gibbon-arsed ramblings of a hopeless underachiever
Wednesday, June 30, 2004
When I came down to That London I was a bit worried about my freelancing work being enough to keep me in booze and gigs, so I went to this agency to see if they could get me some work. At the time they didn't, but they've phoned me today to offer me a temp position at some law firm (I used to do legal secretary and document processing work).
But I'm a bit torn.
- It's stupidly well-paid. One month of working there will give me a lot of (unexpected) money, that I could use towards that holiday I've been mulling over.
- Or/and getting a guitar like I've wanted for years
- Or/and towards the tattoo work I've been wanting done for ages
- Ugh, yeah, ok - or paying off my credit card/overdraft/put towards deposit for new flat. Spoilsports
- Very good experience/CV fodder
- Hours are good - 10-6
- It's at Canary Wharf, which is only 20-30 minutes away, door to door
- It's temp to perm, so if I do ok and like it, I can stay
- Next time there's a Tube strike, I too will be able to lounge around all day protesting that I "can't get in" and enjoying a day doing nothing
- Will help me to get out of the house and meet more new people
- Those people will be City lawyers
- Next time there's a Tube strike, the company will probably force me to go in or dock my wages, meaning I'll have to face the bus/etc horrors of the rest of working London. Or I'll guiltily spend the day doing freelance stuff instead
- I'll be forced to get dressed in proper clothes - goodbye working in jeans/PJ's/underwear; hello blouses, heels (by which I mean not trainers), smart trousers and (whisper) make up
- I'm tied into my freelance contracts, so I'd be having to do a full day then come home and do my freelance stuff in the evenings/at weekends
- There's a strong chance they won't be impressed with my pink hair... And I'm not getting rid of it just for them
- I'd be selling out to The Man. Maaan
- I like working for myself. I like that I don't have to make ridiculous arrangements whenever I want something posted. I like that I can tell people I can meet them "whenever" because I can pick and choose my hours. I like that I don't have to deal with office politics and backbiting. I like that, if work's going bad I can just go and watch some tv or stroke the cat, go to the gym or bugger off into town, and do it later.
- Canary Wharf scares the bejesus out of me. Partly because of the terrorist possibilities, partly because it's bustling with Business Types and partly because of my "issues" with heights. Whenever I look up at tall buildings in That London, I get all vertigo-y and can't look right to the top as I get this feeling I'm going to fall over backwards. And I hate heights - I get this urge to throw myself off or lie on the ground. I would have to hope for a low floor and/or a non-window seat...
Meh. The agency are sending my CV through and if the company's interested, I'll have to go in and meet them. I'll see how that goes. Chances are they won't want me anyway.
I know, I know. I'd be stupid to say no if they want me. I think it's the 'temp to perm' thing that frightens me a bit. I can see the advantages of doing it short-term, but I'm not particularly enthusiastic about the idea of it as a long-term option.
There's two sides to my thinking on this (and on jobs in general). The one that goes "You're nearly 30. Get a job where you can take sick leave and have paid holidays, get good money, not have to fill in tax returns... Get a career, before it's too late". And the other side that goes "You're nearly 30. You still haven't done most of the things you've always wanted to do. You're ok as you are - you make enough to get by. And maybe one day that dream job will come along, and you'll be free to go for it. It's not too late". I know that it's ridiculous to be telling myself I'll refuse this job if they want me to change my fucking hairstyle - I'm not 16. But I've worked in legal firms before and, while it's fine for a while, at some point I always start feeling like I've compromised myself somehow. I get really sick of the snobbery and, more importantly, the gluttony and rampant capitalism of the companies I'm working for.
I guess if they offer it, I'll take it on the temp basis. And see how things go.
I'd say "Wish me luck" but I don't really know what it is I'd want your wishes to cover...
posted by bandhag | 6/30/2004 08:11:00 PM
Monday, June 28, 2004
Having to hold in a monster fart while a gym instructor type chap folds you pretty much in half. Literally - lying on back, one foot on the opposite knee, and then both legs folded up and onto chest.
"Your abs are shaking. They must've got a really good workout today"
Worse than having a new boyfriend - at least with one of those, you know it's going to be ok to fart in front of them some time. And you don't generally end up on your back with your knees by your ears in front of a room full of people.
I'll let you finish that joke off for yourselves.
posted by bandhag | 6/28/2004 01:44:00 PM
Friday, June 25, 2004
So, I recently joined a gym. Yeah. More stories about that one day, perhaps, but in the meantime, I want to talk waxing.
In with the 'starter pack' you get when you join the gym was a leaflet detailing the treatments offered by the in-house beauty salon, and on that leaflet I came across something rather odd. In the 'bikini line' section of the waxing treatments was something called a "Beckham". Now, I know my Brazilians (everything off except for a thin 'landing strip' of hair) and my Hollywoods (everything off) but what, in the name of all that's holy, is a Beckham?
I immediately eliminated Victoria as the inspiration for this name because, whereas I can stretch my imagination to see how they could embellish my lady garden with a Gucci logo, I defy even the most skilled beautician to teach my cunt how to pout moronically every time it's within 50 yards of a camera. And I'm fairly convinced the average snatch has more musical talent than Ms Beckham already. So it must be named after David. But what does it mean? Would they use a ton of gel to fashion my pubic hair into a mohican that makes me look like I'm smuggling a shop-bought pre-packed sandwich in my thong? Bleach the tips of the hair blonde and put it in a ponytail? Or perhaps they'd braid it into tiny cornrows, which might be quite good as it'd match the hair on my head, sort of. But what if they go with up-to-date Beckham and take the clippers to it to reduce it to Grade 1 stubble, then tattoo a big cross with wings on my perineum? Maybe it's really good value for money and you pay once, and go back and have the style changed every couple of weeks. And then get your cunt's picture in all the tabloids.
I suppose it's quite British of me to be assuming it must be some kind of immitation of the head-hairstyle of one of the Beckhams rather than "Oh, this is how Victoria styles her minge". Frankly, the former is less likely to make me vomit on the spot, so I'm happy to keep it that way. If I wasn't so afraid of the pain (and paranoid about the beauticians gossiping about my labia over their tea break - you know they must do it), I'd go and find out. I need to know. I fear an obssession may be brewing.
posted by bandhag | 6/25/2004 03:52:00 PM
Wednesday, June 23, 2004
About making an arse of myself on Saturday night with one of yer actual celebrities. You know Simon Amstell? Very funny guy who does stand-up comedy and presents Popworld on T4? I was working the door for a bit on a couple of occasions and I said to this guy who was leaving "You look just like that bloke from Popworld!". I don't know why I came out with that most awful of phrases. I never - never, never say things like that. Even if I'm pointing someone out to someone else, my advanced celebrity gossip magazine brain picks out their name straightaway and I quietly say "Look, it's so-and-so" and then have to explain what they were on/band they were in/etc, and even I know that correct procedure in such a situation is to wait until the person has left and then excitedly whisper to your friends who was Just Here.
Anyway. He raised an eyebrow and said "Oh yes? What do you think of him, then?". It was at this point that I realised that it was, of course, Simon Amstell himself. But there was no way I could redeem myself, having just committed the "You look like that bloke off..." gaffe, so I just muttered "He's cool. You are him, aren't you? God, how embarrassing" *nervous laughter to fade*
Talking to strangers, blurting out nonsense when drunk, allowing my celebrity knowledge to escape me at the most crucial moments: this, my friends, is why I will never be a true Londoner or an achingly cool chick.
posted by bandhag | 6/23/2004 02:52:00 PM
Monday, June 21, 2004
You never were big on remembering things. I don't suppose you remember the first time you slapped her, knocking her off the bed and onto the floor. I doubt that you marked on your calendar the precise dates you fucked other people behind her back and then punched her in places no-one would see the bruises, because it was all her fault for being such a useless, ugly slag that no-one wanted. It's probably slipped your mind that you once lifted her off her feet and held her against the wall by her throat, promising her that one day you'd kill her and no-one would care. If you ever knew, then it's likely you've forgotten that she would bend over backwards trying to convince people you were really a decent bloke, because she knew that if anyone picked a fight or took the piss out of you, you would take it out on her later.
