...... but anyway, read on.
'hi james, this is glen from glasswerk. i'm meant to be reviewing Mr Fogg but i'm at the venue now and they don't have me on any guestlists. if you could get back in touch i'd appreciate it'
twenty five minutes past seven and i'm stood outside Bar Academy Islington cursing the PR guy that was meant to be sorting tonight out, i've just hung up after leaving a message on his mobile and the only sense of relief is that i actually had the foresight to print out the email he'd sent earlier which thankfully had a phone number on, for all the good it did me.
and this isn't even the start of my grievances, it was only by chance that i thought to check out who the other support acts would be, only to find that Mr Fogg actually was the support, the first support on, which was not mentioned in any of the mail-outs or correspondence, not even when i checked that i was definitely down to review it that morning, so i reckon that since doors opened at 7, that Mr Fogg will likely be on in about five minutes.
i fire off a quick text incase he's one of those people that doesn't answer calls from numbers they don't recognise and hope that i hear back soon as we retreat to the kooky homeware shop downstairs that i had already dragged my girlfriend away from once, partly because the sale on the house hasn't gone through just yet and i insist on not buying anything for it too soon, but mostly because i didn't want to be late for the artist i was supposed to be reviewing.
she nonchalantly looks at teapots and tea cups and fluffy wall mounted animal heads while i continue brooding and cursing the PR guy, i apologise for having dragged her out, spending money on travel and a subway each unnecessarily when we really should be saving our money for the mortgage and for the house instead of making wasted trips to Islington, she hardly seems too bothered, and i wish the salt and pepper grinders she is looking at had the same calming effect on me as it seems to for her.
after a once around the shop, a little more brooding and cursing and a little more apologising i decide that i might as well give the old, 'i'm on the guestlist' routine one last futile attempt before we go, perhaps they had misspelt my surname or something, clutching at straws before we called it a night.
lo and behold, did the guy on the desk recognise me from earlier and mutter something about having the guestlist arrive now, printing off my tickets and handing them over, i didn't ask for a full explanation of events as Mr Fogg had already started and i had to call over to my girlfriend to get her over here and in the venue before she got distracted by any other shops.
so i'm in, Mr Fogg is pretty much exactly what i expected him to be, it's a shame there aren't more people to witness his one man fiddly little electronics show, it is uplifting and engaging, but it is still early and only barely more than a handfull of people mingle about, not daring to cross the invisible barrier and get too close to the stage, and i think how there would have been two less people here enjoying it if i hadn't decided to give it another go on the door, it was only pure chance considering that i hadn't heard back from anybody at all.
it would be an hour and a half later when i get a text proclaiming 'fucks sake, sorry mate, here's james number.......', not only an hour and a half later but an hour after the guy i was meant to be reviewing had left the stage, but i was in somehow, and that was what mattered, but the irony was not lost on me when Mr Fogg played his last song, 'this is called Answerphone'.....
'give me a call, you will not get my answerphone'
Mr Fogg by mrfogg
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