Dear Dita Von Teese and the management of the Koko Club, Camden,
You cunts. Youuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu cunts. You utter utter cunts.
That was the worst 'show' I've ever been to. And I've been made to see Taking Back Sunday at least twice AND seen The Waterboys in Coruna (unhappy accident), so that's no mean achievement. What was so bad? Lets start at the beginning. Spinky bought us tickets to see the Dita Von Teese burlesque show in London - her idea, I should point out, I just tagged along like the good boyfriend, but underheavy duress you understand.*ahem* - anyway after trekking half way across the country, to the arsehole capital of England, we were all like
and then four moons later when it was all over, we were all like 
.
The first cunt was whichever YTS smackhead mongoloid Ticketmaster employee (who I accept could have been acting on the wrongful information of some YTS smackhead mongoloid Koko Club employee) put the door opening time at 7pm on the tickets. When we got there for seven, there were some very pissed off looking people at the start of the queue already. Heavan only knows how miserable they looked when the doors finally opened, a mere two hours later. Still, we went drinking during the two hour wait - no big deal, so someone screwed up the start time? That wasn't going to ruin our night, something so trivial. Well, that was just the start.
I didn't know what the show would entail (hindsight is a cruel mistress), but I figured there would be support of some kind, as Dita couldn't perform for an entire night on her own. Boy was I right about that second part. I was right about the first too: Yes, there was a support act, but one that inexplicably started an hour and a half after the doors opened. This is because it took the workshy cunts at the Koko Club this long to light a four foot sign bearing the band's name: The Puppini Sisters, a trio of ironic lounge singers. That was the extent of their stage props - maybe with such a minimal set the act would more than make up for it? Hahahaha, fuck that noise. The Puppini Sisters resembled three alcoholic mothers fulfilling a community service order. The set was mercifully short, as at least two of them needed to nip off to get the fix of whatever substance was keeping them awake (amphetamines for one, windolene for another). The elder one, 78, had the scariest case of hyperthyroidism I've ever seen.
Still, we remained excited. After all, the support act were out of the way, so now were expecting non-stop Dita, Dita, Dita. We expected and expected and expected. And expected some more. Minutes passed. Minutes turned into hours, hours into days, seasons changed, and we slowly became delusional through hunger and fatigue. I fantasised not of the scantily clad main attraction, but of eating the hair of the people infront of me for sustinence. Just when I was losing the will to live, the curtain went up. Well, it was pulled apart tby two retired plumbers. So much for "Mistress of the Teese". Some famous bird prosaically shook her bits for five minutes, then the plumbers pulled the curtain back. Five fucking minutes, and we could barely see - she was at ground level, meaning some genius at the Koko Club didn't consider that perhaps putting an elevated stage there might make a visual show watchable. Cunt. After such an interminable wait and non-event, I was so livid I could've punched a kitten (more of that later). To cut a long story short, the wait to the next show was fucking worse. More alcoholic mothers, including a filler striptease from a geriatric ginger, 86, which could well have been a stage-crashing crowd member after too much valium given the reception she got.
Then five more minutes of Dita. It involved a martini glass and lots of view of the backs of people's heads. Shite. We left.
For that amount of money, and for an event that dragged on through the best part of October while the actual act couldn't scale the heady hights of a quarter of an hour, I would have expected a stage show that involved 1000 chrous girls, fireworks, velvet cushions for the audience, and a performance that included elfin girls throwing wedges of free money into the crowd, culminating with Dita felating a unicorn. Call me crazy, but spending four hours stood up infront of a closed curtain waiting and waiting and waiting and, oh boy, waiting for Marilyn Manson's wife to shake her be-tassled tit-ays for five minutes does not constitute a brilliant night out.
Cunts.
In other news though, I've been a shit friend on here. I hardly comment anymore, and for that I'm sorry. I miss my friends on here, but life is too hectic to keep up at the minute. We get kittens next week, which will probably make it even worse. Still
You cunts. Youuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu cunts. You utter utter cunts.
That was the worst 'show' I've ever been to. And I've been made to see Taking Back Sunday at least twice AND seen The Waterboys in Coruna (unhappy accident), so that's no mean achievement. What was so bad? Lets start at the beginning. Spinky bought us tickets to see the Dita Von Teese burlesque show in London - her idea, I should point out, I just tagged along like the good boyfriend, but underheavy duress you understand.*ahem* - anyway after trekking half way across the country, to the arsehole capital of England, we were all like
and then four moons later when it was all over, we were all like .
The first cunt was whichever YTS smackhead mongoloid Ticketmaster employee (who I accept could have been acting on the wrongful information of some YTS smackhead mongoloid Koko Club employee) put the door opening time at 7pm on the tickets. When we got there for seven, there were some very pissed off looking people at the start of the queue already. Heavan only knows how miserable they looked when the doors finally opened, a mere two hours later. Still, we went drinking during the two hour wait - no big deal, so someone screwed up the start time? That wasn't going to ruin our night, something so trivial. Well, that was just the start.
