Psicle: We aren't the mods

Meeting Bruce in sunny St Pancras we decide to eat al fresco rather than sit in a stuffy cafe and armed with sarnie, samosas and four cans of Polish lager we sit out in the little square near Drummond Street opposite the pub. Are lagers are decanted into Stella and wine glasses to blend into the post office crowd. Bruce is so far impressed with the London Costcutter prices and frugality of the evening. Then it's up to Kentish Town to meet our chums at the Assembly House pub which is packed. Eventually Pete, Simon, Olly and Cameron arrive buying rounds the latter then hotfooting it down to town to find his mate. Young uns. Don't ask. We wander up to the Forum just in time to catch the start of the hotly anticipated Steve Ignorant's Slice Of Life. He's ditched the post punk wall of noise rowdiness that was the brilliant Crass and gone all folky on us. I guess you got to move on, or back as it seems. The band are good, guitar, bass, keys, and it's sort of novel to have a mild folk group with a still very shouty and angry vocalist. His lyrics are cutting and funny and mostly very true. Steve's lost none of the energy of old. But a few songs in the novelty wears off and without a hard edged backing band the forcefully delivered lyrics lose their edge. However he goes down pretty well and we all give him a good sending off at the end. Back to the Norfolk lifeboat team I assume. A quick toilet and bar break and the dance floor has filled up for the Sleaford Mods. It's a good mixed crowd here with all sorts of ages and fashions. Not just older men which I was a bit worried about given the age of the Sleamods. The Mods make for a strange stage show. The guy who must write the music and program the sound machine just stands on the left hand side with his arms crossed looking nonchalant throughout the set. I think he went forward a couple of times to press the start button but that looked about it. On the other hand our singer is all over the shop giving it is all shouting over the techno dancy indie beats. To be honest the intensity and presence of the singer sort of makes you forget about the music until you realise that you're jigging about. And then you realise that jigging about a bit doesn't do the show justice and eventually we all ended up creeping forward until ensconced in the fairly civilised mosh pit. The music is raw and the singing more so. It is a throwback to Crass and their angry shouting with similarly political and social commentary lyrics. The intensity of our singer adds to the electric atmosphere as he alternately grips onto the mic stand or paces about with a nervous rubbing of his head repetitively. Whether an act or not it certainly gives you the feeling that he's on the edge and makes for a heady joyful bordering on dangerous vibe. A couple of surfers are hauled over the barriers by security - I'm not sure how the Sleafords take to people invading their stage and thankfully we don't find out as the culprits are marched off stage left. A lucky escape if the band don't like others on their stage. The gig is great and everyone seems to love them. All too soon they're off and after a brief encore the singer leaves with the musician taking photos of us all. After regrouping from the four corners of the dance floor I then manage to lose everyone en route to the pub cos I stop to chat to a Crass T shirt wearing punter. Reunited at the not so old Bull and Gate (at least it's had a not so welcome face lift) we chat away until firstly Pete then Simon sensibly depart. The rest of us are chatting too much to each other and strangers and miss the last tube which is unforgivable and Bruce and I make it back to Balham by bus and taxi following a drunk girls can't decide whether to get in the taxi situation which is par for London. We stay up late supping tea and chatting about the evening.

Feeling fragile the next day I cycle up to Simon's to go see Dulwich Hamlet thrash the Vickers (VCD Athletic) opposition 5-2 with a pretty good crowd of 2,000 which ain't bad for a non league club and four times anyone else in their division yesterday. Lovely and sunny and a couple of pints sorts out any post night blues. Olly comes over in the evening to drink chat and see the end of England's rugby humiliation. Ha. Sunday is the annual Glastonbury festival ticket farce and after not getting them last year it's in trepidation that I'm repeated hitting the refresh button across a range of devices and window. Luckily Prof Melvin does the business and I find out that others have tickets too. Should be a good one. A beautiful day so I cycle round Tooting Common with Jack before settling down to watch Arsenal completely dominate Manure. Sorry Olly. More enjoyable than the rugby.