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16.10.09

Getting Loaded at Loaded


by Ian Shearer

gettingloadedatloaded

So the minute I heard Duff McKagan’s Loaded were playing Spring and Airbrake, I knew I was going.  I missed them last time, with the added insult of being in Katy Daly’s for a pint while they were next door setting up.  And being the conniving little bastard that I am, I saw this as a prime opportunity to have Johnny set me up on a date with a hot rocker babe.  So I called him up…

To my surprise he got back to me a few days later, and he had good news.  It was all set – I was going to the gig and I was taking a dame.  I was amazed.  ‘How the hell did you manage that?’ I asked.
‘Easy, man.  I made you an account on a dating site.  Fucking clever huh?’

Next time I won’t ask.

There was one advantage though – I could now check this broad out before I met her.  With all the stereotypes swimming around in my head I wasn’t hopeful, and I REALLY did not want to see my own profile.  But how could I not take a look?

Next time I won’t look.

My profile picture wasn’t a portrait, nor was it me.  It was a picture of a man’s naked torso, taken by pointing a camera phone at a mirror.  I’m going to take a wild guess and say that the torso belongs to Johnny. [Editor’s Note: Yep.]  All the physical criteria I was looking for were checked as ‘Any’, including Gender, and my occupation was listed as ‘Pimp’.  My interests were ‘Guns and Roses’.  I had been matched to Jessica because one of her interests was roses.  Apparently the match-making software chose to ignore that I am also a pimp who likes guns.  Admittedly, Jessica was very beautiful.  Her profile, however, made no mention of rock n roll music.  Or drinking.  Or Humphrey Bogart movies.  No mention, in fact, of anything I like.  Instead were several references to faith, spirituality, and her ‘personal relationship with the Lord.’  A nice Christian girl.  Fuck it all.

The night of the gig I rushed home from work, picked up a bottle of Jack and some ginger ale, and got down to it.  This is fairly standard practice for me but with hindsight I can see that I hit it a little harder than usual this time.  I’m useless around attractive women.  My brain goes all to shit and my mouth tries to handle the situation itself, which never works.  Unless, of course, I’m drunk, in which case I am full of confidence and manly vigour.  Or rather, I just couldn’t give a shit what anyone thinks of me, great tits or not.  After a few strong drinks I filled my hip flask and headed to Katy’s.  My friends were already there and already about as drunk as I was, so I got myself a cold one and sat down to watch the door.

She arrived promptly (of course) and I waved her over.  She tried not to look disappointed when she saw me, which was thoughtful, but she didn’t hide it well.  We had a brief do-we-hug-or-shake-hands moment before I gave in and shook her hand.
‘Can I get you a drink?’ I asked, impressed with myself that I didn’t say something stupid.
‘Oh I usually don’t drink very much.  I’ll just have a West Coast Cooler.’  God fucking damn it.  I hate buying alcopops.  I nearly always outright refuse, and when I do give in I always over-compensate with my own order, to earn back some man points.
‘Okay,’ I smiled, ‘these are my mates – you can sit here.’  I looked at the drunken fucks sitting around the table.  ‘You bastards be nice – don’t come on her.’  Shit! ‘Onto her,’ I corrected myself, impressed that I managed to say something stupid before she even sat down.
‘Yeeeooooo!’
‘Ah, wanker!’
The only time my friends ever agree is on my status as a wanker.  I sulked off to the bar.
‘A West Coast Cooler, a pint of Guinness, a double Jack and a shot of Jager please.’  Told you I over-compensate.  I hit the shot at the bar and went back to the table to rudely interrupt my friend Jonny chatting up my date.  Please note the lack of ‘h’ in the name.  This is not Editor Johnny.  This is Mate Jonny.  And yes it is a funny coincidence that they share a name.  [Editor’s Note: Like him already.]
‘So have you heard this band before?’ I asked Jessica, hoping to break the ice.
‘What band?’
‘Duff McKagan’s Loaded – the one we’re seeing tonight.’
‘We’re going to a concert?’
‘Uh, yeah.’
‘Oh, what sort of music do they play?’
I can’t help but scream ‘Rock n roll!’ the way Jack Black would say it.  This time she doesn’t try so hard to hide her disappointment.  I think the ice just shattered beneath me.  From then on we mostly drank in silence.  Halfway through her second drink, despite being sozzled myself, I noticed that she wasn’t lying about not being a drinker – she was already half cut.  When she finished her drink she excused herself from the table and left.  No, I mean she actually left.  As in just didn’t come back.  I can see now that it was quite rude of her but at the time the drink had straightened out my priorities and I was far more concerned that I had spent £20 on her ticket.  I drunkenly decided to try my hand at scalping.  After half an hour I ended up selling the ticket at a heavily discounted price and made a mental note not to try scalping again.  Anyway by this time the doors were opening so Jonny and I went around the corner to drink our hip flasks.
‘Where’s your woman?’ he asked.
‘Gone with the wind, man.’
‘That sucks.  Did you see the titties on her?’
‘Yes Jonny, I saw the titties on her.’
‘Big ole titties,’ he said, and we finished our whiskey.

