The Good Fight – I Saw Three Ships

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I’m not going to lie to you folks, I quit Bandwidth.  I decided that I’m better than this… essentially prostituting myself for their gain.  So I called Johnny right up and I told him…

[Editor’s Note: I’m going to stop you right there - that is an excessive amount of bullshit even for you.  We fired you.  Now get back to the story, and tell it the way it really happened.]

Let’s not quibble… the point is for a while there my position at Bandwidth hung in the balance, until I got probably the most important phone call of my career.  Unfortunately I got the phone call in a nightclub, where I had ended up after a night of heavy drinking.

[Editor’s Note: Drowning your sorrows.  Because we fired you.]

Yes!  Alright, you fired me!  Get over yourselves.  Anyway Johnny called me, and over the thumping music I barely heard him say, ‘Listen Ian, we might have something for you.’
‘What!?’
‘We’ve got a job for you.  We’re sending you to see The Answer on Monday.’
‘What!?’
‘Now I want you to understand that the only reason for this is that we would like the publicity this article will bring us.’
‘What!?’
‘Paris Hilton’s people contacted us.  They want to do a joint a venture.’
‘Who!?’
‘Paris Hilton.’
‘Jesus how the hell did that happen?’
‘I don’t know… you’re both big on the internet.’
‘That’s true…’
‘Oh so now you can hear me?’
‘What!?’  He started to shout.
‘Never mind!  Just make sure you’re at the Ulster Hall at 8pm on Monday.’  And before I could respond he hung up.  I took the job for one reason and one reason only.  I am a gentleman.

‘Where the fuck is this broad!?’  I screamed at no one in particular as I stood outside the Ulster Hall.  My friends and I were already fairly drunk and considering how late we were, I was expecting her to be there already.  Then this fat broad approached me.
‘Hey,’ she said.  I gave her a drunken squint, trying to figure out why she might be talking to me.
‘Yes?’  I asked, playing it cool.
‘It’s me, Perez,’ she said.  Jesus.  She had really let herself go.
‘Oh…’ I stumbled, ‘I didn’t recognize you there.’  My friends started laughing wildly and to be honest I really couldn’t decide what my next move should be.  I stuck out my hand.  ‘I’m Ian,’ I said as we shook.  Hairy hands.  Big, hairy hands.  I remember thinking to myself that they can really do wonders with Photoshop these days.  ‘Well, we’re late,’ I said, ‘We better go in.’

Luckily there were two support acts, so we had time to go to the bar for a while.  ‘Well Paris what can I get you?’  I asked.
‘It’s Peh-rez,’ she said.
‘Oh sorry, Peh-rez,’ I mocked, ‘What would you like to drink your highness?’  Stuck up bitch.  I got her a vodka and diet coke and made her feel bad about how expensive it was, then  I made myself a boilermaker and started ignoring her.  She wasn’t even dressed like a rocker.
‘So how’s the blog?’ she asked, and I couldn’t help but think it was a leading question.
‘I’ve gotta piss,’ I said, and walked off.
‘Oh me too,’ she said, and followed.  My confusion morphed into outright suspicion.  When she started in to the men’s with me it got too much and I confronted her.
‘Look Paris, the ladies is down the hall.  I’ve put up with a lot of your celebrity shit tonight but I am not gonna let you watch me piss.’
‘It’s Perez.’
‘That’s exactly what I’m talking about.  That fucking attitude.’
‘No.  I am not Paris Hilton.  I am Perez Hilton.’  I had had enough of her shit.
‘Look I’ve had enough of your shit lady.  I don’t know what sort of deal you worked out with Bandwidth but you can take it up with them.  I’m here to rock and you’re totally killing my buzz.  Now fuck off.’  I felt a little bit bad when I saw her tear up, but by this point I REALLY had to take a leak, and by the time I came out of the toilets she was gone and The Answer were taking the stage.  I still haven’t figured out what her goddamn problem was, but going by the severe weight gain I’m willing to be forgiving and put it down to hormones.

[Editor’s Note: Are you serious?]

[Ian’s Note: What do you mean?]

[Editor’s Note: I’m speechless.]

