Bandwidth

Artwork by Will McConnell.

For the past few months I have tried to keep my plans secret from the guys at the Bandwidth office.  It’s one thing to be sent on some horseshit assignment with a crazy broad, but quite another to have one foisted on you when all you really want to do is get drunk and have some fun.  Unfortunately I overdid it last Wednesday lunchtime and stumbled into the Bandwidth building to beg for a bus fare home.  I didn’t manage to get money off anyone, but I did manage to very loudly proclaim that I was going to see Airbourne the following week.  I did this, apparently, every time someone turned me down, so it went something like this:
‘Hey man is there any chance you could give me a tenner for the bus home?’
‘I don’t think so Ian.’
‘Well fuck you holmes!  I’m going to see Airbourne next week, so suck on that one.’  And that happened at least twenty times, so it’s really not surprising that the following day I got a phone call from Johnny.  I was sunning myself in my parent’s back garden and eating gummy bears, so you can imagine how angry I was at being interrupted.
‘Goddamnit Johnny I’m busy here!’
‘I’m looking at your Twitter page right now.  It says you’re sunbathing and eating gummy bears.’
‘That’s invasion of privacy! What do you want anyway?’
‘I hear you’re going to the Airbourne gig next Tuesday.’
‘Nope.’
‘Meet me at the office about an hour before the doors open – I’ve got a date lined up for you.  This one should make a good review.’
‘But it’s not a review.’  He hung up on me.  I updated my Twitter page again: ‘Johnny is an arse.’  Heh, that’ll show him.

On the day of the gig I woke up at the crack of dawn and set about preparing the spread for my mates… Okay so I got up at 11am, bought a big packet of nachos and made some burgers.  But the burgers had cheese INSIDE THEM.  Blew their fucking minds, I tell ya, biting into a burger expecting regular old beef and instead finding piping hot cheese, which oozed out and scalded their unsuspecting chins.  I’m thinking about taking that shit on Dragon’s Den.  Anyway I loaded up on Jack and Coke hoping the caffeine/sugar hit would keep me going through the night, and then we split up and I headed off to the Bandwidth building to meet my date.

The lobby was full of Japanese women dressed like schoolgirls.  As well as the obvious thoughts a scene like this might inspire in a twenty-two year old guy, I thought maybe Will had taken a new direction with his music videos and made a mental note to check the site for updates over the next couple of days.  They all started giggling and taking photos of me with their phones, which made me seriously paranoid, but after checking that I was all zipped up and there were no remnants of burger cheese on my face I decided it must be because I am fucking awesome.  I stepped into the lift thinking this must be how Mickey Rourke feels, all day, every day, so I threw up the peace sign and the doors closed in front of me.

I opened Johnny’s office door without knocking, hoping to stumble in on a compromising situation involving more Asian schoolgirls.  Alas, there was only one in there with him, and he was showing her his holiday photos, under the pretence of demonstrating how lovely Corfu is, but really because he was hoping for a comment on his tan.
‘Ah, Ian,’ he said, looking up, ‘this is Michioku.’  Oh fuck no.  It hadn’t even occurred to me.  I just stood there, speechless.  ‘Well say hello,’ he said.
‘Does she speak English?’ I asked him, and she laughed.
‘Yes I do,’ she said, ‘it’s really nice to meet you.  I’m a big fan.’
‘What?’ I asked.
‘Yes apparently you’re very big in Japan,’ said Johnny.
‘That’s because they’re all really short,’ I said, and luckily they both thought this was a very witty joke.
‘All those others downstairs applied too,’ said Johnny, ‘so we had to have a raffle to see who the lucky girl would be.’
‘Johnny I know this is some sort of joke, so yes, very funny, I get it.’  Michioku laughed.
‘It’s not a joke,’ she said, ‘look!’  She took off her backpack and turned it around for me to see.  It had a print of me on the front, taken from a photo of me saluting the camera with a bottle of beer.
‘Jesus!’ I said.
‘That’s what I said,’ said Johnny.
‘I brought you these,’ said Michioku, opening her Ian-print backpack for me to see.  It was full of miniature bottles of JD.
‘Jesus!’ I said again.  I grabbed one and downed it, still kind of enjoying how the tiny bottle makes you feel like a giant, despite the weird situation.
‘Well you two better get going,’ said Johnny.  I dipped my hand in Michioku’s bag and opened another mini JD.

