My esteemed colleague Ingrid Dalhe and I recently made the trek to Walton-On-Trent to play the mighty Bloodstock festival's New Blood stage at the behest of the lovely Mark Makin. It's odd. The prospect of hours in the car on a hot day doesn't fill me with dread when I get to travel with frickin' Batman!
The best thing about gigging with your friend with whom you also write, is that when you get stuck on the M-fucking-25, oh and you WILL get stuck, it's not wasted time.
Here's to the shy little critic
Who sits on their own at the back
Who has no one to laugh with or talk to
So they sharpen their knives to attack Averse to all participation
Unelected spokesperson for the throng
They're the last to divulge and contribute
But the first to cry 'You're doing it wrong!' Myopic self-serving appraisals
The judge and the jury combined
Indulging in wanton destruction
And a cowardly need to malign So here's to the shy little critic
True story... I went to see Purple Rain at the cinema on my own at the first showing in the afternoon (because my sister was at work and I was a bastard and wouldn't wait for her) the day it was released and there were two old ladies in front of me who, from their chat, I ascertained went to see everything that came to the Brighton Odeon. They had a packed lunch and flask and were talking through the trailers about how "'ansome Kirk Douglas' boy" was in "that Romantic Stone".