rock the apocalypse ·
22 September 04

I hate Bryan Adams. I think he’s crap. OK, I lie, I may, secretly like a few songs, ah come on, everyone has bad songs they like, no matter what they say. I bet everyone that reads this likes Bare Necessities or the Cookie Monster song. Don’t llie you bastards! I seen you swinging that arse.

Sleeping didn’t occur until around, I would say, 6 or 7 in the morning. I thought it was Sunday when I woke up, but it is in fact Saturday. I’m paranoid and petrified about time at the moment. I have no idea of it, what times is when, what day is today, tomorrow or yesterday. Old age hits you pretty fast at 24.

We were in a car. I had left my cousins up North, and we were headed back to London. On the way back, I saw a sign which said,

“Metallica: Live at the Greenhorn Pub”

So, I asked the guys to stop at the pub, as I wanted to see what this was about. I didn’t expect Ulrich and Co to make an appearance at a pub on the motorway, so I had every idea that this would be a tribute band of some sort, perhaps called Metallica: Tribute Inc, but they felt they coudl get away with chalking Metallica on the board. Cheeky bastards.

The pub itself was tiny from the outside. The sort of place where you only see old people drinking. Aside from the battered old car we had, for some reason a blue Reliant Robin (if you don’t know what this is, note the picture below), there were about two other cars and a couple of people clearing the parking lot of leaves.

“Y’all be best to leave ‘ere, pally” one of them said, approaching me. His left eye was severely swollen, his eyeball close to popping out. He twisted it around his eye socket like some sort of chameleon, and hanging over that eye was a cocktail umbrella stiched to his eyebrow, no doubt to protect the eye. His hair was grey and stringy, the forehead receding, and his ears sprouting tufts of hairy bushes from the canal. As he spoke, he sneered, revealing his yellow, damaged teeth. Patches of black, dark yellow and even a luminous green were present, he seemed unable to sneer completely; as if one side of his mouth had been paralysed due to an accident, perhaps the same one that popped his eye out as it sat in the socket.

The skin on his hands was quite vile, in part peeling, revealing raw, new reddened skin; in part old, skin, which seemed glued with dirt, layer upon layer, in patches across his sands. His hands looked as if they belonged to the undead. The clothes he wore were no better, harking back to an age where men dug in their allotments in synthetic garb to keep warm, and underneath wearing jumpers their mother knitted for them. Underneath his jacket, however I was surprised as instead of a jumper, he wore a top which had the words, “Naughty Girl – Teen Sensation”.

I took a step back, out of caution and told the guys to go into the pub. I waved the guy away as he stared at us going in. As I looked back I saw him strangling his colleague, who had blood coming out his mouth, I thought nothing of it and made my way inside.

I just noticed the tiny amps and speakers that had been set up. It’s the sort of equipment you can get for cheap, which was the equivalent of hearing it on your sound system at home. Still, I kept the faith as the guys and I stood with expectancy.

The pub was like the Tardis in Dr Who. On the outside it was tiny, but inside it was a lot bigger. There was a makeshift stage set up, raised on a platform the height of an eight-year old. There was glitter and tinsle hanging all over the place, and big banner saying, “Welcome Metallica”. There was a crowd of people inside, all metalers, some had brought their pristinely dressed girlfriends, who looked excited at the prospect of what they were going to experience, but frightened at the possibility that their clothes may get dirty, they may break a nail, or, God frobid, they may be pushed or touched by “other people”. I turned back to the stage and stared at what looked like an amateur night stage set. It was like being at the school dance, except Metallica would apparently be playing. They didn’t have lights which dimmed. The guy’s and I moved towards the front, where the pit would be, and stood anxiously. The lights in the hall in which we stood went out, and the lights on the stage went on.

A guitar strummed, the spotlight came on to where the microphone stood. Everyone cheered, the guitar strummed again. The cheering increased, the sound was deafing, but not from the crowd rather than the guitar. I just noticed the tiny amps and speakers that had been set up. It’s the sort of equipment you can get for cheap, which was the equivalent of hearing it on your sound system at home. Still, I kept the faith as the guys and I stood with expectancy. The guitar began to play a familiar melody, but it wasn’t Metallica. I knew then, when the others looked at me, that it wasn’t who we thought it would be.
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It was that Canadian whore, the man who sang about wanting Robin Hood’s testicles, and put to number one the world over, the ultimate song about gay love; it was Bryan Adams.