So walking through the city centre with a Japanese schoolgirl I looked like a drunken pederast.  I also, however, looked taller than usual, so I decided to enjoy it while it lasted.  Then I suddenly realised something horrible.
‘Shit, Michioku, they’re not gonna let you into the gig!’
‘Why, because I only look fourteen?’ she asked.
‘Well, that could be problematic too.  But you’ve got a big bag full of whiskey!’
‘Oh shit, you’re right,’ she said.  Then, ‘Don’t worry, I’ve got an idea.’  She opened her blazer and unbuttoned the first few buttons on her shirt.  At this point I entertained the very real possibility that I was sleeping, and about to have a nocturnal emission.  I decided to test it.
‘Michioku you have fabulous breasts.’
‘Thank you,’ she said with a smile, and started shovelling the miniature bottles of whiskey down her shirt.  Test number one failed.  I pinched myself.  Nothing.  I pinched harder.  Nothing.    Goddamnit.  When the bag was empty she started to button up again, stopped, and held her collar open.  ’Sorry, do you want one?’ she said.  Looking at her boobs with a few whiskey bottles nestled lovingly between them I almost started to cry.  The third and final test, sure to wake me up from even the deepest of beer sleeps: I grabbed my balls and squeezed as hard as I could. I didn’t wake up.  Praise the Lord!  I finally allowed myself to believe that what was happening was real and even on top of the pain managed a big smile.  I grabbed two whiskies from inside her shirt and had a wee sit down until the sick feeling passed and my balls stopped throbbing.

By the time we joined the queue I had drunk enough of the bottles that someone could have retraced our steps right back to the Bandwidth building by following the empties, and it just looked like she had really big boobs.  Which she did, in fact, they just looked a bit lumpier with the little bottles stuffed down there.  This also meant that I was righteously fucking hammered by the time we got inside, which was lucky because the son of a bitch security man wasn’t going to let her in without ID.  I very deftly ended the situation by loudly accusing him of racism, and of touching my willy during the pat-down he gave me.  He gave in and ushered us inside.

We quickly made our way to the front where my friends were already standing.  They were incredibly jealous, of course.  It was only natural, since none of them had a beautiful Asian schoolgirl with a bra-ful of whiskey as company, so I asked Michioku to give them all a miniature as a sign of good will.  Then she scampered off to the bar to get me a pint.  While she was gone I informed my friends of my intention to marry her, which they all agreed was a fantastic idea.  I also rocked out to Black Spiders, who were the support act.  There was another support, but I missed them.  Anyway Black Spiders did a damn good job of getting everyone’s rocking shoes on, so they deserve plenty of credit.  If anything they did too good a job, because by the time Airbourne went on the crowd had worked itself into a pit of madness, which was to be disastrous, in the end.

Michioku returned with my pint, rummaged around inside her shirt for a Jack and expertly mixed up a delicious boilermaker.  I thought about leaving with her right then, going to Vegas and making and honest woman out of her, but then Airbourne took to the stage and I decided to wait until after the show.  There is simply no other way to aptly describe Airbourne than ’balls out’.  Pretty much all of the songs are about drinking, women, having fun, being awesome, and drinking, so it’s unsurprising that I think they’re one of the best rock n roll bands in the world at the minute.  Sure, it sounds just like old school AC/DC, but how the hell can that be a bad thing?  If you want some limp-dick music go watch X-Factor.  If you want the music equivalent of banging a cheap hooker who knows her stuff, get yourself Airbourne’s new album.  And when you’re listening to it, trying to resist the urge to get up and strut around your living room, or headbang, or strut around your living room head banging, know this: it’s ten thousand times better live.  Shirtless, blistering around the stage throwing beers to the crowd and playing licks that sound like they were written by Satan himself,  this is a rock n roll show the way a rock n roll show should be.  A lot of the time I think they just don’t make ’em like they used to.  If ever there was an argument against this idea, it’s Airbourne.

Unfortunately, these sort of gigs can be a double edged sword.  I was right at the front of the stage, trying my hardest to protect Michioku from the constant barrage of ugly shirtless teenagers, drunk on their third beer and seemingly only there to launch themselves around like fucking retards.  Most of them were harmless, and admittedly it’s more my fault for not liking mosh-pits, but a select few really let the side down by just being too aggressive.  I did my best to push the fuckers away and keep my patience, but I was fighting a losing battle, and I didn’t pay my money to be fucking trampled.  Then, with my hand down Michioku’s shirt, rummaging for a whiskey, some fiend practically punched her to the ground in an attempt to force his way to the front.  I saw red and head butted the son of a bitch and he stumbled back, bleeding from the nose.  He would have killed me, I’m sure, but one of my friends who is much bigger and better at fighting than me got rid of him and the bouncers threw him out.  It was too late, though.  Poor Michioku had been thrown to the floor and trampled by the crowd, the remaining whiskey bottles in her shirt smashing and stabbing her to death.  I shoved some shirtless man out of the way and dropped to my knees to cradle her bloody corpse in my arms.  Then I let out an almighty howl and shook my fist at the heavens, but my grief was lost in the din, because everyone was shouting and pumping their fists in the air.

There are a few lessons here folks.  All you violent pigs who ruin everybody’s night because you’ve got no goddamn common courtesy, beware.  We’ve had enough of your shit, and even a puny fella like me might just fucking head butt you.  My lesson?  If you don’t like getting moshed on, stay out of the mosh pit, especially if your date is a petite Asian whiskey fairy.  And the lesson for us all – Airbourne are so fucking good, even seeing the love of your life trampled to death by a bunch of hairy rockers isn’t enough to ruin the gig.

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