Argy Bargy in Manchester, Punk, Skins and Mosh Pits

I went to see Argy Bargy on Friday. The first person I have to thank is my LSH (long suffering husband) because he persuaded me to leave my poor, ill little girl (okay, she's 16 and taller than me but she's still poor and ill) at home with him and go out and enjoy myself. I suppose I also ought to thank my poor ill little girl (previously blogged about under the name of Bobbie) for allowing me to leave her in the capable hands of her Dad when she was feeling so ill.

So I got a return ticket to Manchester and got on the train to Piccadilly by myself. I don't usually go to gigs on my own. I think my taste in Oi Punk is quite specialist and I could not find anybody in my immediate family or circle of friends who wanted to go. Fortunately, I did know a couple of people who were going to be there so I was reassured that I wasn't going to be completely isolated.

So I got off the train at Piccadilly and went out to where the taxi rank is. I knew the pub was opposite the train station and my older daughter had given me quite specific instructions on how to leave the station so I wouldn't be wandering around for ages asking people how to get to the pub. I checked the buildings immediately opposite the station and realised that the pub I was heading for is not quite opposite. In the distance, I could see a building that looked like the picture on the Net and I walked towards it. It was the Star and Garter, so I walked in and paid my £6 and went straight to the bar.

I got my half a Fosters and while I was being served, I looked around for familiar faces. I didn't want to stand around on my own like a complete lemon - that would have made me miserable. Fortunately, I spotted a couple of friendly faces I've seen before and I went over to talk to them. Once they realised I'd come on my own, they became knights in shiny armour (not very punk, I know, the armour should be tarnished and held together with safety pins) and took me under their wing.

We went up to see the first band, the Bullet Kings. When the gig was over and I was walking back to the station, I chatted to one of them. I'm pretty sure he was the bassist but I know I was quite pissed by then so I'm not absolutely certain. He did wear a UK Subs t-shirt, I know that. I asked him twice what the name of his band was and told him I'd blog about the gig. To my shame, I forgot almost immediately and I had to look it up before writing this blog.

Well, the Bullet Kings played good, fast, loud punk and I enjoyed the set. My KISA (Knights in Shiny Armour) bought me drinks and we chatted. If I remember rightly, I think I told one of the KISA that I love it when punks get old and fat - sorry! I was having a great time. I also went and bought myself a t-shirt (an Argy Bargy one) which has the words:

Argy Bargy
HOOLIBIRD

on it. This appealed to my inebriated self a great deal and I showed it off to all and sundry before putting it on. I hasten to add that it has continued to appeal to me since I sobered up yesterday and I will wear it with pride at every opportunity.

The next band were The Great St Louis and I can't blog about them because I didn't see them. I was too busy chatting to people in the bar and admiring their tattoos (an annoying habit I have). It's amazing how much time I can waste talking to complete strangers and admiring their tattoos once I've had a few beers.

3CR were great. I've got a picture of Boggy on my phone. I didn't know who he was when I took it. I was just admiring his mohican and decided to take a picture of it. I think I asked him first, I'm a polite sort of a person. Now I know who he is, I proudly show it off to all and sundry, interested or completely uninterested. Don't ask me to name any of their songs, I can't but I enjoyed the set and will catch them at the next opportunity.

Finally, Argy Bargy, the band I'd come to see. I largely ignored the Oi bands when I was a teenager. I knew a couple of Sham 69 songs and I like the UK Subs but much of the movement passed me by. I think it was a bit too hardcore for my young ears. Now, I love Oi. My taste in music has moved more to the extreme and the louder and harder it is, the better. I don't own any CDs by Argy Bargy so I can't mention individual songs (although I picked up the set list from the stage at the end of the gig and I will get some stuff on CD now) but I can say that I enjoyed myself enough to dance in the rather weird way I do dance to punk and stand on the edge of the mosh pit. I love the violence of the mosh pit too (that's a word I've had to import). It's a friendly sort of violence, people get knocked down but everybody helps them back to their feet, and I got soaked by someone's drink when he was pushed into me. Something quite sweet but not cider. Not good because my hair goes wavy when it gets wet. I moved right to the front at the end of the gig and that's when I picked up the set list.

Oi is credited with bringing punks and skinheads together. I remember an incident many years ago when my sister, one of our friends (a lad whose name escapes me now) and I were walking through Churchill Park in Bromley. We were all punks. Some skinheads attacked our friend and were really putting the boot in. Me and my sister shouted at them and pulled some of them off him. I was very scared at the time and I was pretty shocked too. It was the first time I saw anybody beaten up.

