You Fat Bastard

I went down to the Academy in Brixton on Friday to see Carter USM playing their final reunion gig. Carter, kings of Indie rock in the early nineties, turned out to be still extremely popular. Plenty of people still love Carter. The Academy was heaving with bodies. Not being the sort of person who's comfortable in the midst of mosh pit, I watched from the back of the hall. Where it was still very crowded actually. There was no room anywhere.

Quite why the crowd at Carter gigs always chanted You Fat Bastard at the stage I'm not certain. But it's a fine chant anyway, and I've always been happy to join in. And when the band were introduced by a near naked Jon 'Fat' Beast, it was particularly appropriate.

I'm not much of a music reviewer so I won't go through it all, but I really had a good time and I thought the gig was great. They played a lot of songs I like, and remember fondly, particularly The Only Living Boy in New Cross, and Glam Rock Cops, and they finished off with a really epic version of Sheriff Fatman, which was just brilliant.

So I'd congratulate Les and Jim for producing such a really fine event.

Afterwards I was exhausted. I'm not used to going to gigs these days. I'd forgotten how packed it can be, and how loud. My ears were ringing. I called in briefly to Ian Watson's indie club across the street, then my friend Angus gave me a lift home.

Carter's appearance in London drew back to the city all sorts of people I hadn't seen for a long time, and was really pleased to meet again. Daz, who I used to share a house with in Streatham, came down from Manchester, and the next day we watched football in the pub. We've watched a lot of football in pubs together, in our time.

Also back in London was Cerise, who also used to live in the house in Streatham, and now resides in Hollywood, producing movies and being successful. I talked to her about life in LA, and felt quite envious of her being there, really. I met other old friends too. It was an unusually active weekend. A lot of activity for a man who spends most of his life either writing at my computer or watching TV. Three days of socialising, in fact. I'm worn out.