Well this is where I should be waxing lyrically about the success of our weekend of playing at being part time promoters.
Instead I'm going to review the gigs separately from the events that surrounded the Friday evening so that I don't taint the exceptional performances with the loathing I'm feeling.
How honest does anyone want this?
Here's the deal.
Kelly and myself book a legend to perform for us.
Glen Matlock played a pivotal role in the Sex Pistols, a band that people to this day claim to have had a seismic effect on modern music as we know it.
He has also played with everyone from Iggy Pop to Primal Scream and more recently The Faces.
A sure fire draw for a venue that only holds 100 people and is situated in the arse end of feckin nowheresville.
People should be biting our arms off to get to see this gig.
In support we had Tragic City Thieves, Filthy Little Secret, Zoe Lewis and a special appearance of Billy Liar.
If anyone cared to check them out then I'm sure that they would be impressed.
However we didn't consider that if we mentioned Glens name then people would magically come along.
Instead we worked our socks off to promote the show.
Posters were designed and printed off and then put up everywhere, the local press ran a bit on page three that was eye catching, and I think people who know me on the social networking sites must have been sick of my continued updates and reminders of the show.
All the bands involved pulled their weight in promoting it to. All of them are beyond criticism.
The venue itself pulled all the stops out. Beefing up their PA and getting in an outstanding young guy on the sound desk was the least of their efforts.
This was text book promotion work.
No angle was missed and everyone involved went above and beyond the call of duty.
Then on the night hardly anyone turned up and left Kelly and myself out of pocket to the tune of £700.
£700 that we don't have.
As the night itself went from bad to worse attendance wise, and then ultimately financially went down like the Titanic I felt physically sick.
There was a hollow sensation in the pit of my stomach that I have never felt before.
I looked over at my girlfriend and when she asked how bad it was and I told her she went white.
Stress lines are now probably permanently marked on her lovely wee face.
This was as bad as it gets.
We scrambled about, rushed out and cleared our bank accounts, and I mean literally cleaned them out leaving us with nothing, friends rallied around and provided loans, and the venue itself stumped up cash to to cover the costs so that we could honour our financial agreement with the band.
That's what you do. There were no contracts, but they had my word and sometimes in life that is all you have. Your word.
What it comes down to is that Glen Matlock and his band honoured their side of the agreement, and maybe even more with a set that no one is likely to forget.
So we had to honour our side. No question about it.
The thing is that while I appreciate all the the people who did attend, and fully understand the reasons why others couldn't. I still feel a great sense of loathing for all the pricks who bleat and moan that nothing ever happens here, and then don't get off their arses to go when there is entertainment of this quality is laid on for them.
This is the bit that I'm struggling to keep bottled up.
Where were all the Pistols fans, music fans, etc?
All the so called punks that I see on a weekly basis strutting up and down the town?
The people who did have the time and money to support the gig.
I've lost count of the times that individually people have approached me since Friday to say that people get the music scene that they deserve.
So I guess Kilmarnock can go back to rock covers bands for free in the corner of a pub, or the obligatory acoustic warbler on an open mic night.
Maybe we don't even deserve that and karaoke will be the highlight for us all.
That's if we can actually manage to pull ourselves away from Britains got the x factor on ice in ballgowns.
My loathing doesn't just extend to these people though.
The apathetic complainers who talk the talk, but fail to walk the walk.
I'm also pissed off with all the young punky guys and gals who hang about on a Saturday in the town centre.
They can manage to shell out £40 odd quid for the latest Kerrang cover star playing in a shed like arena.
Dig deep and cover their travelling costs, even buy some drink and then spend £60 on merch.
They will also wear Sex Pistols t-shirts and have Pistols bags to carry whatever they carry in them, but they can't go and see one play.
In fact they can't go to fuck all unless a mainstream magazine has given the band a sort of seal of approval first.
Fuckin sheeple. Every single one of them.
In fact the can't even manage to drag they skinny black denim encased arses to see four band playing for a fiver in a venue that is within spitting distance of where they pose....I mean congregate.
Am I angry. Of course I fuckin' am.
Angry, embarrassed and skint.
I had to sit across a table from Glen Matlock and apologize that no one seemed to give enough of a fuck to see him after saying earlier that I expected to sell the small venue out.
I have to look into the hollow eyes of my girlfriend and assume some responsibility for this debacle.
I also have to borrow money from my son to survive until pay day.
How does anyone think that makes me feel? I'm borrowing cash to survive from someone who should be dependent on me to look after him.
This was as monumental a fuck up as they come and the finger of blame can only be pointed at those who wallow in their own apathy.
All you armchair fans are a bunch of cunts. Keep moaning, but we aint listening to you.
It's true. If you aint part of the solution you're part of the problem.
One last thing as food for thought. My girlfriend and myself did these gigs as a non profit making venture, a sort of hobby.
We wanted to bring the best talent to our town for people to enjoy and weren't even looking for a slice of the pie.
Everyone who failed to turn up due to no genuine reason at all may as well have just lined up and spat in our faces.