“I got my first real six-string…”

Oh dear God, he was going to play “Summer of ‘69”, perhaps a defining moment when people commit sucidide. I had heard a rumour, that before you die, when you take your own life, that is the song your way to hell. We had, very obviously, mistakingly fallen into hell. The crowd watched and stared, movement was non-existent, and the only thing could be heard was that prancing fairy and his guitar from the cheap-me-do speakers. Everyone looked at each other, I heard people asking to be pinched. People were ready to rush the stage, as Adam’s face looked back at the crowd acknowledging their hatred towards him. The sweat ran down his face, as he wiped his perspired hands on to his 30 year old T-Shirt, stating,

“Bryan Adams – Rock Legend”

Suddenly more people came on stage, and the crowd cheered. It was Metallica, but where was Hatfield? No where to be seen, and everyone wondered if this really was the end of Metallica. Not only had they sold out musically, and tried to reach a mass audience of plebicistes to convert to their newly found desire to make rock music that makes Babylon Zoo seem heavy. Then he came, sporting a white leather jacket, a feather bower in hair, and dark purple lipstick. The beard and tash had gone, and instead we witnessed the miracles of blusher. Hatfield hi-fived Adams, as I looked at the guys in confusion, the crowd started cheering hysterical. They were happy, they didn’t care, they would follow these guys even if they became a pop act and did renditions of “The Spice Girls Greatest Hits”. They were sheep, just our fucking luck.

We went towards the back, and just watched the world pass by throught the windows. As we sat down, Hatfield and Adams were dueting the Robin Hood song, and we essentially gave up. After the set had finished, the promised to rturn after a break. Everyone sat down, row by row, line by line. It was all quite bizarre. We sat down with the crowd, next to a couple of the pretty girls and a guy they were with. It happened, unfortunately, to be the only place available.

We had, very obviously, mistakingly fallen into hell. The crowd watched and stared, movement was non-existent, and the only thing could be heard was that prancing fairy and his guitar from the cheap-me-do speakers.

I asked my younger cousin to give me his mobile as I wanted to take a few pictures. He did so, and told me that every picture cost 60 pence. I took one picture and returned to him. The picture was that of the ceiling; a dirty, washed out ceiling, which had the obvious stains and yellowing of cigarette smoke latched on to it. It looked like moouldy crud. The girl next to me asked if she could take a picture. I told her no, as it cost 60 pence for every picture.

For some bizarre reason, I now had bag and in it was my camera. I took it out and started to take pictures of the place, of the people of the set as we waited, what felt like hours, for the band to return. The girl asked again, and again I refused. This time letting her know it was my camera, and my decision what I did with it. She disappeared in hissy fit, much to my happiness.

Things began to darken, suddenly the two girls with the guy, along with us and somehow shifted to the very back of the hall. Everyone in front of us began to get up slowly, lethargically and turned towards us. In our hands were light guns, the type you see at arcades. We pointed and aimed at the crowd and pressed the triggers. Pieces of flesh fell of the crowd victims; hair sliced off; slabs of skin dripped with blood.

As we all started to shoot rapidly one woman was getting closer to me. She wore a smart outfit, with a skirt and a blazer. I shot her twice in the face, to reveal the dried flesh underneath her skin. I put my mouth to her ear and said,

“What’s you’re name?”
“Excuse me?”
“I asked what your name was”
“It’s Julia”
“Ok cool”

I took my mouth away from ear and shot her in the skull and watched her crumple to the floor. The guys had moved back to a room which led to a roof we could slide down to get to the car. Our accompanying guests began to turn, looking worse for wear, as the light guns were now actual weapons, and with the Uzi in hand I began to shoot repeatedly at the heads, and in particular the pristine people, who were no longer looking pristine.

The guys jumped through an open window, slid down the roof and got the car ready, shouting for me to hurry up. I turned around to run, slipped and got up. The crowd began to run speedily towards until I stopped, and they stopped. I turned round, and agnrily shouted at them,

“ZOMBIES DON’T FUCKING RUN!”

I turned back towards the window, and got out, as I turned back to see the undead, they were now walking, albeit in a crippled fashion, much to my agreement. I got in the car, our stunning blue Reliant Robin and sped away to a bright, multicoloured archway. As we crossed the archway, I realised we were safe. We were now in Jellybaby land.