Brontide; run,WALK; Polio; Living Tall in Dallas

Before the photos, I've got a story to tell. So sit back, relax and scroll past all this shit. Or don't. Y'know when people try to tell you about a night out that was funny? That's what this is going to be.

So, I have this friend. When he drinks, he's pretty funny. He's the sorta guy who gets to a point with his drinking, then he's done drinking and he goes home. But this guy doesn't get in a cab and go safely home. Oh no. This guy runs. And I don't mean "hmm, I'll enjoy a gentle jog", I mean "shit, there's a dog chasing me", fast-as-you-fucking-can runs. I don't know if you've ever seen a drunk guy running, but it rarely ends well.

Anyway, so now that you know the man: my account of yesterday evening.

Brontide is a band you have to see. Any post rock band works way better live. The irony of lyric-less music is that it's great to work to because words don't distract you, but it's never as good on your hi-fi as it is live. So I go to post rock shows as much as I can.

The evening is a relatively boozy one. It's customary to precede every drink with a Jägerbomb. By the time Brontide takes the stage, I've stopped drinking because I'm pretty drunk and I don't want to miss the band (bands I've missed because I drank too much before they started: Hadouken!, The Chariot, half a The Ghost of a Thousand set). My friend has not stopped drinking. Y'know when you're drinking at a live show, and you get to a point where the material your bottom three vertebrae are made from changes from bone to some sort of rubber, and you sorta flop forward with total disregard for rhythm (see: La Dispute, Basingstoke), that's where my friend is at right now. I'm snapping some photos and he's trying to keep his face off the floor.

Brontide plays an amazing set. And I don't mean "I'm so wasted, you guys were amazing", I mean "holy shit, I didn't think it would be that good". We leave and start the walk back to my friend's flat. We're in an area of Southampton that I'm not accustomed to. I am not the navigator. Fifteen minutes of walking and chatting shit later and we're on a street I don't recognise. It's dark and I can't see the end of this street in any direction. I'm kinda concerned. Out of nowhere, my friend does his running thing and he's gone.

I am so fucking lost.

But I have a phone. I whip it out, Eastwood-style and try to have Google Maps tell me where the hell I am. Google is unsure. Some people walk towards me. Perfectly politely, I enquire as to my whereabouts in relation to the city centre. I am "fucking miles" from the city centre and going in the wrong direction. I turn around and walk back down this paradoxical street until the end. I still don't recognise this place. I consider calling a cab to come and get me, but then I remember you need to know where you are before you can impart such information to a taxi driver. So I go in search of a landmark that I can direct a taxi to. Finally, I see somewhere I recognise. I'm about three miles out of the city centre in the wrong direction.

If I start walking now, I'll be home in two hours. It's already pretty late and I have to work in nine hours.

I call a taxi and give some pretty decent details about my location. The woman at dispatch is very friendly and helps me determine where I am and where I need to go. Pissed at my friend for bailing, I ask the driver to take me to his house so that I can get my bike and call him a dick.

I call my friend. No answer. What a dick.

I call again. Call rejected. You fucker.

I call again. Rejected again. Now I'm mad.

I keep calling all the way back. All I want is my bike so I can go home and go to bed. I am in no state to ride a bike, but I just want my bike. It will be a good walking aid for the journey home. A hipster Zimmer Frame. I ring his doorbell for almost forever but he never answers. The fucker's gone to bed and is rejecting my calls because he's trying to sleep. Like any considerate drunkard, I begin shouting his name and ringing all the bells of the people in his building. They must all share my frustration. An irritated man comes to the window and politely enquires as to the nature of my fucking problem. I calmly explain the situation about my "fucking mate, [his] neighbour" and wonder if I can successfully describe my bicycle that sits on the other side of this door, will he buzz me in? He agrees to my terms, and I describe my bicycle down to the last tooth on the chainring. Satisfied with my intimate knowledge of the bicycle, he buzzes me in and I go home.

Upon my return, I can barely close the front door before my phone rings. It's my effing mate. He quickly informs me that the police have dropped him at home because he's been stabbed. I dash back to his house to check that he's OK, try to find out what's happened and make sure, y'know, that he doesn't die. Suitably satisfied that he is, in fact, not going to be dead by morning, I leave and go back to my bed.

I wake up in a daze. I'm still not used to bed-head. My stomach is trying to turn itself inside out. The fajitas I ate last night are having a pretty big argument with the Jägerbombs I drank, and they're refusing to share the space any longer. My head is three sizes too small for my brain, which is now leaking out of my facial orifices. My wife is oddly sympathetic. She shouldn't be, really.

My phone rings; it's my friend the knife block. He's remembered the course of events of the evening.

You see, upon running full-pelt away from me as though I was made of fire, he was struck by inspiration. He bets himself that he can easily smash the window of the nearest car with his elbow. Naturally, he takes the bet - what has he to lose - and proceeds to smash a window of the nearest car. Knowing my friend and his impeccable luck and timing, the owner of said vehicle is within earshot and takes exception to these actions. My friend panics and starts to run. He's not as fast as the owner of the broken automobile, who tackles him to the ground with ease (see previous: stab wound) and presumably keeps him around until the police show up to deal with the situation.

Luckily for my friend, he's one of the nicest, soft-spoken-est (softest-spoken?) people you could ever hope to meet. He convinces the police and the poor car's owner that he's just a drunk idiot and promises to pay for all damages tomorrow. He's presumably let off with a warning and given a lift home so his window smashing rampage can't continue. Upon approaching his front door, he forgets the past 30 minutes (seriously, how?) and enters his house. He feels pain, sees blood, remembers the police and assumes he's been stabbed, so he calls the one person he knows will drop everything to help out a friend in danger, who marches round to piece the evening back together, Memento-style.

And now the less crap bit. Black and white conversions are an unplanned necessary evil. Red noise is ugly as hell. Black and white noise is nice. I'm an artiste, don't-you-know.