Under Mars' Red Sky

Fucking London!

I went to London this weekend to this year's I'll Be Your Mirror featuring Melvins, Sleep, Wolves in the Throne Room and SLAYER. This was the only line-up that would be able to draw me to that rat infested sewer dump of a city that is our illustrious capital. Thankfully we didn't have to go very far beyond the ring of steel that is the M25 as we were going to the Alexandra Palace. Nathan and I had booked into a pub for the night and young David had booked himself into an apartment somewhere down the road. We stopped off at Trowell Services to indulge ourselves in unbelievably overpriced sandwiches and coffee. At the same time young David called the people who ran the apartments to let them know he'd be there in a few hours and we began the final leg of the journey. This is where London started playing its part in the great farce. First thing was that the hotel Nathan had booked had advertised on-street parking so we pulled up outside, only to be told by the landlord that we should move the car as the parking attendants are particularly pro-active round there. But also, to park elsewhere we had to buy a parking ticket which was not mentioned in the advert. In London for two minutes and already we were haemorrhaging money. Fucking London!

This was not the only thing, after parking the car we were led up to the room, through labyrinthine corridors and up rickety stairs we eventually ended in front of the Thelemic Room 23. It was past four o'clock in the afternoon and the room still hadn't been cleaned. A pile of rubbish was in the corner, shit was in the toilet and the beds were unmade. Fucking London!

At least all we needed to do was get changed and go out to meet Dave who had wandered off to find his lodgings. Funny story this. Dave had called the people who owned his lodgings, as you will recall, three hours or so previously to let them know he was arriving. We bumped into him half way up the road looking despondent. He'd found the office he was supposed to be picking his keys up from only to see that it had been closed for some time. Post was hanging out of the letterbox and the place was boarded up. Ringing the office again he was asked if he would like to go to another property in Camden. No apologies for not letting him know before he arrived that the place had closed down. Having no idea where Camden was, we decided that he could sleep in our room. At least his presence would keep Nathan's wandering hands off me. Anyway, the gig was fucking brilliant, even though a hot-dog set me back £5. Fucking London!

 FUCKING SLAYER!!!!!!!

Final insult was the advertised full English breakfast turned out to be an individual box of Coco-Pops. Fucking London! To finish off the musical weekend, it was Eurovision weekend, Sweden won, but the better acts included the Singing Russian Babushkas, Jedward's Golden Shower and Gary Oldman as Dracula singing for Albania. I spent the night at Lauren's squawking racist abuse at the TV until it was all over for another year. Not the best contest I've seen, but still the musical highlight of the year.

It's all gone tits up!

Christ, that was a fucking week. It all began on Friday night when I went over to Manchester to meet up with Mainy and to see Wolves in the Throne Room. It was their last tour ever, so I had to be there. The gig was fucking excellent as they were last year. It's a shame they are splitting up as they play blistering shows. I had to be gone quick sticks after the show and dropped Mainy off in the centre of Manchester pissed out of his head and clutching a bag of cans. I assume he got home OK as I got a text off him the next day to say he was alive.

An amazing gig photo taken at Wolves in the Throne Room...

I had to get gone because I had to be up at the crack of sparrows to get down to that London to be picked up by Steve to be taken out to Thiepval on the Somme. We spent about an hour waiting for that Posh Bastard Dr. Kenyon to finally show up from Jon's wedding. He eventually arrived looking like he'd slept in his car. Pete was also in convoy and stuck his curly headed head into the crowd.

Fuck you England, I'm going to France!!

The digging in France was good as usual and as I haven't been there for a long time it was good to catch up with the Micks. All the boys were there and my team comprised of PC Plod, the Big C, sweet FA and Dog Bummer. We had been tasked with trying to sort out Jon's trench from the previous season. He was away with his new missus breaking beds in Bruges on their honeymoon, so I took full advantage of the situation to absolutely and completely fuck the trench up. Only kidding, after much sweating and swearing we realised that the trench had been fucked up by a large shell burst long before we got there, which made things quite difficult to work out what was going on.

Fucked

Anyway, that took a rear seat to the continuing musical journey of Justin and I. We decided to form a new band whilst out French side. A little perspective is needed here to put you in the picture. A band is only as good as its name. For instance, U2 is a shit name and U2 are a shit band. Burzum is fucking brilliant name and Burzum is a fucking brilliant band. So with this in mind we have always striven to come up with a name that will lead onto to brilliance. The first band we formed, about four years ago was the seminal 'Space Ponies'. Douche Bag was also in this band but was fired minutes prior to our first ever live performance. This traumatic experience did nothing to dampen the first gig and everyone who was there to see Justin beating on a cardboard box and me blowing on a half filled beer bottle will remember that moment forever. In years to come people will say 'I was at the Space Ponies first gig.' Like they say about the Sex Pistol's first gig. Over time we patched things up with Douche Bag and he was allowed back into the fold, this time in the hardest working band in Rock: The Shit Sweats. The Shit Sweats played an acoustic set in a back room in a village called Wombaix. It consisted of Douche Bag on bongos, Justin on ukulele and me on tin whistle. Half way through we swapped instruments, without stopping playing. This performance was actually recorded through the soundboard recording system of Justin's Dictaphone. A single copy of this exists and it changes hands on EBay for thousands of pounds. Fate was to play its hand again and the Shit Sweats split due to musical differences. Mainly that we couldn't actually play any music.

