Alasdair Watson

Apparently, I have a “Fairy Gawdmother”, who has sent me a surprise from my wishlist, which demonstrates niceness well above and beyond the call of duty, and I’m touched and delighted.

I can think of a few people who it might be, but does anyone want to confess, so’s I can say a proper thank you, please?

When I got home (drunk) last night, after a very pleasant night out with davebushe at a “Paddy Punk Party” – three celtic-punk acts on the same bill – Warbelfly (good), The Mahones (enjoyable enough, but my least favourite of the three) and Neck (storming, as always, although Dave’s right, the frontman really does try a bit too hard with the Oirishness), I sat down and I wrote a drunk, bitter and self-pitying whinge.

Thankfully, I’m a bright sort of chap, and didn’t hit post.  You don’t need that species of crap on your friends page.  But, now sober and in a better mood, I’ll revisit some of it here, and you’ll just have to believe me when I say that this is mostly said in tones of wry amusement with a smile on my face, and not tedious self-pity.

You may recall that earlier in the year, I looked up my chinese horrorscope for this year, and discovered that I was due for, if not the best year of my life, then certainly the best I’m likely to see this decade.

So far this year, I have been dumped, thrown up on, had my wallet (and a large sum of money) nicked and been made jobless twice.  If this year can get worse, it’s going to involve serious illness, or somebody dying.  If either of these things happen, I’m going to start hurting people at random, on the basis that you’re all in the universe, and therefore complicit.

Astrology is manifestly a load of old toss.  If you seriously believe in it, I suggest you tip your head on one side, and pour bleach in your ear, as there’s clearly crap in your brain.

And in similar tones of amusment, I note that I probably brought this all on myself.  Back at the start of the year, I asked for surprises.  Apparently, the world judges a good kicking to be enough of a surprise.  I remain unconvinced.  Still, next year, I shall remember to be specific, and ask for nice surprises.

Actually, bollocks to waiting.  I want my nice surprises now, by fuck.  Where are my nice surprises?

This has not been a good week.  There has been a lot more working late, and a lot less general relaxing than I might’ve liked (although I did see Billy Connolly live on Wednesday, and he was side-splitting).  This weekend, I am letting off steam, if I can.  Yes.  Anyone clubbing anywhere interesting on Saturday night?

It’s official.  I’m fed up of this.  I have had a cold all bastarding week, and while I don’t much like working with a cold, I can at least manage it.  It’s only work, and if I’m not giving it 100%, then y’know, at least I’m showing up and giving it a shot.  They can just looking fucking grateful.

But when I have a cold at the weekend, I start to get seriously honked off.  As I write this, there are at least two groups of my friends at the pub, and as should be obvious, I’m not there.  I was out earlier to wish kazzik a happy birthday for tomorrow, but I came home because I was feeling tired and ropey.  On the way home, I managed to go from “ropey” to “shivering and sweating, and having trouble standing up”.

What I had wanted to do this weekend was have a few quiet drinks with chums, then go out and dance myself stupid until the sun came up, then collapse into bed just long enough to be able to attend The Fall gig tomorrow evening, followed by a healing coma until Monday morning.  The sort of rock’n’roll weekend that a chap in his prime should be having. [1]

Instead, at half past nine on a Saturday night, I find myself without even the energy to play the computer game I bought earlier for more than half an hour.  Instead, I am planning to curl up with Thea Gilmore on the stereo, maybe finish reading The Dirt (yes, I know, 2 years after everyone else read it), and possibly re-read my Barry Ween collection.  True, I am still drinking a medicinal whisky, but a nice measure of single malt in a cut crystal glass is hardly swigging JD from the bottle in the approved style (I did mention I’d been reading The Dirt, didn’t I?). 

Although thinking about it, I have to admit I’m more suited to the sipping of single malts, rather than the swigging on JD, even if I do own leather trousers.  Still, I’d rather do it in company, y’know?  I had fucking well better be more with it for the gig tomorrow.

[1] Yes, OK.  Shut up.  No-one’s impressed, and you’re not funny.  Bah.

I went out tonight to see some mates I haven’t seen in ages.  They were going for a curry, and while my instinct was to say no, not two weeks in a row, I haven’t been out with this lot very much lately, so I thought I’d show my face.  This time out, were were at least seated by the door so I was doing OK up until the point they shut it.  Bastards.

