Crouched next to me is Obo-Bobo, with camera, waiting for that perfect moment, the rest of us are sat in seats, our own cameras poised.
If it wasn't for that cunting website, the first few rows here would be empty. I guess if it wasn't there, there'd still be people here, but count them.
Oop, the girl on stage has an accordian, last time I saw this mob there was a scrawny female keyboard player, now abroad, shush.
Its like chaos, a hard-hatted building site with patterns slowly emerging.
My favourite self-penned Wintergreen anecdote involves Linn Products, the hi-fi manufacturer, they were working on the in-car stereo for the Aston Martin DB9, and the engineering chap (me) left a Wintergreen CD in the player and for a few months everyone in the work shop was listening to it all the time. We won awards you know.
I, for one, am overwealmed by how many photographers there are snapping this mob. But unless they're tagged up, on flickr, it counts for shit.
Its all about tags.
Fuck that shit.
No matter what happens.
Its all about tags and links
Peanut
Robbie is wearing shorts.
Paul on the row behind.
Toffle mighty pissed off and I'm so drunk I can hardly write, but strangely I can photojournalise so far into funk land that my soul is on fire.
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