Saturday-oh

Walk down the canal from Angel to Camden, past boats and boat houses, goslings and moorchicks and teenaged Goths looking depressed whilst drinking alcopops, to eat pad thai and falafel in the food court in the market. Food courts are the best thing in the world. Down to the Roundhouse to meet Alice and Steve, Tanya, Talya and Shand and accidentally miss the first coupla bands at the free Artrocker all ages show - or afternoon gig, as we say in English. Pete and the Pirates are headlining: hard-rocking indie boys with fringes and cardigans. The lead guitarist looks a little like Alex James, when he was still cute 90s Alex James before he fucked off to live an Observer supplement life on a farm in Oxfordshire. I’ll say it again: no-one ever leaves the rat race to go and live on an organic smallholding in Tyne and Wear. Not sure what Johnny Rotten et al would make of the new Roundhouse. You can’t smoke (hurrah) and the floors are clean and smell new. The bouncer stops one teenager climbing on the shoulders of another. It’s rather antiseptic, but then again, this is what my aged self likes.

 

Afterwards we wander up to Primrose Hill via the offy and sit under a tree drinking wheat beer and eating  a pub salad (Monster Munch, McCoy's and Walkers cheese 'n' onion). Dan F turns up. Sitting in the park with friends is so good, it makes one feel a lot less resentful of the other people sitting in the park with friends. Take our sneezy selves to Dan’s Dartmouth Park Hill flat with an envy-making roof terrace past pretty mews and an ex-railway line. From there we get the strangely operative Northern line down to Tottenham Court Road and the Spiral Scratch discothèque. Which is, again, non-smoking (and air-conditioned), but has really bad sound, isn’t dark enough, and there are too many randoms walking in off the streets to use the (admittedly superior) toilets, sneer, and walk out again. Also, there’re only so many times one can hear Belle and Sebastian and The Sea Urchins. The DJ plays one of The Aislers Set’s more perky songs and I want them to follow it up with the Jesus and Mary Chain, or the Shop Assistants, but no it’s the Razorcuts. Gah. Leaving, we pop into the newly re-opened Dionysus for snackage and this is what I moved to London for – to eat chips and curry sauce on the corner of Tottenham Court Road rather than eating chips and curry sauce in the corner of Doncaster bus station. I didn’t expect, however, to have to wait just as long for a bus: 25 fucking minutes for the evil 73.

Saturday-oh

Walk down the canal from Angel to Camden, past boats and boat houses, goslings and moorchicks and teenaged Goths looking depressed whilst drinking alcopops, to eat pad thai and falafel in the food court in the market. Food courts are the best thing in the world. Down to the Roundhouse to meet Alice and Steve, Tanya, Talya and Shand and accidentally miss the first coupla bands at the free Artrocker all ages show - or afternoon gig, as we say in English. Pete and the Pirates are headlining: hard-rocking indie boys with fringes and cardigans. The lead guitarist looks a little like Alex James, when he was still cute 90s Alex James before he fucked off to live an Observer supplement life on a farm in Oxfordshire. I’ll say it again: no-one ever leaves the rat race to go and live on an organic smallholding in Tyne and Wear. Not sure what Johnny Rotten et al would make of the new Roundhouse. You can’t smoke (hurrah) and the floors are clean and smell new. The bouncer stops one teenager climbing on the shoulders of another. It’s rather antiseptic, but then again, this is what my aged self likes.

 

Afterwards we wander up to Primrose Hill via the offy and sit under a tree drinking wheat beer and eating  a pub salad (Monster Munch, McCoy's and Walkers cheese 'n' onion). Dan F turns up. Sitting in the park with friends is so good, it makes one feel a lot less resentful of the other people sitting in the park with friends. Take our sneezy selves to Dan’s Dartmouth Park Hill flat with an envy-making roof terrace past pretty mews and an ex-railway line. From there we get the strangely operative Northern line down to Tottenham Court Road and the Spiral Scratch discothèque. Which is, again, non-smoking (and air-conditioned), but has really bad sound, isn’t dark enough, and there are too many randoms walking in off the streets to use the (admittedly superior) toilets, sneer, and walk out again. Also, there’re only so many times one can hear Belle and Sebastian and The Sea Urchins. The DJ plays one of The Aislers Set’s more perky songs and I want them to follow it up with the Jesus and Mary Chain, or the Shop Assistants, but no it’s the Razorcuts. Gah. Leaving, we pop into the newly re-opened Dionysus for snackage and this is what I moved to London for – to eat chips and curry sauce on the corner of Tottenham Court Road rather than eating chips and curry sauce in the corner of Doncaster bus station. I didn’t expect, however, to have to wait just as long for a bus: 25 fucking minutes for the evil 73.