I had been living in Will’s wardrobe for three days before I heard anything. It only occurred to me then that I had concealed myself on a Friday afternoon and had been staking out Will’s office over the weekend, when no one was there. Luckily it is a walk-in wardrobe, necessary to house Will’s collection of t-shirts with witty slogans on them, which he never wears any more because of ‘the fucking hipsters’, but refuses to throw away. I was able to get up and stretch my legs, but all I had to eat was a wheel of cheese that was so cheap I couldn’t pass it up. I soon realised that it had been reduced because it was out of date and by this point it was so caked in mould and t-shirt fluff that I could have crumbled it over a bed of baby-gem lettuce and cherry tomatoes and charged twenty-two quid for it in Deane’s Deli.

Anyway it was on Monday afternoon that I heard Will talking to Maggie, the former runner we rescued from the BBC a couple of weeks previous (an adventure you can read about here). I only caught a few words from their conversation: adapt… TV… BBC… Wednesday, but I knew it was something I would have to investigate further. After that it sounded like they were just moving furniture or something because for the next half an hour all I heard was a lot of thumping, punctuated by the occasional grunt of ‘of fuck’ by Maggie. She must have been lifting something really heavy because I have NEVER heard a woman make a noise like that before. While they were distracted I wrapped up my cheese, kicked some t-shirts over the corner I had been using for my ‘business’, and crept out, a plan already formulating in my head.

Unfortunately my plan was for naught. On Wednesday morning I walked to the barber’s to get a haircut and found the place closed. Naturally this ruined my day so I went home in a huff, put my jammies on and climbed into bed with a bottle of wine. I even dug out a Smiths album and put it on for the full effect, but I had to switch it off after one song because I was worried I might start lactating. I put Motorhead on instead and drank myself into a restless sleep, no doubt attributed to the cheese I had continued to eat throughout the week.

When I woke up it was dark, I was disoriented and Lemmy’s bass was making it sound like there was a war going on around me. Still furious about having so much hair and, frankly, still drunk, I remembered the BBC meeting Will was sending Maggie to and decided I ought to be there for it. I splashed on some aftershave, scrubbed my teeth back from wine-stained black to their regular coffee-stained yellow, and watched Meet Don Draper six times in a row to psyche myself up. Then I headed for Wetherspoons, where the meeting was to be held. It was called a networking event and was part of the 360 Degree Screen Writing Festival at the BBC, I had discovered, and the whole thing had made me very suspicious.

The place was fucking packed, so I got myself a double and sat on a sofa in my best Don Draper pose, in the hope that people would mistake me for someone important and leave me alone. After my second double and a dirty look from a dame whose ass I had been checking out, I decided to look for Maggie.

I clocked her standing near the stairs, talking to some broad who had a lanyard hanging around her neck, which I took to be a sign of elitism and immediately put me on the offensive. I sidled up behind Maggie and eavesdropped on enough of their conversation to find out that Will’s plan was to sell This Is Not A Review to the BBC so they could adapt it for television.

‘I think it would be perfect for TV,’ said Maggie. The nerve.

‘I don’t,’ I said, making my presence known, and accidentally sloshing some whiskey onto my shirt.

‘Oh, this is Ian,’ said Maggie, glaring at me. ‘The guy who writes This Is Not A Review.’

‘Oh, okay, and why don’t you think it’s right for us?’ asked the producer.

‘It’s better than the BBC,’ I said, and it took a second for my statement to sink in. When it did she scowled at me as if I had just said something incredibly arrogant and rude. She quickly made up an excuse and walked off to hear some other horseshit pitch from some other shitbird.

‘Well done Ian,’ said Maggie, ‘she could have been a big help.’

‘Look!’ I said, ‘If I wanted the comedic geniuses behind The Folks On The Hill to work on my material I would filter it through a sieve of mediocrity.’

I looked around and realised I had been talking a lot louder than I realised, and had attracted the attention of some people nearby, all of whom were suitable appalled. I drained my glass dramatically.

‘That doesn’t even make sense,’ said Maggie.

‘Your face doesn’t make sense,’ I said.

‘You’re drunk.’

‘Actually I’m working,’ I said. ‘This is my art!’

‘This is NOT art,’ she said.

‘Oh HA, HA,’ I mocked, secretly stung by the quality of her joke.

The crowd soon dispersed and I managed to get some more information out of Maggie. She had spoken with another producer, who had shown some real interest in the idea, and they had agreed to meet at some point in the near future.

‘I have to be honest, I don’t think the public is ready for a documentary about me,’ I said.

‘It’s not a documentary Ian,’ she said. ‘Have you been listening to anything I said? The idea is to adapt your writing into a comedy show. An actor would play you.’

‘I see. Well naturally there is only one actor who could possibly do it,’ I said.

‘Who?’

‘Liam Neeson.’

‘Liam Neeson!?’

‘Well who else could do my accent?’

Stay tuned for further developments in the This Is Not A Review television project.

Definitely my favourite month.

You may have been wondering what happened to Will and me. Or you may not, how the fuck would I know? The point is I’m going to tell you.

After a well deserved Christmas break I returned to the Bandwidth building bright and early on the January 1st with a spring in my step. I had been meaning to see a doctor about it, but what with being drunk for an entire month I just hadn’t gotten round to it. It appears to have been a psychosomatic issue, because what I found at HQ (that’s right, we use professional-sounding lingo) destroyed my mood worse than a badly timed shot of Ron Jeremy’s O-face in a cheap porno, and my tottering short person walk returned almost immediately. The place was a shit tip. Smashed windows covered with cardboard, the unmistakeable stench of a backed up toilet, rats building little houses out of discarded syringes, and by far the worst of all, Michael Barrymore appeared to be squatting there.

‘We warned you about this Barrymore!’ I yelled.

‘No, Will said it was cool this time,’ he replied.

‘What? When? Where is Will?’

‘I don’t know. A couple of weeks ago he said he was moving on. Greener pastures, he said.’

‘Fuck,’ I said, pulling up an office chair and taking out my hip flask. ‘Will was my hero.’ I had a swig and noticed Barrymore eyeing it. I passed it to him. ‘Going though another rough patch huh?’

‘Yeah, just need some time to get my shit together,’ he said, guzzling my whiskey. I snatched the flask back.

‘Could be worse,’ I said. ‘Michael Madsen’s in the Big Brother house.’

After that nothing more needed to be said, and we finished the whiskey in solemn silence.

Before I left I went to take a leak, and that is where I got my lead. The toilet was filthy, and of course there was no toilet paper left. Barrymore had been using old office documents, which he had carefully torn up into wipe-sized squares. I recognised most of them as old This Is Not A Review articles and it struck me that there really would be no reason to print those things out, except with the intention of wiping one’s ass on them, but I didn’t have time to be offended. There, nestled amongst the words that spilled out of me like whiskey from a glass when I fall asleep in front of the TV, was the remnants of an official looking letter written on BBC stationery. The BBC. Of course.

I marched all the way to the BBC building, stopping only briefly for three pints of Guinness. At the reception I slammed my fists on the desk and demanded to see Will. The receptionist told me I wasn’t allowed in without a visitor’s pass.

‘How do I get one of those?’ I asked.

‘Just fill in this form.’

‘Fuck that!’ I screamed. ‘This is an emergency.’

‘I’m going to have to ask you to leave sir,’ she said.

‘I’ll be back,’ I said.

CUT TO:

Me, crashing a car through the front of the BBC building.

I reached over the desk and snatched a visitor’s pass, then I descended into the depths of televisual hell. I had prepared myself for some resistance, but the only obstacle I encountered was a girl I went to university with.

‘Hey [name deleted for reasons of libel], good to see you again. Now where’s McConnell?’

After pretending not to recognise me, she gave me the long version of how successful she has been in the ‘industry’. Finally she told me how to find Will and went back to mopping, insisting that I not walk over her lovely clean floor, and find another way around.

The door was marked ‘Sound/Dubbing/Cleaner’s Store’. I booted it in, and immediately regretted my decision. Will had his feet up on a mixing board and was leisurely masturbating to a behind-the-scenes video loop showing [name deleted for reasons of libel] repeatedly bending over, exposing perhaps an inch of cleavage at most.

‘Ian!’ he exclaimed.

‘Jesus!’

‘What are you doing here?’

‘Please stop masturbating!’ I said.

‘Oh, right,’ he said, tucking himself away. ‘What’s up?’

‘Dude, what’s happened to you?’

‘I’m moving up in the world Ian. Steady work. A credit on a real TV show. Even my own office,’ he said, motioning around the cramped mixing studio we were in. ‘The ladies toilets are next door. You can hear them when they’re in there.’

‘Jesus fuck Will, you’ve turned into a sex pest. And worse, a dubbing mixer.’

‘Oh yeah, coming from the guy who works in a chocolate shop.’

‘I still have my dreams Will. And when I jerk off at work I have the decency to go to the toilet.’

‘But I’m happy here. It’s easy,’ he said.

I grabbed him by the collar, spun his chair around and slapped him in the face. I tried to ignore the fact that the movement had exposed his genitals again. ‘Listen to me William,’ I said. ‘Did I ever tell you about my uncle?’

‘Your uncle was not John Wayne, Ian’

‘No, my other uncle. Tony. He had this obsession with people letting their dogs shit in the street. He used to go on and on about how the council should do more about it until one day he finally snapped and started his own private business cleaning up dog turds in upper class areas. At first everyone thought he was crazy, but it really caught on. He was even in the paper. ‘Pooper Trooper is Super, Says Council’. But you know where he is now? He’s a dog shit warden in a park. The council liked his idea so much they hijacked it and now he works for them. Just another cog in the machine. He never has to get his hands dirty, but you know what? He’s a broken man. Says he can’t even remember what a bucket of dog shit smells like any more.’

‘I don’t understand,’ said Will.

‘Don’t you see? You used to be in charge of shit. Even if it was just small time, it was all yours. Now you’re just doing someone else’s shit for them.’

‘You’re right,’ he said, standing up, his junk lolling into plain view. ‘Let’s go make some fucking music videos.’

‘Okay, but put your bits away first dude. And zip up this time.’

As we tracked mucky footprints across a beautifully clean floor we bumped into the runner, heading in the other direction with a tray loaded with cups of tea. Seeing the mess we had made she dropped the tray, scattering broken crockery and tea, and broke into tears.

‘I can’t do this any more,’ she cried. ‘Please, take me with you.’

‘I don’t think that’s a good…’ I started.

‘What show do you work on?’ Will interrupted.

‘Out Of The Blue,’ she sobbed.

‘Oh you poor thing,’ he said, putting his arm around her. ‘Of course you can come with us.’

I mouthed ‘what the fuck?’ at him and he responded by cupping his hands in front of his chest and biting his lip in a furious manner. Luckily I know sign language, and understood that he was indicating her massive breasts. He had a point.

‘Okay then,’ I said, ‘let’s go.’

We headed straight back to HQ, stopping only very briefly so I could have three pints of Guinness.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Michelle Williams as Marilyn Monroe. Or, all I really want for Christmas.

[Editor's Note: This was supposed to be a review of the last week's Electric Six gig. The following is what Ian turned in. When questioned about it his only response was, 'Fuck that noise,' in what we think was supposed to be a Kenny Powers impression.]

I was on the can when the inspiration for this article hit me. There was a condom machine just outside the stall I was using, and with no reading materials to hand, I had begun pondering it. The machine advertised three condoms for three pounds. What struck me as unusual about it was that it dispensed a pack of three different kinds. A regular old rubber Johnny, an ultra-fine, and a ribbed-for-her-pleasure. Surely for most people this is just plain inconvenient. Surely anyone who needs a condom has a preference, which means two out of those three aren’t going to be exactly what they wanted. I, for example, would have no use for anything other than the regular one. I am a meat and potatoes kinda guy, you see. And when you’re fucking a plate of meat and potatoes the ultra-fine ones have a tendency to rip, and the ribbed ones just become clogged with food, which defeats the whole purpose. I jest, of course. I have never been able to persuade a plate of food to sleep with me, even after adding liberal amounts of wine during cooking. I came close once, but the bitch tricked me by asking for oral first. By the time I realised my error I had scoffed the lot, leaving nothing but a gravy slicked plate. What was I talking about again? I was going somewhere with this…

Oh yes, condoms as a metaphor for life. I know what you are thinking. You all know enough about my sex life – ie the complete lack of it – to know that I have no use for contraceptives. So how do I know so much about them? Well I’ll tell you. There is a girl who works in the pharmacy next door to the shop I work in. She is so pretty she makes my heart hurt. No, seriously, one day I had to ask her for a bottle of Gaviscon. The convenience of her profession was not lost on me. As it turns out that day the heartburn was actually caused by a case of Bulgarian beer I found in my mate’s shed. I had to drink the lot, to prove my assertion that ‘beer doesn’t go out of date.’ Even after six years. Back to the rubbers…

Six months ago I hatched a plan to woo this pretty pharmacist. I say plan. I started buying condoms off her. Every week. The biggest box they had. No conversation. No silly come ons. Just an expression that said yeah, I do a lot of sex. My thinking was that she would at first be intrigued, then impressed, then downright jealous of my sheer… output. I was banking on it, in fact, because after shower cap I couldn’t think of a use for the goddamn things and they were starting to pile up. After a few weeks I decided to up my game and go for the wow factor by buying a pack of Magnums. I only did that once though. After slipping one over my head for my morning shower I was fucking horrified to find it quite roomy. Who buys those fucking things? Seriously, I have trouser legs with a lesser circumference. Every cloud, though. That was the first morning for about a month I washed my hair, so I immediately stopped looking so… Persian. My next tactic was to give off the bad boy vibe. You know, living on the edge. I started buying the ultra-fine ones. Because for a badass like me, the very slight improvement in pleasure was worth the increased risk of unwanted pregnancy, or even chlamydia. (I just fucking spelled chlamydia right first time!) This didn’t seem to impress her the way I had hoped, so I changed tactics again. I started buying the ribbed ones, in a bid to look like a considerate lover. I had put off buying this particular kind on general principle, as I believe the female orgasm is a myth, like Elvis’s death, or the whole black guy thing. I will concede that white men can’t jump, but only because we don’t need to, as demonstrated by Guinness world record holder for ‘greatest number of badass acts of violence in one TV show’, Vic Mackey:

Fences? Fuck fences. Where was I? Oh yes, ribbed for her pleasure…

These did not appear to have the desired effect either, and the ever growing pile of condoms in the corner of my room was like a monument to jerking off. Then I caught a cold and decided life sucks and I shouldn’t ever bother trying to do anything. I stopped at the pharmacy on my way to work and, seeing me approach, the girl grabbed a box of twelve ribbed condoms.

‘Oh, no thanks,’ I said. ‘I just need some decongestant.’

‘Oh,’ she said, putting the condoms back and picking up a bottle of Sudafed.

‘I was only buying those to impress you anyway,’ I said.

‘It didn’t work… at all.’

‘That’s okay, don’t suppose you want to get a cup of coffee some time?’

‘I have a boyfriend,’ she said.

‘That figures,’ I said with a wistful smile. ‘Just out of curiosity, what is your preference with those things?’

‘Oh… umm… my boyfriend has to use special ones actually.’

‘Ah, latex allergy.’

‘No, those ones,’ she said, pointing to the Magnums. And suddenly her odd gait made sense. I tried to suppress a grimace. ‘Is that everything then?’ she asked.

~ Pause for comedic effect ~

‘Actually I’m gonna need some Vaseline too.’

Where was I going with this thing again? Oh yeah, the life lesson. I forget what it is, actually. The only advice I can impart is, don’t turn the ribbed condoms inside out for enhanced sensation. Apparently ‘ribbed for her pleasure’ actually means ‘chafes like a motherfucker’. If you do ever make that mistake, though, don’t bother your GP with it. You local pharmacist should be able to help.

The mountainous northern Alabama.

‘Here is something you can’t understand,
How I could just kill a man.’

- Cypress Hill

I covertly sniffed my armpit. It definitely wasn’t me. I tried to scan the immediate vicinity but my vision was consumed by two huge anorak-covered backs. One belonged to a beer swilling giant of a man, the other to his almost-just-as-giant beer swilling wife, whom I suspected was the one farting in my general direction. I stared into my empty plastic cup, wondering where Scarlett had gotten to, and then put the cup around my nose so I could huff some whiskey fumes. How the fuck could there be so many Steve Earle fans in Belfast? Then Scarlett was poking me in the back and she was empty handed.

‘What happened?’ I asked.

‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘I couldn’t get near the bar.’

‘But your lightly freckled cleavage ought to be bartender Kryptonite!’ I said.

‘The bar is full of assholes,’ she shrugged.

‘Same deal in here,’ I said. ‘I don’t think I can do this sober. I’m going to snap the next time someone shoves me.’ And someone shoved me. I spun on my heels, ready to paste the motherfucker and discovered it was a heavily tattooed guy with long curly ginger hair. Considering the possibility that he was some sort of heavy metal Celtic warrior, I squashed myself against the wall and let him pass. ‘Next time I really will,’ I reassured Scarlett, and she gave me that smile.

It had been pure dumb luck that I stumbled upon Scarlett’s video on Youtube.

[Editor's Note: Ian's web history shows that he had "stumbled upon" Scarlett's video by way of a search for 'Irish girls gone wild.']

She was a girl from Galway, drunkenly singing Galway Girl by Steve Earle, although the only part she seemed to know was the ‘eigh-aye-eigh-aye-eigh’ bit. With the Steve Earle gig only a couple of weeks away I decided it was a sign from the gods and had Will track her down. Long story short she didn’t want to pass up a free Steve Earle show and she arrived in Belfast a couple of days before the gig. We hit it off the second she finished her pint of Guinness before me, and we spent every waking hour together. Every sleeping hour too, if you get what I mean…

[Editor's Note: You're a liar?]

The night before the show I watched True Romance and had an epiphany. It is very unlikely that Patricia Arquette will be ever fuck me. So I decided to settle for Scarlett. The day of the gig I bought a ring, thinking I would be romantic and propose during Galway Girl. Now a brief pause to allow the female readers to finish saying ‘awwwwwww’…

[Editor's Note: What female readers?]

But there I was smooshed between a bunch of fatties and Steve Earle was coming on and any sense of romance in the air was blanketed by the smell of beer-sweat and cheese and onion flavoured farts. It’ll be okay once he starts playing, I thought, then they’ll settle down. But they didn’t. In fact most of the people there didn’t even believe that Steve Earle’s presence on stage warranted a pause in their conversations. They didn’t just talk during songs, they talked, nay, shouted over Steve while he was trying to talk to the audience between songs. This prompted a number of ‘shushes’ and even a few ‘shut the fuck up’s, but to no avail. Even when Steve himself suggested that ‘the people at the bar shut the fuck up’, they ignored him and continued yammering loudly at each other. The fact that I was squashed in at the back was tolerable – I am always squashed in at the back in Mandela Hall – but being squashed in at the back with nothing to drink, surrounded by obnoxious assholes who think their own inane fucking conversation is more interesting than hearing Steve Earle live was too much for me. If you were at the gig and you talked during it, I hope you get cancer of the prostate/vulva (delete as appropriate), you sack of shit. It does go to show how good Steve was, however, that even the shit crowd couldn’t ruin the gig for me. He did a long set with a bunch of the classics peppered through more recent songs and although it was hard to hear him over the sea of dickheads surrounding me, he took the time to tell a few cool stories and interact with the crowd, which I always appreciate. He did play Galway Girl, but I decided it wouldn’t be wise to take a knee in the bustling crowd, so I slipped the ring over my finger for safe keeping and decided to propose after the show. Alas, my plan was doomed.

I was lost in a furious trance, glaring at some twat who was taking a video of the show on his phone. Just a piece of advice: if you pay thirty two quid to see a living legend in your own home town and you decide to watch it through a three-inch screen on your shitty fucking camera phone, you’re an asshole. There is no exception to this rule. Then someone dumped half a pint of Harp down the back of my neck and I finally lost it. I turned around to see some silly fat bitch trying to manoeuvre (read: push) her way through the crowd CARRYING FOUR PINTS OF HARP. Who tries to carry four pints in plastic cups through a sold out crowd? I never even try to carry three pints in case I drop one and look like a twat.

[Editor's Note: Well, you do have little dainty hands.]

Not now Ed, I’m on a roll…

And here was this ignorant twat pushing past me and rolling her eyes like it was my fault she spilled some.

‘YOU FAT FUCKING CU…’ I started to scream, and then I was shoved again. I turned around to see the Celtic warrior, once more on the warpath and taking no prisoners. I shoved him back and when he turned on me I chinned him a good one. He stumbled back, his eyes going wide, and then he collapsed. I looked at my fist, awed by my own manly prowess, and realised it hadn’t been my Tyson Fury-like right that put him down. The diamond from the ring on my finger had evidently come loose and flew into his throat when I hit him. As I watched him choke to death I realised it wouldn’t be long before someone called the cops, and they would probably blame me, so I fled into the night.

Scarlett hasn’t spoken to me since. Apparently seeing me commit manslaughter wasn’t a turn on for her, so I suppose she wasn’t right for me after all. Well, there’s always Alabama…

This is not an accurate depiction of Ian's life.

For some reason it never occurred to me that a screening of Game Of Thrones would be full of fantasy nerds. In my mind it was just another example of the sort of quality television I have come to expect of HBO, but fantasy fans are a peculiar breed of die-hard and they were out in force for this particular event. There were even a few in costume, though at this point I had never seen the show so I didn’t know who they were supposed to be. One of the dressed-up dames had caught my eye. She was standing off to one corner, wearing a long shabby dress and looking rather timid. And her tits were fucking huge. The sheer fabric of her costume was stretched taut enough to give every unkempt prick in the lobby a half-mast hope that at any point it might just give and rip in just the right spot. She fit the description Will had given me – which was in actual fact just a groping hand motion in front of his chest – but intimidation had me rooted to the spot. I hadn’t had time to stop in the pub before the show, and my Draper-juice was tucked away in a flask inside my jacket. The flash of chrome would have been a dead give-away and I feared being thrown out before I even got drunk enough to cause a proper scene. Finally I managed to channel some Mickey out of sheer desperation. There was a creepy looking motherfucker with a pony-tail hovering dangerously close to her and I didn’t want to relive the pain I suffered at a recent gig when some groupie-wannabe was stolen from me by a pony-tailed pig, whose only tactic seemed to be grinding up against her and spilling his beer on her shoes. Just the flagrant waste of good beer was enough to piss me off, but the dame appeared to be into it and that just about ruined my whole night. I shuffled over to her and gave her a weak smile.

‘Is there any chance you’re April?’

Looking slightly relieved she confirmed that she was indeed April. ‘I thought you must be Ian when I saw you but I wasn’t sure.’

‘How did Will describe me?’

‘Oh, uh, I wouldn’t want to say…’

‘No, it’s okay. You won’t hurt my feelings,’ I said with a smile, demonstrating my manly thick skin.

‘Well, he said “pre-Hollywood-weight-loss Ricky Gervais”.’

My feelings were pretty badly hurt, but I knew I couldn’t show weakness. I tried to laugh it off. ‘I’m surprised he didn’t mention my thinning hair.’

‘Oh, he did,’ she said. ‘I forgot that part.’

‘Well, you look good,’ I said, staring at her tits.

‘Thanks. I’m just a wench. I thought you would like a wench.’ And immediately, I forgave Will.

That night they showed the first five episodes of Season 1. At first I was all like ‘eh’ but it wasn’t long before I decided it was the best thing of all time. It could have been a terrifically boring night considering how long it lasted, but by the time the credits rolled on episode five I was so hooked I probably would have sat through the following five as well. Alas, they were to be saved for the following night. My hip flask now empty, I had just enough manly confidence to say goodnight to April without jabbering like a fool and I went home feeling strangely light-hearted, safe in the knowledge that I would see her again before long. When I caught my reflection in the taxi mirror I noticed that my face was contorted – my mouth sort of drawn up at the sides – and I realised I was experiencing something incredibly rare. Sober joy. My God, I thought, imagine how good this would be drunk. I decided to make a few adjustments for the following night, and it wouldn’t be Don Draper or even Mickey Rourke who would be my inspiration. It would be Tyrion Lanister, the coolest wine-swilling, wench-fucking dwarf I had ever seen. When I got home I grabbed a bottle and my mum’s sewing kit and set to work.

When I woke up the next day I couldn’t move my arm and I was stricken by blind panic, until, through the haze of the hangover I realised I had just stitched the cuff of my shirt to my jeans. The needlework was surprisingly good, if I do say so myself, but the garment I was working on was destroyed in the struggle to free my arm. Fuck it, I thought, I’ll just wear a cape, and went back to sleep.

That night I made sure to get a good buzz going before I arrived at the Movie House, and of course I had my flask with me again. I ducked into the toilets and put my cape on, and when I looked at myself in the mirror my face was smiling with the anticipation of seeing my busty wench again. When I swished back out into the lobby, though, the smile quickly fell away. April was there, but my wench was not. She was just dressed like a regular modern day dame. A buxom dame, sure, but she had lost the specialness that her filthy harlot costume had created.

‘I thought you thought the costume was kinda goofy,’ she said.

‘Not at all,’ I said. ‘I just wasn’t myself last night. Didn’t have enough whiskey. I even wore a cape tonight.’

‘I see that.’ she said.

‘Like Tyrion…’

‘Uh huh.’

‘Because he seems to be a hit with the ladies.’

‘Oh no,’ she said, ‘Tyrion has to pay for it. Now Khal Drogo, he just takes it. I like that.’

My feelings were pretty badly hurt, but I knew I couldn’t show weakness. I tried to laugh it off. ‘And he has a pony tail,’ I joked.

‘Oh I LOVE pony tails,’ she said.

Fuming, I went inside, found a seat and took a hit from the flask.

If anything there were even more beheadings and titties in the second half of the series than the first, which I found impressive. Her comment had all but ruined every scene involving Khal Drogo for me, but at the same time I couldn’t quite hate the guy. He is played by Jason Momoa – a man so large and good looking that even the intense jealousy he inspires isn’t enough to mask the truth of the situation, which is that if I was a dame he would make me moist too. I have a certain deference for men like that. If I’m going to be a loser I’m going to try to be a good one. I won’t give anything away about the show, I would just urge you to check it out. It is not the best TV show ever made but that is due to the quality of the other shows, not a lack thereof in this one. What it does do better than just about any other show is turn the badass level to eleven. What man doesn’t like bloody violence and titties? And what woman doesn’t like the idea of Khal Drogo taking you as his princess and banging you in his tent every night after a hard day cutting fucking heads off? What else can I say? It has something for everyone.

After studying Tyrion Lanister’s every conniving move for over four hours and having my world rocked by the season finale, I was convinced that I could bed April, wench-outfit or not. A small contingent headed for the nearest bar and we followed. Inside I draped myself into one of the booths and told her to bring me some wine. She brought me over a glass and then excused herself, so I took the opportunity to sup my wine and survey the bar, feeling like a royal fucking badass. When I caught sight of her again she was being chatted up by the creep with the pony tail. He was hunched over her in such a sweaty frenzy he spilled some of his pint, which just made her giggle. As my look dissolved from drunk and aloof to drunk and maudlin, a group of zombies walked into the bar, celebrating Halloween early. They stopped at my table.

‘Are you Willow?’ asked one of the lady-zombies.

‘No,’ I said.

‘Who are you then?’

‘Tyrion Lanister.’

‘Who?’

‘Never mind,’ I said. I drank the glass of wine down in one and got up to leave. As I did, my foot got caught in my cape and I fell down.

‘Go easy on the wine there Frodo,’ said one of the others, and all the zombies laughed at me.

PS – if any of you are lucky enough to work on Game Of Thrones, I have a film degree, I am desperate and I make really fucking good tea. I’m just putting that out there.

This Is Not A Review will return next week. I will be spending the entire weekend finishing my Halloween costume, which is Tyrion Lanister from Game Of Thrones, a.k.a. ‘The coolest motherfucker of all time.’

Being short just got awesome. Prophecise, bitches.

I had only ducked into the bar for a pint and some peace and quiet. Not only was there a pub quiz on, screwing my plans for peace, but as my Guinness settled I spied a new bottle on a shelf behind the bar. I clocked it as Four Roses bourbon, which I have never tried before.

‘Barkeep!’ I yelled. ‘Four fingers of Four Roses, please.’

‘We use measures here Ian, you know that,’ he said.

‘How many fingers in a measure?’

‘I don’t know. About one and half.’

‘Of course, depends on the fatness of one’s fingers, I suppose. So one and half fingers per measure… four divided by one and half… the fractions always get me… the number you’re diving by, turn upside down and multiply… hmmm… eleven? Jesus that can’t be right.’

‘How about you start with one and if you like it you can make the next one a double,’ said the barman, eyeing the queue that was forming behind me.

‘Good thinking,’ I said, and he poured me one. It was delicious, if you were wondering. Not the best bourbon I have ever had, but then I am a connoisseur. Or ‘fuckin wanker’, as they say in Belfast.

‘It’s about time,’ said one of the punters behind me. ‘I just missed the Strictly Come Dancing question.’

‘My apologies sir,’ I said, supping my whiskey. ‘Have them repeat it and I will give you the answer.’

‘You don’t look like a Strictly fan,’ he said.

‘But why wouldn’t I be. Strictly features a veritable feast of the most exotic women on television. They have names like Katya, Flavia and Aliona, and they are all leg. Not only that but you get the best of both worlds – all sweaty in tank tops and shorts while they’re practising, and all dolled up in nothing but two well-placed straps and a pair of satin knickers when they perform. It’s a work of fucking genius.’ The queue of thirsty people just stared at me, apparently awed by my cinematic speech.

‘Fuckin wanker,’ someone muttered.

‘Connoisseur!’ I corrected, but my attention was immediately diverted by the sight of the barmaid, pulling a pint. ‘Exotic as they are though,’ I said, leaning on the bar and giving her my best Roger Sterling smile, ‘they can’t quite match the staff in here.’ My line fell on the wrong side of sleazy though, and she just looked away. I drained my glass.

Many drinks later I motioned for the barman. The barmaid had successfully ignored my every attempt at eye-contact, thereby avoiding serving me.

‘I need more whiskey,’ I said.

‘How much this time?’

‘Hell, a whole bouquet!’

‘How much is that?’ he asked.

‘Hmm, how many fours in a bouquet? Jesus I must be drunk.’ Rather than wait for me to work it out he just gave me a single and took my money. The barmaid was at the tap right in front of me.

‘Listen!’ I yelled so loud she couldn’t hope to ignore me. ‘Your aloofness is understandable, and it compliments your beauty perfectly, but you are breaking my goddamn heart!’ My words – always my strongest asset – broke through the wall my drunken debauchery had built between us, and I swear it, we had a fucking moment. ‘When do you finish?’ I asked.

‘Ten minutes,’ she said. Which was lucky because I had drank all my money, and I am not sure how much longer I could have stretched this part of the story.

After her shift she met me outside. She had changed out of her sweaty tank top, let her hair down, and she was now fully made up, wearing a beautiful dress, which I felt was impractical but lovely nonetheless. I told her as much, and she smiled.

‘Let me show you something,’ I said.

CUT TO:

The Bandwidth building.

We crept in through the front door and sprinted across the lobby to the elevator, the fat Mexican security guard giving chase as best he could. The damn lift was out of order so, giggling with the naughtiness of it all, we headed for the stairs and ran up a full five flights, well ahead of the guard. At the fifth floor I guided her to Will’s office, where we hid until we were sure the guard had given up looking.

‘Why are we here?’ she asked.

‘You’ll see,’ I said, and went to the floor-to-ceiling window. I pulled open the blinds, revealing the most spectacular view in all of Belfast. I know this because next to the window is a brass plaque which reads ‘The most spectacular view in all of Belfast.’ The city was beautifully illuminated and the cloudless sky impossibly full of stars. She came over to stand next to me and took my hand as we gazed out the window at the city. We had another moment. At around 2am, when the streets started to fill with boking students, we decided to call it a night. We went back to the stairs, but couldn’t open the door. The security guard had had a heart attack from the exertion and fallen down behind the door, sealing us in. The lift, of course, was still out of order.

‘It looks like we will have to stay the night,’ I said, and we went back to Will’s office.

‘I’m cold,’ she said, wrapping her arms around herself. I reminded her that I had warned her about the impracticality of her attire, but re-assured her that I would take care of it.

‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘I’ve seen like four episodes of Bear Grylls.’ I started kicking at the legs of Will’s desk until I splintered a couple of them off. I built them up into a little pile and tried to set fire to them, wondering why they wouldn’t catch. Then I remembered that Will’s desk is not made of wood, but of the bones of several notorious South American dictators. He claims their spirits live on, enriching him with what he calls his ‘death stare’, or ‘olhar mortal’.

‘I’m sorry, this isn’t going to work,’ I said. ‘We’ll have to find some other way to keep warm.’

‘Like what?’ she said.

‘Well if there was a camel carcass here I could hollow it out, but there isn’t…’

‘What else can we do?’ she asked.

CUT TO:

The following morning.

The cleaners found the dead security guard on the stairs, then me, sleeping naked on Will’s smashed-up desk, clutching one of his sofa cushions to my chest. The carpet was charred and littered with shards of bone, and next to me on the floor was an empty Four Roses bottle, and Will’s coffee cup, half-filled with urine.

The damage to the office has subsequently been blamed on the security guard, since he was Mexican, and he was dead anyway.

Gratuitous photo of Kirsten Dunst in a wet tank top.  Or, the only redeeming feature of the Spiderman movies.

Drive

When I try to be all professional and shit…

Drive is about stunt driver Ryan Gosling, whose past-times include chewing toothpicks, brooding, and driving getaway cars for professional burglars. He is the perfect professional – a lone wolf who lives to drive and drives to live. Until, that is, he meets Carrie Mulligan, who is prettier than any woman really has a right to be. The Goz gets involved with her and her son and everything is going well, until her husband gets out of prison and comes home. The husband owes money to some nasty people, who want him to pull a job as payment. The Goz agrees to help him, because he is a bloody decent guy. But, of course, things don’t go to plan.

Films with this much style don’t often come with substance to match, so this is quite a rare species. The Goz, aside from being the handsomest devil on the planet, is a damn fine actor and turns in a pitch perfect performance as the getaway driver with such huge balls he has to wear specially tailored jeans. All of the actors are good too, but this is very much a one man movie. A man who doesn’t blink and has a scorpion on his jacket.

It just wouldn’t be right to neglect to mention the cinematography and the score, though – both of which are stunning. The attention to detail in every aspect of the film creates an experience that goes beyond simple storytelling. There is a cohesion between the story that is being told, and how it is being told, which is something most lazy film-makers just don’t bother with. The artistic merits offset the gloriously graphic violence, which rather than seeming gratuitous, is brutal and shocking and absolutely right for the tone of the film, turning a simple shotgun blast to the head into a beautiful ballet of brains and blood.  That’s right, alliteration bitch.

A truly exceptional piece of uber-cool cinema.

When I just say what I really thought…

Ron Perlman is like a fucking alligator. He has too many teeth and his number one interest is murder. And he’s not even the best thing about this goddamn movie…

Melancholia

When I try to be all professional and shit…

Melancholia is a film in two halves. The first one is about a doomed wedding reception for newly-weds Justine (Kirsten Dunst) and Michael (Alexander Skarsgard). Not only can their family members not get along, Justine is suffering from a sort of melancholia that is only made worse by everyone’s insistence that she be happy. The second chapter, as Von Trier does enjoy his films in chapters, is about Justine’s sister Claire (Charlotte Gainsbourg) who is convinced that a planet called Melancholia, which is due to pass by close to Earth, is actually going to collide with and destroy the entire planet. As if that isn’t enough to worry about, she is also trying to look after Justine, whose melancholia has developed into a fully fledged depression.

Each chapter works well independently. The wedding reception at first appears to be nothing more than a beautifully shot melodrama, but is in actual fact quite a nuanced and subtle study of depression and modern-day malaise. Dunst’s performance was a true revelation to me, as I personally haven’t seen her given free roam in a challenging role before. The second chapter is a simpler, more tightly contained story. Charlotte Gainsbourg’s performance is on par with Kirsten Dunst’s, as she slowly unravels in the face of potential world destruction. Like Justine in the first chapter, Claire’s mental state is only antagonised by those around her – scientifically-minded husband (Kiefer Sutherland) and walking zombie depressive sister – who fail, or refuse, to understand her fear. Though each half is accomplished in itself, the film taken as a whole becomes more than the sum of its parts.

The prosaic pacing had me wondering, at points, if it was all really necessary, or if the director had simply given himself over to self-indulgence. Lars Von Trier is not one to shy away from controversy or unconventionality, and is not afraid to explore some plot threads which are ultimately left dangling – a terribly faux pas in Hollywood film but strangely intriguing when done correctly, as it is here. The whole thing probably could have been more concise but I have to admit that after the screening, and for the days since, I have been thinking about the film, which isn’t something I can often say. I feel like I haven’t fully processed it yet, and as such am slightly ill-equipped to say anything definite about it. It is a ponderous, beautiful film, which won’t be to everyone’s tastes. There are some true flashes of brilliance, though, in the performances and in the epic, intense imagery, which is more aesthetically than emotionally pleasing, but incredible to behold all the same. It is beautiful and thoughtful and I liked it. I just haven’t decided how much yet.

When I just say what I really thought…

Damn, Kirsten Dunst has some nice boobs.

I awoke in a dusky haze to feel something vibrating against my thigh.

‘Not again Donna! My ass looks like a goddamn yawning child!’ The vibrating persisted.

‘Damn it Donna don’t make me take the belt to you,’ I yelled, leaping to my feet. I found the room empty. Of life, that is. The room was actually quite full – of whiskey bottles mostly, and empty Jaffa Cake boxes. I reached into my pocket and took out my phone, which was still buzzing.

‘Yeah?’

‘Ian it’s Will. What have you got for Friday?’

‘Fuck all my man, fuck all.’

‘That’s what I suspected. Which is why I have scored you entry to a press screening of Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy today.’

‘Say again?’

‘I got your name on the list to see the movie for free, so you can write about it on Friday.’

‘I see. Are you sending the limo?’

‘Why would I send a limo?’

‘Typical. I might as well work for the fucking Telegraph,’ I said, and hung up on him. ‘Donna!’ I yelled. Donna is a broad I shacked up with a few weeks ago. She’s a bit older than I would normally go for but she drinks like Prohibition is coming back and she is downright filthy between the sheets. She appeared in the doorway wearing a pair of jeans and nothing else, which was quite the coincidence because that’s exactly how I was dressed. She took a long drag on her smoke.

‘What is it honey?’

‘Go dig out your finest threads babe, I’m gonna show you off around town.’

‘Where we going?’

‘I’m taking you to a movie première.

‘Really?’

‘Goddamn right. I told you I was a celebrity.’ Nestled among many other lies the night we met, I had in fact told her I was a celebrity.

‘What about Jaxon?’ she asked.

‘Who’s Jaxon?’

‘My son!’

‘Oh yeah, the kid. Leave him with your mother.’

‘My mother died two months ago! How many times?’

‘All right, we’ll leave him with my mother.’

‘You’re going to let me meet your mum?’ she said, a look of almost painful hope on her face.

‘Hell no, she’d flip out. I’ll tell her I found the kid in the street and I’ve gone to report it to social services.’

‘Oh… okay,’ she said, and turned to go.

‘Hey babe.’

‘Yeah?’ she turned back, hopeful again.

‘I’ll have eggs for breakfast.’

‘Okay Mickey,’ she said. And I suppose that would be the cue for some back story.

Two weeks ago on a routine night out drinking in the bar, two of my friends joined me. I have grown rather accustomed to drinking alone and having company usually has one of two effects: either I curl up inside my shell and wait for them to leave, or I kick the shell off my back and start dancing like Mick Jagger. What happened to me two weeks ago, because of my prolonged state of solitude, is a rare medical condition known as going ‘Full Mickey’. This is inspired by Mickey Rourke’s triumphant return from the darkness to the spotlight, which was punctuated by recurring displays of awesome. When I was first taken by the spirit of Mickey I ordered another double Jack and requested that they play ‘Here I Go Again’ by Whitesnake, which I then sang along to. My display attracted the attention of Donna, who was sitting nearby, and complimented me on my chest hair. The rest of the night involved me stuffing a faux-fur scarf down my shirt (to give me the Chuck Norris look, since chest hair was working for me), demonstrating how bitchin’ Rab McCullough’s version of Voodoo Child was on my air guitar, and walking through town shaking hands with everyone I met. When I came to the next day I was in Donna’s place, and though my head was pounding rather than buzzing, the spirit of Mickey hadn’t left me. I decided to roll with it, so I had a beer for breakfast and rolled back into bed with my newly acquired cougar. And that about brings us up to date.

Donna staggered into the room on six inch heels and a dress of shimmering emerald green sequins that hugged in all the right places. I had opted for my lilac tuxedo and shades (of course).

‘Goddamn baby, you look sexy. Like a high class hooker.’

‘Aw, thanks babe,’ she said. ‘I left Jaxon with the lady next door, so we don’t have to bother your mum.’

‘Who’s Jaxon?’

‘Jesus Mick, how much have you had already?’ I waved the whiskey bottle in the air so she could see, then had another swig.

‘That stuff’s not good for your stomach,’ she said, stuffing a bottle of Smirnoff into her bag.

‘I’m taking Minxie,’ I said, lifting the dog into the crook of my arm. I had kitted her out in a little red coat.

‘Aw,’ said Donna. ‘You remind me of someone standing there like that.’

‘Mickey Rourke?’

‘No, not him. I can’t think of who it is though…’

‘Never mind babe, we have to go. I want to get there early to catch the paparazzi. Will the whiskey fit in your bag?’

‘I don’t think so…’

‘Goddamnit Donna you always carry a bunch of useless shit around.’ I took the bag and threw out all unnecessary items – make up bag, feminine products, insulin kit – and stuffed my bottle in.

‘Sorry,’ she said.

‘Don’t worry about it babe,’ I said, then gave her a kiss and a smack on the ass and we headed out the door.

When we got to Queen’s Film Theatre there was no one outside.

‘We must have missed the red carpet,’ I said, and Minxie gave a little yap in agreement. We went on in.

I swaggered up to the front desk.

‘I’m from Bandwidth, I’m here for the movie,’ I said to the woman. She looked at me, then at Minxie, then Donna, and then back to me.

‘Um, dogs aren’t allowed in the cinema sir,’ she said.

‘Come, she’s not that ugly,’ I said, looking at Donna, who responded by punching me in the side of the head.

‘This is my guide dog,’ I said. ‘I’m blind.’ The dame didn’t look convinced, despite the fact that I was wearing sunglasses indoors. Seriously, some people.

‘Minxie, where’s the bar?’ I said. Minxie barked.

‘See?’ I said, and walked over to the bar. Donna followed, trying to stay upright on her ridiculous heels.

‘What are you having babe?’ I asked.

‘Just get me a Coke and I’ll put some vodka in it,’ she said, looking around the reception area at all the other press folks.

‘You take it easy on the sugar, sugar,’ I said, and we both had a good laugh at my joke. We got our drinks and took a seat.

‘I don’t like these people,’ she said. ‘They all look like they’re holding in a shit.’

‘They’re critics baby, they aren’t known for holding in shit. They prefer to type it out.’

‘So how come you got invited?’ she asked.

‘I write shit too baby. It just doesn’t smell as bad.’ Minxie yapped her approval and I set my glass of beer down on the floor next to her, in case she got thirsty. By the time they called us into the screening room, she had lapped up a good half pint.

Donna didn’t seem to care much for the movie, and neither did Minxie for that matter. Donna kept nipping out to get more Coke for her vodka, which annoyed everyone else a lot more than it annoyed me. She kept smuggling in beer for Minxie too, and before long they were both drunk. Minxie just fell asleep but Donna, as usual, got a bit rowdy. I was too engrossed in the film to be bothered with drinking, so I had no time for her shit.

‘You want me to give you a blowjob in the toilet?’ she asked, loud enough for everyone to hear. A monstrously fat woman in the next row turned around and shushed her. ‘Shush yourself, you fat bitch,’ said Donna. Then to me, ‘Come on baby, how about it?’

‘Look I’m trying to watch this,’ I said.

‘Well fuck you too!’ she shouted, and stormed out. The fat woman turned around again to show her disapproval.

‘What you lookin’ at lady?’ I asked.

‘Your dog is snoring,’ she said.

‘She’s got sleep apnoea! You of all people should be sympathetic.’ She just tutted and turned back to the movie. I petted Minxie on the head, but she was out like a light.

The film is a perfect example of something that is all too uncommon in modern cinema: the good old fashioned British stiff upper lip. It is Richard Attenborough in The Great Escape. John Mills in Ice Cold In Alex. And now Colin Firth is at the forefront of its resurgence, with his roles in this movie, A Single Man and of course The King’s Speech. It is something the Americans just never did very well, and this film is chock full of it. And it’s about damn time, since Britain’s recent cinematic exports have come in the forms or Ricky Gervais’s cheeky chappy persona and Russell Brands own brand of dandy foppishness. Every performance in this film is a true class act, which should come as no surprise given the cast list. There are three or four plot strands that could be feature films in themselves and it is slightly disappointing when some of the stories aren’t explored in much depth, but as far as that goes the multiple plots are expertly spun together. It makes for undoubtedly dense viewing, but the story never becomes lost or confused, which is quite the achievement. It is also slow film, working at a pace most directors wouldn’t have the balls to use, but the thoughtful, measured pacing only adds to the overall style of the film, of which it has an abundance. And if that is not compliment enough, take my refusal of ‘a blowjob in the toilets’ as reassurance. It’s a bloody flipping good show.

There was some mild commotion in the lobby after the movie. Some silly dame had collapsed. Then I recognised the tits, only barely concealed by the sparkly green dress.

‘Donna!’ I yelled, and ran over to see her.

‘Oh, Mickey,’ she said as I stroked her hair. ‘I know who it is you remind me of in that tux.’

‘I know baby, Mickey Rourke…’

‘No,’ she said, ‘it’s Jeff Daniels in Dumb and Dumber.’

‘Oh,’ I said. ‘I love that movie.’

‘Yeah, I love it too…’ she said, and then her head fell over to one side and her eyes closed over. Just then a couple of paramedics came rushing in. One of them bent down next to her and checked the pulse in her neck. He looked at me and shook his head.

‘She’s gone,’ he said.

I went to the toilets to splash water on my face and have an intense moment of introspection as I stared at myself in the mirror. She was right. I hadn’t gone full Mickey. I was just plain dumb. Maybe even dumber. I let out an agonised scream and punched the mirror, but it didn’t crack or anything because I can’t punch very hard.

As they pushed the stretcher into the ambulance the paramedic turned to me and said, ‘I’m sorry, there’s nothing we could have done. It was just too late.’

‘I know,’ I said, ‘she died of a broken heart.’