But I expect she'll remember for a while about an old friend from school emailing to tell her you'd joined the fucking Police force. I expect it will all have come flooding back to her and that, for a while, she'd be unable to stop herself from recalling everything about that time - the pain, the humiliation, the wretchedness, the shame and the silence. The crying and the apologies, the promises and the blame - it'll all be as fresh as the day it happened. And for a while, I would think she'll want to find out where you are, who you know, who you're working for. Tell them what you did, what kind of person you were and what you put her through. She'll remember anger and hatred and she'll want to punish you and damage you and make you pay for what you did.
But then she'll remember something more important.
She'll remember that she's changed. She'll realise that she's not that 16-year old girl any more. It'll come back to her that she's stronger now. That she's loved and been loved, since you - properly, with only the fear that love brings and not the fear of pain; only hiding from others the things she chooses not to tell them about her relationships and not things she's too frightened or ashamed to admit. She'll remember that you're just a pathetic bully with no friends, who lies to everyone because they hate who they are.
And finally, she'll remember the most important thing of all. That she's better than you. She always was but it took surviving you for her to realise it. She may not be completely sorted but who is? She's better than she was and she's better than you. And she knows that one day, one way or another, you'll get what you deserve.
And so will she.
posted by bandhag | 6/21/2004 11:51:00 PM
Sunday, June 20, 2004
I did quite well, so I was told. It was a fucking blast - I'd do it again in a heartbeat.
Didn't get to play most of my trashy charity shop finds, but still played quite a bit. It was an odd crowd, that even the proper djs found it difficult to get up and dancing. I was doing stuff in between bands, so din't have to worry about clearing the dancefloor. I talked lots with new friends. I think I got asked to join a band that I really like, but I told them I can't really play guitar. Stupid, really, cos what have I been moaning about since forever? not being in a band. Should've just gone for it - very punk, not really knowing how to play yr instrument. But then, I think he was only joking, so it's ok and that.
It was a good night.
My tits are cold.
posted by bandhag | 6/20/2004 03:05:00 AM
Friday, June 18, 2004
I've been thinking that I'd really like a holiday. Just a bit of a break and a change of scenery (one that doesn't involve estate agents and trying to heave furniture through tiny doorframes). Apart from festivals and a couple of weekends in Glasgow, I've not had a holiday for just over three years - ever since I've been single, basically.
But there I come to a bit of an impasse, because I'm really not sure how one is supposed to "do" holidaying alone - particularly on not much money. All my friends live either in Cambridge or London, so I can't do "going to visit friends" holidays, everyone who can afford to do anything this year has already booked something with their other halves, so I can't do a "group of mates" thing, my sisters have both already done their holidays for the year with their mates and can't afford any more time off, and despite the odd "you really can go on holiday alone and have a simply super time" features on holiday programmes, I'm not convinced I'd enjoy spending up to two weeks totally alone in a strange place.
Do single people just not take holidays? Should I be trying to chat people up, with the opening line "Hi. You look a bit tired. Perhaps you need a holiday?". Or placing lonely hearts ads "Buxom wench, 29, seeks man with GSOH, fantastic oral skills and current passport for summer fling"?
Meh. There's always next year.
posted by bandhag | 6/18/2004 11:51:00 PM
So, the landlord is selling the flat and we've got notice to get out. This is a royal pain in the arse, as it means:
- packing again
- moving again
- finding money for deposit/first month's rent/van hire etc again
- paying to move internet connection
- paying to move phone
- paying to move satellite telly
- looking for a new place
- did I mention the packing?
