The Blood Brothers

I can count them on one hand – people that know what the fuck is going on. To my left stands a kid, shuffling awkwardly in jeans too big. He’s here for the main event – what’s going on now is totally alien to him. He turns.

“Who are these guys?”

“The Blood Brothers. They’re great.”

“Oh. You like them? Really?”

“Oh yes.”

Large-trousered kid turns away again, back to the sight of two young men flailing wildly, singing songs about God only knows what called ‘Love Rhymes With Hideous Car Wreck’ and ‘Rats And Rats And Rats For Candy’. I’m lost in a blur of admiration and enthusiasm, spluttering garbled words along with those of vocalists Johnny and Jordan. There’s a guy to my right. He taps my shoulder.

“Hey man, how do you know the words?”

Oh shit. I’m a geek fan that knows the words to songs.

“They print them on the album sleeves.”

Oh shit. I’m a geek fan that knows all the words ‘cause he sits there at home reading the lyrics in time with the songs. I'm even sadder than I'd feared.

But you know what? I don’t care. I’m dancing and enjoying myself, shouting myself hoarse to ‘Fucking’s Greatest Hits’ and ‘Trash Flavoured Trash’. These songs are alive, and they riot through my system like a welcome parasite intent on moving my feet. I want to get right in there and dance with the tracksuited drunken fools who keep falling over. Nah, I’ll remain on the fringes. It’s safe here; I can sing and dance and not have to worry about a balding ape spilling his pint of pissy lager over my shirt. I’ve the headline show on Sunday to look forward to anyway. Then, I’ll be front and centre, finger raised, head in the clouds, spirit infused.

See you there, kids.