This was supposed to be a review of the Distorted Truth gig in Pivo Pivo, but my evening didn't really go as planned.
So instead if I was to keep a diary then I suppose this is what I would have filled it with.
Some days you have to look at the flow of humanity and question where we are going.
Underneath Central Stations Guinness record breaking glass ceiling you could be forgiven for thinking that in the vast expanse of space it would hold a microcosm of the whole world.
All of the weird and wonderful could press shoulders with the everyday and the mundane.
Yet when I arrive all I can see is predominately three different groups of people.
There's the nine to fivers looking worn down and killing time till they can get home and shut the world out.
Wage slaves of which I am one.
Then there's the people who have fallen through the cracks of society and are looking to find something to get them through the night into the next day.
It could be fifty pence for a cup of tea, or a couple of pounds that they can put towards whatever their chosen oblivion provider is.
Hanging about, and adding sizeably to the throng, are the tribal kids.
Look at us! We are all so different in our uniformity.
There's nothing wrong with their naivety.
They're just filling time between the innocence of youth and the reality of adulthood.
Is this really it though?
Between birth and death is this really all we can be?
Of all the sparks of electricity firing inside our heads and carrying ideas and dreams from one place to another is this the sum of our efforts?
Thank fuck FOPP was still open and its array of what is the end product of creativity could distract me for a while and lift me from the edge of the pit of despair that I sometimes hover over.
The box set of War Child seven inch singles I picked up was the perfect dark cloud buster.
Fifteen singles featuring artists covering a classic with the original version being on the b-side.
Now that what I call a result.
Kelly set her sights on the limited edition metal box set of AC/DCs Black Ice album and quickly secured one.
A nice purchase that if I was flush with cash I would have grabbed myself.
I'm sure that some would ask why a man of my age would want a CD that comes in a metal tin with some stickers, a plectrum and a large flag?
I would ask why a man of my age wouldn't want one?
Wetherspoons provided a cheap meal for us in the gap between the shops closing and the gig starting.
It really is the poor man's version of dining out.
My southern fried chicken wrap with chips is as exotic as my finances stretch it seems.
The gig wasn't really a normal gig at all and instead was doubling up as a surprise twenty first birthday party for Glasgow punk Lisa Vermin.
I'd like to say I know her, but I have only ever spoken to her maybe twice in passing.
Lovely girl though, and it was heart warming to see that people care enough for someone to make the effort to arrange a whole gig just for them.
No one does that unless the person is rather special.
Lovely really, and a good example of what the punk scene should be, but often isn't.
Met a young guy at the gig.
He had the punk uniform of tartan bondage trousers, sleeveless band shirt et al, but I was pleasantly surprised when we started chatting and he revealed himself to be open minded in general about music and life itself.
It was refreshing to meet someone of such tender years who fundamentally got what punk is.
He could learn some old dogs some new tricks.
He works down south on yachts because it's the job he wants and feels passionate about.
I suspect no one will steam roller him into fitting a tidy box to suit their expectation.
Buzzbomb were as good as I expected them to be.
Between the three guys in the band they can vocally cover anything you want. From melodic pop punk in the style of The Ramones to some bone crunching rock.
It's all down with a great deal of energy and the covers of Sonic Reducer and Halloween were given a bit of a slap and delivered at 100mph.
My enjoyment of them was impacted on a bit by a growling stomach pain that was becoming increasingly distracting as they played.
When they finished I made a bee line for the toilets and lets just say that is anyone has the number for the Chernobyl clean up crew then can they pass it on to Pivo Pivo.
It's entirely possible that my anus looks like a gunshot wound.
I could have left the gig at this juncture, but big Kyle Thunder of Filthy Little Secret and The Bucky Rage had told me I really need to see Alkotron so many times that I felt obligated to hang about.
I'm glad I did.
Starting off with an instrumental in the vein of the Shadows, albeit a Shadows without Cliff and featuring a thumping bass line.
After that it was a case of all bets were off.
Sometimes it sounded like JJ Burnell on bass and David Gilmour on guitar.
On a couple of songs I was taken back to the leafy glades of Glastonbury where out of my face on Gorbachovs I'd dance to extended dub reggae jams bathed in strobe lights.
There's really no point in trying to pigeon hole the band as that's not what they are about.
Their whole set just screams an appreciation of music.
It's an aural magical mystery tour of excellence.
Highly recommended to the open minded.
Then my guts started to issue a four minute warning again and after another major evacuation I decided that leaving was a better idea that ruining Lisa's party.
I have no doubt that Splinter and Distorted Truth would have continued the evening in fine style.