‘Actually she died of diabetic shock. Why didn’t she have her medicine with her?’ he asked, but I wasn’t paying attention. I walked off into the evening, still cradling Minxie, who had slept through it all.

A couple of days later I took Minxie to the vet, because she still hadn’t woken up and she was very cold.

‘I’m sorry,’ said the vet, ‘she’s dead. Looks like she has been for some time now.’

‘Damn it, she must have died of a broken heart,’ I said.

‘Actually it looks like alcohol poisoning,’ he said. ‘Do you have any idea how she could have consumed alcohol?’ But I wasn’t paying attention. I was walking off into the sunset, putting on a black cowboy hat and affecting a laboured swagger. I had gone full John Wayne.

I went to see Cowboys And Aliens at the weekend. It threw up some serious philosophical questions about life that I am still grappling with. Questions like, ‘How did Sam Rockwell come to be so fucking awesome?’ and, ‘Why isn’t it illegal for Olivia Wilde to wear clothes?’. I wasn’t able to answer those questions, but the question that really got me thinking was one that applies to my own life. There is a kid in the movie. In one of the scenes, Olivia Wilde’s character gives him a hug, to comfort him, because something tragic has just happened. Now I do not want to suggest that the film was not enthralling enough to keep me mesmerised for the entire duration, but this scene struck a chord with me and sent my brain off on a wild tangent about life. I mean here I am, a man of 24, and my only memory of female contact during my teenage years is the time during a school dance when I somehow worked up the courage to press my boy-boner into the thigh of the girl I liked while we shuffled from foot to foot for one whole slow song. And here he is. This kid. This fucking kid. And already he has had a hug from Olivia Wilde, the closest thing to human physical perfection ever captured on goddamn film. Not only that, but he got paid to do it. And shit, this is a pretty big movie, who knows what he will go on to do in the movie business. He could have a whole fucking lifetime of hugs from beautiful women ahead of him. And he’s just some kid. And it made me think, some people have all the fun, and the rest of us are shit out of luck. Why bother trying, when we are doomed to fulfil our mundane destinies without even a whiff of beauty or magic or art, never mind the nostril-flaring scent of a woman, made famous by Pacino in the film of the same name, and the one undoubtedly enjoyed by this fucking kid when, whilst being paid, he had his face mashed against Olivia Wilde’s bosom! Damn it I need a fucking beer to calm my jangled nerves…

Okay… Okay… So it got me thinking. And then I started to connect some dots in my head and eventually my mind was eased by a fifty year old man with big muscles and tattoos. A man called Henry Rollins. I went to see his spoken word gig a couple of weeks ago and it was the memory of the overwhelming energy I felt after the show that made me question my previous assertion, that we are all doomed to accept our fates. And that is because Henry Rollins is a walking testament to the philosophy that genius is 1% inspiration, 99% perspiration.

Henry Rollins is a fucking badass. This is not a matter of opinion. This is one of those facts of life I touched on in my last article which, while they may appear subjective, are simply inalienable truths. If you don’t think Henry Rollins is a fucking badass, you are wrong. ANYWAY. I went to this gig alone because… well because I am a pig and it is becoming increasingly difficult to con women into going out with me. But also because I didn’t want some goddamn dame fucking up my Zen while I dug Henry’s musings. This was not just some night out for me. This was special. And if you need any proof of that, take the fact that I was sober. I had three whiskies the whole night, not because I was broke, but because I wanted to be fucking lucid during this thing. When this guy talks I drink it up like Daniel Day Lewis drinks a fucking milkshake. ANYWAY. So there I was at this gig and I was sober and my chair was really fucking uncomfortable and I didn’t even give a shit because I was going to see Henry Rollins in the flesh. And then he came out on stage like a walking espresso and did a two hour set of stories that were insightful and inspiring and hilarious, and all around me men and women alike were gazing in glassy-eyed wonderment at the physical manifestation of awesome standing centre stage, regaling us with stories of his absurd and badass adventures. And when I left I was buzzing in a completely different way to how I usually leave a gig, because Henry’s energy is infectious. And when I got home I didn’t mind so much that we live in a world of unfairness and inequality. A world in which millions of people starve every day while some others eat themselves so fat they can’t get out of bed. A world in which poor people die in wars created by rich men. A world in which some fucking kid gets to hug Olivia… Sorry. Point is, all of it seemed manageable, safe in the knowledge that there are dudes like Henry around. Now, to be fair, there really aren’t that many dudes like Henry. He’s one of a kind. He’s the kind of dude who, if your girlfriend left you for him, no matter how bummed out you were you’d just have to nod and tell her you understand, because deep down you know, you were thinking about leaving her for Henry Rollins too. But it’s okay, because there are lots of people listening to Henry and as guys like Henry are still drawing the sort of crowd that filled The Empire Music Hall a couple of weeks ago, there is still some hope in the world.

So where am I going with all of this? What does it all mean? To be honest I don’t know. I was hoping that if I started writing it would all just come together at the end. I suppose what I am saying is, don’t get too down when it seems like the odds are stacked against you. Sure, sometimes it seems like some people have all the luck, but even if you’re not born rich or good looking or you don’t find yourself hugging Olivia Wilde on screen as a teenager, don’t give up. Keep up the good fight. And when you need motivation to get back to the grindstone, check out some of Henry’s stuff. He is about as prolific as they come and there is no shortage of his material out there. Just don’t let your girlfriend in on it – Henry is a sexy man – the rest of us just can’t hope to compete. Fortunately, Henry is hard to please…

Henry Rollins official site.

So after my last post we have had almost two thousand requests via Facebook that This Is Not A Review be scrapped in favour of a Blake Lively Appreciation Blog (or BLAB, which isn’t a bad title…). As if this wasn’t disheartening enough for me, four days ago I woke up to find sixteen voicemails from Will on my phone. They were recorded between the hours of 11pm and 3am, in increasing states of drunkenness. All of them, however, were on the theme of how shit I am. The most cutting of all was the penultimate one, in which Will demanded to know why I can’t be more like Ned Hepburn, followed by a detailed explanation of all the ways Ned is better than me. The last, and most disturbing voicemail was an incredibly emotional rendition of Elvis Presley’s ‘She’s Not You’, which I can only infer was a veiled admittance that Blake Lively can’t quite replace me. Encouraged by the idea that Will isn’t quite ready to let me go, but determined to up my game and win back his affections, I bought a six-pack of Guinness and pored over Ned’s blog, hoping to find something I could rip off. Then I had a nap, because Guinness makes me sleepy, which was wrought by tortured metaphorical dreams in which I was in a crowded bar, trying desperately to order a pint of Hepburn, but the bartender heard me wrong and gave me a gin and coke, which made no sense and was fucking disgusting. The dream haunted my thoughts for days, leaving me ponderous and morose, until I had a revelation.

My revelation came about from a bowl of soup my friend cooked for me. Okay so I didn’t really have a revelation, but I didn’t have a good angle for this article and, obtuse as it is, the soup one works. My friend asked me what I thought of her soup and I told her it was delicious, but then she pressed me for any criticisms I had about it. I told her, ‘Well, this is not a review but…’ (huh? Huh?), ‘it was slightly under-seasoned.’ Another friend, who is not in soup club but whose opinion is valid nonetheless, said that seasoning is a matter of preference and as such it isn’t fair to base a judgement on it. This was the spark that ignited in me a fiery internal dialogue which lasted for two full days and during which I came to question the very essence of what makes me, me. I am conflicted, you see. On the one hand I understand that everyone is different and they like different things, so how much salt goes into food could be subjective. On the other hand I believe that just because a bunch of people think one way doesn’t make it fucking so, and when you got to a Michelin-starred restaurant, there isn’t a salt shaker on your table because any chef worth his salt (huh? Huh?) knows how to properly season food and isn’t going to let you dick around with it. So it’s not so much that I don’t have an opinion. I just find it too easy to see two sides to an argument, which makes leaning one way or the other very difficult. And that makes this whole blogging terrain a hard one for me to negotiate, because unless one takes the well-travelled ‘pictures of cats and food and sex gifs’ road, opinion pieces are a blogger’s bread and butter. Ned Hepburn does some wicked opinion pieces, but also throws in some good music, winning anecdotes about his experiences with beautiful women, and pictures of Daisy Lowe. In other words, he has this blogging thing down pat. I just can’t hope to compete.

Even my most firmly entrenched beliefs can’t inspire enough confidence in me to publicly proclaim my opinion one way or the other. Part of it is undoubtedly a self-esteem issue – I don’t feel I have the right to an opinion – and I should probably see a professional about it. But the other part of it is I just can’t help thinking, ‘Who gives a shit?’ For example, I truly believe that the entire Twilight franchise is a steaming pile of horseshit. I do not agree that it is a matter of opinion, I believe this to be an absolute. This is not the same as me not liking Harry Potter. I do not believe Harry Potter is intrinsically bad. In fact, for what it is, I believe it is really rather good. It’s just not for me. Twilight, on the other hand, is trash. Plain and simple. The same way that Celebrity Big Brother is trash. It has no artistic merit whatsoever, and the fact that it has millions of fans is no more proof of its worth than Michelle Bachmann’s fans are proof that she is not batshit crazy. But. BUT. As sure as I am of these things, I do not reject the possibility that really these things are subjective, and I am grossly mistaken. That is a scary prospect to me because people who assign a great deal of importance to their own opinions either end up on Newsnight Review or in the comments section on Youtube, depending on their level of education. Either way, they’re still full of shit. The truth is, I would like to be one of these people with opinions, but without the nagging self doubt that makes me wonder if I’m just being an arrogant prick.

A lot of the people I look up to are guys who have strong personalities and aren’t afraid to voice their opinions publicly. Bill Hicks (whom I wrote about before) wanted to make a TV show called Let’s Hunt and Kill Billy Ray Cyrus. Stewart Lee destroyed Top Gear – Richard Hammond in particular – with an almost unparalleled articulate venom. And George Carlin said simply, ‘Fuck Lance Armstrong.’ None of these men were, or are, fence-sitters. They said these things on stage, and didn’t seem to suffer from the feelings of self doubt that plague me. By God, I want their level of confidence. I want to stand up like Bill and say, ‘Jesus, Iggy, what are you doing hawking insurance?’ Even Lemmy, my number one rock n roll idol, did an ad for Kronenberg beer. But that’s the world we live in. A world in which the Prince Of Darkness Ozzy Osbourne had a fucking reality TV show. The problem is, I can hear the arguments before anyone even brings them up. Who the fuck am I to question the rock n roll integrity of Iggy, Lemmy or Ozzy. Even their fucking names are all similarly rock n roll! Could doing some commercial shit really compromise the credentials of heavyweights like these guys? I don’t know. I know there’s nothing rock n roll about selling insurance, but I also know rock n roll is about doing whatever the fuck you want, so doing an ad and saying fuck you to anyone who doesn’t like it might be the most rock n roll thing of all! Jesus, what a fucking quandary.

But then, I suppose that’s why This Is Not A Review. I’m not here to tell you what I think about shit. Not really. Even if I do sometimes, it’s not the point of this thing. And it’s the reason I’m not as cool, or as prolific as dudes like Ned. A lot of the time I just haven’t got anything to say. Not anything I think is worth saying anyway. So if I haven’t been to a gig and I haven’t got something I think might make you laugh, I just end up posting a leggy picture of Blake Lively. Even if all it inspires in you is a stirring in your jockeys, that’s enough for me. I’ll leave the rest to guys like Will and Ned. Now excuse me, I have to go leave a Youtube comment on the new Twilight trailer.

Will was shooting pheasants when I told him the news, and did not seem at all disappointed. When I asked what I should post in place of Ian’s article he said, ‘I dunno, a photo of Blake Lively or something.’

Good call Will.

Image links to source.

]]> http://www.bandwidthsessions.com/a-note-from-the-editor/feed/ 0 http://www.bandwidthsessions.com/where-theres-a-will/ http://www.bandwidthsessions.com/where-theres-a-will/#comments Fri, 22 Jul 2011 08:28:36 +0000 Ian Shearer http://www.bandwidthsessions.com/?p=3621

I get a shit-ton of fan-email. (E-fan-Mail?) For some reason most of it comes from China and I can’t understand a goddamn word of it, but I just take it as evidence of my worldwide appeal, and that’s enough for me. I did, however, get a very nice email from an African princess who told me she wanted to marry me. Despite her incredible wealth and the endless opportunities this would have afforded me to make jokes referencing the film The African Queen whilst in the sack I had to decline, as my heart still lies with Caitlin Rose. Interestingly, though, I also get a lot of questions regarding Will. Initially I was shocked by the sexual frankness of the language being used, but I am now used to it, and the continuous requests for locks of his hair, most of which I oblige, usually by digging in the plug hole of the shower in his office en suite. Most commonly though, I just get questions from adoring fans about what he is really like. It seems he is a true enigma among Bandwidth fans, his air of mystery no doubt adding to his incredible success in the industry. Anyway, I finally decided to shed some light on the mysterious sexual figure that is Will McConnell. I approached him with the idea that I shadow him for a few days, in a bid to put together an accurate portrait of him for the fans.

‘Go to hell, ass-face,’ he said.

1. The first interesting fact about Will is that he imposes a watershed on himself, meaning that before 9pm he only ever uses PG-rated swears. This also means he does not make love before 9pm, choosing instead to kiss passionately for ten seconds and then have a cigarette with the duvet pulled up past the nipple line.

Luckily I pre-empted his refusal and I had a backup plan in place. That’s right Will, that guy you caught looking in your window who claimed to be a door-to-door pen salesman? That was me in disguise. And I want my pen back. That Muslim woman in full burka next to you in the bar who had to drink her whiskey by sticking the glass up inside her hood? Me too. And that wino who accosted you outside the kebab shop to ask for money for the train home? That was me, but technically I wasn’t in disguise and I really did need money for the train. Burkas are fucking expensive. I also hired Rebekah Brooks to hack Will’s phone, but I really only did that because she looks so much like an evil villain’s sidekick I couldn’t pass it up. And she was so desperate for a job she didn’t even object to my calling her ‘Frauline’. So here it is folks. The result of six and a half hours of dangerous undercover work to bring you the man, the myth, the legend…

2. Will sleeps on a pillow stuffed with the fine downy hair of a rare Guatemalan pig. It takes around 260 pigs to fill one pillow, as they really don’t have that much hair to begin with, and the pigs are slaughtered in the process as Will finds the idea of shaving a pig repulsive.

3. When the pillow loses its ‘smunchiness’ (Will’s word) he orders a new one and has the used pig hair woven into high quality neck ties which he wears, loosely tied, to all the important functions he attends. He makes a point of explaining the origin of his tie to everyone who will listen, which is how I came about this information.

4. Will was on the drug ‘Charlie Sheen’ before it became popular. He now only ever uses ‘Gary Busey’ and insists it is purely recreational.

5. Osama Bin Laden was actually killed by a team of mercenaries hired by Will, after he heard that Bin Laden had been ripping off the Bandwidth Sessions filming style. He let Obama take the credit as a personal favour, in appreciation of his Kanye comment.

6. Will takes a golden goblet to bars, to save himself the indignity of drinking from the same pint glasses as everyone else. He chooses, however, to drink Harp Ice, to ‘show his affinity for the common man’, though I suspect it is because he has terrible taste in beer.

7. Will used to keep a harem of concubines at home, but says he gave that up when he ‘finally matured’. He now pays to have them housed a few miles away.

8. Much like Steven Spielberg, Will no longer actually takes part in the production of his videos. He lets someone else do all the work and then just slaps his name on it, for the ratings.

9. Will does a fairly decent Tom Jones impression, but only ever does it when he is very drunk, or in the shower. I have never seen Will drunk.

10. Six years ago Will legally changed his name from Will McConnell to Will McConnell, ‘for a laugh’.

And there you have it folks. This is as much as anyone really knows for sure about Will, so you can stop writing to ask me about him. I will also no longer honour those requests for locks of his hair, after what I found in the drain of his shower the last time.

How long could this shit go on? Nights spent hunched over the bar, demanding they play Sinatra. Every following morning spent roaming the streets, looking for a crapper with growing urgency as the previous night’s Guinness completed its cycle of life. Perpetually hungover, slurping black coffee and mango smoothies by the gallon, I hadn’t written a goddamn word in days. Where the fuck was I anyway? Nothing of beauty for miles around. Just some shitty trees and a mucky looking river that didn’t appear to be running anywhere. The distant drone of traffic and a lone magpie screaming, ‘Caw!…’CAW!’ in a mockery of everything that birdsong stands for.

I came upon a small group of people but my hopes of salvation were dashed when I discovered that they were hipsters. I asked if they knew the way to the nearest bar, or even just a peaceful toilet, but they were all wearing oversized headphones and couldn’t hear what I was saying. Sensing that I was trying to communicate, one of them (who I took for a male, but wasn’t certain) took off his headphones. Somehow the music from his iPod started booming out around me, as if emitting from the heavens.

‘Jesus what is this?’ I screamed.

The magpie stopped cawing and said, simply, ‘Dubstep.’ Then it did a little dance. I turned to flee but the hipsters were waving menthol cigarettes in my face, asking for a light. I ran out into the road and only narrowly avoided being run over by performing a perfectly timed forward roll. The car skidded to a stop and my high school P.E. teacher stuck his head out the window.

‘Gymnastics is for queers Shearer! A rugby man would have stood his ground.’ Then he zoomed off, pursued by a beautiful woman on horseback. She was wearing a white tank top and I stood mesmerised by the rolling regularity of her shifting cleavage. As always, the initial thrum I felt was quickly squashed by an overwhelming sadness at the thought of all the cleavages in the world and how I would probably never have time to perv at them all. Like all beautiful dames she was gone as quickly as she arrived. So taken by the visage, though, I didn’t notice the giant fish launch itself out of the river until it was too late.

The beast socked me a good one and it took everything I had to stay on my feet. I kicked it where the bollocks ought to have been but either it was a lady fish or just even less well endowed than me, because as far as I could see, I didn’t hit anything. The big fucker guffawed right in my face and bitch-slapped me into the river, diving in after me. A badass Led Zeppelin riff started to play as I breathed in filthy water and realised I would have to fight the bugger on his own turf. I grappled with him for a while but I couldn’t get any purchase on his slimy scales and he got the upper hand, holding me under and waiting for me to stop thrashing. Just as Jimmy started to kick out some bitchin’ jams over his own goddamn rhythm track, I made my last ditch attempt and reached for his face. With the last of my strength I jammed my thumb in his watery eye and popped it out using the same motion I often use to free a testicle that has gotten caught in my boxers. This panicked him and I scrambled to the surface for air. Partially blind, he gave up the fight and tried to make a swim for it. Oh no you don’t, I thought, and dived right back in after him.

I got a hold of his gigantic tail and dragged him up onto the riverbank, flapping around like…well, a fish out of water. I ripped off my shoe and smashed his face in with it, which took a lot longer than it should have, as I had chosen to wear loafers that day. I haven’t worn the damn things in months, but I suppose that’s always the way. Once he was gone I gnawed off a section of flesh from his side, Bear Grylls style, and stuffed the bloody wad into my back pocket. When I finally made my way home I whipped up a nice beer batter and deep fried my trophy, which I ate with chips and mushy peas and washed down with a nice English ale. Then I lay down in bed with my bottle of Jack and rested my weary legs. Another narrow miss, but I made it through again.

‘The only two things in life
that make it worth living,
are guitars that tune good
and firm feeling women.’

- Waylon Jennings, Luckenbach Texas

From: Lucie Rae
To: Ian Shearer
Subject: Breakthrough Reviews

Hi Ian,

I am working on the Breakthrough mini-festival, which is part of this year’s Open House Festival. Would you be interested in doing a review of the Caitlin Rose gig for us this Wednesday?

Lucie Rae

From: Ian Shearer
To: Lucie Rae
Subject: Re: Breakthrough Reviews

Dear Lucie,

I normally would not agree to go on a date with someone I had never met before but judging purely by your name I am sure you are hot and awesome, so yes I would love to go the Caitlin Rose gig with you.

See you then,

Ian

From: Lucie Rae
To: Ian Shearer
Subject: Re: Breakthrough Reviews

Ian,

I’m afraid you have misunderstood. I was only suggesting you come to the show and write a review for us. I have no intention of going on a date with you.

Lucie Rae

From: Ian Shearer
To: Lucie Rae
Subject: Re: Breakthrough Reviews

Lucie,

I understand the need for discretion and I appreciate your professionalism. I will see you on Wednesday, strictly on ‘business’ terms, of course

Please find attached three poems I wrote with you in mind.

Love,

Ian

I spent all day Wednesday writing in a coffee shop. I had planned to have a nice pub meal before the gig but by the time 6pm rolled around I was terrified by the prospect of going on a date sober, so I chose to forego the food in favour of two pints of Guinness. I had a double Jack as an aperitif and, slightly buzzed from drinking on an empty stomach, I headed round to the Oh Yeah Music Centre, where only two weeks previous I had made a terrific arse of myself. Better try to behave myself tonight, I thought, and decided to drink beer instead of whiskey. I had arrived in time for Jonny Corndawg’s set and I was immediately stabbed by a powerful jealousy of the man’s awesome cowboy hat and badass beard. Not only do I not have either of those things but even if I somehow managed to get my hands on them, I would just look foolish. My jealously was quickly melted away by Jonny’s funny, laconic lyrics and his fantastic picking skills. As soon as he finished his set I bought his album and the poor man had barely set foot off the stage before I was shaking his hand, demanding he sign my CD. He was very gracious for such a talented son of a gun and I can’t think of enough nice things to say about him. A true gen-u-wine original.

Jonny was saved from my wittering by Will, who showed up with his camera and tried to duck past me without making eye contact.

‘Will!’ I yelled. I think I saw him mouth the word, ‘Shit…’ but he came over anyway, forcing the corners of his mouth up in a valiant attempt at a smile. I bothered him until I ran out of beer and when I got back from the bar he had disappeared into the crowd. The Lost Brothers took the stage. Don’t mention Simon and Garfunkel… Don’t mention Simon and Garfunkel… Actually I don’t really like Simon and Garfunkel and I did like The Lost Brothers. When they finished their set I bought their album too. I tried to make a joke about only buying it because I wanted the Caitlin Rose CD and felt obliged to buy theirs too, since they were standing right there. My drunkenness got in the way of my timing, though, and it came across that I was just swearing at them. After buying both CDs I broke my beer only rule, as always, and the next whiskey went down too fast. As always. My wallet was getting light so I decided to go get some cash before Caitlin started. I wandered around town looking like some poor bastard gripped by delirium and finally found a goddamn ATM but on my way back I passed The Northern Whig. Almost. I decided all my walking warranted a drink and ducked inside.

‘J&B Black please,’ I said. The barman looked puzzled, and rightly so, as no such drink exists. ‘Sorry, JD, black,’ I said.

‘Um, we have Single Barrel Jack, if that’s what you mean,’ he said.

‘No, Jesus, don’t mind me I’m just drunk. Johnny Walker. Black Label. That’s the one.’

‘No problem,’ he said.

‘Too many fucking J’s in the whiskey game,’ I muttered, and decided I better keep quiet. I would just be a refined gentleman, sitting alone at the bar sipping my scotch. Dames love men who drink scotch. Dames? Christ I’ve stood Lucie up! I slammed back the whiskey and hoofed it back round to the gig.

‘Is Lucie here?’ I asked the girl at the front desk.

‘Yeah she’s inside.’ I dashed in and stopped at the bar for a pint and some further enquiry.

‘Anyone seen Lucie?’ I asked.

‘Yeah, she just went past here…’

I stood at the back and scanned the crowd. In what was either sixth sense or dumb fucking luck, I got it right first time.

‘Are you Lucie?’ I asked, and I think I saw her mouth the word ‘Shit…’

‘Yeah,’ she said.

‘I’m Ian,’ I said.

‘Oh… nice to meet you.’

‘Yeah, you too,’ I said, and then I ran out of shit to say. I started swilling my beer like a dog that just ate a packet of peanuts…

[Editor's Note: Where do you get this shit?]

…and tried to pretend it was the fault of the plastic cup that I was dribbling beer down my shirt. Then I spotted Jonny Corndawg and suddenly decided I wanted a quote from him for this article. He made it in to the toilets before I was able to accost him and I decided it wouldn’t be prudent to follow. With hindsight I now see that waiting right outside the door and pouncing on him post-piss really wasn’t much better. He was mildly alarmed.

‘Hey man, is there any chance you could give me a quote about Caitlin? Not some corny bullshit but something cool, from someone who knows her personally,’ I said.

‘Sure man,’ he said, and he did me one better. He sat down with my pen and paper and wrote a short paragraph for me. That’s just how cool he is. And here is what he wrote:

‘Caitlin Rose is a real force to be reckoned with. I’ve known her since she was 15. Her craft wasn’t polished or quite honed in then but she was every bit as dangerous and fiery as she is today. She’s the real deal. I love her dearly and when I grow up I want to be like her.’

- Jonny Corndawg

There wasn’t a damn person in the room who would’ve disagreed with any of that once Caitlin started playing. I think everyone loved her dearly and really, how could they not? She’s a beautiful country singer who writes beautiful country songs and sings them beautifully. It’s enough to break a man’s heart, frankly. I think she’s going to be big, and I feel rather privileged to have seen her play in such an intimate setting.

When she finished playing I noticed she was signing albums and, managing to contain the urge to start screaming hysterically like a sixteen year old girl at an early Beatles concert, I got her to sign my copy. Then I managed to wrangle a VIP pass off Will and followed him round to the hotel where all the bands were staying for an after-gig pint. A pint I really did not need at that point, but it was free and I ain’t never turned down a free beer yet. I was sitting at a table with Will and Lucie when the spirit of Mickey took me.

‘I’m going to buy her a beer,’ I announced. I imagined it playing out like that scene in The Wrestler when Mickey buys Marisa Tomei a beer and they bond while discussing the finer nuances of Eighties heavy metal.

‘You should definitely do that,’ said Will. Looking back I probably should have been able to detect a note of Schadenfreude in his voice but I was too hammered.

‘I goddamn will, Will!’ I said. I bought two pints of Stella – making that a second beer I really did not need – and took them outside to where Caitlin was hanging out with her band. She was on the phone and, even in spite of my drunkenness and the spirit of Mickey, I suddenly got very shy. I explained to her band mates that I had bought her a beer but didn’t want to interrupt her call. They were encouraging, in the way an adult might be encouraging of a child who just did a really shit drawing. Eventually she hung up and I gave her the beer, babbling something about how much I enjoyed the show. She thanked me and had a drink, but they explained they weren’t staying and had to leave for the after-party at the Duke of York, so they passed the beer around and gave it back half full. Or half empty, depending on your outlook. I staggered back into the lobby waving the beers around in celebration.

‘Aren’t you pleased with yourself,’ said Will.

‘Yes actually, I am,’ I said. ‘Because that officially qualifies as the coolest thing I have ever done. Probably the coolest thing I ever will do.’

‘Great. You should write about it in your usual self-congratulating tone,’ he said.

‘I goddamn will, Will!’ I said.

And I did.

Check ‘em out:

Of course Will has already done a fucking Bandwidth Session with Caitlin. You can also check her out on MySpace or her official website.

The Lost Brothers MySpace page.

Jonny Corndawg’s MySpace page. And 2 free songs on Bandcamp!

The Open House Festival website.

I was sliding off my barstool when the drinks began to take hold. Then Betty Draper walked in. At first I saw only the blonde hair and mistook her for one of the promotional models who had been roaming the bar flogging Magners, but when I stole a sly glance at her arse I noticed she wasn’t wearing hotpants and I realised that although she may have been selling something, it wasn’t cider. Not that she wasn’t wearing anything on her bottom half, of course. She was wearing a lovely summer dress and looked as angelic as ever, which was lucky because right then an angel was just what I needed.

‘Thank God you’re here Betty. Is Don around? I really need to borrow some money.’ I had just spent the last of my money buying a drink for a petrified waitress who had just finished her shift, and paid for it almost entirely in 20p coins, which the barman appreciated even less than my sleazy tactics with his co-worker.

‘I’m not Betty,’ she said, sipping her Gimlet. ‘I’m January.’ I had no fucking idea how she got a Gimlet in The Kitchen Bar.

‘This is important,’ I said. ‘I’m in big trouble.’

‘Yes, you are. But I’m here to help.’

And then we were in the Oh Yeah Music Centre.

I was leaning across the bar with a plastic cup of Bushmills, asking the barmaid for one of the tiny beers I had seen a bunch of people drinking.

‘We don’t sell those,’ she said. ‘I don’t know where they got them.’ I grinned, pleased by the fact that I wasn’t the only person who had brought booze to the damn thing. I threw back the whiskey in one.

‘Another one of these then!’ I said.

‘You should slow down on the drinks,’ said Betty.

‘Betty! How rude of me. What are you having?’

‘I’m not Betty,’ she said again. ‘My name is January.’

‘It was a very good year…’ I crooned, doing my best Sinatra.

‘That doesn’t make any sense Ian.’

‘No I suppose not.’

We moved over to stand beside the piano and I necked the whiskey again, realising I had lost track of how many I had drank. Fuck it, I decided, and poured myself a measure of Jack from my hip flask.

‘Why are you drinking so much?’ she asked.

‘What are you talking about? You and Don drink like fish. Fish? Fishes?’

‘There is no me and Don, Ian. You are thinking of a character I played, and if you remember Betty leaves Don and he almost ruins his life with alcohol.

‘I thought that was all just a horrible dream,’ I said.

‘No this is a dream,’ she said. ‘That really happened… on TV anyway.’

‘So none of this is real?’

‘Actually a lot of it did happen.’

‘Did I really hassle that waitress?’

‘Yes.’

‘Fuck.’

‘Don’t curse Ian.’

‘Sorry Betty.’

‘January,’ she said.

And then there was a band playing.

‘Are you going to write about this on Friday?’ she asked.

‘I have to.’

‘Are they going to get a good write-up?’

‘Yeah, they’re pretty damn good.’

‘What are they called?’

‘I don’t know…’

‘You should find out before you try to write about them,’ she said.

‘I know. That’s Cara Cowan and Katie from Katie And The Carnival singing with them. I know that much.’

‘Lucky guy huh?’

‘Well he’s a rockstar, it’s to be expected. He even looks like Kurt Cobain.’

‘He is quite sexy.’

‘You better hope Don doesn’t hear you talking like that.’

‘Betty isn’t with Don any more. She’s with Henry.’

‘I thought that was all just a horrible dream too.’

‘Concentrate Ian,’ she said. ‘You have to write about this.’

‘It’s okay, I’ll just pull something out of my ass at the last minute and it will be awesome.’

‘That won’t work.’

‘It always works for Don.’

‘You’re not Don, Ian.’ Of course I knew that, but hearing her say it hurt like hell.

‘Yeah, you’re right,’ I said, and had a drink straight from the flask.

‘You can’t expect real life to be like Mad Men,’ she said.

‘That’s easy for you to say, you’re just like Betty.’

‘Well I am Betty.’

‘But I thought you said…’

‘Never mind Ian. If you stop drinking now I’ll go home with you tonight and maybe you’ll be able to remember enough to write something for Friday.’

‘Betty I’m shocked!’

‘January.’

‘I could never do that to Don!’

‘Oh, fuck it!’ she said, and then she left. My flask was empty.

The rest of what I know about that night I learned through detective work when I woke up. My phone told me I called a taxi at 10.45pm – which means I had managed to get myself into that state in about three and a half hours – and the carnage in my kitchen told me I made a fish finger sandwich when I got home. The rest of it might as well have happened during the dark ages. And anyone who was in the Oh Yeah Music Centre last Saturday for the Katie And The Carnival single launch, and happened to notice the drunk guy, knows that more of this is true than you would first think.

You can listen to the single here: Went To The Fair. It’s really good.

Bonus tip: Check out Betty…

[Editor's Note: January.]

…in X-Men First Class. It is, well, first class.

So there I was in my local coffee shop, trying to psyche myself up to ask one of the baristas if she would like to go to the And You Will Know Us By The Trail Of The Dead (only thing more annoying than having to type that name is having to say it) gig with me. Problem was, I wasn’t sure if Will had set up a date for me or not. Things haven’t been the same between us since I pawned his DV cam to buy myself a ticket to see Rob Zombie. I have since learned that DV cams are worth quite a bit more than the £33 I got for it and I had to sell my body to medical science – after trying unsuccessfully to sell it on the streets – to get the bloody thing back. I’m glad I did though. Frankly I had grown tired of checking Cara Cowan’s MySpace page every day and finding no updates, so the new In Stores Now featuring The Salt Flats provided some much needed new… material.

[Editor's Note: It is truly amazing what Ian can get away with saying about people he could so easily bump in to, safe in the knowledge that no one reads this shit.]

Anyway I sent Will a text asking if he had arranged a date. ‘Yeah’ was all his reply said. Downhearted, I gave the barista a shy smile and went back to reading Dita Von Teese’s book on fetish photography.

I decided not to get drunk at the gig since I had work the next day. And I have grown weary of the terrible, undefined shame that comes with every hangover. So I only had a couple of warm up whiskies before I headed out. I got lucky with the buses though, and ended up in Belfast way too early, so I went to The Kitchen for a pint. There was a smoking hot dame sitting at the bar by herself, so I did what Don Draper would do and positioned myself a few seats to the left so I could look at her cleavage reflected in the mirror behind the bar. A little while later her friends showed up and one of the silly bints ordered herself the wrong drink – unable to remember whether she liked sweet or dry Martini with her lemonade. The barman, knowing I am a filthy wino, gave me the drink she turned down for free, but I had to drain it in one because it was fucking repugnant. I finished off my pint and headed for Katy’s.

‘Jack Daniel’s, no ice please,’ I said to the purple haired barmaid. And she gave me a Jack Daniels with white lemonade. And ice. This has happened before – the loud bar environment coupled with my tendency to mumble sometimes makes ‘Jack Daniels, no ice’ sound like ‘Jack Daniels and white.’ I pine for a bar where I can order a ‘JD, neat’ but the only bar I have ever been able to do that in is The Northern Whig, and since having a whole fleet of incredibly professional (and natty, I must say) bartenders doesn’t make up for having a clientèle made up exclusively of wankers, I’ll stick to the places that play AC/DC and have barmaids with purple hair. Anyway, that made two weak ass white lemonade mixers in one night, neither of which I wanted, so I decided to stick to beer for the rest of the night to save any more confusion.

I had completely forgotten about the whole date thing until I noticed someone standing close to my table, trying to make eye contact with me. When I looked up I was gripped by a fierce testicular nausea, when I realised I couldn’t figure determine if it was a dame that looked like a ten year old boy or a dude that looked like a lesbian. Play it cool, I thought.
‘Ian?’ it said.
‘Yeah…’
‘Oh thank God,’ it said, breathing a sigh of relief. ‘I would have been so embarrassed if you were the wrong person.’
I laughed nervously. The name! The name will give it away!
‘What’s your name?’
‘Oh sorry, I’m Sam.’ Damn it! Think quick…
‘Have a seat. What would you like to drink?’
‘Oh, I’ll have a Corona, thanks.’
Ha! Settled. Definitely a dame. Which was lucky because I was kinda digging the whole short hair look.

At the bar I immediately broke my beer only rule, decided work could go fuck itself and slammed back a whiskey to put some fire in my belly and hopefully take the sting out of the small talk.
‘So what do you do?’ I asked.
‘I’m in my final year of uni.’
‘Oh, what are you studying?’
‘I do Gender Studies.’
‘No shit,’ I said, thinking what an incredibly convenient piece of anecdotal trivia I could use to flesh out my article. And so it went, until it was time to go in to The Limelight.

I was gripped by blind panic for a full thirty seconds when, at the door, I claimed I should be on the list and the girl couldn’t find my name. This is another problem I face in life – more often even than the Jack and white one – caused by my inability to say my own second name. This problem sometimes brings me to add clues, such as ‘Shearer, like the footballer,’ which makes me sound like a wanker, or ‘Shearer, like a sheep shearer,’ which makes me sound like a fucking lunatic. Finally, and without the need for clues, she found my name and let us in. My nervous hunch immediately transformed into a smug swagger, as if I had just been allowed into the VIP suite at a Kid Rock gig accompanied by three strippers. The support act were already on but the place was still relatively empty, so we got a good table in a nice dark corner.
‘This is a good spot!’ I shouted.
‘Yeah, wanna have sex?’
‘WHAT!?’ I screamed.
Yelling in my ear, ‘Do you want a Becks?’
‘Oh…’ I said, incredibly disappointed. ‘Yeah, thanks.’

I have not been able to find out who the support act were, and I really wanted to because they were fucking excellent. I even went to askjeeves.com and tried asking ‘Who were the support at at the And You Will Know Us By The Trail Of The Dead gig in Belfast?’ but it won’t let you ask a question that long. Fucking stupid band name. Anyway, in a world full of indie pricks who think ‘jun jun jun jun’ is a riff it was awesome to see a band that still knows how to play a proper goddamn guitar lick. I’d love to tell you who these guys were so you could look out for them, but if you know of a search engine more powerful than Ask Jeeves I’d like to bloody hear it! During the gig some dude came up and asked if he could take a picture of us for some godforsaken magazine.
‘Absolutely not!’ I yelled, and he went away. The confrontation put me on edge though, so I bought four beers and tried giving him the stink eye every time he lit up the room with his gigantic goddamn flash, but I don’t think he noticed.

And You Will Know Us By The Trail Of The Dead play fucking loud. In fact this might be the only time when even my wildly exaggerated account of events can’t quite convey the true magnitude of reality. They were so loud my beer – which was on a table near the back – was rippling like there was a fucking Tyrannosaurus disco next door.

[Editor's Note: Worst simile ever.]

It was so loud I was genuinely concerned about the possibility of shitting myself. In short, it was balls out magnificent. I didn’t know much about them before the show and I admit, I was expecting something quite generic. What I got was one of the most original sounds I have ever heard – a sort of alternative, industrial, metallised-punk played like they were road testing Motorhead’s amp stack. I gave myself over to it and, despite the sensation that the throbbing bass was going to throw my heartbeat out of rhythm, I loved every second. Sam, it seemed, did not.
‘Got something in my shoe,’ she said, getting up.
‘WHAT!?’ I screamed.
‘Going to the loo,’ she yelled back, and I checked out her ass as she left. I toasted the sight with a swig of beer and went back to headbanging.

She was gone a long time, and I noted that even tomboy chicks take fucking ages in the can. When she came back she was talking to some prick. They hugged briefly and he shot me a shit eating grin before pissing off. When Sam sat down her face was all screwed up which, being an expert in female psychology, I knew meant she wasn’t having a good time.
‘Are you okay?’ I asked.
‘Yeah, it’s just the taste of cum is making me feel sick.’
‘WHAT!?’
Yelling in my ear, ‘The bass drum, it’s making me feel sick.’
‘Oh… Yeah, me too. It’s fucking awesome!’ And that’s all we said to each other until the gig was over and we were outside.

I was drunker than I first realised and all I could hear was a high pitched whirring.
‘Listen!’ I screamed, inches from her face, ‘This was far too loud for a first date. How about we just get a coffee some time?’ I couldn’t make out what she said, but she was nodding so I took it an an affirmative. ‘Bring it in,’ I said, holding my arms out for a reassuring hug. And there, with Sam’s considerable package nestling lovingly with my own, I realised I had made a terrible mistake.

And You Will Know Us By The Trail Of The Dead official site and MySpace page.

*Update: My sources tell me that the support band was Desert Hearts. Check ‘em out, they are the balls.

I had been sent to The Black Box to cover a blues gig, and I was late because I had made a warm-up stop at my regular. This made absolutely no fucking difference, of course, and I was the first person to show up, as always seems to happen when I go to The Black Box. I am like Peggy Olsen in a room full of Don Drapers…

[Editor's Note: What?]

…mental note: look up Mad Men themed gangbang porn.

‘Ten pounds please,’ said the nice lady at the door.
‘Ten quid? Jesus, who’s playing, the ghost of Robert Johnson?’
‘Um, it’s in aid of Friends Of the Cancer Centre,’ she said. Of course it is. God damn it. I humbly paid the ten, then bought some raffle tickets, to prove I wasn’t a cheap swine. Then, naturally, I hit the bar. With a double in my hand I stood at the back of the room, swarthed in a burka-like shadow, not wanting to take up a whole table to myself. After half an hour only one other person had shown up and I decided I wouldn’t be causing a major inconvenience by sitting down. So I got another drink and took a table. The drink had given me the munchies, so I started idly grazing on the crisps that had been laid out on the tables. As people finally started to trickle in I was eyeing the table next to me, which had crisps AND roasted peanuts. Why didn’t I sit at that table, I thought. Can’t move now, that would be abusing the hospitality. So I just got another drink and finished all the crisps on my table. Finally the place started to fill up. Unfortunately, my stomach didn’t, and my neighbouring snacks were calling out to me. Have to play this cool. I took a pull of beer, steeled myself and, standing up slowly, I sidled over to the next table and as nonchalantly as I could, I swiped the plate of peanuts.

‘Excuse me,’ said a female voice from behind.
Bugger it all, they’re onto me, I thought, turning around. She was the most delicate specimen of female beauty I have ever encountered. Vaguely gothic style, in a short skirt and fishnets, with surprisingly great tits for such a skinny broad.
‘Yes?’ I said, cradling my nuts.
‘Are you Ian?’
‘Yeah…’
‘I’m Starlet. Your, uh, “date”,’ throwing quotation marks around the word date.
‘No fucking way,’ I said, my defences entirely dropped in a moment of shock. I didn’t even realise Will had set me up this time.
‘Way,’ she said.
I just stood gawking for a second. Then, offering the plate, ‘Peanut?’

She declined the nut but took me up on a drink. A gin and tonic, to be precise, which I found slightly arousing, for reasons I still haven’t ascertained.
‘Is your name really Starlet?’ I asked.
‘Yep. Why?’
‘It’s an unusual name, made all the more unlikely by its absolute pertinence.’
‘You’re drunk,’ she said, smiling.
‘No ma’am, merely struck giddy by your beauty,’ I said, waving the beer bottle in her face like a lecherous old fart having a football argument. I caught myself and put the bottle down. ‘Okay, I’m a little bit drunk. You should count yourself lucky though. When I’m sober I’m just as ugly and twice as boring.’
‘Is that an unsubtle way of trying to get me to tell you you’re not ugly?’ she said.
‘Yes.’
‘Bad call.’ Damn, I like this dame. I upended my drink, and she did the same.

I did my best at making idle chit chat, and tried to keep a handle on my drunkenness. Then Jon Bon Jovi went and fucked that up for me. All of a sudden he appeared on a giant screen in the corner of the room and started singing Always – the greatest song of all time – live.
‘This is the greatest song of all time!’ I said, a bit too loud, and started half-assedly playing air guitar.
‘Not really my thing,’ she said, obviously enjoying my sheer arsiness.
‘Oh really? And what sort of music do you like?’
‘Well I’m really into Lamb Of God at the minute.’ Ladies and gentlemen, please hold the fucking show.
‘Are you real or have I fallen down and hit my head and imagined I just met a heavy metal angel?’ She laughed at me, and somehow it was okay. ‘Lamb Of God are fucking awesome!’ I said, ‘But this is still the best song of all time… Allllllwaaaaaayyyyys.’ I knocked back the whiskey in one, very pleased with myself.

Then the song was over, and the band came on. A band called 3-Play, which is a name I just noticed is quite a funny reference to quality toilet paper. They are three older dudes who play bitchin’ blues rock. I can’t remember any of the songs they played, only that after every one I clapped a bit too loud to be appropriate in such a small crowd, and their manly brand of lonesomeness got to me, as the blues often does. Then it hit me, cold and hard, like Vinnie Jones with the flu. Friends Of the Cancer Centre… pale, skinny dame… no interest in bar snacks. My God, she’s a patient! Of course I would go and fall in love with a chick who was on her way out, it’s practically the story of my life.

[Editor's Note: Ian has never been in love with a woman who passed away.]

I waited for the band to take a break before I made my move, then I hit another whiskey. Somewhere, deep in my soul, Always was still playing.
‘Listen, Starlet, let’s just get married.’
‘Um, what?’
‘Look it’s obvious you don’t have long left. Let me make an honest woman out of you. You can live out your final days with someone to cook breakfast for.’
She was laughing, ‘What are you talking about?’
‘The cancer. Where is it? God, tell me it’s not the tits,’ I said, getting a little emotional.
‘I don’t have cancer,’ she said.
‘Really?’
‘Really.’
‘But you’re so… gaunt.’
‘Oh thanks!’
‘No, in a good way,’ I said. ‘Like I’d have be gentle in case I shattered your pelvis during lovemaking.’
‘Oh my God, you’re nuts!’ she said, but luckily she was still laughing. The mention of nuts made me hungry again, but I had long ago eaten them all, so I just had a drink of beer and wallowed in the blues. When the band went back on I was sure I could identify with every word, but I suppose that’s always the way with good music.

After the gig I apologised for being a drunken fool.
‘Don’t worry, I knew what to expect,’ she said.
‘Okay, well, all the best,’ I said, and she started to walk away. I watched her only-just-there ass as it disappeared into the night. ‘Starlet!’ I called after her, and she turned around. ‘A cheeseburger wouldn’t kill you, ya know.’
‘Oh I love cheeseburgers,’ she said.
Me gusta!
And then she was gone. I went home, poured another big drink and started listening to Lamb Of God, but I got emotional during ‘Blacken The Cursed Sun’, and I had to turn it off.

Listen up motherfuckers. This is some real shit. I’m about to spit some truth all up in your grill. So much so that there won’t be any room left for burgers or sausages and you will go hungry.

[Editor's Note: Many other lame gangster rap references about the truth herein have been removed. Ian has been watching The Wire and he is very impressionable.]

So here’s the deal. I just finished work and I made a promise to myself that I would spend tonight supping delicious Guinness in The Kitchen Bar by my lonesome self. So I have the time it takes me to drink this coffee to write this thing so I can get home for a feed and a quick John Wayne sink scrub before I head out. For this reason, this article will contain no fabrication or embellishment.* Just this once.

So a few weeks ago I was browsing the Belfast Film Festival website when I came across a screening of Casablanca. In motherfucking Harlem Cafe. Period dress encouraged. My mind was immediately flooded by images of me sauntering around Harlem Cafe in a white dinner jacket, sipping a champagne cocktail and coldly ignoring the inevitable advances of the beautiful waitresses in Forties dress. I ordered a ticket, poured a large whiskey and combed enough Brylcreem into my hair to wallpaper the Titanic Quarter paint house. Realising my limp locks simply don’t have the body to pull off Bogey’s sophisticated swept back style, I settled for the common ‘Adolf’ and sat down to get drunk. I soon fell into a slumber peppered with dreams of romantic drives through Paris with a beautiful woman, with just enough gun play to keep the gents happy. My mum woke me up, asking me what time I was starting work in the morning. I sat bolt upright, my divine dream shattered.
‘Nine!’ I screamed, and lay back down.
‘If you’re going to sleep on the sofa at least close your robe,’ she said before she left. I took a slug of Jack and settled back down, hoping to fall into the same dream. But instead I dreamt that a snake bit me in the face and I had to choke it to death. When I woke up my penis was aching, my feet were freezing, and I had half an hour to get my shit together and get to work.

