Unexpectedly, over the horizon a life was spotted...
It's our twelve year wedding anniversary today, and to celebrate we actually managed to get babysitters for the kids and contrived to ignore any work that needed done, and went out on the town for the first time in an age.
First off we met some friends and went to see comedian Ian Stone, as recommended by my brother, at the Underbelly. None of us had even heard of him and I was getting doubtful looks when I mentioned the source of the recommendation (my little brother, R, is seriously into stand-up as an art-form and is perfectly likely to suggest an unfunny act purely because the stand-up's stage persona is "interesting and edgy"), but I needn't have worried as all turned out well, with Stone being very funny and easily filling the hour he was on with great comedy. My favourite joke was the suggestion that rather than cause wars everyone should relax with a bath - "When North Korea wants to bomb South Korea, they should take a bath instead. When Pakistan wants to invade India, they should take a long bath. When the Jews want a land of their own, they should occupy someone else's bath."
After the show finished we headed down to Jools Holland's new club in Edinburgh, the Jamhouse. To be honest, I didn't fancy it much - I'm not a club person really and I hate honky tonk piano of any type. A fiver to get in was cheap enough though, and, vitally, we got a table in the seated section between the bars and the dance floor and stage (hey - I'm 36 now, a seat's important!) but the sight of a mass of near-pensioners boogieing on down to that vocoded Cher song from a few years back as we took our seats wasn't comforting, nor was the plethora of women who appeared to have had unsuccessful plastic surgery and/or have got dressed in the dark. Throw in a handful of sweaty looking businessmen with bald heads and paunches but implausibly attractive young trophy wives/prostitutes on their arms and it did look like a quick drink and head home.
So we sat and chatted desultorily for a few minutes; I had a whine about the fact you can't smoke in clubs, Mike kept pointing out new geeks, freaks and general wierdos and things gently slid towards utter failure when the the least expected and most joyous eight words I'm ever likely to hear blared out from the stage.
"Ladies and gentlemen, my name is Alvin Stardust".
Alvin fucking Stardust!
From that moment on the night was brilliant (as was Alvin - go see him at a club near you, doing stonking covers of early Elvis and Eddie Cochran). We finally got home about 4am, which is about the latest I've been out since I was a student for the first time, back in the late 80s and early 90s and I've spent the whole day singing "My Coocachoo"(in a strange medley with 'Spirit in the Sky' which, to my ear, sound very similar).
First off we met some friends and went to see comedian Ian Stone, as recommended by my brother, at the Underbelly. None of us had even heard of him and I was getting doubtful looks when I mentioned the source of the recommendation (my little brother, R, is seriously into stand-up as an art-form and is perfectly likely to suggest an unfunny act purely because the stand-up's stage persona is "interesting and edgy"), but I needn't have worried as all turned out well, with Stone being very funny and easily filling the hour he was on with great comedy. My favourite joke was the suggestion that rather than cause wars everyone should relax with a bath - "When North Korea wants to bomb South Korea, they should take a bath instead. When Pakistan wants to invade India, they should take a long bath. When the Jews want a land of their own, they should occupy someone else's bath."
After the show finished we headed down to Jools Holland's new club in Edinburgh, the Jamhouse. To be honest, I didn't fancy it much - I'm not a club person really and I hate honky tonk piano of any type. A fiver to get in was cheap enough though, and, vitally, we got a table in the seated section between the bars and the dance floor and stage (hey - I'm 36 now, a seat's important!) but the sight of a mass of near-pensioners boogieing on down to that vocoded Cher song from a few years back as we took our seats wasn't comforting, nor was the plethora of women who appeared to have had unsuccessful plastic surgery and/or have got dressed in the dark. Throw in a handful of sweaty looking businessmen with bald heads and paunches but implausibly attractive young trophy wives/prostitutes on their arms and it did look like a quick drink and head home.
So we sat and chatted desultorily for a few minutes; I had a whine about the fact you can't smoke in clubs, Mike kept pointing out new geeks, freaks and general wierdos and things gently slid towards utter failure when the the least expected and most joyous eight words I'm ever likely to hear blared out from the stage.
"Ladies and gentlemen, my name is Alvin Stardust".
Alvin fucking Stardust!
From that moment on the night was brilliant (as was Alvin - go see him at a club near you, doing stonking covers of early Elvis and Eddie Cochran). We finally got home about 4am, which is about the latest I've been out since I was a student for the first time, back in the late 80s and early 90s and I've spent the whole day singing "My Coocachoo"(in a strange medley with 'Spirit in the Sky' which, to my ear, sound very similar).
Labels: waffle
