The blond little girl shakes her head in a spastical frenzy, she screams into the mircophone.
The bass player is tumbling thru the railing on the stage down to the crowd. My god what is this?
-This is the band called Be Your Own Pet-
In the mist of this Criss and yours truely is jumping up and down, pogoing down on the italian crowd. Dancing like wasps, well more fighting to the ryhtm as William later called it. We're fumbling around the club, the plastic. A girl grabs my arm, pulls me down and tell me in poor english -You are so tall, you go in back because I can't see- Good God girl this is an electro-punk concert and the front is supposed to be a moshpit! Fuck off! Was my gentle reply.
The week had unrooled pretty nicely before this aswell. Hilarious conversations about bees on strings, dick-jockey's and and english kid going on about something like "I don't fuckin care I'm English, i want a fackin kettle."
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