The day after and with a gut made of rot and eyes watering we took a trip back to Sheffield. Yep Knife and fork town, the seven hills, Bleepville. What evs you want to name it we returned to recapture a slice of the past and see what the future’s done to it.
After wheezing around Kings Cross attempting to find the choo choo, we boarded and spent the first half of the journey berating the other members of our carriage, who appeared to be experiencing similar ‘difficulties’ to ourselves. Stumbling, cursing, sweating, sitting on each other - it was like a crap panto without any of the songs or cross dressing all carrying on in a confined space. If they weren’t hungover, they must have been totally
STOOOOOPPPPPID.
The first night of our little sojourn a la la Sheffeel was spent in the beery bosom of the soon-to-be
Mr and Mrs Sleaze. They treated us right well, cooking us nosh and flooding our bellies with
Becks. Top larks all round and, following a venture to the Shakespeare boozer and the obligatory shots, it ended in their front room warbling about how shit everything is. Right on. Other highlights? A gargantuan fry up, putting an entry in their ‘log book’ (and the bog), the fridge with an eerie growl. And we slept in the ‘royal suite’ (a lovely bedroom with a picture of Princess Di’s face stuck to the front).
Plus we heard some shit by Fol Chen offa the brilliantly named Asthmatic Kitty records. Check them
here.
The day after and with the second installation of the hangover really beginning to bite we ended up following our fry up with a three course Sunday lunch. Meat, meat and more fucking meat. Black pudding, Yorkshire puds, stuffing, pork pies, crackling, bread and butter pudding. All the artery clogging was hammered home by a few pints and numerous cig breaks. I felt like Henry VIII must have done following a royal jelly blow out.
As the day got weary and was super-subbed by night, Sunday turned into a classic Steel City evening. The vibe reeled us into getting pissed at the
Wig and Pen. Cue feeling young and like we’d gate crashed someone else’s party plus a soundtrack from Sheffield stalwarts and purveyors of all tings bleepy, Pipes and
Duckenfield. It was capped off by an intense sing/dance off til about daylight’s little fingers began poking through the curtains. Props to the Pig, Marissa, Nicko, Mark Andy and Vicky. It was a real rumpus...
