fucking hell, that was a weekend and a half. for the bare bones, and the ultimate reason for my visit to manchester, i've been nifty:
MOVE FESTIVAL – Old Trafford, Manchester
Thursday July 8th 2004
Welcome to Madstock - Manchester style.
Let’s face facts here. At least eight-and-a-half out of ten of the people at Move today are here to see the nutty boys themselves. The rest of the bill, whilst certainly apt and fitting of the occasion may, to some, appear to be something of an afterthought.
So, how did they fare?
Direct from Los Angeles come Ozomatli. Ten-strong and full of heart, they’re occupying a difficult position as festival openers, but manage to pull it off with aplomb. The reason behind this - beyond their enthusiasm and eloquently blended simultaneous percussive tomfoolery is their sound, a hip-hop beat drenched in Latin spirit which transcends the fact that is a rainy day in Manchester. Nonplussed at the removal of their backline following the end of their set, they proceed to perform post-gig acoustic percussion-led singsong in the middle of the crowd, continuing with the festivities for a good ten minutes, only leaving the throng as The Stranglers have the last of their backdrop hoisted into position.
Oh, The Stranglers! Seminal in their pomp, today they’re introduced as “the greatest rock and roll band in the world,” which, with the likes of U2 still going strong, is pushing it a bit. Paul Roberts is no Hugh Cornwell, indeed he looks like the kind of guy who’d willingly flog you a dodgy gold chain from the back of a transit van. Certain songs like Golden Brown and Duchess get away scot-free from his tendency to overly rasp in his vocal delivery, yet most are sadly rendered as tribute-band versions of original classics. A pedestrian Peaches and a foolish lasciviously over-keyboarded cover of The Kinks’ All Day And All Of The Night are sadly The Stranglers downfall here today. It was however, nice to see them give it their best shot. Bless ‘em.
Jimmy Cliff may no longer be the sprightly young man seen in The Harder They Come, but with a backing band clad in bright orange shirts, giving them the look of jovial traffic wardens, it’s like someone’s just opened a large can of Lilt on stage. He belts them out with all the energy of a man half of his age, so it’s just a disappointment that his attempts at crowd participation prove to be as damp as the weather. But you can’t fault Mr Cliff for making the best out of a bad situation: “The rain we are having, it is a good blessing,” he says with a chirpy grin. You could have fooled me mate.
Out come the chips and beer brigade for Ocean Colour Scene who look positively overjoyed to be here and plod along with a series of their greatest hits like a reliable old carthorse. It’s all too easy to label them as derivative, but the varied crowd here know all the words and indulge themselves in a sing-song. They may not exactly be a sunny delight, but it’s hard not to show some admiration for a band who have been doing this for over fifteen years now, as well as their ever dedicated band of ageing mod followers.
So, then, to the jokers in the pack. Dealing out what amounts to a party-time, greatest hits set come Madness. From the outset, they make it pretty clear that this is their day. Unlike The Stranglers and OCS before them, Madness revel in a chance to give their back catalogue an airing. After all this time, it could be easy to be in it for the big fat pay day. Not a chance. No churning, no flogging; House Of Fun turns the place into a field of joy – 10,000 fez-donning, two-tone cool cats skanking in unison. It may be nine thirty in the evening, but Old Trafford has just woken up.
The ever-youthful Suggs and his cheeky frontline cohort Mike Barson still have witty repartee in spades, throwing it around willingly and often, they slip into off-the-cuff versions of Satisfaction and various Beatles classics, they give their best to Desmond Dekker’s Israelites and they make everyone smile from ear to ear. Of course, there’s One Step Beyond, Baggy Trousers, Our House and Lovestruck – close your eyes during the latter, and you’re down Camden way, gathering round the ol’ Joanna, having a damn good knees-up. And that’s what Madness were put on this earth to do. Offer up a reason to dance; to put a little bit of sunshine back into the drabbest of days.
