires and Lion Rampants waved, it turned out we weren't the only Scots abroad. Good times.
Come the end of the set and suitably happy, we headed back to the main stage for two of the highlights of my week. As we arrived, the B-52's were firing in about Loveshack, much dancing was done. Then while sitting around the bar, a member of the B-52's muttered something about 'Rock Lobster' into the microphone. The look which was painted to both Beast and my faces was priceless... I assume. The disbelief only heightened when the band actually started playing...
"We were at the Beach, everybody had, MATCHING TOWELS!".
More shapes were busted. Vodka and red bulls were poured and the Arctic Monkeys took the stage. The Arctic Monkeys 'craze' was something that passed me by entirely, but as a festival band they were spectacular. Tight as a Scotsman a week from payday and with 'bangin' tunes as well, moves were busted, words were shouted and good times were had.
Beast, Super-fran and Glen stuck around for Fischerspooner. I'm soft, so went to sleep.
Day 10 - Sunday 22nd July.
The day started slightly different, as it began to rain for all of a minute and a half. It got a bit exciting, then stopped. So we went to get something to eat and sat on the beach.
As far as I was concerned, Sunday was always going to be the best day without too much contest.
The day started off well as we ran into our Dundonian friends Doug and Rob on the bus to the festival site. We all headed straight for Animal Collective in the tent and marveled at the 'misters' which sprayed the crowd with, as the name suggests, a mist of cool water. Absolutely brilliant. Animal collective passed me by a little bit as the kept coming close to something interesting before heading of on a tangent. The end of their set was strong though and I enjoyed it. Calexico were another 'Alt-country' outfit, all obviously very talented, especially the trumpet player. Altogether pleasant.
As we wandered to the main stage I began to get a bit excited. I've wanted to see the Hives for ages, for the simple fact that Howlin' Pelle Almqvist is one of the best modern day rock and roll frontmen. He didn't disappoint me as he climbed the sides of the stage to swing around on the lighting ladder while threatening to destroy us all with his rock and roll band if we did not obey.
'Los Hives' were followed by Kings of Leon, which was fairly apprehensive about. I really enjoy Kings of Leon on record, but when I last saw them at T in the Park they bored me half to death. This time however, they came over as a polished and quality rock and roll band. Playing the big songs from their new album as well as older songs like 'Molly's Chambers' kept me far more interested. If Kings of Leon were polished, the Black Rebel Motorcycle Club had been spat on, been smashed over someones head in a bar and covered in blood. They were filthy. They really do seem to be taking the whole rock and roll 'image' as gospel. Beast's predictions of half an hour of feedback either side of 'Whatever happened to my rock and roll' rang scarily true.
The pinnacle of the week had finally been reached. I'd made it through sixteen hundred miles to Spain and finally, Muse were coming on. Around about 26 seconds into Muse's set, the entire trip was worth it. All the hassle of driving and having to deal with ill mannered Spaniards, annoying Southern English people and ridiculous heat was blown away by the face melting riffs that Matt Bellamy was inflicting on the crowd. Sadly a short hour and a half later, it was all over. I was done, I stayed for a track of Unkle and decided that I'd rocked too hard at Muse and needed sleep.
Day 11 - Monday 23rd July
We woke around 12 O'clock and began to pack up the campsite. After sorting out who's clothes were who's in the tent and packing all of the bags we made an unsuccessful foray towards where we thought Fran and her friends were camped, alas, we managed to lose it despite being able to find it in the pitch black the day before. We trekked back through the town to our trusty Italian Stallion, loaded up the gear and headed for the motorway and France. Our plan for the day was to drive to Toulouse (Because it looked about half way), get a hotel and sleep the previous 6 days out of our system. The plan went surprisingly well.
The journey was fairly uneventful as we laughed our way through Chris Rock, Bill Hicks and latterly, the crudeness of Arab Strap. The only other notable feature was the sky approaching Toulouse, which the word spectacular genuinely fitted.
As we arrived on the Toulouse ring road, hotels were conspicuous by their absence. Just as we were beginning to spot several flaws in our plan, we stumbled across a cheap hotel and a restaurant directly across the road. Using my spectacular skills as a French speaker, I got us a room for the altogether fair price of €45. We then trooped across the road and found a restaurant offering us spicy chicken pizzas. With a hot meal, followed by a shower and a real bed, all three of us felt immensely better. It felt good to be in the civilised world again.
Day 12 - Tuesday 24th July
A fairly early start was required in order for us to be sure of catching the ferry. We took a quick trip to the nearby hypermarket to stock up on supplies (Chocolate milk, sweets and the new Harry Potter) and hit the road. Another uneventful day on the road was characterised by Glen's total and complete confusion at French toilets and the total and complete breakdown due to lack of food. Approaching Rennes we were all hungry and an eaterie of some kind was top of the agenda. Three industrial estates and a trip into the town later left us empty bellied. Glen started quacking, Beast stayed silent and I threatened death. Finally we found a McDonalds (A sentence I never thought I'd think) and got some food. A stop in the local hypermarket stocked us up with food for the boat and we headed for Roscoff.
Again uneventful, apart from when we left Beast at a wine warehouse and drove off.
We made it to the ferry. The car smelt bad, we smelt bad, there was chocolate milk everywhere and my socks smelt worse than anything in the world, but the relief was immense.
