Friday, 23 September 2016

TV Review: The Overt Democratic Pink Scare

Those pesky commie pinko swines are up to their old tricks again.  Looks like another job for the Investigative Journalist Superheroes from Channel 4…
Thank God we’ve got them on the case, keeping the world safe from grassroots, working-class political organising.  Or we’d be in real trouble.
Their latest brilliant expose came in the Dispatches programme on Monday night, which effectively dissected the underhand tactics used by Labour Party members to control the party by making it more democratic and responsive to members.  A typical totalitarian extreme left plot, involving public meetings and reasoned argument.
The Labour Party, having long ago fought the battle with the Loony Left, now shudders as the spectre looms large at the fringes of the party.  In fact, they loom so large on the fringes that they support the leader of the party himself.  An enemy within, you might say. 
This enemy within is the “Trotskyist”, “entryist” (no, I’m not sure what that means either, but it was used as a slur and repeated several times, so I understand what it was meant to mean) Momentum group.  Momentum is a gaggle of gnarled, grizzled, hard left benefit claimants who want to smash the capitalist state, while leaving their local dole office intact.  (Except the ones that are teachers, or something.)  These are the people who simply cannot accept that Mrs Thatcher won the argument and that Socialism is as old-fashioned as it is dangerous. They are the fabled Reds Under The Bed of cold war-era America, and they represent the single biggest threat to democracy ever.
This episode of Dispatches featured Neil Kinnock, who you might remember from his spectacular reforms to the Labour Party, which resulted in a stunning two-election losses to a deeply divisive, unpopular incumbent.  In fact, Kinnock is the longest-serving leader of the opposition in British political history; an achievement for which he was granted a baronetcy for services to Labour election losses, ascending to take his place among those who bravely attempt to avoid any Labour election wins ever occurring again.  (It is rumoured that many current Labour MPs can look forward to similar awards in the New Years’ Honours List.)
Kinnock was naturally horrified by the thought of a Labour election win, as all right-minded people should be.  He was also disgusted by the thought of Socialists in the Labour Party, having spent years trying to get rid of them during his double-election-losing term as party leader.  Despite the effects of his historic tenure, Kinnock is still committed to a strategy of beating the Conservatives by being more like the Conservatives in every way – thank God.  Such realism has been sorely missing from Labour since Corbyn took the throne.
Kinnock is such a realist, in fact, he understands the Labour Party’s position in British parliamentary terms, an entity existing only to add a veneer of democratic legitimacy to the rule of our social betters.  As such, Kinnock was an unqualified success.  I still don’t know how he managed to lose the 1992 election, but what an historic achievement! A winner’s loser, you might say. 
This latest Dispatches investigation follows on from Channel 4’s most important documentary about nothing, Isis: The British Women Supporters Unveiled, which was ingenious – the programme title was literally true, in that undercover filming showed Muslim women unveiled.  It also managed to generate, from an entire year’s worth of secret filming, a series of vague allegations and circumstantial evidence – thereby undermining the sensationalist title.  Any tabloid sub-editor would have been happy with the headline; and the consistency of tone in Channel 4 documentaries is impressive. 
The new Dispatches programme on Momentum could not have been more timely; with Syria on fire, the USA tearing itself apart, Russia using its increasing dominance to threaten its neighbours, the two in open hostility; the government in disarray over Brexit; the decline in living standards; and with the Conservative Party’s alleged electoral crimes, this was the perfect time to make a mainstream documentary about a broad political campaigning organisation based on nudges, winks, unsubstantiated allegations, secretly filmed public meetings and a politician making a joke in a lift. 
One of the brilliant things this documentary will do is send up the Trots by playing into their “mainstream media hates us” conspiracy theories in a deliciously deft double-bluff – giving them enough rope to hang themselves with.  Watch them scream and whine about corporate media bias while the adults do the real work.  Enjoy, Comrades!
Jeremy Corbyn’s shock leadership election win has upset the natural balance of British Parliamentary politics.  The pinko stalking horse for the Red Horde, despite posing as a decent, normal man, with normal scruffy clothes, represents a threat to the order that has sustained our formal democracy for decades – a democratic order which must be kept safe from the stampeding hooves of the bewildered herd. 

Friday, 16 September 2016

Last Stand

 [THE COMIC steps onto a small stage, to a smattering of polite applause.  It is completely dark, apart from a spotlight Upstage, so that we cannot see the whole stage, or anything around it.]

