from http://perhower.blogspot.co.uk/
"Le Tissier, Le Tissier, Le Tissier!"
- MPH's opening quip during a colourful performance at The Hobbit, Southampton, April 2011.
It seems like I caused a bit of a stir with my last piece. Unfortunately, but IMPORTANTLY, I was merely having a lot of fun with language, possibly too much fun, but still, I would rather keep this thing alive with controversial words instead of just saying nothing (of interest) or failing to pack a punch. Inspiration comes from strange and unexpected places in these bizarre times we're living in. Trouble seems to follow me around, who knows why? Am I doing something wrong? I am doing something so SHOCKINGLY DIFFERENT? Well, maybe I am, but who cares? You're reading this filth and loving it. Face it, you are nothing but a tragically disturbed loser of some sort, probably riddled with angst, morbidly consumed by bitterness and hungry for tales of self-destructive hilarity. OK then, you filthy sadists, you spiteful little bastards, let me spin you a couple of short tales derived from gigs during that bright, yet vicious, April of 2011. The following is a dodgy roller-coaster ride through a crazy time, a darkly euphoric period which saw the fabulous Miss Halliwell playing her final shows in the most unlikely of places.
At one point, late on in the night, standing alone in the war-torn gents toilets at the back of The Hobbit, feeling slightly concerned about what might happen to me once I set foot back inside the main bar area, I found myself urinating onto my own website. Some of our flyers had fallen from above the urinal trough and landed with the web address facing upwards. I found this fairly amusing, tainted with more than a hint of painful metaphorical truth, but then, I was fairly drunk, not out of control, but well oiled to say the least. Miss Halliwell, that dirty, mischievous, transgender, post-modern-rock bitch, had put in the kind of insane performance you would have expected from her at that stage in her career. The post-fight mood was that of triumph, unexpected praise flooded in from surprising angles and the whole venue seemed to have livened up due to our best efforts. It's true that we had come a long way to play at this less than inspiring rock club, but our friends and fans from The South were grateful and thrilled by the show, surging into a frenzy of drink before and after our atmosphere creating set. But it seemed that conjuring up a truly buzzing vibe, travelling all that way, even bringing a little crowd of crazy drinkers with us, was not enough to deserve being paid, or even earn a couple of free drinks. As I stood there, pissing directly onto my own name, I remembered a conversation I had with one of the barmen just after I came off stage...
continue reading at http://perhower.blogspot.co.uk/
"Le Tissier, Le Tissier, Le Tissier!"
- MPH's opening quip during a colourful performance at The Hobbit, Southampton, April 2011.
It seems like I caused a bit of a stir with my last piece. Unfortunately, but IMPORTANTLY, I was merely having a lot of fun with language, possibly too much fun, but still, I would rather keep this thing alive with controversial words instead of just saying nothing (of interest) or failing to pack a punch. Inspiration comes from strange and unexpected places in these bizarre times we're living in. Trouble seems to follow me around, who knows why? Am I doing something wrong? I am doing something so SHOCKINGLY DIFFERENT? Well, maybe I am, but who cares? You're reading this filth and loving it. Face it, you are nothing but a tragically disturbed loser of some sort, probably riddled with angst, morbidly consumed by bitterness and hungry for tales of self-destructive hilarity. OK then, you filthy sadists, you spiteful little bastards, let me spin you a couple of short tales derived from gigs during that bright, yet vicious, April of 2011. The following is a dodgy roller-coaster ride through a crazy time, a darkly euphoric period which saw the fabulous Miss Halliwell playing her final shows in the most unlikely of places.
At one point, late on in the night, standing alone in the war-torn gents toilets at the back of The Hobbit, feeling slightly concerned about what might happen to me once I set foot back inside the main bar area, I found myself urinating onto my own website. Some of our flyers had fallen from above the urinal trough and landed with the web address facing upwards. I found this fairly amusing, tainted with more than a hint of painful metaphorical truth, but then, I was fairly drunk, not out of control, but well oiled to say the least. Miss Halliwell, that dirty, mischievous, transgender, post-modern-rock bitch, had put in the kind of insane performance you would have expected from her at that stage in her career. The post-fight mood was that of triumph, unexpected praise flooded in from surprising angles and the whole venue seemed to have livened up due to our best efforts. It's true that we had come a long way to play at this less than inspiring rock club, but our friends and fans from The South were grateful and thrilled by the show, surging into a frenzy of drink before and after our atmosphere creating set. But it seemed that conjuring up a truly buzzing vibe, travelling all that way, even bringing a little crowd of crazy drinkers with us, was not enough to deserve being paid, or even earn a couple of free drinks. As I stood there, pissing directly onto my own name, I remembered a conversation I had with one of the barmen just after I came off stage...
continue reading at http://perhower.blogspot.co.uk/