thesneakybandit

What was your favorite class in high school? (And no, lunch doesn't count.)

Unlike everyone else who seems to be answering this with tales of drinking, smoking and shagging, I was dull, boring, well-behaved and ridiculously shy at school. I didn't have any girlfriends and there was no promiscuous consorting of any kind going on. I didn't drink at all until I was eighteen and only took up drunken smoking at the tender age of twenty two.

My favourite school classes, therefore, were actual classes. I loved A-Level German. I relished going into this class for several reasons. Firstly, I could "research". Doing a modern language means you can sit in the library for hours on the internet reading football results, movie reviews, articles about your favourite bands as long as they were all in your foreign language of choice. Secondly, there were only two of us in the class. The other girl was a holier than thou Brethren girl. I'm not entirely sure what the belief systems of the Brethren are but I imagine they float vicariously between the Mormons and the Amish. She wasn't allowed to wear trousers and most brilliantly had no television and "the devil's music" on the radio was outlawed. The "media" module in A-Level German was a breeze. The final piece of brilliance relating to A-Level German was my coursework. The theme was Berlin and every Tom, Dick and Harry in the UK and Ireland wrote some banal piece about the fall of the Berlin Wall or the Allied Forces airlift there during the war. All very clichéd and yawntastic in my opinion. History doesn't change if you only ever hear it from one side of the fence (or more accurately, the wall!) So in my wisdom I decided to write my piece from the point of view of an East German radical terrorist member of the Baader-Meinhof gang. It appealed to my warped sense of Northern Irishness I guess. It also picked me up a whopping 97% in my coursework mark. Score.

In other news. I was madly in unrequited love with a girl in the year above who also was part of the German A-Level department. I never told her that though. In fact I could probably count on one hand the number of times I actually spoke to her.

With all that in mind, you'd assume that German was me favourite class. But no, this is just a preamble by way of introducing my actual favourite lesson of the week. German class came immediately after the 11.05 break time on Wednesdays and was closely followed by double history. History has always fascinated me and the teacher was a fantastically intelligent man but this is neither here nor there when it comes to my love of this particular class. During the first period, midway through some tale of Tudor Dynasties or peasant's rebellion a piece of paper would be passed around the class onto which everyone scribbled down some items, these items would then be taken to the front of the class from where the teacher would read them down the phone to...

THE LOCAL CHINESE TAKEAWAY!

The second period of history was a fest of gluttony as boxes full of steaming sweet and sour, chow mein, fried rice, honey chilli chicken, chips and coke took up the deskspace and books were temporarily pushed aside while the teacher regaled us with stories of war, lust, and other such Tudor and Elizabethan past times. As the bell sounded at the end of that class to mark the beginning of official lunch time we rolled from the classroom into the corridors, stuffed full of spices and fizzy drinks with a whole hour to kill before the afternoon's lessons began. Ample time to nip up into town and pick up a CD from Woolworths.

Mumford and Sons have firmly established themselves as my favourite band of the last year or two. Finally the rest of the UK is catching on this London band about two years since I began sneaking them into playlists and onto radio shows and DJ sets. I presume world domination will not be far away for these guys.

Finding out they were playing London while I was in town was a complete bonus even if they were playing a “New to Q” gig with other nominees for the Q Magazine awards alongside Paloma Faith and special guests.

We arrive at the Kentish Town Forum. It’s now called the HMV Forum apparently though. It’s a nice venue inside and we procure several whiskeys and perch right behind the sound desk.  Gig novices take note, if you’re in line with the sound desk at a show you’re more likely to get the best audio experience. If you’re at a Mumford and Sons gig though it’s just going to sound bloody brilliant from wherever you are. With that in mind we work our way forward through the eager crowd. Everyone we chat to is there to see Mumford and Sons and most seem to have very little clue who Paloma Faith even is. They play all the big hitters from their brand new first album and there is much dancing and general merrymaking down the front. I’ve said in other blog posts that it’s impossible to not have a good time when there’s a little harmonica and banjo in your life. Roll Away Your Stone, Blank White Page and Awake My Soul are standout moments for me and afterwards as the staff of the venue seem to be taking an aeon to turn the stage around for the next act we head outside to congratulate ourselves on finding such a wonderful gig.