One third of the Shit Sweats thinks about what could have been...

As I said, a band is only as good as its name, so with this in mind Justin came up with a new band name for us this season. He decided that Kiddy Fiddler would be a good moniker for our forth coming musical ventures. People would know us for the controversy and we would get free coverage from the Daily Mail. This was further embellished with my idea that we could get a group of children together and teach them to play fiddles. At least the band would do what it said on the tin. Further to this we came up with names for the first three albums: God Wishes You Were Dead (You'd Be Easier To Fuck), Je Suis Le Jambon and the third album in the trilogy Shitcat Sheep Shift. Look out for us in the Hit Parades.

And next up on Top of the Pops...

In a similar musical vein, we left France early on Friday morning mainly in order that I get back up North to go and see MANOWAR play in Leeds. As ever, they played a fucking blinding set, I ended up quite close to the front surrounded by a load of meat headed Neo-Nazis. They were all very friendly chaps, who insisted on making everyone around them dance, including a young Asian girl I was standing next to. It was only the Blood and Honour tattoos and Seig Heiling that spoiled the fun.

Manowar = Not Gay

The next day was also dominated by music, this time in the form of the Damnation Festival. I went along with Sam and Matt, meeting Glynn and Scott there. The reason I went was to see Godflesh and Ulver. I was also happy to see Dragged Into Sunlight again and Doom for the first time. Godflesh were easily the standout act, the best I've seen them since 1991. Ulver played a brilliant but somewhat subdued set and Doom set the pace with the words 'Shit Metal has left the building!' Scott was upset by Dragged Into Sunlight because they perform with their backs to the audience. He thought it was ignorant of them. I watched a song by Turisas, about as much as I could take of their faux-Viking bullshit, about half a song of Evile and most of Chthonic's set, only for the bassist (like at least half of the male audience in there). I missed most of Alter of Plagues, and regretted it, based on what I saw. So, all in all, a great £30 well spent!

Another great gig photograph of Ulver sound checking...

Cleansing

Well, what a weekend that was... At work on Thursday Logan Josh came to me, cap doffed and head bowed (as is his usual way) and asked if the Lord of Violence (Dr Clay) and I would care to join him and his wife as they supped al fresco in their peasant dwelling on Friday. Dr Clay's latest 'experiment', Moogdroog was also invited to the ritual of fire and meat and she duly agreed. Well, she was far too dazed and drugged to offer any form of resistance. Clay and I thought it would be wise to take along someone else we could throw at Josh and his wife should the evening take an ugly turn for the worst and we should have to hasten an escape. We were escorted by a misshapen lump of an ape to the house and the evening began in high spirits. The flowing of alcohol only worsened the situation and it wasn't long before we were paraded around in military helmets to the wild gesticulations and amusement of Josh. Meanwhile, his wife planned a trip to France from road maps of the Gallic country all to the sound track of David Allan Coe. Before the evening panned out into it's usual drunken orgy of violence that comes from a trip to Josh's abode, we made our excuses and left hotfootdly!

The neighbours hated BBQ season on Logan Josh's road...

I saw Josh again on Saturday afternoon, after dashing away from my stalker outside York Minister. He was drinking in the same pub as me, but with his OAP friends this time. I on the other hand was in the company of Kate, awaiting the arrival of Chris and Ryan. I stayed out all afternoon, drinking like the proverbial fish, before going to see Iron Man 2 with Clay and Moogdroog and Ryan. This is what it was like: AC/DC, girls, explosions, girls, fighting, AC/DC. Reasonably OK for a quick cinema fix on a Saturday night, read Dr Clay's betterer review of it HERE...

It's all just Bang, Bang, Bang...

On Sunday, the unthinkable happened, and Mr David Main arrived in York. He was here because I was to give him a lift to Manchester to see the unbelievably good Wolves In The Throne Room play. They were playing in an old Satanic Mill and I had heard rumours of their blistering performances in the past. Fuck me, they did not disappoint. It was like a ritual from beginning to end and I think it ranks as one of the best gigs I have ever been to, if not the best... They also brought a load of limited edition vinyls with them. I managed to snatch three for a future EBay date before they were all sold out, even the band themselves didn't have any copies... Lucky me, ay? What wasn't so lucky was the two and a half hour journey back home via Rotherham to drop Mainy off, leaving me to get to bed about 2.00am. On a schoolnight as well! I should coco!