By Courage By Arms: two deviants and two chaps who do seem nice, but slander requires more familiarity. A pub somewhere - not worth paying attention. Walls plastered with a stunning array of musical rip off merchants, shedding their identities in tribute to their musical gods: Stairway To Zepplin, Fu Fighters, Smyths, Re.Order, Oasist, The Jam DRC (replacing The Jamm as resident Weller photocopy and with an even worse name, That’s Entertainment would have been better, The Jam-Busters would have been best).
Nominally a competition, despite entrants halved in advance: one who never existed and some indie lot who just steered clear. Band vs. Band just isn’t enough for tension. Especially if one is just there to enjoy their first gig.
Hours of lugging amps, some hanging around, a couple of fortunate pool victories, a blacklit cross on the back of the hand and the band pick up instruments: it begins.
The constant hiss as an amp distorts the 0 signal, strips even the illusion of silence - by the end it will be masked with ringing ears. Four songs: each long, each loud, drums hammer, bass booms and guitars scream in competition with screaming voices.
Subtlety neither required nor desired: a relentless and precise vision to follow, even if it isn’t necessarily shared by all of an audience that nonetheless appreciate the energy and dedication.
Four musicians embracing and being embraced by a music that rushes past - because if life isn’t for making noise and drinking and laughing with friends it would hardly be worth a thing.
The Other Band = (Iron Maiden * (The Darkness + Spinal Tap)) - Enough Self Awareness To Be Tolerable
Fortunately, there was whiskey.
(Also: the only females were the drummers’ girlfriends and the other bassist’s Mum. Weak.)
It’s my stinking money. I worked all my fucking life for it and the bloody government want to rip it out of my wallet and line the pockets of doctors, nurses, teachers, policemen, researchers, fire fighters, social workers and the rest. Fuck the lot of them.
And it’s not just while I’m alive. Shit, no. No sooner have I buggered off this mortal coil do they come along and remove 40% on money over £325,000! Bloody cheek! So what if that only covers 6% of the population. I might be in that. Or at least I might want to be. Sure, average house prices are only £224,064 but mine might be worth loads. I was watching a property show and they said my house might be worth millons. (It might have been a repeat.) Or the stuff I’ve got around the house might be worth hundreds of thousands. Happens all the time on Antiques Roadshow.
I want my kids to have it all. What’s the point of being rich if I can’t leave them something when I die? Alive, I’ve only been able to use my money to make sure they were nourished and nurtured, got a good education, were able to live comfortably in university, know there was always a home and a safety net for them and generally make sure they got a secure start in life. So: they’re going to need my money, and the hundreds of thousands of pounds that aren’t taken by the taxman just aren’t going to be enough to provide for them now that they’re grown up and are out into the world taking care of themselves.
Let’s face it, the government’s never done anything for me. Nothing. No healthcare, no education, no protection, no roads or bridges or public buildings. Nothing. Why the fuck should I pay taxes?
No, as the camel is rubbing it’s fat nose against the eye of a needle, I want the maggot eaten sack of flesh that used to call itself me to lie in an expensive coffin a rich fucking maggot eaten sack of flesh. Or, at least, that I’ve paid for a financial adviser to shuffle around the cash of the wealthy rather than having to do something that might contribute to society.