Two lovely Welsh girls befriend us and they’ve come the whole way from the valleys to see Mumford and Sons and like us we’re all eagerly anticipating the special guests for the evening. My money is on Noah and the Whale although Laura Marling or Johnny Flynn would suffice. Myspace tells me that Noah and the Whale are gigging in the States so it’ll have to be someone of a lesser quality. Oh who could it be!! The smoking area is full of nicotine clogged indie folk excitedly babbling about special guests. The moment finally comes. From inside the venue we hear the first strains of the special guests wafting through the sound desks. It sounds like, could it really be, it is. It’s Mr Hudson!

No one moves from the smoking area. The sense of disappointment can be tasted in the air even above the stink of Marlboro Lights. There are no words to describe how truly gutted we all feel. One of my Twitter followers summed it up rather succinctly with “Mr Hudson? Are you fucking shitting me!?”

There seems little point in hanging around the venue for another hour or two to see a mediocre female singer and another yawntastic half hour of set changing especially when we know that Duke Special is rocking out at another aftershow gig in the National Theatre. We hop on another train and head back to the South Bank and arrive just as the band are finding their feet in “Shake Rattle and Roll”. There are more people at this than the Friday night show and a little more life in the crowd. Family members of the band have come over from Ireland and the kids are as excited to have a late night as everyone else. We’re buzzing off whiskey and they’re on a sugar rush from Haribo and Coke. When we’re asked to play a couple of rounds of the yes/no game it seems rude to say no.

In actual fact it’s against the rules to say no so we probably should have said “definitely not”. Instead the opening gambit went thus:

8 Year Old: Do you want to play the yes/no game?
28 Year Old: Sure, yes.
8 Year Old: I win hahahaha.

I didn’t improve. I was tired and thankful it was time to go back to the hostel for one last sleep before heading back to Irish shores.

Edit: I forgot to mention that the reason the two Welsh girls were so lovely was that they reminded us to put our clocks back otherwise we'd have had some difficulty in getting out flights the next day.

Saturday morning is a write off. There’s no doubt about that at all. My previous blog entry left us at a time approaching mid day while I tried to access Facebook from the top bunk to no avail while the roommate slept soundly wrapped up in a double duvet on the bunk below.

By now, all plans and itineraries have long since been forgotten and hopes of nipping round to the British Museum or the Scream Gallery have disappeared with them. It’s a bit grey and miserable looking outside but nothing that a trip to Camden won’t cure. This is the point of the trip when I first knew I’d fallen in love.

She looked well, sleekly dressed in black and just as smart as she was pretty. She easily let my fingers trace her contours and press her buttons and eased me into the day. My brand new Nokia E63 really is quite some piece of kit and the added bonus of her coming along with unlimited free internet, well I mean, that’s just marriage material right there.

Upon finally getting a good signal outside the hostel, I check in with Twitter and ask the good people of the interweb if they know any good bars or restaurants in Camden and they reply en masse. Well, six of them do and we solemnly vow that six pubs in Camden is a reachable goal. Little did we know that Camden itself would prove to be an unattainable target.

I have learnt some valuable lessons about people in public transport in the city. Firstly on a daily basis someone falls under a train. This is delicately portrayed to our sensitive ears by the coldhearted tannoy message “the northbound Northern Line via Camden is closed due to a person under a train. I repeat there is a person under the train. This line is closed.” Well, that’s not as much of a disaster for us as it is for them and we can simply change lines and go via another station. Easier said than done.