The last whiskey hit me hard, which was unfortunate for anyone sitting near us.  None more so than the insanely hot woman seated right in front of us.  She was wearing leather trousers so tight they would make David Lee Roth blush, and I immediately fell in love.  Then it turned out she knew someone in my group, and he introduced us.  I must have looked like a retarded Girls Aloud fan meeting Cheryl Cole because she thought I was awfully cute, and gave me a hug.  All I know is that hug made my whole night.

When the band went on I was the first of the group to make my way up to the stage – as is always the case – and I immediately started head banging and sloshing beer over all the poor buggers standing beside me.  My friends soon joined me and there was much synchronised head banging, arms thrown around shoulders and high-fiving every time Duff said something between songs.  My pogo-ing doesn’t go over at all in shitty dance clubs, but the rock n roll crowd are a good bunch and everyone was courteous (or drunk) enough to give me a fist bump every time I initiated one.  I spent the whole night dancing and singing along to songs I didn’t know the words to, taking a break only to get another beer or take a piss.  By the end of it all I was pouring sweat, partially deaf, absolutely trolleyed and generally loving life – which is the way everyone should leave a good rock n roll gig.

What no one should have to deal with, though, is coming out of a club to see their date stumble drunkenly onto the band’s tour bus, followed by four other groupies and Duff McKagan himself.  Nice Christian girl my ass.

This Is Not A Review:
Getting Loaded at LoadedThis Is Not A Review:
Getting Loaded at Loaded

So the minute I heard Duff McKagan’s Loaded were playing Spring and Airbrake, I knew I was going.  I missed them last time, with the added insult of being in Katy Daly’s for a pint while they were next door setting up.  And being the conniving little bastard that I am, I saw this as a prime opportunity to have Johnny set me up on a date with a hot rocker babe.  So I called him up…

To my surprise he got back to me a few days later, and he had good news.  It was all set – I was going to the gig and I was taking a dame.  I was amazed.  ‘How the hell did you manage that?’ I asked.
‘Easy, man.  I made you an account on a dating site.  Fucking clever huh?’

Next time I won’t ask.

There was one advantage though – I could now check this broad out before I met her.  With all the stereotypes swimming around in my head I wasn’t hopeful, and I REALLY did not want to see my own profile.  But how could I not take a look?

Next time I won’t look.

My profile picture wasn’t a portrait, nor was it me.  It was a picture of a man’s naked torso, taken by pointing a camera phone at a mirror.  I’m going to take a wild guess and say that the torso belongs to Johnny. [Editor’s Note: Yep.]  All the physical criteria I was looking for were checked as ‘Any’, including Gender, and my occupation was listed as ‘Pimp’.  My interests were ‘Guns and Roses’.  I had been matched to Jessica because one of her interests was roses.  Apparently the match-making software chose to ignore that I am also a pimp who likes guns.  Admittedly, Jessica was very beautiful.  Her profile, however, made no mention of rock n roll music.  Or drinking.  Or Humphrey Bogart movies.  No mention, in fact, of anything I like.  Instead were several references to faith, spirituality, and her ‘personal relationship with the Lord.’  A nice Christian girl.  Fuck it all.

The night of the gig I rushed home from work, picked up a bottle of Jack and some ginger ale, and got down to it.  This is fairly standard practice for me but with hindsight I can see that I hit it a little harder than usual this time.  I’m useless around attractive women.  My brain goes all to shit and my mouth tries to handle the situation itself, which never works.  Unless, of course, I’m drunk, in which case I am full of confidence and manly vigour.  Or rather, I just couldn’t give a shit what anyone thinks of me, great tits or not.  After a few strong drinks I filled my hip flask and headed to Katy’s.  My friends were already there and already about as drunk as I was, so I got myself a cold one and sat down to watch the door.

