Bob Log III and some killer boobs
I was in the off license.
‘Excuse me I’m looking for the stuff the bums drink,’ I said to the woman at the till. She regarded me with disdain. ‘You know, the big blue bottles?’
‘Down the back,’ she said, and led the way to the walk-in fridge. She appeared to be lame and by the time we got there I was getting impatient.
‘Which one would you recommend?’ I asked.
‘Well the Frosty Jack comes in three litre bottles…’
‘Of course, value for money,’ I agreed. ‘And Jack is a good name for booze. I’ll take three.’ I watched as she hoisted the three gigantic bottles into the crook of her arm and followed her back to the till. On the way, something caught my eye.
‘Sorry,’ I said, ‘is that Coteaux du Languedoc really only £10?’
‘Yeah,’ she said.
‘That really seems too reasonable to pass up,’ I said.
I only had a tenner on me.
‘I’ll take it,’ I said. ‘You can put those back.’ She grunted and shuffled back to the fridge.
Two hours later the wine – which was good, but by no means revelatory – was gone and I had a slight buzz. I had given up my pipe dream of being a writer and decided to be an alcoholic, but I had failed at that too. I was pathetic. I sulked back round to the offies.
‘I think I’ll take that shitty cider after all, I said.
The woman just glared at me and took her goddamn time limping off to the fridge. While I was waiting, my phone rang.
‘Ian, it’s Will. What are doing on Saturday?’
‘Well, I’m kind of in the middle of a new project, and I always watch The Voice on Saturday night.’
‘Well they got into a ratings war with Britain’s Got Talent and in a bid to win viewers back, Holly Willoughby’s neckline plummeted.’
‘Wow, that’s quite a revelation.’
‘Oh I can’t take any credit for it. Alan Carr pointed it out.’
‘Well ogling Holly Willoughby doesn’t count as plans.’
‘Really? You try maintaining an erection when her perfect cleavage is immediately followed by a shot of Tom Jones’s fake-tanned bake. Planning doesn’t cover it. It’s practically an art.’
‘Whatever Ian. Cancel your precious plans. I’ve got a date lined up for you.’
‘Really? With a girl?’
‘I’ll email you the details.’ And with that he hung up. The old lady was hobbling back with the cider, but all of a sudden I didn’t feel like being a wino any more. I’d go back to my roots and be a classy drunkard.
‘I’ve changed my mind, you can put those back,’ I said.
‘Are you fucking kidding?’ she said.
‘I’ll just take my usual.’
She put the cider on the counter and got me a bottle of Jack, sans frost. I’m back baby.
I went home, poured a tall glass of whiskey and sat down at the computer.
Bob Log III at The Empire, Saturday 8pm.
[Editor's Note: Links NSFW.]
Jesus titty fucking Christ. A spaceman playing a blues song called ‘Boob Scotch’. A tattooed babe who listens to AC/DC, reads Nabokov and has a morbid fascination with serial killers. It was too much for me. I had to lie down. So after listening to ‘Boob Scotch’ and looking through Emily’s photos six or seven times, I did.
There I was in The Empire with Emily next to me. Bob Log was rocking on the stage, but for some reason the song was Daydream Believer. After the gig we were skipping arm in arm through Botanic Gardens, laughing and cavorting in the sun. Then we were back at my place and I was about to pour a scotch when she took the bottle off me and looked at me seductively. She took a swig, then took off her shirt and upended the bottle, pouring the golden liquor all over her milky white…
When I woke up it was dark and my crotch was soaked. I realised I had fallen asleep with my glass of whiskey in my hand, and it had all been a beautiful dream. Damn it, I hope that is what I think it is, I thought, standing up to inspect the damage. Sure enough my glass was empty and my trousers were drenched with whiskey. And semen. I had to get a grip on myself. This was true love. I couldn’t afford to fuck it up the way I always do. I stripped naked, poured myself another drink and stood at my window in contemplation, like Gerard Butler in 300. Except where the abs should be there was just a crumbly love mess. I took a long drink.
‘Excuse me mate, is this seat taken?’
‘Yes it is goddamnit!’ I yelled. It was the sixth time I had been asked and I was getting edgy. The support act, The Hard Chargers, were halfway through their set and there was no sign of Emily. Worse, I had bought her a drink but I was so nervous I kept finishing my own and then drinking hers. I had replaced her drink four times, and the blues was starting to speak to me. Some people will tell you white people can’t play the blues. In fact one of these people was George Carlin, whom I have the utmost respect for. In this case, however, I have to politely disagree with him. The thing about the blues is either it sounds real or it doesn’t: there is no in between. Well, The Hard Chargers play real blues music. And I’m not just saying that because the drummer played a washboard, even though that is fucking badass.
‘Excuse me, is this seat taken?’ It was some blonde chick. She was with a much older dude who had a thick gold cross necklace nestled in his grey chest hair. I took it as a sign from the heavens: rich old wankers get hot chicks, you don’t.
‘No, go ahead,’ I told her, and necked Emily’s drink just as Bob Log came on stage.
It was the wrong kind of blues, and that made it just what I needed. Sure, I would have liked some lonesome delta blues sounds, but there is simply no way to wallow in self pity when a one man band in a tight-fitting sparkly jump suit and a crash helmet starts playing a strange blend of punk blues with songs titles like ‘My Shit’s Perfect’ and ‘Clap Your Tits’. The sound is pure fucking chaos and his act really needs to be seen to be fully appreciated, because it is the sheer energy of the man that makes him such a great performer. That is not to take away from his obvious musical ability, it’s just kinda hard to describe the sound of a man playing blues on a distorted guitar and singing into a telephone strapped to the front of his crash helmet. So all I can do is recommend you look him up. The image I’ll leave you with, and the one that most resonated with me, was the one of Bob, with a girl perched on each knee while he played ‘I Want Your Shit On My Leg’, bouncing the dames up and down as he played drums with his feet. The fact that I couldn’t even get a date, but the guy with the guitar could get a woman for each leg, certainly demonstrated something. You can do anything, if you do it with enough awesome. And Bob Log III is nothing if not awesome.
At some point during the gig I looked to my left and saw the blonde chick and her sugar daddy dancing. I say dancing, but I mean she was thrashing her head around in a most frenetic fashion, while he slammed his crotch against her thigh. It was horrifying. A little bit of sick crept up into my throat and I washed it back with whiskey. If I had a girl I wouldn’t publicly hump her leg, I thought. But then I am an old fashioned romantic type. I went home to watch Holly’s boobs on the iPlayer…
It turns out that Will – not familiar with the etiquette of the Tumblr community – sent Emily an anonymous message asking her about the gig. Anons are like Youtube commenters – no one really gives a shit what they have to say – so Emily ignored the invitation. And ignoring an invitation isn’t technically the same as rejecting someone, which is an important distinction, when you’re as lonely as I am…