[Ian’s Note: Thank fuck for that, this is my column.]

Ok so I admit it: until Monday I wasn’t really that familiar with The Answer.  I checked out a few of their more popular songs online and came to the conclusion that they do in fact rock, but this is roughly the equivalent of seeing a picture of Vic Mackey (from The Shield) and coming to the conclusion that he is a fucking badass.  You would be right, but until you have seen him in action, you just have no idea.  This rule follows for just about every kick ass rock n roll band ever – they’re great – but they’re never as great as when played at a deafening level, and my proper introduction to The Answer came at just that.  These guys rock so hard I would suggest not wearing your favourite pair of socks when you go see them, lest they be rocked off.  These guys rock so hard they make me proud to be from Belfast.  These guys rock so hard I went to see them only a few weeks after seeing MOTORHEAD play THE SAME VENUE and I honestly couldn’t tell you which show I enjoyed more.  I’m not sure I can make this any clearer – The Answer fucking rock.  They have so much balls that towards the end of their set, GIANT BALLS fell from the sky with ‘The Answer’ printed on them.  These balls were punched skyward by the taller members of the mosh pit (and were therefore out of my reach) and the whole thing was just so rock n roll I found it hard to adequately express my appreciation, so I settled for pouring a full bottle of beer over my head and throwing myself around like a madman.  Aside from the unnecessary wasting of good beer, I was not alone.  I would go on, but I get the distinct feeling this gig was like one of those funny moments you can’t quite convey.  You just had to be there.

Had the night ended there the whole thing would have been a resounding success.  Like every other night, though, it ended with me sprinting through the city centre like a lunatic, soaked in beer and occasionally pausing to lie down in the street to catch my breath.  Even making a tit out of myself couldn’t ruin a night like this though.  Kind of like seeing a quick nip-slip when some hot chick spills out of her top, I truly believe I stumbled across something beautiful here.  Mark my words – you will hear more from The Answer – and you will like what you hear.

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As anyone who hasn’t been hiding in an underground bunker will know, it is climate change week. The world, their wife and their team of advisors are descending upon Copenhagen for the World Climate Change conference, all trying to out-posture each other and ultimately ‘strike a deal’. What did poor Copenhagen do to deserve this circus?

Media frenzies like this can bring to light some strange phenomenon’s. This particular event has brought into sharp focus, the huge following of a new world religion. “The Enviro-crats”.

The enviro-crat is easily pigeonholed – a bit disillusioned, the type of person who might have been a little bit religious in a time before it became too hard ignore that traditional religion has caused most of the hurt, pain and war associated with this part of the world in particular. So what was needed, was a new religion – something a bit modern, something noble, worthy – oh yeah – Climate Change!

At a time when, more than ever, we need voices of clarity to get behind the causes of waste, pollution and ultimately climate change, what we have ended up with is the Enviro-crat. I mean, this new religion even has a pilgrimage now. Hoards of people are getting busses, boats, and trains this week – all the way from every part of the world to Copenhagen- just to be there to campaign about issues like…. how much oil we use for needless transport. Picture the conversation – “Yeah this is my 4th Climate conference this year, how many have you been to? What, just three? Wow! It’s been totally brilliant though – I’ve met some really cool people who are making such a difference, like Randolph – He’s so passionate about climate change (blushes). He’s part of a group that has been travelling all over the world to demonstrate. I mean they only fly when they have to and they always stay in tents” Yes that’s right – the GAP year has taken on a noble cause. Now let’s get this straight – far from being a climate change nay-sayer, there is no doubt in my mind that (as a member of the human race, with at least a few brain cells) our actions are rapidly laying waste to this beautiful big mess of a planet, that we call home. What worries me is the upside down logic of the disciples of this new religion.

I know the Gap year/wandering soul disciples have taken a bashing here so far, but there are worse; The Chattering classes (I could think of some more descriptive terms!) have turned environmental logic completely on its head, locked it in a single glazed Georgian bubble and put their fingers in it’s ears. We have all witnessed the sickening sight of ‘super mom’ looking smug and glancing around the checkouts for some kind of ‘green credibility as she say’s “no it’s okay, I have my ‘bag for life’” Bravo! But the small city on four wheels, with the emissions of a Russian Power plant, parked outside renders that smugness as nothing more than complete delusion.

