Jordan's baby

On Friday one of our U.S signed acts, 3OH!3, was in town to support Katy Perry at Koko. It goes without saying that I hate gigs and normally do everything within my power to avoid going to them. However, earlier in the day my MD had specifically asked me to attend, so I was left with little choice but to spend a precious Friday evening in Camden, my least favourite part of London, if not the world.

On route I got waylaid by The George on Wardour Street. 'A pint of Lech please sir?' I inquired. The barman shook his head dolefully, tears seeming to well in his broken, alcoholic eyes. I settled for a French lager, the one that makes you violent, but not domestically so. Luke Taylor from Big Balls joined me. We ate a few pints and then relocated to an austere boozer off Charlotte Street. I overheard one of Luke's friends abusing someone he knew. 'You do know you look like Jordan's baby don't you?' A peal of vicious, braying laughter resounded. I looked up and saw the man in question. He really was a terrifying simulacrum of Harvey Andre; the same half-sighted, drooling, shapeless, angelic face stared ahead, only 20 years older and infinitely more forlorn. The poor cunt. I thought how intolerable it would be to live with an insult so cruelly accurate. And funny.


By the time I arrived at Koko I had managed to miss both 3OH!3 and Katy Perry. I was now on my own and drunk. The venue had completed its transformation into club N.M.E and was packed with young people wearing elf shoes. I started to feel anxious. Where's my crackers? Fuck. Fuck. I eventually found it in my shirt pocket. The glow of the screen illuminated my swollen beer face and immediately soothed me. SShhhh. It's O.K. I'm here. I pretended to read some emails. A band came on, led by a podgy singer wearing a sequinned waistcoat, sunglasses and a quiff. They played comfortably the worst music I've ever heard - aural gonorrhoea. I lasted 5 minutes before the purulent synthesised notes inflamed my ear drums and my temper. Images of extreme violence came swimming into my mind. Hey. Hey. Take it easy. Just go to the bar and get a beer, cooed my blackberry.

'Can I have a can of Lech please?'

'What?'

'Lech. It's a beer. Polish.'

'We've got Carling or Red Stripe mate.'

'But I want Lech.'

'Well I'm afraid we don't have it.'

'Listen you objectionable little cunt, get me the manager. I want to talk to the fucking manager.'

Soon I was being escorted out onto the street by a bouncer with Bluetooth in both ears. A forty quid mini boss took me here, where I dined for the second night in succession:


Well at least it wasn't here, where I ate on Tuesday: