The Sugars Well, I guess I don't blog as much as I used to. I'm never sure anyone is reading it anyway, but also, things happened that I love to talk about, but that I'm not sure I want to write about.
Last night though, shook me out of literary silence. Another Saturday night, another gig (The Sugars at the Night & Day), what's to write about, right?). Well, just when the mundane is imminent, the unusual, the beautiful and the horrible have a 3-way right in front of my face.
The Sugars were a long-standing date in my diary, a band I'd spotted a few months ago whilst watching other musicians farther up the bill. They surprised me, so I agreed to hand out some flyers for them in Manchester before the show, in exchange for a free ticket, which was nice. It was a good day to head out alone and catch some solo me time, whilst approaching complete strangers and thrusting paper into their hands that most of them didn't want, but were too polite to say no to, a) because I'm a big scary guy to those who don't me(!), and b) because I won the award for best-dressed flyer-person, wearing a nice suit for the occasion! The jacket of the suit was to come in handy helping to save someone's life later that night...
To be honest, my entourage and I didn't even watch The Sugars. We saw two support bands, went for a meal in Bella Italia round the corner (lovely pizzas, and great calamaris with a bottle of wine shared, adding up to about 13 quid each). We hit a couple of bars in the Northern Quarter and feeling a little lost for a 'local' type bar, decided to cross town to what is my Mancunian local - The Garrett, on Princess Street. Great boozer as I've said a few times in the past on here.
Princess Street, Manchester, By Day
Was all progressing normally, drinkie-drinkie, etc. etc. and then on the way there my friends dilly-dallied, leaving me to get there a full 20 minutes before they did. Which pissed me off naturally, but well, fuck it I thought, ordered a beer and waited. And it was in the waiting for others that I met a wonderful girl who merely wanted a light from me for her and her friends. And it was illuminated again; the notion that my friends have frankly stopped trying to be either interesting or interested in the world, each other, or me. It seems to take the attention of an 18 year old more and more often to remind me of what is beautiful in this life. Curiosity, passion, optimism, and kindnesses are what is synonymous with beauty, and it's old friend, 'the good.' I'm looking ahead to my life, which is now looking amazingly interesting, with my return to university for an MA programme I could only have dreamed of 6 months ago, with my 20's still alive and kicking against the impending hell of being another bastard career 30-something. Well, anyway, suffice to say, this young lady reminded this old, decrepid 28 year old that he still has something good to offer!
With all this beauty knocking around me, ugly and his good companian horrible decided not to let beauty completely hog the action for the night. At about 1:15am, I stood up to leave the bar and jump on a train home, only to see a man, no different than me, step into the road and get hit at about 25mph by a taxi. And when ugly happens, it really happens. I stepped across to clear the crowd away from this poor guy, fearing that anyone trying to move him could paralyse him. Thankfully the many drunk people were also fairly understanding of that point about paralysis, so not too many problems with controlling the 'mob' of onlookers. Still, it was Princess Street, a hang-out for differently-minded, and generally decent people. I, and a couple other people kind enough to stop and help in a constructive way, took off our jackets to keep this guy warm, and to place under his head. It was weird in a selfish perspective, to see my most aesthetic and non-functional piece of clothing become the most useful item I had in the world for ten minutes. I think the guy was ok, he was breathing and speaking when the ambulance and police arrived, and whoever he is, I wish him well, and a speedy recovery.
The good, the bad and the ugly, back to back to back, in the space of a night out. Typical!
Plotinus, Greek Philosopher
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