Dublin. A City of Heroin Abuse & A 50% Mark-up
Much like many a city one hears of through the grapevine, Dublin is one of false promise.
On and around every corner is a face riddled with holes and scratches, discarded cup in hand, begging in incomprehensible mutters.
On every street is a face full of trouble and threat, thrown aside by the mark-up of a city with one singular export; Guinness.
The city itself is one of flurry and constant action. Clamour and steam spill from every grate, but beneath the flagstones, lie the wretched and depraved.
Much like a pint of black, beneath the creamy initial taste, lays a darker, murkier history, one can only educate themselves of, one assumes, through living within the battered walls of this strange, hideous city.
We shall depart west, to the Atlantic coast, in search of a more welcoming crowd, within the boundaries of Galway.
Dublin City. 9/10/10
Escaping Belfast for a Highland fling
A day in the graveyard of the Irish head-case left us feeling relaxed and somewhat jaded.
Galway sits on the Atlantic coast and masquerades as a quiet port town, allegedly overrun with students, who were somewhat, out of sight.
An early pint left us with black teeth, surrounded by amorous lesbians and a less pressing amount of addicts. A late night drink left us with black guts and impending guilt after eight hundred years.
I say us. I mean me.
I say guilt. I don’t mean it.
Ascent to the North was long and arduous. Tired, beaten roads with dry stone walls either side, as far as the strained, bloodshot eye could see. The views were green, but became tiresome and mundane after ninety minutes of asses and broken down angels.
After two hours, we chanced upon a placid lake. A small marina with modest boats and yachts, bobbing on its crystal surface, not even attempting to disguise its savage, icy depths.
We remained here for a short while, with the stench of putrid sewers, sickly and harsh, hanging in the air. When our senses were offended enough, we made our way further north.
Belfast itself was uneventful. The trip in however was dangerous and exhilarating. I lay on the top bunk of the van, and spent around two hours hanging on for dear life, as we careered across the border, dodging kamikaze fuel trucks and their par suicidal drivers.
We arrived at The Pavilion, and were greeted by overzealous proprietors, boasting garish Halloween decorations.
The porter was cheap and the show was quiet and badly attended, so we left early with local whisky and cigars in hand.
We were lucky enough to have a home from home, just outside of Belfast and a short drive from our departing port. Here, we were plied with home cooking and slept in clean, warm beds.
We left to fond farewells, rested, and on full stomachs.
Thirty minutes later, we were boarding the ferry east. The sun shone and splintered off the cracked surface of the North Sea.
As we sailed closer to Scotland, the sunlight began to dwindle and the thick sea fog set in, almost engulfing the deathly plumes from my cigar.
N.Ireland/Scotland. 12/10/10
The Rooster Crows at the Midnight Sun- or –Fleeing the City of Bad Vibes & Cramped Cellars for a City of Nooks, Crannies & the Festering Flats
Another night in a stinking cellar and we’re all fit to puke. The 13th Note wasn’t quite ear piercing enough for our liking.
A dying man, can of sugar and shark juice, slumped in the corner, whilst another danced a jig and yelled abuse at anyone his eyes would fix focus on. The man purchased my wares and disappeared from sight before The Arteries took to the stage. The poor fool would be found slumped in a doorway come morning. Blood and bile stained shirt. Needle and can in hand.
We departed west for Edinburgh come the early hours.
That night we resided in a stinking flat with discarded remains strewn across the floor, crunching underfoot.
The morning couldn’t come soon enough. We arose to darkened skies and a chill air in the shadow of a looming volcano, as dormant as the mind of our Ruben.
Six steaming plates of Haggis, Neeps and Tatties left us feeling overwhelmed and fit to burst, but the bill was not paid in full and we hightailed it out of there before the manager could clock the situation.
Two hours spent observing Sri Lankan masks and Congolese Voodoo dolls was the mind lifting fix we all called for, to drag us from the mind numbing food-coma we had succumbed to.
Onwards to Bannerman’s.
Edinburgh. 13/10/10
Wattie Buchan’s Right-Hand Man & A Dirty Hand Full of Blow
We descended upon Bannerman’s shortly before 6pm, however the evening began at a mundane pace and the Haggis comas were still putting up a tough fight.
We began with several games of pool surrounded by over exuberant punters spilling their drinks around the cave.
Time seemed to drag and I amused myself with Caledonian tasters and conversed with Rob, the sound engineer for the venue, who coincidentally, has played bass for The Exploited for the last eight years.
Yet again the crowd was minimal and we were all beginning to grow weary of a somewhat over enthusiastic level of hope and expectation, only to be dropped on your head in the middle of an empty, piss-soaked cellar floor.
The sets passed quickly and we hurriedly retired to our flat above the venue. As the night wore on, we slowly descended into a mad delirium, slipping into a blur of cards, dope and insanity sauce.
It all ended as others fell into fits, foaming at the mouth, screaming for absolution. The remaining few strained for sanity but caved at the mere effort.