Once aboard the ferry, Glen and Beast headed off to watch Die Hard 4 and I ploughed deeper into Harry Potter and his peril... and a Guinness. The film finished and we all headed for what was the least comfortable sleep in history. Sleeping outside on a cheap-o sun lounger is nothing compared to trying to sleep on a choppy sea in a 'reclining seat'.
Day 13 - Wednesday 25th July
We got off the ferry and through passport control and finally, we were back in good old Blighty and in honour of our return, it was teeming down. The journey North from Plymouth was easily as tedious as any other, with all three of us just wanting to get home and to bed. Karl Pilkington, Ricky Gervais and Stephen Merchant kept us amused for a while but the tiredness of the previous dozen days was beginning to show. Needless to say, we dropped Beast off in Bogside and thundered up the road to Dundee.
We arrived about 7pm, tanned, tired, smelling bad but (I can't speak for the other two) I was fucking ecstatic. 3,400 miles later and we'd done it.
A fair chunk of time has passed since my last blog, a few things have happened.
* I got a job. If you're applying through clearing to Dundee university, you're coming through me.
* My T in the Park tickets never came.
* I acquired around 3 litres of various rums.
* I discovered some new bands.
* I lined up another job for term time in the Union.
* I got overdrawn as fuck.
* I travelled over 3000 miles in a Fiat Punto.
June started fairly leisurely, I had no job, no resits and hardly any cash. A twelve hour shift at the Graduation Ball topped up my bank nicely and my newly acquired overdraft set me up beautifully for our trip to Spain.
I should probably explain that since February, I've had a ticket for the largest music festival in Spain; Benicassim. Beast and Glen decided that instead of taking the relatively simple trip to Oxford and repeating our drunken escapades at Truck, that we'd move on from harassing middle England and take our particular talents to continental Europe. Before leaving, the score stood somewhere around this:
Middle England 0 - 1 Scots on Tour.
Continental Europe 0 - 0 Scots on Tour.
Truck Festival 0 - 0 Benicassim
Despite having the ticket and knowing that we were going, the minute and insignificant detail of 'How do you get to Spain?' was not addressed for some time. At this point, a drunken fan rampaged across the pitch and pour beer through several orifices. A drunken conversation between Beast and Glen centered around travel eventually led to; 'You know what'd be funny, we could DRIVE to Spain'.
Common Sense 0 - 1 Drunken Nonsense.
Despite the sheer scale of the task that is navigating France and Spain, the seed of an idea was planted and it was decided, (In my own defence, I was reminded that driving meant I could stow crates of Tennents Lager in the car.) that the three of us would pile into Clarabel (Glen's trusty Punto) and take off at high speed. The trip went something like this;
Day 1- Friday 13th July.
I had a job interview in Dundee for the University and as far as I knew, a gig to play in Glasgow. Glen had decided to hang around in Dundee for some Kaddish and Archives action and Beast was slaving over some chips in McDonalds. As soon as my interview was over I piled onto a Megabus and headed for Glasgow, only to find out the gig was cancelled and so a train to Carluke. Glen's Kaddish action was cut short by a blown amp and then stretched to breaking point as he drove from Dundee to Carluke via Glasgow in horrendous rain. Beast kept flipping burgers. Eventually after arriving in Carluke with Vicky, Glen seemed close to death. His incessant giggling hiding his realisation that we were driving to Spain in the morning. Juice was drunk, lights switched off and Glen, Vicky and I caught some sleep. Beast told a customer that Big Tasty sauce was not available.
Day 2 - Saturday 14th July.
Bright and early, we all struggled out of bed and loaded the last of the gear into the car. Just as we were about to leave, Beast and Mags pulled up in the Beastmobile and so a hair raising trip to Bogside was avoided. Finally ready for the big off, Clara pulled out of Old Bridgend and headed for Frome.
A fairly uneventful day in all, apart from the apprehension of a 'Terror suspect' a mile or so down the road in front of us. We arrived in Frome, a three way high five went spectacularly wrong and all three boys wandered into Vicky's house with sore faces. After some generous hospitality, we wandered down to Vicky's local with the promise of Cider dangling like a carrot on a stick. 3 pints of 'Black Rat' (Basically the Tennents Super of the Cider world) and Glen hits the floor, as does Vicky. Beast and Graeme feel fine, and all is well.
Day 3 - Sunday 15th July
As lazy mornings go, this Sunday morning was pretty lazy. Watching Good Charlotte tear it up at Rock Am Ring did little to encourage movement from the sofa. Eventually we roused and headed for some lunch. A stop in Bradford on Avon was however, a good idea. With cooked breakfasts large enough to feed the whole of Africa or half of Johnny Vegas we were set up beautifully for a leisurely drive to Plymouth. The road to Plymouth was fairly boring, until we came upon a handily placed sign for the myth, the legend, Buckfast Abbey. With Glen storming over two lanes to get to the sliproad there was one thing for damn sure, three Scotsmen were going to visit the Holy Grail.
National Sterotypes 1 - 0 Dignity.
We took a good half hour wandering around the grounds, (The gift shop was shut-devastated) taking pictures and generally getting far too excited about an Abbey.
