Richard Hawley

Tonight, my nebulous plan to go to a gig in Clermont was realised with fellow assistant Sarah as we took the last train south to go and see Richard Hawley at the Coopérative de Mai. I had almost decided not to go, but suddenly discovered that Sarah is a massive fan of the guy, thereby finding another reason to fritter my money away.

We took the tram to the Coopérative, a newly-built concrete monolith comprised of concert spaces of various sizes. Despite being imposing from the outside, our particular little room was very cosy, and had the ambience of a much more well-established and slightly less commercial venue - a feeling reinforced by the support act, a couple of London girls called "The Smoke Fairies" who got the crowd going with a series of deliciously haunting and rootsy indie foot-stompers.

Richard Hawley, Pulp alumnus and now an accomplished solo artist, took to the stage in a fifties get-up, all leather-jacketed and Brylcreemed. For those who don't know, Hawley's music is a curious mix of guitar-laden psychedelia and Rockabilly-esque love songs, all delivered with sweaty enthusiasm by him and his band. In between the tunes he entertained the few English speakers in the audience with token rock-star tales of LSD and broken hearts, while the largely Francophone crowd made do with the occasional "merci" at the end of a track.

We left the concert in high spirits, and whiled away the minutes until the tram back to town by playing a typically bizarre game of "Would You Rather." ("Permanently hairy fingernails or no nipples?") Eventually we got back to the centre of town, and we soon stumbled upon a tiny bar which was heaving with jovial people. It was a long, narrow space with a vaulted ceiling, and at the far end a band of about twenty was playing a lively Balkan fanfare. Fuelled by an endless stream of Oktoberfestbier from behind the bar, I quickly joined in the dancing, throwing myself at any French lady who would dance with me (answer: all of them).

It is at this point in the evening that my memory becomes foggy, but I can vaguely remember meeting an eighteen year old girl, who was there to watch her father play in the band along with her thirty-seven year old boyfriend, who took great pride in exposing himself to me while slurring, "I lurve ze gays!" We sat on the ground outside and sipped Paulaner from maß , and the couple recommended that we head to a club called the Rat Pack, in addition to my preferred nightspot, Club 101.

Many interesting things happened in the following few hours - both clubs were enjoyed, shots were consumed, we befriended and then lost three other assistants and a man in a kebab queue kissed me passionately and then told me that he hated homosexuals.

Our last hour in Clermont was spent in the station, exhaustedly but contentedly waiting for the first train home at 7:43am. I eventually stumbled into bed at eleven, only to wake up again six hours later to cook a three-course meal for five people.

Best. Night. Ever.