Slumped among clean sheets, we closed our weary eyes and dreamt of simpler days.
The morning began with a start and shook us into a blurry reality. Hazed minds and bloodshot eyes dragged the gear onboard ship, ruining my back and the energy levels of the others. It soon became clear that the order of the morning was to claim our winnings from our new acquaintance; Mongaloid Ruben.
As we pulled up to his estate, under the looming volcano, curtains twitched and a severe sense of treachery and despair lingered in the cold, morning air.
We would soon find out that the child has no money to pay us with and would be calling in a wire transfer from his poor, desperate father. Yet again, his idiot son had failed him.
We departed from the poor, bedraggled boy and left him weeping in the stairwell, staring at the banister.
Set course for Sunderland.
Scottish/English border. 14/10/10
Tequila’s with Nina & Trouble in the Tyne Tunnel
The evening began with a start. A flurry of free tequila and Guinness from our newly acquainted bar maid, Nina; an overly ambitious, confident woman of Northern descent. She declared a love for drummers and oddly, the French, of which she thought I was of origin.
I departed sharpish and was followed by the other shortly after.
We immersed ourselves among the desperate few locals who fill their flasks from the Punk Rock sewer.
The show gradually became relatively busy and time was passed conversing with whoever would fall foul and stray our way.
The evening dragged on, and all became suddenly aware of a slowly dwindling crowd.
We departed for Newcastle in the early hours and arrived shortly after, despite a mammoth road block our side of the Tyne Tunnel. No explanations. Just dead rubber on crumbling tarmac.
The atmosphere at our Newcastle hold was relaxed and desperately called for, so we smoked, drank and put the world to rites in the company of old friends and new dogs.
*
We awoke to tired, cained eyes and exhausted faces. The day began slowly and continued uneventfully. A strange haze of Ruby Breakfast, Beans and strained patriotism drew us all, one by one, into an odd sense of false being, not one us feeling quite like ourselves.
As the day dragged on, we gained courage to drag ourselves from our armchairs and face the madding crowds. As the clock struck 9pm, the halls were full and the crowd was heaving from wall to wall. We fell subject to a RFTC cover set and, much like home, Punk Rock karaoke.
With local pride and such a feeling of community tearing from every heaving chest, I could close my eyes and feel somewhat at ease. Almost at home.
The show ended somewhat abruptly. It was ordered that We/I move the gear to the van at once and that we would set out for The Big Smoke this very eve. Scheduled to arrive sometime after 4am.
The remaining few hours of sanity were endured listening to the B52’s and a much more savage onslaught of 80’s pop.
Arriving in the dreaded city at 5am, we all felt jaded and somewhat inhuman. We crashed the moment we walked through the door of our temporary home, and by 11am, felt relatively normal.
We were cooked an insane breakfast, Jalapeños and all, which burned and flared all cobwebs from existence.
Dead set for Guildford and blaring like a beast on fire, we careered south west.
All seemed a little too quiet upon arrival and the looming, sticky breath of a neo-conservative revivall huffed, thick and deathly through the streets.
The show itself was a waste of time, consoled only by the visit of an old friend, good, burning food, and the promise of a few free beers. None of which seemed to make the journey worthwhile, but all were paid in full.
Guildford. 16/10/10
Choking on Smoke. Death & Decay in the Capital.
Upon our return to London, the vibe was that of a messy eve. Bottles of wine and cider changed hands and the hordes began to ready themselves for another night sipping alongside Shoreditch’s finest.
I set out alone and met my darling girl, and the next few hours were spent wishing I could steal her company to myself. Just over twenty one days apart is feeling like a strenuous decade, already growing weary and forgetting the smell of her hair.
The worst thing seems to be, that every art-rock fool who befriends her, can smell her sweet scent and feel her soft kindly caress a hundred times before myself.
I suppose one must stay content in the knowledge that throats can be slit just as quickly as kisses can be planted.
On the tail of a none-too-well concealed, slightly sour note, the night ended quietly, with a bottle of cider in hand, and cheerful screams of rekindled friendships running through the rafters.
As I slept, I blared Little Walter’s wails into my numb brain, to stem the inevitable foul thoughts that would catch up with me eventually.
London. 17/10/10
Rat Poison Flies & Family in Exile
Each soul arose to a red wine head and a clear, cold, mean blue sky.
It was one of those days where, at a glance, one could stroll out with no sleeves and skate ’til the sun dropped below the roofs, unwitting to the icy chill that lingered the other side of the door. Every breath from a cigarette is two-fold on the way out. Every thought is halved in capacity by the sheer shock of the temperature. Shades are the only consolation from the blinding light making its way to the back of your head, where things lie, that nobody wants to see the light of day.
The start to Brighton was slow, arduous and overheated. Steaming, drifting traffic made you wonder how Waits ever wrote, ‘Diamonds’.