Sadly, we had to leave and didn't see any Monks. The rest of the day was fairly uneventful as we got to Plymouth, stumbled upon a Rangers bar and had a pint of Tennents and then headed for the Ferry.
Ferry entertainment really is akin to setting a bag full of cats alight, and then amplifying the sound. With this in mind, Glen and I hit the cocktails as Beast looked on with disdain. We headed back to the cabin, slept and snored.
Day 4 - Monday 16th July
The longest day in the history of man. After getting off the Ferry at Roscoff and getting mildly lost in the town of Roscoff we got on the motorway and started heading south. The journey was characterised by several recurring themes;
* French service stations are awful.
* Things in France are cheaper.
* Rain.
A lot of rain. Once we got going the cities starting toppling like dominoes. Rennes, Nantes, Bordeaux, Toulouse, Perpignan. Bordeaux to Toulouse was by far the worst of these, as it appeared Mother Nature had a personal vendetta against us. It could've had something to do with our 'carbon footprint' growing to the size of Andre the Giant's, but I don't care, that bitch has shit on us.
Mother Nature 0 - 1 Scots on Tour.
We powered through the terrifying rain, spray and trucks and managed to reach the Spanish border. A quick stop allowed us to fill up on 'Burn' and 'Dark Dog' energy drinks, Pro-Plus and Skittles. The next few hours are a bit of a wired blur, but by now frustration was starting to grow. We'd managed to complete underestimate just how far Benicassim was from the border and latterly, just how far it was from Barcelona. Around 3am however, we finally reached the town of Benicassim. Although we assumed we'd now 'arrived', we were painfully mistaken. Despite being the biggest festival in the country, the Spaniards had managed to keep it a secret from the people of the town. An amazing feat, but easily executed by not putting up a single sign or acknowledgment that the festival was in fact going on. After the best part of an hour we finally managed to find a helpful policeman who pointed us in the direction of Bonet campsite. One more hairy U-Turn on a three lane trunk road and we'd made it to a car park. It was at this point that the worst moment of the trip occurred, and Glen uttered the five worst words in the English language;
'I can't find my ticket'.
The look which was painted to Beast's face was horrible, after 30 seconds Glen had resigned himself to the fact that God did not want him to get to this festival. A minute later, the ticket was found. Ten minutes later, we had a tent up and a Tennents cracked open. Twenty minutes later and I was crashed out in Beast's tent.
Continental Europe 0 - 1 Scots on Tour
Tiredness 1 - 0 Desire to drink.
Days 5/6/7 - Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday 17/18/19th July
These days all merge into one really. We spent the first day just scoping out our surroundings and seeing what was going on, we drank big bottles of San Miguel, sat on the beach and jumped around in the sea, complained about how it was too hot to move and generally smelt bad.
We finally made it to Thursday and the first evening of music. Beast, Glen, Fran and her mates and I wandered from the campsite to the festival site through the town. Despite not really knowing where we were going, following the crowd seemed to work well.
Bright Eyes were a pleasant surprise for me, despite never really being that into them on CD their live show with a twenty piece band was fairly pleasant as the sun went down. Iggy and the Stooges were both entertaining and a total let down at the same time. The entertainment came about half way through the second song when Iggy invited the crowd to 'Come and party with the Stooges'. Cue: Mayhem. Punters trying to jump the barrier left right and centre were grabbed by security as Iggy protested: 'NO! Let them up here!'. Apparently festival safety and protocol goes out the window if Iggy says so. The result was impressive as around fifty (a hundred? I've no idea) crowd members danced around with the Stooges. The let down came from Iggy not playing either Passenger or Lust for Life. I mean, you have two big songs that everyone knows and you don't play them at a festival? While heading for the exit we stumbled across a Peaches Geldof DJ set. I learned two things from this:
1. Peaches Geldof cannot DJ, at all.
2. Some people deserve a litre of water in the face, and when they get it, it is brilliant.
Day 8 - Friday 20th July
The day started off like all the others did, hot. We went and got some lunch and headed for the beach. But come early evening, finally, the first full day of music began.
We started out the evening with Rufus Wainwright, which was fairly pleasant. I've always got time for people who can play a piano well, so he got a thumbs up. We sat around outside the tent for Anthony and the Johnsons which while decent to have in the background, was fairly non-descript and not that interesting. We then moved to the main stage to catch Wilco and Dinosaur Jr. Wilco were very, very impressive. Their lead guitarist (Who according to Wikipedia, is called Nels Cline) was amazing. Good tunes and some genuinely talented musicians, culminating into what was more or less Nels Cline and Jeff Tweedy having a guitar off with each other attempting to outdo each other. We then went and caught a bit of Klaxons, but a combination of being right at the back and the fact that Klaxons are totally gash left me feeling a little bored. Dinosaur Jr. were a perfect break from jangly guitars as they riffed and shouted their way through a loud, loud set.
Standing on concrete is hard, so we took a break and sat in front of the big screen and watched The Rapture. I say we, I really mean me as Beast slept through their set and woke up to the opening bars of 'House of Jealous Lovers'. Git.
We then wandered back across to the main stage to partake in what has to be one of the most bizarre experiences of my life. Five middle aged men ran across the stage in yellow jumpsuits with plant pots on their heads shouting PEEKABOO. This, was Devo. Apparently. The show got stranger and stranger as they pulled off their yellow jumpsuits to reveal what looked like a referee's outfit and started throwing bouncy balls around. Oh yeah, and they had a massive baby thing running around as well.