Hello, hello, hello.  Everyone.  Ummm…I’ve been doing this for a really long time, to the extent that the words I’ll be saying tonight have been stripped of all meaning.  But, you’ve never heard them before, have you?  So….where have you been?  I’ve done this a thousand fucking times, you ignorant – sorry, sorry, it’s not your fault, I haven’t been on the telly or anything, so how would you know?

So, public service announcement: there’s gonna be some swearing.  So, if you have children….that’s your look-out, mate.  Not my fucking fault, is it?  Unless you worked in a bar in the Bristol area in the 1990s, in which case, there’s a chance…that joke doesn’t suit me, does it?  No.  I wrote it a long time ago, like a lot of this material.  [sighing] I was a different person then.  [Brightening] That was before the operation! [Sarcastically] A-ha-ha-ha-ha.

[THE COMIC steps out of the spotlight, (Stage Right), and taps microphone on forehead, pensive and distracted.  SOUND:  Boom of the mic hitting THE COMIC]

Anyway, I wasn’t shagging bar staff in the 90s, I was still a student, shagging absolutely no one.  But I digress from my prepared remarks…you know what, let’s keep it going, I’ve got nothing to lose.  To be honest with you, I keep thinking every gig lately will be my last.  I mean, how much longer can I keep telling the same tired jokes to a disinterested audience who’ve never heard of me and like one in five of them?  Well, anyway, let’s just get through it, shall we…? 

I went to India to find myself.  Turns out, I was in South Gloucestershire the whole time.  What a waste of a journey.

Those jokes aren’t very good, are they?  But I reckon when you’ve got a pleasant demeanour, it doesn’t really matter.  Does it?  If people like you, they just find things funny anyway.

I’ve still got the business card of the guy from Time out magazine that I met at a comedy festival three years ago.  I never called him, even though he said I definitely should.  It’s in my wallet, next to a condom with an expiry date of May 2011.  One of these things is redolent of my crippling lack of confidence and inertia in an important part of life that others find easy.  And the other is a condom.

[Breezily] So, this is going well.  I might kill myself after the show. 

[SOUND: Nervous laughter]

Yeah, that usually gets a decent-size laugh, but you’ve picked up on the tension in my voice, there’s something in the atmosphere that makes you wonder if it’s a joke or not.  I mean, it should be obvious, because I ‘m a fucking professional comedian. 

[SOUND: gentle laughter]

But like all professional comedians, I’m self-absorbed, petty, jealous, depressed and thoroughly dissatisfied with my life.

[SOUND:  Two big laughs; more nervous murmuring]

Yeah, that’s it, there’s a frisson of excitement – and that’s the laugh that one normally gets, but it’s usually off the back of a big laugh – it’s just that there’s not much belief in my abilities in this room, is there?  Which I can understand.  This is a really hard time for me….

Oh, so, now you’re interested, now the mobile phone cameras come out, you can all post it on the you tubes or somewhere, with a title like Stand-up comedian meltdown.  That’s what you like, isn’t it?  Then you’d take a screen grab or a picture and post it on all the horrible websites where you pretend to like people from a distance, instead of pretending to a person’s face, like we used to when the world was more honest.

That’s the twenty-first century, folks: taking photographs of a screen…a lot of this is not part of the act I’ve been slogging through the past several years.  But some of it is.  I don’t know which is better, I really really don’t…maybe I should do a whole run of gigs and advertise them all as my last.  Would you pay to see that in a small theatre above a pub…?  No, of course you wouldn’t – but you might…no.

[THE COMIC laughs, a gentle chuckle at first, enjoying the idea.  Gradually, the laugh builds until THE COMIC is giggling uncontrollably; the audience make amused noises at first, but are soon stunned into silence as THE COMIC becomes animated and distressed, writhing on the floor, thrashing around.  There is a strange energy crackling in the room; no one is sure if this is part of the show.  Some mutter, some are exasperated.  One speaks.]


Is this part of the show?  ‘Cos it’s either really shit or very disturbing!

[Eventually, THE COMIC calms down and stands up, ignoring THE HECKLER]


Don’t worry, I’m not really gonna kill myself – I’d have to get a lot more famous first, wouldn’t I?  Otherwise, there’d be no point.  I’ll probably just stop doing this and no one will notice.  This isn’t funny, this bit, is it? 