So, another evening of mild nausea over, and I have failed to go clubbing like I’d been thinking of doing, thanks to a combination of mild lingering nausea and missing the last bus, so only getting back (thanks to a lift by a passing chum) at midnight, and not really wishing to have to dash out at breakneck pace for the last tube up to town.

But if anyone else suggests anything curry related as a group social activity in the next while, I’m going to be deeply unhappy, because there’s just no fucking way I’m going near a curry house in the next year or so.  I’m not even going near Brick Lane.  You can all shove your indian food up your arses.

Started well.  Thought the cast was pretty good, and the performances were OK.  I know it’s cliche to say “it wasn’t as good as the book” but they’d done such a good job of adapting it up to the last 40 mins or so (aside from the Jenny/Sarah swapping at any rate) but they really, really copped out at the end.  I was waiting for shotguns and revlations about what really happened in LA, dammit.

First of all: I’m informed I owe kenix an apology from last week.  Sorry, chap.  Had, obviously, no idea what I was doing.  Certainly wasn’t intentional.  Should it happen again, feel free to administer some kind of beating.  Although not too hard, as I’m a big girl’s blouse.

Secondly, I suspect that going out tonight was a mistake.  Certainly, the curry house was.  Apologies to everyone else for being much, much less than sparkling company all night – I can only plead exhaustion, and laterly, nausea.  I shall attempt a dazzling return to form by next weekend, if anything is going on.

In other news, and despite the fact that no-one but me cares, the new Flogging Molly album is lordly.  A little bit more mellow than the last one perhaps, but it’s really grown on me in the last couple of days.  I can see it getting every bit as much play round here as the previous two have, which is good.

Oh, and does anyone reading this fancy going to see the Pogues on the 21st of December?  I’m already going the previous night, but I’m trying to get an excuse to go the second night as well, so if there are a few folk interested, it’ll make it all the easier…

So tickets are now on sale for Flogging Molly at the Islington Academy on November the 19th, and yes, I have of course, booked one for myself.  Anyone else fancy joining me?  (The usual description I trot out is that they’re what you’d get if you crossed The Dropkick Murphys with The Pogues.  If you do, I recommend booking through ticketweb, rather than wayahead/seetickets as there’s a 4 quid price difference.)

I also note that Tom Waits may well be playing the UK in November, which fills me with a joy almost beyond measure.  In fact, it may only be equalled by the black depths of my murderous rampage should I fail to secure a ticket, whenever they go on sale.  Still, this means that if all goes to plan, then this year, I’ll have seen The Pixies, The Pogues, Nick Cave, Tom Waits, The Fall, Flogging Molly, Jason Webley and Menlo Park live.  That’s pretty damn close to “all my favourite musical acts”.  In one year.  Fingers crossed The Pogues and Waits, as the tickets aren’t on sale yet…

Today is my last day in my current job. As of tomorrow, I am one of the great unwashed, only with, y’know, better hygiene than that.

Or, rather, I would be, but I’ve just had a phone call, telling me that I’ve got a new job. The one I wanted, in Dorking. It’s a three month temp-to-perm thing, but I’ve been given assurances that this is pretty much a formality, and to be honest, I prefer a probationary period, anyway – it’s best for all parties, in my experience.

There’s still a bit of dotting i’s and crossing t’s to do, but I’ve done the interviews and blinded them with my magnificence, they’ve made a salary offer that I’m happy with, so it’s just down to signing bits of paper, and I start with them next Wednesday.

One day, I’m going to find out what this unemployment thing is like for periods longer than a deliberate short break between jobs. Honest.

(And the rest of you, but especially the Americans) I’d like to direct your attention to this, written by my old mate dr_dastardly. This goes double for you Americans if you’re not planning to vote.

I mean, personally, I’d quite like Bush to get a second term – it might increase the chances of all my friends in America fleeing the country, and moving to London, which is obviously the best place for people I like to live, but on balance, I think it’s probably better for the world at large if he doesn’t get a second term, and whatever Kerry’s failings may be, he’s clearly a step up from the current shaved-monkey incumbent. So go on, read what Huw has to say, and give him a hand…