Whisky, bikini girls, and the strangest bar in Rhyl combined forces to produce what was allegedly a night out at the twice-monthly Breeding Ground shindig.
The “pre-drinks” whisky did its job admirably, numbing me just enough to survive The Lorne and The Swan. By the time we actually reached the Breeding Ground, I was already halfway to being gently embalmed. This may explain why I’m fairly sure I saw girls in bikinis parading around with machine guns. Either that, or the whisky had finally started writing its own diary entries.
The first two bands kindly sobered me up by being aggressively bland. Hooper and the other lot (who apparently robbed a crime scene for their white suits) might benefit from an intensive drinking workshop with Chris Yates. With luck, they’d pick up a few tips on passion, energy, or at the very least how to look like they care.
The aforementioned Mr Yates and his band Pocket Venus, as tradition demands, screamed their way through a set that absolutely should have stirred the crowd but mostly didn’t — until the grand finale, when a drunk man leapt on stage to play air guitar with an actual guitar. Yates was heard shouting, “Good to see someone’s making a fucking effort,” which honestly doubled as the night’s official review. If you see this band in future, do try to make a fucking effort — they’re worth 45 minutes of your increasingly limited time on Earth.
We wrapped up in a subterranean bar next to the venue — a deeply questionable establishment run by a deeply drunk barman called Huey. By this point I was also doing an excellent impression of a drunk person. Then again, so was absolutely everyone else.
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