The first Hand Job gig was a happening. Off the main drag, half-hidden down a narrow alley, up a left-turn staircase and into The Chameleon. Scatters of people. Say hello to the ones you know. Sit down, drink coffee, this could be okay. More people. Tick-tock. Miggy doesn’t need a mic. Sings a poem. More people. Miggy stops singing it, says come in, sings again. Stop. Hubbub of fag-break, grab a drink. Narrow alley buzz. It’s easy to talk. No glue of type. Difference = exchange. More people. I blame Sophie and Jim. Start a zine. Do it yourself. Do it because you want to. Open palm no ego, listen say share print. Alley, bar, a room above, full. This story doesn’t tell you how to feel. Question. Mirror mirror on the wall… is that me? I can’t lie. Someone shows a story falling, the end for now. Stop. Go outside for a smoke. Never met you before but I’m listening. Miggy yells it, we’re on again. Inside, a band is playing. If I close my eyes this is still here, off the main drag half-hidden down a narrow alley up a left-turn staircase. Someone knocks into me, two-steps crab-walk. This dancing is careless. This music is loud. I’m looking, and she laughs.
The next Hand Job gig: 16/4/16.