So, which is it?


Most likely, I’ll just stop.  I’ve said everything I want to say, and so much of my identity is bound up in doing this, it’s really threatening my selfhood.  If I was gonna do myself in, it would just be to make you feel really really bad.  God, it’s terrible to joke about suicide, isn’t it?  If I was a better comedian, you wouldn’t think that, but you are thinking it, aren’t you?





I think that as well – but, again, this routine made sense when I was in my twenties, trying to be edgy and Say Things About Life.  And then again, I just think: Yeah, well, it’s a fucking joke, so get over it.  It’s hard to do stand-up past the age of 30 without sounding like you’re auditioning for Grumpy Old Men…or Grumpy Old Women.  Well done, television executives, there’s a blow for equality.


Are you being sarcastic?


I don’t even know anymore.



Are you finished?

[Long pause]


Yeah, I think I am.

[drops mic, exits stage right.]

Friday, 9 September 2016

Up The Massive Downs (Gert Attack Review)

“We’re goin up The Downs at 11”, says C.
We meet in the pub at 4.
“Been on a bloody train for ages, it was half an hour late – and rammed.  Everyone is goin to this thing.”
So that’s me stuck with Him, now.  Sunshine Boy slopes off and re-appears with “one for the road”, which turns out to be a bottle of Bourbon. 
“Got any mixer?”  One of The Lads asks.
“Oh…no, didn’t think of that” says Sunshine Boy slowly.
“Oh well, in for a penny…” chirps C, grabbing the bottle with a grin.
I look at Sunshine Boy.  “Nah, you’re alright” I decline – as politely as possible, in the circumstances.
“For the walk…” He says, hopefully.
It’s only a ten-minute walk.  It takes us half an hour.  In the end, the only ones who want any of the vile, piss-coloured liquor are C and Sunshine Boy.  So they do the lot in.
These.  These are my friends.  I can’t help thinking I’ve made some terrible choices in my life that have led me to this point, outside a shitey student theme pub on a rainy Saturday afternoon.  Should be a good gig though.  Everyone’s going, apparently.
I overhear C trying to speak French to Jim’s girlfriend.  I remember enough of my GCSE French to know he’s speaking in non sequiturs, barely even trying to make sense.
“Je ne pas parle Francais – je suis desole.  J’etude Angleterre est merde!”
Still, he gets the laugh he was no doubt looking for…
As we stomp up the hill, Him and Sunshine pass the bottle back and forth, occasionally offering it round – for appearances only, I’m sure.  By the time we get to the gate, they down the last few swigs and dump the empty bottle.
“Ironic, really innit – they won’t find my drugs, cos they’re in my pants, but they’d crucify me for havin a glass bottle full of legal booze.  Daft.” Sunshine Boy opines, loudly, with C nodding his assent, somehow even louder, without words.  Conspicuousness notwithstanding, we make it in without incident. 
The rain hasn’t kept the crowds away – good job it wasn’t a ticket-on-the-door type of thing…
the party is in full swing as we wander around the site, looking for the bar.  Turns out there’s four of them, all with queues. 
I’m on the phone to other friends we’re trying to meet, telling them we’re up the Downs now.
“Up The Downs, on the Downs, at the Downs – it’s a grammatical clusterfuck, Man!” C is now slurring his words.  Sunshine is faring better, but it won’t last.  Especially as they’re stomping off to find the bar with the shortest queue.
After what seems like hours of waiting, C & Sunshine come back from the bar.  With bottles of wine.  I’ve only ever seen C drinking wine once, at Martin’s wedding.  It didn’t end well…still, he explains with Sunshine nodding in sage assent:  “Four-pound-fucking-thirty for a fucking can of Red Stripe!  Fuck that noise.  Bottle of wine for £15 – more like it.  Sensible.  Wanna swig?”
Don’t mind if I do.  It’s £5 wine in a plastic bottle.  Festival times.
“Fuckin offensive bar prices, man.  And, obviously, they won’t let you bring your own, so it’s a captive audience innit.” 
I don’t often agree with The Sunshine Kid, but that’s a fair assessment.  The whisky-necking looks slightly more sensible in retrospect…
“Cans as well, mind – they’re not payin for the kegs, the taps, the gas, all that.  Just a few fridges and a truckload of cans.  Cheeky cunts.” Jim cuts in, joining the classic festival pastime of moaning about bar prices.
Checking out some local Superstar DJs, we all get our groove on as light showers come and go.  C pulls out something illicit (I honestly don’t know – or, for that matter, care – what), and then something he describes as “less illegal”.  As he’s filling his rizla, a security guard appears from nowhere, stalking through the crowd.  He grips C by the shoulder, asking pointedly “What you got there?”
C has noticed the fella just a fraction of a second too late and isn’t quick enough to hide what he’s got. 
The security bloke is looking like he is himself under the influence of some heavy stimulants; wide-eyed and snarling, he is on his own here – it’s not like they’re on patrol or anything, he’s just a lone wolf hunting stoner prey. 
