Well Done Fillet

Well Done Fillet

Waiter Stuff

The Bizarro Dwarves are not my friends

Manuel didn't finish his photography course
I am the sort of person who gets excited about things. I'm an emotional person. When I'm up I'm very up and when I'm down I just want to cry all the time. There is rarely any happy medium. I hadn't been so excited about seeing a band since I saw Morrissey a few years back. People don't show their emotions enough these days. I'm not sure if it's just people being too cool or maybe it's just that younger people aren't easily impressed any more. I was as giddy as fat girl in a sweet shop. And I wasn't let down.

When I picked up the tickets for the gig a few weeks back I hadn't realised it was on Halloween night. It just never dawned on me. So there we were in the bar surrounded by witches, goblins, about 5 Wonder Women (not all were women, not all were wonderful), numerous Spidermen, Batmen, and Captain America's. The best costume had to be the two guys one dressed as Pacman one dressed as a Ghost. The Ghost chased Pacman up and down the street to the amusement of all in the queue. The queue for the National was much more sober than the queue for the Halloween party next door. The National's music doesn't lend itself to dressing up like a Wookie. I had a rather fetching scarf on which was removed quickly when someone asked if I had come as Guy Ritchie. Cheeky bastard.

Wednesday night's gig was out-fucking-standing. Both The National and St.Vincent put on great performances. Although I've never quite understood why people go to gigs and stand with their backs to the stage talking loudly about haircuts and shoes and other such bollocks. That gets right up my jacksie. And definitely impacted on my enjoyment of St.Vincent's performance. Honestly you just want to smack those people, preferably with a stool to the back of the head. But she is coming back to Belfast again at the end of November for a gig at Queen's Speakeasy, so I might take LMM to that.

The National rocked. But within minutes of them appearing on stage the tallest man in the building took up residence right in front of me. We had secured what can only described as the perfect viewing position, beside the bar with a clear unbroken view to the stage. Well unbroken until Johnny Long Balls showed up. And there was no moving him. I couldn't see a thing. I spent the first 3 songs hoping about trying to get a decent view. But thankfully Johnny Long Balls and his freakish genes fucked off after that. They played all the favourites, "Apartment Story", "Start a war", "Mistaken for Strangers", and many more. If you want a proper review of the gig best try somewhere else. I'm still not well enough for that.

They played two encores, the second I missed as I was in the toilet. That is just very annoying. But I did get to shake hands with the one of them after. That must have been nice for him, "Shfucking great there mate. Lovely stuff, lovely stuff.........." As long as I didn't chuck up on him that's okay. There was plenty of that to come......

No honestly I didn't......

When we got back to my house, my cousin and I that is, we cracked open a spiffing bottle of Marlborough Pinot Noir and (why did there need to be an "and") a bottle of Bombay Sapphire Gin. That's were things went very badly wrong. When we got home we were not drunk. But that didn't last long. Generous measures of gin mixed with the buzz and excitement from the gig ensured that sobriety was very quickly replaced with drunkenness. I don't remember going to bed. I don't remember Ciaran leaving to go home the next day. I don't remember him being sick in my spare room (and making a half arsed effort to clean it up).

I spent Thursday in bed with the bizarro dwarves, coughy, sicky, sweaty, horny (always a strange hangover side effect), depresso, shaky, and hallucinationo. It was awful. "Oh sweet Jebus take me now" sort of awful. Song lyrics were going round my head, the same song lyrics over and over and over again. LMM came round, offered some sympathy and then left. Bizarro dwarf number 4 wasn't making for a relaxing and enjoyable night, particularly as I kept throwing up. "Awh but darling......[boke boke boke wipe residual vomit from lips]....I love you." Smooth. The night didn't get any better. I watched "Britz" on Channel 4, a film about a British suicide bomber. It just depressed the hell out of me. So I have decided I ain't drinking again. Never gonna happen.........

Saying that I'm going out on Saturday night, crikey.......