There can’t be a soul here today who isn’t thankful for their longevity and their infectious desire to entertain. If there is, they’re probably still humming The Riverboat Song and staring into their chips with tears in their eyes.
Luke Best & Christina McDermott
MOVE FESTIVAL – Old Trafford, Manchester
Friday July 9th 2004
In what appears to be some kind of sick reversal, the doom and gloom which enveloped Old Trafford yesterday has been replaced by a bright morning sun (it is the middle of the afternoon, but bear with it). You see, it is what is widely known around these parts as ‘Goth Day’.
Naturally, then, straight out of the mid-eighties come headliners The Cure’s touring buddies The Cranes. According to one of the most popular Cranes fan sites, they offer an “ever-evolving musical experience.” Why, then, does singer Alison Shaw insist on keeping up the little girl lost voice she developed in darkest Portsmouth all those years ago? While utterly distinctive, it grates and whines until you want to steal away her favourite teddy and hold it to ransom until she stops. Maybe the sound doesn’t help, vocals and My Bloody Valentine outtakes are left free to drift on the wind; it’s a real shame that they struggle in a live setting, as you can’t beat drifting off to sleep, listening to Future Songs, the day past just a memory…
A distraction is needed in order to prevent the crowd from floating away on their own mesmerised, ethereal journey to a place where, I don’t know, hairspray comes cheap? Bring on Longview, then.
Well, the day just lost its theme. Longview are your average Mancunian guitar-wielding combo, with their peacock struts and their teenage mumblings (and, like Alison before them, they’re not youngsters anymore). There is a discernible core of emotion running deep under what they have to offer, but it’s buried under the repetitive mumblings of songs like the normally radio-friendly Further.
Calling any bands who can rise above the niggles presented by a festival soundsystem! Anyone?
Yes. They’re called Keane. You might have heard of them. Frontman Tom Chaplin is clearly overwhelmed and overjoyed to be here. His wide-eyed, fresh-faced innocence belies the experiences he must have endured in order to have written these glorious bursts of pain, played out today in front of a crowd which he’s clearly very happy to work with. Everybody’s Changing and Somewhere Only We Know are already familiar to virtually everyone here, yet both are a welcome breath of fresh air. Strutting and dancing with a distinct self-assuredness, they certainly act like they know it. Even when the mood drops for the love-is-gone melancholy of We Might As Well Be Strangers and the beautiful, personal She Has No Time, Chaplin and his band of brothers come out the other side knowing everything’s going to be just fine. Just fine.
Elbow’s Guy Garvey loves being back at home. Beset by early technical problems, he grabs the chance to eulogise about the city he loves, to preach to the converted. The Move crowd give the love straight back. It’s a touching scene – the local kings of the broken-hearted being offered a damn big collective hug by nigh-on eight thousand increasingly inebriated locals. Not that they don’t deserve it; Newborn is tear-jerkingly awesome (as you’d both hope and expect) while set-closer Grace Under Pressure breeds defiance and fists in the air. Wild mood swings, who’d have them?
Not The Cure. Drawing largely from their latest, eponymous album, Robert Smith’s black-clad ensemble appear to be here for the cheque. A disappointing lack of texture is prevalent tonight; many had expected a greatest hits set and for every Killing An Arab and Pictures Of You, there’s a Lullaby or Love Cats missing, presumed forgotten. Even new single The End Of The World suffers (it’s there, but how many people notice it?), yet it happens to be on constant rotation on TV and radio channels all over the shop. While there are occasional glimpses of their glorious past (Boys Don’t Cry is certainly an exception tonight), it’s a real shame to see them bogged down in repetitiveness and seemingly a lack of imagination as a result of their new album mentality. While just about good enough for the ardent Cure devotee, the doe-eyed, first-time pilgrim is sure to sulk their way home. Put on The Cranes, my friend. Drift away and pretend it never happened. Or become an indie kid…there’s this band called Keane, right…
Luke Best
MOVE FESTIVAL – Old Trafford, Manchester
Saturday July 10th 2004
Enough with all the beating around the bush, already. We’re all friends here. And we’re all here for The Pixies. Simple as.