I'm not saying it wasn't fun, I'm just saying I could've been on acid and imagined the whole thing.
Day 9 - Saturday 21st July
Yadda yadda yadda, heat, food, beach.
We got to the arena and headed straight for Albert Hammond Jr. who was great. Obviously his solo material is going to sound like the Strokes, but it was an altogether more chilled out experience. Sadly the power on the whole festival site was playing tricks on everyone and it cut out during his second last song, which was a massive anti-climax and a disappointing end to a great set. We then headed to catch some Nu-Rave. CSS are rubbish and I don't really have a great deal more to say about it. They've got one decent song and even it sounded poor. Thankfully, I didn't have to suffer to long with CSS ricocheting in my ears as we headed across the site to see the always enjoyable Camera Obscura. It was nice to see it wasn't just us that had had trouble trouble traveling as they seemed to have lost a member in transit... Saltires and Lion Rampants waved, it turned out we weren't the only Scots abroad. Good times.
Come the end of the set and suitably happy, we headed back to the main stage for two of the highlights of my week. As we arrived, the B-52's were firing in about Loveshack, much dancing was done. Then while sitting around the bar, a member of the B-52's muttered something about 'Rock Lobster' into the microphone. The look which was painted to both Beast and my faces was priceless... I assume. The disbelief only heightened when the band actually started playing...
"We were at the Beach, everybody had, MATCHING TOWELS!".
More shapes were busted. Vodka and red bulls were poured and the Arctic Monkeys took the stage. The Arctic Monkeys 'craze' was something that passed me by entirely, but as a festival band they were spectacular. Tight as a Scotsman a week from payday and with 'bangin' tunes as well, moves were busted, words were shouted and good times were had.
Beast, Super-fran and Glen stuck around for Fischerspooner. I'm soft, so went to sleep.
Day 10 - Sunday 22nd July.
The day started slightly different, as it began to rain for all of a minute and a half. It got a bit exciting, then stopped. So we went to get something to eat and sat on the beach.
As far as I was concerned, Sunday was always going to be the best day without too much contest.
The day started off well as we ran into our Dundonian friends Doug and Rob on the bus to the festival site. We all headed straight for Animal Collective in the tent and marveled at the 'misters' which sprayed the crowd with, as the name suggests, a mist of cool water. Absolutely brilliant. Animal collective passed me by a little bit as the kept coming close to something interesting before heading of on a tangent. The end of their set was strong though and I enjoyed it. Calexico were another 'Alt-country' outfit, all obviously very talented, especially the trumpet player. Altogether pleasant.
As we wandered to the main stage I began to get a bit excited. I've wanted to see the Hives for ages, for the simple fact that Howlin' Pelle Almqvist is one of the best modern day rock and roll frontmen. He didn't disappoint me as he climbed the sides of the stage to swing around on the lighting ladder while threatening to destroy us all with his rock and roll band if we did not obey.
'Los Hives' were followed by Kings of Leon, which was fairly apprehensive about. I really enjoy Kings of Leon on record, but when I last saw them at T in the Park they bored me half to death. This time however, they came over as a polished and quality rock and roll band. Playing the big songs from their new album as well as older songs like 'Molly's Chambers' kept me far more interested. If Kings of Leon were polished, the Black Rebel Motorcycle Club had been spat on, been smashed over someones head in a bar and covered in blood. They were filthy. They really do seem to be taking the whole rock and roll 'image' as gospel. Beast's predictions of half an hour of feedback either side of 'Whatever happened to my rock and roll' rang scarily true.
The pinnacle of the week had finally been reached. I'd made it through sixteen hundred miles to Spain and finally, Muse were coming on. Around about 26 seconds into Muse's set, the entire trip was worth it. All the hassle of driving and having to deal with ill mannered Spaniards, annoying Southern English people and ridiculous heat was blown away by the face melting riffs that Matt Bellamy was inflicting on the crowd. Sadly a short hour and a half later, it was all over. I was done, I stayed for a track of Unkle and decided that I'd rocked too hard at Muse and needed sleep.
Day 11 - Monday 23rd July
We woke around 12 O'clock and began to pack up the campsite. After sorting out who's clothes were who's in the tent and packing all of the bags we made an unsuccessful foray towards where we thought Fran and her friends were camped, alas, we managed to lose it despite being able to find it in the pitch black the day before. We trekked back through the town to our trusty Italian Stallion, loaded up the gear and headed for the motorway and France. Our plan for the day was to drive to Toulouse (Because it looked about half way), get a hotel and sleep the previous 6 days out of our system. The plan went surprisingly well.
The journey was fairly uneventful as we laughed our way through Chris Rock, Bill Hicks and latterly, the crudeness of Arab Strap. The only other notable feature was the sky approaching Toulouse, which the word spectacular genuinely fitted.
As we arrived on the Toulouse ring road, hotels were conspicuous by their absence. Just as we were beginning to spot several flaws in our plan, we stumbled across a cheap hotel and a restaurant directly across the road. Using my spectacular skills as a French speaker, I got us a room for the altogether fair price of €45. We then trooped across the road and found a restaurant offering us spicy chicken pizzas. With a hot meal, followed by a shower and a real bed, all three of us felt immensely better. It felt good to be in the civilised world again.
