Gig 95: Bad Language @ The Castle, Manchester – 30th January 2013

Last night I was somewhat accurately skitted for making my gig diary too melodramatic.  I will now attempt to destroy this criticism using the power of post-post-modernism.  Ergo, the rest of this post will be written in the style what I was accused of usually writing in.  Thank you.

It was Wednesday.  The most isolated day of the week.  A day that is neither the beginning of the week nor is it the end.

As I drove my lonely drive along the M62 towards that gleaming rain-driven jewel of a city (Manchester), the irony of Wednesday’s metaphorical loneliness colliding with my own actual physical segregation laughed its wicked ironic laugh.  Such are the perils of driving to a gig alone.  I shook my head and ran a fevered hand through my luxurious mane of recently washed hair.  I had to abandon these thoughts of loneliness and concentrate on my impending performance.  Luckily, I would be reading out some stories so I didn’t have to actually concentrate at all.

Reading! Yes, reading, dear Reader.  I would indeed be reading a short story from my self-published tome “The Best of The World of Sherby57: Volume 1″.  Yes, yes, before you ask your loaded question.  Yes, it is available to purchase upon said Amazonian fields.  If you so desire you could even solicit a copy for your own private library by clicking wereforth.  Does it have a 5-star rating?  Again, yes. Yes it does.  But which story would it be what it would be that I would be reading? Oh Satan, how thee mock mine eye with thoust pretensions.  If your thirst may only be slaked by this infernal information, then cast your eyes on this link:  Thumping Hearts.  Alas, this is only the original draft of the tale and not the superior finished article what appeared in the book.  Oh, and before I forget, I also read this poem: Show Me Magic.

I arrived in Manchester and parked my car like a man possessed.   A man possessed of the knowledge that he was about to impart a literary liturgy upon the good folks of this humble, working city.  I perambulated purposefully along Oldham Street and it struck me how uncanny the likeness that the avenue bore to its town-based namesake, i.e. it was fucking freezing.

Pushing the heavy oak door to the public house, I wondered if it’s name – The Castle – was a warning or a curse.  Would my attempts at amusement and delight be able to scale the fortified walls of the audience’s imagination?  Only time would tell, dearheart.  Upon entry to this den of iniquity I was delighted to alight upon David Turquoise, a local impressario.  Much merriment was had amongst the pair of us, and David also offered his insights upon my bloggery.

Alas, dear reader, my dinner hour is rapidly drawing to an untimely conclusion.  I will henceforth wrap this bad boy up without further ado.  I went on stage. I read out my stuff. I had a lot of fun. People told me that they liked it.

Most importantly, David told me that he had tolerated my set.  From his considered lips, this can only be considered a compliment of the highest order.