The main exit is closed due to a security alert. This escalator stairway is closed to a person falling on the stairs. I also learnt that a Code 2 means there’s blood and guts splattered on the moving steps. There seems to be no way for the intrepid travellers to get in or out of King’s Cross station. Eventually we make it onto a line. It’s either brown or maroon, possibly claret and will allow us to change onto a blue one, light blue or dark blue? I don’t actually know or care anymore, I just need to get out of King’s Cross before I feel anymore like I’m stuck in a giant game of Mousetrap. As the train rolls through Goodge Street I declare, “ahh we’re almost in the heart of Soho” like I’m a local who knows these roads and tracks and we hop off in search of a cafe, bar or some trendy spot from which to gawp at wannabe celebrities.

The first bar we stumble upon is The Northumberland Arms in which we watch a little bit of football and have a very long first pint of the day. There’s a group of very trendy men with matching chinos or skinny jeans and jumpers loosely strung around their shoulders. One of them is sporting a cravat and they’re rolling a dice. Not any normal dice you understand but the special 26 sided alphabet dice that you get with Boggle or other such word games. The point of this is that they then have to order drinks which start with said letter. We keep an eye on them with limited amusement as they struggle to come up with drinks beginning with N before we go in search of somewhere more soulful and a little more “us”.

The optimum way to find anywhere in Soho is of course to play the left and right game. I start with “right” which takes us meandering back down towards Tottenham Court Road and K follows that up with a “left” and another “right” which ushers us down a glorious back street full of kitsch stores, old record shops and the wonderful Bradley’s Spanish Bar.

There are appears to be very little Spanish about Bradley’s although it quickly establishes itself as my new favourite place in town. There’s enough sitting room for no more than fifteen people and an old jukebox, more ancient than the Happy Day’s esque fifties neon monstrosities. This is a battered and well loved old wooden cabinet with a single pane of glass in which you can see the inner workings and the hundred or so little worn down EP’s. The music emitting from it is warm and crackly and it’s like having an open fire in the room that just happens to play everything from the twee pop of the Beach Boys and The Archies through to Led Zep and AC/DC. The beer on tap is good, the seats are comfy and we don’t want to leave. We really don’t. But needs must and there are more live music shenanigans to catch up on later.

Grey Friday mornings are not the optimum time for ice cream. Ice cream had been pencilled into the itinerary though and dammit I was setting off in search of it. A quick jaunt out to Green Park on the tube and a little walk around the palace later, I remember that the awesome ice cream stall is actually at Hyde Park next to The Serpentine and that I’d jumped train at entirely the wrong time and place.

I kept that thought to myself though until now and inwardly blamed a lack of sleep for my poor decision making. The lack of sleep was something of an invented idea as I’d quite happily snoozed until around 11am and therefore missed the free walking tour the hostel offers. I’d been on one before and enjoyed it and had quite happily pencilled another one into the itinerary. By lunchtime on the first day the itinerary is looking less impressive by the second and by the time we decide on a liquid lunch it’s merely a crumpled bit of paper with lots of crossed out pencil squiggles.

The liquid lunch of choice is in The Shakespeare, which is not named after penman William but rather someone else however it does boast a Victorian ghost, Kronenbourg on tap and a cash machine in the corner. A few pints, tweets and status updates later I decide that the bar lacks soul and it’s time we headed off to somewhere “real”. Back to the tube and off to The Hole In The Wall.

I love The Hole In The Wall. It’s got a lot bigger since the last time I was there although still maintains that lovely charm that only somewhere built in an old railway viaduct archway can. The tunes on the stereo are country, folk and blues and as I sample some special Halloween promo beer called Hobgoblin we’re serenaded by Willie Nelson, Bob Dylan and The Pogues. Every passing train makes the optics rattle like the skeletons in your closet, the smoking area is as delightfully pleasant as any ash strewn courtyard can be and the food is plentiful, greasy, hot and tasty. There’s very little about this bar that isn’t stamped with a great big “WIN”.

