I was at a festival the other day and we went to see the Llanyfairathcramalamdingodongwhoopwhoopdatsdasoundofdapoliceisit male voice choir but they were ill so they called in a favour from their golf buddies the manic street preachers.
It was a pretty decent set, the Manics played their greatest hits and a couple of more obscure numbers. According to one official Manics expert (TM) who has been to see them seven times, it wasn't their best but still pretty good. But I don't want to talk about the music or the new guitarist who was hiding in the corner like a bold puppy, no I want to talk about Mr Nicky Wire.
Mr Wire pranced on stage like a bass wielding leprechaun sixth former, he minced up to a feather boa draped mic stand wearing very tight trousers with goofy red trainers and a black blazer with shiny little epaulettes, not quite the mychemicalromance hussar jobbies but getting close and he did pay tribute to the sartorial genius that is Adam Ant in another way.
He had flopy red hair, red like a jaffa cake muffin that you've just vomited up leaving a 20 foot streak on the side of a p&o ferry, although I'm not sure he had that in mind when he picked the colour. He had black eye liner and lots of black eye shadow which gave him a bit of a sad panda look although this was somewhat mitigated by the glittery warpaint stripes he had across his cheeks.
He spent most of the gig prancing, posing, strutting, leaping, gyrating and generally gymnasticating about like someone who is really too old for this kind of behaviour. A man of his age should really be having a nice sit down with some slippers and biscuits I mean the man must be about 40 or something.
But on the other hand he thinks the Killers are shit.
He's my new role model