This means about four hours of, well, other stuff and an optional dessert of Stereophonics. So with this attitude in place, time to settle down. Prove us wrong, Move. Do your damndest.
In one fell swoop, this is what Move does. It’s wet, it’s early but The 22-20s make a bid for the best opening act at Move 2004 despite wet earliness award. They’re also the loudest band so far and include a Supergrass sibling (Charlie – brother of Gaz – Coombes) among their number. They’re southern-fried, they’re bluesy but they’re not to be tarred with the brush of derivation or the lazy White Stripes-lite labelling. In a word, fantastic.
The Stands are party to a number of proud traditions. Most notably Liverpool’s Bandwagon scene, and the patronage of a certain Noel Gallagher. Anyone remember Proud Mary? Thought not. They do what they do, and they do it fine – all Byrds-y harmonies, cord caps and neckerchiefs – but there’s precious little substance on display here today.
In their day, James were Manchester’s very own student heroes. A band who sold more t-shirts than any other in history; a band who encouraged us to get laid and sit down next to them. Former frontman Tim Booth would probably give his right in-ear monitor for anyone here today to offer up the same services. As it is, the queue for chips has just found itself engorged. Looking like a villain from Buffy, he shakes his skinny behind and sings: “I am the one to make you cry.” How quaint. How true.
Alison Goldfrapp is an overtly sexual woman. This is undeniable. Clad in the kind of boots that would willingly walk all over you, she leads a skin-tight band through a greatest hits set packed with dirrty basslines and supercharged undertones. Train and Strict Machine have Old Trafford in the grasp of some kind of gyration frenzy, while the femme fatale herself manipulates a Theremin in a way no woman should in public. This kind of brilliance should be made illegal.
According to the menu, all these were just fripperies. Hor d’oeuvres. The real meat of the day’s six courses was to come from The Pixies. Quite literally in the case of Black Francis and Kim Deal. We know time hasn’t been kind. Cast that aside, though. There’s a serious expectation, right here.
Influential to so many great artists, idolised by committed fans the world over. Why? Some would argue their innovation in terms of muso stuff like song structure, rhythm, the way Francis and Deal’s vocals intertwine so jaggedly yet so perfectly. Sadly, not tonight. Ragged and ramshackle where you’d expect them to be razor-sharp and tight as hell. Drummer Dave Lovering struggling to keep it together; the rhythm section – so vital to The Pixies’ central manifesto – flailing around for all to see. If it wasn’t for the familiarity of Debaser, Monkey Gone To Heaven and Bone Machine, these could be any lo-fi collegiate slackers coming sixth in a battle of the bands somewhere in deepest Ohio.
A mini-resurrection towards the end, a second wind, but all too brief. Wave Of Mutilation is beautiful - textured, intricate and well-received. An ovation parenthesises an awkward ‘shall we, shan’t we?’ encore – Where Is My Mind is frankly awesome, Kim Deal beaming every time she reels from the microphone after her ‘ooh ooh’s. Maybe this came too late to obliterate completely the taste of bitter disappointment, but it certainly washed it down nicely.
No Stereophonics for us, thanks. We’re all full up.