We follow the over-stimulated pair as the one frog-marches the other towards the gate.  I can’t hear what they’re saying, and I’m the first to call C on his shouty nonsense, but he is being calm and eminently reasonable, while Security Man turns to us as we approach and fires “Do you want to go out with him?! DO YOU WANT TO GO OUT WITH HIM?!  DO YOU?!”
Every sentence this guy speaks is a jab in the chest; he’s definitely on something, I’m sure of it.  Maybe just a power trip, but if so, it’s a powerful trip indeed.
When he puts it like that, we all have to admit that, no, we don’t, we’re trying to stop him getting thrown out.  Take his weed off him, if you must, and leave him alone.  We’re also concerned C could get arrested, which would not do at all.
In the end, C does the gallant thing, telling us to calm down and go back in.  “Don’t worry about it, go and see Primal Scream”, he says, over his shoulder, as he’s led away.  “No point anyone else getting kicked out, is there?” 
I take the piss a lot, and he (more than) reciprocates, but I love this kid.  He can be a noble swine, when the time comes.  The twat.
We speculate on what could have caused this insanity.  “Someone’s grassed, I reckon”, offers Jim.  This is dismissed out of hand by almost everyone else; quite simply, no one wants to believe that’s what’s happened.  It doesn’t bear thinking about for The Crew.
Sunshine Boy has an idea more plausible to The Crew: “The dude looked proper hectic, like he’s been at the ‘roids.  What a wanker.”
Naturally, this has put a Proper Downer on things.  As I say, I’m the first to call out our kid C when he’s shouting a load of bollocks, but this shit is unconscionable.  Jim sums it up, while rolling one to replace the confiscated one.  “He’s done nothing wrong.  Illegal, mind.  But not wrong.”
The whole thing is obviously very disappointing – and a bit embarrassing, to be honest.  We’re not sixteen any more…
Primal Scream do their best to cheer us up, but I’m distracted.  And damp.  We eventually give up trying to find the rest of the crew, until suddenly a text magically appears, from G.  We even manage to meet up (“just to the left of the sound desk at the main stage”, obviously – it’s the law.)  It does lift my spirits, and we enjoy a boogie to some Scream hits.  I honestly couldn’t tell you what they played, that section of the day was a bit of a blur.  But they played the ones you’d expect them to play to a festival crowd.
Finally, as night descends, like a great dark thing, the headliners take the stage.
“Friends, Bristolians, Countrymen…”
On screen flash the names of the great icons of modern times: Marlene Dietrich, Henry Kissinger, Anne Frank, Karl Popper.  And Ben Elton.
“Everyone OK, Bristol?”
Alright, ta.  Ow bist?
After a great start including a couple of Blue Lines classics, Young Fathers take the stage and do the thing that Young Fathers do.  I quite like them, and their short performance doesn’t change my attitude at all.  I’m drinking heavily and dancing to keep warm, both in tribute to our fallen comrade, C.  “I was steaming when I wrote this – so shoot me if I go to fast.”
“Rumours of my ability with a spray can are greatly exaggerated.”  Hahahahahahahaha.  That’s a reference to a Daily Mail article, so I don’t really get it.
Tricky rocks up, with his customary growling and short attention span.  He’s there and then he’s gone.  I make notes to remember all this stuff.  I don’t really remember it.
The songs are more about texture than tune, aren’t they?  They don’t write neatly structured pop songs, that’s for sure – it’s usually the same all the way through, with a break and build type scenario.  “Not like how a musician would write, is it?” says Jim.  I nod, not quite capable of articulating my own subtle criticisms at this stage.
Some songs may be longer than they should be, but I’m in no position to judge.
Reluctant to judge/fucked/perception may be skewed/skewered
We’re not in the best position to see, but there are loads of projections on the backdrop:
“Je suis Istanbul, Je suis Baghdad, Je suis Nice etc.
Je suis ici.”
“We are all in this together” – this accompanied with images that match the sentiment of it, making it seem real – maybe reclaiming the phrase from posturing government types…?
The day, the night, the gig, The Crew, this review, all get disjointed somehow.  Diffuse.  Not in an unpleasant way, mind.  It’s wet but no one seems to care, which is cool.  The bar queue has almost disappeared, so I make the most of a piss break to get fleeced for a cold can.  In the circumstances, it feels well worth the cost.
They don’t play Teardrop, which might annoy the casual fan….but they encore with Unfinished Sympathy.  It’s perfect.  I lose everyone on the way out (as is the ineluctable way of these things).  But the rain falls on the lost, the found, the just and the unjust – so we all get a Biblical soaking on the stomp home, as the heavens open properly to punish us for our decadence.  Fuck it.
Je suis Bristol.
Je suis Massive.