I didn't know what the show would entail (hindsight is a cruel mistress), but I figured there would be support of some kind, as Dita couldn't perform for an entire night on her own. Boy was I right about that second part. I was right about the first too: Yes, there was a support act, but one that inexplicably started an hour and a half after the doors opened. This is because it took the workshy cunts at the Koko Club this long to light a four foot sign bearing the band's name: The Puppini Sisters, a trio of ironic lounge singers. That was the extent of their stage props - maybe with such a minimal set the act would more than make up for it? Hahahaha, fuck that noise. The Puppini Sisters resembled three alcoholic mothers fulfilling a community service order. The set was mercifully short, as at least two of them needed to nip off to get the fix of whatever substance was keeping them awake (amphetamines for one, windolene for another). The elder one, 78, had the scariest case of hyperthyroidism I've ever seen.
Still, we remained excited. After all, the support act were out of the way, so now were expecting non-stop Dita, Dita, Dita. We expected and expected and expected. And expected some more. Minutes passed. Minutes turned into hours, hours into days, seasons changed, and we slowly became delusional through hunger and fatigue. I fantasised not of the scantily clad main attraction, but of eating the hair of the people infront of me for sustinence. Just when I was losing the will to live, the curtain went up. Well, it was pulled apart tby two retired plumbers. So much for "Mistress of the Teese". Some famous bird prosaically shook her bits for five minutes, then the plumbers pulled the curtain back. Five fucking minutes, and we could barely see - she was at ground level, meaning some genius at the Koko Club didn't consider that perhaps putting an elevated stage there might make a visual show watchable. Cunt. After such an interminable wait and non-event, I was so livid I could've punched a kitten (more of that later). To cut a long story short, the wait to the next show was fucking worse. More alcoholic mothers, including a filler striptease from a geriatric ginger, 86, which could well have been a stage-crashing crowd member after too much valium given the reception she got.
Then five more minutes of Dita. It involved a martini glass and lots of view of the backs of people's heads. Shite. We left.
For that amount of money, and for an event that dragged on through the best part of October while the actual act couldn't scale the heady hights of a quarter of an hour, I would have expected a stage show that involved 1000 chrous girls, fireworks, velvet cushions for the audience, and a performance that included elfin girls throwing wedges of free money into the crowd, culminating with Dita felating a unicorn. Call me crazy, but spending four hours stood up infront of a closed curtain waiting and waiting and waiting and, oh boy, waiting for Marilyn Manson's wife to shake her be-tassled tit-ays for five minutes does not constitute a brilliant night out.
Cunts.
In other news though, I've been a shit friend on here. I hardly comment anymore, and for that I'm sorry. I miss my friends on here, but life is too hectic to keep up at the minute. We get kittens next week, which will probably make it even worse. Still
VIEW 25 of 32 COMMENTS
I think when I joined SG I simply wanted to meet people from London/Liverpool into the same stuff me and my Good Lady Wife were into. Which we did, and we have some cracking friends, oh and shithead, who stalks the fuck out of us most Saturday nights. But the football thing for me, the redesign, this shit really just makes me feel quite embarrassed to be on here. I did a photoshoot for the NY Times a couple of weeks back but forgot I was doing it. I got into work and the guy was waiting for me and I had on my fucking SG t-shirt. So there was a big fucking picture of me in the NY Times wearing this fucker and it felt like was wearing a teletubbies shirt or something. I was really embarrassed. And that was before this shit. And I really hate the reactions of staff and the moderator who now insists he isn't staff - pay your membership but don't fucking criticise anything, or that blythe way he has of dismissing perfectly valid arguments: he said something along the lines of 'I've been reading pages of the same stuff, it's repetitive and I've learned nothing'. Well, there's the problem right there. It doesn't matter how many times you sing the alphabet at them, it's not sinking in. There genuinely is nothing left that feels alternative. I haven't felt this violated since hearing Dead Kennedy's Holiday in Cambodia on a Tony Hawks skateboard game. Sell out doesn't really measure it accurately. I feel like they're just wanting some buy-out at some point. SG is becoming something to laugh at. My tattooist sneers at the name. There was a piece on the London Tattoos Convention in The Tattooed Heart which tore into SG, basically questioning what the point of it was anymore.
Ever get the feeling you're being cheated?
I'm too angry now to comment properly on the new investment. I don't feel as comfortable about it as you do, although I accept that we need new investment. Personally I'd like some FIFA controls. The whole thing may be taken out of my hands. I haven't been able to afford any games this season because of the ticket increases, which means no games next season because of the priority ticket rules. At this rate I'll be watching Marine. Investment is fine, the embourgeoisement of football isn't. Investment - yes, bistros - no.