CUT TO:
Casablanca night. I had told one of my mates about the screening and he had bought a ticket, but just a couple of hours before it started he cancelled via text. I phoned him in tears, asking how he could be so cold, and before he hung up I swore I heard another girl’s voice in the background. I had a couple of serious drinks while I put on my suit, and then I took the bus in to town. Good thing I left early, too – I got the best seat in the house – right next to the bar, with a perfect view of the screen. Never mind that I was alone, pretty soon the place would fill up with women in evening dresses, with their hair all done up, and that would give me something to look at until the movie started. That is, the best goddamn movie of all time.

Casablanca really is my favourite movie. Or it became my favourite after someone told me the video for The Outsider by A Perfect Circle technically doesn’t qualify as a movie. Humphrey Bogart is a true hero of mine, and it causes me a great deal of grief to know that even at my peak of awesomeness**, I wasn’t even half as awesome as Bogey. I still made an effort though. I had nice shoes on, and a black tie, and even though I was drinking for a good hour before the thing even started, I made a conscious effort to take it easy, lest I make a fool of myself. People trickled in, took their seats and ordered dinner, which looked and smelled fabulous. The only reason I didn’t eat was because I ate right before I left the house. And I’m a degenerate fucking alcoholic, who doesn’t like food getting in the way of the liquor sloshing down my throat. Anyway the place was just about full when seemingly out of nowhere, this dame approached me. I quickly stopped picking my nose and pretended I was just scratching it.
‘Hi,’ I said, with what I now know was an embarrassing level of optimism.
‘Excuse me sir, will anyone be joining you tonight.’ In my head I heard Bogey: ‘You tell me dollface. How about it?’
It was unusual that she called me sir, but for some reason I still didn’t peg her for a member of staff. From my mouth I heard, ‘Um, no…’
‘Can I take this seat then?’ she asked, motioning to the empty chair sitting across from me.
‘Uh, yeah, no, I mean no there’s no one sitting there. You can take it.’ And only then did I fully understand what exactly was happening. There was obviously a shortage of chairs, but the staff had to wait a reasonable amount of time before asking for mine, to determine that it wasn’t going to be used. In other words, they thought I was on a date and had been stood up. I knew she thought this, and she knew I knew she thought this, which only made it more awkward. Dressed to the nines and drowning my sorrows in whiskey, I couldn’t look more pathetic if I had brought flowers. I made eye contact with the barman and lifted my empty glass. He understood the gesture…

If there was ever a more perfect movie. So I sat and watched Casablanca and got a bit drunk and listened to William Crawley give a surprisingly good talk on the film, and I actually had a bloody good time. Even despite the nagging feeling that everyone felt a bit sorry for me. I don’t mind hanging out alone – prefer it in fact – but only when it’s clear it’s my choice to be alone. The collective pity of those around me just defeats the whole purpose. I won’t tell you how awesome Casablanca is though. You already know it’s awesome, and if you don’t think so, you’re a silly twat. What I will do is give another shout out to Harlem Cafe for:

A. Hosting the night.
B. Serving awesome food.
C. Staff who are nice to me even when I regularly forego said awesome food for an espresso, or in this case, whiskey.
D. Playing Frank fucking Sinatra, the Humphrey Bogart of music.

And now my coffee is all gone, I’m going to wrap this up and go drink at the bar by myself. Who knows – maybe of all the gin joints in all the world, Sasha Grey will walk into mine… Now that would be a fucking movie. Literally.

* Not a guarantee.

** At a childhood Butlins holiday I booted a football with pre-metrosexual-celebrity-David-Beckam-like accuracy through the ‘top prize’ hole and won one of those giant teddy bears.

One for the golfers: An eagle with a bogey.  Huh? Huh?

In February I went to see Mogwai play Mandela Hall. They played on a Sunday night. Two days before was The Hold Steady, which, if you read the review, you know involved me getting shit hammered. I went to work with an epic hangover and then on Saturday night I went to a house party. I got home about 4am, and went to work again on Sunday with the cumulative effects of two nights too much whiskey and not enough sleep. After my shift, I just wanted to go to bed. I sat down in my office chair with a whiskey and seriously considered skipping the gig. Going out would mean spending what was left of my money on beer and taxi fare and after two consecutive nights of just that, a third seemed a bit much. Sitting there I got very comfortable, and when one is comfortable, comfort seems very important. I thought maybe a lifetime of comfort wouldn’t be so bad, and I started to daydream…

I could get a proper job. It might not inspire me creatively but it would offer benefits like security and a regular income and a routine that, once I succumbed to it, would remove the pesky question, ‘What should I do today?’ because the answer would always be the same. Wake up too early, put on a shirt and tie and go to work. Hell, that’s what Don Draper does every day. Of course I wouldn’t be as wealthy as Don so my suits wouldn’t be as nice. And I’m not as handsome as Don so I wouldn’t get a woman as beautiful as Betty. But I could have some version of it, and damn if that wouldn’t be nice. I poured another one, a little more generous this time, and it really started to look like I would just skip the gig. I recalled a scene in Mad Men when Betty angrily confronted Don and, seeing that he was somewhat distraught, halted her anger long enough to tell him to sit down while she poured him a drink. I could have a woman to pour my drinks! Even if she wasn’t quite up to Betty’s Grace Kelly-esque magnificence, it would still be pretty cool. I put my feet up, enjoying my little fantasy. If I had a full time job and a wife, I’d need a house. My own house with my own rules. Maybe even my own crapper! A luxury I have longed for for years now. I’d have a second one, of course, since the woman would probably want kids. That would be okay. They tell me you never really appreciate what it’s like to have kids until you actually have them, so maybe I would like them, even if right now I hate the little snot nosed bastards. If I had a wife and kids and a job to go to on Monday morning, a Sunday night gig would be out of the question. I wouldn’t be having this dilemma. Life would be easy – like this – sitting in my chair with my socks off, sipping a drink. Man, that would be lovely. Who wants to be jostled by a bunch of students on a Sunday night anyway? I poured another drink and went to my desk with an aim to tear up the ticket and settle in for the night. Then I noticed how much I had paid for it. £25! I can’t afford to throw money like that away, I have a wife and kids to feed! I shotgunned the whiskey, pulled on my boots and hopped on the next bus into town.

For the first time in my many visits to Mandela Hall, there was no queue outside. I put it down to my wasting time on indecision, but decided I still had time for a drink in The Parlour. It’s dark and they serve Maker’s and when it’s not hiving with freshers I actually kinda like it in there. On the quiet nights it has the sort of atmosphere a settled down family man like me can appreciate. One drink turned into three, and by the time I actually went over to the Union, the roadies had the stage set. I thought about trying to get my hands on a pair of the earplugs everyone seemed to be wearing. Nah, it couldn’t be that loud, I thought. Ten minutes later Mogwai came on and after a very polite ‘Hello’ they melted my face with the most elegantly heavy music I have ever heard.

Standing at the very back, I wondered who the hell could be bumping me from behind. I turned, and found it was just the wall I was leaning against pulsing like a fucking cheap sub woofer in some spide’s electric blue Corsa. I found myself glad I hadn’t eaten a big meal, as I was sure the bassist came dangerously close to the infamous brown note on several occasions. Not that the volume was the only impressive thing. Go to the Limelight on a Saturday night and stand too close to the speakers and you won’t hear the sermon the next day in church. The volume was just unusual. Unusual for the level of musicianship on display. Here was music – real, proper music – not a three chord riff over a four-four beat, played at bone liquefying levels. Like an orchestra with a Marshall stack. Like a Motorhead version of a Pink Floyd song. To put it simply, and in Eighties parlance, it was mega.

The next day I went to a coffee shop to write a This Is Not A Review about the gig. I had forgone the shirt and tie for a t-shirt and a leather jacket that has been dropped on too many bar floors, deciding that being forgiven for terrible dress sense is one of the (very few) perks of being a writer. As I sat pondering how to start the article I looked around at all the old folks drinking tea and eating scones and the frazzled mums with their large latte caffeine fixes. One such lady lifted a little bugger out of his pram and very matter-of-factly sniffed his arse. Then she just nodded solemnly at her husband, sitting across from her. As they packed their things and headed for the nearest changing facility I had one of the epiphanies I love to tell you about. I hope I die long before I ever find myself whiffing some toddler’s arse in public, like that’s not FUCKING DISGUSTING. And I hope that before I do croak it, I see a few more gigs even half as good as the Mogwai one. The only reason I didn’t write about it sooner is that I was mildly embarrassed that I had only recently discovered them. I was sure all you switched on, tuned in Bandwidth followers would already be well aware how ‘mega’ they are. If you didn’t, now you do. And as for me, I’ll just keep pouring my own drinks and being broke all the time as long as I can still rock the fuck out on a Sunday night. Because as Mogwai taught me, hardcore will never die, but I will…

Thanks to Thingsthatlooklikepenises.com for the images

Here is a little known fact about me: I am something of an expert on film. When I was eighteen I undertook a long and arduous pilgrimage to South Belfast, where I studied under the tutelage of the Arts and Humanities professors in Queen’s University. Most of my studies were done under the influence of one too many lunch time pints, which made it hard because the Queen’s Film Theatre seats are really comfy and some of the films are boring as shit, so just staying awake often required serious effort. I soldiered through though, after discovering that if I filled my bladder just so, I would wake up about five minutes before the end of the film. If I was then asked to comment, I would just say that the ending was poignant. This tactic backfired the first time I tried it because I had only ever seen the word poignant in print and didn’t realise it isn’t pronounced ‘po-ig-nant’. I got out of that one by feigning an epileptic seizure and simply never going back to that class. How much could there really be to Film Sound anyway?

Anyway it has come to my attention that some people do not believe that the study and analysis of film is an exact science [Editor's Note: It's not.] and so by means of persuasion I have decided to reveal the process for all you philistines out there by analysing the last film I saw. That film is Hall Pass, in cinemas now, and here is my analysis…

One Big Sex Joke: How The Farrelly Brothers Perpetuate Gender and Racial Stereotypes Surrounding the Modern American Male.

You might think that short, snappy titles – like the ones you have come to expect of my articles – would be best, but as a general rule, academics like their titles unnecessarily wordy.

Next, start with a quote from a famous person which vaguely relates to your subject.

Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. once said ‘white middle class American men are just a bunch of little bitches.’ (1)

Always reference quotations in full at the end of your essay, numbered for ease of use.

This quote is particularly poignant [there's that word - get it in early!] when considering the works of the openly political film makers The Farrelly Brothers. It should come as no surprise where their sympathies lie, considering that they describe themselves as ‘brothers’. Are they even black? I don’t know, I’ve never seen them. But even if I had I couldn’t tell, because I am colour blind. [This is true - it makes shopping for underwear particularly tricky.] Unfortunately the same cannot be said of these so-called ‘brothers’ who, with their latest film, have jumped on the ‘white middle aged men are flabby and stupid’ bandwagon. This after their film Stuck On You, in which the image of conjoined twins is used to imply that all white men are the same, and their smash hit film Dumb And Dumber, the title of which says it all. Hall Pass follows the same trend, once again taking two white men as its main characters. In fact the only two black men in the film [The only two I noticed, anyway.] are the confident, jive talking member of the group, and a heavily muscled man with a massive penis. To reinforce the racial stereotype we all familiar with, the penis in question is framed right next to Owen Wilson’s face. On the surface, this creates a direct reference point for the viewer who is able to see clearly that the penis is in fact the same size as Wilson’s entire head. The subtext [Subtext is gold!] of the shot, though, is much more subtle and much, much more nefarious. The framing of the penis on the left of the screen with Wilson’s head just to its right is a visual metaphor for the common insult ‘dickhead’. The implication being, of course, is that all white men are dickheads. The Farrellys do not confine themselves to racial prejudices though. The emasculation of the American male by his female counterpoint is, if anything, an even more prominent theme in the film.

The film opens with Wilson flicking through a photo album with his children. After establishing via photograph that he has been physically wasting away over the years, we are introduced to his wife, played by Jenna Fischer. Fischer, as we all know, is the most beautiful woman in the world. But rather than using this fact to suggest Wilson’s manly prowess in having married her, he is portrayed as unappreciative of her beauty, implying idiocy, and subservient to her demands that he help out with the children. This suggests that far from having ‘bagged’ a ‘total hottie’, he has been chosen by a dominant female to provide for her financially, after she has made use of his seed. The similarities here to black widow spiders should be self evident.

Even outside the home the men in the film are depicted as being ‘under the spell’ of beautiful women. This is summed up quite succinctly in a scene in a coffee shop in which our two protagonists are turned into bumbling brutes by blonde barista booty. [Alliteration is generally frowned upon in academic writing. I, however, think it is the balls.] The suggestion is that this behaviour stems from weakness of character, which scientific studies have proved is bullshit. (2) [Profanity is also to be avoided, unless you can do it with class, like me.] This sort of femi-Nazi man bashing is typical of the men who brought us There’s Something About Mary. I’ll tell you something about Mary: (deleted for reasons of libel).

I say its time Hollywood started allowing men to appreciate the female form by openly gawping at chicks asses, without fear of ridicule. What next – no friendly groping in the work place? It is political correctness gone mad, and it has no place in sex comedies. The Farrelly Brothers, as fore runners of the genre, have a moral obligation to start portraying white middle class men in a more positive light. The men in their films drink ‘iced coffee, two Splendas’. This only a few decades after the John Ford films in which John Wayne drank his coffee still boiling, fresh from the campfire, so as to burn the top layer of skin off the back of his throat, allowing for maximum caffeine absorption. I guess Hollywood just can’t cope with that level of man any more. The type of man who didn’t ‘work on his tan’ but simply allowed himself to naturally burn in the key areas. The two main characters in Hall Pass don’t simply have white skin, but pallid, unhealthy looking skin. Success, it seems, is once again linked to skin hue as not one, not two, but three! [Throw in some bad punctuation now and again, to keep the reader wary.] heavily tanned men are depicted as wealthy, studly, and caring, respectively. For more on the Farrellys fascination with skin colour, go back to the start of this essay and read it all over again.

Finally, draw some conclusions by repeating everything you just said, but more concisely and without the word padding of the body text.

In summation, The Farrelly Brothers hate men. Not just any men, though. White men. They have fashioned an entire career out of the emasculation of the white American male and their latest offering ‘Hall Pass’ continues in the same vein. It would seem that feminism and civil rights finally won. But who could have predicted that their victory would have been secured by the subtle and genius application of fart jokes?

Footnotes:

1. Charity website supporting the rights of white supremacist prisoners to racial segregation when behind bars.

2. University of Ulster Sports Medicine study 2003. Results showed that nervous behaviour in men when confronted by a sexy ass woman is actually the result of amazing mental concentration, thought to be caused by the suppression of an erection.

I hope this exercise has been enlightening for you and you now see that film analysis, though complex, actually works to enhance one’s enjoyment of a film, as well as providing interesting talking points for late night drunken debates. Here’s a good one: would you rather spend one night with Jenna Fischer, or be Superman?

Answer: Be Superman. Spending a night with Jenna Fischer is an entirely unreasonable wish.

Photo taken at the gig.  Filter added for extra ‘Sheen’.

So this week my presence was actually requested at an event. Some dude from a company called Amazing Media emailed Will to let him know about a super cool party at the Black Box, and asked for Will’s best writer to be on review duty. Steven Rainey was busy though, so Will called me. At this point I had holed myself up with three days supply of beer and I was studying the teachings of the prophet Charlie Sheen. As you can imagine, I wasn’t pleased to be interrupted.

‘How’re you doing Ian?’ asked Will.

‘Winning,’ I said.

‘Ah, great. Got an assignment for you.’

‘Not interested.’

‘What? How come?’

‘I’m cured man.’

‘What do you mean cured?’

‘I closed my eyes and in a nanosecond I cured myself.’

‘Okay, that’s cool,’ he said. ‘But I’ve managed to get you on the list for a pretty exclusive gig. Want to do a This Is Not A Review for it?’

‘On the list huh?’

‘Yep.’

‘So if I showed up with two smokin’ hot goddesses I’d just get right in?’

‘Um, yeah I guess so.’

‘I’m in. But there’s one thing you should know.’

‘What?’

‘I’ve got magic. I’ve got poetry at my fingertips,’ I said.

‘Oh I get it, you’re just regurgitating Charlie Sheen quotes at me.’

‘Yeah…’

‘Great. Black Box at 8pm tonight dude. Have fun.’

‘Wait a second, just a quick question.’

‘What?’

‘What is a seven gram rock and where can I get one? I’d like to bang it.’

He hung up and I made it to the gig on time, but I couldn’t find any goddesses to go with me. There were a couple of bouncers on the door, but I had a swagger in my walk because I had one up on them. I was on the goddamn list.

‘Hey man, I’m on the list. Ian Shearer.’

‘Can’t come in without ID,’ he said.

‘Can’t is the cancer of happen.’

‘What?’ he said, as three hipster fucks dandered past the other bouncer flashing student cards.

‘Never mind,’ I said, and showed him my driver’s license. He took a good goddamn look at it and let me in without checking any list. Inside the door they put a wrist band on me and gave me a free handbag. Red flag number one.

‘Um, thanks,’ I said, and headed for the bar.

I suppose I should explain what this event was before I go any further. It was one of several live music events around the UK hosted by Topman CTRL. If you have any idea what the fuck that means, you’re one up on me. The thing was supposed to be hosted by a dude called Huw Stephens from Radio 1, who I’ve never heard of. And the two bands playing were Frankie And The Heartstrings and The Alice Kona Band. Neither of whom I’ve ever heard of. After ordering a double and surveying the (still fairly empty) room, I started to wonder what on earth I was doing there. I considered asking someone for a seven gram rock, but all the beautiful people were making me nervous. They just kind of stood around looking fabulous, but there wasn’t much too them. I didn’t understand their movements. Then I realised what it was. All around the room were posters for ‘Topman CTRL Student Parties’. It was a student party. They were students. That was what was so wrong about it all. I finished my drink too quickly and ordered up another.

I’ll say this fairly bluntly. I fucking hate students. Now if you’re a student and you’re offended by that, let me quote Charlie: park your nonsense. But if it makes you feel any better I am so diplomatic in my hatred of students that when I was a student, I even started hating myself. The problem is that once I graduated I wasn’t able to stop. Enter Mr. Daniels. Anyway, I’m sure you’re a bloody nice person, but I still hate students, as a collective. And here I was at one of their parties. Second drink gone. Make it a whiskey and a beer this time, doll, and keep the change. I found myself standing quietly in a darkened corner next to a strange booth of some sort, and I didn’t figure out what it was until The Alice Kona Band told me.

The bands were introduced by a talking head on a TV screen mounted at the back of the stage. This was Huw Stephens, who I was expecting to actually, you know, be there. I didn’t really understand why he was talking at me via a TV screen and it angered me in a way that I couldn’t quite define. I started hoping that video really would kill the radio star. Another whiskey, so I’d have something to pick up when I put my beer down, and the support act went on.

The Alice Kona Band are actually kinda cool. They’re all in dire need of a hair cut and I probably wouldn’t drink out of a teacup in their house, but they seemed like nice chaps and their heart was in the right place. And they played pretty fucking loud, which was cool. Lots of energy, considering the place really hadn’t filled up much, they’re kind of like The Strokes playing Nirvana covers. Now how’s that for an up-my-own-arse music critic comment? During their set they pointed out that the booth I was standing next to was a photo booth. For getting your picture taken and the like. Jesus. Red flag number two. Drink number… I’ve lost track, and I’m sober right now. Kinda.

The place finally filled up a bit in time for Frankie And The Heartstrings, who were the main act. By the time they came on my drinking had lost its novelty with the bartenders and I became aware that I was perceived as liability/drunken fool. I was dropping tips with every drink, though, and aside from some not-so-subtle breast glances, I don’t feel I was being unreasonable. This didn’t help much, and to combat my feelings of inferiority I started drinking a little bit harder. The music commenced. People seemed to be enjoying it. As much as students can seem to enjoy anything, behind their vacant, aloof stares, idle hair adjustments and catwalk posture. Maybe it was because the band had kind of the same deal going. I really wasn’t paying much attention, until I had a moment of clarity towards the end of the set when I realised I just wasn’t digging what I was hearing. I’m not going to tell you they’re a shitty band because I’m not a dick. I am a crotchety old fuck of 23, though, and I just felt ‘oh, this is what the kids listen to these days’. Mixed with the sort of superiority that comes from knowing I listen to bands who fucking rock, whereas these hip fuckers are lucky if they ever accidentally roll. My mood took a bad turn. I ordered another whiskey and she put ice in it and I would have been annoyed but she was Katie from Katie And The Carnival and she’s awesome so I forgave her. And I took my whiskey to the queue for the photo booth. Oh dear. Any time I voluntarily have my photo taken you can be sure of one thing: I will regret that decision the second I see the photo. See: photo at the start of this article.

After they wrapped things up I got my shit together and hit the road. Walking to my usual taxi pick-up spot, I started digging around in the goodie bag they gave me on my way in. I was disappointed to find nothing more than a couple of stickers, a bottle of water and a 10p mix up. In protest of this hipster nonsense I chewed up a sherbet filled spaceship and gobbed it out onto the road. My protest was in vain, of course. I showed up at a student party, hosted by a high street fashion retailer, and complained because the place was filled with fashionable students and the music wasn’t to my tastes. I truly am an over the hill old codger. Now I’ve picked on students maybe next week I’ll head to The Venue and complain about kids these days…

[Editor's Note: They closed The Venue ages ago. How fucking past it are you?]

‘Go back to the troll hole where you came from.’ – Charlie Sheen

Wow. That’s epic. (also Charlie Sheen)

If for some reason you want more information on Topman CTRL, check out the website.

People sometimes ask me why I’m not religious. I usually tell them it’s just the way God made me, with a smile that shows just how clever I think I’m being. It’s just a cover though. The real reason is much more profound. When I was about fifteen I went along to a friend’s church youth group. Don’t ask me why – I did a whole bunch of stupid shit when I was fifteen. Anyway this evening I went along they piled a whole bunch of us into a bus and took us all the way to fucking Kilkeel of all places, to meet up with a bunch of other church groups for one mass night of fun and games. Anyone who knows me knows I don’t play games, and I fucking hate fun. But I did what I always do – I stayed quiet and tried not to attract any attention to myself. And it worked. It worked right up until the last game of the night. It wasn’t much of a game, really. They played some music, two people would dance, the music would stop, two more people would join in, and so on until everyone was up dancing. The catch was every time the music stopped the girl changed partners, and guys could only start dancing once a girl chose to dance with them. You know where I’m going with this.

I didn’t get picked. Every fucker in the room was up dancing and I was sitting there, the social equivalent of the fat kid in PE class. But it gets worse. As an award for being the most rejected person in the room, the leader of the group produced a broom, which he insisted I dance with for the last dance. This is like someone buying you a shot of Jager when you already feel like puking. If you don’t drink it you look like a party pooper, if you do drink it you may end up being an even worse kind of pooper, and everyone will laugh at you. I chose the getting laughed at option. I danced with the fucking thing. And while I was twirling that broom around I thought two things. First I wondered which Slayer album I should buy first. Then I thought, at least I’ll never feel this rejected again as long as I live. And that’s the way it was right up until Friday, when I called Will.
‘Hey man, have we got a candidate for the gig tonight?’
‘Um, no, actually we don’t.’
‘What, you still haven’t picked one? You’re leaving it kind of late man.’
‘No I mean no one applied.’
‘What?’
‘Yeah, no one wants to go to a gig with you.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘Really?’
‘Okay so I do believe you. I suppose I just got my hopes up.’
‘Yeah if I were you I wouldn’t do that any more in life,’ said Will, and I didn’t know how to respond. I hung up and couldn’t help the image from popping into my head – me at the gig, swilling a pint of Guinness, with a shitty old broom propped up next to me. I opened a new bottle of Jack.

I put a pretty serious dent in the bottle before I left the house and by the time I got to Spring and Airbrake I was pretty well buzzed. Then, standing in the queue, I suddenly started to worry that there might have been some sort of miscommunication and my name wouldn’t be on the list. I’d look like a damn fool trying to waltz in without a ticket. I thought about running away to a bar to get drunk. Then I thought about running away to New York to be an ad man in the Sixties, and I realised I was a lot drunker than I thought. I couldn’t possibly afford a flight to New York. But the boy who danced with the broom still lives somewhere inside me, and these days he has the advantage of being a pisshead. I ventured forth, and I got in no problem. Like a boss, in fact. To celebrate my boss-like qualities I ordered a shot and a brew and took a seat. The problem is after that I wasn’t content choosing between whiskey and beer, and every trip to the bar meant one more of each. Then single measures weren’t enough, so my order became a double Jack and a bottle of Stella. Over and over.

Then even a double and a bottle wasn’t enough for me, and I decided they ought to be combined. Hell, I was drinking for two, and celebrating the fact that I’m a legitimate music journalist and I don’t even pay for tickets any more! So I mixed up a boilermaker and drank it down. It sat fairly well, and I went back to drinking my whiskey and beer separately. Then came the second sign of trouble. On my way back from the can, two drinks still at my table, I decided I shouldn’t pass a bar without stocking up, so I bought another double just for the hell of it. And that’s when I lost track of what I was drinking. The third and final sign of impending doom.

By the time the music really got going things are fairly hazy. I can’t even remember the name of the support act, but I remember making a mental note to recommend them. If you can find out who they were, check ‘em out. The Hold Steady, whose name I did manage to remember, were fucking awesome. Unpretentious, straightforward rock n roll played with tonnes of enthusiasm. Surprisingly good drinking music also, if my performance that night is anything to go by. You should get your hands on a Hold Steady album and listen to some rock music played by guys who still enjoy playing rock music.

After the gig things go from hazy to a complete blank. I know I went next door to Katys and I know I got another double, acting purely on drunken instinct. After that, I don’t remember shit until I woke up the next morning feeling like I had been licking the open sores of a bubonic plague victim…

[Editor's Note: Jesus!]

…and I decided not to drink ever again. I also decided it was a blessing in disguise that I was on my own because I have no idea just how much of a tit I made of myself, and frankly I don’t want to know. So yeah, I’m getting all defensive and saying I’m glad none of you wanted to hang out with me! Now excuse me, I have a date with a rather fetching Dyson.

[Editor's Note: Excessively obscene fellatio joke removed.]

‘Look man I’m having trouble attracting women.’ I had sought out advice from a friend of mine who, should he keep up his current seed-dropping rate, is on course to surpass Gene Simmons’s record by the age of 31.
‘How long has this been a problem?’ he asked.
‘Nearly twenty four years now,’ I told him. ‘I think my problem is I’m too much of a nice guy.’
‘No that’s definitely not it,’ he said. ‘If anything you’re a bit of a prick.’
‘Well surely that should help! I though women loved assholes.’
‘No, no, that’s a rookie mistake. Women like bad boys. Not the kind of guy who will boycott a cinema just because the screen was out of focus once.’
‘What, you’re telling me that doesn’t piss you off?’
‘Look you have to cultivate a new image. You gotta be a badass, with a kind heart that you finally reveal during the most intimate moment.’
‘Why that moment?’
‘Because that’s when they’ll give up the pussy man!’
‘Ah, gotcha. Good plan dude. Any other quick practical advice? I gotta get going – Nigel Slater’s Simple Suppers is starting soon.’
He gave me a disapproving look.
‘What?’
‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘Try not shaving for a few days. Chicks dig stubble.’
‘Yeah, good idea man.’

I decided to try out my new persona at the Guns 2 Roses gig at The Empire. I know what you’re thinking – I reviewed that band before and I’m getting lazy. Well you would be wrong on both counts. I’ve been lazy for years, and this is actually a new GNR tribute band, borne from the ashes of two recently disbanded groups. One of whom I have indeed reviewed before. Anyway since it was a Guns N Roses tribute I decided to draw some inspiration from the one and only Axl Rose. If there is one thing I know about women, they fucking love Axl Rose. So I bought a bandana. Four days of beard growth later I headed over to the Bandwidth offices to meet my date. I got myself a bottle of Jack on the way and strutted into Will’s office swigging it like John Wayne with a toothache. As usual Will was lounging on his sofa with some piece of ass. I made a mental note to ask him how the hell he managed it, then I squashed myself in between them on the sofa, slinging an arm around the dame’s neck.
‘So man, who’s this pretty young thing?’
‘This is my girlfriend Ian. You’ve met her at least twice before.’
I took a drink, thinking of a good cover.
‘Shit I’m just kidding man. I know who she is, it’s just my new sleazy rocker persona.’
‘Really?’ she said. ‘What’s my name then?’
I took another cover up swig.
‘Baby as far as I’m concerned your name should be sugar.’
‘Jesus,’ said Will with a sigh. ‘And take your fucking arm off her already!’
‘Okay, chill my man,’ I said, getting up and settling myself into his office chair with my feet on his desk. I repositioned my bandana.
‘What the fuck is wrong with your face?’ asked Will.
‘I grew a beard,’ I said. ‘To be more badass.’
‘A beard?’ he said. ‘I could count the hairs on your face. From here.’
His girlfriend sniggered.
‘It’s like Homer Simpson’s head upside down.’
She giggled again.
‘Alright man…’ I said.
‘You look like a fucking Chernobyl victim.’
His girlfriend was outright laughing in my slightly hairy face now.
‘Okay man, come on…’
‘You look like you just went down on a fifty year old Chinese woman.’
‘Jesus man, cool it with the facial hair jokes!’
‘You are a fucking facial hair joke!’ he said.
Then she came out of Will’s en suite.
‘Oh Ian, this is Alice,’ said Will. ‘She’s your date for the gig.’
Holy crap.
‘Hi Ian,’ she said.
‘Oh, uh, hi. Hey. Baby.’
‘Take care of her,’ said Will’s girlfriend. ‘She’s my best friend and she’s never been to a rock concert.’
‘Well they are a tribute act to the most dangerous band in the world, but I’ll look after the little lady,’ I said, standing up and realising how much taller than me she was. I finished off my whiskey in one long drink.
‘Have you got a recycling bin man?’ I asked.

I decided I had to do as much bad boy stuff on the way to the bar as possible, to make a good first impression. I crossed the road before the green man appeared. I passed a bum and told him I had no change, even though I had loads. I bought a pack of cigarettes and smoked one. I told a racist joke a little louder than was really necessary. By the time we got to the bar I was exhausted from being so badass, but I was pretty sure I had impressed her. Just wait till she hears me belting out Rocket Queen, I thought.

You wouldn’t expect a tribute band made up of members of two former tribute bands to be very good. Or maybe you would. I didn’t, though, I’ll be honest. The band I saw before (UK Guns N Roses) were really quite authentic and I couldn’t imagine the new line up topping what they did. You can imagine my surprise then, when halfway through the show I found myself screaming at Alice, ‘Holy shit, they’re even better than the other band!’ Of course she had no frame of reference and had no idea what I was talking about, but she seemed happy that I was enjoying myself. And enjoy myself I did. The enjoyment reaching a pinnacle when the opening chords to November Rain started and I let out an almighty ‘Fuck yeah!’ Until that night the only people to hear my rendition of November Rain were my dog and my next door neighbour. That night the entire Empire Music Hall was treated to my impersonation of a man impersonating Axl Rose. I knew my performance was epic because Alice was smiling with tears in her eyes.

[Editor's Note: She laughed so hard she cried.]

This was the band’s first UK gig together and they fucking rocked. If you’re a fan of Guns N Roses and have a chance to check them out some time, don’t pass it up for anything. Not even the ‘real’ Guns N Roses, headed up by the real Axl. That’s right, I said it.

After the gig I felt imbued with pure rock n roll attitude, and I asked Alice if she wanted to head to another bar for a drink. Unfortunately when we got there, there were a few loutish lads outside who made some unsavoury comments about her as we passed. I was going to let it slide, then one of the motherfuckers snapped a photo on his camera phone.
‘No fucking photos!’ I screamed, diving at him.
I came around a few minutes later to find that the guy had hit me so hard my bandana came off, and the police had arrived.
‘Where’s Alice?’ I asked the nearest cop.
‘Oh she went off with the group of fellas you attacked,’ he said.
‘Fuck,’ I said, standing up. ‘Dames really do like assholes.’
‘Jesus what happened to your face?’ said the cop as I was fixing my bandana into place.
‘I got punched. Obviously.’
‘No I mean that weird hair growth,’ he said. ‘You look like an old gypsy woman.’

You may have noticed that we are currently running a free ticket giveaway for an upcoming This Is Not A Review gig. If you hadn’t noticed, I just very cleverly worked it into this article, so now you do know about it. Anyway the reason for it all is that we have been digging for new candidates and our last idea failed miserably. In theory, it was genius. In practice, it was not. The idea was that Will and I would stage a Britain’s Got Talent style audition day, where candidates could demonstrate their musical ability. The winner would not only accompany me for to the next gig, but would get their very own Bandwidth sessions video. Not too shabby, you might think, and you would be right. It just didn’t work out though. Auditions started at noon and I was drinking because the whole thing made me nervous. The only thing I could find in the office was three year out of date crème de menthe, so I was struggling it down, and had drank about half the bottle when the first guy showed up. You might know him in fact. He sometimes busks outside Castle Court, playing a half-fiddle, half-horn contraption and grinning at everyone like his job satisfaction is through the fucking roof.

‘Sorry mate, you’re not quite what we’re looking for,’ I said.
‘Excuse me?’ He looked confused.
‘We’re looking for a different style,’ said Will.
‘More buxom,’ I added, by way of explanation.
‘I just wanted to use the toilet,’ he said.
‘Oh,’ I said. ‘One or two?’
‘I’m not comfortable answering that.’
‘That means two.’
‘Can I use your toilet please?’
‘Knock yourself out.’
‘Your teeth are green,’ he said, and went to the john.
I turned to Will. ‘Fuck it man, we’re wasting our time.’
‘It’s only twenty past twelve dude,’ said Will.
‘It’s useless!’ I shouted. ‘I give up.’ I gathered up my coat and my crème de menthe and I sulked off to the bar.

I found out the next day that about fifteen minutes after I left a local cheer-leading squad showed up and performed an elaborate musical number for Will. I didn’t even know we had cheerleaders over here. Anyway Will claims he had a moment of clarity during the panty-flashing acrobatics and has vowed he will never again film an acoustic session without at least some cheerleader involvement.

I had my own moment of clarity later that day. Staring into a toilet full of green sick, I realised that somewhere along the way I had taken a wrong turn. I vowed there and then to change my life for the better. Nothing but bourbon from then on, and no more gimmicky articles about failed romantic conquests. Just lucid, insightful articles about local music so balls-out inspiring that people would positively shit from the overwhelming magic of them. Fuck yeah, I’m gonna rock this shit, I decided. Then I boked up some more green stuff and went to bed.

The gig I was going to was actually Eilis Phillips’s launch party for her album. Don’t worry, I know I already reviewed that. It’s the other singers who played at the party that I am concerned with now. I Draper-ed myself up in what I think passes for stylish clothes and combed my hair over to one side. Then I combed it the other way, because I had only succeeded in highlighting my thinning hairline. Finally content that I didn’t look bald, I hit the bar for a few warm up whiskies. I may have had one too many because, in most un-Draper-like fashion, I was both nervous and early. Once the buzz took hold the nervousness had subsided and I had succeeded in making myself late. So that’s how it’s done, I thought, making a mental note for future. I dandered round to the launch party, hoping Eilis had remembered inviting me and I didn’t look like a strange, loner, party crasher.

Eilis did remember me, but as it happens I might have fitted in anyway, because the room was full of guys who looked like strange, loner party crashers. Either these people had caught sight of Eilis’s giant Soviet hat and mistaken the gig for one of those bullshit socialist sympathiser events Queen’s students love so much, or Eilis’s fan base was 50% men who acted like groupies and looked like roadies. They were a good group all the same – whooping it up and giving generous applause after all the songs. I had walked in half way through Junior Johnson’s set, and his stuff was going down pretty well. I won’t go on about Junior too much, because you can check him out right here on Bandwidth, in the In Stores Now video Will filmed for him last year. Anyone who bought a copy of Eilis’s album got a free copy of Junior’s EP along with it. I got Eilis’s album for free…

[Editor's Note: We know. You told us.]

…and very craftily picked up Junior’s EP along with it. It’s really good. I mean really, really fucking good. After Junior Johnson was Siobhan Day, and she played a whole set of music you just can’t not like. I understand when someone tells me Pantera isn’t their thing, you know? They’re just a pussy, and that’s fine. Just kidding. Some music won’t be to everyone’s tastes, but music as simple and effective as Siobhan’s is universal, in a way, because who can’t listen to a nice voice and simple chord progression, right? That’s not a very enthusiastic endorsement though – just as anyone can listen to music like that, just about anyone can make it too, and it’ll be fine. Average. Boring. What is interesting is when someone comes along who does it well, and that’s what Siobhan does. Nothing fancy. Just good old fashioned folk rock but performed with a power and confidence that only really comes about in naturals. That’s how I would describe Siobhan – a natural. A natural singer and a natural songwriter. Plus, she lists Guns N’ Roses as one of her musical tastes. In other words, she’s awesome. I’m looking forward to the release of her EP and I’m hoping to see her live again soon. You should do the same.

Now all that remains to be seen is whether or not Will’s cheerleader fixation has affected his illustrations as well as his videos… Fingers crossed.

Siobhan’s ReverbNation page.

At a recent board meeting Will asked for ideas on how to make Bandwidth even cooler than it already is. I don’t go in for shit like that so I finished my cigarette, got up and left without a word. I went back to my office, had a large whiskey, banged my secretary on the desk and headed to the bar for lunch…

[Editor's Note: There comes a point when Ian's Mad Men delusions stop being cute and actually become a cause for concern. That point was about 4 months ago.]

The following day my secretary brought me a memo with my cup of coffee. She was looking at me strangely.
‘Yes?’ I asked.
‘Oh… nothing,’ she said. She spent the rest of the day crying at her desk. I assumed there must have been a death in the family and said nothing. The memo had my full attention anyway.

It outlined a proposal whereby future This Is Not A Review articles will be advertised a few weeks in advance, and give Bandwidth readers the chance to win a free ticket to go to the gig with me. Will told me to draft up a notice about this, and that’s what you’re reading now. For selected This Is Not A Reviews I will post something like this a few weeks before the gig giving you all information on the gig. Anyone who wants to come to the gig with me can email nude photos to us…

[Editor's Note: No. Just no.]

…okay you can email us (briefly) outlining why we should give you a free ticket to the gig. We’ll pick the best, or – more likely – the only, response, and the lucky winner will get to come with me. I might even buy you a drink, depending on how sloshed I get. Importantly, though, all applicants should be aware that they will find some version of themselves worked into the article I write, so anyone lacking a sense of humour should steer clear.

The first gig to include this option is The Hold Steady at Spring and Airbrake on Friday 11th February. You can see full details of the gig (or buy your own tickets, if you have no interest in going with me) at this site:

CDC Leisure.net

Contact us at ian@bandwidthsessions.com to win your free ticket.

- Ian

PS – I should make it clear that this competition is not exclusive to women. If you’re a dude and you want to go a gig with me, that’s cool. In fact, I am 100% less likely to stare at your chest if you are male. Having said that, I will treat this the way account executives in Mad Men treat auditions for underwear models, complete with lecherous comments.

Eilis Phillips – Oh Captain (Official album artwork)

This is technically the third time ‘Captain’ Eilis Phillips has featured in a This Is Not A Review. Those of you who actually read this shit – rather than just checking out Will’s super-cool and often-sexy artwork – might remember that last year I told you about her in this article. What no one could possibly have known, though, is that she actually featured as a character in one of my stories, way back in ’09. No, folks, I was not lucky enough to secure a date with her. Rather she was known simply has ‘the hottie in the red dress’ in this article.

[Editor's Note: Let the record show that I am currently face-palming.]

Since back then I didn’t have the balls to approach her, and last year I did, one might be forgiven for thinking I had made some progress as a human being. And you would be right. My alcoholism has indeed progressed considerably, and when I bumped into her during her set in The Kitchen Bar one boiling hot Sunday, I did introduce myself and despite my drunken rumblings (huh? Huh?) she was very nice to me. After our meeting, convinced I should spread the word, I got up on my soapbox and in between restaurant recommendations, I summoned up these words of wisdom: ‘I was honestly impressed by Eilis, even though it’s not usually my sort of music, I think she’s going places.’ Man, the banality is painful. Made all the more so when Eilis immortalised the words on her Reverb Nation profile. By God, she deserved a more enthusiastic recommendation than that! Not only does it make me sound like a boring fuck, it’s the sort of compliment that sounds vaguely patronising. Like telling a fat chick she has a nice rack, because you have to say something nice. And hell, it’s true. This is a wrong I have been meaning to right for some time, and recently, I got my chance. You see, I wasn’t just ‘honestly impressed’ by Eilis – she knocked my fucking socks off. So here, just for a change, this is a review.

There were a number of highlights of 2010 for me. Like that day I found a fiver, for instance. I’d say one of the top ones, though, would have to be arriving at Eilis’s album launch party and getting a copy of her album Oh Captain for free, because I claimed press credentials. I recently wrote to Lemmy, citing the same credentials and requesting a free copy of the new Motorhead album, but I haven’t heard back yet. Anyway since this will probably be the closest I ever come to feeling like a half-legitimate writer, I’m going to hang on to it like a starved cat with a wounded pigeon and so folks, this is my attempt at a real music review, since it’s the least I can do.

[Editor's Note: If I were you I'd quit now and just send Eilis a cheque for the money owe her.]

You know that part in the film High Fidelity when the really cool singer gives John Cusack a copy of her album and it totally rocks his world? That’s been me for the last couple of weeks. Seriously, I even started wearing questionable sweaters and making top five lists of everything. See, I’m just not good at staying up to date with new music. That’s strictly Will’s territory, and one just does not invade Will’s territory. That’s why they call him ‘The Jaguar’.

[Editor's Note: That's not why they call Will 'The Jaguar'.]

[What? Well then why do they call... Oh. Ohhhhhh! Now it all makes sense.]

Anyway The Jaguar keeps his finger on the pulse of new local music, and does a damn fine job of it. I, on the other hand, think I’m a music buff because I have Springsteen’s Tunnel Of Love album. So there is a natural excitement for me when I luck upon a really cool indie artist who is clearly on their way up. It’s like staying up all night to catch a movie you’ve never heard of on Channel 4.

[Editor's Note: Sometimes you accidentally end up seeing disturbing European soft-core porn?]

It’s rewarding because not only does it remind you that there is a whole world of awesome music out there beyond the stuff you’ve heard of, and because there is some sense of accomplishment in having ‘discovered’ it. If you have ever talked to someone who was listening to the Chili Peppers before Under The Bridge, you will have witnessed this in their smug, smug smile. I’m not quite hip enough to ever cultivate a smile that smug, but just this once let me be the cool guy turning you on to a really cool new album you probably haven’t heard of.

Eilis doesn’t just have a fantastic voice. And she’s not just a super-versatile Dave Grohl-esque musician. She’s also a kick ass lyricist with a whole bunch of really clever songs, whether she’s singing about space and time, or just some unusual character, it’s about as far from cliched song-writing as it gets. The subject matter would seem out of place on a more textbook singin’ and strummin’ album, but the whole sound is entirely original, with some unusual phrasing – both musically and vocally – and just enough pop sensibility to prove she knows a thing or two about crafting a song. The result is that most elusive of creatures – an album with a true and original voice that isn’t swallowed in the din of same-sounding indie music, nor hidden by the cloak of inaccessible folk.

[Editor's Note: The cloak of inaccessible folk? Second face palm.]

But to quote one of the songs on the album, I’m beginning to sound like a broken record. I’m just no good at this academic critically writing (just ask any of my former uni tutors), and I can’t think of sufficient hyperbole to do the album justice, so I’ll just give up on the bullshit and say it the way I normally would. Plain. Fucking. Awesome.

Now there’s an endorsement worthy of her homepage.

[Editor's Note: Pity your language makes it essentially unusable.]

Check Eilis out here:

www.myspace.com/eilisphillips
www.reverbnation.com/eilisphillips

And you can buy her album here:

www.eilisphillipsmusic.bandcamp.com

This week I wrote a restaurant review and the editor rejected it without even showing it to Will.

[Editor's Note: You wrote a four hundred word review of the Subway sandwich you had after a night on the piss and the most insightful thing you said was 'not enough pickle'.]

So the next day I woke up to a text telling me to be at the Ulster Hall as 1pm and be ready for a proper gig review. I am always suspicious when the bastards don’t give me any details but I was in no mood to argue, so I just popped a couple of Alka Seltzer in a glass of water and had some private time with an episode of Nigella’s Kitchen.

Even after another nap I still made it to the place with fifteen minutes to spare, at the expense of a shower and shave combo which, to be honest, I really could have done with. The guy at reception must have thought I was an insane person, shambling in looking like Sid Vicious and asking if there was a ticket reserved for me. There wasn’t, of course.
‘Okay I’ll just pay then. One please,’ I said.
Then a dame tapped me on the shoulder.
‘Ian?’
My first thought was shit, I’ve met this chick while drunk and now I don’t know who the hell she is. Okay that was actually my second thought. My first was holy jumping Jesus look at the tits on that. The scenario didn’t add up though, because this chick was stunning, and I would never have the balls – even when loaded – to approach such a creature. This chick wasn’t even a chick – she was a lady. How in the name of shit could I possibly know a dame like that? I was fucking petrified.
‘Yes?’ I said, hoping for a clue.
‘My name’s Charlotte. I’m a friend of Will’s.’
‘Oh…’ I said, waiting for my brain to start working again. ‘How did you know who I am?’
‘Oh Will said to look out for a grumpy looking short guy, dressed like shit. I thought he was joking at first, but he says that’s the only way he knows how to describe you.’
‘It is fairly accurate, I have to admit that.’
The guy at reception cleared his throat, obviously tired of listening to our conversation.
‘Make that two,’ I said to him. I turned back to Charlotte. ‘What is this gig anyway?’
‘Um, the Ulster Orchestra…’
And she wasn’t kidding.

‘It’s really nice in here,’ she said as we took our seats.
‘Yeah this is one of my favourite venues. I was supposed to see Airbourne here last week but they moved it. I had a balcony seat at the very front reserved and I ended up standing at the back of fucking Mandela Hall all night.’
‘That sucks,’ she said.
‘Not only that, I wasn’t allowed to drink in the concert hall. Fucking filthy heathens.’
Everything went quiet as the orchestra started to filter on to the stage.
‘I hope they play that one from the Levis ad,’ I whispered. ‘That one is badass.’
Charlotte screwed her face up, and I wasn’t sure if it was because I had said something wrong, or because I hasn’t brushed my teeth.

