The thing about Cardiff is that it’s closer to Bristol than it is to Brighton.
That’s not “the” thing about Cardiff, of course.
I’m not sure what “the” thing about Cardiff is.
I dunno; the castle… gentrification… still gets a bit “fighty” of a
weekend…Spillers on The Hayes is the oldest record shop in the world,
established in 1894 when it sold sheet music… In 1857, General Tom
Thumb, the smallest man alive (height of 31 inches weight 25lb) visited
Cardiff’s Town Hall. It cost sixpence to see him…
It is, however, the one thing about Cardiff that necessitates a journey to Bristol for Paul and I the night before our gig.
It’s more that Wayne’s booked us a rehearsal in Cardiff and getting to Cardiff from Brighton at 11am would mean a way earlier start than either of us are psychologically capable of dealing with and Paul has chums, family and a good slosh of history in Brizzle.
He used to know a Bristolian who had partaken of so much cider that his teeth had turned to jelly and flapped about when he talked.
We’re not staying with him, though. We’re staying with Paul’s friend, Joe (a different Joe from our Joe, who’s gone up to Cardiff ahead of us) from the excellent and noisy Tin Dogs.
We arrive at about half past nine in the evening and set about chin-wagging and indulge in three cans of cider and two of Stella.
I mention the exact amount of beverages to outline Paul’s disproportionate and unfair hangover the following morning.
It’s a real cracker.
Two fried eggs on toast and a cup of tea come bursting back up out of him like the volcanic eruption that preserved Pompey and with eyes like two puckered, angry, teary cat’s anuses, he asks me if I can drive this morning.
Mildly hungover being my default setting, of course I can.
We pick Wayne up from The Celtic Manor Hotel (the huge, sprawling golfing resort that brings to mind the Overlook Lodge of The Shining) whose own hangover, due to something of a ding-dong with British Sea Power the night before, is suddenly cured at the mere sight of our ghostly pale, slapped-arse-faced, cat-bottom-eyed guitar hero.
When we arrive at the rehearsal rooms Paul eats half a sandwich which he promptly and violently sprays all over the gutter around the side of the building.
Wayne, a fresh-faced Joe and I can barely breathe for laughing.
It is, however, the one thing about Cardiff that necessitates a journey to Bristol for Paul and I the night before our gig.
It’s more that Wayne’s booked us a rehearsal in Cardiff and getting to Cardiff from Brighton at 11am would mean a way earlier start than either of us are psychologically capable of dealing with and Paul has chums, family and a good slosh of history in Brizzle.
He used to know a Bristolian who had partaken of so much cider that his teeth had turned to jelly and flapped about when he talked.
We’re not staying with him, though. We’re staying with Paul’s friend, Joe (a different Joe from our Joe, who’s gone up to Cardiff ahead of us) from the excellent and noisy Tin Dogs.
We arrive at about half past nine in the evening and set about chin-wagging and indulge in three cans of cider and two of Stella.
I mention the exact amount of beverages to outline Paul’s disproportionate and unfair hangover the following morning.
It’s a real cracker.
Two fried eggs on toast and a cup of tea come bursting back up out of him like the volcanic eruption that preserved Pompey and with eyes like two puckered, angry, teary cat’s anuses, he asks me if I can drive this morning.
Mildly hungover being my default setting, of course I can.
We pick Wayne up from The Celtic Manor Hotel (the huge, sprawling golfing resort that brings to mind the Overlook Lodge of The Shining) whose own hangover, due to something of a ding-dong with British Sea Power the night before, is suddenly cured at the mere sight of our ghostly pale, slapped-arse-faced, cat-bottom-eyed guitar hero.
When we arrive at the rehearsal rooms Paul eats half a sandwich which he promptly and violently sprays all over the gutter around the side of the building.
Wayne, a fresh-faced Joe and I can barely breathe for laughing.
There’s no time for laughing, though. We’ve got some music to make.
It’s a delightful rehearsal space. All laminate flooring, under-lighting and a p.a that virtually sings for you. It is a bit on the chilly side, mind, and we cold-fingered-clang through an initial version of Ghost In A Photograph by way of warming up.
After a few hours we’re right back in the swing of things, sounding good, looking good and Paul manages to keep down a banana and a mug of tea. Altogether now… Hip, hip… Hooray!