Later, I became good friends with a few skinheads, very good friends with one in particular, who used to walk me home late at night after gigs. I've never really been scared of skinheads, well not since my friend was beaten up, and nowadays I find the look very attractive indeed! I texted my good friend from the gig. The message said and I think this is word for word:

"I'm a bisexual. I like punx and skins."

Now, because I like doing it, here's a nice video of Argy Bargy singing "Read all about it".

All Hard and Sharp Places

I've just got back from a weekend away with my long suffering husband. We were actually away for two nights and one full day only but it did me good. We went to Keswick, which I now believe is the best place in England. We stayed in a nice B & B and I was able to get myself re-habilitated from my humiliating and traumatic experience on the Pap of Glencoe.

Right, lets start with our journey up to Keswick. It was only remarkable because we were overtaken on the M6 by a Ford Focus ST or, as Jeremy Clarkson would have it, a Ford ASBO. Okay, that's not remarkable, we get overtaken by all sorts, including bicycles, but this Ford ASBO owner has a registration plate that reads ASBO from a distance. We were debating whether this is owned by somebody who works for Ford or if somebody had seen the chance early on and had got the car and registration plate of his dreams. We were probably debating it until we got our first view of Windermere.

When we drove through Ambleside, my LSH (long suffering husband) pointed out The Glasshouse Restaurant. I have to admit, I'm only interested because I watched the episode on Ramsay's Kitchen Nightmares and I still cringe at the Chef saying "Sex on a spoon!" - yeuch, horrible!!!

Some more magnificent scenery later and we drove into Keswick. After a little farting about and a brief visit to Castlerigg Stone Circle (see below), we checked into the B & B.



After that we went to see the Bowderstone. I really like the Bowderstone. It's like a bumble bee (follow the link); it doesn't know it should not be able to stand on an edge so it does it anyway.



I had to take the picture from the "B-side" because there was a lunatic climber trying to claim up the overhang and I didn't want him in the picture. I did get a rather nice Border Collie in though - he's on the left about halfway up, by the way. Completely by accident but I think it makes the picture more charming.

Then we went into Keswick and got me a hat (absolutely necessary to stop my hair blowing in my face all the time) and a new rucsac (not absolutely necessary but we wanted it).

Well, after that, we went back to the B & B and later we walked into Keswick and had tea and a few drinks. We ate in the Bank Tavern, which I can recommend heartily. It has a good selection of Jennings ales; I had Cocker Hoop - 4.6%, light ale and absolutely brilliant (Sex in a glass?), LSH had Sneck Lifter - 5.2%, dark and delicious (drunkenness in a glass). I had Cumberland Pie with a huge salad and he had Cumberland Sausages and Hickory Smoked Sausages with mash and veg. The food was very, very good; the beer was magnificent. At the end of the evening, we walked back to the B & B, me giggling inanely and telling him rubbish jokes and him not laughing at them. What Larks!

The next morning, I was hungover but still game for a bit of fell walking. We had a hearty breakfast, courtesy of our hosts at the B & B, and off we went. He had decided to go up Castle Crag and, in view of my bad head, this did not seem a bad idea.

It was a great walk.

First there was the river Derwent, which feeds Derwentwater.

Then after some climbing, we came to a part of the walk where the landscape almost looked alien. It was all jagged and inspired me to come out with the phrase that gave rise to the title of this blog: "I love this bit, it's all hard and sharp places".

We had already had a view of Castle Crag earlier on in the walk but I managed to get a picture of it just a bit further up the hill. Now, I apologise if it looks wonky (it does to me and I've done a bit of editing and rotating but I can't get it to look right) but I suspect that Castle Crag is just that - wonky. But then, you wouldn't want it to look all straight and uniform. That wouldn't be natural now, would it?

The views from the top were spectacular. I just wish my photos were but it was windy and most of them are blurred or plain camera shook, which is a real shame. I did manage to find this amongst them:




The views at the top were not spectacular. This one is of me and I've made it very small because I am pulling the most ridiculous face imaginable. I'd like to pretend it was the wind and the cold that made me look like that... It was the wind and the cold that made me look like that. I had my new hat on so you can't see the blue streaks in my hair, the new rucsac on my back and my trusty walking stick in my right hand. It was very cold indeed but I was happy.