After the concert I asked her if she wanted to hang out a while longer and she surprised me by agreeing.
‘I can’t stay too long though,’ she said. ‘I’m meeting someone at three.’
‘No problem,’ I said, and we got a table in Harlem Cafe. I ordered a bottle of wine.
‘And what would you like?’ I asked.
‘Just a cup of tea, please,’ she said. ‘I really can’t stay long you know.’
‘That’s cool, I have to write this article when you go anyway. I like classical music but I don’t know anything about it. I don’t know what the hell I’m going to say.’
‘I’m sure you’ll think of something,’ she said. And then there was silence, punctuated only by my slurps of wine.
‘So what do you do?’ I said finally.
‘That’s a boring question,’ she said. ‘Ask me something interesting.’
‘Hmmm…’ I mumbled, tapping my face and looking very thoughtful.
‘Don’t think too hard now,’ she said. I was trying to think hard, but my concentration kept getting lost in her cleavage.
‘I often find it is the answer, not the question, which is truly interesting,’ I said philosophically.
‘So you can’t think of an interesting question?’
‘Nope.’
‘Well what did you like about the concert?’ she asked.
‘I liked how punctual they were. Rock bands take an awfully long time to come on. It’s like a tradition of the genre to be late. It gets old.’
‘Wow, that is maybe the most irrelevant aspect of a concert anyone could possibly single out as enjoyable,’ she said.
‘Okay, well, what do you like about the music?’
She thought for a moment and took a sip of tea.
‘I like the fact that most people couldn’t organise a pissing competition in a public toilet, but the orchestra of fifty people manages to play complex music that is not only perfectly in time, but beautiful and emotionally affecting. I like that it’s not just a ditty that sticks in your head, it’s an acquired taste that you have to work at to fully appreciate it. It’s a rewarding music. The more effort you put in, the more you get back from listening. They don’t shove it down your throat or play it so loud you can’t hear for days afterwards, because they don’t have to. There’s no stage theatrics or music videos or band merchandise. It’s just music. Music minus the bullshit. And, most importantly, it sounds so magnificent that the same song can send shivers down your spine one minute, and lull you into an almost hypnotic peacefulness the next.’
She stopped very suddenly.
‘Are you staring at my tits again?’ she asked.
Surprisingly, I wasn’t.
‘No, why would you think that?’
‘Your mouth was hanging open.’
‘That’s because I am literally in awe of you.’
This comment actually flushed a little rouge into her cheeks, and she smiled.
‘Seriously, can I write down everything you just said rather than trying to review the concert myself?’
‘Sure,’ she said. Then she looked at her watch. ‘Oops, I gotta go.’
‘Okay, can I ask you a question before you go?’
‘Are you going to ask if my breasts are real?’
‘No, that’s not it.’
‘Did you finally think of an interesting question?’
‘Depending on your answer it might be very interesting indeed.’
‘Okay go ahead.’
‘Okay, are you an incredibly intelligent and beautiful high class prostitute, hired by Will as a sort of Christmas present for me, as reassurance that despite my patchy and repetitive output, he still kinda loves me?’
She smiled and got up to put her coat on.
‘Yeah, I would say that about covers it.’
‘Shit. All I got him was a bar of novelty soap that says ‘face’ on one side and ‘arse’ on the other.’
‘You could always hire me to show him a good time,’ she said.
‘How much would that be?’
‘A lot more than an afternoon at the opera,’ she said with a wink.
‘Never mind, I’ll stick with the soap.’
‘Okay, good luck with your article.’
‘Hold on, can I ask one more question?’
She turned back.
‘Yes Ian, they’re real.’
‘Awesome!’

This was the last lunchtime concert of this year, but it will return in 2011 and I would urge you all to check it out. It’s a bloody nice way to spend an afternoon. You can find details of all Ulster Hall events here.

So literally the day after the Pocket Billiards gig I awoke with a heavy head and weary legs and a mind to do nothing but have a cup of coffee and a sausage sandwich and retire back to my bed. Then I remembered I’m a bum and there was fuck all to stop me doing just that, so I did. I woke late in the afternoon and only remembered then that I had another gig to go to. And no date. The whole date idea must be getting a bit old now, but it provides 85% of the content for these things and I’m just not talented enough to give it up, so I poured my first Jack of the day and got to thinking about girls who might like country music.

They had to dig country, you see, because I was going to see Ryan Bingham. He’s a sort of modern day Steve Earle character, blending country and rock into a truly potent cocktail of musical brilliance. This is not even my usual hyperbole – this guy already has an Academy award for the song ‘The Weary Kind’, which was featured in the awesome movie Crazy Heart. I know what you’re thinking: the guy already has an Oscar and worldwide critical acclaim – surely a This Is Not A Review is kind of redundant at this point? And you would be right, but it’s all I’ve got right now okay? It was either this, or a review of new Northern Ireland based sketch show ‘LOL’, but much like the show, I just didn’t have enough material to fill the space. Don’t tell The Blender I said that.

Anyway I scanned through my contacts list in my phone and realised I only have one girl’s phone number, so that narrowed it down pretty well. I sent a text:
‘Hey mum, do you know any girls who like country music?’
A few seconds later I got one back:
‘Lol no one likes country music.’
Damn it. I poured another drink and realised this was probably going to be a lonely night, crying in my whiskey with some live country music for a change, rather than my Willie Nelson box set. Then I had an idea. A crazy idea, sure, but an idea nonetheless. Though I have never experienced the phenomenon myself, I was fairly sure men sometimes went to bars and talked women into going out somewhere with them. I had seen it done in movies, at least. In fact, I have seen it done a whole bunch of times in the best TV show of all time – Mad Men. I put the DVD on, settled down with my third drink, and tried to absorb a few tips, thinking I could just go to the bar and get a date there. Fifty minutes later I had worked my way through 3 stiff drinks and I can honestly say I have never felt so bad in all my life. There is no one in the world quite as emasculating as Don Draper, and rather than gain any insight into the world of charm and sex appeal, I had simply realised, somewhat painfully, that I would never be a resident of that particular world. I put on some George Jones and got lonesome.

I hit Katy’s around tea time and had a Guinness for dinner. I was in a proper country mood by this time, kitted out in my old faded blue jeans and my boots, and I didn’t give a shit if I found a woman or not. That’s what country music is all about, damn it. Pining for a warm body in the bed next to you while you’re out on the cold, dusty trail. I wasn’t on the trail, but it was pretty cold that night. My balls, in fact, were freezing. I was mildly alarmed by this, but decided that maybe they had simply shut down from lack of use. A warm body would have really sorted me out. Preferably a body in the shape of Gretchen Wilson. I woke out of my cowboy fantasy and decided I was tired of the alternative music, so I headed for the jukebox and looked through the country section. I picked Wagon Wheel by Old Crow Medicine Show and stopped at the bar on my way back to my seat. I was about to order up a nice whiskey when some dame pushed in between me and the old geezer sitting next to me, and the bar man served her first. Normally this would have pissed me off, but by God she was singing along to Old Crow Medicine Show, and I found it hard to be angry at her. Then she did it. She grabbed my arm, noticing me for the first time, and started apologising profusely for pushing in front of me. My only half-finished pint had thrown her off, assuming I had been served. I forgave her for all the wrong reasons. And being rather tipsy, I managed to say something.
‘Don’t worry about it. You like this song?’
‘Oh yeah,’ she said.
‘I put it on,’ I said, deliberately acting very chuffed with myself.
‘Good choice,’ she said, as the bartender set her drink in front of her. I knew at this point I had maybe 3 seconds to act. Before she could hand him the note I waved my ten in front of his face and told him I’d get it, if he would get me a whiskey first. Double, if he didn’t mind. She seemed very impressed.
‘Thank you,’ she said, blushing a little bit.
‘My name’s Ian,’ I said, trying my best to channel Don and hoping that guy would hurry up with my whiskey, because I was just about running on fumes.
‘I’m Gretchen,’ she said.

[Editor's Note: Fuck off!]

Okay so her name was Tracy! I was taking certain artistic liberties to enhance the story.

[Editor's Note: You would need more than artistic liberties to enhance this fucking story.]

I managed to coax Tracy away from her friends and sat a table opposite them. I took a swig of whiskey, put my boot up on a stool, and right then realised I wasn’t channelling Don at all. I had gone full John Wayne. Her friends were a couple of hipster chicks with their (also hipster) boyfriends, and none of them seemed very impressed by me. They kept glancing over and snickering behind their hands. A bouncer walked past and told me to take my boot off the stool, which I did. Partly because my balls were still cold and the exposure wasn’t helping, and partly because he looked like a fucking silverback.
‘Listen,’ I said, getting right down to brass tacks. ‘I have a spare ticket to see Ryan Bingham in like twenty minutes. Do you want to come with me?’
She looked unsure.
‘I don’t think I know him,’ she said.
‘He’s brilliant. You’ll love him, I promise.’
‘What songs does he do?’
‘The most famous one is The Weary Kind.’
There was no recognition on her face.
‘What does he look like?’
‘Um, youngish. Kinda dresses like a cowboy. Annoyingly handsome. Beard.’
She perked up a little bit when I said that.
‘He has a beard?’ she asked.
‘Yeah, I’m pretty sure he has a beard.’
‘Hmm, okay then.’
I didn’t really understand why the beard swung it for her but by hell I wasn’t going to argue with it. She ditched her friends and we went next door.

We got a table and for a little while we talked about country music, but mostly I just let her talk, sipped my whiskey and slowly fell in love. She didn’t drink that much though, and pretty soon there was an obvious disparity in our levels of intoxication. This didn’t bother her as much as I thought it would, and pretty soon she was ferrying whiskey from the bar to me, even when she wasn’t getting a drink herself. By the time Ryan went on the place was nicely packed out and I was pretty hammered.
‘Wow,’ was all she said as we clapped him on stage.
Then right after the first song she leaned in again.
‘He’s awesome!’ she said. I smiled and I decided, sometimes life is good.

She was right, of course, he really is awesome. Despite only being 23 I already act like a curmudgeonly old fuck, complaining about music just not being the same any more, but this gig was all the evidence I needed to realise country is still going strong. It’s not strictly country music – more like country rock – but it’s still cool to see a young guy working his way up, and making good, writing country influenced music. When you hear him sing you realise there was nothing else in the world he possibly could have been, other than a singer/songwriter and despite all the young talent around, that’s still a fairly rare thing. Ryan Bingham’s voice is special, and he backs it up with some magical songwriting. On top of that he – and his band of course – really know how to rock. They balanced out the slower songs with some serious ass-kicking licks, which I admit I wasn’t expecting. I always wondered what it must have been like to see Bob Dylan play some of his early shows in the Village in New York in the Sixties, but I say without any hint of bullshit, now I probably know what it was like. I’m not predicting that Ryan Bingham will become an icon like Dylan, but the experience of hearing a fresh, ultra-talented voice in just the right setting, at just the right time is a fucking special experience, and I felt privileged to have been there. The vibe in the room left me with no doubt that everyone there shared my feelings, standing in awed silence during every song and erupting into lengthy whooping applause between every one. Were it not for Seasick Steve, Ryan Bingham would be the clear cut winner of my gig of the year, and coming from me that is high praise indeed.

About halfway through the gig, as a blissfully chilled out daze settled over the crowd, Tracy excused herself.
‘I’ll be right back – just going to the front for a better look.’
About twenty minutes later she hadn’t returned and, looking around me, I could see only tables with other lonely men sitting at them. Obviously all the other women had the same idea. I stood up and had a look towards the stage where, indeed, stood a collective of dreamy eyed women all swaying gently, transfixed by Ryan’s husky vocals. I didn’t see Tracy, but I knew she must be amongst them, so I gave it up and went back to my table and my whiskey. I finished off my drink and hung my head, realising for the second time that day that some guys have got it and some just don’t. I thought about how his having a beard seemed to be an important factor for her. It was while I was wondering how long it would take to grow a beard, I finally noticed the hole in my jeans, right between my legs. My cold balls all of a sudden making sense, I shrugged it off with typical drunken Zen-like acceptance, realising it made sense that all the women were gathered around Ryan and not me. Not only was he a cool singer, he probably wasn’t the type of guy to walk around with a fart-vent somewhere between the crotch and arse area of his jeans. I decided not to bother trying to grow a beard.

I walked into the Bandwidth office excited at the prospect of the ‘surprise’ Will had promised me. I was sure he must have finally found the shoe I had misplaced a few days before. I was getting pretty tired of hopping around all the time.
‘Tell me you found my shoe!’ I said, breezing into Will’s office without knocking. But I wasn’t talking to Will. Will was nowhere to be seen, and there was someone new behind his desk. A little bowling pin of a man – bald as a rock and with too much fat sitting atop his little legs. He was smoking a cigar.
‘I don’t know anything about a shoe,’ he said, ‘but you’re just the man I wanted to see.’
‘Oh yeah, who are you?’
‘I’m Harold. Will’s on holiday.’
‘I’m not sure I like this,’ I said.
‘Take a seat. You’ll like it.’
I sat down and put my shoe-less foot up on his desk.

In the interest of brevity…
[Editor's Note: Ha! You?]
…I’ll just give you the gist of what had happened up until this point. Harold is some big shot businessman. He decided to buy Bandwidth off Will, whom he had sent to Maui for the week so Harold could ‘acquaint himself with the staff’. The motherfucker was weeding us out.

‘Now don’t think of this as a job interview,’ he said. ‘I just want to see everyone at work. See if there are any… changes that need made.’
‘What do you mean see me at work?’ I asked.
‘I mean I’m going to go to a show with you and see how you cover it. I want to see you in action. There is an art to writing good reviews, you know. And a business.’
‘So you’re going to be my date for This Is Not A Review?’
‘Oh no I had something much more fun in mind.’
‘I’m listening.’
‘I have a couple of ladies lined up for us. You pick the show, I pick up the tab, and we’ll see if you’re up to scratch. How does that sound?’
‘Are you kidding?’
‘I don’t kid, kid.’
‘Well then, Harry, I think you’ve got a deal,’ I said, and we shook on it. ‘You know Harry if you’re looking to do some streamlining, my editor is really just dead weight…’

[Editor's Note: Prick.]

The gig I chose was Pocket Billiards, at The Empire. I first saw Billiards last year at the New Moon Showcase. They closed the set, by which point I was utterly pished and ready to boogie. I don’t believe I have ever danced as vigorously as I did that night. And since then I have been hoping to catch them again, so I could do a write-up and tell you all how great they are.

I told Harry I would meet him downstairs in The Empire before the show. Since I am always early and he was fashionably late I was on number four when he finally arrived. I took one look at him, wearing what looked like a Simon Cowell Halloween costume. Then I took several looks at the two women with him, wearing what looked like clothes bought from Baby Gap. I put my drink away in one.
‘Evening Ian,’ he boomed. ‘I believe this belongs to you.’ He handed me a plastic bag. My shoe!
‘Thanks,’ I said, quickly pulling it on, hoping the women didn’t notice I was wearing my Saturday socks on Thursday.
‘Ian this is Stephanie,’ he said, motioning to the one with the big tits. ‘And this is Danielle,’ motioning to the one with even bigger tits.
‘Oh, hi,’ I muttered, trying to make eye contact and feeling like I was watching the sun set over the Mourne mountains.
‘Hi Ian,’ they said, harmonising perfectly, but somehow they didn’t sound friendly.
‘What are you drinking Ian?’ Champagne?’
‘Oh no, I don’t like champagne. I’ll just have a Jack. Double. Neat.’
‘All right,’ he said, ‘you keep the ladies company. I’ll be right back.’ And he was off for the bar. Bugger.

I looked at them both sitting there and I wondered what people ever talk about in situations like this. What exactly is the right thing to say? Am I the only person in the world who doesn’t share this skill?
‘So uh, do you know this band?’ I tried.
‘No…’ said Stephanie.
‘No…’ said Danielle.
Bugger.
Then Danielle took out her phone and started texting. There was nothing left in my glass, but I took a sip anyway. Where is he with the fucking drinks? Danielle finished texting. Then Stephanie’s phone beeped, and she started. I knew intuitively they were texting each other nasty things about me. It was horrible. I thought about pretending to text as well, but I have a really shitty phone and I didn’t want to add fuel to their judgemental text fire. Then I thought about maybe running away, but finally Harold came back with the drinks. He put my whiskey down in front of me. There was ice in it, and it clearly was not a double. Cheap motherfucker, splurging on bubbly for the dames and trying to con me out of whiskey. I must have been staring at my drink.
‘What’s the matter Ian?’ he bellowed.
‘Oh, nothing. I just don’t take ice, usually.’
‘Ah, a sophisticated man takes ice in his whiskey,’ he said. ‘Only cowboys and hobos drink it straight.’ I looked down at the scuffed boot I had just gotten back as he poured three glasses of champagne, then I put the drink away in one. All of a sudden I didn’t like this dickhead, and his pornstar lookalikes were boring me. The whiskey was obviously starting to work.
‘So Ian, say something funny. I didn’t bring these two lovelies to bore them.’
‘I’ll be right back. I’ve gotta take a piss.’ I got up before they had a chance to respond.

On my way back from the can I got myself a double, no ice, and a beer. I was in the mood for something bubbly. When I sat down they stopped talking about whatever they were talking about.
‘So Ian one thing I was thinking is your reviews are very sparse. How about taking a few photos on your phone – liven the look of the page up a bit?’
‘My phone doesn’t take photos,’ I said. There was a moment of stunned silence.
‘Oh, no problem. I’ll hook you up with one of these,’ he said, flashing his phone. ‘Shoots video too. You could put up some video clips, so people aren’t just looking at a wall of text.’
‘That’s okay, I like my phone. I’m not really in to taking photos anyway.’
‘Are you sure? This thing does everything. Sat Nav, Facebook…’
‘I’m not on Facebook,’ I said. There was a longer moment of silence.
‘Seriously?’ he exclaimed. ‘Get with the times. It’s an excellent resource for promoting yourself, getting your name out there.’ He took a sip of champagne. The girls were texting and snickering again. Maybe they were updating their Facebook pages. I poured my beer into my whiskey and took a long gulp. That got their attention. I smiled. Maybe this could be fun after all.

When I finished my drink Harold suggested we go upstairs. They had only had one glass each.
‘Aren’t you going to finish that bottle?’ I asked.
‘No, we’ll get another one up there,’ he said, and they stood up. I shrugged, grabbed the bottle and chugged as much as I could in one go. Then I burped as long as I could in one go.
‘Let’s do this shit,’ I said, and we headed for the stairs. Halfway up, I wobbled a bit.

The place wasn’t too full but Harold pushed his way to the front of the queue and started snapping his fingers at the barmaid.
‘Yo, yo,’ he kept saying. The silly twat. That annoys me almost as much as it annoys bartenders. When he finally got his champagne I got another shot and a brew and tipped, hoping she wouldn’t notice that I was with him. I joined Harold and the ditzes at their table and he insisted I take a photo of him with the two dames kissing his face. I imagine that had he requested they kiss his ass, they would have obliged just as willingly. And the photo would have come out looking about the same.
‘This article is going to be a cracker!’ he shouted. ‘Probably your best one.’ I had no idea why he thought that. My drinks were going down much faster than theirs, though, and the champagne had gone to my head. After only two glasses he was getting handsy with both dames and I was getting grumpy. I decided to have some fun with them.
‘Hey Harry,’ I slurred, ‘which one of these two do you want?’
He laughed. ‘Now you’re starting to come around, kid. I’ll have Stephanie.’
‘Which one is that?’
He pointed to Stephanie.
‘Excellent. Give me Darlene’s number.’
‘Danielle,’ he corrected me, and gave me the number.
‘I’ll be right back,’ I said, and went outside. I texted Danielle the following poem:

My darling Danielle
Your big tits are swell
But no amount of titty
Will ever make you pretty
And the truth of the matter
Is you’ll get older and fatter
Ain’t life a drag
When big boobies sag

[Editor's Note: Don't give up your day job dude.]

I went back in and sat drinking quietly. The barmaid came around collecting glasses and Henry snapped his fingers at her again.
‘Excuse me darling, could you get me another bottle of champers?’
‘Actually you’ll have to get it at the bar,’ she said.
‘Aw come on darling. With an attitude like that you’ll never make any money,’ he said, and handed her a bunch of twenties. She rolled her eyes and took them.
‘Third bottle Harry? You decided to do some real drinking?’ I asked.
‘No, it’s Danielle. All of a sudden she’s pouring it down.’
She did look quite dejected, and I almost felt bad. Obviously not a poetry fan.

The barmaid came back with the champagne and set it down without a word. As she walked off Harry smacked her on the arse and gave me a wink. I didn’t wink back. I took a drink and tried not to lose my patience. Then Pocket Billiards came on stage and ripped into their first song.
‘Oh they’re like Madness!’ he shouted in my ear. And that did it. I don’t know why because it’s not an entirely unreasonable thing to say, but I lost it. I stood up and grabbed him by the shirt.
‘Madness?’ I said. ‘This. Is. REAL SKA!’ And then I booted him in the chest, knocking him clean off his chair.
Naturally my little outburst attracted some attention, but the bouncers didn’t throw me out. I was confused at first, then I noticed the barmaid having a word with one of them, and somehow she convinced them to turf Harry out! As they dragged his bloated carcass off the two dames were suddenly very interested in me.
‘That was hot,’ said Stephanie.
‘Sorry tits,’ I said. ‘Not interested’
I headed over to the bar to get a drink and to ask the barmaid if she would let me buy her a drink some time.
‘I’ll have another Jack, please. No ice. And uh…’
She looked at me expectantly.
‘Uh, I’ll have a Becks as well.’
Well shit, this isn’t some crazy fantasy world I’m talking about!

As a white man, I can’t dance for shit. I enjoy anything that helps me forget this fact. Like whiskey, or being asleep. Sometimes, though, all I need to forget is music so good, whether or not I’m any good just doesn’t fucking matter. To quote Aerosmith, you gotta move, man. Pocket Billiards play that sort of music. Blisteringly upbeat, happy sounding music which fucking requires that everyone in the room pogo up and down and kick their feet. And that is just what everyone in The Empire did. It’s a rare thing, and a pure joy to be a part of. Locked off from a world that has no knowledge of this little room full of sweaty people dancing the night away. The sort of crowd where even a dopey eejit like me can join in without fear of ridicule. Once it started it didn’t stop, save for the occasional swig of beer to keep the buzz going. I can’t urge you enough to experience it for yourself. Pocket Billiards are fucking awesome. You could buy the album – it’s excellent – but you really should see these guys live. It’s about the most fun you can legally have in a public place.

Harold hasn’t been heard from since. We are assuming the deal to take over Bandwidth is off, after he deleted Will from his Facebook friends list.

‘Cash rules everything around me
Cream, get the money
Dolla’ dolla’ bill ya’ll’

C.R.E.A.M – Wu Tang Clan.

I am not a film snob. This should come as no shock to anyone who read my ravings about Piranha 3D, but I still feel the need to assert this point, because people so often mistake taste for prejudice. I don’t dismiss a film, or anything for that matter, for being low-brow. Low-brow is just fine. And so is high-brow. And so are brows of average height. Despite this though, I do have opinions about movies and literally until today, I could never quite generalise what it is about the movies I don’t like that makes me… not like them. And then it struck me. Lightning, that is. Zapped me clean out of my fucking shoes and deposited me in the gutter outside a bar. When I came around my face was charred and my hair was standing on end and by God if there was ever a time when a man’s nerves needed calmed, it was right after every nerve ending in that man’s body was just jangled loose by a few thousand volts from the sky. So I went in to the bar and sat down. The bartender gave me a funny look, which I put down to my looking like I just tried to dig a piece of wheaten bread out of a toaster with a fork.

‘What’ll be be?’ he asked.
‘Give me a Midleton. Double,’ I said. I figured a near death experience justified a little extra expenditure. Plus I still wasn’t sure that I wasn’t going to die at any moment, and I wanted my last drink to be something good. He gave me a look that said he was impressed and poured it for me. I took a sip and smacked my lips. Lovely. And that’s what did it. That’s when I realised what it is that sets some things apart from others.

Midleton is a rare Irish whiskey, which retails at about £90 a bottle and and it is, to be blunt, the dogs bollocks. But expensive is irrelevant in matters of quality. If the only thing that mattered about movies was how much they cost, James Cameron would be the greatest director of all time. As you can see here, I don’t think that at all. And the fact that it’s rare isn’t the thing either. Sure, there are lots of films that no one has ever heard of that are awesome, but there are lots of movies as ubiquitous as my beloved Jack Daniels, and I love them just as much. What it is, I decided, is intent. Maybe motivation is a better word. Whatever the ‘thing’ in question is, the aspect that most dictates its quality is the motivation, or intent, of the person making it. This is not a revelation I am willing to take full credit for, since what I’m essentially getting at is the well known idea that commercialism never produces anything of quality. I will take it a little further, though, and say that even if the motivation is not monetary, it might still produce shit. When Paranormal Activity 2 came out I did not think ‘Cool, there’s a sequel to that movie I liked,’ I thought ‘Oh look, a cash-in on that movie I liked. Bet it’s not as good.’ And I was right. The sequel is actually well-made. It’s not a travesty. But the magic is gone, and it’s just not as good. And the reason is, the motivation for that movie was, simply, money. When the studio saw how much money the first film made, we were GUARANTEED a sequel because they were GUARANTEED to make money off it. That’s called cashing-in, and as much as I hate it, I accept it as a way of the Hollyworld, and try not to let it annoy me too much. It’s the same reason Tesco value scotch is fucking horrid and Johnny Walker Black is delightful. Intent. Motivation. Sure, Johnny Walker wants to make money selling his whiskey, but his intent when making the whiskey is to make a good whiskey. And he knows if he succeeds, people will buy it and make him money. Tesco doesn’t give a shit about making good whiskey. Tesco just wants to make money. And Tesco knows there are enough people out there who either have no sense of taste, or are too flat broke to be concerned with buying good whiskey. They know if they just make it cheap and sell it cheap, people will buy it. Well studios in Hollywood are very similar to Tesco. They control almost everything, and most of the people working there are fucking idiots.

[Editor's Note: Says the guy who works in a chocolate shop.]

However, this premise does not cover the films that are not made just to turn a profit, and still suck. Again, it comes down to intent. Think about all the times you have seen someone try to be funny and fail miserably.

[Editor's Note: Let me just scan back through the This Is Not A Review archive.]

Chances are, the person was ‘trying too hard’. Really what the person was doing was saying something in the hope that by making people laugh, those people would like him/her. The person’s intent was wrong. If the person tried to make the joke good, the way they try to make good whiskey at Midleton, the joke, like the whiskey, would speak for itself. Same goes for movies. If the people making a film are accomplished but ‘trying to hard’ – to impress people, or to win awards, or whatever – the film will probably suck. And this is the revelation that came to me: the intent is what dictates the outcome.

[Editor's Note: I hate to sound like a nine year old but, 'Duh!']

This is not actually as obvious as it sounds, but it explains so much. It explains how people with great voices can go on X-Factor, win legions of fans, sell millions of records, and never once come close to performing – much less writing – a good song. It explains why established, respected actors and directors very often make terrifically shitty movies. It explains why nearly every time you go to see a sequel you come out thinking ‘It just wasn’t as good.’ Of course there are exceptions, as people so often love to point out in these cases. I can almost hear some motherfucker shouting ‘what about Godfather Part 2?’ but the rule holds for so many examples it would be hard to argue against. It even explains why there are so many people who are total fucking assholes and yet, lots of people seem to like them. They are liked because their intent is to be liked, not because they are genuinely good people. Movies like Saw 3D get to be number one in the box office, not because they are genuinely good movies, but because they were made with the intent of selling lots of tickets.

This revelation, like so many I have, boils down to one simple, irrefutable fact about life: people are fucking stupid. The majority has no fucking taste, it’s a fact. Dickheads have friends and shitty movies make lots of money. There’s no changing it. But don’t add to the problem. Don’t be like these people. Mediocrity sails a ship flying red flags and if you learn to spot them you can avoid the crap and go straight for the quality stuff. Next time you see a movie trailer, take a second to think about the intent. Eight times out of ten you will realise the only motivating factor for the film being made was to sell you a fucking cinema ticket. The other two times though, that’s when someone just might have set out with only one goal in mind – to make the best movie he/she possibly can – regardless of how popular it will be.

That’s when the magic happens, folks, and when it does, it makes all the soulless, commercial horseshit bearable. Even soulless, commercial horseshit of this magnitude…

No matter what they tell you, the people who made this film were NOT trying to make a good documentary. At best they were trying to make money. At worst they were trying to make people like me find a shotgun and take the easy way out.

Not only was I supposed to find a gig to review this week, I was left to organise my own date too, like some sort of amateur. Will is huffing with me after he got into some trouble on a night we went out boozing. There is only a certain number of times a bouncer can hear, ‘How about a date baby? Fifty quid.’ before he will reasonable assume the man saying that is a down on his luck gigolo, and turf him out of the bar. Will was being rather unclear, of course, because he was actually offering the fifty, to go on a date with me, for this article. Either he was too drunk to explain himself properly or the bouncers just weren’t listening, but he got thrown out rather roughly and for some reason he is holding it against me, of all people!

[Editor's Note: That's because you bought him four shots of tequila, bet him he couldn't get you a date and then pretended you didn't know him when the bouncers threatened to throw you both out.]

That’s true! Will still owes me a tenner for that bet…

Anyway I sent him a rather fetching scarf to apologise for the mix-up but he obviously hasn’t got it yet because he hasn’t phoned to thank me, and he never bothered his arse setting up a date. So I found myself sitting in a coffee shop, hoping for a major natural disaster on Friday so people won’t notice that I haven’t posted anything. Then the waitress came over and changed all that. She was beautiful, and she just walked into my life right when I needed her. It had to be fate. Shit, maybe she was even the one.

‘Would you like to see the menu?’ she asked.

How thoughtful! There I was just wanting a coffee and she was offering me food.

‘Just a black coffee please,’ I said.

‘Sure,’ she said, and before she left she smiled at me. Let me repeat that. She smiled at me. The last time a girl smiled at me I was taking a photo of her and her boyfriend on her camera, and I’m pretty sure that doesn’t count. This was different though. This was a special smile. A secret smile. Like that Semisonic song. I realised I was probably in love and told myself to keep calm. ‘Be like Don, be like Don,’ I said over and over in my head; my most powerful play it cool mantra. She came back with my coffee and set it down.

‘Enjoy,’ she said, and smiled at me again. Twice in a row – there was no mistaking it. I took a sip of coffee and I can honestly say it was the most delicious cup of coffee I have ever tasted. A beautiful woman with those sort of barista skills is a rare thing indeed. I could feel everything turning around. I hadn’t just found a date, I had found my life partner. She would look after me and smile at me and make me delicious coffee and I’d never have to listen to another blues song as long as I lived. This will be my year! Like that Semisonic song. Then I realised I was getting ahead of myself, and I before I could marry her I would have to actually ask her out. Shit. I wasn’t even in a bar where I could have gotten some liquid courage. I was going to have to do it sober. Maybe one more cup will help, I thought. So I finished off my first cup and when she came around again with her smile, I ordered another.

Time passed. I’m not sure how long, exactly, only that drank a lot of coffee and I had been pissing a lot, and I wasn’t the only one who noticed. The old man at the table next to me tried to convince me I needed a prostate exam, and went into some detail about his own most recent one. I put my earphones in and he seemed to take the hint. Sinatra would put me in the right mood. When she came around again I took the earphones out.

‘What are you listening to?’ she asked. Then I heard Frank’s voice, just as clear as any of the other voices in my head.

‘She’s interested in you kid, now’s your chance.’

‘Frank Sinatra,’ I said. ‘Do you like him?’

‘Um, no, not really,’ she said.

‘Fuck her kid, this chick’s got no class.’

‘Shut up Frank,’ I said, before I realised I was speaking out loud.

‘What?’

‘Oh, nothing…’

‘I think you’ve had enough coffee,’ she laughed.

‘He has a swollen prostate,’ said the old man sitting next to me. I just looked at the old codger, speechless. What a dick!

‘Oh… sorry,’ she said.

‘I don’t have a swollen prostate,’ I said. ‘Just a regular size. Everything on me is just regular size.’

‘Ha! Good line kid, keep talking yourself up.’

‘Shut UP Frank!’

She looked a little nervous now, and I realised I was not making a good impression. My hands were jittering. Too much fucking caffeine. Work better on whiskey.

‘So, can I get you anything else?’ she asked.

‘Just the bill, please,’ I said. She gave me a concerned smile and went off to get the bill.

‘My name’s not Frank,’ said the old fart.

I got up to pay the bill.

‘That’s fourteen pounds worth of coffee,’ she said, laughing.

‘Okay kid, now’s your chance. You gotta come clean. Tell her you’re nervous and you just sat here all day drinking coffee trying to work up the courage to ask her out. She’ll think it’s cute. It’s not, it’s pathetic, but it might work.’

And I almost did. But instead I just gave her fifteen and told her to keep the change. She smiled at me again, but I saw the smile with different eyes, so I just smiled back and left for the bar.

It took me three pints of Guinness to calm my shaking hands, and I spent the whole time drinking them looking at myself in the mirror behind the bar, wondering how I never noticed how fat my face is. I was starting to get depressed, so I switched to whiskey. After a few of those The Lee Hedley Band started their set, and my ears perked up a little bit. Turns out it was just what I needed. They’re kind of a rockin’ soul band, a la The Commitments, and I felt my blues starting to melt away with each successive song. They rocked through a whole bunch of covers and got plenty of people up dancing. With the day’s miserable defeat lingering in my memory I didn’t try to boogie with any of the hot older women, though, despite Frank’s urgings. I did do a fair bit of singing along, which is something, considering how low my mood was when I arrived at the bar. Put it down to whiskey, if you will – you’d be right – but it’s also the infectious energy the band plays with. There’s just no denying it. You should check ‘em out – Friday nights at The Kitchen Bar, or just look for upcoming gigs on their website.

When the barman called last orders I had a dopey, shit-hammered smile on my face. Closing time. Just like the Semisonic song. I ordered one final pint and got up to watch the last of the dancers, still dancing to the songs on the jukebox. I like to think I had a drunken epiphany about life at that moment, but to be honest I don’t even remember getting home, so don’t ask me what it was.

Artwork by Will McConnell

‘I like it all man, all or nothing
I’m all in, even when I’m bluffing
I like the country, when I go to town
I get real gone when I’m hanging around.’

Supersuckers: I Like It All, Man.

I was doing some writing in my favourite coffee shop when I got the regular phone call from Johnny.
‘What’s it to be this week?’ I asked.
‘Something a little different this week. I have arranged to have a local music reporter interview you for their magazine and in exchange we get to publish the interview too.’
‘I don’t follow.’
‘You don’t have to write anything this week, just do the interview and they’ll send you a copy. You just post it on Friday like you normally would.’
‘How in the name of hell does that qualify as a This Is Not A Review article? I have a fucking fan base man. There are expectations!’
‘Well I’m sure your fan base will be delighted to read an in depth interview with you. Find out a little bit about the man behind the… the…’
‘Legend?’
‘No, not legend. I was definitely not thinking legend. Anyway it’s not up for discussion, be at the office tomorrow at three.’
‘Three? Great, I’ll miss Countdown for this. Any other bullshit you want to throw at me.’
‘Yes, actually. The reporter wears an eye patch. Do not make any jokes about it.’
‘What sort of person do you take me for, making fun of the visually challenged?’
‘I’m serious Ian.’
‘Aye aye, matey,’ I said, and he hung up on me. I decided to give up on writing for the day and went to Katy’s for a pint.

After my third I realised it was going to be a fairly serious session and ordered up some food. Then I started in on the whiskey and before I knew it, they opened Spring and Airbrake and The Limelight. I heard Blink 182 playing in The Limelight, got nostalgic, and walked towards the music…

SCENE MISSING
CUT TO: The next day.

When the paramedics shook me awake Will was standing over me and there were a couple of cops in the room, talking quietly to each other. I looked around and realised I was in Will’s office. The next thing I realised was that my shoes were missing.
‘Shit, my shoes have been stolen! Is that why the police are here?’
‘Your shoes are on my desk,’ said Will.
‘Thank God for that, they cost a fortune,’ I said.
‘You took them off and vomited into one of them,’ he said, and there was no emotion in his voice.
‘Are you feeling all right son?’ asked one of the paramedics.
‘I could use a beer,’ I said, sitting up.
‘Yep, he’s alright,’ he said to Will. ‘Get him a cup of coffee and a couple of aspirin. He’ll be grand.’ And with that the paramedics left.
‘I like that guy,’ I said, ‘he’s got his head screwed on.’ Will just stood there glaring at me. ‘Did you hear him? He said get me a coffee.’ I think at that point Will was going to strike me, but luckily one of the policemen spoke up.
‘Good luck with him,’ said the cop, ‘nothing more for us to do here.’
I put my hand in my coat pocket, looking for my wallet to see what the damage was, and found the pocket full of jelly.
‘What the shit…’ I said, to no one in particular.
‘Thank you officer,’ said Will. ‘Sorry to waste your time.’ The policemen left and it was just Will and me in the room. And that’s when he hit me. Right in the face.

It’s a long story so I won’t bore you with the details, and at this point I should point out that all of this is pure hearsay.

[Editor's Note: Bollocks!]

It seems I got a bit drunk and rather than go home, broke into the Bandwidth building and went to Will’s office to fall asleep. The police were called by the girl who came to open up and they found me passed out on Will’s sofa, one of my shoes full of red vomit and placed neatly next to Will’s laptop. Fearing that I had puked up blood and may die, they called the paramedics, who identified the red vomit as regurgitated jello-shots, evidence of which were found, mysteriously, in my coat pocket. And you know the rest. I came around about five minutes after Will socked me in the nose, donned my one empty shoe, and got the hell out of there.

Ever the professional, though, I breezed back in to the office at 2.55pm, completely cleaned up and buzzing on Red Bull. I caught Will apologising to some dude with an eye patch and interrupted them.
‘I’ll take it from here Will. I imagine this must be the fellow looking to know more about me.’ I grabbed the man’s hand and walked him quickly away from Will, who looked like he might hit me again. ‘Nice to meet you sir, I’m Ian.’
‘Um, Jack,’ he said, looking me up and down.
‘Ah, one-eyed Jack! Excellent!’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Why did you fart? Ha ha! Never mind man, never mind. Have a seat.’ He took a seat and I sat down opposite him. I noticed Will lingering nearby. He had his head in his hands.
‘Are you okay? You’re very pale,’ said Jack.
‘I’m nervous Jack, I’ll admit that right away. This is a big deal for me. An opportunity to dispel the myths, let everyone know the real Ian, you know?’ I held up a jittery hand. ‘Look, positively shaking with excitement.’
‘I can see that,’ he said.
‘Really? Even from this angle?’
‘What?’
‘Nothing man, nothing! Fire away, first question sir!’
He took out a little digital voice recorder and clicked it on. ‘Okay Ian, I’ll be blunt. Frankly in local journalism circles, you’re a joke. No formal experience, a degree in film of all things, and writing so peppered with profanity you could never hope to write for a major publication. Aside from that, though, you having nothing but praise for every act you see. No sense of criticism whatsoever, just obsequious drivel. What do you say to that?’
I looked at him very carefully for a minute. Will’s face was no longer in his hands. People around us had stopped to listen in. Everything was silent. I reached into my back pocket, took out my hip flask and had a long pull of whiskey. The shaking in my hands settled a little, and I looked him dead in the eye.
‘To that, Jack, I say fuck you.’ There were a few gasps around the room, and as the news spread people started coming from around the office to see the confrontation.
‘How very imaginative,’ he said with a pretentious smile.
‘I’m not done yet sunshine. Shit, I haven’t even started yet.’ I stood up, took another swig of whiskey and stepped up onto the coffee table to address my audience. ‘To that, Jack, I say this…’

I know what I like. I like Guinness and Mad Men and lemon meringue pie and classic Hollywood. I like my coffee black, I like my bourbon neat, I like my steak bloody, and I like my women curvy. I like lying on the ground watching the stars, I like long walks on the beach and I like 99p cheeseburgers. I like books, movies and music, and that’s as far as I ever narrow it down. I’ll read anything that’s well written. I’ll watch anything that moves me – to laughter, or tears, or involuntary shouts of ‘fuck yeah!’ And I’ll listen to anything that’s played with some fucking feeling. I don’t care if it’s classical or hip-hop or metal or blues, all I ask is that it comes from the heart and it is played with some balls. So when I come away from every show with nothing but positive comments it’s not because I don’t know how to form an opinion, it’s because I haven’t yet been to a show where the band half-assed it, and when the music is honest, the music is good. Of course I have certain tastes, but beyond that I have a genuine appreciation for hearing original music played by talented people and my personal preferences never affect that. My philosophy is, if it makes you move, dance to it. I’m not kissing ass when I tell you to check out a local band. If I don’t like something I just won’t mention it because I don’t see the benefit to shitting on something just because I didn’t like it. I’ll recommend the good stuff and not recommend the bad stuff. Do not think of me as a critic. Think of me more as a friend with a reliable ear, occasionally recommending bands or artists you might enjoy. I am not a critic. This is not a review.

I stopped and surveyed the now crowded room, hoping like hell someone would start a slow clap, but the clap never came. I got down off the table and had a quick nip at the flask. Jack had a bewildered look on his face.
‘Ready for the second question?’ he asked.
‘We’re done here Jack,’ I said, ‘you can turn the recorder off.’ He sighed and pressed the stop button. ‘Make sure to send me a copy of that,’ I said, ‘that speech was fucking gold and I don’t remember a word of it.’
He stood up and started packing his things. ‘Sure, I can copy it onto CD for you,’ he said.
‘Course you can Jack, you look like you know a thing or two about piracy, eh? Heh heh.’

And the one eyed bastard socked me right on the nose.

Will called me to ask what the next article was going to be on. I told him I was going to see Seasick Steve, but there wasn’t going to be much of an article because there was no way I would be able to find a girl who is into the blues. Maybe I could change the name of the column and actually start writing reviews. This Is A Review doesn’t sound too bad, I thought.
‘Bullshit,’ said Will, ‘the only reason people read your stuff is to to hear about you going out and making even more of a tit of yourself than the last time you went out and made a tit of yourself. Your life is a train wreck.’
‘Shit Will, that’s kinda harsh. Even for you.’
‘So sing me a blues song.’
[Editor's Note: Ha! I fucking LOVE Will!]
‘I’ll find you a date,’ he said, and hung up the phone. And he did.

I spent all day Sunday eating fiery hot chilli and drinking beer. Then I went to the gig and found out there had been a chilli fest on at Custom House Square that very afternoon and I could have saved myself two hours of cooking if I’d just gone to it. I also could have seen Hayseed Dixie again, and put one of the public toilets out of commission, instead of my own. Oh well, you live and learn…

I got to the marquee nice and early to make sure I was there before Brody, whom Will assured me was ‘rock n roll through and through’ and ‘absolutely certain to find you pathetic’. I really don’t know what I could have done to make him hate me so much. Anyway I was feeling a bit queasy after overdoing the chilli and every time I saw someone fill their face full of meaty hotness my stomach lurched. I decided to pour some whiskey on it, in the hope of settling the poor bugger down. Beer was not an option, for two reasons. I had been swilling the stuff all day, and all they were serving was Coors Light. I once heard it said, ‘People who like light beer don’t like beer, they like to pee.’ I have my own slight variance on the saying: ‘People who like light beer don’t know shit.’ Anyway the Bushmills was going down easy, despite being served in pint cups, so I had a bunch of those. They did nothing to settle my guts, but as I got drunker that became less of a concern. Then Brody arrived and all concern of any kind disappeared the way the whiskey seemed to when they poured it into one of those giant pint-sized Coors cups.

[Editor's Note: Did you just use the adjective 'pint-sized' to mean large?]

Will was right – she was rock n roll. And beautiful. And she liked the blues. After noticing this I gradually started to see other hotties around. A lot of them. I realised I have been misguided all this time. Beautiful women love the blues! I took a hit of whiskey, looked up at the tent’s fairy-light ceiling and realised I was having the best night of my life. Brody got a pint, which was fine because dames can drink whatever they want, and we started chatting about the blues. And boy, she liked to chat. Usually I’m a quiet guy, but I could have chatted to her for hours. She talked excitedly about how the blues is a misunderstood genre because everyone thinks it’s just a bunch of sad guys singing about being sad, when really a lot of blues songs are about being happy, or being in love, or making love.

‘Especially making love,’ she said, with a grin that would have stiffened a dead flower. I fell in love right there as Steve took the stage and the cheers went up and the feet came down, stomping Steve’s signature thumping rhythm. ‘Let’s get to the front!’ she shouted, dragging me by the hand. I allowed myself to be dragged and as Steve started to blast away I was overcome with fucking awesomeness. That’s what Seasick Steve sounds like. He sounds like fucking awesome. The rocking floorboards were getting to me though, giving me the blues in all the wrong places, so I reluctantly pushed my way back through the sweaty stompers to the less crowded middle ground of the tent. I got another whiskey and spent the rest of the show spending half my time trying to catch a glimpse of Steve, and the other half trying to catch a glimpse of Brody. The former was much easier, especially when he got up to rock his diddly-bo all over the stage. He kept the awesome level turned to eleven all night, and being such a genuinely down to earth guy, had plenty of interaction with the audience. Then he outdid himself in both the ‘awesomeness’ and ‘audience interaction’ stakes, hopping down off the stage into the front row. When he got back up into sight he had a girl with him. I know where you think this is going – it was Brody, right? Nope, it was just some dame. But if you think every broad in that place, Brody included, wasn’t wishing like hell it was her up there you’re nuts, because Steve then proceeded to fucking serenade her. This man has so much cool you could steal all you could carry and he wouldn’t even notice. But how the hell could I ever hope to follow that? I gave it up.

