There’s nothing like starting your day with a cat sniffing your milk. No, a local stray hadn’t infiltrated the Travelodge, but we breakfasted at a Kitty Cafe. I had some kibble with a side of licky lick yoghurt stick and a saucer of Goldtop full cream milk. Meeeeooooowww.
We crashed on to the M62 and ascended into a deep mist. Fog on the Pennines was all mine.
One of the Map Apps told us we had to leave the motorway as it was snarling up so we exited post-haste onto the A666, locally known as Beelzebub Boulevard. It certainly was a highway to hell. Or Swinton.
Trying to negotiate the one way systems and bus lanes was troublesome for the Map Apps and if we didn’t have our wits about us we’d be on the wrong side of several fines from Manchester City Council. An aborted park because the 24 hour fee would have made one of the city’s footballers blush, we dumped the weary Mazda near where the Ian Curtis mural had been.
As the bounce was only an hour and a bit, we’d arrived too early to check-in and we were the closest we were going to get to the incredible Marble Arch pub so we braved the Baltic conditions and marched up for a couple of pints of Pint.
It would also have been an abomination to have been within a few hundred yards and not gone in the Peveril of the Peak for a pint of Plum Porter and then it’s industrial strength Grand Reserve. C’mon it’s the last night of the tour.
Yes greeted us with a bar DJ spinning the most uninspiring 70’s disco shits that threatened to ruin the whole evening. But then we realised why we were here and bolted upstairs for The Empty Page. It’s not called the Pink Room for nothing. Like the Korova Milk Bar if it only sold Strawberry Milkshake. Fittingly, bassist and singer Kel’s hair was a neon shade. They hammered through some deeper cuts as they were “bored of playing some of the usual songs” including tracks from last year’s second LP, Imploding.
Desperate Journalist are on a strict curfew so don’t fuck about. Apparently a disco is far more important. Not to anyone in the room right now. A sold out final night is a welcome sight. Devotees resplendent in band t-shirts and some twats who feel the need to chat at far too frequent intervals during the first three songs so off I fuck to a distant spot. Inconsiderate entitlement. I’m sure they were discussing the child care arrangements and the fact the set times were earlier than expected. You can’t please arseholes all the time.
Another for the annals of history. ‘Consolation Prize’ is a sure fire winner as opener despite being the No Hero closer. A crackling and intense ‘Underwater’, formidable ‘Fault’, rampaging ‘Be Kind’, a soaring and joyful ‘Everything You Wanted’, then an encore dedicated to my über fan companion and camera man of roadsigns and buses, Graeme “No 1 Fan” Carr, of a heart bursting, rib cracking ‘Heartbeats’ and emotional ‘Remainder’ that we probably haven’t heard for nearly 10 years. But don’t quote us on that. Even though I’ve quoted it.
An unexpected and lovely surprise curry in Rusholme with the ruffians Jo, Rob, Simon and Caz, with Nick who is documenting each night’s performance of ‘7′ for a film, Tim the Merch and Van hero (there is one hero) and fellow DJ evangelist, Ash. No better way to end this odyssey than that. (Mughli Charcoal Pit. The Staff Kari is incredible)
It’s the end but it isn’t the end as we have The Garage, Highbury & Islington on Thursday. Now it’s the mammoth drive home. Via Homebase for some floor tiles. Reality hits. And it stings.