You will all be pleased to know that I made it down again in one piece and I did not once sit down and refuse to move until I was rescued by Mountain Rescue. My left knee hurt a bit (it always does) and I noticed that I have a left hip and left elbow - that side of my body is wearing out faster than the right side - but otherwise I reached the bottom in full health.

One thing I did notice is when I'm going uphill - especially scrambling (a mild form of climbing), I'm very much left-legged - I lead with my left. Coming downhill and doing the reverse of scrambling, I'm right-legged. I'm not sure if this is because my left knee can't take too much jolting and I've made allowances for this since my fell-walking career began or if I've always done that but not noticed. Hmmm, interesting.

Well, after that, we went back to the B & B and then went into Keswick for our tea and another drink. This time I drove so I stayed on the fruit based drinks. We ate in another pub, The Oddfellow's Arms, which also sells Jennings (but not my favourite, Cocker Hoop - I had Mountain Man instead) and the food there is very good too. I stayed sober, my LSH did not and he fell asleep in front of Match of the Day later.

So, I'm glad to say that the weekend went very well indeed and I'm not longer a wimp when it comes to fell walking. Sharp Edge, here I come!

The Towers of London

Last night I went to see The Towers of London at Academy 3 in Manchester. This is not going to be a standard review with a list of songs because I won't be able to remember them in detail and I'm absolutely rubbish at "musical criticism". First, here's a picture of them. As you can see, they're all nice clean cut boys.








Now let me tell you about the mix of people there. Well, I was there and I'm an ageing punk and my older daughter was there and she's a complete emo. There were the obligatory Towers Clones but fewer than last time. I really do not understand people who feel the need to dress and wear their hair like their musical heroes. There were some youngsters with Mohicans, so I'll class them as punks and some who I could have sworn were skinheads, although they were not wearing the usual skin clobber. There were more emo-types and long haired gentlemen. I'm not sure what I would call the latter but I do like the term metal head. Then, there were assorted unclassifiable types who have the individuality not to wear a uniform and good for them I say! Oh yes and John Robb from Goldblade was there. Now I'm not usually particularly observant but I spotted him. I just hope one of the Towers reciprocates at the Goldblade gig I'm going to next month.



A quick word about the support band. They were called the Courteenas and they played enjoyable loud pop and they have a small but loyal following (have I said that before?) The lead singer was to my ageing eye total eye candy and I feasted my eyes for the full 45 minute set. He could sing too and they had one of those drummers I particularly admire. He can drum and sing backing vocals as well. One of the hard men of rock say I!



The Towers started off with I'm a Rat and, well I couldn't help myself, I went into full ageing punk mode, throwing myself around, pointing at the stage and screaming along to the lyrics at full blast. I kept this up through the second song and in to the third and then my dodgy back and knees told me they'd had enough and I moved over to the side away from the shoving of the mosh pit (a particularly frenzied and violent one) and danced slightly more sedately. I should emphasise the word slightly. Some songs evoked a more passionate response from me than others but there was only one I didn't know, a new one called The Bible. The songs I jigged about to, sang along to and pointed at the stage with most energy were How Rude She was, Air Guitar, Fuck it Up, Good Times and what must now be my personal favourite, Kill the Pop Scene. I love the sentiments of that song.



At one point Donny said something along the lines of "I'm glad you're all here, some people fucking hate us". Really sad that; I know there are plenty of people who do hate them. I think part of the problem is the lads' youth and they are rebelling big time so when they come out with things like the Sex Pistols aren't fit to suck their cocks (daft buggers) they are bound to rattle a few cages. I think the comment about the Sex Pistols was ill-advised. Without punk and therefore by extension, the Sex Pistols, The Towers of London would be at best a very different band and at worst they would not exist at all. Still, I don't expect humility and I like a bit of rebellion. It makes me feel young again.



Well, I've tried to keep this short. I really enjoyed the gig and I mean really. I think the Towers are under-rated and too frequently written off as either talentless yobs or jumpers-on of bandwagons. That's not really fair. They have masses of energy, they can play their instruments, they all have stage presence and Donny is a born entertainer. I love the mixture of the Ramones dress sense and the Rod Stewart hairstyles. Musically, the Rev is reminiscent of Steve Jones (I hope I don't offend either of the two gentlemen by saying that) and Donny has a bit of a Johnny Rotten snarl (ditto to those two gentlemen). I tend to watch them with an indulgent "that's my boy" kind of look in my eye but I'm pretty certain they know what they're doing on the whole and I take my hat off to them. Seeing as I like to finish off with a video, here's one I found on You Tube and I think it's rather charming.