When the gig finished there was a hiving mass of women around Steve, getting autographs and kisses and other souvenirs of having been in his presence. I assumed Brody was among them and sulked off by myself feeling like I’d been kicked in the balls. Some things just aren’t meant to be. As a wise man said, ‘I guess things happen that way.’ Shit, JC, at least I’ve still got country music…

A few weeks ago Will called a board meeting. I had been drinking since noon and showed up late with a serious case of the beer munchies.
‘What’s this bollocks?’ I asked, digging around in a pile of mini sandwiches with the crusts cut off. ‘Where are the scotch eggs and cocktail sticks with bits of cheese and pickle on them?’
‘Just take a seat please Ian,’ said Will, ‘you’re holding us up.’ I piled a bunch of cucumber sandwiches onto a paper plate and sat down. ‘Okay folks,’ started Will, ‘it’s been a long day so I won’t keep you long…’
‘What, no coffee?’ I interrupted, a little bit of chewed up bread shooting out of my mouth.
‘Jesus!’ said Will, and pressed the buzzer on his desk. ‘Madeleine can you get Ian a cup of coffee please?’ They carried on with the meeting and I tucked into the sandwiches, not paying much attention. Until Madeleine came in, that is. She’s Will’s new PA, and she’s pretty hot. Unfortunately I was in Mickey Rourke mode, and Mickey Rourke mode only ever really works for Mickey Rourke. She had a tray with my coffee on it.
‘How do you like it?’ she asked. I grinned.
‘The question, darling, is how do you like it?’ Everyone stopped talking and looked at me like I had just cut a fart. Madeleine looked uncomfortable, and I recognised that I had crossed some imaginary line.
‘I take it black, sugar,’ I said. She plopped a couple of sugar cubes into the cup and handed it to me. ‘Jesus, no!’ I screamed, ‘I meant I take it black. Sugar. I was calling you “sugar”. It’s an affectionate name for attractive women!’ She looked genuinely upset.
‘Oh, I’m sorry Ian. I’ll make you a new cup.’
‘No!’ shouted Will, ‘Just fuck off Ian, you’re holding us up. I don’t even know how you knew about this meeting. I didn’t invite you.’
‘Well I never!’
‘Don’t start with the drama Ian.’
‘No, don’t you worry William. I know where I’m not wanted.’ I stood up and put a couple of Kit-Kats in my pocket. I walked to the door and turned back to face the room. ‘By the way? Your cucumber sandwiches fucking SUCK!’ There were a few gasps and Madeleine ran out in tears. I guessed she must have made the sandwiches. Everyone just glared at me until I finally turned to go.

‘Okay, finally…’ said Will. I jogged back in.
‘Sorry, I forgot my phone,’ I said over a chorus of sighs. I went to my seat and started looking around. It wasn’t there. I looked under a couple of sandwiches. Not there either. ‘Shit, it’s gone!’ I shouted. ‘Everyone look under your seats!’ From across the table Sharon butted in,
‘How could it be under my seat?’
‘Just look under your fucking seat Sharon!’ Everyone started searching. ‘If it doesn’t show up I want a bag search. I’ve been fucking robbed!’ I shouted.
‘Shut up Ian, I’ll ring it,’ said Will. He rang it. Captain Sunshine by Neil Diamond started playing.
‘Is that coming from your pocket Ian?’ asked Will. It was.
‘Yep… False alarm folks. Carry on.’ I went out to console Madeleine.

She was at her desk, still sobbing. ‘I didn’t mean it Madeleine,’ I said, ‘I was trying to hurt Will, not you.’
‘Forget about it,’ she said.
‘No really, the sandwiches were really nice. I had like six of them.’
‘Really?’ she asked, her bottom lip still quivering.
‘Really,’ I said, and she finally smiled. ‘Let me make it up to you?’ I asked.
‘How?’
‘I’m going to see Fame for the next This Is Not A Review. You want to come with me?’
‘Seriously?’ she asked, unsure.
‘Seriously. If you want to.’
‘Yeah, definitely. I love musicals!’
‘Cool,’ I said, feeling the spirit of Mickey returning. ‘Now how about that cup of coffee?’
‘Oh, sure,’ she said, getting up. I gave her a playful smack on the arse and she giggled as we headed off towards the staff kitchen.
‘Can I make a suggestion, Madeleine?’
‘Okay.’
‘Next time I get invited to a staff meeting, can you make some of those cocktail sticks with little cubes of cheese and pickled onions on them?’

I arrived at the show early to pick up the tickets I had booked. The lobby was full of kids. I went outside and looked up at the building to make sure I was at the right place. I was. But why would there be kids here? Then it clicked. The performance was organised by Youth Action NI. Youth. Youth means kids. Fuck! I had unwittingly brought a date to a kids show. I might as well have taken her to see a fucking nativity play. I thought about bailing, but I couldn’t do that to Madeleine. She was an emotional wreck after the sandwich incident, God knows what being stood up would do to her. I braced myself and walked back inside, feeling them all looking at me. Judging me. The parents were bad enough, but somehow the children were even worse. I felt like Muslim who had mistaken a BNP rally for a car boot sale. Maybe it would be okay once Madeleine got there, I thought. I only looked suspect because I was alone. And, admittedly, because I was wearing my trench coat and eating dusty jelly beans from my pocket. It would be okay though, I’d look less like a pervert once I actually had someone with me.

Then Madeleine showed up wearing her school uniform. Why me Lord? She gave me a hug and over her shoulder I saw one of the mothers on her phone. I saw images of the police showing up to escort me off the premises and ask what the hell I was doing at a children’s stage play in the company of a school girl. I’d be fucking lynched!
‘Why are you wearing school uniform?’ I asked.
‘Oh sorry, I got held up at school and didn’t have time to change.’
‘You’re still at school?’
‘Yep.’ I almost asked what age she is, then I decided against it. Plead ignorance. That was my only chance. The queue started moving.
‘Why are there so many kids here?’ she asked, and I almost ran away.

Her question was really more pertinent than either of us realised at the time, because the reason for so many kids being there still eludes me. The show was not performed by children at all – just folks young enough that they haven’t developed that dead look in their eyes – and while the musical numbers might have a lot in common with Glee, the material was risqué from the start, and downright lurid by the end. I was caught off guard by the first usage of the F-word and involuntarily shouted ‘YEAH!’. Then there was an innuendo-filled musical number that was practically an ode to boners, during which Madeleine kept giving me accusatory glances. As if I were the one singing about morning wood! Things got really interesting when the class slut got involved in drugs and stripping…

[Editor's Note: Wow. Just wow.]

…and I realised Fame is a whole lot more fun than I expected. It’s such an ambitious show it could have been absolutely crap, but I was honestly quite impressed by the whole thing. The whole cast was great, the writing made me laugh, and the song and dance numbers were a whole lot more professional than I would have expected. There were also a lot of leggings, which was pleasant, to say the least.

[Editor's Note: Oh for crying out loud!]

It warms my heart that in a country where most people are content to drown in their own inanity in front of Big Brother or The X Factor there are still some artistically minded young people out there willing to put a lot of effort into producing a proper fucking show. And doing a damn good job of it, I might add. Keep an ear to the ground for future performances by Youth Action NI, they’re a talented bunch of young’uns.

Madeleine had work that evening, so after the show I walked her back to the Bandwidth building. We stopped at the entrance.
‘You want to come inside for a coffee?’ she asked. I looked at her standing there in her uniform, with her innocent smile that knew nothing of disappointment, heartache, or morning wood, and I decided to do the honourable thing, and let her smile stay that way for at least a little while longer.
‘No, I think I better get going. I’ll see you around the office, I’m sure,’ I said. I shuffled off to the bar, my self pity mocked by the Fame theme song, which kept rattling around in my head. I was consoling myself that I did the right thing over a pint when my phone buzzed. It was a text from Will: Dude Madeleine’s at work in her school uniform! Giggity giggity giggity! I ordered up a double and took a melted Kit-Kat out of my pocket. I took a bite and, realising I am destined to be alone forever, I decided a couple of things. I don’t want fame, and I sure as shit don’t want to live forever.

Guest artwork by Ian Shearer!

‘If you’ve got enough courage to make porno films go ahead and be creative about it. You’ve jumped the chasm here. “We’re gonna film people fuckin’ and suckin’.” Cool. Now go crazy, you already made the jump. You are within the dark lord’s terrain at this point. There’s no reason to get coy.’

Bill Hicks

Finally I feel like someone up there has been listening to my prayers. Actually a lot of my prayers are so lurid I very often hope there’s no one listening, but in this case I really feel like there might be a few other people in this lonely world who are actually singing from the same hymn sheet as me.

Horror movies took a strange turn somewhere along the way. There has always been a certain type of horror film maker whose only goal, it seemed, was to push the boundaries of violence and gore. For a long time, though, these guys were working on an almost underground level, churning out piss poor, straight to VHS (yeah, that long ago) movies that were always either about cannibals or zombies. Then some suit in Hollywood realised the box office potential of seeing a woman get her face blow-torched off, and guys like Eli Roth got their big break. Guys like Alexandre Aja, who directed Piranha 3D.

I have to admit it, I’ve ever been much of a gore-hound. I love horror movies, and I can buy the whole roller coaster analogy about enjoying the sensation of being frightened in what is essentially a safe, controlled environment. I also enjoyed the fact that horror movies shared my fascination with completely extraneous shower scenes, or indeed any sort of scene that involved titties. What I could never understand, though, was why anyone would enjoy watching bleak, explicit torture scenes for a couple of hours. Or indeed how that sort of violence came to pass for horror. Don’t bother with a scary story, or silly things like suspense, just give some hack with a history of unresolved bullying issues a pen and paper and let him come up with the sickest shit that will pass the censors. Sorry dude, no dice. I’ve got nothing against gore, but I like my horror movies with boobs-a-plenty, and a good dose of humour. You know, just as a counterpoint to all the guts. Just makes it all more enjoyable, if you ask me.

[Editor's Note: No one asked you.]

Alas, I had all but given up on ever seeing this particular brand of horror movie in the cinema ever again, and then BOOM, like a crumpled fiver in an old pair of jeans I came across Piranha 3D and it cheered me up more than it really should have.

I weighed in on the 3D fad a few months back in this article after being disappointed by Clash Of The Titans. This movie, folks, changes everything. This movie would have been awesome even in regular old 2D. It ticks all the boxes, and does so very self-consciously. Everybody involved knew they were making a low budget turd of a movie about killer piranhas turned loose on a bunch of snotty college kids on Spring Break. What they didn’t do, crucially, was dress the turd up in a little dress and blonde wig and try to pass it off as a fucking Barbie doll. No, they embraced the shittiness of it all. They turned the shittiness to their advantage, and made a terrifically shitty movie. It should come as no surprise that I am a fan of embracing the shittiness, since embracing poor quality, trashy writing is what This Is Not A Review is all about. What is interesting about this film, though, is that 3D has finally found its rightful home. Fuck Avatar, and fuck Sky 3D coming in Autumn. 3D is not the future of cinema. It’s a gimmick, and not even a very good one at that. EXCEPT in the case of Kelly Brook’s breasts.

3D technology was fucking MADE for titty-filled horror movies. It’s a crappy, pointless gimmick designed to hide the very obvious lack of quality in poor films. Horror movies hide their lack of quality behind walls of violence, hilarity and sleaze. Well, now there is a whole new dimension to the sleaze!

[Editor's Note: (face palm)]

And it couldn’t be more perfect for guys like me. Do you know the last time I saw a breast in more than two dimensions? It was two years ago at a life drawing class, which I got ejected from after insisting that I needed ‘a more intimate knowledge of my subject’, who was a 47 year old Russian woman named Greta. You get me? I’m fucking lonely. It gets hard, and not just in the mornings. I know it might not sound like much to you, but even just the illusion of a rack that I could – hypothetically – nuzzle like a tired puppy, is enough to keep me going.

Ah hell, who am I kidding? It’s not enough, but I can’t afford a hooker so for now 3D movies will have to suffice. Piranha 3D is super gory, ultra trashy fun – you will probably enjoy it – even if you aren’t as lonely as I am.

Artwork by Will McConnell.

Ian: I was so stumped this week I seriously considered using the Dave Channel technique…

Readers: Why Ian, whatever do you mean?

Ian: I mean rather than coming up with something new, just doing a re-run!

Readers: (laughter and applause).

Man I’m good…

I had to do some serious thinking about this piece, so I went to a coffee shop and sat, looking very serious, pondering many things about life, love, art and philosophy. After four cups of coffee, though, the only thing I had managed to create was a full bladder, so after a piss that could have bored a hole in a fence I gave up and went to the movies. Inspiration, I decided, would have to wait. Sometimes, though, inspiration comes from the strangest of sources, and this time it came from Tom Cruise’s mighty grin. I went to see Knight And Day, as you may have guessed. Not because I wanted to, but because I have seen the trailer every time I’ve been to the cinema for the past four months and by now, not seeing the film seemed like an impossibility. This might be the most cunning marketing technique ever conceived. Anyway, I came away from the film thinking about Tom Cruise’s big, Hollywood-gnasher filled smile, and how so many people just can’t stand it, or him. He’s like Noel Edmonds in many ways…

[Editor's Note: WHAT?]

…with his mane of impossible hair and that certain je ne sais quoi that just makes people want to throttle him. Well, I don’t mind Tom Cruise and even though it’s total, utter nonsense, I didn’t mind Knight And Day either. It has almost no redeeming qualities whatsoever, except for being rather good fun, and in my humble opinion, sometimes that is enough in this miserable world of ours. I can almost hear you asking, where am I going with this?

[Editor's Note: Actually that's me, telepathically insisting that you get to the point.]

Well, for some reason my mind made a connection between my enjoyment of these shallow blockbuster type movies, and a question someone asked me recently: ‘What are the most embarrassing albums in your CD collection?’ And there you have it – inspiration for this article. But far from apologising for my occasionally questionable taste in music, I am here to proclaim my love for some bands/artists that so many of you music snobs just can’t stand. Will is going to fucking fire me for this.

Nickelback

‘It’s hard to steer when you’re breathing in my ear

But I got both hands on the wheel while you got both hands on my gears

By now, no doubt that we were heading south

I guess nobody ever taught her not to speak with a full mouth’

I don’t want to spend too long on Nickelback because, frankly, I fucking hate them most of the time. I can’t bring myself to join the ranks of the Nickelback haters though, because sometimes I just can’t deny a good rock n roll song. It’s a difficult issue to reconcile because on one hand I can agree that Nickelback are, in fact, balls. On the other hand, songs like ‘Animals’ and ‘Burn It To The Ground’ are fucking kick ass rock songs. And since I care more about how a band sounds than how they look, or act, I have to admit it: sometimes I like Nickelback. And I’m sorry, but I won’t apologise for it.

Exhibit A: Nickelback – Burn It To The Ground

Kid Rock

‘I’m an American Bad Ass

Watch me kick

You can roll with Rock

Or you can suck my dick

I’m a porno flick, I’m like amazing grace

I’m gonna fuck some hoes after I rock this place’

Kid Rock is kinda like Mickey Rourke. Either you think he’s one of the most awesome people walking the planet, or you think he’s a complete douche. The problem is people just don’t seem to get it. Kid Rock loves hip hop but shit, he knows he can’t rap like Jay-Z. He loves country music, but he knows he’ll never be George Jones. He likes rock n roll, and blues and soul and all those things, and knows he’ll never master any of them. He’s not trying. He’s just Kid Rock, and if you don’t like him, fuck you. He likes money and bitches and fur coats and getting drunk, and if you don’t like it? Fuck you again. Say what you want about him, but the Kid is a real fucking rock star.

Exhibit B: Kid Rock – So Hott.

Bon Jovi

‘If the love that I’ve got for you’s gone

If the river I’ve cried ain’t that long

Then I’m wrong

Yeah I’m wrong

This ain’t a love song’

It seems that it is only acceptable to admit to liking Bon Jovi if you are a thirty-something female with a broken heart and all of the Twilight books. I personally think that men are threatened by Jon Bon Jovi because he is every woman’s dream: a total fucking hunk, in touch with his feelings with a great voice and even better hair. Me? I’m so far down the food chain I feel threatened by Kenneth Williams when I watch a Carry On film, so this feeling is fairly redundant to me. The point is, if you take music too seriously to rock out to Bon Jovi that’s cool with me. But I say this with utmost sincerity – without those rock n roll ballads that send most people scrambling for a sick bag, my wee world just wouldn’t be as much fun. And I will love them, aallwwwwaaaaaayyyyysss!

Exhibit C: Bon Jovi – Always

Garth Brooks

‘Operator won’t you put me on through

I gotta send my love down to Baton Rouge

Hurry up won’t you put her on the line

I gotta talk to the girl just one more time’

You think I’m taking the piss now, right? Surely not. Surely this is a sin too far. Ladies and gentlemen, I do not jest. I like Garth Brooks. I understand why people don’t, believe me. The stars n stripes shirt, the sissy little microphone headset, the penchant for flying around the stage as if he was livin’ on a prayer… I get it. But I don’t give a shit. If I tried to pretend I didn’t like him I wouldn’t just be lying to you, I’d be lying to myself. I’d be denying a part of my own soul, damn it! I’m a major country music fan, and of course Garth ain’t got shit on Waylon and Willie, or Johnny, Hank or Merle, but his special brand of all-American soppishness…

[Editor's Note: 'soppishness' is not a word, but it works so well here I’m going to leave it.]

…fills my lonesome heart with joy and makes my two left feet line-dance uncontrollably. God bless old Garth Brooks.

Exhibit D: [Video link deleted by Editor for 'unacceptable levels of soppishness']

Neil Diamond

‘Me and you are subject to

The blues now and then

But when you take the blues

And make a song

You sing ‘em out again

You sing ‘em out again’

Until now I have been a little defensive about my taste, but I’m not budging on this one. Neil Diamond is one of the greatest singer-songwriters of all time, and if you disagree you can fuck off. I pity you unenlightened fools who look upon his sequinned jackets and awesome hair with disdain, for you will never know what you are missing. Namely, some of the most rousing and powerful pop music ever recorded. I can’t even put my love for Neil Diamond into words, because he already has monopoly on verbal expressions of love, and I can’t play piano or guitar.

Exhibit E: Neil Diamond – I Am, I Said

Please use the comments section to admit your unguilty pleasures, or just to cruelly mock me. It won’t faze me – I’ll be playing air-piano and belting out my best version of ‘Hello Again’…

Johnny called me at work to ask if I was going to the Dirty DC gig in the Empire last week.  I told him of course fucking of course, I was going.  He then told me that my usual shtick about getting shitty drunk and rocking out is getting old, and I should at least try and make these things more relevant to the rest of the Bandwidth site.  I told him no problem – all I would need is a backstage press pass and an exclusive interview with the singer from Ajenda and by God I’d write the best piece of local music journalism since whatever Will did last.  He said he’d see what he could do, and put the phone down.  Content that my ingenious and devious plan was in action, I laughed my best ’haw, haw, haw’ sort of evil laugh, and went back to the dishes, since my boss was due back soon.
Before the end of my shift Johnny called back and okayed my idea. He had a date lined up for me, but told me if I wanted to do an interview I’d have to line it up myself.  I almost shat myself with excitement.
‘Hey boss lady,’ I shouted across the shop.
‘Yes Ian?’
‘You can stick your job,’ I said, ’I’m onto a piece that’s gonna break me into the big time!’  I threw my apron at her and stormed out, throwing up the horns at the queue of gob-smacked customers.  Unfortunately my badass exit was spoiled slightly when I had to duck back in again to get my Neil Diamond CD.

The night of the gig I pulled on my dancing boots, had a few crafty slugs of Jack and headed off into town.  When I got to The Empire I realised I had forgotten the list of questions I had prepared for the interview, so I ordered up a shot and a brew and tried to remember what they were.  Looking at them now I realise they wouldn’t have been much help anyway.  In an obvious drunken scrawl it reads COMPLIMENT HER (underlined so heavily in red that I actually scored through the paper), EXAGGERATE POSITION AT BANDWIDTH, and DON’T GET TOO DRUNK.  It then says something about hair, that even I can’t really make out.  My only guess is that it was a memo to myself to get a haircut.  Anyway as tends to happen, one shot and a brew became two, and then three, before I went upstairs to the music hall to get a good seat.  Somehow I always arrive at these things either too late to even get near the bar, or so early I have to sit for hours staring at an empty stage.  This night I was early and, unfortunately, that meant more drinking.  I seemed to be drinking alone for a long time before the hall really filled up, and with the support act way overdue I was itching to do some rocking.  I was already head banging half-assedly in my chair to Crazy Nights by Kiss and sneaking glances at a fucking knockout who was… well… propped up on the bar ordering a drink.  Then she caught me looking and gave me a puzzled look.  Bugger.  She got her beer and started walking towards me.  I almost shat myself with fear.  I necked the whiskey and before she could say a word blurted out,
‘Sorry I wasn’t staring at you.  It was the guy behind you.  Looked like he had something… growing out of his head.  It was just his hair.  Which technically is growing out of his head, I suppose, but what I mean was I wasn’t actually looking at your tits.  You, I mean.  Not that your tits aren’t worth looking at.  Just…’
And luckily she cut me off, ‘It’s okay, I don’t wear this top so people will notice my shoes.’  I was speechless, so I took a long pull at my beer.  She didn’t go away.  ‘And since I’m supposed to be here with you, I think it’s okay for you to check out my tits.’  No.  Fucking.  Way.
‘Johnny set you up with me?’ I asked.
‘Yep.’
‘I’m going to kiss that man.  Right on the mouth.’  That made her laugh, and when she giggled, they jiggled, and I almost wept.

When the band finally came on it wasn’t Ajenda at all, but Dirty DC themselves.  I can only guess that something came up, because there was no explanation as to why they didn’t play.  That’s not going to stop me mentioning them, though, because honestly I was as excited to see them as I was to see Dirty DC.  I first saw Ajenda last year at, incidentally, a Dirty DC gig in The Empire.  Since then I’ve been trying to make it to one of their own shows, but something always got in the way.  I really don’t think I have ever been as knocked out by a local band as I was by Ajenda.  Their sound is right up my street – hooky, guitar-driven rock with, crucially, dynamite vocals.  I like a fairly broad range of music but I will always have a soft spot for anything that makes me bop my head and involuntarily form a fist with my right hand.  Shit, I was at an AC/DC tribute gig, this much should be clear.  I was fucking disappointed that I didn’t get to see them again, but I’ll make it to a show some day.  Until then I have their EP, which is excellent, and which you can listen to on their MySpace page.  You can do that right after you finish reading this.  As for Dirty DC, well the best advertisement for them would have been a photo of me after the gig.  But since nobody should ever have to look at a photo of me – especially in that state – I’ll settle for letting you know I was drunk, sweaty, deaf and generally loving life.  As faithful as the band are to AC/DC’s sound, it’s really the energy of the original band that they mimic so well.  It’s no mean feat to match Angus Young for sheer balls out, blistering rocking, but this guy does, and does it well.  And a bunch of dudes having that much fun playing unashamedly simple, badass rock n roll is a joy to behold.  Since they’ve been here two years in a row I’m guessing Dirty DC should be a regular fixture at The Empire.  Next time they’re here, don’t waste your Saturday night in some godforsaken nightclub.  Go and have your balls rocked off.

It was a breath of fresh air, not having to steal covert glances at the chick’s cleavage.

[Editor’s Note: You don’t even know her name, do you?]

[Ian: Don’t interrupt me man, I’m wrapping this shit up.]

The band appeared to take full advantage of her generosity and spent a good amount of time staring themselves.  Angus even gave me a sly wink, acknowledging that he was impressed by my impeccable taste in women.  At the end of the gig the singer kissed her hand and the bassist gave her a pick, which delighted her.  When we parted ways she said we should meet up again some time, but in my drunken, breast-fixated state I didn’t even realise I didn’t have a name or a number.  I’m still waiting on Johnny to get back to me with her contact details.

[Johnny: No way.  Take a look at those rules you wrote for yourself - see what you did wrong.]

Damn it, you’re right.  I still need a haircut.

Forgive the poor quality of this article…

[Editor’s Note: Every one of your articles should start like that.]

… but to be honest it almost didn’t get written at all.  Every time I tried putting pen to paper, for the past six days, the only thing that would come out was romantic poetry about Cara Cowan.  I say romantic poetry, I kind of just wrote out the lyrics to the soppiest Bon Jovi songs while slugging from a bottle of Jack.  But that wasn’t even the main reason.  I heard about this show in the morning of the day it was on, and immediately called Johnny.
‘Johnny I’m going to the gig at the Black Box tonight.  Ever since I saw Cara Cowan on In Stores Now I have wanted to see her live.  It’ll make a good This Is Not A Review, too, which is handy.’
‘That won’t be necessary Ian.’
‘What do you mean not necessary?’
‘I mean we’ve already got a Bandwidth representative covering that show,’ he said.
‘What?  Who?’
‘You don’t want to know.’
‘Well now I REALLY fucking want to know.’
He paused.  ‘It’s Nicola.’
It was my turn to pause.  ‘You’re fucking with me.’
‘Told you you didn’t want to know.  She’s just joined us and she’s got the gig.  I’m sure you’ll think of something else to write about.’  And he just hung up.  I reached for the bottle of whiskey and turned up the Bon Jovi.
Nicola.  The only woman I ever truly loved.  It was a love that was never to be though.  We met when I started working for the Belfast Telegraph, and I knew I loved her from the first time I ever laid eyes on her awesome tits.  Of course she was beautiful too, and seriously, seriously cool.

[Editor’s Note: Ah, that’s why it never worked out between you then…]

But she was with a senior editor at the paper, and I was just a lowly critic.  My angle was to critique entire establishments based on the quality of their toilet facilities.  We hung out a lot and despite the obvious chemistry, our dynamic never got past me telling her about toilets.  Recommending good ones, warning against the bad ones.

[Editor’s Note: How did you know what the ladies’ toilets were like?]

God, it hurts even to think about it now.  It was the happiest time in my life.  But like I said, we both knew it could never happen, and eventually the pain got too much for me and one day I just didn’t go back to work.  I never saw her again since then, and you know the rest.  I moved on to bigger, better things with Bandwidth and tried to forget about her.  And now of all the music sites in all the world, she had to start working for mine.

When I ran out of whiskey, I headed into town.  Most of what followed is just a haze but after getting kicked out of a bar for yammering loudly about how terrible the men’s toilet was, I spent my last couple of quid on a bottle of Bucky and lay down in the gutter to die.  In my dreams I was visited by an old man, whom I assumed to be a ghost from the future.  We had a long, drunken conversation about the situation that culminated in him telling me I had to get up, goddamnit, clean myself up and go to that gig.  It was my final chance for closure.  I came around and realised it was just some old tramp waking me up because I was in his favourite spot.  I handed him what was left of the booze and shambled off.

It was getting late, so I employed the age-old cinematic technique of montage to get home, wash up, shave, put on my finest threads and get to the Black Box on time for the gig, all in the running time of one Foreigner song.  Obviously nobody else there knew about the montage trick, because besides the bands, I was the first person there.

‘That’s five pounds please,’ said one of the women at the entrance.  I handed her a ten, the other one stamped my wrist, and they went back to their conversation.  I stood, awkwardly silent, until they looked up at me again.
‘I think that was a ten I gave you,’ I said.

‘Oh, so it was,’ she said, and gave me back a five.  Then I remembered it was a fundraiser gig and they probably assumed I was being charitable.  Asking for change from a charitable donation, what a classy start to the evening.  I hit the bar and, not wanting to take a table all to myself I stood there like an awkward twat, watching as people trickled in.  I was three drinks in when she swayed in and my heart swelled up so much my chest looked almost as big as hers.  She didn’t notice me, of course, and I stayed in the shadowed corner of the bar, hoping she never would.  Then she did, and came right on over to say hello.  Like nothing had ever happened!  I jabbered a pathetic hello-how-are-ya and almost fucking died when she suggested we sit together.  The music hadn’t started yet and the small talk was painful.

‘So what are the toilers like in here?’ she asked, with a big cheery grin.
‘Pretty good, actually,’ I said.
‘Wow, you usually have more to say about them than that.  How are you gonna fill a review?’
‘I’m not doing the toilet thing any more,’ I said.
‘Oh, what is it you’re doing now?’ I opened my mouth to speak, and the music started.  I looked over at the stage as Cara Cowan started into her first song, and all of a sudden I forgot all about Nicola.

The music scene in Belfast is a sham and a disgrace.  Sometimes, anyway.  People leave here in their droves to sit in a tent in some godforsaken field in Punchestown for the Oxegen festival.  They pay 24 Euro for a mangy burger and crap in port-a-loos for a few days.  They stand in a field full of muck and smelly people.  They do all that, just to see The Black Eyed Peas.  But put on a charity fundraiser with some of the best local bands we’ve got and you couldn’t fill a small room with fat people.  It was kind of a shame, and the room did fill up a bit more as the night went on, but for me it just made Cara’s performance all the more impressive.  I already knew she was original and innovative and has a great voice because I saw her on In Stores Now, so I’m going to assume you know all those things too and I’ll settle for saying hers was the best set of the night.  Which is high praise, because there was some stiff competition.  If you haven’t already heard her music and fallen in love with Cara Cowan, go do it now.  Your life will be better.

Next up was Uber Glitterati, an electropop band whom I really didn’t expect to like as much as I did.  I’m no techno fan.  In fact I know so little about it I don’t even know if techno and electro are the same thing.  Point is, I’m no fan of the genre but even I couldn’t deny the sheer catchiness of their weirdly wonderful sound.  They’re already making waves on the scene, and rightly so.  The following two acts are at a slight disadvantage because by this point in the night I was really, really hammered and don’t remember anything with too much clarity.  The upside is that I like to rock out when I’m pissed, and I remember that the music went down pretty damn well.  Lucky for you, you don’t have to take my word about Kitty And The Can Openers or Jackson Cage because they both have their own spot on In Stores Now too!  Check them both out here, and here.  Is Will’s finger on the pulse of the Belfast music scene or what?  Again, folk-indie bands with pretty female singers just aren’t my speciality, but Kitty And The Can Openers are fucking excellent, simple as that.  Last up was Jackson Cage and, frankly, everything Will said about them is bang on target – they’re just chock full of energy, have a sound very much their own and most important of all – they play the shit out of their songs and have a really great time doing it.  When they closed their set I was genuinely disappointed that the night was over, and not just because that meant the bar was closed.  It was a cool, low-key night with the kind of good vibes and great music you would expect.  It was also for a genuinely worthy cause, which you can help out with here.  As one of the singers very aptly put it on the night, what happened was a fucking shitty thing.  I can’t top that – ‘fucking shitty’ just sums it up – so help out, if you can.

If you can learn anything from this crap I write it is that Will McConnell is a fucking oracle – pay attention to what he says, for he will not steer you wrong – and don’t be a fucking cheapskate.  Pay some money and go see these bands live.  Buy their albums and E.P.s and remind them that what they’re doing is special and worthwhile.  And what about Nicola, I hear you ask?

‘So what about you?’ I asked her during a break between sets.  ‘How come you started working for Bandwidth?’
‘Oh I’m sleeping with Will now,’ she said.  After all the lovely stuff I said about him!  Oh well, I suppose some things never change, so I never did get my closure and I’ll probably just stay hopelessly in love.  In the absence of closure, though, childish satisfaction will do, and as you may have noticed, Will ran my article and not hers.  Either I’m a better writer, or she’s not a very good lay.  Whichever it is, it’s good enough for me.

Anyone who reads this shit on a regular basis…

[Editor’s Note: Ha!  That’s a list I’d like to see.]

… will have noticed that I haven’t been to a gig in a while.  To be honest I’ve been avoiding the Bandwidth building altogether.  Every time I’m in there it’s the same bloody thing from Will: ‘Don’t suppose you’ve got that money you owe me Ian?’  I mean talk about fucking rude.  Anyway I finally ran out of ideas for articles, and with no money to take myself to a gig, I gave in.  So, with my tail between my legs and my best attempt at a sincere expression on my face, I texted Johnny and told him I was resigning.  He must have been in Will’s office because within seconds I got an irate text from him, demanding he get his money back.  I tried to explain to him that that would not be possible, as the 28 day money back guarantee I got with the hot tub was voided when the filters became clogged with sodden Jaffa Cakes.  He didn’t seem to accept this as a valid excuse.
So with sorrow in my heart I went to the bar, ordered up my first shot and brew of the day and tried to zone out in front of the football.  By my third round I was close to broke and even closer to tears, and then I got a text.  It was from my friend Gill, which is strange because the only time she ever texts me is to ask about money I owe her.  This one was different.  ‘Want to go see Pearl Jam on Wed?’ is all it said.  You’re goddamn right I did.
‘You’re goddamn right I do,’ I replied.  Then I remembered she’s a Christian and I might have offended her.  ’Fuck, sorry about that,’ I added, and ordered up another drink.  This was my chance.  I’d write my way back into Bandwidth’s heart with the best This Is Not A Review article they’ve ever read!  Hell, Will might even forget all about that five hundred…

[Will: It’s six motherfucker!]

Wanting to make sure I had an exciting, eventful night so the article would be the best ever written, I decided to get good and loaded before the gig.  Having drank the last of my money in the bar celebrating my good fortune, though, I couldn’t afford any more booze.  I hunted through the house and all I found was half a bottle of peach schnapps and a bottle of Pimms.  Jesus, even I don’t sink that low.  So I went to visit my granddad and stole a bottle of his whiskey.  I laid into it with serious vigour – brought on by my deep-seated loathing of the Odyssey Arena.  The entire complex, in fact, can suck it.  It is without a doubt the most vomitous, scum sucking night spot in all of Belfast.  The only reason I went is that I was so desperate for something to write about, and I rationalised that on a Wednesday night, with a proper rock n roll crowd, it couldn’t be that bad.  The rationalising didn’t help much though, and I arrived with a heart full of hate and a belly full of whiskey.
I was instantly herded into an abattoir-esque queue so the security people could pat me down.  ‘Lucky I put my knife in my shoe,’ I joked to the girl next to me in line.  She looked at me stony-faced.
‘My best friend was stabbed to death,’ she said.  Anyone who knows of a suitable response to this is welcome to let me know in the comments section.  I’ll be fucked if I’m giving up my knife in the shoe joke – I use it all the time!  I just stared blankly at her and shuffled along.
‘Remove your shoes please sir,’ said the security guard.
‘You have got to be kidding me!’  To add insult to injury they took my whole ticket, instead of giving me back the stub, which infuriated me.  Tickets are designed to be ripped, so that each party can retain one half, and losers like me can collect all their tickets from every event they ever go to.  I digress…
Finally inside I located Gill, whom I’m sure is delighted to feature in this article.  I suspect, in fact, that it is the only reason she invited me, because she didn’t even try to act happy to see me.
‘You look drunk,’ was her greeting.
‘How would you know what I look like drunk?’
‘Because I have that picture on my phone of you wearing a nurse’s outfit and a cowboy hat.’  Touché.
‘Well anyway, how come you invited me?’ I asked.
‘Oh you were literally the last person left to ask,’ she said.  And she wasn’t even joking.  I thanked her for her honesty and told her I was off to find the bar.
‘Oh this round’s on me,’ she said.
‘No, I couldn’t possibly…’
‘It’s no problem.’
‘Okay then I’ll have four pints,’ I said.  And I wasn’t even joking.
The joke was on me, though, when she returned with four pints of Harp.  I could have mistaken it for piss but for the temperature, because as everyone knows – it’s not the quality of the beer, it’s how cold you can make it that counts.  I downed the first one and it was so bad I gave the other three away to a couple of hipster chicks, whom Gill informed me looked too young to be in the standing area, let alone be drinking.
‘Lucky the only thing I tried to give them was beer, huh?’ I said.  And that joke went down about as well as the knife in the shoe one.
Gill dragged me to the front, got herself a good space and let me wedge myself between two couples who were none too happy about my intrusion.  One of them was the chick from the queue and her boyfriend.  She gave me a dirty look and tried to move away but the crowd was too tightly packed for anyone other than small chicks with innocent smiles and a complete disregard for common courtesy.  Like Gill, who shouted ‘That’s Ben Harper.  I love him,’ and ducked under some guy’s arm, disappearing into the crowd.  And that was the last I saw of her that night.  She presumably spent the rest of the evening front and centre, gawking at Eddie Vedder.  Ben Harper was the support act, of course, and he was admittedly very good.  If you don’t believe me, check him out for yourself.  Gill’s space was quickly nabbed by the two hipster chicks with innocent smiles, a complete disregard for common courtesy, and three pints of Harp between them.  I considered asking for one of my pints back and couldn’t bring myself to, so I spent the rest of the gig trying to decide whether giving up my good view was worth an over-priced pint of shitty beer and never quite making my mind up.  So I stood there like a thirsty fool, watching the two underage boppers drinking my beer and wondering why the hell I ever bother leaving the house.
Pearl Jam took their time about coming on.  When they did, and Eddie Vedder said something about having a long set planned, I a have to admit my heart sank a bit.  I was already bored of standing, much too sober, and soaked with sweat – only some of which was my own.  It would have been a different matter altogether in a different venue with easy access to a proper bar, which is why I will never go to the Odyssey ever again.  That’s my complaining all done, though, because as for the actual show, I couldn’t fault it.  For some reason I was expecting something rather tame.  What I got was balls out rock n roll.  I obviously underestimated the band because despite the fact that they’ve been doing this for about as long as I’ve been alive, they haven’t lost any of their energy and stage presence.  Eddie wasn’t climbing the rafters, of course, but he still smashed around the stage swilling champagne and interacting with the crowd the way any good front man should.  I can’t help but smile when I see that sort of enthusiasm – obviously a band still enjoying what they’re doing.  The set list was indeed long and pleasantly varied – lots of songs I knew well and lots of ones I’ve never even heard before that were surprisingly badass.  They also dedicated a song to a couple in the audience who just gotten married, and got everyone in the arena to sing Happy Birthday to their producer Brendan O’Brien, which sounds like a bunch of soppy shit but was actually a lot of fun.  I admit it – even though I’ve liked Pearl Jam for years, I didn’t expect to enjoy the show quite as much as I did.  Our wee town isn’t exactly a high profile gig but they honestly put their heart and soul into putting on a damn fine show, and that’s all I ever really ask of a band.  That and strippers, but no band I’ve seen has ever come through with the strippers, so I tend not to hold it against them.
By the time they came back out for the encore I was dying of thirst.  The security guards had been handing out cups of water all night and I had failed to get my hands on one.  When they started floating around again I grabbed for one and, in my excitement, bumped into one of the drunken hipsters, knocking her camera out of her hand.  I necked the water, never having tasted anything so refreshing in my life, and quickly stooped down to pick up the camera.  ‘Look out, he’s got a knife!’ screamed the girl from the queue earlier, and went scrambling off through the crowd leaving her bewildered boyfriend behind.  Luckily Pearl Jam were still blasting away and no one took any notice of her.  I smiled a smug, vengeful smile, and handed the camera back to the hammered hipster honey (Huh? Huh?).

[Editor’s Note: (cringing) Oh my God…]

Almost tearful with gratitude she said ‘Awww, thank y…’ and puked beer all over me.  Amazingly, it was still kind of cold.

With the recent release of the documentary American: The Bill Hicks Story I was tempted to write something about Bill for Bandwidth.  I was hesitant though, thinking I may not be worthy, and also concerned that there just might not be anything left to say about him.  Then Will went to see the movie too and, being a big fan himself, suggested I write something.  And who am I to argue with the boss?  At worst this will be a long winded movie recommended.  At best, I might introduce you to not only one of the funniest stand up comics ever, but one of the best thinkers of our time.

[Editor’s Note: Derisive scoff.]

[Bill Hicks’s spirit: Shut the fuck up!]

Stand up comedy requires some serious balls.  There’s just no place to hide.  No backing music, no second takes, no fellow performers to feed you lines.  Just a microphone, a spotlight, and a pair of balls bigger even than those of Officer Nigger-Hater from Bill’s Arizona Bay CD.  And that’s probably why so many stand up comedians suck.  From the pathetically offensive Jim Davidson to the offensively pathetic Patrick Kielty, a lot of these motherfuckers just aren’t funny.  Even the good ones – Peter Kay, Ricky Gervais and Michael McIntyre – are joke blowers at best.  Those guys are good at what they do, and what they do is make people laugh, but comparing modern stand up comedy to what Bill Hicks did is like comparing Joe Satriani to Jimmy Page.  Joe is a goddamn blistering guitarist, but he didn’t change rock n roll music like Jimmy did.  Like Bill Hicks changed comedy.  His act wasn’t just about making people laugh, it was about spreading truth, no matter how controversial that truth may be.  It was about saying what he wanted to say and not giving a shit what anyone thought about it.  In fact, Bill said it best, when he demanded of musicians: ‘PLAY IT FROM YOUR FUCKING HEART!’

This was not just entertainment.  Bill was not interested in letting you zone out or giving you a cheap chuckle.  In fact, he waged war against the sort of television that did just that.  Bill wanted you engaged, ready to re-evaluate some of your thoughts on life.  And Bill wanted to save our souls – from the government, from religion, from the media, and from ourselves.  But as well as being the thing that set him apart from so many other comedians, this is the very thing that critics of his work deride.  Some people dismissed his philosophy as leftist, acid-induced liberalism.  And some people just don’t like being told that their way of life is fucked.  These people are commonly known as ’Americans’.  Just kidding.  I know a few Americans and they’re all way smarter than I am.  But it’s true that, at least while he was alive, Bill never really found a mainstream audience in America.  He had much more success in the UK, where audiences were (perhaps understandably) more receptive to his America-bashing.  I think he was misunderstood though.  He sure as shit wasn’t a patriot – he made his thoughts on patriotism very clear – but he didn’t hate America.  He didn’t hate people, either, despite often coming across as a cynic and a misanthrope.  He was just disillusioned with how things were going and had his own brand of medicine for it called ‘the truth’.  The problem for most people is, his medicine didn’t come with a spoonful of sugar to help it go down.  It did come with a few dick jokes though.

You know who Socrates was, right?  Yeah, that Greek philosopher dude.  But do you know how Socrates spent most of his days?  Not in his study, staring at the clouds and writing down vague, abstract ideas.  He walked around the agora, talking to the public and asking them open ended questions like ‘What is justice?’  Not because he wanted an answer, but because he realised that most people just don’t think about this stuff.  We’re content to let others worry about that shit and tend to just buy whatever they tell us.  Socrates was having none of that shit.  He went out and challenged people; made them think.

[Readers: You’re not really going to compare Bill Hicks to Socrates, one of the most influential philosophers of all time, are you?]

You’re goddamn right I am.  Sure, Socrates probably didn’t have an alter ego called Goat Boy, who had a penchant for underage girls, but who knows?  The fact is rather than walking the streets talking to strangers, Bill was pacing around a dark little stage, chain-smoking and offering up some new perspectives on life.  He believed, like Socrates did, that people should lead an examined life.  Question things.  In Bill’s own words: ’evolve ideas’.  It might be a little rough and ready, but it’s pure philosophy, and the fact that he made everybody laugh shouldn’t diminish that.

When Hunter S. Thompson came along they coined a phrase.  Okay so they coined a lot of phrases for Hunter, but the one I’m referring to is ’outlaw journalism’.  Well if Hunter was an outlaw journalist, Bill Hicks was an outlaw comic.  He was an outlaw because he just was not afraid.  He wasn’t afraid to choose a life that meant scratching out a living travelling the county to do shows in tiny comedy clubs and bars.  And he wasn’t afraid to tell the truth.  Whether it be the truth about the Gulf war – when no other comedian would touch it – his under voiced opinion on drugs, or just his ‘sucking your own dick’ bit, never mind getting on stage and saying this stuff out loud, most of us would never get past ‘Jesus, what would my mum think?’

Bill’s mum didn’t really know what to think, but even she told him he wasn’t too far off being a preacher.  His answer, ‘I am a preacher.’  He preached his own gospel, and used language you’d never hear in church, but I agree – he was a preacher.  There’s a reason that every time someone mentions the best stand up comedians of all time the same names crop up: Lenny Bruce, Richard Pryor, George Carlin, and Bill Hicks.  It’s a brand of comedy that resonates with you long after the laughter dies down, because there’s a point to it.  An honesty to it.  Bill Hicks was a preacher, and he practiced what he preached.  He never sold out.  Never did an advertisement.  Never censored his own material to reach a wider audience.  This level of integrity is very rare, and that’s what makes him special.  Even if you don’t agree with everything he had to say – he wouldn’t ask you to – you can trust that Bill Hicks would never bullshit you.  And if he’s a little harsh with you, it’s for your own good.  American: The Bill Hicks Story wouldn’t be a bad place to start with Bill.  A sort of ’easing in’ approach.  Or you could do it like I did and jump in the deep end with his Rant In E-Minor.  Bill’s not with us any more – which is shame because something tells me 8 years of George W. would have brought about some good material – so it’s important to keep his word alive.  If you’ve never seen or heard one of Bill’s shows I urge you to do so.  You might find you don’t even need the mushrooms – your third eye will be quite cleanly squee-geed (Damn, I never thought I’d have to write that word) just listening to him.  But a warning for those easily offended, and those too mired in their own self-belief to even want to think differently – Bill’s a divisive guy – so some of you probably won’t like him.  Well, there’s always Lee Evans, right?

Of course I couldn’t do this thing justice, so I’ll let Bill close the show…

Suggested Listening: The Bill Hicks Discography
Dangerous (1990)
Relentless (1992)
Arizona Bay (1997)
Rant in E-Minor (1997)
Philosophy: The Best of Bill Hicks (2001)
Love, Laughter and Truth (2002)
Flying Saucer Tour Vol. 1 (2002)
Shock and Awe (2003)
Salvation (2005)

I know what you’re all thinking.  ‘Ian, we realise you’re an expert on film and we appreciate your infallible opinion on all things movie-related.’  Well thank you.  ‘But we’d love to hear what you think about other stuff too, so stop being so modest and start throwing your opinion on random shit out there too!’  Well, okay.  It’s true, I am somewhat of a renaissance man.  Sure, I see a lot of movies, hold down a part-time job in a chocolate shop and write an entertaining and informative article once every two weeks for Bandwidth, but I also find time in my life to listen to music, eat food and drink coffee.  So to give you a more well-rounded picture of who the real Ian is, I thought I’d mention a few of the things currently rocking my world.  And to make it (just barely) relevant to this site, all these things are based in Belfast, so you can all enjoy them too.

1. Harlem Café.

Harlem Café doesn’t need a plug from me.  It is already full to capacity every lunch time.  It is, however, my favourite haunt outside of, well, any kind of bar.  They make a dynamite cup of coffee and the food is awesome.  The walls are adorned with cool vintage photos of cool people like Johnny Cash, David Bowie, and The Beatles, and they play Sinatra.  As if it weren’t enough that I can have a double espresso and listen to Frank, the staff are all exceptionally friendly, and unnervingly beautiful.  Either you have to pass some sort of attractiveness test before they give you a job or they just run these people off some production line somewhere – either way I’m not complaining.  It has also come to my attention that they are soon to begin staying open late to offer an evening menu, which, if the lunch menu is anything to go by, is sure to be fantastic.  They’re also getting an alcohol license.  When that happens, my life will resemble an episode of Cheers.  Every day.

2. Eilis Phillips.

I’m not usually a fan of female singers.  Not that I don’t like the female voice, I’m just a sexist pig and don’t like the idea of women doing anything outside the confines of the kitchen or bedroom.  Sometimes I have to overlook my beliefs though, and this was one such case.  Maybe I just had too much sun and beer, but on a recent toasty Sunday afternoon I cooked myself like a goddamn lobster at Botanic gardens before retiring to The Kitchen Bar to cool off, just in time to catch an acoustic set by Jackie Rainey and Ms. Phillips.  They’re both great singers, and since I’d had a few, I decided to be that guy.  You know the one who goes up to the band after the set and bothers them for a while?  Yeah, that one.  Anyway they were both very nice to me and Eilis told me she’s releasing an album soon.  Later that night I told Will about her, in a vain attempt to impress both him, and her, with my savvy.  Will told me to get the fuck out of his house, claiming that 3.30am was not a reasonable time to be dropping by.