Luke Best
hmm. anyways. manchester was fun. i saw the regeneration of the north, i set off a burglar alarm, i cowered from what sounded like gunshots and voices in the back garden when i was home alone and i saw children playing with a rifle.
nah, that's unfair. wholly and completely. it was lovely spending time with cay in her hometown; stories around every corner. but something deep down came up to the surface during the pixies (god they made me miserable) and i made the decision to get out early. while i felt bad leaving cay in the lurch, i had to get to swindon with ultimate urgency to see my jo.
i just about made it. fucking virgin trains. how i hate them. having given up my complimentary first class return (and missing out on the free, unlimited bottles of wine) in order to come home early, i bought one of those fast-track ticket things online before venturing out to manchester piccadilly. i was quite happy; £38 isn't a bad price to pay in order to travel such a long way. what i wasn't told, until i'd parted with my money, was that this mythical rapid ticket wouldn't be ready for at least five hours. shame, considering i was travelling in less than two. so i went to the station, code not fucking recognised, man in ticket office was helpful but useless at the same time, made me buy another one and told me i could get a refund on the first. shite.
so, many hours of uneventful travelling passed by (aside from the moment at stafford when i bumped into my editor who, while seemingly understanding, was possibly not best-pleased that i'd bailed early), until i pulled out of birmingham new street. "tickets, please!" called the friendly lady-voice from behind me. i smiled, handed my various coupons over and was greeted by a barrage of abuse and accusation. seems the nice-but-dim guy in mancunia had only given me the credit card receipt. so this whore-faced minion went on about being the train manager, how she could chuck me off wherever she liked, how she was going to make me pay three more times if she wanted to. basically fucking me off as some kind of fare-dodging crusty. so i showed her my first class ticket, told her who i worked for (the same company, well, nearly) and who i'd complain to on my return to work. ha. eat shit. so she gave me a little bit of talkback, i told her if she was ever near head office, she should pop in for a cuppa. i think i won.
the inspector on the last leg (bristol-swindon) was a lovely little man and bitched about her with me. he couldn't give a fucking toss. why can't everyone be like that? ga.
yeah, so, i'm back in london now. i had to have a cigarette as soon as i arrived at paddington; i honestly felt physically sick to be back in this city. i wish i was still in wiltshire, listening to the sounds of nothing in the back garden, attempting to get jo's dvd player working, waiting for her to get back from work. i can't wait to get out now. it can't come soon enough.
mine and jo's respective parents are meeting for the first time next weekend. hehe. fun.
MOVE FESTIVAL – Old Trafford, Manchester
Thursday July 8th 2004
Welcome to Madstock - Manchester style.
Let’s face facts here. At least eight-and-a-half out of ten of the people at Move today are here to see the nutty boys themselves. The rest of the bill, whilst certainly apt and fitting of the occasion may, to some, appear to be something of an afterthought.
So, how did they fare?
Direct from Los Angeles come Ozomatli. Ten-strong and full of heart, they’re occupying a difficult position as festival openers, but manage to pull it off with aplomb. The reason behind this - beyond their enthusiasm and eloquently blended simultaneous percussive tomfoolery is their sound, a hip-hop beat drenched in Latin spirit which transcends the fact that is a rainy day in Manchester. Nonplussed at the removal of their backline following the end of their set, they proceed to perform post-gig acoustic percussion-led singsong in the middle of the crowd, continuing with the festivities for a good ten minutes, only leaving the throng as The Stranglers have the last of their backdrop hoisted into position.
Oh, The Stranglers! Seminal in their pomp, today they’re introduced as “the greatest rock and roll band in the world,” which, with the likes of U2 still going strong, is pushing it a bit. Paul Roberts is no Hugh Cornwell, indeed he looks like the kind of guy who’d willingly flog you a dodgy gold chain from the back of a transit van. Certain songs like Golden Brown and Duchess get away scot-free from his tendency to overly rasp in his vocal delivery, yet most are sadly rendered as tribute-band versions of original classics. A pedestrian Peaches and a foolish lasciviously over-keyboarded cover of The Kinks’ All Day And All Of The Night are sadly The Stranglers downfall here today. It was however, nice to see them give it their best shot. Bless ‘em.