We pack up, re-Tetris the cars and head off to The Globe Theatre, a new venue on all of us.
It’s a delightful rehearsal space. All laminate flooring, under-lighting and a p.a that virtually sings for you. It is a bit on the chilly side, mind, and we cold-fingered-clang through an initial version of Ghost In A Photograph by way of warming up.
After a few hours we’re right back in the swing of things, sounding good, looking good and Paul manages to keep down a banana and a mug of tea. Altogether now… Hip, hip… Hooray!
We pack up, re-Tetris the cars and head off to The Globe Theatre, a new venue on all of us.
You can’t really tell from the outside, but it’s a sumptuous little
gig. The Globe used to be a cinema, we’re told, and it’s all dark reds
and picture frames and there’s a whacking great velvet curtain framing
the stage.
We’re met with a rider consisting of Mexican lager, giant energy drinks, bread rolls, ham and cheese and a family pack of unbranded fried potato snacks. Paul eyes the lager with suspicion but agrees that a sharpener will probably cure the surviving hangover particles in his aura.
We’re met with a rider consisting of Mexican lager, giant energy drinks, bread rolls, ham and cheese and a family pack of unbranded fried potato snacks. Paul eyes the lager with suspicion but agrees that a sharpener will probably cure the surviving hangover particles in his aura.
As we begin our soundcheck, manager extraordinaire, James “Happiest
Man In Rock” Chant arrives and we greet him with hugs and kisses
befitting a man just back from the Crimean war.
Something unusual is in the air.
We have “plenty of time” to soundcheck and even have time to “try out” a tune we don’t actually end up playing. I put it down to karma for Paul’s unfair hangover.
We nip out to the pub on the corner for a pre-show change of scenery and bump into some very well turned out Manics fans who’ve come to see this evenings entertainment. They all, rather spectacularly, appear to have been allowed access to Nicky Wire’s dressing-up box and are resplendent in faux-leopard print coats.
On returning to the venue, it’s already filling up nicely and we take to the stage with a near full audience in tow. They seem to enjoy themselves as much as we do. It sounds great on stage and our half hour, as expected, whizzes by accordingly.
Having piled our gear off to the side of the stage we watch the brilliant and fellow Brightonian British Sea Power and join everyone in the sweat-fest as The Globe Theatre fast becomes the hottest room in the world.
We’re all going back to Bristol, albeit to different parts. Joe and Wayne are staying at an hotel whilst Paul and I are darkening his sister’s doorway for the night. Joviality abounds and as Paul and I pass our chums on the motorway I pretend to moon them. Wayne quickly answers by actually baring his backside at us and then texts me to say that, “There is now an awkward silence. I think Joe may have seen a ball…”
We peel off in different directions and before long are tucked up in our respective digs dreaming of all things rock and roll and thoroughly looking forward to our next adventure.
Something unusual is in the air.
We have “plenty of time” to soundcheck and even have time to “try out” a tune we don’t actually end up playing. I put it down to karma for Paul’s unfair hangover.
We nip out to the pub on the corner for a pre-show change of scenery and bump into some very well turned out Manics fans who’ve come to see this evenings entertainment. They all, rather spectacularly, appear to have been allowed access to Nicky Wire’s dressing-up box and are resplendent in faux-leopard print coats.
On returning to the venue, it’s already filling up nicely and we take to the stage with a near full audience in tow. They seem to enjoy themselves as much as we do. It sounds great on stage and our half hour, as expected, whizzes by accordingly.
Having piled our gear off to the side of the stage we watch the brilliant and fellow Brightonian British Sea Power and join everyone in the sweat-fest as The Globe Theatre fast becomes the hottest room in the world.
We’re all going back to Bristol, albeit to different parts. Joe and Wayne are staying at an hotel whilst Paul and I are darkening his sister’s doorway for the night. Joviality abounds and as Paul and I pass our chums on the motorway I pretend to moon them. Wayne quickly answers by actually baring his backside at us and then texts me to say that, “There is now an awkward silence. I think Joe may have seen a ball…”
We peel off in different directions and before long are tucked up in our respective digs dreaming of all things rock and roll and thoroughly looking forward to our next adventure.
Cheers, Cardiff. Let’s do it again some time.