It'll be the third "permanent" address I've had in the space of a year. Mind, it's not surprising he'd pull something like this, after the amount of shit he's put us through since we moved in. And it's not like it's the first time a landlord has sold a place from under me, either, so it's not phasing me that much. It has a lot to beat, considering that one of the times a landlord decided to sell the house I was living in, they came round to give me a month's notice on my 19th birthday.
"Happy birthday. Pack your stuff and get to fuck!"
Anyone got room for a little un? I'm housetrained and everything...
posted by bandhag | 6/18/2004 11:25:00 PM
Tuesday, June 15, 2004
Superfriend R has invited me to do a bit of dj'ing at her indie/pop/whatever-we-feel-like club night on Saturday.
I have mixed precisely three records together in my life. In a closed club. Quite badly. And I always - always get stupidly drunk at her club nights. Actually, I wonder if this is a ploy to save me from myself (and a potential inappropriate liaison), by forcing me not to drink at least until afterwards, so I can concentrate. If so, I thank her from the bottom of my heart. And in any case I will quietly admit that I'm quite excited.
Still leaves the problem of me actually doing the dj'ing, though... Practise is required. Lots of practise. Mind, she did say if I liked I could just bring some records and help her pick what stuff to put on, which would also be cool.
This is going to be fucking hilarious.
Is it too soon to be thinking of DJ names?
posted by bandhag | 6/15/2004 07:27:00 PM
Sunday, June 13, 2004
Why is it that when you spend the day alone and needing to do some work, you put on some music and then realise two tracks in that the album you've chosen is one of those ones that is so good as background music to a sunny Sunday spent in bed with someone of whatever gender you enjoy having sex with that no matter how much you like it, listening to it always leaves you with a tinge of disappointment/frustration when that's not what you're doing?
So you change the album. And two tracks into the replacement choice, you realise that this one's an even better backdrop to the aforementioned shenanigans and then you're even more frustrated. And possibly this frustration is heightened by a few choice memory snapshots from when whatever album you've chosen this time was used in the "aural backdrop to mmmmm hmmmm" capacity.
Four albums later, you give up and spend the rest of the day working in silence, humming commercial jingles to yourself.
Or is this just me? Or summer's effect on the libido. Or something.
posted by bandhag | 6/13/2004 03:27:00 PM
Friday, June 11, 2004
Walking down the main street in my 'hood this afternoon, an old lady was walking the other way, hunched over her shopping trolley. She was extremely short (as old ladies tend to be) and, in typical eccentric geriatric style, she was wearing a hat with a turned-up brim holding some fake flowers and a flowery cotton dress. When I caught sight of her face, I noticed she had very coffee-coloured, very wrinkly skin and the teeniest tiniest nose I've ever seen, and my instant reaction was a mix of "Oo, you're kinda weird-looking" and "Awwww, bless, you're kinda cute".
After I'd passed her and turned the corner, I realised the source of my ambivalent gut reaction to her appearance. I realise when I'd felt it before:
London. It's packed with celebrities.
posted by bandhag | 6/11/2004 11:00:00 PM
Wednesday, June 09, 2004
Just had some Jehovah's Witnesses at the front door. Sometimes, as today, I'm very bad at telling people to fuck off when they're on my doorstep. Unless they're canvassing for the Tories, of course, then it's obligatory. It's possible I was trying to compensate for answering the door in one of my favourite Tank Girl t-shirts, with the word "VAGINA" emblazoned across it in thoroughly unmissable capital letters...
They chatted to me for a couple of minutes about the bible and said (basically) that yes, all the bad things that are happening in the world are God's fault but that the bible gives them hope that as long as they have faith, one day he'll come and put everything right, and that's it's really important that lots of people have that faith, as that makes it more likely he'll come sooner.