Relectantly we have to leave as we need to get back and get prettied up for the theatre. I’m wearing a suit, shirt and tie although unconforming by rocking up to the National Theatre in trainers. Like most slightly tipsy Irish savages turning up to a play, we’re a little late and eternally grateful for the two spare seats which mean we don’t have to clamber over punters ten minutes after the show has started.

You’ve read about the rest of this night before. There are no further updates until the following lunchtime when wracked by tiredness I awake fully clothed and blanketless as somehow my bedclothes have been pilfered by the person in the bottom bunk who looks all too content to be hanging out in a 15 tog, white polyester fort.

It’s a relatively short trip from Belfast to London. There’s a waterway betwixt the cities and yet it takes much less time to arrive there than it does to meander between towns on the island of Ireland. For this reason, two music fans from opposite ends of the country have chosen London Town as a neutral ground on which to meet, party hard and generally drink some whiskey at rock shows.

By the time I arrive flustered and almost pukey with nerves in Stansted airport the other member of the travelling party is looking somewhat relaxed enjoying a cool refreshing Magners after a power nap and eyeliner check. There’s an awkward hug, a stumbling of small talk and a vow to not sniff sleeping people on trains after which the journey to Kings Cross begins. Once again I’m staying in the old magistrates court hostel only in a larger room than before and without the awkward sexytime noises of Italian tourists.

I confidently head hostelwards into the dusky night only to admit defeat after half an hour of walking round in circles. I know the hostel is only a five minute walk from the station and yet after almost twelve times that amount of time racked up on the travel clock there’s still no accommodation in sight. It’s a big step for a man to admit defeat with his directions and I do not take lightly to looking up Google Maps on my phone. Eventually though we make it to the hostel, check in to our rather green room and nip across the road to The Carpenter’s Arms for a nice Dublin brewed Guinness and a sparkly cold cider for the lady. Mainly as a result of my aimless walking around in circles we’ve missed the stage time of Yngve and the Innocent who I was looking forward to seeing and with not knowing anyone else on the bill we decide to give the rest of the show a miss, opting instead for a night of laughing at some of the worst karaoke I’ve ever seen in the hostel bar.

A strange system of ordering drinks seem to have been established along the lines of:

Round 1.
S: Fancy a drink?
K: Sure.
S: What’ll it be then?
K: Surprise me.

Round 2.
K: My turn at the bar then?
S: Oh aye.
K: Same again?
S: Actually no, surprise me.

With such a foolproof methodology of drinks ordering it’s maybe not that much of a surprise that the first of our pub bound evenings ended with a heady concoction of lager, stout, cider, Jaegermeister, Jameson, vodka and coke and of course a rather tasty bottle of house white. Fantastic start to the trip. Both our livers are holding up well although the eyes are getting sleepy, and so to bed.

It’s shortly before midnight on a Friday evening and I’m standing outside the Royal National Theatre on London’s beautifully illuminated South Bank while Peter Wilson of the band Duke Special reads a poem called ‘Mellow Sandwich’. I’ve had a few whiskeys and proclaim this stunning piece of writing to be amongst the greatest things I’ve ever heard. The fact that it’s been written by a child lurking somewhere in the six to eight year old bracket is testament to the fact that no amount of X-Factor, junk food and PS3 can ever truly kill the great innocence and imagination of children. The absurdity of the lyrics in which the author questions the legitimate flavour of this sandwich are on a par with anything you’ll read by Dr Seuss or Edward Lear. For those of you wondering, the true flavour of the sandwich was of course marshmallow. Lyrical content aside, the sheer thought of a marshmallow sandwich and the ensuing sugar rush is enough to fill anyone with nothing but delight. Keep your crack cocaine and hard liquor; I’ll just have sugary goo between two slices of bread please.