I don't wanna be someone like you

I've been thinking a bit recently. I know thinking is very dangerous especially in the political climate we have at the moment (ooh! Rennies being all political) so I try to keep my thinking to nice superficial and unimportant subjects. Well, here's one such.

I've been wondering recently why it is I have such a negative reaction to people who drive cars like Beamers, Mercs, Audis, Jags. You know the sort I mean. I would call it resentment rather than envy. Envy suggests I want to be like them and yet the over-riding feeling I get is best summed up by the chorus from a fantastic Cockney Rejects song:

I don't wanna be
I can't stand to be
I don't wanna be
SOMEONE LIKE YOU!

You see, I don't want bleached blonde hair, sunglasses (probably very expensive ones), long talons, I mean nails (probably acrylic ones) et cetera, et-bloody-cetera. I really don't want to be someone like that. Those cars and looks are what I would call ostentatious displays of wealth or their husbands' wealth. So I resent them. No idea why, I just do. I would say that I'm the opposite of them. I can't pretend to poverty. I'm not poor, I'm comfortably off and I can afford the necessities of life plus a few luxuries, like my computer and the Internet. I like to show off my moderate means and my 2004 Hyundai Getz is a nice way to do it. It was the second cheapest new car available when I got it. The cheapest felt horrible to drive so I went for the second cheapest. It is pretty no frills, although it boasts electric windows and a CD player. However, when it's raining, you can hear how thin the roof is. The raindrops make a plonking noise on it.

So I don't aspire to big cars, holidays abroad (not even in Cambodia), designer handbags, shoes or clothes. I aspire to more tattoos (two just don't seem enough), more piercings, blue hair, lots and lots of punk gigs and a thoroughly Rebellious weekend in Blackpool this August.

Oh and I suppose I wouldn't mind a Honda Civic Type R, preferably about 7 years old but in MINT condition. I know I could have so much fun in one of those. I already do in Gran Turismo.

I can't get a video of the song I quoted above so here's another little clip which should amuse all like-minded people. Enjoy:

Read and Weep

I was just adding a few more interesting blogs to my Blogs of Note box and I have just read three of the most depressing blogs ever. All on the same subject. They can be found in Police Inspector Blog, The Policeman's Blog and Mr Chalk. Here are the links to them:

Police Inspector Blog
The Policeman's Blog
Mr Chalk

I am married to a policeman myself and I know what a dangerous job it can be. I'm lucky because in nearly 21 years in the job he has sustained no more than a couple of bruises. This young man's life is over at 21 years of age and the thugs who put him in this state will be out of prison in a few years' time. It sickens me. Read and Weep.

Tight Jeans, Romance and Sid Vicious

This is a picture of me at 17. I've recently bought a scanner which will scan slides (or transparencies) and this picture is from a slide. It was taken with a Praktica LTL 3 or perhaps a Praktica MTL3 single lens reflex camera. My Dad gave me his old camera, the LTL3 when I was 16 or thereabouts. It got stolen when our house was burgled and my Dad very kindly replaced it with an MTL3. I took loads of pictures with those two cameras and because my Dad swore by the quality of transparencies, I used transparency film. So I now have a fair few pictures from that era and later that I took. Some of the slides went missing because my two daughters were unable to treat my property with respect when they were younger but I still have a fair few left.

Anyway, back to the picture. I can't get over how skinny I look in the picture. I'm very slim now - I inherited my Dad's metabolism amongst other things - but not as skinny as that. I have a little more meat on me now but not much more.

Finally, look at those jeans. They have very special memories for me. I was wearing them when I saw Splodgenessabounds at The Star in Croydon. That was the night when Dave, the guitarist of The Straps, grabbed my leg and jumped higher than I did. I'd taken those jeans off minutes earlier because I was so hot and he'd grabbed bare flesh. Earlier in the evening Steve Slack, the then bassist of the UK Subs, signed those same jeans. I had a moment when I thought I'd never wash them again but eventually hygiene prevailed and his signature was washed off. What a shame. It is also a shame that for years afterwards I remembered him as Paul Slack. I really don't know why!

