Just when you thought it was safe to go back into the generic London punk venue WHAM!...
... That's right, everyone's favourite George Michael and Andrew Ridgely tribute act Athens Polytechnic have been getting into more trouble with 'The EstablishMANt', and I will record it here, on this very blog, for posterity and because Paragon Management Inc. (Reg. Cayman Islands) think that 'mindless violence makes the kids think you're cool'. So, here we go....
It was a bitterly cold night, the inky blackness, spilt by the sun on its way down now began to slip and squirm from one end of the horizon to the other, drenching the rusting cranes and empty wharfs of South East London with it's all-engulfing void. The wind cracked the punks' leather jackets and caused studs to fall from belts outside The Bird's Nest, shivering yet undaunted hands grasped pints of Strongbow and licorice roll-ups like they were the very elixirs of life.
It was here that five young men disembarked from the barge that had brought them this far, less than a second after the last to depart's foot had hit the jetty the garbage-laden hulk shuddered into life and with a blast of its horn the seemed to chill the bones of all who heard it the S.S. Explosive disappeared back into the night.
The intrepid rock 'n' rollers of Athens Polytechnic then proceeded to plug in, turn up and rock out, drums galloping like the cavalry, flanked by the pikeman of the guitar poking any ear drum close enough and the archers of the bass, sending nebulous arrows of noise out to mix with avant-garde vocal regiments, those scouts, those spies, those saboteurs of sound.
And the people could see that it was good.
But one man did not like it. A man who had gorged himself fat on the sweat, blood and tears of his workers, a man who had lined his stomach and his wallet with the distress, misery and horror of people who just wanted to see a punk band play punk rock but had to come to his dank hovel (he called himself 'The Land Lord') to do so. This man did not like it one bit.
He ran at the band, arms out-stretched, screaming the blood-curdling bark of Cerberus, the seven headed hound of hell, fists flailing and the silver grip of his pistol poking out of his belt and gleaming in the moonlight. But Athens would not be intimidated, they knew full well that their mission was to rock the fuck out, and like the fine upstanding Brits they are, they knew that to abandon such an important mission would be shame and death.
BANG! WHAM! CRACK! A fist flew, a guitar flew, a drum stick flew, a leg flew, a bottle flew; our heroic guardians of rock and roll unleashed all the had to give and The Land Lord had no reply, his gargantuan body jiggled as it fell to the floor, bleeding from the head, dribbling from the mouth, leaking from the urethra. He shouted something incoherent, he reached with the last of his fading strength towards the Heaven he believed had cursed him so cruelly. But it mattered not. All the kids and punks and music fans and decent human beings of South East London stepped over his semi-conscious frame to embrace Athens Polytechnic.
And Athens Polytechnic saw that it was good.
