The Whitlams

Finally.

The CD arrived.

It's true love, just so you know.

(Some of my best work was you/I wish you were here right now/But I still don't want to know if you're moving on)

Did I ever tell you my awful Whitlam's concert story? Surely I have?

God.

Right, read on for a truly pointless story.

It was at that awful nightclub....you know the one up in Northbridge...with the flames....shit, what's the name of it again?

Anyways.

The flames (always a portent of bad things)....so

Firstly, I'd gone to the west end of the terrace for an "orientation" regarding the MBA at Curtin (yes, it was that long ago).... it was pissing it down. Pissing.

My old mate McVinnie had given me a couple tickets to catch the Whitlams and I'd even convinced grandpa D to join me for a naughty worknight concert.

The plan was I'd meet him at the train station at an appropriate time after the orientation.

So, after the incredibly long and boring orientation (which, you know, I should have taken as a sign...but I digress)....I marched (as I'm wont to do) down the terrace in the sideways rain.

I had an brolly! Ha! The terrace ate it within a few seconds.

I got to the the train station completely soaked and not incredibly amused by it all.

The D was there in defensive pose. Apparently some lunatic had decided that D was the new messiah and had been harassing him while he waited.

Woo-hoo. Were we ever in the mood to rock it in Northbridge.

So, we have a brief discussion about catching the next train back to Daglish. But, in the end decide to persevere (fools!).

We walked over to the club. Enter. Revolting. Everyone is wet and steaming. Luhb-lee......

In self defense....we start to drink....copiously....something revolting and overpriced I'm sure. I believe the drink of choice that night was lemon stoli's or something equally ridiculous.

So, we wait.....there is no where to sit. Greasy woggy types are making the moves on the darlings of perth. D and I are amused for about ten minutes and then we are bored of it all.

Still waiting.

The show should have started an hour ago.

Waiting.

Already considering a kebab.

(Yes, that bad).

Finally, action on stage.

A girl stumbles out with a guitar.

Oy.

Wot's this then?

She mumbles something about her band not making it, being busted in the cairns airport for drugs or something. Neat. So, she's going to sing all on her lonesome. Excellent. Not only do I not know who she is, but already, the show is nearly two hours late...and now I have to suffer through her set.

So, she starts to strum a little melody. People perk up! There's hope.

Then she stops.

Tells some story about drugs or being completley blind or something. Then this:
"When I wrote this song, I'd just broken up with my boyfriend, that arse, and though I was pregnant. So, I wrote a song about it, and it's called "I think I'm pregnant." But, then I found out I wasn't pregnant, but I didn't want to waste the song, so I changed it to "I don't think I'm pregnant."

Excellent!

D is already moving towards the exit with a look of panic and disgust. I clutch his shirt in the death grip and say, "We are so freaking staying, I didn't just live through this torture to just go home."

Then she starts to play. The lyrics were something like:
I don't think I'm pregnant, so there!

After the song, I gave up the fight.

We ran for the hills.

We never even saw nor hide nor hair of the Whitlams.

I was bitter for a long long time.

You are as frustrated now as I was then.

It will pass with time.