But we surely are a smart bunch, aren’t we? Why can’t our clever, modern minds work out what is wrong? What is so difficult? Global issues like this are collections of individual actions, travelling all the way to Copenhagen to lambast politicians does not address the fundamental issues that have created the monster of ‘climate change’ in the first place. We individuals, with our individualistic goals, created this monstrous free word, where we can have what we want , all of the time. The everyday person has become the ‘consumer’, as consumption is more often than not, the everyday activity. We are even being hoodwinked by our own good intentions, with people unfortunately beginning to believe the green drivel, dripping off advertisements, posters, the lips of politicians & celebrities, like sticky environmental snot.

The consumer can become human once again, and influence the directions of society through their own actions. These actions start at home, in the immediate surrounds that your life actions impact upon, not in Copenhagen. So instead of taking 14 busses, 8 trains and a Volvo taxi to Copenhagen this week, do something worthwhile – stay at home and insulate your fucking attic!

Joe Laverty is an angry drummer for a band called Pocket Promise. See him in a warmer climate here on the Bandwidth site.

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I was having serious trouble this week.  It’s getting near Christmas and I work in a shop – if I have to explain that to you, you have obviously never worked retail.  The constant onslaught of Christmas shoppers depressed me, and I couldn’t write.  I tried sitting at my laptop and drinking a bottle of wine, but I ended up spilling the last glass and having to suck the dregs out of the USB port.  I tried watching Al Pacino’s inspirational speech from Any Given Sunday 14 times in a row, but that didn’t work either.  Desperate, I decided to give Johnny a call.
‘I’m blocked,’ I said.
‘You’re always blocked.’
‘No, not drunk.’
‘What?  Constipated!?’ he asked, alarmed.
‘No.  Writer’s block.  There won’t be an article this week.’
‘Don’t be silly.  We’ve got something special lined up for you this week anyway.’
‘Ah Jesus…what is it?’
‘Fix-A-Grinch.’
‘Did you just say words?’
‘Yes. Fix-A-Grinch.’
‘Yeah I got that – what does it fucking mean?  That doesn’t explain anything.’
‘It’s a company that fixes grinches.  You go to their camp and they turn grumpy people into happy people around Christmas time.’
‘No,’ was all I said.
‘Oh yes,’ he said, and I could hear his smile.  Fuck him, I thought, they can’t make me go.

Around 5am the next morning I was awoken by some broad dressed as an elf.  At first I thought I had gotten drunk in the mall and fallen asleep in Santa’s Grotto again, but then I looked around, saw the two burly guys wearing Santa hats behind her, and realised I was in fact in my own bed.
‘Who the fuck are you?  How did you get into my house?’ I yelled.
‘Don’t make this hard,’ she said with a creepy smile, ’we’re from Fix-A-Grinch.’  I grabbed the half empty (hey, I’m a pessimist) beer bottle beside my bed and chucked it at her, cracking her square in the forehead.  It made a terrific ‘donk’ sound and I started laughing triumphantly.  Then one of the big fellas socked me in the face and I went back to sleep.

I woke up in a big orphanage style dorm room with beds all along both sides.  Every bed was occupied.  The floor was covered with fake snow and there was tinsel and Christmas lights all over the walls.  All of a sudden Cliff Richard’s Mistletoe and Wine started blasting from unseen speakers, rousing the rest of the prisoners.  What the fuck is this? was written on every face.  ‘Activities time!’ yelled the smug faced little bitch who kidnapped me as she bounded into the room.  If there is one thing in this world that I hate, it is activities.

