The Phoenix Theatre in Exeter must wish I was still running my sandwich rating system, because with a choice of proper cooked meals from an extensive menu they would have surely found themselves with one of the highest ever scores. But alas that system is dead and the people at the Exeter Phoenix will never know what heights they may have achieved. I am sure they are devastated by the news. I think the chef may commit suicide upon reading this entry.
The gig went well too, though it took the audience a little while to warm to me, I felt, but in the end I had them eating from my hand. Literally. I still had the handful of yoghurt from the photo shoot and even though the yoghurt had curdled, this congealed dairy product was a feast to these backward Devonian fooles!
I am joking of course and merely doing my duty as a proud, adopted Somersetshire lad in mocking our close neighbours. When in reality we should all be uniting against the common enemy – the people of Bridgewater. Which we duly did during the gig. Ah, I will never tire of pointing out how much that town smells. I changed the line about having a turd in your sock and then having to walk to Leicester, so it became having to walk to Bridgewater…and then have to stay in Bridgewater, for the rest of your life, still wearing the sock, which is refilled with fresh turds on a daily basis… but at least the smell of shit would help mask the smell of Bridgewater. It would be like the finest perfume in comparison. And that sock full of shit would be the most fashionable item of clothing ever seen in that town.
Ah BridgewaterÂ… you donÂ’t half stink. If you were a child in an infant school rather than a town, everyone would think that you had fleas and not want to touch you in case they caught the stinking flea disease.
As it is we just hold our noses when we are driving past.
And never venture into your smelly streets.
In fact I begin to wonder if this is the plan all along. Whether the people of Bridgewater have manufactured the smell to keep people away, because they have something wonderful in there that they donÂ’t want people to share. In a similar way to how the villains in Scooby Doo used to pretend to be ghosts to protect their secret plutonium mines. Except more effective, because ghosts are just going to draw people in (at the very least the Scooby Doo gang), whilst an horrific smell will keep everyone away, so you can make the most of the diamond littered streets or whatever it is youÂ’re trying to protect.
I am tempted to drive into Bridgewater on my way back north tomorrow to see if my theory is true. But not tempted enough to actually endure the stench. The Bridgewaterian plan is working to perfection. Still surely no prize is worth the price they are paying.
I am really enjoying the show and I think it is reaching new heights every time I do it. So do try and catch one of the last few remaining gigs if you can. There is a possibility I might get it filmed before itÂ’s over, so there might be a cheap and possibly shoddy DVD available for anyone who canÂ’t make it along.
After the gig we went to a little underground club called the Cavern to see an American all-girl punk band called
Same Day Service (see
here. They comprised of blonde twins, one of whom sang and the other of whom drummed and then another probably unrelated girl with dark hair. They were essentially a female version of Bros. They performed with gusto to almost thirty drunk Devonians. It reminded me of the flamenco dancer (see
here) I chanced across a while back. That they had come all this way to perform to this select audience seemed strangely poignant. Not that theyÂ’re only playing Exeter and then going home. Well I hope not. I just hope they hadnÂ’t booked in to play Bridgewater, not knowing what the rest of us know.
I went back to the hotel a little bit merry and saw a documentary about a woman who had died and lain undiscovered for a few days and who kept herself to herself and whose brother didnÂ’t want to get involved with the funeral in any way. The only person who came to her funeral was the one woman who she occasionally talked to and borrowed sugar off in her street. Seeing a funeral with a congregation of one was one of the most depressing things IÂ’ve seen in a while. I suppose there are funerals with congregations of none. The vicar, God bless him, like the flamenco dancer, played the room as though it were full. I felt sorry for the woman, but also recognised that itÂ’s your own fault if you end up in a situation like that. The tragedy is that she allowed herself to be cut off from humanity. ItÂ’s something that can be avoided. And itÂ’s not as bad as a case in the paper I read either today or yesterday where a man laid undiscovered in his flat for six years. That takes some doing. He was just a clothed skellington when they eventually found him. Everyone assumed the man had vacated the flat, but no-one else moved in and when it got sold on they didnÂ’t even come round to check it out. ThatÂ’s a pretty poor state of affairs.
But the TV documentary had an additional poignancy as it was narrated by John Peel. To hear him talking about death was somewhat eerie and upsetting. Nice to see he is still getting voice over work despite his demise though. He is very good at it.
It all just underlined why we should make the most of our time whilst weÂ’re here. IÂ’m glad IÂ’d gone to see a screaming punk band, rather than just come back to my hotel room and seen all this misery.
