Mar 10th, 2019
I went to Glasgow yesterday to see John Cooper Clarke. I’ve been a fan of his for years and I was particularly looking forward to hearing his rendition of my favourite “I married a monster from outer space”. Unfortunately, things did not go according to plan.
According to the website (City Halls) the show started at 7pm. Nothing we could do could find out whether there were supporting acts, or indeed, what time it actually was going to start or finish at. We went to the venue for 7pm. First of all they searched my bag and for reasons unknown took exception to a small plastic bottle of orange juice I had bought for the journey home. Then they informed us that in fact the show didn’t start until 8pm (in flat contravention of what it said on the tickets and on the website). So we had to go somewhere as it was freezing cold out, so we wandered around the Merchant City looking for a nice bar. Colour me old and overly conservative, but the first bar we went into even my brother who is more of a sophisticate than me nearly staggered to his knees as we were hit with a wave of music so loud that I am surprised it was legal (thinking about the warnings you get on phones if you turn the volume up more than they recommend). So by mutual consent, we left there and went to another place. This frankly wasn’t much better as it was packed to the gills and so noisy that you couldn’t hear yourself think and certainly couldn’t have a chat with your friends.
So after one drink we went back to the venue. J concealed my orange juice in his coat pocket so I didn’t have to throw it away. Then we discovered that in spite of the fact that it had not been mentioned in the spec, there were two supporting acts on first. Bear in mind that I had a two and a half hour journey home and that R (who was going to London himself the next day) was having to come to Helensburgh to meet me. I could only describe the two supporting acts in one word “dire”. They droned on, and on, and on and on with half digested left wing crap. Frankly, my cats write better poetry. Eventually (thank God) it stopped and we stood in an interminable queue to buy a drink in the interval.
After another protracted wait, JCC actually came on. By this time it was 9:45 and I was really getting worried about R and catching my train. So he was OK, but his new stuff isn’t anything like as good as his old stuff. At 10:30 I realized that I was going to have to leave to catch my train, so I missed part of the only element of the show I had wanted to watch in the first place.
Got on the train back to Helensburgh and it was mobbed with loud drunks. The only place I could find to sit was near the toilet which was out of order and “fair reeking of pish” right down the corridor. Finally got home at quarter to one.
Maybe I am getting old, but I can’t imagine what pleasure people extract from an evening like that. Give me Lochgoilhead, a comfy chair, Netflix and a glass of wine every single time. A bit cheaper too!