I was honestly impressed by Eilis, even though it’s not usually my sort of music, I think she’s going places.  Check her out at: http://www.myspace.com/eilisphillips and you can see her play with Jackie on Sundays at The Kitchen Bar.  Play music, I mean.  Go to one of her gigs.  Support local music.  Tell her I sent you.  Inflate my already considerable ego.

3. Bangla Fusion.

This is a (relatively) new Indian restaurant just off Shaftesbury Square on Great Victoria St.  I went there with a group of people who assured me it was ‘the best Indian food they’ve had in Belfast’.  I admit it, I had my doubts.  Halfway through my meal I agreed with them all – best Indian food I’ve had in Belfast.  It’s a small place and blends into the street a little too well to be easily noticed, which is probably one reason for its seeming lack of business.  Granted, I’m going by one visit, but it was a Saturday evening and we were the only table seated, which seemed like a damn shame.  It would be an even worse shame if they closed due to lack of business, since I fully intend to eat there again.  Service was great, the prices very reasonable, and the food was fucking exceptional.  They don’t have a license, so bring your own beer, enjoy the complimentary poppadoms with dip, then forget that muck you slather on your chips and get yourself a real curry.  You won’t be disappointed.  And if you are, don’t blame me – what am I, some sort of fucking food critic?

4. Women in sexy nurse outfits.

I’m such a fan of the nurse outfit that I recently got very drunk at a friend’s house and put one on, adding a white cowboy hat to complete the look.  If you’re wondering why I thought that seemed like a good idea at the time, the answer is the same reason I thought it would be a good idea to drink red wine, whiskey, beer and Jager on the same night.  Also, since I have now mentioned women in nurse’s outfits, Will is entirely justified in using a photo of one in the illustration for this article.

Artwork by Will McConnell

This was supposed to be a review of The Undertones gig at Mandela Hall last Saturday.  I even had a ticket.  I had such a bad hangover though (that’s right – at 8pm, the next day) I couldn’t face the loud music and crowds, so I just went to a cocktail party I had been invited to.  I figured a few nice strong cocktails would either kill me or straighten me right out, so I took a chance.  Turns out the very thing I needed was a Manhattan (my stupid title might make sense now, but from here on in there will be no references to dogs or Manhattan.  That’s just how I roll.)

So there I was, vowing with every sip to take it easy, and surrounded by beautiful women dressed in classy 50’s styling and it struck me that maybe my overindulgence the previous night had actually finished me off and I had found my way to heaven.  Of course I wasn’t in heaven, but if one day I do go, and it’s not exactly like that party, I don’t figure I’ll hang around very long.  The party started out the way all good cocktail parties do – fancy food, Bobby Darin playing, sophisticated conversation and, of course, delicious drinks.  It also ended the way all good cocktail parties end – at 4am with a few stragglers scavenging the empties for dregs, and some guy passed out on the stairs.  Somewhere along the way – my promises of abstinence drowned in bourbon – a couple of guys showed up already half smashed.  One had an acoustic guitar, the other had fifteen bottles of beer.  They had been out busking for charity and the results had been fairly poor, so they hit the pub and then headed back to the party.  I got talking to them both about the sorry state of busking on our streets and hey voila, our conversation inspired this article.

[Editor’s Note: No Ian, you getting totally fucked up and missing the gig is what inspired this article.]

Sometimes I hate walking through the streets in Belfast.  It can just be a depressing place to be.  People rushing from shop to shop, crossing the street any old time they please – dodging buses like it wasn’t potentially fucking lethal – and trampling anyone too slow-moving to keep up.  It’s no wonder I so often duck into a pub for a pint to calm my jangled nerves.  But I’m concentrating on the negatives here, as I so often do, and my conversation with the musicians highlighted this for me.

Think about it.  In a street bustling with ignorant shoppers, droning with the sound of traffic and smelling like one big recently-pissed-in alley, there are actually people who stand there just to play music.  Music!  Was there ever a more beautiful metaphor for the light in the darkness?  Just a guy…

[Editor’s Note: Or gal.]

…his guitar, and enough balls to sing in front of everybody.   And was there ever a more apt metaphor for human apathy than the fact that nearly all of us just ignore these guys?  Like they’re standing in the street trying to sign you up for a credit card or something.  In a world of noise, a rare few go out and play something that sounds nice, and no one gives a shit.  Seems like a damn shame to me.  Seems like a fucking crime when the guy in question has a banner saying he’s collecting for charity.  I mean even if you’re as sick of hearing Wonderwall as I am, throw the guy 50p for a good cause.  Am I wrong?

Hell, I know I’m preaching to the choir.  You are reading this site because you like and support local music, so you’re probably also the people cool enough to have dropped some change into a guitar case once or twice.  And it’s not like I’m walking the streets of Belfast throwing money at every busker I pass.  But when you hear some guy…

[Editor’s Note: Or gal.]

…and you’re impressed by their voice, or they’re playing a song you love that never gets played on the radio, or shit, even if it’s raining and they just look wet and lonely, throw in a couple of coins.  Trust me, they’ll appreciate it, because 99% of people just won’t bother, and it’s really a much tougher gig than most people think.

In a world where people can make six figure salaries hawking insurance, it only seems right that a guy…

[Editor’s Note: Or gal.]

[Ian: Shut the fuck up man!]

…should be able to make a few quid playing the musical equivalent of seeing a pretty girl in a summer dress.  It may only last a moment, but on these sad, grey streets, it’s still gotta be worth something.

Little known fact: my adventures are not written from memory.  I actually have a small team of reporters who follow me around and document the events of the night and I just embellish their notes with my winning prose.  This is so I don’t have to ruin my night by staying sober enough to recall specificities, and also to look after me in case something horrible happens.  They’re all trained in things like first aid, basic law, mixed martial arts, and advanced sandwich making, so that all of my basic needs can be taken care of at the drop of a hat.  Unfortunately, no one in my entourage knows Mark Lanegan and I couldn’t convince any of them to go to his gig in The Empire last week.  No problem, I thought, I’ll just call Johnny and have him arrange me a date.

‘Hey Johnny I need a date.  Wednesday.  8pm.  Mark Lanegan.  This one should be cool.’
‘Who the hell is Mark Lanegan?’
‘He’s a cool singer songwriter.  Used to be in Screaming Trees.  Real deep voice, like “uuurrrrggggghhhh….’

[Editor’s Note: I deleted four lines of ‘uurrrggghhh’.]

‘Jesus, enough.  Look I don’t think I’m gonna be able to set you up,’ said Johnny.
‘What?  Why not?’
‘Because your last date got trampled to death Ian.  Interest has kind of dropped off.’
‘Shit, yeah.  Michioku.  How was the funeral?’
‘It was a barrel of laughs Ian.  Singing, dancing, great food.  It was a fucking funeral, how do you think it was?’
‘No need to get snippy with my Johnny.’
‘Well you weren’t the one trying to fend off 23 Japanese schoolgirls, crying and asking “Why, why?”’
‘That sounds kinda hot actually.’
‘I’m hanging up Ian.’
‘Any of those schoolgirls still in town man?’  Dial tone.  Shit.

A couple of days later I went to see The Disappearance Of Alice Creed and I had a fucking great idea.  I should go home and look at nude pictures of Gemma Arterton online.  Three hours later I was spent, lying in bed with a cold beer, and I realised I still didn’t have anyone to go to the show with.  I decided fuck it, I would go alone.

I do this quite a lot, actually.  People think I’m weird, and they’re right, but my attitude is that if I want to see a show I’m gonna go regardless of whether or not anyone wants to come with me.  I don’t see why me having a good time should be dependent on other people, hence my oft-quoted catchphrase: ‘why compromise?’, which I hope someone inscribes on my grave stone.  Anyway, I go to the movies alone all the time and I quite often end up going to gigs alone too.  If you should ever be unfortunate enough to see me at a gig, standing off to one side with a surly look on my face, a beer in one hand and a whiskey in the other, come on over and say hello.  If you say something nice I promise I’ll buy you a drink.  Of course that’s an easy promise to make since probability-wise, this is very, very unlikely to happen.  I should also advise extreme caution – surly people who are drunk on whiskey are rarely friendly – I am the exception.

[Editor’s Note: Friendly?  Ha!]
[Ian: Shut the fuck up, Ed.  I’m the friendliest person I know.]

Anyway I know a lot of you expect certain formalities from these things, so I should really say something about the Mark Lanegan gig.

[Editor’s Note: Don’t let us put you to any trouble.]

Luckily it was just my little circle of friends and acquaintances who didn’t know Mark Lanegan and the Music Hall was totally sold out.  The first dude to come on was Duke Garwood, who was a cool character.  I couldn’t make out half of what he said but he kept referring to ‘death country’, which sounds like the greatest music genre of all time.  I liked his music – a sort of cut down, experimental sounding blues – and his songs often ended abruptly, without warning, which kept me alert despite the combined efforts of Stella and Jack.  Then Lanegan came on, launched right into the set list, and his voice blew a fucking Marshall stack deep down in my soul.  He must have the best voice I’ve ever had the privilege of hearing live – deep, deep grumbling tones but loud and almost impossibly strong – an all too uncommon combination.  I immediately regretted giving that busker a quid on my way to the show because all of a sudden, he just didn’t seem worthy.  Lanegan is a no nonsense kind of dude and he ploughed through the set list with a velocity I just couldn’t keep up with, drinks wise.  I guess either that’s just his style, or he had a hotel room, a bottle of whiskey and three groupies to get back to.  Either way, other than the occasional ‘thank you’ there wasn’t too much interaction with the audience, which would have been nice.  I like to savour a show, and my whiskey, which I couldn’t pour down fast enough.  It’s not a serious grievance though, and I was thoroughly enjoying the music, despite not knowing any of it.  He’s a great lyricist, as well as having a fucking awesome voice, and his dark, sparse brand of acoustic blues went down a treat, both with me and with everyone else in the place.  The applause after each song bled into the beginning of the next, and then everyone was quiet, listening very carefully and quietly, drinking in every word.  As Lanegan was taking the stage some crazed loon had screamed ‘Give us hell!’, and I feel fairly confident in saying that guy went home satisfied.  The show didn’t seem very long, but he got through a good number of songs and did a cool encore, and I guess what they say about how time flies is right, because when the lights went up I was still fairly sober, and didn’t even mind.  I went downstairs to continue my drinking thing, spurred on by Lanegan’s darkened croonings.

I decided to finish up the night in Annie’s, and I don’t remember much after getting there.  I remember that the barmaid was beautiful and I remember feeling like Tom Waits, sitting alone in a quiet bar at midnight, full on whiskey and the blues.  I can’t have been that drunk, though, because I also remember being painfully aware that I’m nothing like Tom Waits and I was probably creeping the barmaid out.  So, dear barmaid – I apologise if I was leering.  And dear readers, I apologise for boring the tits off you.  I didn’t quite do this thing justice.

For the past few months I have tried to keep my plans secret from the guys at the Bandwidth office.  It’s one thing to be sent on some horseshit assignment with a crazy broad, but quite another to have one foisted on you when all you really want to do is get drunk and have some fun.  Unfortunately I overdid it last Wednesday lunchtime and stumbled into the Bandwidth building to beg for a bus fare home.  I didn’t manage to get money off anyone, but I did manage to very loudly proclaim that I was going to see Airbourne the following week.  I did this, apparently, every time someone turned me down, so it went something like this:
‘Hey man is there any chance you could give me a tenner for the bus home?’
‘I don’t think so Ian.’
‘Well fuck you holmes!  I’m going to see Airbourne next week, so suck on that one.’  And that happened at least twenty times, so it’s really not surprising that the following day I got a phone call from Johnny.  I was sunning myself in my parent’s back garden and eating gummy bears, so you can imagine how angry I was at being interrupted.
‘Goddamnit Johnny I’m busy here!’
‘I’m looking at your Twitter page right now.  It says you’re sunbathing and eating gummy bears.’
‘That’s invasion of privacy! What do you want anyway?’
‘I hear you’re going to the Airbourne gig next Tuesday.’
‘Nope.’
‘Meet me at the office about an hour before the doors open – I’ve got a date lined up for you.  This one should make a good review.’
‘But it’s not a review.’  He hung up on me.  I updated my Twitter page again: ‘Johnny is an arse.’  Heh, that’ll show him.

On the day of the gig I woke up at the crack of dawn and set about preparing the spread for my mates… Okay so I got up at 11am, bought a big packet of nachos and made some burgers.  But the burgers had cheese INSIDE THEM.  Blew their fucking minds, I tell ya, biting into a burger expecting regular old beef and instead finding piping hot cheese, which oozed out and scalded their unsuspecting chins.  I’m thinking about taking that shit on Dragon’s Den.  Anyway I loaded up on Jack and Coke hoping the caffeine/sugar hit would keep me going through the night, and then we split up and I headed off to the Bandwidth building to meet my date.

The lobby was full of Japanese women dressed like schoolgirls.  As well as the obvious thoughts a scene like this might inspire in a twenty-two year old guy, I thought maybe Will had taken a new direction with his music videos and made a mental note to check the site for updates over the next couple of days.  They all started giggling and taking photos of me with their phones, which made me seriously paranoid, but after checking that I was all zipped up and there were no remnants of burger cheese on my face I decided it must be because I am fucking awesome.  I stepped into the lift thinking this must be how Mickey Rourke feels, all day, every day, so I threw up the peace sign and the doors closed in front of me.

I opened Johnny’s office door without knocking, hoping to stumble in on a compromising situation involving more Asian schoolgirls.  Alas, there was only one in there with him, and he was showing her his holiday photos, under the pretence of demonstrating how lovely Corfu is, but really because he was hoping for a comment on his tan.
‘Ah, Ian,’ he said, looking up, ‘this is Michioku.’  Oh fuck no.  It hadn’t even occurred to me.  I just stood there, speechless.  ‘Well say hello,’ he said.
‘Does she speak English?’ I asked him, and she laughed.
‘Yes I do,’ she said, ‘it’s really nice to meet you.  I’m a big fan.’
‘What?’ I asked.
‘Yes apparently you’re very big in Japan,’ said Johnny.
‘That’s because they’re all really short,’ I said, and luckily they both thought this was a very witty joke.
‘All those others downstairs applied too,’ said Johnny, ‘so we had to have a raffle to see who the lucky girl would be.’
‘Johnny I know this is some sort of joke, so yes, very funny, I get it.’  Michioku laughed.
‘It’s not a joke,’ she said, ‘look!’  She took off her backpack and turned it around for me to see.  It had a print of me on the front, taken from a photo of me saluting the camera with a bottle of beer.
‘Jesus!’ I said.
‘That’s what I said,’ said Johnny.
‘I brought you these,’ said Michioku, opening her Ian-print backpack for me to see.  It was full of miniature bottles of JD.
‘Jesus!’ I said again.  I grabbed one and downed it, still kind of enjoying how the tiny bottle makes you feel like a giant, despite the weird situation.
‘Well you two better get going,’ said Johnny.  I dipped my hand in Michioku’s bag and opened another mini JD.

So walking through the city centre with a Japanese schoolgirl I looked like a drunken pederast.  I also, however, looked taller than usual, so I decided to enjoy it while it lasted.  Then I suddenly realised something horrible.
‘Shit, Michioku, they’re not gonna let you into the gig!’
‘Why, because I only look fourteen?’ she asked.
‘Well, that could be problematic too.  But you’ve got a big bag full of whiskey!’
‘Oh shit, you’re right,’ she said.  Then, ‘Don’t worry, I’ve got an idea.’  She opened her blazer and unbuttoned the first few buttons on her shirt.  At this point I entertained the very real possibility that I was sleeping, and about to have a nocturnal emission.  I decided to test it.
‘Michioku you have fabulous breasts.’
‘Thank you,’ she said with a smile, and started shovelling the miniature bottles of whiskey down her shirt.  Test number one failed.  I pinched myself.  Nothing.  I pinched harder.  Nothing.    Goddamnit.  When the bag was empty she started to button up again, stopped, and held her collar open.  ’Sorry, do you want one?’ she said.  Looking at her boobs with a few whiskey bottles nestled lovingly between them I almost started to cry.  The third and final test, sure to wake me up from even the deepest of beer sleeps: I grabbed my balls and squeezed as hard as I could. I didn’t wake up.  Praise the Lord!  I finally allowed myself to believe that what was happening was real and even on top of the pain managed a big smile.  I grabbed two whiskies from inside her shirt and had a wee sit down until the sick feeling passed and my balls stopped throbbing.

By the time we joined the queue I had drunk enough of the bottles that someone could have retraced our steps right back to the Bandwidth building by following the empties, and it just looked like she had really big boobs.  Which she did, in fact, they just looked a bit lumpier with the little bottles stuffed down there.  This also meant that I was righteously fucking hammered by the time we got inside, which was lucky because the son of a bitch security man wasn’t going to let her in without ID.  I very deftly ended the situation by loudly accusing him of racism, and of touching my willy during the pat-down he gave me.  He gave in and ushered us inside.

We quickly made our way to the front where my friends were already standing.  They were incredibly jealous, of course.  It was only natural, since none of them had a beautiful Asian schoolgirl with a bra-ful of whiskey as company, so I asked Michioku to give them all a miniature as a sign of good will.  Then she scampered off to the bar to get me a pint.  While she was gone I informed my friends of my intention to marry her, which they all agreed was a fantastic idea.  I also rocked out to Black Spiders, who were the support act.  There was another support, but I missed them.  Anyway Black Spiders did a damn good job of getting everyone’s rocking shoes on, so they deserve plenty of credit.  If anything they did too good a job, because by the time Airbourne went on the crowd had worked itself into a pit of madness, which was to be disastrous, in the end.

Michioku returned with my pint, rummaged around inside her shirt for a Jack and expertly mixed up a delicious boilermaker.  I thought about leaving with her right then, going to Vegas and making and honest woman out of her, but then Airbourne took to the stage and I decided to wait until after the show.  There is simply no other way to aptly describe Airbourne than ’balls out’.  Pretty much all of the songs are about drinking, women, having fun, being awesome, and drinking, so it’s unsurprising that I think they’re one of the best rock n roll bands in the world at the minute.  Sure, it sounds just like old school AC/DC, but how the hell can that be a bad thing?  If you want some limp-dick music go watch X-Factor.  If you want the music equivalent of banging a cheap hooker who knows her stuff, get yourself Airbourne’s new album.  And when you’re listening to it, trying to resist the urge to get up and strut around your living room, or headbang, or strut around your living room head banging, know this: it’s ten thousand times better live.  Shirtless, blistering around the stage throwing beers to the crowd and playing licks that sound like they were written by Satan himself,  this is a rock n roll show the way a rock n roll show should be.  A lot of the time I think they just don’t make ’em like they used to.  If ever there was an argument against this idea, it’s Airbourne.

Unfortunately, these sort of gigs can be a double edged sword.  I was right at the front of the stage, trying my hardest to protect Michioku from the constant barrage of ugly shirtless teenagers, drunk on their third beer and seemingly only there to launch themselves around like fucking retards.  Most of them were harmless, and admittedly it’s more my fault for not liking mosh-pits, but a select few really let the side down by just being too aggressive.  I did my best to push the fuckers away and keep my patience, but I was fighting a losing battle, and I didn’t pay my money to be fucking trampled.  Then, with my hand down Michioku’s shirt, rummaging for a whiskey, some fiend practically punched her to the ground in an attempt to force his way to the front.  I saw red and head butted the son of a bitch and he stumbled back, bleeding from the nose.  He would have killed me, I’m sure, but one of my friends who is much bigger and better at fighting than me got rid of him and the bouncers threw him out.  It was too late, though.  Poor Michioku had been thrown to the floor and trampled by the crowd, the remaining whiskey bottles in her shirt smashing and stabbing her to death.  I shoved some shirtless man out of the way and dropped to my knees to cradle her bloody corpse in my arms.  Then I let out an almighty howl and shook my fist at the heavens, but my grief was lost in the din, because everyone was shouting and pumping their fists in the air.

There are a few lessons here folks.  All you violent pigs who ruin everybody’s night because you’ve got no goddamn common courtesy, beware.  We’ve had enough of your shit, and even a puny fella like me might just fucking head butt you.  My lesson?  If you don’t like getting moshed on, stay out of the mosh pit, especially if your date is a petite Asian whiskey fairy.  And the lesson for us all – Airbourne are so fucking good, even seeing the love of your life trampled to death by a bunch of hairy rockers isn’t enough to ruin the gig.

I recently had my first 3D experience.  It was in the back row of the cinema and I wasn’t quite sure what I was doing and it had been built up so much I guess it was bit of a disappointment.  The movie was Clash Of The Titans, in case you’re interested, and it got me thinking.  Why is it called Clash Of The Titans if there are no Titans in the film?  Just a thought I’d like to leave you with.

See ya.

[Editor’s Note: This really is what Ian submitted this week.  When we finally tracked him down he was hammered, trying to buy a kebab on credit from the takeaway featured in this In Stores Now video by repeatedly name-dropping Will.  Unsurprisingly, he never got that kebab.  This is just a quick apology - if the rest of this seems like it was drunkenly hashed together only hours before publication, that’s because it was.]

Okay so another thing that Clash Of The Titans got me thinking about was the whole 3D thing.  And High Definition, and Blu Ray DVDs and all that fancy technology that people keep creaming themselves over these days.  It made me wonder, does any of that stuff really make a difference?  Is a movie any more enjoyable if you see it in a higher quality?  Well going by my viewing of Clash Of The Titans, the answer is no.

See ya.

[Editor’s Note: Ian!]

Jesus, okay!  Seriously, I started to think about these things because after the movie I have to admit, I really wasn’t too impressed by the 3D effect.  It’s pretty obvious they rushed out a 3D print of Clash Of The Titans just to boost ticket sales, so maybe it wasn’t the best introduction to the technology.  Maybe James Cameron’s anal-retentive obsession with special effects produced a much more impressive 3D experience in Avatar, but I had my fill of that particular fish pie the first time round and I ain’t going back for more.  The point is, that was the first thing I saw in 3D so it was new to me, and it still didn’t have much effect.  I can boil it down to this: shit in the background looks a bit further away.  That’s about it.  There was an ad before the film for some 3D television, and in the ad a tennis ball popped right out of the screen and looked like it was suspended in the air right in front of my eyes.  That was a fairly cool effect.  On the other hand, NOTHING popped out of the screen during the movie, and considering the numerous opportunities involving spears, swords, Kraken-tentacles, boobs, and Liam Neeson’s beard, I’d say that was a major fucking disappointment.  Thing is, though, I still liked the movie.  Don’t get me wrong, it’s hammier than a pig’s arse and nowhere near violent enough, but it’s still good fun.  The same amount of fun, in fact, as it would have been in 2D.  So the 3D thing really had no bearing at all.

3D is more a novelty, though, right?  It’s not really a viable option for serious dramatic films, is it?  Shit, I suppose I shouldn’t be so sure.  The HD thing is much more applicable, though.  One day everything will be high definition, same as when colour came out, black and white pretty much died.  Unless you’re Jim Jarmusch.  Or a film student who really likes Jim Jarmusch movies.  And don’t get me wrong, I’ve got nothing against it.  If the quality improves, cool.  But there is a serious point here, because it seems like HD is being used (just like 3D) to hawk movies more as fashionable technology than good old fashioned art.  I’ll be honest, I don’t know exactly what Blu-Ray is.  I’ll be honest again, I don’t give a rat’s ass.  I just know it’s ‘better quality’ than regular DVDs and it’s more expensive.  Well unlike with the 3D thing, I don’t even need to watch a Blu-Ray movie to know I wouldn’t enjoy it any more than I would watching it on DVD or even (dare I say it!?) fucking VHS.  A good movie does not become a great movie because there are more pixels on the screen, nor does a crappy one become watchable.  Your HD footie match might look a bit prettier than it does on my TV, but when you get down to brass tacks, you’re still just watching a bunch of dudes kicking a ball around.  And I’ve got news for you about the news in high def: it’s still just the fucking news.  The only difference is, you can see your news reader’s nasal hair, which if anything is an argument for reverting to the radio.

I work in a chocolate shop.  You probably knew that, since the only people who read this shit are people who know me personally, and they only do because they feel obligated since I get upset and huffy if I find out they haven’t.  Anyway I managed to survive the emotional ass-raping that was the Easter period mostly by drinking myself silly after every shift, and spending my time in work either idly pondering on some chocolate-related theme, or just loudly complaining that my feet hurt.  One of my ponderings, though, was brought about by a gigantic chocolate bunny rabbit that we were selling.  This thing was huge.  A truly unnecessary amount of chocolate, if you ask me.  But that wasn’t the issue I had with it.  The thing is, that big bastard drew a lot of attention.  People liked looking at him (and yes, it was a ‘him’ you soppy feminist.  And no, not because it had a chocolate bunny knob.  Its name was Warren.  Which is actually quite clever because rabbits live in warrens.  I only just made that connection) and I could never figure out why they thought he was so cool because essentially, he was just a big whack of chocolate.  Sure, he’s in the shape of a big ass bunny, but to eat him you’d have to break him apart and once you do that, he’s just broken up chocolate, same as the chocolate bars and eggs and lollipops we were selling.  He just looked a bit fancier.  But of course he was really expensive and of course some airhead bought him.  Just like people will buy Blu-Ray instead of DVD and Sky HD boxes for their HD ready T.V. so when they watch Deal Or No Deal, Noel’s floral shirt will be fucking vivid, man.   And now of course anyone who has an HD TV will be getting all uppity, thinking I am launching some sort of personal attack.  I assure you, I am not.

By all means, get the fancy stuff.  If it makes you happy, get it in ultra high definition and surround sound.  But don’t get blinded by the technology.  Remember that it’s the movie that counts, not the fucking resolution of the screen, and not the fact that shit in the background looks a bit further away than normal.  Remember that if the movie sucks, you won’t enjoy it any more on your HD flat screen than you would on my regular old CRT TV.  Remember that even though you bought a two-feet tall, fifty quid chocolate bunny, when you break his ear off and start munching on it, it’s just a piece of chocolate.  Trust me, it won’t taste any different.

I never credit these illustrations but I really should.  That saying about a picture being worth a thousand words?  Will always gets that picture.  I think you’ll all agree his artwork is the best fuckin’ thing about my posts.

We all wake up with the terrible shame now and again.  Not fully fledged regret over any particular occurrence, just a horrible sense of dread eating at your balls that says ‘you acted like a tit again last night’.  Yeah, I guess everyone knows it, but I think maybe I know it too well.  Maybe it’s because I should have been writing last night, except I didn’t have anything, so I went out drinking.  And after leaving the bar and heading back to a friend’s house for a final glass of wine I might have drunkenly encouraged her dog to hump my leg.  People wonder why it comes as such a shock to me that women aren’t interested in me.

But that’s bullshit.  It doesn’t come as a shock at all.  Sometimes even I don’t like being around me, and I’m not a beautiful woman.  Hell now I’m just stating obvious facts.  Maybe I should just keep doing that until I’ve got a couple of pages:
Grass is green.
Shit stinks.
Beer is delicious.
Kanye West is a twat.
No I really do have a point – I’m just going the long way around getting to it.  I’m not an attractive guy.  I don’t have much money.  I’m very often drunk.  And I still live with my parents.  Essentially, I’m not what is classically considered a ‘catch’.  HOWEVER.  I’m not evil.  I’m pretty good at cooking.  And I don’t listen to Kanye West.  So I’m not a total zero either.  I’m just kinda okay.  I suppose I should be content, but it’s not in my nature to settle for okay, which is why I am so often depressed and, incidentally, why I am so hard to please when it comes to movies.  See, the world is teeming with beautiful women, but I want Ava Gardner.  People who can sing are a dime a dozen.  I want Sinatra.  [Editor's Note: Jesus, there's a necro-three way I'd like to see.] And when I go to the movies, I don’t just want two hours of entertainment, I want that fucking thing to move me.  And as with my life situation, I am very often disappointed because, just like me most movies really aren’t amazing.  They’re just okay.  I usually see a couple of new movies a week so I hear the question all the time, ‘Is it any good?’  In fact the only question I hear more often is ‘Could you stop staring at my breasts please?’  Anyway I find it very telling that my default answer is ‘It’s pretty good.’  Here I am Mr. Hot Shot Film Graduate and the most insightful comment I can conjure up is ‘it’s pretty good.’  And usually that’s not lack of imagination on my part, it’s just the best way to describe most movies.

It’s like asking someone how their lunch was.  It’s lunch.  You eat it every day and usually it’s unremarkable, but when you’re hungry a sandwich still hits the spot so usually, lunch is ‘pretty good’ right?  Well I see a lot of movies and most of the time I enjoy them, but very few of them rock my world.  So you’ll ask me what I thought of it and I’ll say it’s pretty good and you will remain unenlightened until you go see it yourself and think ‘that was pretty good.’  This is not as depressing as it sounds, even for someone like me.  Movies can’t always be The Godfather.  Women can’t always be Ava Gardner.  Jackasses can’t always be Kanye West.  And that’s okay, because we need the pretty good stuff.  Just because a movie isn’t the best one I’ve ever seen doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy it.  It just means when I see that movie all the other critics tell you is ‘mind-blowing’ or ‘unmissable’ or (my personal favourite) ‘the best [genre] movie in the last ten years’, I’ll probably just tell you it’s pretty good.  I’ll save the hyperbole for the movies that really deserve it.  But where the hell am I going with this?

Well, I’m trying to say you should go see the movies.  Even when I just tell you it’s pretty good and you forget about it because shit, if it was really worth seeing I would have grabbed you by the shoulders and screamed it in your face, you should go see it.  Because they all have something to offer, even if they aren’t the best movie you’ve ever seen, or even the best movie you’ve seen this week, they still have their place.  They’re still worthwhile.  I saw Green Zone yesterday, and you know what?  It was pretty good.  I won’t buy the DVD, but I’m glad I went to see it because it’s a good movie, and you should see it too, for the same reason.  Don’t wait around for the perfect movie with your favourite star – go see ‘em all, because even if it’s just pretty good, it’s worth your time.  Pretty good is what makes the world go around.  I have seriously high standards and even I understand this concept, because if pretty good was never good enough, those of us who don’t quite manage awesome – guys like me – would be fucked.  In the end life will kick you in the ass and if you’ve spent your life pissing on everything that didn’t quite measure up, that kick is gonna hurt like hell.  We’re not here long enough to have such high standards or to feel shame every time we get drunk, so go to see the pretty good movies and forgive yourself when you have one too many.  See the movie.  Have the beer.

Just don’t actively encourage a dog to hump your leg – you’ll look like a fool.

[Editor’s Note: This is just a thinly veiled apology for the fact that you had no material this week and as such turned in a sub-standard article!]

[Shearer’s Note: Shit.]

I was in Johnny’s office.  His new office, complete with new mini bar and couch.  If I was more like Roger Sterling I would have walked in without knocking, poured myself a drink, sat on the sofa, and stolen one of his cigarettes before he could say a word.  I’d then reply with something witty and vaguely offensive.  Unfortunately I’m nothing like Roger Sterling, so it went more like this: ‘Have a seat Ian.’
‘Haven’t seen you in a while,’ I said, and sat down.
‘I only come in to make token appearances at the office.  Do most of my work from home now.’
‘So you have an office you don’t use and I still have to use reception’s printer when they’re not looking?’
‘Don’t start Ian, you’re in no position.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘It means no one is reading your stuff any more.  It’s embarrassing.  You know how many people read your last article?  One.  Your editor.  And he read it by accident.’
‘What’s your point?’ I asked.
‘My point is this new format just isn’t working.  We’re going back to the original idea.’
‘Fuck no.’
‘Fuck yes.  Or you won’t be working here any more.  Look I know you’re all about integrity and originality and all that bullshit, but I’m concerned with one thing and one thing only.  Readers.  And you don’t have any, so we’re gonna make a change.’
‘Really?  So what should I write about?’
‘You’ll see,’ was all he said, and told me where to be and what time.  I didn’t argue, because to be honest I had no idea what I was going to write for this article.  As I was leaving he gave me one last cryptic clue.  ‘Look out for a pink hat,’ he said.  Yeah, pink hat, red flag.

I got to the bar at 6pm, dressed a lot nicer than I’m used to.  Which just means I didn’t wear my wallet chain and I buttoned my shirt all the way up.  Everyone else in the place had made much more effort.  I sat at the bar, ordered up a bourbon neat, and kept my eye out for a pink hat.
Seven drinks passed before I saw it.  Not one pink hat, but many.  Around fifteen, actually, perched atop fifteen dolled up dames all wearing little black dresses and shoes that matched the hats.  A fat one out front suddenly pointed at me and they all looked.  I nearly fell off my goddamn stool, but immediately they surrounded me and I had no room to move.
‘Are you Ian?’ shouted the fat one.
‘Unfortunately I am,’ I said, and this seemed to please them.  ‘Who are you?’ I asked.  The fat one said her name was Tanya, and she was one of the bridesmaids.  A fucking hen party.  God damn you Johnny.  Moments later the bride-to-be plonked a pink hat on my head, threw her arms around me and gave me a big kiss.
‘I’m Claire,’ she said, ‘I’m the hen.’  This is easily the most action I’ve had for about six months and I was already half toasted on whiskey so I just smiled.
‘Well baby I guess that makes me the rooster.’  She laughed, obviously impressed by my charm and humour.  Then she leaned in close to whisper in my ear.
‘I prefer cock.’  Lord in heaven I take it back – make sure you keep a spot up there for old Johnny!

They ordered up several jugs of some fiendish cocktail and we got a table.  I usually make a point of not drinking anything that’s pink, but it was free, and I already looked like the group’s gay friend, so I made an exception.

[Editor’s Note: And you were wearing a pink hat.]

I saw Claire trying to find a space to sit, and being the gent that I am I offered her my seat.
‘That’s okay, I’ll just sit on your knee,’ she said, and I wasn’t about to pass her up.
‘I haven’t got a seat either!’ exclaimed Tanya.  Jesus no.  She arsed her way past two of the others and fell back onto my other leg.  After a couple of minutes I said I had to go to the toilet and spent about five minutes in the men’s trying to shake some blood back into my foot.  I got a pint and headed back to the table to find that Tanya had stolen my seat and Claire was now sitting on her knee.  I gave serious thought to sitting on her other leg, but realised Don Draper would never do something like that, so I just stood and lingered near Claire.
‘So what’s the plan for tonight?’ I asked her.
‘Oh we’re gonna go see a movie and then we were supposed to go for dinner but we’re just gonna go straight to the bar to get drunk!’
‘Cool.  What movie are we going to see?’
‘That one with Colin Firth in it.  I love Colin Firth.’
She was talking about A Single Man, and though I really wanted to see it, I really did not want to see it with a hen party.

I’m not quite sure what any of them made of the movie.  I don’t even know why the hell they went to see it.  They were all shitfaced before we even got to the cinema, and although they talked all the way through it the only time they actually made reference to the film was when one of them yelled, ‘Get stuck into him big lad!’  They didn’t even take their goddamn hats off.  I tried to ignore their bad manners and incessant bathroom breaks, and despite it all, managed to enjoy the film.  In fact, it blew me away.  It seems like a cop-out to say it just worked, but that’s about the best I can do.  Sometimes when a movie sucks I know it sucks, but I find it hard to explain why.  In the same way that even though I don’t know shit about music, I know when a guitar is out of tune.  On the flip side sometimes I go to see a movie and just love it, and not only would I have a hard time elucidating why exactly, part of me isn’t even interested in the why.  It’s enough to say that it is fucking great and any sort of analysis is just besides the point.  Well this movie is fucking great.  This is not just some elevator music you hear to drown out the sound of your own boredom.  It is not a flashy, expensive music video from the latest star with as much depth as a piss stain on a lamp post.  This is Clapton on guitar, blowing your mind and all the while just standing there like he’s doing nothing at all.  Like any good movie it grabs you by the balls and doesn’t let go till the credits roll.  Maybe I’m just excited because my balls rarely get more than a light fondling at the movies…

[Editor’s Note: Ian stop talking about your balls.]

…but it does all this without the use of special effects or explosions or dick jokes.  That’s real filmmaking, and it’s becoming all too rare in mainstream movies.  See it while you still can.

After the movie we went to another bar and, starting as they meant to continue, they did a round of shots.  The first casualty of the night was a girl named Chloe, whom I didn’t speak to the whole night until she said to me, very politely, ‘I’m going to be sick.’  I took off my hat and handed it to her and she filled a good third.  She gave me back the sick-filled hat and a couple of her friends carted her off.  In my state I found it very interesting how well the hue of her vomit matched the hat but none of the dames seemed to want to hear about it.  Then Claire told me she didn’t want to get married.
‘Really?  How come?’ I asked.
‘Because you’re cute,’ she said.
‘Well I really don’t think that’s…’
‘Let’s get out of here,’ she said.  I nearly broke my goddamn fingers scrambling my phone out of my pocket.  No reception.  Fuck.
‘I’ll be right back,’ I said, and went outside to phone a taxi. On my way out I passed a fireman heading in to the bar, but since the place wasn’t burning down and I was in a rush, I paid him no heed.  With a taxi booked I dashed back into the bar, knocking pink-hatted women out of my path as I went and wondering why the hell they were playing You Give Love A Bad Name by Bon Jovi.  What I found stopped me dead.  Claire was sitting in a chair at the centre of the dance floor, surrounded by jeering women.  The fireman was now only identifiable by his hat and boots – stripped to his underpants – the rest of his clothing scattered on the floor, and he was grinding his impressive, leopard print crotch in Claire’s face.  She seemed to be rather enjoying herself.  The fireman’s arse was obscenely hairless.  I turned away, went to the bar and ordered a double.

I was well into my second when the performance ended and the fireman simply gathered up his clothes and left.  Don’t Stop Believing by Journey started playing and I knew the end was near, which was lucky because by now I was only standing with assistance from the bar.  Not near enough though.  The broads had been whipped into a frenzy – they were out for cock.  I guess this time they settled for rooster.  When they started chanting ’off, off, off,’ I turned to see what all the fuss was about and realised they were cheering at me.  I started to shake my head and back away but it was all in vain.  One of the bitches tackled me from behind, and when Tanya threw herself into the mix the game was over.  I was thrown to the ground and stripped to my bare arse, infinitely hairier than Fireman Sam’s.  I’m not sure that was what they found so disappointing though.  Fearing that my measurements may anger the mob I kicked my way to my feet, nabbed a pink hat to cover my modesty, and headed for the door.

Needless to say no taxis would pick me up.  The police found me a couple of hours later.  ‘You been drinking son?’ asked the abnormally tall policeman.
‘No I’ve been fucking gardening.  It’s a Saturday night and I’m naked in the street.  Of course I’ve been fucking drinking.’  This apparently wasn’t the smart thing to say, and they booked me.  Johnny ended up having to post my bail, which is only fair if you ask me.

Some people will tell you alcohol is no good.  They’ll say it’s bad for your health, it’s a waste of money, and nobody likes a drunk.  Those things may or may not be true, but I refuse to believe alcohol never does anything good.  Two nights ago I was standing at the bar in a way too crowded Spring And Airbrake waiting to see Hayseed Dixie.  I would have been waiting for quite some time, because I was in the wrong goddamn bar.  Turns out last minute they changed the venue to the Limelight, to accommodate The Maccabees, who had been shunted out of somewhere else.  I have a sneaking suspicion that had I been there to see The Maccabees, you would all be much more interested in reading this, but I have no idea who the fucking Maccabees are and I wanted to hear some bluegrass.  Anyway, how exactly did booze get me out of this predicament?  Well there I was at the (wrong) bar, mixing up a Jack and a Becks to form the most potent and delicious of boilermakers when some fella next to me exclaimed, ‘Jesus man what are you putting in your beer!?’
‘Whiskey,’ I told him.
‘Fuck,’ he said, ‘if you do that to all your beers you’re in for some night.  I suppose you don’t have work tomorrow?’
‘Actually I do,’ I said, ‘but fuck them – they can deal with me.’  Laughing, he asked me who I was there to see.  I told him I was there to see Hayseed Dixie, and he gave me a puzzled look.  I assume you can figure the rest of the story out for yourself.  And so you see – that goddamn boilermaker saved my night.  Who knows how long I would have stood in Spring and Air listening to some shitty indie music wondering when the hell Hayseed Dixie would go on?  Not only that, after I asked the barman if I was indeed at the wrong show, he told me yes I was, and that he would take me over to the Limelight to make sure I had no trouble getting in.  I told him that was cool, but I wanted to finish my drink.  So I hurried the bugger into me (a sure sign of the direction my night would take) and he took me over to the Limelight, whereupon he gave me another Becks and another Jack, completely gratis.  I fashioned my second boilermaker of the night, gave him an appreciative nod and made my way towards the stage, where the support band where finishing up.

Incidentally, this show was not an assignment for Bandwidth, but since I have been dubbed their ‘rock n roll correspondent’ I decided it would be wrong for me to miss it, and went on my own initiative.

[Editor’s Note: Ian dubbed himself our ‘rock n roll correspondent’.]

Hayseed Dixie formed, I believe, as a bluegrass/country tribute band to AC/DC, and grew from there to the band as they are now – playing a mixture of rock n roll cover songs and their own material.  Their sound is so alien to anything I’ve ever encountered that at first I found it hard to get my ears around it.  A few songs in though, and on to my third boilermaker, it would have been impossible to not be affected by the band’s energy and enthusiasm.  Standing four abreast across the stage (no drummer, ya see) like a police line-up in a chicken rustling case and playing everything from guitar and bass to banjo, mandolin and fiddle I guess this shit is either going to be right up your street, or right off your radar.  I love country music, and though I’m more inclined towards the outlaw stuff, any kind is cool with me – bluegrass included.  And as strange as it sounds, a bluegrass (or ‘rockgrass’) version of Ace Of Spades works.  Really.  And although it is cool to hear all the classic rock tracks they cover, I’d say I enjoyed their own stuff just as much.  On top of being balls out awesome musicians they also came across as seriously cool dudes, who were very surprised and gracious about the reception they have always received in Belfast.  When they finished their set a couple of the guys came down to sign stuff and have photos taken.  I decided to buy a CD and get it signed, and only realised then I was totally tapped, so I settled for shaking their hands and telling them the show was awesome.  I’m not sure if they were perplexed because I didn’t buy anything, or want a photo or a signature, or just amused by how hammered I was, but they didn’t seem to know what to make of me.  Then again, very few do.

I spent my last two quid on a beer in Katy’s and I guess I should be glad that my lack of funds broke the vicious cycle of boilermakers I had fallen in to.  Because I then marched off to a cash machine, lifted a twenty and went to Annie’s.  By this point I was functioning on instinct alone and I just sat very quietly at the end of the bar sipping a whiskey.  I don’t know how many boilermakers I had, but on top of all the straight whiskey I think even one more could have been disastrous.  I went to sleep that night and saw a strange light at the end of a tunnel, blinding at first.  When I managed to fully open my eyes I realised it was just sunlight coming through my window, threatening to set fire to my brain like the whiskey soaked rag that it was.  I felt like I hadn’t slept at all.

** Scene Missing **

Mere coffee and painkillers weren’t going to get me through work, so I broke out the big guns and had a smoothie.  It did the trick, but by the time I got home I just wanted bed.  So, just go to bed, right?  Wrong.  Not for a dedicated arts journalist like me.  My assignment: a performance of the play ‘Rhinoceros’ by the Queen’s drama department.  If you’re anything like Larry, you might be wondering what the fuck I’m doing going to see a play.
‘What the fuck are you doing going to see a play?’ asked Larry.  I don’t follow exactly what Larry is on at any given point – I merely distinguish between ‘up’ and ‘down’, and unlike our last outing, I’m not talking about his penis.  Anyway on Tuesday he was ‘up’, and he wanted to know why we were going to see a play, instead of partying.  I told him he was a filthy philistine and we were going to see a play because I damn well felt like seeing a play.  Except I didn’t.  I didn’t figure on having a wicked hangover, and all of a sudden the whole idea seemed like folly.  Larry told me he wasn’t going and I told him I didn’t give a shit.

[Editor’s Note: It was not Ian’s decision to see Rhinoceros.  Will was supposed to go, but couldn't due to unforeseen circumstances.  See postscript.]

When I got to QFT the first thing that struck me was how beautiful everyone was.  I mean that as literally as it sounds – I have never been surrounded by so many beautiful people in my life.  This was not as fortunate as it sounds, because I felt exactly how I looked – like an ugly refugee who, less than 24 hours earlier had been mixing whiskey and beer and singing along to a bluegrass version of Green Day’s ‘Holiday’.  An impostor with a hangover and no knowledge of theatre whatsoever.  A goddamn loser.  So I had a beer.  Fuck it.

When I was shown to my seat I had to walk along the front of the stage, in front of the audience.  It hit home just how ballsy those students must be to get up there, because for three seconds I felt as awkward and exposed as I’ve ever felt in my life, and I was just walking to my seat.  Anyone who says acting is easy can kiss my ass.  So when the lights went down, I was already in a position of awe, but still hung over and still not used to the format since I am, essentially, a film guy.  It only took about two minutes for me to forget all about that, though.  This play was absolutely fucking class.  The material is a classic, which helps, I guess, but the actors totally nailed it and judging by the audience reaction I wasn’t the only person who thought so.  It was genuinely funny, and not the kind of funny that makes you think ‘oh, that’s funny’ but the kind that makes you laugh from the gut before the thought that it’s funny can cross a synapse.  What, proper funny?  Yes Tommy, proper funny.  I would go into more detail about why the show was so good but I’m not a goddamn theatre critic and I’d probably just end up talking about the frequent cleavage shots I was treated to from my second row vantage.  And that would just be far too crass for a cultured theatre-goer like me.

Maybe the whole experience happened just the way it should have.  Hayseed Dixie came just long enough after the weekend that I was ready for more serious drinking, and I saw Rhinoceros with the subsequent hangover, which only further proved how fantastic it was, because when I go out in the pissing rain with a bitch of a hangover, and come home glad I did, whatever it was must have been pretty fucking good.

PS – You might have noticed this article doesn’t have an illustration.  It is actually Will who does my illustrations (yes, he has another fucking talent) but recently he has allowed his artistic vision to spiral out of control.  For this article he insisted he could get a photo of a real live rhinoceros wearing a trucker cap and a t-shirt with a confederate flag, and promptly took a plane to Africa. Tragically (but unsurprisingly) he was gored by one of the beasts and is not expected to recover.

