poprock

Weeks off from work are meant to be relaxing, right? Hmm.

Silly oclock flights to Birmingham, Neds Atomic Dustbin reuinion/single launch gig, more old-school indie T-shirts in one room than should ever be allowed. Try wandering the shops only to find Pride weekend getting in the way, six-foot-something black tranvestite DJ in Selfridges with Mr Gay UK, blazing sunshine, hailstones, storms, more sunshine back to Glasgow for a Therapy? gig, distilled rock angst as always, the genial Mr Cooper on drums doing a fine job as ever. Sleater-Kinney the next night, tearing Glasgows hipster crowd a couple of new orifises (orifii?) with their sheer sex appeal, then finally a day of recovery before driving all the way to Hull and back with no roof on the car, hitting a hundred and twenty topless blows away a few cobwebs for sure, and eating dinner in an enormous fish tank with lepoard sharks, giant morays and even a couple of great whites swimming about in front of your table is pretty interesting.

Being back at work feels almost calming and soothing.