A tale of drumsticks

I’m going to write two entries here to cover one day, for reasons that I’ll explain in a minute. Typical of my blogging, the day in question is not today, but last Saturday, when I went to the Academy with Rose to see Thunder (part of their tour to promote their new album: The Magnificent Seventh). I’ve known of the band for quite a while (if you’re not familiar with them yourself, does the song “Love Walked in Through My Door” ring any bells?) and previously saw them play just before Alice Cooper on the Monsters of Rock tour in 2002 (a revival of the old Donnington festival, but on the road). The gig last week was brilliant, and I don’t want to confuse the review by banging on about the day’s odder events in the middle of it.

 

It seems that the whole south side of Birmingham was filled with complete twats last Saturday. There were those kids hanging around outside the burger shop, the guy that nearly ran me over turning down Wheeley’s Lane without indicating and the two drunken (and maybe even stoned) pillocks in the subway at Holloway Circus. I had planned to go to Eddies after walking Rose home (she was too tired to come herself) but jacked in that plan seeing that there was an unusually high concentration of berks on the streets even for a Saturday night in the trendy end of town.

 

The day had its amusements, though. In the middle of the gig, the drummer, Harry James, threw a drumstick into the audience. It was coming in our direction, but it took me a second to long to register what was going on and Rose didn’t realise at all. Even when the stick bounced off her head. In fact, it hit the floor and it ended up under her foot. And she still didn’t realise what it was she had until some bloke next to her picked it up. I didn’t bother looking for the thing after it hit her, because I thought it had bounced off away behind her.

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~ by Scary Rob on 13 March, 2005.

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