A few nights ago I had the strangest dream. I had completed my pre-bed routine of putting my panda onesie on, pouring a cup of delicious cocoa and watching an episode of Glee (the one in series one when Kurt's father has trouble coming to terms with the fact his son is gay, so sad) when I decided to test the theory that cheese can give one extreme dreams or nightmares. I swiftly shook out the remainder of my tail-tennis before heading to the fridge. "Shropshire blue" I asked myself, brain befuddled with cheesy questions. I interrogated further, from the basic (Red Leicester) to the cultured (Yves Saint Laurent) until I finally made a decision. A decision not based around the most delicious, but the long told story that this particular cheese has mystical powers and was linked to the acid culture of the late 1980s. This cheese was endorsed by D-Mob and has long being criticised as the sole reason the Polyphonic Spree ever existed. It was responsible for filming John Leslie's sex video and influencing Noel Edmond's wardrobe. Yes, this cheese my friends, was Mild Cheddar.
I settled down into my double bed, the right hand side of course. Before I could even start to entertain my nightly routine of thinking deeply, wondering what purpose I have in waking up the next day and eventually crying because no girl wants to take the left hand side and cuddle me gently until the break of dawn, I was away with the proverbial fairies.
I'm sat in a greasy spoon in Dewsbury, having tea and battenburg cake with General Pinochet and Captain Sensible. I'm hideously hungover, yet I have to review a gig that night for 'Sound Juice', a new music publication edited by ex-NME chairman, Conor McNicholas. I don't like McNicholas, but if I do this he's letting me spend the night with Hilary Woods, the ex-bass player from indie giro-rockers JJ72. I leave the greasy spoon and begin walking to the venue, 'The Shuttlecock'. A mysterious masked man offers to give me a lift. I ask him why as my mother told me never to talk to strangers. "You're the king of the world", he replies.
And then the shit hits the fan. This is KAV. Fucking KAV. The man playing the gig tonight. He takes me to the venue. We eat (Monkfish cooked in milk with green beans and Jersey Royals). He tells me about his song 'King Of The World'. He tells me about its rousing nature, how it appeals to the working class masses and how it inspires belief that anyone, even the poorest and meekest peasant can fist-pump, shout, scream and rock their way to the metaphorical summit. He takes to the stage in front of an adoring crowd and blasts out the said tune, a fuzz induced bombastic rock python, reminiscent of the faster moments from BRMC's back catalogue. Shady characters everywhere rejoice, throwing their lager and piss mixes up in the air. The catchy chorus resonates around the sweat soaked room, the walls dripping with buckets of lad ladge as the song comes to a pulsating climax. Iggy Pop is going wild, having previously been sat in the corner contemplating filing a copyright infringement claim. Conor McNicholas' big fucking horrible gawky shit disgusting Luke Chadwick-like face is grinning like an anorexic alligator and Hilary Woods is promising to give me the best hour of my life (little does she know it'll be over before even two minutes have elapsed). Everyone is happy. Everyone is unified with this glorious anthem for the social masses. Everyone belts out the chorus one more time as KAV laps up the mercurial admiration, something not seen since Bono and Geldof saved Africa. Everyone is talking about this as the greatest moment in music since The Killers released 'Norman Whiteside'. And me?
I'm not over-keen. Thought it was a bit boring to be honest. Hilary wasn't very good either.