I’m not sure exactly where the weekend disappeared. As a bloke who generally works from home, I find Bank Holiday Mondays depressingly similar to any other Mondays, jam-packed with work, anxiety and occasional bowls of Fruit and Fibre to keep my strength up. Incidentally, I think there should probably be a Donal McIntyre-type exposé of the prices charged for boxes of cereal. I mean, what does it take to make a cornflake? I’ve no idea how they weave the niacin, riboflavin and corn together to make a wholesome breakfast flake, but I’m sure we’re paying over the odds. Maybe I should start my own cereal manufacturing business, you know, take on Kellogg’s, head-to-head. “Marsden’s Fibre And Fruit”, I could call it. “A tasty blend of wheatgerm and tomatoes.” I can see the adverts now, a cartoon version of myself, stumbling out of bed with a hangover and finding that the milk has gone rancid.

Anyway, when Bob Geldof sang that he didn’t like Mondays, and the rest of his band shouted back “tell me why”, he just repeated himself, saying “I don’t like Mondays”, didn’t he. He didn’t say why he didn’t like Mondays, although I suppose the reasons are fairly obvious – beginning of the working week, intray piled high with tasks to perform, groupies to usher out of the bedroom, sub-Saharan famines to deal with, you know what being the singer of the Boomtown Rats is like. Of course, he was actually singing about a high school massacre, which makes me sound like Alan Partridge misunderstanding the inspiration for “Sunday Bloody Sunday”, but hey, I can live with that. Where was I? Oh yes, Bank Holiday Monday.

I went to see Spearmint playing at the Dublin Castle, famed indie venue of squalor on Parkway, where the bar is always inexplicably rammed solid. Hilariously, they have a distinctly lukewarm review of the place blown up by a factor of 10, framed and stuck on the wall, and even that doesn’t stop people hanging out there. It’s a few doors up from the Jazz Cafe, where you can sit in comparatively pleasant surroundings and dine on pan fried trout, served in a bed of spinach with grilled aubergine, but there’s no chance of sampling anything in a bed of spinach at the Dublin Castle. It’s hot, it’s smoky, it’s loud, it’s dark, it smells, and as such is probably not the best place to spend a fortnight’s holiday this summer. Spearmint had planned a low-key return to the live arena, and it doesn’t get much more low-key that the Dublin Castle. They’d agreed with the promoter that they’d go on last, at 11pm, and play for an hour. After playing for half an hour or so they were stopped by the soundman, and informed that there was another band due to go on. Cue much squaring up to said soundman, shouting in faces and so on. “Well, we’re going to play one more song, in any case” said Shirley, giving the soundman his cue to turn off the PA. Shirl gamely continued to strum, singing off-mic, at which point they shut off the power to the amps. So the whole band just sang the last song a capella, refusing to leave the stage. Rock and roll, eh. In the end they sensed the futility of spending any more time in a shit venue than they needed to, and gave up. A brave attempt, though. The last band came on, and everyone went home. On the way out, I glanced up at a poster advertising bands due to be playing there this week. One night had this stunning line up:

ILIKETRAINS
HOLY FUCK
CATSANDCATSANDCATS

I know I’ve said it before, but I hate bands. I adore music, I hate bands. Except bands I’m playing in, obviously.