Like a Bat Out of Hell I’ll be gone…

Oh be quiet, you all know that song, even if you like to pretend that you don’t. Actually, I’ve had a pretty torrid time on Saturday night amongst a strange group of people who might not know the song. To their shame, I might add.

One of my friends has a hobby as a promoter of bands. Yes I know I spend time poking fun at such people in my books, but many are genuinely committed or committable guys who try to help new bands. Without making a profit themselves of course, what with the overheads, wear and tear on drinking mechanisms, rising cost of groupies (I am told) etc etc etc.

Anyway, this Saturday my mate had put a band on in London and as usual called for support from his friends. My mate’s band came on..played.. left in a hurry. I should have been warned when they fled to drink in another pub. On came a collection of motley blokes who chanted a selection of other people’s lyrics to a backing track, as they couldn’t play anything themselves and clearly preferred not be associated with the sort of musicians who could. They couldn’t sing either, as it happened. Then after a pause to allow the administration of first aid in the form of more beer to those of us with musical sensibilities, came another lot of the same. They were identical in approach, only they probably shouted a lot of swear words too: it wasn’t actually all that easy to follow what they were saying. If they had a message, it wasn’t just Lost in Translation, but buried as well. Possibly under roadworks by a JCB Following them was apparently a better known version of #1 & #2. I say better known because a lot of the crowd seemed to understand him, and several middle aged women who should have known better started jumping up and down just in front of me, luckily obscuring my view.

Needing a little more liquid, I bought a round of drinks, including only those who had been generous enough, seeing my emotional and artistic distress, to have presented me with some liquid consolation. So that was four drinks. Now I know why pubs have card machines these days. I’d forgotten that the amount of cash needed was still in circulation, and I’ll bet The Treasury was unaware of it too.

This evening out has been an education for me. I have learnt that Hell ( and London, places I usually consider interchangeable) have worse thibgs on offer than One Direction. And this is uncomfortable knowledge…

Further, I have discovered that Jean Paul Satre’s assertion that ‘Hell is living in a room with your friends’ is entirely wrong. Hell is in fact spending time in a room with noisy people who have a misconception that rap has something to do with music. This is a truly frightening thought, and I may have to consider the state of my soul. I’m hoping that the copious notes I’ve taken for the next book will help redeem me somewhat…