Up on Saturday, not feeling perhaps 100%, and a search of places in Paisley that'll do something like a veggie breakfast (the Wetherspoons being out of all kinds of breakfast), ending up in an O'Neills, which it turns out is not Irish enough to drive away the Rangers fans, so it's off up to Ailsa's game pub, Paddy Malarkeys (!), which is entirely Rangers free.
The less said about the game, the better.
Then home to change and head out (I'm wearing my big indie coat, which means that I have to stop a few feet from the front door and return to leave behind an entire big paperback book). A brief tour of the east end of Glasgow, including the supercool Britannia Panopticon, a music hall/cinema that they just found on top of an old amusement hall. Outside, Ailsa regrets that the statue of the Duke of Wellington is in a freak accident not wearing a traffic cone on top of his head, but a council-commissioned mural/graffiti of the sights of Glasgow depicts him in all his glory. Down to the 13th note to look around, then over to Mono and the record shop inside a pub. It's apparently throw-a-stone-and-hit-an-indie-celebrity in there, and today it's the turn of the drummer from Teenage Fanclub. Off to Bar 91, where I meet various ILXors (Madchen, Stet, Grimly, Ward Fowler, Kit Brash) , which is all very overwhelming, and after a few pints down to 13th Note again to meet singlefished, which is great. At this stage we're more than a little late, but we figure we'll miss a bit of Chris T-T's set all the same. It turns out that we've missed all of it, and all but 10 minutes of the Frank & Walters, though some of those minutes are spent on This Is Not A Song, which is alright.
I can't really say much about the gig, particularly since I know a fair few people who are going to the one in Brixton. Me and Ailsa were up the front, more in front of the speakers than the band. I still have a fair section of my hearing replaced by a loud whistle. It was totally worth it.
Afterwards more waiting about and waiting about, until Kit actually manages to get us passes to backstage, then a bit of standing around, brief enthusiastic chat with Fruitbat, and out to... more drinking in Mono, enthusiastic argument about which now had M/A/R/R/S on it, 30 minute wait for a taxi, then home home bed.
This morning, up, out, plane, train, bus, home. Eventually train again to Hammersmith, to see Richard Herring (kind of funny but really creepy), Toby Green (very funny), Nina Conti (female ventriloquist, funny and wronge), Stephen Merchant (not actually all that funny, as he kind of knows), and then Chris Addison, who is completely genius. Like Robin Ince, he gives the impression that he could just rant for hours and hours and hours.