Most of what follows, unfortunately, happened.  

Date: Little while ago.
Venue: Small, and far away.
Crowd: Sweaty.

There are few feelings as all encompassingly cockle warming as a gig passably executed. Sometimes the stars align to produce perfection as rare as a punctual drummer. On this rainy Autumn night, for reasons I have chosen not to dissect lest the magic and consequent happiness be expunged, the band performed a show that even the most cynical gig goer must begrudgingly describe as ‘adequate’.

But promoters are rarely reasonable. Much less vulnerable to the satisfactory musical stylings of a band that sounded like they were all sober at practice this week.

“Alright guys.” Tonight’s such Promoter begins. Jake mutters something inaudible, his hackles already raised in preparation. “Now, I know we agreed a hundred quid–”

Jake explodes.

His tirades are fascinating to watch. He could, in all seriousness, launch a 5 minute swear laden verbal attack without repeating a single euphemism for fornication. He is also the only person I know that has ever used ‘fuck’ as an adverb.

With that in mind, to recount this particular audio monstrosity verbatim would be disingenuous. So in the interest of full disclosure, the following is an approximation.   

“Yes, we DID agree a cocking hundred quid. It was a verbal fucking contract that you yourself signed. A gentleman’s agreement, which I realise now you were unable to to take part in given you don’t seem to be a gentlemen at all but in fact an insufferable dick tip.”

Richie, ever the most reasonable and least intoxicated punk I know, places a soothing hand on Jake’s shoulder.

The net effect of which is zero.

“We drove however many shitting miles to the arse end of fuckwhere under the naive impression that this scum might actually live up to his end of the fucking agreement.”

The Promoter shrinks 3 inches. “I…“

“Was hoping to fuck us over?! Well not tonight fuckhole. Here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to give us the hundred that we agreed, and we are going to leave this shitty, maggot ridden cess pit of a prick awful venue. Thanking you fuckly.” Jake holds his hand out, demanding the cash.

“I… was going to give you a hundred and fifty. It was a really good show.” Shaking, he places the notes in Jake’s hand.

A moment hangs in the air, savouring the exchange of glances between the two. If the penny drops somewhere in the recesses of Jake’s mind, only he hears it.  

“That said, we’d be delighted to come back anytime. It’s been an absolute pleasure, Sir. Many thanks and good evening.” Jake bows before striding, chest puffed, to the exit.

To date, we have not been invited back.

Photo by Zechariah Judy via Flickr.


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