And so Norf, Kirst and the Pod journey to Stockport for the Damien Rice
return match. Pod arrives Friday, and we take in a band at the Bakers Vault called Casini, and down much beer and a bottle of red wine on our return home. Saturday and Kirst and Norf eventually arrive, after going on a NackLesesque odyssey around the four corners of Stockport, having failed to find the 2nd Largest Brick Built Structure in Western Europe©®. We go to the Trafford Centre, which wasn't quite as bad as I was expecting for a Saturday. We meet georgied at Waterhouse around 7, and get to the gig at 8. Much beer is consumed, George having already started to drink at 3. georgied drunk is a very friendly person, but is bereft of volume control. His talking through Damien's songs riles a gentleman near him, and the gentlemen explains this to George in a few words of one syllable. George briefly learns his lesson, but quite quickly he needs another gentle reminder. The riled gentleman now seems to feel that one syllable is one syllable too many, so the error of George's nattering was outlined via a quick clout to the back of the head. I'm a mild mannered sort, but when provoked I am quick to act. Without a moment's hesitation, and with no thought to my personal safety, I high tailed it to the t-shirt stall and stayed there until the end of the gig. That showed the fucker. After that - Rusholme, curry, george's house, back Al's, bed.
The gig. Preceded by dull band, who were followed by performance artists. Yes, performance artists. Never mind. Obviously less intimate gig than Brum, but still just as much love for the man in the audience, and the creation of all enveloping walls of sound from the man himself. Far less playing around and experimentation though (but Seven Nation Army played by a cellist is a very enjoyable experience).
Apparently this morning's football game was lost by the Rainbow, Mr Poade remaining motionless on the pitch throughout according to our men at the match. I apologize to the guys at the Rainbow for not getting Mr Poade to bed early enough and for feeding him too much beer. Driving from Stockport to Wolverhampton to play the game can't help either.
Down to Wolverhampton next weekend for Kirst's birthday, and as far as I remember georgied agreed to come too. Not sure whether georgied will remember that though. Very, very drunk. Silly wee fellow.