Day 12 - Tuesday 24th July
A fairly early start was required in order for us to be sure of catching the ferry. We took a quick trip to the nearby hypermarket to stock up on supplies (Chocolate milk, sweets and the new Harry Potter) and hit the road. Another uneventful day on the road was characterised by Glen's total and complete confusion at French toilets and the total and complete breakdown due to lack of food. Approaching Rennes we were all hungry and an eaterie of some kind was top of the agenda. Three industrial estates and a trip into the town later left us empty bellied. Glen started quacking, Beast stayed silent and I threatened death. Finally we found a McDonalds (A sentence I never thought I'd think) and got some food. A stop in the local hypermarket stocked us up with food for the boat and we headed for Roscoff.
Again uneventful, apart from when we left Beast at a wine warehouse and drove off.
We made it to the ferry. The car smelt bad, we smelt bad, there was chocolate milk everywhere and my socks smelt worse than anything in the world, but the relief was immense.
Once aboard the ferry, Glen and Beast headed off to watch Die Hard 4 and I ploughed deeper into Harry Potter and his peril... and a Guinness. The film finished and we all headed for what was the least comfortable sleep in history. Sleeping outside on a cheap-o sun lounger is nothing compared to trying to sleep on a choppy sea in a 'reclining seat'.
Day 13 - Wednesday 25th July
We got off the ferry and through passport control and finally, we were back in good old Blighty and in honour of our return, it was teeming down. The journey North from Plymouth was easily as tedious as any other, with all three of us just wanting to get home and to bed. Karl Pilkington, Ricky Gervais and Stephen Merchant kept us amused for a while but the tiredness of the previous dozen days was beginning to show. Needless to say, we dropped Beast off in Bogside and thundered up the road to Dundee.
We arrived about 7pm, tanned, tired, smelling bad but (I can't speak for the other two) I was fucking ecstatic. 3,400 miles later and we'd done it.
Thursday 14 June 2007
Positive Tension.
I've got a couple of things to get blogged oot ma nut on today, the first of which is Rangers Football Club.
While I'm a Motherwell fan, I tend to pay attention to other teams and whats going on and whatnot. One thing I don't understand is Rangers transfer policy this summer. Today it appears that Osasuna are caving to their player's demands and Carlos Cuellar is very probably on his way to Ibrox. Jean Claude Darcheville has also signed a pre-contract and is on his way as a free transfer. In my humble opinion (I'm not Graham Spiers, so my opinion means nothing), this is the wrong way to go for Rangers.
It all looked mildly exciting when Big Wattie signed up two great Scottish prospects in Alan Gow and Kirk Broadfoot, signed Kevin Thomson and made noises that Scott Brown would be coming in as well. I'm a big fan of Scottish teams playing Scottish players, after years of watching hopeless foreign imports to the Scottish game (Seb Rozenthal anyone?) dilute the Scottish talent to the point where we were getting excited by the prospect of Jamie Smith breaking into the Celtic team or a change in regulations meaning that Didier Agathe could play for Scotland at national level. As it turned out, the inflated prices clubs were playing and the ridiculous wages that were being paid could never last and the transfer bubble burst.
As it turned out, this was a god-send for Scottish football. Instead of simply buying in talent left right and centre, the Old Firm began to look within the club for talent. Clubs like Motherwell and Hibs were able to produce young talented players with players like Scott Brown, James McFadden and Kevin Thomson safe in the knowledge that their investment in them would be repaid and because of this process, the Scottish national team has come on leaps and bounds. We have a solid group of players with several young players snapping at their heels to get into the squad.
And this brings us back to the signing of Carlos Cuellar. Smith already has a solid and experienced centre back in Davie Weir, he will have Andy Webster fit for the start of the season, a Scotland internationalist with twenty two caps and with Kirk Broadfoot he has a hungry young centre back who can be eased into the team gradually alongside Webster. Should Weir or Webster be injured he also has the option of Ugo Ehiogu, Karl Svensson or even Brahim Hemdani as cover. Instead of this however, with a fee of around £1,000,000 rumoured for Cuellar it is almost certain that he will claim the centre back spot alongside Weir.
All summer Wattie and David Murray have been telling us about how little money Rangers have to spend this summer and that they will have to make shrewd deals rather that big money deals, signing a centre back when you've got another five in the squad is not Shrewd.
Away from my disbelief at Rangers, I saw a phenomenal gig last night at the Balcony in Dundee. Alamos were up first and were pretty good. I've heard a lot about them and have been intending to see them for months, why I didn't before is now beyond me, tight and sold.
End of a Year from New York were spectacular and have reaffirmed my love of music. Their set reminded me of all the reasons why I love music and why I love going to see live music. They didn't really seem to have any idea what was going on and seemed terrified of every Scotsman in the venue, apparently our 'lust for life is a bit frightening'. Everyone seemed into them and a combination of At The Drive In style vocals, rapid guitar licks and a human pyramid by the boys from Archives left me absolutely buzzing at the end of their set.
Archives are loud. Very, very loud. Despite the apparent noise and chaos of their set everything comes together, the heavily effects driven lead guitar and the all out rockin' of the rhythm give a great full sound and is almost the definition of 'controlled aggression'.
Over and out.