Without further explanation, we were led outside into a kind of fake winter wonderland, complete with knee-deep imitation snow, fake Christmas trees, [Editor’s Note: Fake Plastic Trees?  Nice reference.] [Ian’s Note: What?] [Editor’s Note: Never mind.] plastic snowmen, and the most grotesque nativity scene I have ever laid eyes on.  The whole thing was obviously too much for one man, who made a mad dash for the chain link fence surrounding the compound.  He got halfway up the fence before a sniper brought him down with a well-aimed snowball.  He fell to the ground, billowing fake snow into the air, and I noticed that the fence only went about 1 inch below the snow line.  I made a mental note of this as we marched on towards the activities building.  Inside we were each shown to our work area and informed that the first ‘class’ of the day was how to make homemade chutney, which is apparently a fun, inexpensive and heartfelt gift suitable for anyone.  Anyone who thinks apple and onion and fucking vinegar is a winning combination, that is.  Some people started to vomit uncontrollably and had to be carried off by guards wearing Santa hats.

The second class of the day was the story of Christmas.  We were given booklets and told to pay attention, because the following day we would be putting on a dramatic performance of the birth of Christ.  If there is one thing in this world that I hate more than activities, it is doing drama.  I had to get the hell out of there, and luckily we were given a one hour break, with the recommendation that we spend it either revising the story of Christmas, or looking over the lyrics to some carols, as carolling would be the third class of the day.  I quickly made my way back to the bunkhouse and – when no one was looking – I kicked away some of the fake snow in one corner of the room.  I knew it!  The goddamn shed we were housed in was only sunk a few inches into the snow.  The whole place was as fake as a Roland Emmerich movie.  If only I could dig some of it away without them noticing…  Then I remembered the hole in my pocket I’d been meaning to fix.  I turned the pocket inside out and ripped it open, then I did the same on the other side.  Then I grabbed a candy cane off the Christmas tree and started to dig.  I would walk in and out of the bunkhouse humming Auld Lang Syne, covertly shaking fake snow out of my trouser legs every time I made it outside.  It was slow going, and it became clear I would have to endure carolling.

During the carolling class there was a distinct change in the mood.  The people were starting to look like they were enjoying themselves.  I realise now that the mince pies and mulled wine we were served for lunch must have been laced with something.  I was lucky to have been so busy with my digging because I’ve never been known to turn down an alcoholic beverage, and as is so often the case, it almost certainly would have been my undoing.  The last class of the day was a Christmas movie, and they were nice enough to give us a choice.  I demanded that we watch It’s A Wonderful Life.  ‘No!, screamed some hysterical dame sitting next to me, ’Miracle On 34th Street!’
‘I will fight you,’ I said, glaring at her.  Neither of us got our movie – the goddamn airhead consensus was Jingle All The Way, starring Arnold Schwarzenegger.  It was at this point I gave up any intention of taking the bastards with me.

After lights out I slipped out of bed and resumed my tunnelling.  At around 4am I made it under the fence and out of the compound, but the second I stood up out of the snow I was hit by a spotlight and a siren exploded into life.  I saw two of the guards take to a sleigh  to give pursuit, and sprinted off into the woods.  As it happens I had little to worry about – the sleigh was dragged by two miniature Schnauzers wearing little reindeer antlers and it really didn’t move very fast at all.  I didn’t stop running until I reached civilisation and found myself somewhere in Ballymena.  I hid out at the train station until daylight and got a ticket for the first train to Belfast.  As I was boarding I was stopped by the ticket inspector, who eyed my dishevelled clothing suspiciously and asked me where I was going.
‘Ah bay, just headin’ inta the city ta day some Christmas shoppin’, hay,’ I said.  He wished me well and sent me on my way.

Folks, Christmas doesn’t have to be the way it looks on a Marks And Spencer ad.  Me, I’m going to go see Scrooged in QFT (http://www.queensfilmtheatre.com/films/scrooged/).  I’m going to get drunk in some cosy little bar and wait for the Fairytale Of New York sing-a-long.  And yes, I’m going to watch The Great Escape on TV again.  Whatever you do, have a good one, and if anyone gives me homemade chutney as a Christmas present I will fucking kill you.

[Editor’s Note: I know ‘this is not a review’ but… what exactly did you just review?]

[Ian’s Note: Christmas.]

[Editor’s Note: You reviewed Christmas?]

[Ian’s Note: Yes.]

[Editor’s Note: Pretentious bastard.]

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