Christopher here. I do not know where here is though. Everything is black. But not black like you’d see on, say, a liquorice allsort. This black seems go to deeper than the surface it is on. Almost as though this place goes on to infinity but when I try to explore that infiniteness, I know that it is just bricks. Or something.
I tried to escape last night. There was one very faint white crack in the wall. I worried the crack open with a guitar pick I had on me and managed to deconstruct some of this room. Outside of this room is black. Long black corridors with no doors that do not seem to lead to anywhere. I ran, or did a close approximation of running. I do not know how long I had been in that room. Time does not seem to pass or stand still in this room. I ran and ran and everything stayed black. Eventually and all of a sudden…
I was in Bar Ten last night, the home of our Do The Write Thing live events. Lorraine, co-founder of DTWT, had booked a band called The Method. Keri and I got there while the band were setting up, warming up and getting the sound right. We have seen a lot of bands in venues like this but The Method were by far and away the best we have seen. As they are a fairy new band, this being their second ever gig in the Bury area, they did covers rather than original songs. What stood them apart from most bands like this though is they played songs that they love rather than crowd-pleasers.
While I was talking to them in the interval, they said that they play what they love because they are more inclined to pump all their enthusiasm into the music. They said if they played songs they do not like as much but the crowd might, they would be bored. Their enthusiasm really shone through. They performed absolutely stonking versions of songs like Paperback Writer, Carry On My Wayward Son and Renegade. Everything about their performance was so perfect. the only downside to the entire night was that we had to leave early.
Here are some pictures and what not.
Friday night we went to Mic Bytes in Manchester, a wonderful open mic night in Jam Street Cafe, Manchester, hosted by the effervescent Chris Jam. Such a great night and if you eve get the chance to go, please do.
I would like to say more on these things but it is late and I want to do some snuggles and cuddles with Keri.
Here is a poem.
I never understood why people were
up in arms about the smoking ban.
Mind you, I only started smoking
after the ban started. I had been in
bars and pubs where people smoked
before that and it stank – stalactites
of blue-grey stale smoke hung from
damp rafters and patterned curtains.
People would sit in their own crowd all night, only
moving for a fresh pint or to go to the
I like smoking outside. Well, in theory.
when it rains or is cold or snowing
or up three flights of stairs, it
is a pain in the arse but, in theory,
when you’re smoking outside,
you’re part of a gang. True, not
the coolest, healthiest gang in the world,
but a gang nonetheless. You meet people
you would not normally meet – ask for a light and
strike up conversation. Some of the best people
I have ever met have been on roof terraces
and beer gardens or huddled under
a near-by shop door-way.
I never understood why men spit into
urinals. I must admit to doing it myself
from time to time, a stout-coloured blob of dribble
hitting the stained steel. As I wee, I usually
absent-mindedly try and chase that blob
down to the drain. In days gone by,
that would be a fag-butt being chased down
the trough but, given the smoking ban,
that option has been cast out, much like
the smokers themselves.
I think I know why men spit into the urinal.