G
While I'm a Motherwell fan, I tend to pay attention to other teams and whats going on and whatnot. One thing I don't understand is Rangers transfer policy this summer. Today it appears that Osasuna are caving to their player's demands and Carlos Cuellar is very probably on his way to Ibrox. Jean Claude Darcheville has also signed a pre-contract and is on his way as a free transfer. In my humble opinion (I'm not Graham Spiers, so my opinion means nothing), this is the wrong way to go for Rangers.
It all looked mildly exciting when Big Wattie signed up two great Scottish prospects in Alan Gow and Kirk Broadfoot, signed Kevin Thomson and made noises that Scott Brown would be coming in as well. I'm a big fan of Scottish teams playing Scottish players, after years of watching hopeless foreign imports to the Scottish game (Seb Rozenthal anyone?) dilute the Scottish talent to the point where we were getting excited by the prospect of Jamie Smith breaking into the Celtic team or a change in regulations meaning that Didier Agathe could play for Scotland at national level. As it turned out, the inflated prices clubs were playing and the ridiculous wages that were being paid could never last and the transfer bubble burst.
As it turned out, this was a god-send for Scottish football. Instead of simply buying in talent left right and centre, the Old Firm began to look within the club for talent. Clubs like Motherwell and Hibs were able to produce young talented players with players like Scott Brown, James McFadden and Kevin Thomson safe in the knowledge that their investment in them would be repaid and because of this process, the Scottish national team has come on leaps and bounds. We have a solid group of players with several young players snapping at their heels to get into the squad.
And this brings us back to the signing of Carlos Cuellar. Smith already has a solid and experienced centre back in Davie Weir, he will have Andy Webster fit for the start of the season, a Scotland internationalist with twenty two caps and with Kirk Broadfoot he has a hungry young centre back who can be eased into the team gradually alongside Webster. Should Weir or Webster be injured he also has the option of Ugo Ehiogu, Karl Svensson or even Brahim Hemdani as cover. Instead of this however, with a fee of around £1,000,000 rumoured for Cuellar it is almost certain that he will claim the centre back spot alongside Weir.
All summer Wattie and David Murray have been telling us about how little money Rangers have to spend this summer and that they will have to make shrewd deals rather that big money deals, signing a centre back when you've got another five in the squad is not Shrewd.
Away from my disbelief at Rangers, I saw a phenomenal gig last night at the Balcony in Dundee. Alamos were up first and were pretty good. I've heard a lot about them and have been intending to see them for months, why I didn't before is now beyond me, tight and sold.
End of a Year from New York were spectacular and have reaffirmed my love of music. Their set reminded me of all the reasons why I love music and why I love going to see live music. They didn't really seem to have any idea what was going on and seemed terrified of every Scotsman in the venue, apparently our 'lust for life is a bit frightening'. Everyone seemed into them and a combination of At The Drive In style vocals, rapid guitar licks and a human pyramid by the boys from Archives left me absolutely buzzing at the end of their set.
Archives are loud. Very, very loud. Despite the apparent noise and chaos of their set everything comes together, the heavily effects driven lead guitar and the all out rockin' of the rhythm give a great full sound and is almost the definition of 'controlled aggression'.
Over and out.
G
Tuesday 5 June 2007
We're on a Hellslide.
Two years on from Infinity Land and Biffy Clyro are still my favourite band by a clear margin. Puzzle is thoroughly spectacular on so many levels, my greatest fear was that they might have been toned down a degree for a major label. The style is different and they've essentially written an album of pop songs and they're still fantastic. They've still got an edge and an originality which means they sound like no-one else I know.At midnight on Sunday there was a signing of the new album and a short set in HMV Glasgow. Its strange that instead of only having 'die hard' fans, there are now kids coming with their parents and 'cool' people. I can't say this actually bothers me, big ups to the band that they're being successful and at the Barra's on Friday the entire crowd was going nuts for the whole set. Glasgow was meant to be the end of my following of the Biffy tour until I managed to get myself to the signing. If Glasgow was going to be a finale, what a finale it was. The Manchester date was cool, because I'd never been to Manchester before, Edinburgh was all right but I felt terrible so it passed me by to an extent but Glasgow blew both of them clean out of the water. I'd suspected for a while that Glasgow crowds were the best for Biffy (And all other gigs?) but I've not been to many in Edinburgh and none in England, but I'm pretty much
certain about this now; Glasgow > Everywhere else.Edinburgh was pretty much a non-event for me. After my amazingly fun seven hour day trip in Edinburgh I managed to catch AIDS or something, so I was fucked for the Potterow gig and mainly stood around drinking lemonade feeling like I might die. My day in Edinburgh came about as my dad was held up at the GTC and instead of being done at noon and moving onto Dundee, he was done at 4pm. Anyway, it gave me a chance to piss around Edinburgh and explore a bit. I ended up on Calton hill taking 'arty' pictures.
AEREOGRAMME. Aereogramme are fucking amazing. Its a tragedy that such a massively talented band are unable to make it financially viable to actually afford to continue. Their live show is brilliant, mainly as it sounds like the world is about to end, their albums are fantastic with hours worth of in depth listening. I think this post is fairly disjointed, so I'll give it a clear ending:
I'm away to make soup.
Tuesday 29 May 2007
Manchester.