Jimmy Cliff may no longer be the sprightly young man seen in The Harder They Come, but with a backing band clad in bright orange shirts, giving them the look of jovial traffic wardens, it’s like someone’s just opened a large can of Lilt on stage. He belts them out with all the energy of a man half of his age, so it’s just a disappointment that his attempts at crowd participation prove to be as damp as the weather. But you can’t fault Mr Cliff for making the best out of a bad situation: “The rain we are having, it is a good blessing,” he says with a chirpy grin. You could have fooled me mate.
Out come the chips and beer brigade for Ocean Colour Scene who look positively overjoyed to be here and plod along with a series of their greatest hits like a reliable old carthorse. It’s all too easy to label them as derivative, but the varied crowd here know all the words and indulge themselves in a sing-song. They may not exactly be a sunny delight, but it’s hard not to show some admiration for a band who have been doing this for over fifteen years now, as well as their ever dedicated band of ageing mod followers.
So, then, to the jokers in the pack. Dealing out what amounts to a party-time, greatest hits set come Madness. From the outset, they make it pretty clear that this is their day. Unlike The Stranglers and OCS before them, Madness revel in a chance to give their back catalogue an airing. After all this time, it could be easy to be in it for the big fat pay day. Not a chance. No churning, no flogging; House Of Fun turns the place into a field of joy – 10,000 fez-donning, two-tone cool cats skanking in unison. It may be nine thirty in the evening, but Old Trafford has just woken up.
The ever-youthful Suggs and his cheeky frontline cohort Mike Barson still have witty repartee in spades, throwing it around willingly and often, they slip into off-the-cuff versions of Satisfaction and various Beatles classics, they give their best to Desmond Dekker’s Israelites and they make everyone smile from ear to ear. Of course, there’s One Step Beyond, Baggy Trousers, Our House and Lovestruck – close your eyes during the latter, and you’re down Camden way, gathering round the ol’ Joanna, having a damn good knees-up. And that’s what Madness were put on this earth to do. Offer up a reason to dance; to put a little bit of sunshine back into the drabbest of days.
There can’t be a soul here today who isn’t thankful for their longevity and their infectious desire to entertain. If there is, they’re probably still humming The Riverboat Song and staring into their chips with tears in their eyes.
Luke Best & Christina McDermott
MOVE FESTIVAL – Old Trafford, Manchester
Friday July 9th 2004
In what appears to be some kind of sick reversal, the doom and gloom which enveloped Old Trafford yesterday has been replaced by a bright morning sun (it is the middle of the afternoon, but bear with it). You see, it is what is widely known around these parts as ‘Goth Day’.
Naturally, then, straight out of the mid-eighties come headliners The Cure’s touring buddies The Cranes. According to one of the most popular Cranes fan sites, they offer an “ever-evolving musical experience.” Why, then, does singer Alison Shaw insist on keeping up the little girl lost voice she developed in darkest Portsmouth all those years ago? While utterly distinctive, it grates and whines until you want to steal away her favourite teddy and hold it to ransom until she stops. Maybe the sound doesn’t help, vocals and My Bloody Valentine outtakes are left free to drift on the wind; it’s a real shame that they struggle in a live setting, as you can’t beat drifting off to sleep, listening to Future Songs, the day past just a memory…
A distraction is needed in order to prevent the crowd from floating away on their own mesmerised, ethereal journey to a place where, I don’t know, hairspray comes cheap? Bring on Longview, then.
Well, the day just lost its theme. Longview are your average Mancunian guitar-wielding combo, with their peacock struts and their teenage mumblings (and, like Alison before them, they’re not youngsters anymore). There is a discernible core of emotion running deep under what they have to offer, but it’s buried under the repetitive mumblings of songs like the normally radio-friendly Further.
Calling any bands who can rise above the niggles presented by a festival soundsystem! Anyone?
