Sunday, February 25, 2007

Leons/Sea

Hairy types, rocking a fat one.

What ho, bitches!

Your Colonel is back, back, back and serious as a heart attack. I've been off touring the country in search of the rock and, to a lesser extent, the roll.

If I were to tell you that it was tracked down in the sleepy Kent town of Folkestone, you'd probably think I was lying.
"Sheee-it, fool! They ain't nuttin' goin' down in Folkestone. You be shittin' me" you would probably exclaim, suspecting I was having a little simple fun at your expense.

Well, doubt me not, because myself and six other bohemian coves made the long journey from North-East England to the South Coast in order to enjoy the kick-arse rock stylings of famed stateside hairy types The Kings of Leon.
This was accomplished only after undertaking an arduous eight hour journey via the following modes of transport - Bus to Gosforth, Metro to Central Station, Train to Kings Cross, Tube to Oxford Circus then on to Charing Cross, Train to Folkestone.

Now, I'm no Bill Brysons, but let me tell you this, that journey was A Right Fuck On.

However, we did once again encounter Viz co-creator Simon Donald, boarding the same train as us at Newcastle, doubtless off to London for some power lunch where numbers would be crunched and projects green-lighted.

Or maybe he has taken to following me around for reasons best known to himself. To paraphrase the rapper Ludacris maybe it's 'cos he likes my handsome face or maybe it's 'cos he likes my gangster ways. Who can tell?

Anyhow, since we were travelling on the 8.30am service, the natural thing to do was break out the cans and bottles of premium strength lager beer.

In this age of healthy eating campaigns and binge drinking crackdowns, it is reassuring to note that the rights of all male groups to swill ale heavily on crowded public transport is still enshrined in the constitution of this fair land.

No doubt brave Tommy Atkins over in Basra will be thinking "This is what we're fighting for. The great British way of life." Word up, my squaddie brethren.

We got through London as quickly as possible, most of us thankful we don't have to live there. Whether it was the crowded, claustrophobic nature of the tube trains, the unsmiling countenances of the sour-faced commuters or the dismay caused by having to pay twenty pence for a slash at Charing Cross, I don't know.

All I do know is that we seemed to be the only people who were smiling. Possibly it is down to our cheerier outlook on life and refreshing bonhomous attitude to travel, possibly the Londoners were just uncomfortable in the company of stinking, aled-up northern arseholes.

Eventually we arrived at our hotel and very nice it was too. Clearly, after a long journey the best thing to do was to get settled in, have a good scrub and get a bite to eat.

Fuck that shit.

Dump the bags and get straight out on the lash was the plan. A plan that was beautiful in it's simplicity and achievability.

About £2.60 for a pint, since you ask.

After spending a good three or four hours vainly pursuing the good times in Folkestone and giving the locals a few pointers on the fine art of pool playing, it was off up the hill to the venue, the Leas Cliff Hall, a medium sized local theatre.

Having wisely decided to stay in the bar during the support act, three of us were straight down the front for a bit of hurly-burly in the pit of mosh, as I believe the youngsters call it. The remaining four stood at the back, feeling that easy access to the bar was as big a factor in gig enjoyment as getting all hot and sweaty.

The band were excellent, knocking out heavy hit after heavy hit mixed with a few slower, more intense tunes from the new album. However, the infernal practice of crowd-surfing remains as tiresome as ever.

When a chap is attempting to bust his best moves to the upbeat sound of "The Bucket" or "Four Kicks" it is disconcerting to be kicked upside the head by a number nine Doctor Marten aggravation boot.

That said, the lowlives who took advantage of one 'surfing female by titting her up and attempting to remove items of her clothing should hang their heads in shame. While this old soldier may appear to a hoary old chauvinist in the mould of Jim "Nick Nick" Davidsons, this isn't strictly the case and I waded into the fray and administered a hearty shove on the beleagured female's shoulders, propelling her towards the arms of a burly security employee.

I am quite the Walter Raleigh, yes?

Further evidence of our group's high-minded morality was provided by the location and safe return of a girl's purse and a lad's mobile phone. The lad was particularly lucky as not only did he get his phone returned he also had received a text message from a female admirer informing him that he was "Nathan, UR fit az fuck".

Well, we may have been acting the Dudley Do-Right but we aren't made of stone. It was the work of but a minute for my mate to send the reply "Yes, I know I am, but you, madam, are a minger. All the best".

I fear Nathan may have had some explaining to do the next day.

We headed for a couple of post-gig pints in the nearby gay bar, where anybody not sweating profusely was regarded with suspicion by some of the less enlightened members of the group. At this point I could make a joke funny about their being nowt as queer as Folkestone, but you wouldn't thank me for it and frankly, that type of base humour has no place in a sophisticated journal such as this.

Sophisticated is precisely what I'm all about and that's why we ended up in a seafront nightclub called "Jolson's" astonishing the locals with our smooth seduction techniques.
Naturally, none of us got our fingers into anything more appetising than a large doner from the kebab shop next door.

Despite the lateness of the hour when we repaired to our rooms, all were present and correct for the full english breakfast next morning. With a couple of hours to kill we were thankful for the hotel's excellent provision of table football and table tennis, free of charge like. A tournament was soon arranged and in full swing, trash talking flying round the table and extravagant service styles tried out.

It pains me to relate that I was knocked out in the semi-finals by the eventual winner.

I will draw a veil over the return journey. There is enough unhappiness in the world without inflicting an account of the foul odours that permeate a group of blokes who have been living on fry-ups, gassy beer and kebab meat.

On that eggy bombshell, I will bid you a good day.

Rock on!

3 comments:

Anonymous said...

Whilst I appreciate that Folkestone needs an occasional infusion of free-spending out-of-towners as much as any South coast hovel, it puzzles me why your hirsuite heroes from over the water chose to favour the place with their visitation when many preferable - and indeed geographically convenient - alternatives were surely up for grabs?

EwokTopLad said...

Colonel,

Was it not the legend that is Mr Nate of Dogg that mused "is it cos they like my handsome face, is it cos they like my gangsta ways"? Granted, this line of monolithic proportion, crammed full of relevent social commentry, does appear on Ludacris's 7" single entitled Area Codes (i believe it to be from the hit motion picture Rush Hour 2).

Come on Colonel, sort it out!

Colonel Knowledge said...

Anonymous - if that is your real name, which I doubt. I blame the foul machinations of Ticketmaster and their ilk.

Ewok - You are of course correct.

However, let us not forget that not everyone reading this is as au fait with the cream of the hip hop crop as you and I.

Forgive my tendency to dumb down and pander to the lowest common denominator. I will endeavour to "up my game" henceforth.