There have been rumours of a Sopranos movie circulating for a while now.  Nothing substantiated, and I’m not in the business of spreading gossip, so if your only concern is whether or not the rumours are true you can piss off to some inane celebrity blog instead.  The rumours got me thinking, though.  And as usual, bitching.  I don’t want a Sopranos movie.  That probably makes a lot of you think I’m an idiot.
[Editor’s Note: Everyone already thinks that Ian.]
And people who know me are probably kind of confused, because I’m a big Sopranos fan.  I’ve seen every episode at least twice and I still insist it is the best TV show of all time.  I am assured that this will change when I finally delve into The Wire, and Mad Men is trying very hard to change my mind, but for now I’m still very much part of Tony’s crew.  So how come I don’t want to see a big screen adaptation then?  Simply put, because The Sopranos is not a fucking movie.

Things like The Sopranos don’t come along often.  Like a solar eclipse, it depends on a few different factors all working perfectly.  And as well as the writing and the acting and the set design and all that obvious stuff, the format has to be perfect.  If David Chase had written a novel instead of a pilot TV script it probably still would have been great, but it wouldn’t have been The Sopranos.  First of all it would have been impossible to explore so many different interconnected storylines.  That’s obvious.  But think about it – in a book, no James Gandolfini or Edie Falco or [insert Sopranos actor here].  No wacky dream sequences.  No kick ass soundtrack.  Jesus, no titty dancers!  It just wouldn’t be the same.  But now I guess you’re thinking, well you could do all that stuff in a movie, so what’s the problem?  Well I’ll tell you, because not only do I telepathically predict your arguments, I think up answers for them.

The Sopranos found its format.  That’s why it was so perfect.  And when they stopped making the show it was a creative decision rather than (as is more usual) a financial one.  The show hadn’t become stale.  They weren’t losing ratings.  They just realised that Tony’s story had found its natural point of completion and by God I was proud of the writers when they recognised that and stuck to it, rather than continuing on for (what would have been) assured success and monetary gain.  That’s integrity.  And that’s why The Sopranos is better than 99% of the shit you will see on TV.  But make a movie and they would just be forcing it.  I have no doubt that if they made it, it would be great, but it wouldn’t be honest.  If there was more to say, or more to explore, they would have made another series.  But they didn’t.  Making a movie now would be the same as if they had dragged out another series.  It wouldn’t be true to the story, and because of that, it wouldn’t be The Sopranos.  Just like The Simpsons movie was The Simpsons, but it wasn’t The Simpsons.
[Editor’s Note: What the fuck does that mean?]
I champion originality in cinema so I guess I just always want to see new ideas, rather than old ones just thrown into the microwave and nuked back to a soggy version of their previous lives.

All that being said, I have relaxed my opinions somewhat.  In the past I have done a lot of bitching about remakes and sequels, but I’m feeling very Zen these days and now I don’t mind so much.  What always pissed me off was the laziness of just leeching off the success of some other movie rather than coming up with something new.  But it struck me that this laziness doesn’t bother me so much if the remake / sequel in question is good, and also that this whole deal has been going on ever since people started telling stories.  I put up a blog about my excitement over the new Clash Of The Titans movie (badass and high camp in equal measure – gotta love it!) so I guess if I wanted to be really committed I’d have to complain not only about the fact that the film is a remake, but also about the rehashing of all the ancient myths that the film is steeped in.  And even I’m not that much of an arse.
[Editor’s Note: Really?  I’m not convinced.]
No, I’m rather looking forward to Clash Of The Titans.  And Ironman 2.  And I guess The Wolfman looks pretty good.  Hell, I even liked the most recent Star Trek movie.  So I suppose all of these remakes and sequels should be judged on their own merit.  The sad fact is, most of them are shameless cash-ins, but those that are will be obvious and phoney and no one will remember them anyway.  I’m holding fast on The Sopranos issue though.  A Sopranos movie would be like… A Godfather TV spin off.  Jesus, think of it!

OPEN IN: Annie’s.

So in their infinite wisdom, the Bandwidth management decided to assign me a babysitter for jobs like this one.  Apparently my tendency to overindulge can be a liability.  That’s how Larry explained it anyway, over his second Red Bull and after giving me the unabridged version of his road to sobriety.  Then he hit me with a surprise jab.  ‘Just pills now, man,’ he said, and as if to punctuate his statement, produced a small bag of pills and shovelled a handful of them into his mouth.  I realised at this point that Larry is a nutbar.  ‘Want one?’ he asked.
‘What are they?’
‘No idea man.  I half-inched them from my mate’s house the other day.  He always has good gear though.’
‘I’ll pass.  I don’t want to find out the hard way that I just took dog laxative.  And I’ve never encountered a situation old Jack didn’t have a good hold of.’  As if to punctuate my own sentence, I finished off my whiskey.
‘How’d you know he a had a dog?’ he asked.
‘Never mind.’  I realised at this point that Larry isn’t the sharpest mind I have ever encountered.  He seemed to have a good heart though, and as long as he didn’t start whining about my drinking I wasn’t too bothered to have him around.

CUT TO: The Empire.

The place was starting to fill up, so as soon as I got through the door I nabbed a spot right at the stage and marked my territory with a shot and a brew.  I would find out later that this was a logistical error, as the bouncers insisted I didn’t set my drinks on the stage, and I was standing right in front of the ladies toilets, leaving me at the mercy of every beer-bloated babe on route to the loo.  Larry seemed more concerned with chasing skirt than drinking or rocking and I left him to his own devices, since every time he did a lap of the bar be brought me back a beer.  I’m guessing this is his first time working as a sponsor.

The support act was Voodoo Vegas.  Voodoo Vegas’s guitarist is a chick with epic tits.  Every guy in the room was immediately transfixed, including my new companion who, during the relative quiet between songs, shouted ‘I’ve got such a boner!’ right in my ear.  The group of older dolls standing next to us promptly shifted away, which was good.  They were fairly attractive but I was starting to feel crowded, and let’s face it, I had more chance of taking to the stage for a duet on November Rain than I did of scoring.
‘Yeah, she’s hot,’ I agreed, realising I was much too sober.  All I really should have been saying at that point was ‘Fuckin A!’  On the other hand, I was enjoying Voodoo Vegas, and I mean on more than a just visual level.  Support acts have a pretty hard deal.  No one is there to see them.  No one is drunk yet.  And no one’s rocking engines have started, let alone warmed up.  It’s a mark of a good support that by the end of their set, all that had changed.  They rocked.  They rocked much harder than is ever really expected of a support act, impressing me so much I bought their CD.  You should check them out.

While they were setting up for the main act I felt something prodding me in the back.  I shuddered at the thought that it might be Larry’s aforementioned boner.  I was pleasantly surprised, though, to find that it was just some poor schlub getting shoved out of the way by a manic group of toilet-bound women.  Then I got a text from Larry.  It said simply: ‘In toilets.  Please help.’  There is no circumstance under which getting that text, from a relative stranger, could be anything other than fucked.  I considered ignoring it.  I didn’t want my night to be ruined by some fucking hippy pill-head, but goddamnit I was worried about the poor bugger.  I went to the toilets.

I was barely through the door when he yanked me into the first stall.  ‘What the fuck man?’ I inquired, as politely as possible.
‘Look at this!’ he yelled, pointing at his crotch.  He looked like he had just robbed a fruit shop.  Luckily I was on the loose side of sober, and I saw the funny side.
‘Man, you weren’t joking about that boner.’
‘It’s not funny dude.  It won’t go down.  Those fucking pills!’  This cracked me up, which only panicked him further.  ‘This is serious man.  I’ve whacked off 3 times already, it’s starting to hurt.’
‘What the fuck?’ said a voice from outside the stall.
‘You gotta do something man,’ he pleaded.
‘Don’t worry,’ I said, ‘I know just the thing.’

I headed to the bar, gave the cutest barmaid my nicest smile (which, admittedly, isn’t very nice.  Really it means I just stopped scowling for a couple of seconds).  ‘Four beers and four whiskies, please.’  I made a boilermaker of each one and took them to the toilets.  ‘Drink these,’ I told him, and had one myself.  He got through them quickly, and started complaining that it wasn’t working.  ‘You gotta give it time,’ I told him, ‘and don’t worry, when you see the hot pants Axl wears that thing will go away and never want to come back out.’  I dragged him back to our spot just in time to see the band taking the stage.  Deliberate whiskey dick… have you ever?

Hard as it is to believe, the UK Guns N’ Roses really do sound a lot like the real Guns N’ Roses.  And I’m not going to waste any time reviewing GNR, since I think their reputation is already pretty solid.  This is definitely a show worth catching.  They blister their way through all of the classics, with a few curve balls thrown in, and they really do look a lot like the original band too.  Right down to the lycra hot pants I warned Larry about.  And when I can enjoy a rock n roll show despite seeing a guy’s junk lolling around inside a pair of shorts so small they would qualify as underwear, I think it is testament to how good they are.  If you like Guns N’ Roses, you’ll like this show.  There is simply no debate about it.  Should you wish to heed my advice, they’ll be back at The Empire in June.

The show finished and the crowd dispersed, leaving only a few drunken stragglers who weren’t ready to give up on drunken dancing.  ‘We should pick up a couple of these dirty women,’ said Larry.
‘Did you ever read any of my articles man?’ I asked him.
‘Nope.’
‘Well if you had, you’d know pulling isn’t a strong point of mine.’  He wasn’t listening though.  He was already chatting to some dame who was giggly drunk and rock n roll horny.  I don’t know what the fuck he whispered in her ear, but the next thing I knew she was leading him out of the club.  He gave me a sly wink, popped a couple of those goddamn pills, and disappeared into the night with her.

I got myself another drink.

I admit it, I only went to see Avatar so that when the time came to piss all over it, I’d have enough venom saved up to produce more than just a bitchy little piddle.  I’ve been sitting on this rant for a while now – letting it simmer down, if you will.  I think now that the film has won a best picture Golden Globe, it’s finally time to speak up.

Let’s say I’ve got some folks coming over for dinner and I decide to cook a big fish pie.  Luckily for me I have a lot of rich relatives who don’t mind pumping money into each and every cookery project that comes my way, because I have cooked lots of times before and most people agree, my cooking is awesome.  So with a fat wad of bills busting the seams of my pocket I go shopping for ingredients, and I decide to push the boat out.  Way out.  I buy lobsters so fat they look like they were raised by Homer Simpson.  I buy scallops by the kilo, and the finest turbot and sea bass I can lay my greedy little hands on, no expense spared.  I figure if it’s expensive it’s got to be good, right?  So then I fly in the world’s finest sea food chefs and I install them in a state-of-the-art kitchen.  I tell them I want this to be the fanciest fish pie of all time.  I also hire a couple of chefs to take care of the white sauce and mashed potato top, but I figure those things are easy so I don’t give it too much thought.  So the night of the meal arrives and it comes time to put the whole thing together.  The fish is exquisite.  It looks beautiful.  I grab the pot of white sauce to assemble the filling and that’s when I notice it – big horrible lumps.  I taste it and realise it’s all wrong.  Under-seasoned, and made with cheap margarine instead of butter.  The mash is even worse.  Boiled to a pulp and mashed to shit with skimmed milk instead of double cream and butter, it’s just a grey slop on top of my beautiful expensive fish.  As a final insult, I get so distracted talking to my guests about the fish I totally lose track of time and I overcook the pie by a good 45 minutes.  Anyone with their head outside of their own ass can see the pie is a disaster, but miraculously my guests don’t notice.  Likely because they’re a bunch of fucking airheads who don’t know shit about cooking.  They just keep raving about the quality of the fish.  Then they give me an award and tell me it’s the best fish pie they’ve had all year.  I can’t believe it.   I’m sure you can’t either.  Because it’s not fucking right.

Avatar is not the best movie of the year.  There, I said it.  No, don’t try to argue, because you’re wrong.  It’s not a matter of opinion.  It’s not to each his own.  It’s not horses for fucking courses.  I don’t care if you enjoyed Avatar.  Some people liked White Chicks.  So people like ball-stomping porn.  Some people still like Kanye fucking West.  We’re not talking about enjoyment here.  We’re talking about the fact that we live in a world in which a boring, trite, over-baked slushfest of a movie is named THE BEST OF THE YEAR.  Fuck that.

Most of the time I feel like I shouldn’t bother opening my mouth.  Or lifting my pen.  Or whatever.  But goddamnit someone has to say something, and as a lifelong fan of cinema I feel a certain sense of responsibility.  Now before I go on, let me just clarify: I’m not writing this just to shit all over Avatar.  In fact, as far as big budget action/adventure blockbusters go, I’ve seen a lot worse.  My issue is not with the film itself, but with the culture of effects-worship that has evolved around movies recently.  If all there was to movies was state of the art CGI and thrilling green screen action, we’d all be happy enough to sit at home and watch someone playing the Xbox.  But film is a collaborative art and there are lots of ingredients to think about.  See what I was getting at with the fish pie scenario?  ‘But what’s wrong with special effects epics?’  Well, there’s nothing inherently wrong with them, but strip those special effects away and what are you left with?  Nothing.  And I’m sorry, but a one trick pony should not be winning a fucking dressage competition.

So what’s my point?  My point is people are too easily blinded by pretty pictures these days.  Avatar is not badly made, it’s just quite obviously a vehicle for James Cameron to bring his little fairy-tale land vision to life.  Performance, writing, cinematography and every other aspect of the filmmaking process is sidelined in favour of the special effects and somehow, no one minds.  I have never heard anyone say ‘The movie wasn’t great, but the sound design was awesome,’ yet I’ve been told by several people ‘It’s alright, but the special effects are unbelievable.’  Well so what?  It’s just one ingredient.  It’s just expensive fish.  And it’s not enough.  For me, anyway.  And it shouldn’t be enough for you either.

I am a realist though, and as well as posting this article I might as well try pissing uphill.  In a world where a cover song by the latest X-Factor winner is guaranteed number 1… Wait a second, maybe there is hope.  You want to see a well-made, special effects laden sci-fi movie?  Watch District 9.  It didn’t cost $250 million to make, and is incidentally far more politically relevant than Avatar, despite what some dickhead hacks will tell you.*  It’s also fucking awesome.  Hollywood is full of assholes whose only goal is to make money – not to make a good movie – just like those fucks on TV who sell you cover songs with a rags to riches sob story.  Fuck them, don’t do what they tell you.

* A bunch of American marines going to a faraway land where people have different coloured skin, to mine for a precious resource?  If this is considered a political undertone, the Dr. Dre song Bitches Ain’t Shit must fall into the category  ‘faintly misogynistic’.

[Editor’s Note: Ian this makes no sense.  You’re just abusing our readers.]

That’s right – all you people out there – I hope you sleep well at night.  I hope you sleep well knowing that Will has taken up selling insurance door to door just to keep this site running.  I know because I bought car insurance off him the other day.  I don’t even own a fucking car, that’s how good a salesman he is.

[Editor’s Note: I don’t know why I even left this in, it’s just gibberish.]

Anyway, it’s a new year and I’m taking this thing in a new direction.  Bigger and better things, as they say.  First of all, the whole ‘date’ idea is gone.  It didn’t work on any level – artistically or for my personal life – as I am still a single, depressed, unpaid hack.  So from now on I work alone, and the concept will be freer and more organic, so my creative integrity is not stifled the way it has been in the past. [Editor’s Note: WTF!?]  I also won’t be posting as often, because I’m on a 4 hour/week contract in a shop, goddamnit, and when I get home after four hours of standing behind a till ogling underage girls and eating chocolate I need some goddamned R&R.

[Editor’s Note: Actually we have cut Ian’s posting rights after an in depth review of the site’s output.  We felt his material was becoming thin and overly vulgar (see: repeated usage of the term ‘goddamn’ in this article)]

So the format will be different from now on.  Maybe some weeks I will focus on a particular movie.  Others I might talk about a gig or event I have attended.  Or I might just go off on some wild tangent, who knows?  The hope is that with less deadline pressure and a wider scope I can concentrate on creating… [Editor’s Note: Something remotely worthwhile, or at least comprehensible?]  …Yeah pretty much what he said.

And hopefully I’ll give one or two of you a chuckle along the way.  Until the next time we talk, have fun folks, and keep reading Bandwidth.  Don’t tar the others with the brush used on me – the rest of them are talented, knowledgeable, and probably good-looking people with kind hearts and friendly souls.  Man, I fucking hate them.

I’m not going to lie to you folks, I quit Bandwidth.  I decided that I’m better than this… essentially prostituting myself for their gain.  So I called Johnny right up and I told him…

[Editor’s Note: I’m going to stop you right there - that is an excessive amount of bullshit even for you.  We fired you.  Now get back to the story, and tell it the way it really happened.]

Let’s not quibble… the point is for a while there my position at Bandwidth hung in the balance, until I got probably the most important phone call of my career.  Unfortunately I got the phone call in a nightclub, where I had ended up after a night of heavy drinking.

[Editor’s Note: Drowning your sorrows.  Because we fired you.]

Yes!  Alright, you fired me!  Get over yourselves.  Anyway Johnny called me, and over the thumping music I barely heard him say, ‘Listen Ian, we might have something for you.’
‘What!?’
‘We’ve got a job for you.  We’re sending you to see The Answer on Monday.’
‘What!?’
‘Now I want you to understand that the only reason for this is that we would like the publicity this article will bring us.’
‘What!?’
‘Paris Hilton’s people contacted us.  They want to do a joint a venture.’
‘Who!?’
‘Paris Hilton.’
‘Jesus how the hell did that happen?’
‘I don’t know… you’re both big on the internet.’
‘That’s true…’
‘Oh so now you can hear me?’
‘What!?’  He started to shout.
‘Never mind!  Just make sure you’re at the Ulster Hall at 8pm on Monday.’  And before I could respond he hung up.  I took the job for one reason and one reason only.  I am a gentleman.

‘Where the fuck is this broad!?’  I screamed at no one in particular as I stood outside the Ulster Hall.  My friends and I were already fairly drunk and considering how late we were, I was expecting her to be there already.  Then this fat broad approached me.
‘Hey,’ she said.  I gave her a drunken squint, trying to figure out why she might be talking to me.
‘Yes?’  I asked, playing it cool.
‘It’s me, Perez,’ she said.  Jesus.  She had really let herself go.
‘Oh…’ I stumbled, ‘I didn’t recognize you there.’  My friends started laughing wildly and to be honest I really couldn’t decide what my next move should be.  I stuck out my hand.  ‘I’m Ian,’ I said as we shook.  Hairy hands.  Big, hairy hands.  I remember thinking to myself that they can really do wonders with Photoshop these days.  ‘Well, we’re late,’ I said, ‘We better go in.’

Luckily there were two support acts, so we had time to go to the bar for a while.  ‘Well Paris what can I get you?’  I asked.
‘It’s Peh-rez,’ she said.
‘Oh sorry, Peh-rez,’ I mocked, ‘What would you like to drink your highness?’  Stuck up bitch.  I got her a vodka and diet coke and made her feel bad about how expensive it was, then  I made myself a boilermaker and started ignoring her.  She wasn’t even dressed like a rocker.
‘So how’s the blog?’ she asked, and I couldn’t help but think it was a leading question.
‘I’ve gotta piss,’ I said, and walked off.
‘Oh me too,’ she said, and followed.  My confusion morphed into outright suspicion.  When she started in to the men’s with me it got too much and I confronted her.
‘Look Paris, the ladies is down the hall.  I’ve put up with a lot of your celebrity shit tonight but I am not gonna let you watch me piss.’
‘It’s Perez.’
‘That’s exactly what I’m talking about.  That fucking attitude.’
‘No.  I am not Paris Hilton.  I am Perez Hilton.’  I had had enough of her shit.
‘Look I’ve had enough of your shit lady.  I don’t know what sort of deal you worked out with Bandwidth but you can take it up with them.  I’m here to rock and you’re totally killing my buzz.  Now fuck off.’  I felt a little bit bad when I saw her tear up, but by this point I REALLY had to take a leak, and by the time I came out of the toilets she was gone and The Answer were taking the stage.  I still haven’t figured out what her goddamn problem was, but going by the severe weight gain I’m willing to be forgiving and put it down to hormones.

[Editor’s Note: Are you serious?]

[Ian’s Note: What do you mean?]

[Editor’s Note: I’m speechless.]

[Ian’s Note: Thank fuck for that, this is my column.]

Ok so I admit it: until Monday I wasn’t really that familiar with The Answer.  I checked out a few of their more popular songs online and came to the conclusion that they do in fact rock, but this is roughly the equivalent of seeing a picture of Vic Mackey (from The Shield) and coming to the conclusion that he is a fucking badass.  You would be right, but until you have seen him in action, you just have no idea.  This rule follows for just about every kick ass rock n roll band ever – they’re great – but they’re never as great as when played at a deafening level, and my proper introduction to The Answer came at just that.  These guys rock so hard I would suggest not wearing your favourite pair of socks when you go see them, lest they be rocked off.  These guys rock so hard they make me proud to be from Belfast.  These guys rock so hard I went to see them only a few weeks after seeing MOTORHEAD play THE SAME VENUE and I honestly couldn’t tell you which show I enjoyed more.  I’m not sure I can make this any clearer – The Answer fucking rock.  They have so much balls that towards the end of their set, GIANT BALLS fell from the sky with ‘The Answer’ printed on them.  These balls were punched skyward by the taller members of the mosh pit (and were therefore out of my reach) and the whole thing was just so rock n roll I found it hard to adequately express my appreciation, so I settled for pouring a full bottle of beer over my head and throwing myself around like a madman.  Aside from the unnecessary wasting of good beer, I was not alone.  I would go on, but I get the distinct feeling this gig was like one of those funny moments you can’t quite convey.  You just had to be there.

Had the night ended there the whole thing would have been a resounding success.  Like every other night, though, it ended with me sprinting through the city centre like a lunatic, soaked in beer and occasionally pausing to lie down in the street to catch my breath.  Even making a tit out of myself couldn’t ruin a night like this though.  Kind of like seeing a quick nip-slip when some hot chick spills out of her top, I truly believe I stumbled across something beautiful here.  Mark my words – you will hear more from The Answer – and you will like what you hear.

I was having serious trouble this week.  It’s getting near Christmas and I work in a shop – if I have to explain that to you, you have obviously never worked retail.  The constant onslaught of Christmas shoppers depressed me, and I couldn’t write.  I tried sitting at my laptop and drinking a bottle of wine, but I ended up spilling the last glass and having to suck the dregs out of the USB port.  I tried watching Al Pacino’s inspirational speech from Any Given Sunday 14 times in a row, but that didn’t work either.  Desperate, I decided to give Johnny a call.
‘I’m blocked,’ I said.
‘You’re always blocked.’
‘No, not drunk.’
‘What?  Constipated!?’ he asked, alarmed.
‘No.  Writer’s block.  There won’t be an article this week.’
‘Don’t be silly.  We’ve got something special lined up for you this week anyway.’
‘Ah Jesus…what is it?’
‘Fix-A-Grinch.’
‘Did you just say words?’
‘Yes. Fix-A-Grinch.’
‘Yeah I got that – what does it fucking mean?  That doesn’t explain anything.’
‘It’s a company that fixes grinches.  You go to their camp and they turn grumpy people into happy people around Christmas time.’
‘No,’ was all I said.
‘Oh yes,’ he said, and I could hear his smile.  Fuck him, I thought, they can’t make me go.

Around 5am the next morning I was awoken by some broad dressed as an elf.  At first I thought I had gotten drunk in the mall and fallen asleep in Santa’s Grotto again, but then I looked around, saw the two burly guys wearing Santa hats behind her, and realised I was in fact in my own bed.
‘Who the fuck are you?  How did you get into my house?’ I yelled.
‘Don’t make this hard,’ she said with a creepy smile, ’we’re from Fix-A-Grinch.’  I grabbed the half empty (hey, I’m a pessimist) beer bottle beside my bed and chucked it at her, cracking her square in the forehead.  It made a terrific ‘donk’ sound and I started laughing triumphantly.  Then one of the big fellas socked me in the face and I went back to sleep.

I woke up in a big orphanage style dorm room with beds all along both sides.  Every bed was occupied.  The floor was covered with fake snow and there was tinsel and Christmas lights all over the walls.  All of a sudden Cliff Richard’s Mistletoe and Wine started blasting from unseen speakers, rousing the rest of the prisoners.  What the fuck is this? was written on every face.  ‘Activities time!’ yelled the smug faced little bitch who kidnapped me as she bounded into the room.  If there is one thing in this world that I hate, it is activities.

Without further explanation, we were led outside into a kind of fake winter wonderland, complete with knee-deep imitation snow, fake Christmas trees, [Editor’s Note: Fake Plastic Trees?  Nice reference.] [Ian’s Note: What?] [Editor’s Note: Never mind.] plastic snowmen, and the most grotesque nativity scene I have ever laid eyes on.  The whole thing was obviously too much for one man, who made a mad dash for the chain link fence surrounding the compound.  He got halfway up the fence before a sniper brought him down with a well-aimed snowball.  He fell to the ground, billowing fake snow into the air, and I noticed that the fence only went about 1 inch below the snow line.  I made a mental note of this as we marched on towards the activities building.  Inside we were each shown to our work area and informed that the first ‘class’ of the day was how to make homemade chutney, which is apparently a fun, inexpensive and heartfelt gift suitable for anyone.  Anyone who thinks apple and onion and fucking vinegar is a winning combination, that is.  Some people started to vomit uncontrollably and had to be carried off by guards wearing Santa hats.

The second class of the day was the story of Christmas.  We were given booklets and told to pay attention, because the following day we would be putting on a dramatic performance of the birth of Christ.  If there is one thing in this world that I hate more than activities, it is doing drama.  I had to get the hell out of there, and luckily we were given a one hour break, with the recommendation that we spend it either revising the story of Christmas, or looking over the lyrics to some carols, as carolling would be the third class of the day.  I quickly made my way back to the bunkhouse and – when no one was looking – I kicked away some of the fake snow in one corner of the room.  I knew it!  The goddamn shed we were housed in was only sunk a few inches into the snow.  The whole place was as fake as a Roland Emmerich movie.  If only I could dig some of it away without them noticing…  Then I remembered the hole in my pocket I’d been meaning to fix.  I turned the pocket inside out and ripped it open, then I did the same on the other side.  Then I grabbed a candy cane off the Christmas tree and started to dig.  I would walk in and out of the bunkhouse humming Auld Lang Syne, covertly shaking fake snow out of my trouser legs every time I made it outside.  It was slow going, and it became clear I would have to endure carolling.

During the carolling class there was a distinct change in the mood.  The people were starting to look like they were enjoying themselves.  I realise now that the mince pies and mulled wine we were served for lunch must have been laced with something.  I was lucky to have been so busy with my digging because I’ve never been known to turn down an alcoholic beverage, and as is so often the case, it almost certainly would have been my undoing.  The last class of the day was a Christmas movie, and they were nice enough to give us a choice.  I demanded that we watch It’s A Wonderful Life.  ‘No!, screamed some hysterical dame sitting next to me, ’Miracle On 34th Street!’
‘I will fight you,’ I said, glaring at her.  Neither of us got our movie – the goddamn airhead consensus was Jingle All The Way, starring Arnold Schwarzenegger.  It was at this point I gave up any intention of taking the bastards with me.

After lights out I slipped out of bed and resumed my tunnelling.  At around 4am I made it under the fence and out of the compound, but the second I stood up out of the snow I was hit by a spotlight and a siren exploded into life.  I saw two of the guards take to a sleigh  to give pursuit, and sprinted off into the woods.  As it happens I had little to worry about – the sleigh was dragged by two miniature Schnauzers wearing little reindeer antlers and it really didn’t move very fast at all.  I didn’t stop running until I reached civilisation and found myself somewhere in Ballymena.  I hid out at the train station until daylight and got a ticket for the first train to Belfast.  As I was boarding I was stopped by the ticket inspector, who eyed my dishevelled clothing suspiciously and asked me where I was going.
‘Ah bay, just headin’ inta the city ta day some Christmas shoppin’, hay,’ I said.  He wished me well and sent me on my way.

Folks, Christmas doesn’t have to be the way it looks on a Marks And Spencer ad.  Me, I’m going to go see Scrooged in QFT (http://www.queensfilmtheatre.com/films/scrooged/).  I’m going to get drunk in some cosy little bar and wait for the Fairytale Of New York sing-a-long.  And yes, I’m going to watch The Great Escape on TV again.  Whatever you do, have a good one, and if anyone gives me homemade chutney as a Christmas present I will fucking kill you.

[Editor’s Note: I know ‘this is not a review’ but… what exactly did you just review?]

[Ian’s Note: Christmas.]

[Editor’s Note: You reviewed Christmas?]

[Ian’s Note: Yes.]

[Editor’s Note: Pretentious bastard.]

We had a volunteer this week.  Some broad contacted Johnny about being my date, which naturally aroused suspicion, considering that no woman has ever expressed any interest in going on a date with me.  Johnny did some digging and we found the angle – she works for one of our shitbag rival pod cast sites and was going undercover to get some dirt on our operation.  We don’t fuck around here at Bandwidth though, so we took this as high as it goes.  Above Paul even.  We took this to Will, and Will authorised the hit.

We had to do this thing right though, so when I got the call on Saturday I was ready for it.  ‘Hey Ian I’ve got Lisa here – she’s the first girl ever to volunteer to be your date for the week,’ said Johnny.
‘Does she have big cans?’
‘Um, Ian…’
‘Come on man, what are they like?  Big?  Just say yes or no, she won’t even know what your talking about.’
‘Ian you should…’
‘Jesus Johnny it’s a simple question.  Are they fun bags or soggy rags?’
‘You’re on speakerphone Ian.’  I paused for a second to let this sink in.
‘Hey lady – if you look down can you see your feet?’
‘Um, yes,’ she said.
‘Not interested,’ I said, and slammed the phone down.  Johnny took some time to assure her I was joking, and also to recommend a push-up bra for the night of our date.  No normal broad would listen to that sort of shit and still want to go for a drink with me.  She was definitely a rat.

Under the pretence of a shitty gimmick, Johnny arranged for us to have a few drinks and then go to the late showing of Paranormal Activity.  I got to the bar early and as well as having a few stiff drinks, I ducked into a cubicle in the toilets and made the final preparations.  She showed up just as I was finishing my fourth whiskey.  ‘Hey – you look really nice,’ I said, ‘can I get you a drink?’
‘Yes please.  Vodka diet coke,’ she said, obviously surprised by my friendliness.
‘Sorry about the other day.  My blood sugar was playing up.’
‘Oh that’s ok,’ she said.  Man she was playing it cool.
‘You’re breasts are lovely by the way,’ I said, and smiled at the awkward, slightly scared look in her eyes.

Strangely, she was really quite nice to me.  She did her best to get me talking about Bandwidth and when that didn’t work she just tried to drag the small talk out of me, which wasn’t easy since I like small talk about as much as I like clothes shopping.  Then she started talking about the clothes shopping she did that day.  ‘I got these pretty new shoes,’ she said, showing me her feet.
‘Yeah,’ I said, ‘Purple.’  I’m very observant.
‘Well, plum,’ she giggled.  Plums are fucking purple you double crossing bitch!
‘My mistake,’ I smiled, and pounded back my whiskey.  Luckily it was time for the movie; I was growing impatient.

To me, hype is like the faint bad smell that alerts you that you have stepped in something warm and soft and disgusting and just not realised.  It’s like a precursor of something terrible.  But not always.  As with everything in life, there are exceptions and sometimes, the hype is well earned.  See, I have always maintained that ghosts are not scary.  I mean Jason will machete your fucking skull open but what’s a ghost going to do?  But then, Jason was never very scary either so maybe my logic was flawed.  Actually after seeing this movie I can say conclusively – my logic was fucked.  The film starts very innocuously in the same vein as (dare I make the comparison!?) The Blair Witch Project, shot as a ‘home movie’.  It’s incredibly economical, which is something I love to see in a film and has become all too rare these days.  It’s also very, very clever.  The recurring night vision shot of the darkened bedroom/hallway is one of the best uses of onscreen space and lighting that I have ever seen.  To put this in the context of a horror movie: it’s really fucking creepy.  On top of that, every other aspect of the film, from performance and pacing to special effects and the use of sound, is so close to perfect that I won’t even spend time making a distinction.  And let me tell you, when I go to see a horror movie and end up talking about the use of sound rather than the leading actress’s rack (which is magnificent, by the way) you know I’m talking about something special.  This movie changed my mind about the paranormal.  It is scary.  I don’t know why, but it is.  And you realise this about 10 minutes before the end of the movie when you get a cramp in your ass from clenching so hard; your body’s instinctual reaction when it realises your ass cheeks will be the last line of defence should your bowel just up and throw in the towel.  [Editor’s Note: Did you mean to rhyme bowel with towel?]  The night I saw this movie I woke up at 4am needing to pee.  When I went to the bathroom, I turned on the light.

After the movie I suggested that we go back to the bar for one last drink, and she agreed.  She even offered to pay.  Just as she was sitting down I excused myself and went to the toilets.  I stretched up over the vomit splashed toilet and reached around behind the cistern.  The weapon was still there.  I looked at it in my hands and contemplated what I was about to do.  Then some drunk bastard banged on the door.  ‘You nearly done in there man?  I gotta puke again,’ he said. I steeled myself and walked back to the bar.  I came at her from behind, and stuffed the huge cream pie in her face.  ‘Take that you bitch!’ I yelled as she went down, spluttering cream all over people at the next table.  Seeing this, the bartender grabbed his double filled pies from under the bar and started throwing them at me.  I ducked and ran for the door as they splatted against the wall behind me.  Johnny was waiting for me in the car outside.  I jumped in and we made a clean getaway.

Don’t fuck with Bandwidth, holmes.

‘Look I’m getting tired of this date thing.’  I was in Paul’s office.  Dealing with Johnny has become impossible lately.  He just tells me to do what he says or he’ll publish the pictures from Halloween, which apparently give new meaning to the term “horse riding”.
‘Already?  How come?’
‘I don’t know… I feel like I’m running out of steam.  No one is interested any more.  Including me.’
‘Have you ever done this before?’  While we were talking he was trying to set up Sky Plus on the TV in his office.  I don’t even have an office.
‘No, I can’t afford that sort of thing.  You don’t pay me,’ I said.
‘Really?  How did we manage that?’  I just stared at him.
‘Are you telling me you pay the other writers?’
‘What the hell does Program Setup Code mean?’
‘Look Paul, we need to shake things up a bit.  I can’t just keep writing about the same thing.  I need to keep it original.’
‘By all means, shake things up.  That’s why we brought you on board.’  He opened the installation guide.
‘Yeah but…’  And then he spun his chair around to face away from me.  I guessed the meeting was over.

I showed up to the cinema in a bad mood.  I am pretty much always in a bad mood but I was also pissed off that there had apparently been no change to the format whatsoever.  Another goddamn movie date.  Johnny was standing outside with some kid.
‘What the fuck man?’ I asked.
‘No bad words!’ shouted the kid.  I glared at her.  She returned the glare.
‘What’s up?’ asked Johnny.
‘Why the hell am I still reviewing a movie?  And where’s the broad?’  He glanced down at the kid, who was now texting.
‘No fucking way!’
‘Hey!’ she yelled, and stomped on my foot.  ‘No.  Bad.  Words,’ she said, pointing at me.
‘Myeh, myeh, myeh,’ I mocked.
‘This is Sally, my niece,’ said Johnny.
‘I’m not taking a kid to the movies.’
‘Why not?  It’s something new and it’s bound to be a funny story.’
‘I’m not doing it Johnny.  I don’t do kids.’
‘That’s good to hear, otherwise I wouldn’t leave her with you,’ he laughed, ‘you two have fun,’ he said, and just sauntered off.
‘Why is your hair like that?’ she asked me.
‘Like what?’
‘Like… stupid.’
‘If you shut up I’ll buy you sweets.’  She did, and went back to texting.

At the ticket desk I asked for two tickets for Taking Woodstock.  The woman looked at me like I just told her I gave her Chlamydia.
‘That film is rated 15.’
‘She is 15,’ I said, ‘she’s a midget.’
‘I’m not 15, said Sally, ‘I’m 7.’  The woman at the desk smiled at her.
‘Aw, aren’t you cute.  Is your big brother taking you to the movies?’
‘He’s not my big brother.  He’s just some guy.  He said he’d buy me sweets.’  The woman looked at me, horrified.
‘She’s my friend’s niece, alright.  Just give me two tickets for An Education.’
‘What’s that about?’ asked the kid.
‘It’s about some guy who seduces an underage girl,’ I told her.  The ticket lady gave me the dirtiest look I have seen since I drank all the champagne at a house-warming party and threw up.  ‘Oh for fuck sake,’ I said, and the kid punched me in the ass.  It actually really hurt.

At the concession stand she told me she wanted pick n mix.
‘Alright kid, knock yourself out,’ I said, and she filled a bag.
‘That’s £8.75,’ said the guy, after he weighed it.
‘Jesus kid, what did you put in there?’
‘And ice cream and a Coke,’ she said.  The guy found this very funny and started to pour her Coke.
‘Where would be the best place to hide a body?’ I asked him, just as the ticket lady was walking past.  She glared at me, then bent down and whispered something in the kid’s ear.  The joke was on her though; I looked right down her shirt and didn’t even try to cover it up.

I had actually wanted to see An Education, and not just for tips on picking up 16 year old girls.  I like the whole rebellious teenager thing, and I like to think that if I was growing up in Sixties London [Editor’s Note: You’d fall for a handsome older man!?] I’d want to go to Paris and listen to classical music and smoke and read Camus.  The movie captures that spirit perfectly without ever being heavy handed.  Same goes for the performances, all of which are pitch perfect, despite nearly all of the characters being much more complex than is standard for movies along these lines.  It is a mature but light-hearted film that treats its subject matter with much more respect than I have come to expect, probably because it is based on some lady’s memoirs rather than some half-assed, contrived Hollywood script.  Brass tacks, I had a bloody good time watching it.  Christ, sometimes I really do sound like a film critic.

After the movie we bumped into this girl I know from work.  She has probably the biggest boobs I have ever seen, and despite being incredibly hot, she actually talks to me.  She was with her equally hot friend and looked as pleased to see me as I was to see her (boobs).  I soon realised this was because of the kid, whom they were gushing over like typical dames.
‘Aw, who’s this?’ she asked.
‘This is Sally.  She’s my friend’s niece,’ I said.
‘Aw and did you just take her to see a movie?’
‘I sure did.’
‘Aww!  I didn’t know you liked kids.’
‘Well, anything to see a wee smile on her face,’ I said, and patted the kid on the head.  ‘You want to join us…’  Sally rudely interrupted my pick up line with a massive kick to my nuts.  Then she ran off screaming, ‘Help!  Help!’ I went down like a cheap hooker and fought back the tears.

Just about the time I limped back to my feet, two cops showed up to question me about the kid.  They didn’t let me go until Johnny showed up to verify my story.  As he drove me to the hospital I got a chance to question the kid.
‘Jesus Sally, what was that about?’
‘The lady in the cinema said if you touch me I should kick you in the privates and run away,’ she said.  The kind lady had also been kind enough to call the police, it seems.  At the hospital they treated me for a dislocated testicle, something I didn’t even know was possible.  As I sat there with a bag of ice pressed against my nuts, Johnny appeared.
‘You know what man?’ I said, ‘from now on we’ll stick to the regular format.’

The phone woke me up.
‘What?’  I answered.
‘Did I wake you up?’
‘Of course you fucking woke me up!’
‘It’s half four in the afternoon man.’
‘Who is this?’
‘It’s Johnny.’
‘Ah Jesus.  Call me back in fifteen minutes.’

I drank a cup of coffee on the can and was eating a banana when he called me back.
‘Alright what is it this week and what sort of lunatic am I going with?’ I asked.
‘Well this one is a bit awkward.  It’s going to require some… tact on your part.’
‘Tact?  Jesus the only thing I have less of is chest hair!’
‘Actually that might be a positive here.’
‘Stop dancing around it.  What is it?’  I asked, losing patience.
‘It’s a multi-act show in aid of Outburst, the gay arts festival.’  I knew what he was going to say.  Suddenly I didn’t feel like eating a banana any more.
‘I know what you’re going to say.’
‘What?’
‘My date is a gay guy.’
‘Not exactly, no.’
‘Well what then?’  He paused.
‘The only girl I could get is a lesbian.’
‘Well why the hell would she go on a date with me?’
‘That’s where the tact part comes in.’  He told her I was a lesbian.
‘You told her I was a lesbian.’
‘Yes.’
‘So I have to pretend to be a woman?’
‘Yes.  A gay woman.’
‘You savage fuck, how the hell am I supposed to make myself look like a lesbian?’  Silence.  He thinks I already kind of look like a lesbian.
‘You’re going to say it shouldn’t be too hard, aren’t you?’
‘Well you are vaguely feminine looking.  And you have terrible dress sense.’  My grip on the phone tightened.
‘Just tell me where and when.’
‘Black Box at 8pm tonight.  She’ll meet you out front.’  I hung up, went to the cupboard and got my bottle of Jack.  I took a long slug.

I showed up late, on account of stopping off in The Kitchen Bar (my favourite bar, for anyone interested) to neck a few whiskies.  When I got there, there was only one girl outside.  This broad did not look like a lesbian.  A porno lesbian yes, but not a real one.  I felt like a complete ass but I had a whiskey fire in my belly, and that was enough.
‘Hey,’ I said, realising I forgot to ask Johnny her name.
‘Peggy-Sue?’ she asked.  Obviously Johnny’s idea of a joke.
‘That’s me,’ I smiled.  She didn’t introduce herself, she just stomped inside.  Oh well, just another beautiful woman with no interest in me.  No biggie.

Right inside the door I bumped into a guy I know.  I tried to duck away.
‘Hey man!’  Damn it.
‘Hey how’s it going?’ I said.
‘Not bad… you look different,’ he said, looking me up and down.
‘Uh yeah, I shaved.’
‘No it’s not that… Are you wearing a bra?’ he asked.  I was.
‘Um, yeah,’ I said, ‘it’s a medical thing.’
‘Bitch tits!?’
‘No!  It’s for support.  I had an operation.’
‘Oh, sorry man.  Are you ok?’
‘Yeah.  I’m going to go get a drink.  Take it easy man.’  I got myself a Guinness and located the broad.  She was sitting at a table with a bunch of women who were all drinking Guinness.  They all looked like me.  Fuck my life.  I shook hands with them all and sat down.  The broad didn’t say one more word to me the rest of the night; she sat talking to some bimbo.  The tart.  I focused my attention on the total hottie in a red dress at the next table.  The first act went on.

Koko and the Boomtown Cats is not the sort of band anyone would expect me to like, especially if they had read last week’s Motorhead review.  But I’m an eclectic kinda guy and sometimes things don’t go the way you’d expect.  Despite sitting with a bunch of women who were all just as interested in the lead singer’s tits as I was, and the bra, and being relatively sober, I noticed something strange happening to my face.  I was smiling.  It was impossible not to.   They are three pretty ladies with pink hair, backed up by a band that rocks and rolls in equal measure, and they’re awesome.  Next up was Jitterbug Jackson, who did a sort of circus act to the sounds of Mr. Blue Sky.  My smile widened.  This guy’s energy is infectious, even to a surly fuck like me, and he sure plays a mean diablo.  After charming the entire audience he took a seat behind the drum kit and Katie and the Carnival took to the stage.  Anything I say here is redundant; Will already told you how great these guys are here.  I will simply say that while they were playing I got that sense of selfish satisfaction you get when you see a band right before they hit the big time.  Katie and the Carnival?  Kid I saw those guys live when you were still shitting your short pants.  Then something magical happened.  A lady I recognised as one of Koko’s backing singers appeared on stage, having swapped her pink wig and frilly skirt for a sexy yellow dress and elbow length gloves.  Then she started taking her clothes off.  For an accurate representation of my reaction, see this video. Granted, it is hard to go wrong with a beautiful woman stripping on stage, but this was different man.  This was burlesque.  This was classy.  For me this was love.  She stripped down until the only things covering her modesty were a pair of vintage undies and two light-up nipple tassels, and the whole thing was just too much for me.  I’m no lesbian!  I am man!  Testosterone surging through my body, I reached under my shirt and whipped off my bra.  I stood up, proudly adjusted my crotch, and headed for the bar.  My little scene must have been very inspirational because as Koko once again took to the stage to close the set, all the women at my table started to whoop it up and take off their own bras, leaving their tits swimming around in their sweatshirts like two ferrets fighting over some food lodged in the belly button.  I turned away from the grisly sight and realised I was standing next to the hottie in the red dress.  Go for it, I thought, the spirit of Mickey is with you.  Just then the bartender appeared.
‘Jack Daniels please, no ice.’
‘Sorry mate, bar’s closed.’  At 11pm! This knocked my confidence and allowed reality to seep into my horny, whiskey-pickled mind.  She was out of my league.  Way out.  As usual.  I didn’t say a word to her, as usual.  I went back to the Kitchen Bar for a lonely pint, as usual.  Maybe I am a lesbian, I thought.  I like the ladies, but I sure as shit don’t have any balls.

I woke up on Monday with a strange kind of feeling in my stomach.  Not nerves, exactly.  More a sense that something was coming that I wasn’t quite prepared for.  Something I couldn’t prepare myself for in fact.  When I went to the loo and the feeling still didn’t subside I realised the feeling was simply something I hadn‘t experienced in a long time.  I was excited.  I was excited because I was going to see Motorhead that very night.  There was only one person in the world who could fuck this day up for me; Johnny.  I hadn’t even asked who my date would be, these days I just assume the whole thing will be a disaster.  Almost as if that was their plan from the start…

The plan was to meet my date at Katy’s, then proceed to the Ulster Hall for a night of balls-out rocking.  And as anyone who has been rocking professionally for as long as I have knows, the best fuel for this sort of night is Jack and Coke.  I’m normally a straight up kind of guy, but without the mixer there is a danger of dehydration brought on by three hours of continuous boogie.  Besides, it’s Lemmy’s drink of choice and you don’t fucking argue with Lemmy alright?  After my first drink I decided it would be prudent to start drinking doubles (fewer trips to the bar and all that).  It was on double number four that she arrived with her boyfriend.  That’s right, she brought her boyfriend.  There were only two explanations.  Either these people wanted a three-way, or they just wanted to read about themselves online.  Either way I was not happy.  I shook the guy’s hand and grumbled a drunken hello to the chick, remembering the wise words an old sage once told me: ‘Sometimes it just doesn’t make sense.’  Here was this cute rock chick, decked out in a Motorhead tank top and with enough tattoo on show to make you wonder where those things ended up, and she was with this… guy.  This totally unremarkable guy.  Even more unremarkable than me, if only because my height lends me a somewhat comedic appearance.

[Editor’s Note: It should be pointed out that Ian is hilariously short, not hilariously tall.]
[Ian’s Note: Thank you.]

