Don't break your hole, Bruce!
Walter is running amok.
He looked so sweet and innocent in the cage.
Yep, cage.
We toted him back from Double Inn Citay at stupid o clock in the morning, apres gig, after waiting an aeon for a battered sausage in a closed chipper in Arklow.
My companion/driver is delirious with exhaustion and starvation and the smell of fumes from the rapidly emptying tank.
The handsome Italian takes pity on her red rimmed eyes and fills the bag to bursting with new potatoes, chipped with salt and vinegar.
I take a small crispy one to give the new dog, Walter Eugene Mincealot Baxter the 3rd.
He sniffs it dejectedly and gives me the wide eyed Bambi's.
He even shakes a little for added emphasis and poignancy.
All through the gig, I am whispering EuGENE into her ear.
I text her and laugh as she reads the message saying Eugene wont collect himself, the blue neon light of the screen shining on her face in the darkness.
This is before I realise that he has been called Walter since he was born, and so it would be rude not to.
The gig was her bag, well, her and a man who had to cry off at the 11th hour.
Which explains why I am perched in the front seat complaining about the lack of a sun visor on my side.
I have a notoriously short attention span and can wander off in the middle of my own conversations so I am already bored before it starts.
I went to see the Rolling Stones at the Point and could not see the actual point after 3 songs.
Being a number of feet away from the thrusting crotch of a pensioner might float some people's boat but it was getting old already - not just the crotch which is positively antique.
I went to see Bruce The Boss at the RDS and became more animated and engaged laughing with the crowd than listening or jumping up and down, and was planning a mass exodus to the "Horse Show House" across the road before he had even fallen the first time.
It was lashing and the stage was drenched.
It also prompted some nameless hero to print a banner that said Don't break your hole, Bruce on the second night.
It is no fun being a midget at a rock festival who cant even see the big screen, when some plank stands in front of them.
At Witnness, I was inconsolable.
I had won a 3 day access- all -areas- VIP pass which meant that I wore a yellow wristband and laminate and spent the whole weekend jumping up trying to see, getting boosts on backs , climbing a lighting rig to see Travis, and eyeballing Dave Fanning as I was being ignored at the bar.
I am also so old now that nobody remembers it was called Witnness but me and Mick Jagger.
The anticipation is always so much nicer than the event.
Which also explains why I am out on the smoking deck of the Sugar Club, taking photos of the night sky and calling the owner of the dog instead of settling into my seat or trying to be served in the crush for Mojitos
My companion loves this stuff.
She is all up in Northern Soul's grill.
She knows every song by the Supremes, Nina Simone, Dexys Midnight Runners,The Specials and every other artist in the world.
Ever.
Her album collection humbles and haunts me.
She does jazz and soul and fusion and gigs.
She does queuing and camping and public toilets.
She does dancing all night in her tights and boiling hot dogs in hotel kettles @ 4am.
I do decadence and hedonism, luxury and comfortable seats.
In my wisdom I have decided that the best place to view ANY gig now is from my sofa with a remote.
And now I have company.
After his Oscar winning performance as a lost waif, Walter emerged from the cage, had a quick look around and an even quicker piss and settled into being the absolute boss of the gaff.
What in my innocence I thought would be dog free areas, have become his favourite places.
There is hair everywhere.
I have to treat him like a chilli pepper and wash my hands more than someone with OCD.
My eyes hurt, my chin is itching.
He is humping his new bed.
I am distraught, but oddly, I am NOT bored.
I have a brought something with a heartbeat and a penis into the house.
Who knew it would be so much fun?
He looked so sweet and innocent in the cage.
Yep, cage.
We toted him back from Double Inn Citay at stupid o clock in the morning, apres gig, after waiting an aeon for a battered sausage in a closed chipper in Arklow.
My companion/driver is delirious with exhaustion and starvation and the smell of fumes from the rapidly emptying tank.
The handsome Italian takes pity on her red rimmed eyes and fills the bag to bursting with new potatoes, chipped with salt and vinegar.
I take a small crispy one to give the new dog, Walter Eugene Mincealot Baxter the 3rd.
He sniffs it dejectedly and gives me the wide eyed Bambi's.
He even shakes a little for added emphasis and poignancy.
All through the gig, I am whispering EuGENE into her ear.
I text her and laugh as she reads the message saying Eugene wont collect himself, the blue neon light of the screen shining on her face in the darkness.
This is before I realise that he has been called Walter since he was born, and so it would be rude not to.
The gig was her bag, well, her and a man who had to cry off at the 11th hour.
Which explains why I am perched in the front seat complaining about the lack of a sun visor on my side.
I have a notoriously short attention span and can wander off in the middle of my own conversations so I am already bored before it starts.
I went to see the Rolling Stones at the Point and could not see the actual point after 3 songs.
Being a number of feet away from the thrusting crotch of a pensioner might float some people's boat but it was getting old already - not just the crotch which is positively antique.
I went to see Bruce The Boss at the RDS and became more animated and engaged laughing with the crowd than listening or jumping up and down, and was planning a mass exodus to the "Horse Show House" across the road before he had even fallen the first time.
It was lashing and the stage was drenched.
It also prompted some nameless hero to print a banner that said Don't break your hole, Bruce on the second night.
It is no fun being a midget at a rock festival who cant even see the big screen, when some plank stands in front of them.
At Witnness, I was inconsolable.
I had won a 3 day access- all -areas- VIP pass which meant that I wore a yellow wristband and laminate and spent the whole weekend jumping up trying to see, getting boosts on backs , climbing a lighting rig to see Travis, and eyeballing Dave Fanning as I was being ignored at the bar.
I am also so old now that nobody remembers it was called Witnness but me and Mick Jagger.
The anticipation is always so much nicer than the event.
Which also explains why I am out on the smoking deck of the Sugar Club, taking photos of the night sky and calling the owner of the dog instead of settling into my seat or trying to be served in the crush for Mojitos
My companion loves this stuff.
She is all up in Northern Soul's grill.
She knows every song by the Supremes, Nina Simone, Dexys Midnight Runners,The Specials and every other artist in the world.
Ever.
Her album collection humbles and haunts me.
She does jazz and soul and fusion and gigs.
She does queuing and camping and public toilets.
She does dancing all night in her tights and boiling hot dogs in hotel kettles @ 4am.
I do decadence and hedonism, luxury and comfortable seats.
In my wisdom I have decided that the best place to view ANY gig now is from my sofa with a remote.
And now I have company.
After his Oscar winning performance as a lost waif, Walter emerged from the cage, had a quick look around and an even quicker piss and settled into being the absolute boss of the gaff.
What in my innocence I thought would be dog free areas, have become his favourite places.
There is hair everywhere.
I have to treat him like a chilli pepper and wash my hands more than someone with OCD.
My eyes hurt, my chin is itching.
He is humping his new bed.
I am distraught, but oddly, I am NOT bored.
I have a brought something with a heartbeat and a penis into the house.
Who knew it would be so much fun?
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