With time, the heaving mess of twisted steel surged on, and before too long we were flung down the M25 to sheer oblivion on the rocky shores of Surrey.
We arrived at The Cowley Club shortly after 4pm, and as it always seems to be, everyone was rushing around like worker bees, each with an individual assignment, plotted and conspired to bring the whole damn evening to fruition. I have always felt as though-despite the community spirit overtones-I’m judged and not quite welcome at the club. Despite this, we kept grinning and the boys fed themselves while I perused the library.
Soon after, everyone decided to depart and venture out into the blowing coastal chill. In the meantime, I met two dear friends and we drank and conversed in a newly refurbished, soul-destroying Hobgoblin. What was once one of the best, genuine, filthy places to watch bands in Brighton is now a soulless, whitewashed palace for student crawls and the ever troubled post-pubescent teen.
Upon discovering this disturbing truth, we sank our glasses with haste and headed to the new abode of my dear friend, Osborne. I was taken aback at how such a fiendish wretch could land on his feet in such blasé style. The walls were white and adorned with framed, original paintings, and a king-hell motherfucker of a lavish mirror. Gold leaf and all.
We smoked a few pipes which struck me numb and arranged to meet the following morning.
The Good Doctor and I ran down the road to observe the view from his bedroom window, and what an urban feast I laid my eyes upon! Dr Will’s large bay window protrudes from the top floor of a pointed block, and he sleeps on the fucking arrow. He overlooks an extremely busy, six-way junction leading straight into the pulsating heart of the city, or out of, depending on your inclination.
We sat there for a few minutes, observing the dusk rush, all red, white and orangey-grey, zipping from corner to corner like flies on a carcass and away again. Out of reach.
We strained our ears for every possible sound. Uttered words. Screeching tyres. Breaking glass. Mournful sobs. And with the singular turn of a handle, the screams, stress and urban clamour ceased.
Silence. As though we’d imagined the whole damn scene.
We sat a while in the tranquil room and listened to Los Cubanos while Will fiddled with buttons and levers and strummed a mandolin, but soon decided it was time to depart.
As we stepped from the front porch, the world seemed to clout you head on. Once again, we were among the steam and lights, running for our lives down Old London Road.
As we rang the bell outside The Cowley, everything seemed to become hazy and I forgot where I was standing. The door opened and we stepped into the crowded bar. Heads turned and just as quickly, turned away again.
A large hand fell on my shoulder and as I rotated, relief drenched my being and all became good and well. The large figure of Jamie Arteries loomed over me and grinned. Beer in one hand, me in the other.
I turned back to face the front to see the Dr approaching me with two pints in hand.
From this point on, my memory has dwindled somewhat. I have vague memories; brothers and sisters from home, strange, fiendish dinner concoctions, and then appearing at a large house with my bag on my back and a large bottle of cider in my grasp, awaited by a selective, top-floor house party complete with vomiting Welshmen and angry freegans.
I awoke on a small landing between floors, to the sounds of a girl running around, wailing about having only had three hours sleep. My mind swam and I struggled to piece together snippets of the previous night, attempting to figure out where I was and who was screaming. Slowly, I caught up with myself and decided it would be a good idea to leave. With a train to catch and a breakfast date to be had, I grabbed my belongings and hightailed it through the door.
The sun was blaring and I had only my hand to shield my tired, weary eyes. I found myself stumbling down a packed street on a Brighton Sunday without the slightest of bearings.
Three separate people managed to push me in the right direction and I found the Laines before time.
The moment I laid eyes on my king-hell platter of food, my brain clicked into gear and the bile stopped bubbling. As we sat and ate, I noticed how my spirits are always lifted whenever I’m in this city. I can’t quite explain what causes it, although I’m sure the fresh, sea air has a positive effect on my mind and body. Somewhat calming and cleansing.
However, I could just be imagining the whole damn thing.
We hurriedly swigged from beer bottles as we walked to our point of separate ways, and on doing so, hugged, made promises we both knew we wouldn’t keep, and parted. For how long, I couldn’t even hazard a guess.
As I walked up the hill to the waiting van, I knew I wouldn’t be returning for a while, and by the next time I do, everyone may have moved on again, to seek out bigger thrills and crazier rides.
We were shot back west just as quickly, it seemed, as the whole thing had started. A melancholic hush fell over the van as we immersed ourselves among Bristol’s inner-city traffic. Worried I’d miss my train; we pushed on and finally hurtled into the station car park, savagely cursing every person we saw with great delight.
After the fondest of farewells I grabbed my bags and ran with four minutes to make it to platform eight. The train arrived as I double-stepped the stairs and departed the moment I slung my bags into my seat.
And here I sit. Filthy, poisoned, sleep depraved and with a tongue burning like nothing hell itself could inflict, fully in the knowledge that come 9am tomorrow, I’d be back behind the counter, as though nothing ever happened, with only an eye infection and a bottle of hot-sauce to show for it.
Bristol-Exeter train. 18/10/10
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