She arrived promptly (of course) and I waved her over.  She tried not to look disappointed when she saw me, which was thoughtful, but she didn’t hide it well.  We had a brief do-we-hug-or-shake-hands moment before I gave in and shook her hand.
‘Can I get you a drink?’ I asked, impressed with myself that I didn’t say something stupid.
‘Oh I usually don’t drink very much.  I’ll just have a West Coast Cooler.’  God fucking damn it.  I hate buying alcopops.  I nearly always outright refuse, and when I do give in I always over-compensate with my own order, to earn back some man points.
‘Okay,’ I smiled, ‘these are my mates – you can sit here.’  I looked at the drunken fucks sitting around the table.  ‘You bastards be nice – don’t come on her.’  Shit! ‘Onto her,’ I corrected myself, impressed that I managed to say something stupid before she even sat down.
‘Yeeeooooo!’
‘Ah, wanker!’
The only time my friends ever agree is on my status as a wanker.  I sulked off to the bar.
‘A West Coast Cooler, a pint of Guinness, a double Jack and a shot of Jager please.’  Told you I over-compensate.  I hit the shot at the bar and went back to the table to rudely interrupt my friend Jonny chatting up my date.  Please note the lack of ‘h’ in the name.  This is not Editor Johnny.  This is Mate Jonny.  And yes it is a funny coincidence that they share a name.  [Editor’s Note: Like him already.]
‘So have you heard this band before?’ I asked Jessica, hoping to break the ice.
‘What band?’
‘Duff McKagan’s Loaded – the one we’re seeing tonight.’
‘We’re going to a concert?’
‘Uh, yeah.’
‘Oh, what sort of music do they play?’
I can help but scream ‘Rock n roll!’ the way Jack Black would say it.  This time she doesn’t try so hard to hide her disappointment.  I think the ice just shattered beneath me.  From then on we mostly drank in silence.  Halfway through her second drink, despite being sozzled myself, I noticed that she wasn’t lying about not being a drinker – she was already half cut.  When she finished her drink she excused herself from the table and left.  No, I mean she actually left.  As in just didn’t come back.  I can see now that it was quite rude of her but at the time the drink had straightened out my priorities and I was far more concerned that I had spent £20 on her ticket.  I drunkenly decided to try my hand at scalping.  After half an hour I ended up selling the ticket at a heavily discounted price and made a mental note not to try scalping again.  Anyway by this time the doors were opening so Jonny and I went around the corner to drink our hip flasks.
‘Where’s your woman?’ he asked.
‘Gone with the wind, man.’
‘That sucks.  Did you see the titties on her?’
‘Yes Jonny, I saw the titties on her.’
‘Big ole titties,’ he said, and we finished our whiskey.

The last whiskey hit me hard, which was unfortunate for anyone sitting near us.  None more so than the insanely hot woman seated right in front of us.  She was wearing leather trousers so tight they would make David Lee Roth blush, and I immediately fell in love.  Then it turned out she knew someone in my group, and he introduced us.  I must have looked like a retarded Girls Aloud fan meeting Cheryl Cole because she thought I was awfully cute, and gave me a hug.  All I know is that hug made my whole night.

When the band went on I was the first of the group to make my way up to the stage – as is always the case – and I immediately started head banging and sloshing beer over all the poor buggers standing beside me.  My friends soon joined me and there was much synchronised head banging, arms thrown around shoulders and high-fiving every time Duff said something between songs.  My pogo-ing doesn’t go over at all in shitty dance clubs, but the rock n roll crowd are a good bunch and everyone was courteous (or drunk) enough to give me a fist bump every time I initiated one.  I spent the whole night dancing and singing along to songs I didn’t know the words to, taking a break only to get another beer or take a piss.  By the end of it all I was pouring sweat, partially deaf, absolutely trolleyed and generally loving life – which is the way everyone should leave a good rock n roll gig.

What no one should have to deal with, though, is coming out of a club to see their date stumble drunkenly onto the band’s tour bus, followed by four other groupies and Duff McKagan himself.  Nice Christian girl my ass.

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