Yes. They’re called Keane. You might have heard of them. Frontman Tom Chaplin is clearly overwhelmed and overjoyed to be here. His wide-eyed, fresh-faced innocence belies the experiences he must have endured in order to have written these glorious bursts of pain, played out today in front of a crowd which he’s clearly very happy to work with. Everybody’s Changing and Somewhere Only We Know are already familiar to virtually everyone here, yet both are a welcome breath of fresh air. Strutting and dancing with a distinct self-assuredness, they certainly act like they know it. Even when the mood drops for the love-is-gone melancholy of We Might As Well Be Strangers and the beautiful, personal She Has No Time, Chaplin and his band of brothers come out the other side knowing everything’s going to be just fine. Just fine.
Elbow’s Guy Garvey loves being back at home. Beset by early technical problems, he grabs the chance to eulogise about the city he loves, to preach to the converted. The Move crowd give the love straight back. It’s a touching scene – the local kings of the broken-hearted being offered a damn big collective hug by nigh-on eight thousand increasingly inebriated locals. Not that they don’t deserve it; Newborn is tear-jerkingly awesome (as you’d both hope and expect) while set-closer Grace Under Pressure breeds defiance and fists in the air. Wild mood swings, who’d have them?
Not The Cure. Drawing largely from their latest, eponymous album, Robert Smith’s black-clad ensemble appear to be here for the cheque. A disappointing lack of texture is prevalent tonight; many had expected a greatest hits set and for every Killing An Arab and Pictures Of You, there’s a Lullaby or Love Cats missing, presumed forgotten. Even new single The End Of The World suffers (it’s there, but how many people notice it?), yet it happens to be on constant rotation on TV and radio channels all over the shop. While there are occasional glimpses of their glorious past (Boys Don’t Cry is certainly an exception tonight), it’s a real shame to see them bogged down in repetitiveness and seemingly a lack of imagination as a result of their new album mentality. While just about good enough for the ardent Cure devotee, the doe-eyed, first-time pilgrim is sure to sulk their way home. Put on The Cranes, my friend. Drift away and pretend it never happened. Or become an indie kid…there’s this band called Keane, right…
Luke Best
MOVE FESTIVAL – Old Trafford, Manchester
Saturday July 10th 2004
Enough with all the beating around the bush, already. We’re all friends here. And we’re all here for The Pixies. Simple as.
This means about four hours of, well, other stuff and an optional dessert of Stereophonics. So with this attitude in place, time to settle down. Prove us wrong, Move. Do your damndest.
In one fell swoop, this is what Move does. It’s wet, it’s early but The 22-20s make a bid for the best opening act at Move 2004 despite wet earliness award. They’re also the loudest band so far and include a Supergrass sibling (Charlie – brother of Gaz – Coombes) among their number. They’re southern-fried, they’re bluesy but they’re not to be tarred with the brush of derivation or the lazy White Stripes-lite labelling. In a word, fantastic.
The Stands are party to a number of proud traditions. Most notably Liverpool’s Bandwagon scene, and the patronage of a certain Noel Gallagher. Anyone remember Proud Mary? Thought not. They do what they do, and they do it fine – all Byrds-y harmonies, cord caps and neckerchiefs – but there’s precious little substance on display here today.
In their day, James were Manchester’s very own student heroes. A band who sold more t-shirts than any other in history; a band who encouraged us to get laid and sit down next to them. Former frontman Tim Booth would probably give his right in-ear monitor for anyone here today to offer up the same services. As it is, the queue for chips has just found itself engorged. Looking like a villain from Buffy, he shakes his skinny behind and sings: “I am the one to make you cry.” How quaint. How true.
Alison Goldfrapp is an overtly sexual woman. This is undeniable. Clad in the kind of boots that would willingly walk all over you, she leads a skin-tight band through a greatest hits set packed with dirrty basslines and supercharged undertones. Train and Strict Machine have Old Trafford in the grasp of some kind of gyration frenzy, while the femme fatale herself manipulates a Theremin in a way no woman should in public. This kind of brilliance should be made illegal.
