On Sunday night I went to see Pere Ubu play at the Islington Academy. The Islington Academy isn’t a noted seat of learning, it’s a shitty, corporate, lager-sponsored venue in a horrible entertainment complex not far from Angel tube station. I’d been there once before, about 2 years ago, to see Pere Ubu, which I think was the case for the majority of people there: I walked in, and saw roughly the same faces that were at the last gig. It was as if I’d watched that gig, popped out for two years to do a bit of work, go on holiday a few times, watch some TV and play a bit of music, and then sauntered back in to find the crowd just hanging around, waiting for Pere Ubu to come back and do an encore.

On the way to the gig, I saw something very odd going on outside that awful bar right next to Kings Cross Thameslink station. There was a gaggle of drinkers standing around looking puzzled, and amidst them were two people – a man and a woman – in St John’s Ambulance uniform. The man had a plaster across his nose, and looked wild-eyed and panic-stricken. I then noticed that the St John’s Ambulancewoman had her leg wedged in the railings along the pavement outside the bar. The man was shouting at passers-by to keep moving; the passers-by largely failed to comply with the request, possibly because they were pondering – as I was – how on earth a St John’s Ambulancewoman had managed to get her leg wedged in some railings, and how a St John’s Ambulanceman was planning to sort it out. It quickly became clear what his plan was: to use all the skills he had acquired during his training as a medical practitioner to twat her leg really hard in an effort to dislodge it. This failed, and only served to distress the St John’s Ambulancewoman further. So he took a few paces back across the bus lane, ran towards her and booted her knee with his foot. “Aaaaaaagh”, she yelled. “What?” he shouted, “I’m trying to get your bloody leg out!” “Yeah, well, don’t kick it so hard!” wailed the St John’s Ambulancewoman. He ignored her. He turned, and paced back out further into the road, holding up traffic with his hand. Now, you can’t hold up traffic on the Pentonville Road unless you have a certain amount of authority. If you’re a dishevelled St Johns Ambulanceman with a plaster across your nose, you fall way, way short. The traffic screeched to a halt, and at least three cars started to sound a continuous blast on their horns. He screamed at them, pointing at his shirt sleeve. “I’ve got a f*cking badge, you know!” he screeched, before taking a 30 yard run up, and landing a colossal blow on this woman’s leg, which sprang free of the railings. I couldn’t quite believe what I’d been watching, and I haven’t entirely discounted the possibility that it was some kind of stunt being filmed for some shit programme on Bravo TV or something. But they were still there, 3 minutes later, standing outside the bar, talking to a few remaining spectators. What on earth was going on?

Pere Ubu were excellent.

I had my first ever cover story yesterday, in the Independent’s pull-out section. Some 2700 words about queueing, which, after consultation with my editor, was spelt throughout the piece as “queueing”, although on the front cover they’d spelt it “queuing”. Oh well. There were lots of pictures of me in queues, including this familiar pose: