Hecklerspray has never been a fan of live gigs. They're always full of those things we hate. You know what we mean, right? They're all over the place wherever you look. What are they called again? Oh – that's it. People.
We're sometimes a bit more tolerant, however. If we're out to see a band or performer we have genuine admiration and respect for, then we're nothing but a bundle of joy and happiness all night long. Bearing that rule in mind, it's probably a good thing that we were nowhere near The Hospital bar in Covent Garden on Tuesday night, as an event took place that would have seen us embark on a rage-filled, blood-splattered frenzy of which that man with the big gun from Predator would have been proud.
Peaches Geldof played a gig.
The teen socialite – a creature whose uselessness is so powerful not even daylight can escape – apparently strapped on a bass guitar and attempted to strum a couple of tunes while mewling out vocals. She was accompanied by a band called Rodnik. You can check out their website here. Someone at Dazed And Confused would probably label them 'ironic bohemian subversives cleverly manipulating established art forms for a new generation'. We'll just settle for 'cunts.' Or possibly 'pointless trust-fund-leeching cunts', if we were feeling creative.
Evidently the audience at the Hospital were on hecklerspray's wavelength. During the course of a three-song set, Peaches – no doubt looking like her usual self, i.e. a gerbil crawling out of the wreckage of a firebombed Ms. Selfridges – forget her lyrics and generally made a shambling mess of herself. The assembled crowd decided that stepping outside to freeze in the present Easter ice age was a better option, and thus the venue vacated itself faster than Heather Mills in a marriage.
Rodnik's reaction? They finished their show by 'trashing their equipment' – something which has definitely never, ever been done by any band ever in the history of rock music. Ever.
Whether Geldof will attempt some sort of comeback remains to be seen. There are plenty of opportunities, though: we're sure that Wembley Civic Centre needs someone to scare the rats away, or alternatively Peachy-babes and the boys could reassemble for a self-help night hecklerspray is organising called 'Things May Be Bad Right Now, But Just Thank The Weeping Baby Christ You're Not One Of These Worthless Dullards.'
Failing that, she could always fall back on her usual routine – hanging around Shoreditch bars, expecting everyone within a ten-metre radius to suddenly spin around, drop their drink in amazement and scream 'oh my god, it's you, it's really you!'.
We're not going to look, okay, sweetheart? We're just not.
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