So, what should happen last night but John and I, floating on down to the Moth Ball. Having just previously been through some witty episode at the Moustache Bar in Stoke Newington. Many-a-whiskey already downed, I forget what was funny and can only recall talking about a boy with a moth tattooed between his shoulder blades. Here, the Death Head Moth…
It was goin on, the Moth Ball, along at the George Tavern. Do you frequent the George?
Other end of Jubilee Street, and the great and the grotty of Whitechapel had turned out in force to welcome a beat hero, national bard, groover, raver, an ad-minister of poetic justice, hipster in jeans skinnier than all my friend’s, Ladies and Gentlemen I went out to see John Cooper Clarke…
And very entertaining he is, too. If he passes through your town, I can highly recommend that you get on to http://www.wegottickets.com/ whatever to see him play.
Here, I recall a limerick of his which he performed:
“There was a young man from Lea,
Who once got stung by a wasp,
When asked ‘Did it Hurt?’ he said ‘No’,
It can do it again if it wants.“
We liked that. I also enjoyed his proclamation that “Necessity is the Mother of Invention. Not Frank Zappa, as some have said, recently.” See, John’s a very funny man. He rapped about the Queen Mother, railed against STDs. At one point, John couldn’t read his lines so some pretentious socialite took to the stage with a candelabra, T-Shirt V going down to his fucking bellybutton. He leans in to John, offering him a light.
“What, are we struggling for electricity in Whitechapel or something?” quips back John. Quick as a ferret, razor sharp like a ferret’s teeth.
He finished with Chicken Town. “Is this Chicken Town round here?” asked John. Half cut at this point, I remember muttering something about it only being Halal. Photographs of that dead man behind the bar. Pauline was out in force. Free cocktail and plenty of ale. Spiderwebs hanging from the ceiling lights and the columns of the George. A hilarious event all round.
And out back, at the end, he comes out, surrounded by a gaggle of girls – Blonde, fake-leopard skin fur coat – young enough to know better. And it’s John Cooper Clarke himself, he’s asking me for a Ukranian cigarette. And a light. Wanting to know where we come from. Other end of the street mate. So as we’re leaving the Tavern, he flashes “That’ll be an expensive taxi then boys…”.
A lovely end to a rather lovely night.