That same wise man also once told me, ‘Ian, there is nothing as hot as a hot chick in a tank top.  Nothing.’  I contemplated this as I stared at her rack and it depressed me so much I had to go to the bar.  I fixed myself a boilermaker and returned to the table.  I have to hatch a plan, I thought as I sat down.
‘I love your This Is Not A Review thing,’ said the girl, ‘it’s really funny.’
‘Yeah she keeps telling me to read it,’ said the guy.
‘That’s ok, I haven’t heard of you either,’ I told him and took a gulp.  I’m not quite sure what I was driving at, but it seemed like the right thing to say.  Drunk and jealous is not a good combination.

On the way round to the concert hall I decided to look to the aforementioned wise man for advice.  I texted him explaining the situation and asked what I should do.  His reply: ‘Windmill in.’  Despite my respect for him, I decided against the use of violence.  Damn.

When we got to the gig I cornered the guy and told him he better get me a good spot near the front or I’d beat him to death his girlfriend’s awesome cans.  It strikes me now that despite their near infinite potential, tits really wouldn’t be very useful as a weapon.  The threat seemed to work anyway.  I went to the bar and sunk two over-priced beers in quick succession, knowing that from here on in I would need to achieve military precision with my drinking, lest I end up too drunk or worse, lose my buzz.  I got myself four more and ventured into the concert hall to the sounds of Sweet Savage warming up the crowd.  They were doing a good job.  I found the pair near the stage and handed each of them one of my beers.  ‘Hold these!’ I yelled, but they didn’t hear and just started drinking them.  I would have been furious but this accidental act of kindness seemed to win over the broad and she gave me the sort of smile that made me wonder if goddamnit I might have a chance.  I just smiled back and put my plan into action.  During the remainder of the support act I strategically bumped into the guy, stepped on his toes and spilt beer on him, apologising each and every time.  Nothing worked on this guy though – he was as patient and friendly as ever – and I realised then that’s what she saw in him.  He was a good guy and he deserved this chick.  I abandoned my plans and went back to the bar, dejected.  I drank a lonesome whiskey, got four more beers and headed back in as the roadies were setting up for Motorhead.  I gave the happy couple a beer each and they apologised for losing my spot, which was now occupied by this ridiculous looking emo dude who appeared to be welded to his really hot girlfriend.  I was in no mood for that shit, but I bided my time.  When Motorhead went on the crowd became a heaving tide of rockers, loaded up on beer and quite possibly several illegal substances, and I made my move.  I gave the emo a high five and then hoisted the fucker up onto my shoulder.  Then I just passed him back onto the up-stretched hands of several hundred half-cut Motorhead fans who mistook him for a crowd surfer and passed him around until the bastard was gone from sight.  I smiled at his girl, threw my arm around her neck and gave her a beer.  We commenced our rocking.

Watching Lemmy play rock n roll is like watching one of John Wayne’s later westerns.  He’s been doing it so well for so long it has become like an instinct to him.  It is so natural it appears almost effortless, and to the uninitiated this can be mistaken for complacency.  Simply going through to motions.  Formulaic.  When in actual fact, it’s anything but.  When you see a young rock n roll band play live you can see them pour their heart and soul into it.  You can see their energy and their passion because they do a lot of jumping around and posturing.  With Motorhead it’s different.  These guys, Lemmy especially, have got rock n roll in their blood.  They need do nothing but stand there and it pours out of them like they just opened a fucking vein.  No fancy stage theatrics.  No gimmicks.  Just balls out rock n roll played louder than everyone else, better than everyone else.  That’s Motorhead, and if you don’t get it, don’t bother trying.  I left the place with a sore neck and a shirt soaked with beer, but most of all I left with the knowledge that I had just seen something special.  Like seeing Hendrix on guitar.  Olivier on stage.  Brando on screen.  Lemmy is rock n roll royalty and nothing I can write here can do him justice, because I’m just not that good at writing.  I went home in a state of Zen-like contentedness that mere alcohol can never instil, with Lemmy’s own words rolling around my head: I’m in love with rock n roll, it satisfies my soul, if that’s all there is, it ain’t so bad, rock n roll!  Fucking A, Lemmy.  Fucking A.

That is the cleverest title I’ve ever come up with.

Okay so I stole it from Jackass Number 2, what is this a fucking title competition?  Forget I mentioned it.

I had the most badass plans for Halloween this year.  I was going to host a gangster themed party, complete with poker game and screening of one of my all time favourite gangster movies, American Gangster.  I even planned a special three-course Italian meal.  Then Johnny called me.
‘Bandwidth fancy dress party on Saturday.’  Prick didn’t even say hello.
‘No can do, man.  I’ve got plans.’
‘Well cancel them.  All staff must attend.  And you have to dress up.’
‘Are you serious?’
‘Yes!  You have to write about it for this week’s This Is Not A Review.  I even got you a date.’
‘Really?  Who?’
‘Alicia.’
‘Alicia as in Paul’s secretary Alicia?’
‘Yep.’
‘Jesus.  What did you do, threaten to fire her if she didn’t go?’  Silence.  ‘Don’t answer that.’
‘So you’re going?’
‘Yeah, alright.’
In my defence Alicia is very hot, and I was imagining a slutty nurse’s outfit, or a slutty cop’s outfit, or a slutty outfit of any kind.  I was also kind of proud of my Vito Corleone outfit and was looking forward to showing it off.  I called up my friends and cancelled the party.  They weren’t as disappointed as I had hoped they would be.

So on Halloween I ventured out into the night to brave the weather and the 13 year old yobs throwing fireworks.  I got myself a bottle of wine and went home to put on my outfit.   The wine gave me a nice mellow drunk and with my outfit on I actually felt pretty cool.  Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all.  I regretted using tampons to stuff my cheeks for the authentic Brando impression though.  They soaked up a lot of red wine and when I took them out… Well… We’ll not even go there.

Party time.

I wandered around the party swigging a beer and the only thing anyone said to me was ‘What are you supposed to be?’  I didn’t see anyone I recognised and they were all wearing lame ass costumes.  There were even a couple of jackasses dressed in one of those two-man horse costumes.  I finally bumped into William, whom I hadn’t met since my interview.  He was dressed like Bruno and it was all I could do not to stare at his package, which though average in size, was very well… defined.
‘Hey Will, where’s Johnny?’ I asked.
‘He’s the horse.  What are you supposed to be?’  The horse.  I should have known.  As I made my way through the crowd I kept looking out for Alicia.  Sexy Snow White… Not her.  Slutty cat outfit… Not her.  Damn it.
‘Hey Johnny,’ I shouted at the horse.
‘Hey man, what are you supposed to be?’
‘I was going to ask you the same question.’
‘Haha!  What do you think – pretty cool huh?’
‘Yeah.  Where’s Alicia?’
‘Hi Ian!’  It was the horse’s ass.
‘Alicia?’  She broke away from Johnny and stood up, smiling.
‘Yeah, it’s me!’  She was only wearing underwear.
‘Why are you in your underwear?’
‘Oh it gets so hot in there.’  The horse was grinning at me.
‘Are you half naked in there too?’ I asked him.
‘Of course!’ He said.
‘Yeah, of course fucking of course.’
‘Ooh listen to Mr. Jealous.’
‘Well how does it count as a date for me if she’s half naked inside a horse costume with you!?’  Suddenly the horse’s ass chirped up.
‘Just pretend you’ve got a date with Johnny’s ass!’  She laughed.
‘Oh no, I think I would enjoy that too much,’ he said.  And right then something clicked.
‘Wait a minute, are you gay?’ I asked.
‘Uh, yeah,’ said the horse.
‘But you play Xbox,’ I said, perplexed.  I think I offended him because he just stared at me with his big dead horse eyes and then shuffled off.  As they left I thought to myself, that must be the sexiest horse’s ass I’ve ever seen, and decided I needed something stronger than beer.

They didn’t have whiskey so I started doing shots of Sambuca between beers.  Then I noticed another guy dressed as Vito Corleone and got really jealous.  Oh it is on, motherfucker. Then I realised he was with the hot chick dressed as a fairy.  Ok, you win this round pal. I sulked off to the corner with the bottle of Sambuca and a whole tray of canapés.  The smoked salmon was poor quality but they had one of my favourites – carrot sticks with humus dip – which was dynamite.  I got a good way through the bottle before I realised how loaded I was.
‘Okay everyone to the screening room.  The movie is about to start,’ shouted Dracula.  I got up and went to the can.  And there was Mr. Godfather 2 himself, taking a piss.  I swaggered up to the urinal next to him, started to piss, and glanced down.  My spirits dropped and my stream weakened.  You win this round too, Godfather.

I sat myself down next to the horse, which was now divided in two.  This was good because Alicia was sitting there wearing only a bra.  It was bad because Johnny was sitting there in his underpants.  His really, really small underpants.
‘What’s the movie?’ I asked.
‘Rob Zombie’s new one.  Halloween 2.’  Jesus.  I had already seen it once.
‘This movie fucking sucks,’ I slurred drunkenly.
‘Haha, you’re really good at doing Brando,’ said Alicia.  I had long since taken out my face tampons.
‘I like your boobs,’ I said in response.  Jesus I was drunk.  She didn’t say anything.

I have noted that with every passing week my This Is Not A Review becomes even less of a review.  So here are a few thoughts on the movie:
There is so much wrong with this movie I don’t even know where to start.  Let’s face it, Zombie’s remake of the original Halloween was not only inferior but totally unnecessary.  Its only redeeming qualities were the extreme violence and numerous sex scenes.  And that is only because I happen to like low budget trashy horror movies.  This, however, is a trashy horror movie too far.  Rob Zombie has a lot of potential – I don’t like to see it squandered on shitty franchise cash-ins like this.  Next point.  Have you ever heard a hysterical woman try to talk while she’s crying?  It’s annoying, right?  So annoying you just keep wishing Lee Marvin would show up and give her a good slap.  Well around 60% of the scenes in this movie needed a Lee Marvin intervention.  Not only is the constant crying annoying, I like my horror movie heroines to have some spunk [Editor’s Note: Hehe!]  Third and final point.  The script for this one is even weaker than the previous effort.  Carpenter quit after one.  Zombie should have done the same.

After the movie we all went back to Johnny’s house for the after party.  By this point the drink had erased all notion of rational thought in me and I was acting on pure instinct.  And it would seem that my instincts revolve around hugging everyone and dancing to shitty music.  I also started drinking screwdrivers, since vodka was all Johnny had.  My last memory of the night is of lying on the floor singing along to Left My Heart In Tokyo and watching the Bumblebee Guy from The Simpsons getting off with Superwoman.

I awoke next morning acutely aware of how cold it was.  I sat upright in a strange bed and realised I was bare arse naked.  I noticed a big lump in the bed next to me and thought maybe I had gotten lucky with Alicia.  I whipped back the bed sheets and found, to my horror, a massive horse’s head.  Oh God no.  I started to scream.

So I was sitting in the bar trying to figure out what the hell to do.  Johnny is still on holiday so it was once again up to me to sort out this week’s date.  I sat there for a good long time and as the beer took hold my worries about finding a date melted away and I grew more concerned about what I should cook for dinner.  The wonder of booze.  I pondered it a while and decided to cook myself a delicious mushroom risotto.
‘Where is the nearest place I could get some mushrooms?’ I asked the barman as I ordered my last drink.  He just smiled and gave me directions to a strange little herbalist shop.  But he was right on the money and I got a great deal on some dried mushrooms.  By the time I got home I had a serious case of the beer muchies, so I poured myself a glass of wine.  I said a brief toast to the late Keith Floyd and rustled up a truly dynamite mushroom risotto.  Then I sat myself down with my bottle and watched Countdown until I fell asleep.

I was startled awake by the sound of some filthy bugger ringing my doorbell.  In my half-asleep panic to get out of my armchair I spilt wine all over my favourite wife-beater and ended up running to the front door looking like a redneck that just birthed a fucking calf.
‘Who the fuck do you think you are waking me up at this hour!?’ I screamed as I whipped the door open.  ‘I’ll kick your monkey a…’ I trailed off when I saw who it was.  Officially the most awesome man on the planet: Mickey Rourke (Ref: Here)  He just smiled that cool smile, took off his shades and said, ‘Get your shit together, kid.  We’re going out.’  Needless to say, I obliged.

I put on my most kick ass outfit, looked in the mirror and realised it was only about 30% as kick ass as Mickey’s, and went downstairs to find him swigging from my bottle.
‘Where are we going?’ I asked.
‘I heard you needed a date for the movies.’
‘You’re gonna be my date!?’
‘Hell no.  I’m gonna help you get one.’
‘Oh, cool.  I’d actually prefer to just go drinking with you though.’
‘Well I can’t,’ he said, ‘I’m taking two strippers to dinner later.  Let’s go.’

So we went to the mall I work in and I had already developed a swagger that said ‘I’m walking around with Mickey Rourke, bitch.’  I introduced Mickey to my boss and she got his autograph.  He got her number.  Then we headed over to a clothes shop and Mickey started looking at some jeans.  Naturally, being Mickey Rourke, he attracted some attention from the staff.  All female.  He picked out the hottest one and said, ‘Excuse me hun?’  I stood back to watch the master at work.  ‘My friend here told me you were hot but God damn.’  She just giggled and played with her hair.  ‘He needs a date for tonight.  What you say – wanna let him take you to the movies?’
‘Um, yeah ok,’ she said without even glancing at me.  She was just staring at him with this dreamy look in her eyes and I realised her answer would have been the same if he’d asked her to sign over the deeds to her house, or if she’d like to be sold into the sex trade.
‘He’s a silly bastard but I reckon a good lookin’ dame like you could sort him right out,’ he said.  He was so awesome I wasn’t even embarrassed by this statement.  Then I realised I was giggling and playing with my hair.  He called over to the girl’s boss, ‘She’s going home early today,’ and there was no argument.  And so we went to the movies.

I was disappointed that I couldn’t hang out with Mickey for longer but I understood that he could only lay the groundwork, and the rest would be up to me.  He had worked his magic on me though, as well as the broad.  I was a changed man.  This new found self confidence was only enhanced by watching ‘The Goods: Live Hard Sell Hard’ because Jeremy Piven is the leading actor and Jeremy Piven does ‘ultra-confident’ like Sarah Palin does ‘being a huge bitch’.  It is almost impossible not to feel like a cocky sonofabitch for at least a few hours after watching Jeremy do his thing.  On top of that, the movie was awesome and hilarious in equal measure.  Afterwards, shirt unbuttoned almost to my belly and swaggering with such force that I gave myself mild whip-lash, I took the broad for a few drinks.  Despite having already had enough to knock me on my ass, the drink did not turn me into a drunken mess the way it usually would, and I realised that Mickey’s magic was still working.  It is a scientific fact that Mickey Rourke becomes more awesome the more he drinks.  This rule does not have a limit – his potential for awesome-ness is exponential.

At the end of the night the broad wrote down her phone number and gave me a kiss on the cheek.  I must have lost the piece of paper, though, because when I woke up in my armchair the next day all I had was a banging headache and a badly wine-stained shirt.

Illustration by Kris Platt.  Check him out: http://krisplatt.blogspot.com/

Johnny is on holiday this week.  He left me instruction to find my own date, which I naturally protested [Editor’s Note: Because you’re a fanny.]  I marched right into Paul’s office and I told him I wasn’t going on a date this week, and I’d use the column space to write something of some substance for once.  He told me to get the fuck out of his office and get myself a date, or he’d fire me.  So I called up a friend of mine.

‘Hey man.  Look is there any chance you could hook me up with a girl to see a movie with?  I need a date for this week’s article.’
‘What kind of girl?’ he asked.
‘Anyone.  Just as long as she’s bland and innocuous and I can ignore her.  With a nice ass.’
‘Actually there is this one girl I’m banging who I’m looking to get rid of.’  Eye roll for dramatic purposes.
‘Is she good looking?’
‘Hell yeah!’
‘Is she cool?’
‘Yeah she’s a really nice girl.’
‘Then why do you want rid of her?’
‘Ah, just bored, you know?’  No.  I do not know what it’s like to be bored of shagging a hot chick. Jesus.
‘I hear that, man.  It’s the worst.’  I replied, and arranged to meet this broad in Annie’s the following day.

Over my fourth whiskey I got a text from an unrecognised number: ‘Wer u sitn?’  I looked up to see this fat milly -  looking terribly out of place in her velour tracksuit – standing just inside the door scanning the bar.  Good God this is going to be the worst yet. I considered just not replying.  Let her think I stood her up.  There’s no way she’d hang around with all these ‘alternatives’ about.  But I have a conscience somewhere in my blackened soul, and I sheepishly waved her over.
‘Smells like piss in here!’ was her greeting.  Fuck my conscience.  She wanted a ‘blue wicked’ so I made her get it herself.  Then I stepped it up and started laying into the booze.  I texted my match-making friend.
‘Dude, you were shagging this broad?’
‘Naw man, that’s one of her mates.’
‘What!? What the fuck happened to the cool chick with the nice ass?’
‘Oh I decided to keep banging her after all.’  It’s nice to have these choices in life.  I imagine.  I gritted my teeth, pounded back another Jack and told her we were leaving.

When we got to the cinema I realised I was much drunker than I thought, which cheered me up a bit.  It also made me a bit mouthy.
‘Don’t get a large Coke!’ I yelled, ‘No one needs that much Coke in one sitting.  You’ll just have to piss during the film!’  I think she thought I was joking because she got the large anyway.

RULE #1: Toilet breaks are permissible but should be kept to a minimum.

She led the way to our screen and took a seat directly behind some poor schlub.  I didn’t even sit down.
‘Move,’ I told her, ‘you never sit behind someone unless you really have to.’

RULE #2: Unless it is absolutely unavoidable, never sit directly behind someone else.

She got up, moved two rows forward, and sat directly in front of him.
‘No!’  I screamed, ‘You can’t sit right in front of him either.’  I finally ushered her into a suitable seat and almost immediately a couple of dorks sat right in front of us.

RULE #3: Unless it is absolutely unavoidable, never sit directly in front of someone.  Especially if you have big hair.

The movie started.  Good.  I didn’t have to look at her any more.  Then in the periphery of my vision I noticed an all too familiar glow.  I didn’t even turn to look.
‘Stop fucking texting!’ I hissed.
‘Oh fuck off grumpy guts.’  Grumpy guts!

RULE #4: ANY use of mobile phones is strictly prohibited.

‘I’m going to the toilet,’ she said.  Jesus.  I told her!  I was losing patience, unable to follow the movie, and rasping for another drink.  She came back in a huff, slouched in her chair and put her feet up against the back of the seat in front.  I couldn’t believe it.

RULE #5: Never, ever, under any circumstances kick the seat in front.  Try to refrain from making any contact with it at all.

‘Her voice is annoying,’ she loudly pointed out (referring to a character in the film, whose named I hadn’t even managed to glean.)  At that point I just snapped.  I got up, pushed past her legs, and went outside.  I knew what had to be done.  I went shopping.

Only fifteen minutes later and I was on my way back.  In one hand, gripped with white knuckles [Editor’s Note: Well, you’re not black.] [Author’s Note: This is NOT the time.] was a half bottle of whiskey, which I was openly slugging from in the street.  In my other hand was a twelve-inch [Editor’s Note: You wish!] cast iron frying pan.  Why exactly I chose a frying pan I’m not sure.  Maybe it was because I watched Shooting Stars the previous night.  Maybe I was just wild drunk.  Either way, it felt right.

I got back to the cinema, stumbled drunkenly to Screen 12, took a slug of whiskey and slung the bottle into the corner, just like John Wayne would.  It smashed like a tasty petrol bomb without the burning rag.  That got her attention.
‘Where the fuck have you…’  I didn’t even let her finish.  I swung the frying pan up over my head, double handed like I was swinging a mallet at a fairground, and brought it down on her head with a massive fucking ‘WWHHHOOOOONNNNNGGGGGGG!’  She slumped in her seat, old cold, and a stunned silence filled the room.  Then as I stood there sweating pure whiskey and breathing heavily I heard someone start to clap.  Someone else joined in.  And so on and so on, until the entire cinema was on their feet clapping and cheering and whooping it up.  I raised the pan in victory and realised then that I no longer held a frying pan.  I had fashioned a wok of righteousness.  Fade out.  Cheering continues.

Let this be a lesson.  You know who you are, you bastards.  You pollute cinemas the world over.  Most of the time you will get away with texting during the movie.  Most of the time people will be too gosh darned polite to ask you to be quiet or to stop kicking their seats.  But someday, somewhere, you’ll kick the wrong seat.  The person in that seat will be a whiskey soaked maniac who has been fucked over one too many times while trying to enjoy a movie in peace.  And he will smash your fucking head in with a frying pan.  You have been warned.

So the minute I heard Duff McKagan’s Loaded were playing Spring and Airbrake, I knew I was going.  I missed them last time, with the added insult of being in Katy Daly’s for a pint while they were next door setting up.  And being the conniving little bastard that I am, I saw this as a prime opportunity to have Johnny set me up on a date with a hot rocker babe.  So I called him up…

To my surprise he got back to me a few days later, and he had good news.  It was all set – I was going to the gig and I was taking a dame.  I was amazed.  ‘How the hell did you manage that?’ I asked.
‘Easy, man.  I made you an account on a dating site.  Fucking clever huh?’

Next time I won’t ask.

There was one advantage though – I could now check this broad out before I met her.  With all the stereotypes swimming around in my head I wasn’t hopeful, and I REALLY did not want to see my own profile.  But how could I not take a look?

Next time I won’t look.

My profile picture wasn’t a portrait, nor was it me.  It was a picture of a man’s naked torso, taken by pointing a camera phone at a mirror.  I’m going to take a wild guess and say that the torso belongs to Johnny. [Editor’s Note: Yep.]  All the physical criteria I was looking for were checked as ‘Any’, including Gender, and my occupation was listed as ‘Pimp’.  My interests were ‘Guns and Roses’.  I had been matched to Jessica because one of her interests was roses.  Apparently the match-making software chose to ignore that I am also a pimp who likes guns.  Admittedly, Jessica was very beautiful.  Her profile, however, made no mention of rock n roll music.  Or drinking.  Or Humphrey Bogart movies.  No mention, in fact, of anything I like.  Instead were several references to faith, spirituality, and her ‘personal relationship with the Lord.’  A nice Christian girl.  Fuck it all.

The night of the gig I rushed home from work, picked up a bottle of Jack and some ginger ale, and got down to it.  This is fairly standard practice for me but with hindsight I can see that I hit it a little harder than usual this time.  I’m useless around attractive women.  My brain goes all to shit and my mouth tries to handle the situation itself, which never works.  Unless, of course, I’m drunk, in which case I am full of confidence and manly vigour.  Or rather, I just couldn’t give a shit what anyone thinks of me, great tits or not.  After a few strong drinks I filled my hip flask and headed to Katy’s.  My friends were already there and already about as drunk as I was, so I got myself a cold one and sat down to watch the door.

She arrived promptly (of course) and I waved her over.  She tried not to look disappointed when she saw me, which was thoughtful, but she didn’t hide it well.  We had a brief do-we-hug-or-shake-hands moment before I gave in and shook her hand.
‘Can I get you a drink?’ I asked, impressed with myself that I didn’t say something stupid.
‘Oh I usually don’t drink very much.  I’ll just have a West Coast Cooler.’  God fucking damn it.  I hate buying alcopops.  I nearly always outright refuse, and when I do give in I always over-compensate with my own order, to earn back some man points.
‘Okay,’ I smiled, ‘these are my mates – you can sit here.’  I looked at the drunken fucks sitting around the table.  ‘You bastards be nice – don’t come on her.’  Shit! ‘Onto her,’ I corrected myself, impressed that I managed to say something stupid before she even sat down.
‘Yeeeooooo!’
‘Ah, wanker!’
The only time my friends ever agree is on my status as a wanker.  I sulked off to the bar.
‘A West Coast Cooler, a pint of Guinness, a double Jack and a shot of Jager please.’  Told you I over-compensate.  I hit the shot at the bar and went back to the table to rudely interrupt my friend Jonny chatting up my date.  Please note the lack of ‘h’ in the name.  This is not Editor Johnny.  This is Mate Jonny.  And yes it is a funny coincidence that they share a name.  [Editor’s Note: Like him already.]
‘So have you heard this band before?’ I asked Jessica, hoping to break the ice.
‘What band?’
‘Duff McKagan’s Loaded – the one we’re seeing tonight.’
‘We’re going to a concert?’
‘Uh, yeah.’
‘Oh, what sort of music do they play?’
I can’t help but scream ‘Rock n roll!’ the way Jack Black would say it.  This time she doesn’t try so hard to hide her disappointment.  I think the ice just shattered beneath me.  From then on we mostly drank in silence.  Halfway through her second drink, despite being sozzled myself, I noticed that she wasn’t lying about not being a drinker – she was already half cut.  When she finished her drink she excused herself from the table and left.  No, I mean she actually left.  As in just didn’t come back.  I can see now that it was quite rude of her but at the time the drink had straightened out my priorities and I was far more concerned that I had spent £20 on her ticket.  I drunkenly decided to try my hand at scalping.  After half an hour I ended up selling the ticket at a heavily discounted price and made a mental note not to try scalping again.  Anyway by this time the doors were opening so Jonny and I went around the corner to drink our hip flasks.
‘Where’s your woman?’ he asked.
‘Gone with the wind, man.’
‘That sucks.  Did you see the titties on her?’
‘Yes Jonny, I saw the titties on her.’
‘Big ole titties,’ he said, and we finished our whiskey.

The last whiskey hit me hard, which was unfortunate for anyone sitting near us.  None more so than the insanely hot woman seated right in front of us.  She was wearing leather trousers so tight they would make David Lee Roth blush, and I immediately fell in love.  Then it turned out she knew someone in my group, and he introduced us.  I must have looked like a retarded Girls Aloud fan meeting Cheryl Cole because she thought I was awfully cute, and gave me a hug.  All I know is that hug made my whole night.

When the band went on I was the first of the group to make my way up to the stage – as is always the case – and I immediately started head banging and sloshing beer over all the poor buggers standing beside me.  My friends soon joined me and there was much synchronised head banging, arms thrown around shoulders and high-fiving every time Duff said something between songs.  My pogo-ing doesn’t go over at all in shitty dance clubs, but the rock n roll crowd are a good bunch and everyone was courteous (or drunk) enough to give me a fist bump every time I initiated one.  I spent the whole night dancing and singing along to songs I didn’t know the words to, taking a break only to get another beer or take a piss.  By the end of it all I was pouring sweat, partially deaf, absolutely trolleyed and generally loving life – which is the way everyone should leave a good rock n roll gig.

What no one should have to deal with, though, is coming out of a club to see their date stumble drunkenly onto the band’s tour bus, followed by four other groupies and Duff McKagan himself.  Nice Christian girl my ass.

Christ I feel rough.  And it’s not just the hangover, since I know that’s what you’re thinking.  I’m fucking heartbroken.  It is 10.33pm, I have to submit this goddamn thing before tomorrow, and all I can do is sit here struggling down a beer and listening to ‘Why Does My Heart Feel So Bad?’ over and over and over.  I don’t know why I ever agreed to this…

So a few days ago I go to the Bandwidth offices to meet this week’s ‘date’ whom once again, I have no knowledge of.  Johnny left a voicemail message saying he’s on business in Milan (what the hell kind of business could Bandwidth be doing in Milan?) and he hasn’t been returning my phone calls, so when I got there I was dealing with Paul.
‘How’s Johnny’s business trip going?’
‘What?’ he looks confused.
‘Johnny said he was going to Milan on business.’
‘Ha! That’s a good one.  Nah he just got the new Batman game for the Xbox.  He’s in his office playing it right now.’
‘Are you serious?’ [EDITOR’S NOTE: Hehe!]
‘Ian let me introduce you to Jennie.’  And my eyes just about popped out of my head.  ’My daughter,’ he added, and I quickly retracted my eyeballs.  I think God hates me.  I gave her a sweaty palmed, limp-wristed handshake and mumbled a hello.  This is my standard greeting for beautiful women,  but since Jennie was a lot more beautiful than most women I had to outdo myself.
‘I have to go to the toilet… to wee.’  That’s right, I said ‘wee’.  I disappeared into the john and cried in front of the mirror like a recently-hit-upon secretary from Mad Men.
When I came back she was texting and Paul suggested I take her to the Garden Gourmet thing at Botanic Gardens.
‘What?  What about the movie?’ I asked.
‘Oh you don’t always have to write about movies.  This will give you plenty to write about.’
‘But I wanted to see Gamer… it looks badass.’
‘She’s not old enough to see that anyway.’  17 years old.  God fucking hates me.

I tried to make polite conversation on the walk down.  I also tried really hard not to glance at her arse.  Neither worked.
‘So what are you studying?’ I asked.
‘Hold on a sec,’ she said, and went on texting.  That sec lasted all the way there and right up until, walking through Botanic Gardens dodging screaming children, I saw sanctuary.  Or rather, a big sign stuck to a tree that simply said ‘Bar’ with a big arrow.
‘Let’s get a drink,’ I suggested.
‘I’m not old enough to drink.’ Right.  Fuck.  Let’s look at some flowers instead.  We dandered around, in and out of tents full of flowers and vegetables and little pieces of cake with ‘Please do not touch’ signs, and she just kept texting the whole time.  The tents were mostly boring and crowded and I was confused as to what exactly I was looking at.  Why would I pay to see a plant in a pot?  Was exactly is the importance of this potted plant that it deserves pride of place on this table?  And who the hell is she texting so much?
‘Who are you texting anyway?’
‘My boyfriend.’  Boyfriend.  Of course.
‘Oh…’  I saw a stall offering roast pork baps, which got my interest up.  ‘You want a pork bap?’
‘No thanks.’
‘Well I do.’  And I joined the queue.  I’ll get her one anyway, I thought, she’s probably just refusing out of politeness.  I asked the guy for two.
‘I’m a vegan,’ she said.  The guy at the stall stopped loading a bap full of pork for a second and gave us a dirty look.
‘Where’s that?  Europe?’
‘It means I can’t eat anything that comes from animals.’
‘Oh it’s like a medical condition?’
‘No, it’s a dietary choice.’
‘So you don’t want the pork bap?’
‘No.’
‘Okay I’ll have two.’
‘That’s eight pounds please,’ said the girl at the stall.  Eight quid!? I smile and hand her the money.  The pork baps are damn good… maybe not good enough for four quid a pop, but good.
‘I bet you’d change your mind about meat if you tried one of these,’ I told her.
‘I don’t believe in eating anything that comes from animals.  It’s not just meat – that’s vegetarian.’
‘So you don’t eat eggs?’
‘No.’
‘What about milk?’
‘No.’
‘What about cheese?’
‘No.’
‘What about butter?’
‘No!’
I started trying to think of other foods that come from animals, and tucked into my second pork bap.  Then we passed a paella stand and I had a revelation.
‘What about squid!?’
‘No.’  I ordered one portion of seafood paella and we moved on.  The paella was way too salty and I didn’t finish it.  I was parched, and for some reason we were watching some kids entertainment act with shitty things like songs and dancing and audience participation.  Fucking CBeebies Live and Unplugged.  I had to get away.
‘I‘ve gotta go to the toilet,’ I said.
‘To wee?’ she smirked.
‘No,’ I said, and immediately regretted what that connoted.  ‘I won’t be long – you keep texting your boyfriend and I’ll meet you at the giant vegetables.’
‘Fine,’ she said, and I just about skipped towards the bar.

On the way there I passed a dude wearing this crazy wooden rig that was about ten feet tall.  At the top it had a little puppet clown, which he controlled using strings.  The clown kept doing little flips and jumps and dances and I honestly entertained of enquiring with the guy about how I might go into his line of work.  Then I saw a kid with his face painted like Gene Simmons, eating a bag of mini donuts. [EDITOR‘S NOTE: How do you paint a face to look like Gene Simmons eating donuts?]  I asked him where he got them.  He gave me surprisingly accurate directions to the donut van and I got two bags.  One for me and one for Jennie, as a gesture of good will.  The donuts were frigging awesome and I finished the whole bag by the time I got to the bar, so I had one out of Jennie’s bag, knowing she wouldn’t know the difference anyway.
‘Gimme a pint of something strong and German and delicious please,’ I said to the girl at the bar, feeling good for the first time since I’d left the house.
‘All we’ve got is Harp or Guinness.’
‘Make it a Guinness then.’
‘You got I.D.?’  Oh fuck off.

She gave me a pint in a plastic glass [EDITOR’S NOTE: Plastic glass?  Lolz!] with a head that looked like it had been sprayed on with an aerosol.  I took a seat next to Captain Clean Up – a man wearing a costume of big blue foam muscles – who I guessed was there to encourage the kids not to drop litter.  Being the only other person at the bar he recognised me as a kindred spirit and looked up from his pint to give me a nod.
‘One of those days?’ I asked.
‘One of those days.’ He agreed.  He was having trouble drinking because his massive fake biceps prevented him bringing the glass to his mouth.  I took pity on him and bought him his next drink.  That was how it began.

When Jennie finally tracked me down I was five pints in, and had left her on her own for around two hours.  She wasn’t pleased.  I was in no state to care.
‘Hey babe, I’ve missed you,’ I said.  I introduced her to the Captain: ’Captain, this is my date Jennie.  Jennie, this is Captain Clean Up.’
‘Damn, she is hot,’ he said.
‘Told you,’ I grinned.
‘I’m leaving,’ is all she said.
‘What?  Don’t do that.  I got you some donuts.’  I gave her the bag and she looked it over.
‘These have dried egg white in them.’
‘Oh for fuck sake what can you eat?’ I asked.  She stormed off, and I guessed that was my cue to follow her.

Her boyfriend pulled up on his motorbike and the fact that he looked like Gerard Butler didn’t help at all.  It also reminded me that I missed Gamer to do this.  My depression set in as I watched them zoom off into the distance.  I decided to head back to the bar but the beer had made me sleepy, so I stole a motorised wheelchair and drove myself there.  That’s around the last of the lucid memories until…

I was awoken by park security at closing time, still slouched in the wheelchair.  I tried to pass it off as my own and leave with it, but they insisted I leave the chair and get out immediately.  ‘That fucking paella sucked!’ (smugly pronouncing it ‘pie-ay-ah’, rather than ’pie-ella’) I yelled, since it was the only legitimate criticism of the day that I could conjure up.

Waiting for the bus home people kept giving me strange looks, even though there was a crazy old lady there who was far more interesting than me.  She was slouched at a strange angle and at first I felt really sorry for her, assuming she was disabled in some way.  Then she got up, leaned way back to correct her balance and shambled around behind the bus stop so all I could see were her feet.  And the vomit splashing the pavement in front of them.  She was drunk off her ass!  An old lady!  At 6.30pm!  Fucking disgrace.  Everyone just ignored it and kept staring at me, and I made a mental note to use the incident as some sort of genius metaphor for my day.  You know, like how you can meet the girl of your dreams on a sunny Sunday afternoon but life has a way of making sure that you end up cold and drunk and alone and even if you get sick people will just pretend not to notice.  But while I was thinking that I caught a reflection of myself in a bus window and realised my face was painted like the Star Child from Kiss, and it hit me hard and fast that I was kidding myself.  I’m just not a genius metaphor kinda guy.

** Author’s Note / Apology: I realise this is my third post in about seven days.  I’m not trying to hog the limelight, it just kinda worked out that way.  Hopefully from now on you should only hear from me once a week, probably on Fridays.

I should have known this was a mistake the second I heard about Crazy Hat Thursdays. I don’t know what sort of site these people are trying to run, but not only are the organisational skills non-existent, these guys just might be insane…

I chose to exercise my only creative influence on this whole process by choosing the movie: 500 Days Of Summer. I saw the trailer, thought it looked quirky and cool, and remembered that I’m in love Zooey Deschanel, so I probably would have seen it anyway. But since I was going on a blind date I thought it would be prudent to choose a movie a girl might like. This movie seemed perfect. The scene was set. I even got there on time. My new supervisor [EDITOR‘S NOTE: ‘Boss’ is actually a more accurate word Ian] had emailed me the day before and assured me that I didn’t need to worry about anything – they had chosen the girl and she knew what time to be there, what I looked like etc. After 10 minutes of waiting my already faltering confidence in my editor completely disappeared and I decided to ring him. I could hardly hear what he was saying because a crazy woman had just gotten out of a car and was screaming at the driver in Russian, but the conversation went something like this:

ME: Johnny, this broad hasn’t showed up. I told you this was a bad idea.
JOHNNY: No, she’ll be there man, trust me.
ME: Well how long am I supposed to wait? The movie’s starting…
JOHNNY: She might be there already and just doesn’t recognise you. How many women are there around?
ME: Oh for fuck sake, this is ridiculous. Next time I am meeting the dame at the office so I don’t have to go through this shit every week. What does she look like?
JOHNNY: Well, she’s… mature. Kinda tarty make up. Lots of tattoos… and she’s foreign. Like Eastern European or something.

Just like in the movies, she recognised me at the same time I recognised her. The car she had been screaming into now itself screamed off and she doddled over to me on huge pink high heels. She had six inches on me at least [EDITORS NOTE: Hehe, six inches…what are we talking about here Ian?] and I could tell that whatever she said, though not in English, was not an apology for being late. I just smiled and led her inside. I took it for granted that I had to buy her ticket, and also the nachos, Slush Puppy and Maltesers that she demanded. She knew how to say the names of all of these snacks.

We got to our seats just in time, missing the opening credits, which pissed me off. I tried my hardest to settle into the movie. It opened well – establishing the non-linear narrative early on, which was used to much better effect than I expected, especially later in the film. I found it hard to concentrate though, since my date kept texting throughout the film. She also refused to put her phone on silent, and actually took a call at one point despite my best attempts at shutting her up. Beginning with a polite ‘shush’ I ended up yelling ‘see-lonce’ like a fucking caricature Nazi, as if she would understand that any better. The film’s charm and Ms. Deschanel’s… charms just barely made the whole experience tolerable until we found some common ground. She produced a half bottle of Stoli from inside her faux-fur coat and emptied half of it into her Slush Puppy. I asked if I could have some and just went ahead and poured the rest into my Coke. The vodka seemed to settle her and she apparently respected my heavy drinking. Things were looking up, and the film was really getting quite good.

The premise of the film, summed up very nicely in the tagline, is simply ‘Boy meets girl. Boy falls in love. Girl doesn’t.’ This makes for some very interesting scenes and deals with some situations most no-talent rom-com writers just won’t touch. It’s very modern, very hip and all the characters are so likeable, I started to wonder – around halfway through – where’s the catch? Turns out the catch never arrives and I happily went on sympathising with the guy who, unlike stereotypical male love interests, is funny, human, vulnerable, and excellent at karaoke. Hell, I was starting to enjoy myself. Then I realised she was sleeping. This normally wouldn’t have bothered me but her loud snoring was embarrassing, so I shook her awake. She mumbled something in Russian and took a gulp of her alco-puppy. Then the cheeky bitch decided to help herself to my popcorn, which was sitting in my lap. I figured she wanted some of the crumbly stuff at the bottom because she rooted around in the box for a long time before giving up, empty handed, and giving me a dirty look. ‘I’ve got to piss,’ I believe is the only English sentence she strung together in our entire time together, and she got up and left. For around half an hour.

She came back much seeming drunker than when she left and totally spoiled the good mood the film had instilled in me by yawning loudly over and over, as if trying to make a point. She was a hardened cynic, quite obviously an alcoholic, and there was just no way she’d ever understand a movie like this. About falling in love with someone who likes the same music as you. About getting drunk and singing along to that same music when you realise she doesn’t love you back. Some people just don’t get it, and it scares me to think maybe one day I won’t either…

It all fell into place outside the cinema, after the movie. I told her it was a pleasure and tried to make my getaway. She told me the film was longer than she expected and I had to pay for another hour. I told her I didn’t know what the hell she was talking about. She said something in Russian and stormed off to her car. About 3 seconds later her pimp was coming at me with a switchblade. I ran away and hid in a public toilet, which I had to pay 20p to get in to. He was quite patient for a pimp, and went on banging the door for quite a while. I ended up spending £2.60 just to sit there for an hour and a half. After some time I realised it wasn’t him banging the door any more and someone just needed to pee. When I went outside they had gone, but I ran all the way to the bus stop anyway.

[EDITOR‘S NOTE: her pimp billed us for the last hour a few days later. Nice work Ian.]

[IAN‘S NOTE: You’re the one who sent me on a date with a hooker, jackass. And stop interrupting my fucking article with your little Editor’s Notes.]

I guess maybe a lot of people won’t like this movie. Chicks who dig regular rom-coms will be disappointed because the whole idea is that the film turns their beloved genre on its head. Most guys won’t like it because, well, it’s still a love story and it’s not macho enough. It’s a great little film though, so all those people can go eat shit. It has some great twists on cinema conventions, a couple of really excellent scenes (the big musical piece and the split screen segment), some cool music, and it is genuinely very funny. I guess either you’ll get it or you won’t. Either you’ll fall in love with Summer or you won’t. Either you’ll understand the simple joy of it all, or you won’t. If not, maybe considering taking a hooker to see the movie. At least you’ll get a popcorn hand job.

INTERESTING NOTE: I stole the idea for the title of this column from this movie. At the start of the film we are warned that it is not a love story. Just like this is not a review.

[EDITOR’S NOTE: Not interesting.]

[IAN’S NOTE: I’m serious - stop that.]

As I sat at reception in the Bandwidth building I was grateful that I was being ignored. I was never good at job interviews and I have never in my life given a ‘pitch’, so I was pretty nervous. My palms always sweat when I know I’m going to have to shake hands, so I was trying to covertly dry them by angling them towards the fan that was whirring away next to me, without looking like a complete twat.

At this point some guy wearing a World War 2 Nazi helmet walked down the hall bouncing a tennis ball. As he passed me he suddenly yelled ‘Hey!’ and I instinctively yanked my hands back to my lap. I looked at him and saw he was winding up for a throw like a fucking pitcher in baseball. I froze. He slung his arm with such force he almost lost balance. I didn’t even make an effort to protect myself – I just pulled a stupid face and yelped like a little dog. He didn’t let go of the ball. He just cracked up and sauntered on down the hall, bouncing his ball. I looked at the receptionist for an explanation but she just bit her thumb to keep from laughing and avoided eye contact. Even the fan turned its face away. I sat there, utterly bewildered and ashamed. I wondered briefly if the receptionist thought her hat suited her. Then I got hold of my senses. Fuck this, I thought, and got up to leave. Before I got far some guy very conveniently poked his head out from behind a door and said ‘Ian?’  I turned around.

‘Yeah?’

‘Come on ahead.’ And he opened the door for me.

After the obligatory introductions, handshakes and offers of coffee I sat down opposite Paul – the Bandwidth boss – and William, his right hand man and the guy who puts the ‘width’ in Bandwidth. William was wearing one of those old fashioned floppy sleeping caps with a pom pom on the end. I didn’t mention it.

PAUL: So Ian, we’d love to hear your ideas for a new column on the site. What sort of direction would you like to go in?

ME: Well, I’ll be honest. I’m tired of being the clown. It’s just not me. I’d like to interact with film on a much more analytical level. I’d like to be taken seriously. I have a degree, you know?

– They glanced at each other uneasily before Paul went on.

PAUL: That’s great. We love that. But what we’re really looking for is a new angle. We want a whole new take on the “review” process.

– Strangely, William joined him in signing quotation marks around the word review, and managed to do it in perfect sync.

ME: I’m not really sure I understand…

WILLIAM: Take this for example.

– He motions to his hat.

ME: Yes?

WILLIAM: We decided the whole office environment here at Bandwidth needed to be jazzed up a bit. So we hired an O.E.A. to come in and develop some ideas to take us in a new direction.

ME: O.E.A?

WILLIAM: Office Environment Analyst.

PAUL: Very contemporary. Very expensive.

WILLIAM: Hence.

– He pointed at his hat with both hands.

PAUL: Crazy hat Thursdays.

– I just stared, blankly.

WILLIAM: Every Thursday everyone in the office wears a crazy hat.

ME (TO PAUL): But you’re not wearing a hat.

– This cracked them both up.

PAUL: Gets them every time! Look…

– And he started peeling off his bald fucking scalp to reveal, not a bloody skull, but a full head of hair.

PAUL: It’s a fake bald head! Crazy huh?

– I just nodded, actually quite impressed with the quality of his fake bald head.

PAUL: Anyway what we’re saying is, we want to go the same direction with the website.

ME: You mean like crazy header Thursdays?

– I started to cringe before I had even finished saying it.

PAUL: Ha! I love that.

– William actually jotted my idea down.

PAUL: Look, Ian, can I be straight with you?

ME: Sure.

PAUL: We already have an idea we’d like to run past you. I’m gonna turn you over to William.

WILLIAM: Okay, the title is: ‘Wanna go to the movies?’ And the concept is this: each week we will set you up on a blind date. You will take the girl to the movies, have a great time, and base your article on the date, rather than just on the movie.

– They kindly give me time to let the idea sink in. It doesn’t. It floats on top like a snickers bar in a swimming pool, and I’m too suspicious to go near it.

ME: Ummm, I’m sorry I don’t understand.

WILLIAM: Well, like I said – you’d go on a date, and then you’d write about it. And you know, mention the movie as well. You know?

ME: What has that got to do with film, though?

PAUL: Well that’s why we’re so interested to work with you. We read your blog, and I have to say, it was exactly what we were looking for. I mean you claim to write about film, but you never do! It’s brilliant.

ME: So you don’t want me to write about movies?

WILLIAM: Well, yes. I didn’t want to get into the scientific stuff, but we have been doing serious research for the past 6 months now, looking for ways to expand and grow as a company. As you can see, we have already implemented several strategies.

– He motions to his hat again. Paul lifted the gross fake bald head for emphasis. Then he started trying to put it back on, which I found very distracting.

WILLIAM: Blogs are taking off in a big way. Twitter is getting huge. People are nosey – they want to hear gossip and real life stories. And you’re the perfect writer.

ME: Really?

WILLIAM: Of course! You already spend most of your time divulging personal information about yourself rather than writing about film.

PAUL: And, you don’t have a girlfriend.

ME: Oh, yeah. That’s true.

PAUL: Look trust us, it’ll be great.

– I decided to go with it.

ME: Will I get paid?

PAUL: No I’m afraid that’s not possible.

ME: Oh… will I get reimbursed for the cost of tickets?

WILLIAM: No we can’t do that either.

ME: Can I at least choose who I go to the movie with?

PAUL: No that will be up to your supervisor, our critical editor in chief, who I’d like to introduce you to, actually.

– He pushed a button on his phone.

PAUL: Could you send Johnny in, Suze?

– The door swung open and there stood Johnny.

PAUL: Johnny, meet your new top writer. Ian, meet your new boss. He won crazy hat of the week.

JOHNNY: I always win crazy hat of the week!

– And he was still bouncing that fucking ball.

N.B. More from Ian’s blind date next week. In the meantime go and read his blog at Drunken Rumblings. Go on, get to it!