Friday, 2 September 2016

A Decade Of Shambling Gratitude

2016 Gratitude

Thanks to Mike D for the lift.  Thanks to him also for his excellent set at Chai Wallah’s.  He really leaned into the wind on that one, you get me?  Great to see him getting the attention and love he deserved.  Beautiful stuff.

Thanks to Three London Planes for their set on Friday night.  It was absolutely lovely, a gathering of some of my favourite people, and I thought they played really well.  (Some of the band seemed to disagree about that, but that’s the way it goes sometimes innit.)

Thanks to Bombs for their set on Friday night.  Smashed it out the park.  Well played, you crazy kids.

Thanks to The Nightjar for rounding off Friday night in magical fashion.  Hauntingly beautiful.  It was a leftfield suggestion to go to watch a folk band at 2AM, but it was well received by The Crew, so Thanks to them as well.

Thanks to Guts for a top class main stage set.  The rain stopped just in time, and I recognised one of their singers from my friends’ band.  Small world, yo.  We had a right good dance to it.  In wellies.  FunkyFresh.
Thanks to Capt Hotknives & Tuorette’s Superhero for another classic improvised set.  Pure gold.  Thanks also to the good Cap’n for playing us his sad song and jamming outside the bus.  We came up with some great tunes.  If only we could remember them…
Thanks to Heybus for sheltering us from the Biblical rain storm on Saturday afternoon.  Really hoofed it down, you know what I mean?  It was apocalyptic.  But we just sat under the awning chuckling and playing guitar.  Good times.  (Really bashed it down, mind.)  Thanks to the Bus Man also for being Hermes, and starting parties, like he does.  (And Special Thanks to him for making it on Sunday.  Wouldn’t have been as good without him.)

Thanks to L.Boogie and all the Compass crew for their hospitality all weekend, it was a great place to hang out.  Youse lot are cool.

Thanks to Jimi for inviting me on stage to “hype” him, myself, the venue, the festival and the people there.  I’m an MC.  I take the responsibility seriously.  #hype
Thanks to the people who got hyped with me.  For all those who asked, the man on my t shirt was a superhero, of sorts.  Very famous in Switzerland, I understand.
Thanks to the people who climbed on stage, especially the woman who got up just as I went on for the first time.  She argued her case passionately, but I couldn’t hear her and didn’t care what she was saying.  The stage is for performers, I told her.  She showed me her Artist wrist band.  I think you must be at the wrong stage, cos we’re on now, I told her.
Thanks to the fella who gave me the wee plastic baggie when I was on stage with Jimi.  I wasn’t expecting it – I even broke off what I was saying.  (It found a good home.) 

Thanks to the people who reacted to the Black Lives Matter call-and-response.  There were two at the front for Jimi’s set who looked particularly agreeable to the sentiment at the end:
When I say “Black lives”, you say “Matter”,
“Black lives!”
– “Matter!”
“Black lives!”
– “Matter!”
When I say “All lives”, you say,
“Shut up mate, you’ve missed the point…”
Biggest cheer of the night.  I high-stepped off the stage, givin it large.

Thanks to K-Dog for the Language/Communication debate, among other interesting discussions.  He had some trenchant insights.  I was right, though, obviously.