According to the menu, all these were just fripperies. Hor d’oeuvres. The real meat of the day’s six courses was to come from The Pixies. Quite literally in the case of Black Francis and Kim Deal. We know time hasn’t been kind. Cast that aside, though. There’s a serious expectation, right here.
Influential to so many great artists, idolised by committed fans the world over. Why? Some would argue their innovation in terms of muso stuff like song structure, rhythm, the way Francis and Deal’s vocals intertwine so jaggedly yet so perfectly. Sadly, not tonight. Ragged and ramshackle where you’d expect them to be razor-sharp and tight as hell. Drummer Dave Lovering struggling to keep it together; the rhythm section – so vital to The Pixies’ central manifesto – flailing around for all to see. If it wasn’t for the familiarity of Debaser, Monkey Gone To Heaven and Bone Machine, these could be any lo-fi collegiate slackers coming sixth in a battle of the bands somewhere in deepest Ohio.
A mini-resurrection towards the end, a second wind, but all too brief. Wave Of Mutilation is beautiful - textured, intricate and well-received. An ovation parenthesises an awkward ‘shall we, shan’t we?’ encore – Where Is My Mind is frankly awesome, Kim Deal beaming every time she reels from the microphone after her ‘ooh ooh’s. Maybe this came too late to obliterate completely the taste of bitter disappointment, but it certainly washed it down nicely.
No Stereophonics for us, thanks. We’re all full up.
Luke Best
hmm. anyways. manchester was fun. i saw the regeneration of the north, i set off a burglar alarm, i cowered from what sounded like gunshots and voices in the back garden when i was home alone and i saw children playing with a rifle.
nah, that's unfair. wholly and completely. it was lovely spending time with cay in her hometown; stories around every corner. but something deep down came up to the surface during the pixies (god they made me miserable) and i made the decision to get out early. while i felt bad leaving cay in the lurch, i had to get to swindon with ultimate urgency to see my jo.
i just about made it. fucking virgin trains. how i hate them. having given up my complimentary first class return (and missing out on the free, unlimited bottles of wine) in order to come home early, i bought one of those fast-track ticket things online before venturing out to manchester piccadilly. i was quite happy; £38 isn't a bad price to pay in order to travel such a long way. what i wasn't told, until i'd parted with my money, was that this mythical rapid ticket wouldn't be ready for at least five hours. shame, considering i was travelling in less than two. so i went to the station, code not fucking recognised, man in ticket office was helpful but useless at the same time, made me buy another one and told me i could get a refund on the first. shite.
so, many hours of uneventful travelling passed by (aside from the moment at stafford when i bumped into my editor who, while seemingly understanding, was possibly not best-pleased that i'd bailed early), until i pulled out of birmingham new street. "tickets, please!" called the friendly lady-voice from behind me. i smiled, handed my various coupons over and was greeted by a barrage of abuse and accusation. seems the nice-but-dim guy in mancunia had only given me the credit card receipt. so this whore-faced minion went on about being the train manager, how she could chuck me off wherever she liked, how she was going to make me pay three more times if she wanted to. basically fucking me off as some kind of fare-dodging crusty. so i showed her my first class ticket, told her who i worked for (the same company, well, nearly) and who i'd complain to on my return to work. ha. eat shit. so she gave me a little bit of talkback, i told her if she was ever near head office, she should pop in for a cuppa. i think i won.
the inspector on the last leg (bristol-swindon) was a lovely little man and bitched about her with me. he couldn't give a fucking toss. why can't everyone be like that? ga.
yeah, so, i'm back in london now. i had to have a cigarette as soon as i arrived at paddington; i honestly felt physically sick to be back in this city. i wish i was still in wiltshire, listening to the sounds of nothing in the back garden, attempting to get jo's dvd player working, waiting for her to get back from work. i can't wait to get out now. it can't come soon enough.
mine and jo's respective parents are meeting for the first time next weekend. hehe. fun.