Those jeans were hand-me-downs from a friend of my big sister. They were Wranglers and were nice narrow leg jeans. I wore them for a short while and then when I was 15, I decided that they needed punking up and I took them in. I put zips at the bottom of the legs (I was very handy with a sewing machine back then) so I could get them on and off and Lo! A pair of punk jeans were born.

I took them to France with me on a camping trip when I was 15. During the summer holiday that year, my Mum asked me if I fancied going to France on holiday. Mum was a probation officer and one of her colleagues had a daughter about 18 months younger than me. We had met previously, I knew her Dad quite well already as Mum used to take us to work with her in school holidays and I sort of knew her too. Her friend was supposed to go but had come down with chicken pox and I was asked to stand in at short notice. I did and off we all went including those jeans and my pride and joy at that point, my 7" vinyl single of "My Way" by Sid Vicious.

The first half of the holiday we spent at a place on the Atlantic Coast called St Brevin les Pins. I remember remarkably little about those 10 days except eating pistachio ice cream for the first time in my life and finding it strangely delicious and being stung by an ant - ouch!

We then went to Paris. We drove all day and got to Paris late in the evening. I am going to give the protagonists of this story some pseudonyms now to make it easier for me to write this blog. Mum's colleague will be Peter, his wife will be Ann and their daughter will be Kate from now on. Well, Peter and Ann decided to have a kip in the car and Kate and I went for an explore. I don't know to this day where we went but we ended up in a bar. I'm not sure if we bought a drink. We were very young - I was 15 and Kate was 13 - so I doubt we would have been served. I'm pretty sure we spoke to somebody but again my memory might be playing tricks. My French was poor and Kate's was practically non-existent. We eventually went back to the car and we must have slept.

The next day we went to the camp-site in the Bois de Boulogne and set up the tents. Peter and Ann were in a big tent with a couple of rooms. Kate and I shared a two man ridge tent. We had inflatable mattresses to sleep on and sleeping bags to sleep in. Kate and I went off to explore Paris.

One day I decided I wanted to see the Bastille. I know now that the Bastille was pulled down during the French Revolution but at the time I didn't know that at all. I worked out that we had to go to La Place de la Concorde and off we went on the Metro. We got there and to my bitter disappointment there was no Bastille.

Another time we went to look at Notre Dame. It was in front of Notre Dame Cathedral that I fell in love for the first time (ahhhh - vomit!) Actually, I expect I fell in love a little after that but I fancied him at first sight. He was gorgeous. I'm really racking my brains now because I don't remember what he looked like and I've lost the only photo I ever had of him. He had dark wavy hair and was wearing red jeans, a navy blue polo shirt and a green jacket. I really fancied him and he was sat with another man. I will name these two; they were called Amer and Dino. I fancied Dino and fortunately Kate fancied Amer. So we sat down next to them and Dino and I talked in broken French and I don't have a clue what Kate and Amer did because Kate could not speak French and Amer didn't speak English.

It turned out that Dino was from Algeria and he was at college in France. He was learning French and so was I. He was better at it than me. Dino was half Italian and I can tell you that an Italian/Arab combination makes for the most amazing good looks! He was stunning and he seemed to quite like me too. I couldn't believe my luck. I told him I was 18: he was 21 and I didn't think he'd be interested in a kid of 15. He believed me, bless him!

The four of us hung around together for the remaining days we had in Paris. I have happy memories of Le Jardin de Luxembourg, travelling on the Metro with them without paying the fares (we ran out of money fairly early on in the proceedings) and going to Dino or Amer's room in their digs. They sneaked us in risking the wrath of the concierge. Their intentions were not honourable but then again, neither were ours. I won't go into detail here but will only say Dino and I didn't "make it".

As the date for our departure grew near, Dino asked me to marry him. I then told him I was only 15 and I couldn't. I was distraught but to his credit he was upset too. I said I'd come and join him in Algeria when I was 18. On the day of our departure, I stayed with Dino for as long as could, no doubt crying my eyes out and eventually we left to catch the ferry back. I hadn't eaten at all that day and I was seasick on the crossing back to England.

We wrote to each other. I sent him four letters. He replied to three. In his last letter he asked me about colleges for "strangers students" in England. I laughed at that. He didn't reply to my fourth letter. I seem to remember asking him what colour pants he was wearing in my last letter. I was just a kid really.

Finally, here is a video of Sid singing My Way. It reminds me of my very own, personal Summer of Love.