Thanks to Jimi for the amazing wedding proposal (not to me).  What a great story.  Tea and cake, history, live music, attention to detail: it had the lot.  Dude got romance for days, yo.  She said Yes, of course.  Big Up to Jimi and the soon-to-be Mrs Needles.  (Look at the clip o’ them.)

Thanks to Annabelle for once again making me/us welcome at The Social Club, and for Tuaca.  Which was a perfect post-gig drink.  See you next year…?

Thanks to the fella who recognised me.  Yes, it was me.  And yes, I was playing.  Sunday night, mate, Rebel Soul.  See you there.  Peace.  Thanks to Akua Naru for inspiring me as well.  I wish I could’ve seen more, but I had preparations to make…

Thanks to the Birthday Girl.  “Let’s have a dance-off!” she said.  She just didn’t know, bless her.  K-Dog said “Aw, you let her win ‘cos it’s her birthday”. 
“I let her think she won ‘cos it’s her birthday”
“Hahahahahaha you asshole.”

Thanks to Elmo.  Welcome.  And Big Up his parents.  Thanks to M for the funniest reaction to him.  He looked genuinely scared.  (M, not Elmo.)  Hilarious.

Thanks to Nuala for her set at Wandering Word.  I only saw a bit of it, but it was lush, and the perfect inspiration, coming just before I met up with The Boys From Marketing…

Thanks to all at Rebel Soul for the welcome, the smooth running of the well-oiled machine it has become, for the tea, the other drinks, the food, the company, the ideas and everything else.

Thanks to the sound techs, Martin and Luke, for making it all sound great up there.  Proper sound check at a festival: a rare treat, and one that helped massively.  Sorry if I broke something when I picked up the uke at the end; I think I kicked the DI box, and it stopped working…

Thanks to Tommy, the compere, for introducing us, and for all the love and encouragement.  He said it wouldn’t be Shambala, and it wouldn’t be Rebel Soul without Blizzard.  Bless him.  I quoted him on stage – I may have paraphrased, I couldn’t be sure I was quoting verbatim.  He’d said: “You’re here.  And I’m here.  And we don’t take it for granted; one day we will not be here.” 

Massive Thanks to The Boys From Marketing: GrayDog was on fine form; the switch from organ to piano didn’t work in practice, but was alright on the night. FinBear and Maxamillion’s first time playing with us – with only one practice – couldn’t have gone better.  Everyone said it didn’t show.  The lads wuz gawldun.  I told them I loved them and I meant it. 

Thanks to everyone who came to see the BFM rock the spot with me out front saying things.  I told you that you’re perfect and I meant it.  Thanks to all the people I recognised and all the people I didn’t.  I said a lot of things, all from the heart and mostly true….I thought it might be the gig where finally it all boiled up in me and this thing, this ineffable connection between me and those present became completely overwhelming as all the years of joy, disappointment, encouragements, love, struggling, fun, stress, work and play would reflect back at me in the eyes of everyone I could see and it all rushed up to the top of my head and heart and burst me into a million tiny pools of silvery liquid glimmering in colourful stage lights.  I felt all those things, but in that strange, slightly detached and yet entirely present sort of way.  You know what I mean?  Yeah, course you do.  Because the uke didn’t work, I did a solo a capella encore, and it was real.  Thanks to the people who stayed for that.  It was my tenth Shambala in a row, and probably the best one yet.  Emotional.  You know?  You know.  Yeah, You Know.  Anyway, it was brilliant. 
So, Thanks.

A Decade Of Gratitude: Ten Shambalas

Thanks to all my dance partners.  Thousands of them, indoor and out, small venues and large, upbeat and down, Hip Hop, Electro, Folk, Reggae, D&B, Soul, Funk, Pop, Punk, Swing, Rock n Roll.  Etc. Etc. Etc.

Thanks to all my musical partners, especially The Boys From Marketing, and also including (but not limited to) Dr Spin, Bombs, Jimi, Toyface, TLP, The PFR jam band/s (including (but not limited) to Meat Raffle, Parentheses and Poor, Sweet Tom) and everyone who was there. 

Thanks to all the venues and everyone who makes them what they are: Rebel Soul, The People’s Front Room, The Social Club, Coyote Moon, Wandering Word and Chai Wallah’s.

Thanks to all the people.