Sunderland

We set off from the lad club in three vehicles and none of them are mine. Karen, Mike and Bonehead are doing the honours. I am grateful not to be driving. I seem to spend way too much time behind the wheel of my small automobile letting the days go by. Ben takes charge and we agree to meet at the services on top of the hill; on top of the big hill when you get to Yorkshire he reiterates. So now we know and meet up there later to bemoan the rubbish food and drink like right and proper grumpy old men. ‘It’s worse than the old days then again most things are’ I hear myself say, like I’m in The Likely Lads or something, only I can’t do the accent. I’m so rubbish at accents. The journey to Sunderland is trouble free and spent cranking up the iPod in Boneheads new Mazarati, I’m not really a car person but from what little knowledge I have I’d say this one was kind of special. Satellite navigation which is still a novelty for me brings us into Sunderland town centre and after a short phone call we arrive at the venue where the miss spelt posters all read Vinny Perculiar. It’s happened before and I’m sure it will happen again, it’s Pec not Perc but I don’t say anything. There’s no point. We’re met at the venue by Ben the promoter and shown around the dressing room. This club looks feels and smells like it works very hard for a living. Mike and Bonehead both disappear to do interviews with a lanky Louie Theroux look alike who’s apparently writing a book on Brit-pop. The sound check lasts for ever. The engineer is a bloke called Gerry modelled on Garcia and originally from Hereford. It all sounds a bit odd but he puts that down to the cavernous empty space adjustments to compensate for the presence people who will change the sonic ambience. Unfortunately this wasn’t the case and when we finally go on at midnight the first four songs sound like we are playing underwater. When Gerry sorts this out as he does in due course the gig improve a little; people dance and banter is exchanged. The level of intoxication though is way off the alcohol-meter and very few people seem capable of listening with any sense of concentration or purpose. I mean, I don’t expect reverence or silence…but this was stupid. We had the option of playing earlier to a smaller crowd; in retrospect this might have been a better idea. The terrible sound also killed things off response wise. The best reaction was when we played Replica Shirt where I made some speech about Sunderland, passion and their return to the premiership. In truth I went on a bit and no they’re not really my second team, I made that bit up as any football fan will tell you there is no such thing as a second team. The great thing I’ll always remember about Sunderland is the hospitality at the gig which was as good as ever I have known; we have been seriously well looked after. Walking back through the town centre to the Travel Lodge at 3am against the advice of the club owners Ben and I keep our heads down meandering through the part volatile part comatose crowds who appear to be part of a huge experiment into the impact of binge drinking. Bodies litter pavements. People are getting hit and people are bleeding. It’s frightening really…In the morning we watch match of the Day and return to the club to collect our gear at midday where one of last nights punters has been locked in overnight…he greets us, wasted, elated, apologetic and makes the call to his wife. Imagine…it’s not my fault, I got locked in the club, what else could I do but drink….what else indeed, then we’re back home in time for the brawl in the cup final…Mummy [or was it money] I’ve been fighting again…The Great Dominions revisited in my head. VP