The Great Escape 2008: Wha ‘appen?

The three day fun-fest finished days ago, but it’s taken me half a week to get over the shakes; at some point on Sunday I apparently underwent a hand transfusion with an old lady in her 70′s. It’s quite nice, because my pockets now smell of Palma Violets, but it’s been very tricky knocking out anything over four words per minute. I’ve regained much of my constitution today, which is a bloody good job because the weekend starts again tomorrow… it’s probably best that I summarise on the previous posts before I sacrifice more braincells to the noble pursuit of leisure.

Saturday was a long old day. During the afternoon I opened up nice and wide to orally accommodate huge corporate ding a ling. I’m not proud of what I did but a mans gotsta get weighed out every once in a while, and the bubbles helped take the taste away. I swiftly rejoined Captain Truth and Star Tufnell at a nearby watering whole and put the whole sordid affair behind me. Though the sky above us portended towards the dismal we partook in much muckery; in a rare twist the Messer became the Messee and lo, the seed of wrongess was safely sown.

Sorry, did someone order a load of waffle? I digress. In keeping with previous days (and to be fair, every festival, gig or village fete I’ve ever been to) I missed most of the bands I’d half thought about seeing. Probably the best one I missed was Esser, who played in the pub next door to the Porter’s Cabin. I heard it rattling through the two ply and it sounded surprisingly alright, so after getting on with whatever it was that took me back to the third floor catacomb I call home, I ventured next door:

“Thank You Brighton, You Were Amazing. Good Night!”

“Oh Yeah. Fucking Nice One!”

Still, everyone outside said it was an egg-mayon-azing* gig, so in the future I’ll just lie about it and say I was there. One gig I won’t lie about was Let’s Wrestle, who played at Horatios on the pier. Not a bad band, just not my cup of I-should-coco. I think they’d do much better if they changed their name to Let’s Russell, but again this is nothing more than private conjecture.

There’s a local gang of tracksuit larrakins called Maths Class who share a house near the station. It’s a bit like a post-apocalypse Byker Grove, where Geoff’s been replaced with a mini-bar made out of breeze blocks and there’s a back line where the sofas should be. Come Saturday night when all the venues kicked out, they packed the place up to the Sally Gunnels with a cast of Beau Brummels and pulled in a few bands who happened to be knocking about- this after all is the Great Escape, where there are more bands in Brighton than there are dog shits in Paris. I’ll be honest, I didn’t bother sticking around to listening to any of them because the house was heaving and had the general vibe of an indie disco at a tragedy in a football stadium. Even the kitchen, that most sacrosanct chamber of party talk, was otherwise rammo. So it was to the garden I adjourned. An impromptu interview with Rolon Moulonse from Tiger Sex Synth Party and few bottles of apple daft later and it seemed a good time to make like a bing and go. As we wondered if then was a good time to exeunt, some pavement rumpus broke out into a skinny jeaned skirmish and the blue lights became lambent. It was some stone cold epilogue my friends.

Sunday needn’t be discussed in any great detail, only to say that any required apologies are readily available at www.blameruss.com (website under construction). Somewhere along the line I ended up in The Speigel Tent watching the Mountain Firework Company, who bravely endured some onstage sound issues and turned in another fine set of foot stompers. I shouldn’t really have been admited, but the bloke on the door asked me where my ticket was, I said inside and he believed me… give me an inch and I’ll probably take the piss, let that be his lesson.

Everything else other than this is pyaah back story.

Let’s talk shop. We’ve started on the editing for the forthcoming reports, which will be first aired on Boing Boing TV. The Young Knives acoustic session is Killer Diller, and the chat with Barry from The Futureheads is pretty much finished give or take the subtitles. Other bits with Empirical, Beardyman, and George Pringle are perched in the roasting oven of media manipulation, so deftly tended to by Richard The Bruce, and will arrive steaming at your plate in the dueness of time. Please do fill your boots.

I’m leaving the Porter’s Cabin now whilst the sun still hangs… might go and see if the bloke at The Speigel Tent was taking any notes.

* 75% of all proceeds from this gag will be donated to Laura Kelly’s Fund For Slough

Registered Charity No. 34186BRRRRRRRR

2 Comments, Comment or Ping

  1. lozza

    If 75% is going to my Slough fund whats happening to the other 25%? You better Russell me up a pseudo pie chart next time I see you.

  2. loz

    fucking hell, 2 people comment on your blog (so far, I hasten to add) and they’re both called Loz. what are the chances?

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