Poetry reading conducted, it’s onwards and sidewards to the Pit Bar at The Old Vic theatre. Ben Castle conducts the motley crew through the door despite his rugged lumberjack appearances and we all squeeze into the corner of the bar to discuss retro cameras, music management, old Booley shows and upcoming gig adventures in Cork. By the time I stagger home arm in arm with a fellow gig-weary punter we’ve cruised London in a cab listening to stories about the Rasmus and how people outside of Denmark just didn’t get them and I’ve bitten my tongue rather than recount the tales of how they were hilariously bottled at the Download festival a few years back. Just as I’m about to pass out on the top bunk I remember why I’m here in the first place and question whether the blog readers care that much. In my initial state of dreamtime I decide that you lovely people do indeed care and begin to compose my thoughts on “Mother Courage & Her Children” as presented by Fiona Shaw and a sterling cast with music by the aforementioned Duke Special.

Duke Special are a band I’ve known and grown up with over a long time. In the last year or so I’ve been highly critical of the “stadium pop” live shows and the big band sounding album, yearning for simpler days of simpler arrangements and simpler queues at the bar. There are two things that are never in doubt though. Firstly, I hold no bias in my reviewing and second that songwriting talent Peter Wilson is not only an under rated author of song but also now an established performer that can hold his own on any stage.

As he beats a lonely side-drum to the closing of the play you almost have a sense that the music on the night will receive a more rapturous applause than the acting. This is a high compliment to the score and the talent of those performing every track live on stage and in no way a slight on the stellar performances of the cast. Fiona Shaw has a huge on stage persona without making the show all about her. The nuances and foibles of the rest of the cast catch the corner of your eye every now and again and while choreography may not be the right word, the onstage movement, set construction and deconstruction is so seamlessly interwoven in the plot that it’s often as important as what’s happening centre stage.

The discordance of indie pop tunes and clarinet riffs with the bleak complexities of war, death and the eternal struggle of capitalism and religion are suitably juxtaposed in just the way Berthold Brecht may have imagined when he first penned the play. Perhaps this is down to the musical score, perhaps it depends on the acting throughout or perhaps it’s all down to the quirky new translation by Tony Kuschner. It works.

There is little in the play which could be classed as lighthearted and yet the dark humour one expects from early twentieth century German literature isn’t totally lost. A throwaway one-liner in the midst of all the on-stage despair rattles home like a hand grenade in a bunker and the occasionally splurge of colourful profanity impacts no less than the staccato gunning down of one of the main characters later in the show. While the story could have been presented as yet another yawnworthy nod to an illegal war what we get is a beautifully constructed tale that will leave you questioning the ethics, morals and sanity of the world we live in. When plays like this cease to be written we’ll find ourselves somewhere more peaceful but all the poorer for the wealth of great art that can be drawn from the depths of a war torn world.

I’ll blog about the remainder of my trip a little later perhaps.

BBC already had someone down covering the Noah & The Whale show the other night so for now I'll just stick my review up on www.bravegravity.co.uk.

Call in and say hi.

Or give a "yeeeeeeeeeooooooooooo" just like crazy girl behind me would have done!

Would any of you like two tickets to see Fiona Shaw in Mother Courage & Her Children in the National Theatre on 23rd October? Duke Special will be performing a live music score and there will be a free gig in the theatre foyer after the performance as well. Give me a shout. Tickets are £10 each.

multiple blogs these days and well you know  if there's a big trend going by I'll tend to follow it, albeit some years later in many cases. having joined most of the internets parties just before closing time i ended up on livejournal in 2003, myspace by 2005 and now i've got brand spanking new urls for you.

this will be the home of all my personal drivel, holiday snaps, procrastination and mindless drivel:
http://thesneakybandit.vox.com

i am off work this week and mostly i'll be offline. mostly, i'll actually be stripping wallpaper and getting some of my diploma done really. i'm in the studio at the minute putting the finishing touches to tonight's radio show which will be going out between 7 and 9 across belfast on blast 106.4 fm.

i'll be back to this online thing next week, promise.

:)