Went off to the Hoxton Pony to see Luke Haines play his art experiment album
that I was smart enough to not pay £75 for. The crowd was an uncomfortable mixture of Shoreditch arses and the Haines travelling contingent of dangerous loners. While we stood through the terrible support act I noted with approval that the little hairy chap next to me had a disproportionately attractive girlfriend. They then had a blazing row which ended with her saying "For Christ's sake! You're about to see your favourite artist in the world and you're still a miserable fucking bastard!" and stomping off. Ah, I thought, one of my own. I tried to cheer him up with a cheerful "My girlfriend does that too!" but he just looked sad and chewed his lip. Getting into the zone for the gig, I guess.
The new songs were about pretty standard Haines stuff. Enoch Powell, Alan Vega and - to the consternation of spiritual Geordie
Webby - the Angel of the North. More unusual was the raffle ticket we were handed on entry which offered the chance to win a portrait of Haines, to be painted by Mrs Haines during the performance.
We stood behind the easel and scoffed through the early stages. By the last song, and four lagers later, we were both gagging to win it. I'd worked out the perfect spot for it to sit on the wall in the living room. But it wasn't to be, so this was as near as we got.
