Mr Mounfield is one of the world’s coolest men, but could he inspire others to follow his example. Would toby jugs be bigger than deely-boppers? Possibly.
When abstinence and excess had rendered me peanut brittle: as vulnerable as an altar boy hearing the sacristy door lock and the soft thud of liturgical vestments.
In a city where takeaways are the front line in a turf war, our epicurean chronicler is forced to seek sustenance in an unforgivable place.
It’s time to go and our intrepid author is finally leaving. An early night however is not his only concern. It is imperative that he arrives back before his bibulous companion JC. If not then all his anxiety and sobriety will have been for naught. The race is on and the stakes could not be higher, but who will prevail Niki or James?
Alone and a long way from home our tremulous author embarks on the dread journey home but is quickly distracted from the task at hand, taking solace in cancelled television programmes and ludicrous blockbusters starring Dennis Hopper, and he wonders why he spends his life scrawling nonsense in a garret rather than playing an active role in society.
The end seemed nigh for our intrepid reporter and yet once again he’s leaving the concert, the sense of déjà vu providing a welcome relief from the spirit-crushing ennui. Apparently this is the ideal place for Stephen to gather his thoughts before setting off into the wet grey yonder in search of the magic bus to Didsbury.
Revelation takes many forms, thankfully in the case of our author it provided only enlightenment rather than being commanded by a great voice to write a subsequently misinterpreted religious tome, it’s just a shame it does not always happen in the most salubrious locations.
There has been much debate over what our saviour will look like when he arrives. Well now your humble author can put an end to years of religious speculation, and here’s a clue, he’s not a hippy.
It’s been quite some time coming, not as long as certain albums I could mention, but at last The Stone Roses take to the stage. Well nearly. They’ll definitely play a bigger part in the next instalment.
When our earnest author, free from the burden of drunken associates, was finally ready to enjoy the gig, an adversary, one he’d buried years ago, manifests to test his fortitude.
Having reached his mid-forties without attending an open-air festival, Stephen James assumed that The Stone Roses’ Heaton Park gig would be a baptism of fire. He was half right…
Stephen Watt’s pilgrimage to Manchester continues, and, although he almost arrives at the gig, the Stone Roses aren’t due on for five hours. What follows is simply more navel-gazing from a self-absorbed, middle-aged man, who refuses to let go of the past. Poor chap, he just wants to be adored. But, then, don’t we all?
A lapsed Rosarian, Stephen Watt was happy to proclaim – especially to his ticket-holding brother-in-law – that the Stone Roses' reunion was a purely commercial venture. But, when fate, an ‘anonymous’ tip off and the arrest of an associate conspired to provide him with a ticket, he swallowed his pride, put on his bullet-proof jacket, slipped his Glock 17 into his waistband and headed off to where he first saw the light. Would a pilgrimage to Madchester resurrect his passion or be a journey into the heart of darkness?