A mighty fine time was had by all. Except the roof of the lift lobby, which suffered my PAAAIIN.
I arrived in Glasgow at around 6, met Andy and then became inexplicably lost-ish around the Kingston bridge... No matter, we got to Andy's flat and made a michty prawn curry. After several games of Pro Evo we headed to the QM for a couple of pints and some Vicky related banter. We then came back to the flat and cooked twelve sausages: Four to be eaten on bread then, and the other eight for sandwiches on the train- a masterstroke you'll agree.
A leisurely start on monday morning saw Andrew and I awake at a reasonable time, do the morning things only to find out that a disaster had struck. Upon pouring the Frosties, it became apparent that man cannot survive on milk and 6 broken Frosties alone. We hastily made our sausage sandwiches, packed up our gear and headed via Subways (One for a sub of the day, the other to get into the city centre), piled into the train and got a couple of seats in the 'quiet zone'.
A cool three or four hours later we pulled into Manchester Piccadilly and met Beast and his mates Chris and Sarah. Another train ride saw us in the modern metropolis of Salford. Really, with no disrespect meant to anyone we met over the past two days, Salford is probably the bleakest place in the world. Everything is grey. Peoples hair, their faces, their eyes, their sky.
ANYWAY: A quick Tinnie in Beast's abode, dumped our gear, jumped on another train and headed back into town. Due to horrendous bad luck or Beast just being a dick to us, the first two planned pubs were vetoed on the grounds of, 1: Being full of hippies, 2: being closed. So we ended up in a scream pub chugging down Carlsberg (Boak) and chewing on burger - A quality meal.
Another short walk and a bizarre meeting (A couple of guy's we'd not seen since high school) and we arrived at the Academy, had a pint with Fran and Alison and headed for some face melting biffy action.
Unsurprisingly, Biffy were tight as fuck, loud as fuck, and gid. As fuck. Setlist:
57
Who's Got A Match?
Some Kind Of Wizard
J.D.I
Saturday Superhouse
Questions & Answers
Now I'm Everyone
Liberate the Illiterate
M.R.I
All The Way Down
Get Fucked Stud
Kids From Kibble
Love Has a Diameter
Glitter & Trauma
Justboy
Living Is A Problem Because Everything Dies
Scary Mary
There's No Such Thing As A Jaggy Snake
Inclusion of Scary Mary was great, as I didn't expect it at all. LIAPBED blew me away live, I was beginning to think I didn't actually like it but live it sounded huge. Being in an English crowd was fairly odd on the whole, as I'm not sure I've ever seen Biffy actually sing the first verse of Justboy, as they usually leave it to the crowd, but still an excellent gig.
After this, my memory does get a little hazy.
We met up with Beast's friends Chris, Sarah and Shane and walked back towards the train station and to a club called 'The Ritz'. Andy and I are still not sure whether or not this is intentionally ironic, or just a happy coincidence. This club was easily the biggest dive I've ever been in, full on metalheads, and a girl who insisted on dancing on as much of the floor as she possibly could at one time. For a minute, suicide seemed a viable option.
Then the good news, Fosters, £1.25 a pint. Thank you very much, I'll take an ambulance outside in four hours.
A classic music choice also brightens the evening, as we go from Machine Head to 36 Crazyfists, take in a bit of Korn and Limp Bizkit on the way to the main event, Pantera and Killswitch Engage. This hour and a half of songs is almost certainly why today I cannot speak. At all. The night went on, I'm pretty sure I danced at some point and swore a bit more. Somehow the night managed to not end on the Stone Roses/Oasis/Happy Mondays. After some (long) goodbyes were said outside to Fran, Alison and friends we stumbled upon a Kebab shop and into the back of a taxi, (The driver did not sound happy at two pissed Scotsmen, two pissed English and Andy climbing into the back with Kebabs in hand, although I may have imagined this. ). After SONIC BOOM-ing a roof, and generally talking some drunken pish, we all retired to bed.
10am. Ten-fucking-am. Morning. Sleep time.
*jingly jangly*
"Hi could I speak to Graeme please?"
"Eh, aye, I'm Graeme"
"Hi Graeme, I'm just phoning from the Union to tell you that you have in fact won two weekend tickets to T in the Park"
"EH?".
I don't even want them, I'd rather have slept for longer. Either way, I'm now halfway to paying for Benicassim through TOUTING.
A slow morning takes place in the Beast flat, where we watch Futurama, have cold showers and generally call me a 'cunt' for winning tickets that I don't even want. We then make a trip to Salford Shopping City which - for those that are interested - is bleak as fuck. We have another subway and head for home. Another train ride takes Andy and I to Piccadilly, and we hop on the megatrain heading North. Andy sleeps the whole way, and I finish the newest Christopher Brookmyre whilst listening to whatever metal Andy's iPod could supply me with.
All in all, our Manchester trip was awesome as fuck. We met some cool people, drank some cheap booze, saw a good Biffy set and visited the biggest dive in the world.
I'll post pictures soon.
I arrived in Glasgow at around 6, met Andy and then became inexplicably lost-ish around the Kingston bridge... No matter, we got to Andy's flat and made a michty prawn curry. After several games of Pro Evo we headed to the QM for a couple of pints and some Vicky related banter. We then came back to the flat and cooked twelve sausages: Four to be eaten on bread then, and the other eight for sandwiches on the train- a masterstroke you'll agree.
