Gig Review: Blah Blah Blah

A band poster went on public display in my bedroom this morning. It’s a one bedroom flat, so most guests visit the bedroom at some point. I’m not a hooker. It’s where my PC lives. I make websites and sell porn.

It’s been many a year since I installed a band poster, and back then I wouldn’t have used the word ‘installed’. Okay, John Lennon lurks around inside my wardrobe and says ‘hello’ in his Liverpudlian way each day, but that’s a private thing between me and John. The moments that I share with a dead Beatle are precious and private. They are inside my wardrobe and not out.

Who is this band? What is this band? How did they gain such an esteemed role in my day-to-day life? If I told you that their drummer's from Norfolk, would you be more intrigued? That sold me for starters. Anyone that hails from Norfolk gets extra points from me. I give myself a few every day. The fact that I can shit in the right place is a minor miracle.

If I mentioned the fact that all three band members are male and shorter than me, would you stop reading? No, they’re not midgets; they’re just a little short. Stop being prejudiced.

If you heard from your own personal guru that each musician makes up for his lack of height in natural charisma, superstar qualities and a happy-go-lucky stage presence, would you be desperate to see them live?

Probably not. You’re bored, online and trawling through yet another unfulfilling website. I’m just stealing another five minutes of your immensely boring life. Why the hell would you want to go out? The people are horrible, the streets are dirty and the beer is overpriced.

I don’t blame you. It was only after enduring three horribly awful support acts that I saw Blah Blah Blah. Oh yeah, blah blah blah, that’s what I do all day, but in this case I’m not blah blah blahhing, I’m telling you the name of the band; remember, the band that's achieved 'poster in my bedroom' status. The 'blah' word was also travelling around my head with increasing frequency as the night wore on.

During the third support act, I curled up on a beer soaked sofa, tried to sleep and wished that the guitar hero wannabes would go the hell away. Late licensing laws have ruined the concept of gigs that finish by 11pm. That may make me sound old, but, at the start of the evening, the venue was absolutely heaving with young and energetic types. By the time the headline act had strummed their first note, just twenty people were left. I counted. Those of us with just enough stamina to hold out were old and used to being patient. The young ones had sex to have and essays to write. I stood next to a couple of smiling pensioners; no doubt a band member’s very dear, and up for it, Ma and Pa. They knew the score.

Like true entertainers, the band took no notice of the size of the crowd. Blah Blah Blah leapt around, made big facial expressions, and played as enthusiastically as children with supercharged water pistols on a perfect summer’s day. That’s what Blah Blah Blah sound like; a fierce and mischievous bolt of well aimed water on a faultless sunny day.

Now, you have to hear them don’t you? Did I mention that the drummer’s from Norfolk; Fakenham to be precise.

Go on. Search for Blah Blah Blah and add a bit of joy to your tedious and contemptible life.