Oh, if Jim Morrison was alive today, he'd be rather upset to find himself somewhat entombed, which would be most distressing for him.
Anyhoo, me & my Sister went to see The Doors Alive, who are like, The Doors, but not the dead ones reanimated. In fact, they really should be called The Doors Imitating The Doors If The Doors Reformed And The Dead Ones Were Reanimated To Give The Illusion The Doors Are Still Alive.
Or TDITDITDRATDOWRTGTITDASA for short. or something.
Anyhoo, the band itself were quite good - "Jim Morrison" sounded quite accurate, "John Densmore" looked haircutly impressive, although nothing like the modern day John Carpenter lookylikey. "Ray Manczarek" needs a new organ. Quite a few duff oscillatory tuned notes, and one hell of a misskey. Oh, and Mr Morrisson got the words of Light My Fire wrong.
But on the whole, really enjoyed it!
What spoiled it was a triplity of pissflappy cuntnuggets.
Now, I don't mind people dancing in the mosh pit at gigs. Heck, I'm one of the first to moan about the motionless old glimmers too old to party cramming the front. What I take exception to is cockwranglers who need 5 feet of space around them.
Not because they're dancing. It's more that they're incessantly falling and recovering due to imbibing inebriating beverages, rather than actually dancing.
It began with the Tenerifie Lady, who was writhing about the railings in a MOST pleasing manner... but it was her 2 strange men causing the problem.
Constant streams of beer, lots of screaming out-of-time, staggering into people, barging about, and generally being a pair of arses annoying everyone.
But the Cuntmeister...
...oh, this twatbag was hammered before the support had even finished. It's was so bad, he left for the bar, came back, danced for about a second and forgot he had beer, his lolloping arms casting it all over all and sundry.
So the wankered fucker went off for more beer.
And more.
And more.
So, by the time Them There Living Porticos came on, he was thrashing about madly like Bez on a freakout. Stomping on coats, bags, feet and generally tumbling about in a 6ft area with much tuttage and exasperation from all.
Eventually, he went off for more beer, and the space filled up.
And who ended up in that space?
Me. Ousted from my prime spot at the front, and forced further into the corner.
And everyone was having a nice time.
Then arsedicker returned, lumbering and shoving till he got back to where he was. Which is now where some of us are. And all atmos is ruined as he starts staggering about.
And then he pissed his pants.
And we know this not because of his clammy bare chest or dampened low slung trews brushing up against us. Oh no.
It's the fœtid ammonial aroma arising from him. Whatever he'd had for tea, or been drinking, created a urinary miasma of such stench, even the copious quantities of eCig smoke didn't drive it out.
Then he left for more beer! Hurrah...
And came back again. Boo.
And left... and back... and...
Why is it I attract troublesome types? I must have a Fucking Cunt magnet that draws in all the ignorant, selfish, bullish, arrogant self-centred gobshites into a circle with me trapped in the epicentre?
Still, damn good show though!