A leisurely start on monday morning saw Andrew and I awake at a reasonable time, do the morning things only to find out that a disaster had struck. Upon pouring the Frosties, it became apparent that man cannot survive on milk and 6 broken Frosties alone. We hastily made our sausage sandwiches, packed up our gear and headed via Subways (One for a sub of the day, the other to get into the city centre), piled into the train and got a couple of seats in the 'quiet zone'.
A cool three or four hours later we pulled into Manchester Piccadilly and met Beast and his mates Chris and Sarah. Another train ride saw us in the modern metropolis of Salford. Really, with no disrespect meant to anyone we met over the past two days, Salford is probably the bleakest place in the world. Everything is grey. Peoples hair, their faces, their eyes, their sky.
ANYWAY: A quick Tinnie in Beast's abode, dumped our gear, jumped on another train and headed back into town. Due to horrendous bad luck or Beast just being a dick to us, the first two planned pubs were vetoed on the grounds of, 1: Being full of hippies, 2: being closed. So we ended up in a scream pub chugging down Carlsberg (Boak) and chewing on burger - A quality meal.
Another short walk and a bizarre meeting (A couple of guy's we'd not seen since high school) and we arrived at the Academy, had a pint with Fran and Alison and headed for some face melting biffy action.
Unsurprisingly, Biffy were tight as fuck, loud as fuck, and gid. As fuck. Setlist:
57
Who's Got A Match?
Some Kind Of Wizard
J.D.I
Saturday Superhouse
Questions & Answers
Now I'm Everyone
Liberate the Illiterate
M.R.I
All The Way Down
Get Fucked Stud
Kids From Kibble
Love Has a Diameter
Glitter & Trauma
Justboy
Living Is A Problem Because Everything Dies
Scary Mary
There's No Such Thing As A Jaggy Snake
Inclusion of Scary Mary was great, as I didn't expect it at all. LIAPBED blew me away live, I was beginning to think I didn't actually like it but live it sounded huge. Being in an English crowd was fairly odd on the whole, as I'm not sure I've ever seen Biffy actually sing the first verse of Justboy, as they usually leave it to the crowd, but still an excellent gig.
After this, my memory does get a little hazy.
We met up with Beast's friends Chris, Sarah and Shane and walked back towards the train station and to a club called 'The Ritz'. Andy and I are still not sure whether or not this is intentionally ironic, or just a happy coincidence. This club was easily the biggest dive I've ever been in, full on metalheads, and a girl who insisted on dancing on as much of the floor as she possibly could at one time. For a minute, suicide seemed a viable option.
Then the good news, Fosters, £1.25 a pint. Thank you very much, I'll take an ambulance outside in four hours.
A classic music choice also brightens the evening, as we go from Machine Head to 36 Crazyfists, take in a bit of Korn and Limp Bizkit on the way to the main event, Pantera and Killswitch Engage. This hour and a half of songs is almost certainly why today I cannot speak. At all. The night went on, I'm pretty sure I danced at some point and swore a bit more. Somehow the night managed to not end on the Stone Roses/Oasis/Happy Mondays. After some (long) goodbyes were said outside to Fran, Alison and friends we stumbled upon a Kebab shop and into the back of a taxi, (The driver did not sound happy at two pissed Scotsmen, two pissed English and Andy climbing into the back with Kebabs in hand, although I may have imagined this. ). After SONIC BOOM-ing a roof, and generally talking some drunken pish, we all retired to bed.
10am. Ten-fucking-am. Morning. Sleep time.
*jingly jangly*
"Hi could I speak to Graeme please?"
"Eh, aye, I'm Graeme"
"Hi Graeme, I'm just phoning from the Union to tell you that you have in fact won two weekend tickets to T in the Park"
"EH?".
I don't even want them, I'd rather have slept for longer. Either way, I'm now halfway to paying for Benicassim through TOUTING.
A slow morning takes place in the Beast flat, where we watch Futurama, have cold showers and generally call me a 'cunt' for winning tickets that I don't even want. We then make a trip to Salford Shopping City which - for those that are interested - is bleak as fuck. We have another subway and head for home. Another train ride takes Andy and I to Piccadilly, and we hop on the megatrain heading North. Andy sleeps the whole way, and I finish the newest Christopher Brookmyre whilst listening to whatever metal Andy's iPod could supply me with.
All in all, our Manchester trip was awesome as fuck. We met some cool people, drank some cheap booze, saw a good Biffy set and visited the biggest dive in the world.
I'll post pictures soon.
Sunday 27 May 2007
Y'all ready for this?
Yo.
Over the next week I'm going to be tanning across the country to follow Biffy Clyro in Manchester, Edinburgh and then Glasgow. I'm currently charging my camera batteries so I'll post reports of the gigs as well as a vague photo diary. I can't actually wait, a day in Manchester with Beast and Andy is going to be superb, a night in Edinburgh with Andy, Vicky and Ed will also be superb, and a night in Glasgow followed by some heavy drinking will be some heavy craic.
Also:
I'm trying to get a job. Applied for Lidl, Morrisons and the Spar. I don't really want any of them, but I need the Benjamins, so I guess its got to be done.
Stay Classy,
G
I did this to my head.
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