Josh Rouse was rather nifty, as it happens, but looked too much like Uri Gellar for my liking. The Pocklington Arts Centre crowd are a quiet bunch, as support act Tim Keegan pointed out as he tightened up his harp holder, watched intently by 300 silent folk all wary of these two exotic strangers and their fancy fangled guitar noises. M thought Tim was cute, mainly because of his Clarks shoes. They looked a bit dirty to me, so just imagine the state of his nether regions (as my old gran used to say, "dirty shoes, dirty c**k". Maybe I'm getting her mixed up with a member of the Wu Tang Clan). Little Rousey almost messed his encore up, taking so much time to return that the quiet Pocklingtonians had tired of applauding and were about to exit the building. He got back in the nick of time and someone shouted "Straight to Hell!" "Ah," he mumbled, "there are too many subscribers to Uncut in here tonight." I still don't understand this. Perhaps because I am culturally unaware of magazines aimed at people who alphabeticise their record collections. Oh, I see...
We rounded the evening off with more Chinese food and, lest I slip into some permanent appreciation of singer-songwriters coma, I dropped Green Day's American Idiot CD on the player. M had to catch up on some work, as she's become so obsessed with The Sims 2 that real life chores had been ignored. So, neglected, I read half of The Lonesome West, which is one weird play.
In other news, am sick of commuting and writing absolute shite for a living. Wondering when I'll find the time to write the real stuff. Help me, he screamed in a very obvious cry for help and/or a sicknote.
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