Kings of Punk, Hockey and Beer

A trip to London is always a good idea, especially when the purpose is to drink with fellow Twitter mentalists.

No amount of people sitting in my seat on the train or replacement bus hell was going to spoil this day and I made it to The Market Porter in London Bridge to meet Alison and Joe at 1:30.

A great afternoon of drinking in the street, laughter, mad Welsh vagrants and street illusionists ensued and it was soon time to say goodbye to Alison who was going to see some South African percussion enthusiasts, or something.

The night was still young for me and Joe and we poured ourselves into a tube heading north with the intention of seeing three punk bands. Tufnell Park is a really long way, so we stopped in Camden for emergency refreshment on the way. The Spaniard wearing a dress and enjoying his “stag night” with some close male “friends” in The Elephant’s Head wanting his photo taken with us wasn’t weird at all either.

The Boston Arms in Tufnell Park, so I’d heard, was so close to the tube station, it’s just fall over and you’re there. I verified this by falling drunkenly out of the tube station and pretty much straight in the front door.

The gig actually took place in The Music Room next door, a church hall-esque low key dive. By this time the Jack Daniel’s was flowing at a ridiculous pace and it’s lucky I remember anything.

The first band either didn’t reveal their name or I didn’t catch it. They were from Sarfend, according to a well-informed local. No idea where that is. They sounded ok though.

Following them were Sick On The Bus who I know played in Blackpool when I was there, but I’m not sure if I actually saw them. The crowd responded well and spirits were high. It was becoming increasingly difficult to get a drink by this point as the two slowest barmen in London tried to serve a couple of hundred thirsty punters. One girl circumvented this problem by openly drinking her own brandy next to the bouncer. There were also people smoking in the building and no-one even told them not to. Mental.

After 35 years Canadian punks D.O.A. are calling it a day, so this was one of their final ever UK shows. Only singer/guitarist Joey Shithead (probably not what it says on his birth certificate) remains from the original line-up and the two youngsters on bass and drums looked like they’d formed a band with their granddad (he’s 57 now). The next hour or so was a blur of drinking and short songs and I even drunkenly lurched about in the moshpit for a bit. Not as much as Joe though, who managed to lose his expensive, genuine, replica, knock-off watch there.

A fun night was had by all, except a sweaty youth I saw crying outside. Maybe he’d found the watch?