It struck me as a bit petulant and attention-seeking on God's part, to be allowing famine, war, global destruction etc to go on just because he's not got enough followers. This is the behaviour of a stroppy 13-year old drama queen, not an omnipotent, all-powerful, wise-beyond-human-comprehension Supreme Being. I can just imagine God's blog: "i counted today and that lennon guy has, like, waaaay more m8s than me. u guys suk. nobody comments on here any more & i'm gonna stop postin ne good on earth 4 a while. i guess nobody luvs me. GoOdByE 4eVeR! G x" at which point, he refuses to come back until his comments box was stuffed full of people telling him how great He is and begging him to come back and post, if only so they can see his results for the "Which Care Bear Are You?" quiz.
Anyway, being a fine upstanding pillar of the non-confrontational British citizenship, I refrained from pretending I'm a Muslim (my usual tactic - kind of fucked up by the whole pink hair thing, plus aforementioned t-shirt), or screaming "GET ORF MY LAND!" and politely told the JWs that I didn't believe in organised religion but respected their faith in God totally and was glad that it gave them hope and they told me that they respected my respect and my views and here's a lovely leaflet about the end of the world anyway, we'll call back some time. Oh good.
They really didn't try any hardcore recruitment/brainwashing tactics on me, though, and didn't stay to try and argue with nonsensical bible quotes like the Mormons do. I was almost disappointed - "Join religious sect (better still, 'zany' cult)" is on my list of things to do before I'm 30. Right under "Wax legs".
posted by bandhag | 6/09/2004 11:50:00 AM
A mate texted me last night to apologise for not replying to a couple of texts I sent him over the weekend. He couldn't, because he'd been mugged for his wallet, phone, etc. On a bus.
ON A FUCKING BUS!
I don't know the full story but it seems a bunch of kids bundled onto the bus and got what they could - I don't know if just off him, or off other people as well, or what. I know he's got some bruises to the head. I'm gobsmacked about this - that the driver (and other passengers? Hard to believe my mate was the only one on the bus) either didn't notice what was going on, or was more concerned about stopping at the right stops/saving his own arse than raising the alarm in some way.
Is this a "thing" now? Is being on (not even outside, waiting for) public transport in London "asking" to be mugged?
posted by bandhag | 6/09/2004 08:34:00 AM
Monday, June 07, 2004
Saying down there about the fact I just spend what I've got and enjoy it (money) reminded me of a conversation me, R and A had in the car at the weekend:
What if, contrary to the popular saying, you can take it with you?
How gutted would you be to get to the Other Side and find that even there you were priced out of the property market and that it was only the pious fuckers who'd sunk all their disposable income into ISAs and bonds instead of pissing it up the wall on booze, drugs and thousands of impulse-purchases that could afford the biggest, fluffiest, whitest clouds and the fanciest gold harps, while you had to share a flimsy Cirrus with your mates and fight over who used up the last of the manna?
Aetheism - you know it makes sense.
posted by bandhag | 6/07/2004 05:24:00 PM
yep, it's blog block time, so here's another meme I nicked from Fluffy
1. Do you try to look hot when you go to the grocery store just in case someone recognizes you from your blog?
No, but after I posted a photo I got vaguely freaked out by the idea that people might recognise me at gigs etc. If anyone does, say hi. But don't say where you know me from in front of my mates, cos I haven't "come out" to them yet. We'll invent a secret handshake.
2. Are the photos you post Photoshopped or otherwise altered?
Yeah, I drew those braids in, in Paint.
No. Cropped, but that's all.
3. Do you like it when creeps or dorks email you?
They never do.
4. Do you lie in your blog?
Only by omission
5. Are you passive-aggressive in your blog?
I don't think so. I hope not.
Here's a conversation I once had with a Significant Other. To set the scene, he thought I was in a mood with him and not saying why I was pissed off. I genuinely wasn't in a mood at all.
Him: Stop being passive-aggresive
Me: I'm not!
Him: That right there! that's passive aggressive, saying you're not being passive-aggressive when you clearly are
Me: But I'm not even pissed off!
Him: There you go again! Why are you doing this? Why don't you just tell me why you're pissed off?
Me: I'm not pissed off. Well, now I am because I don't understand what it is about what I'm saying that makes you think I'm being passive-aggressive or what makes you think I was pissed off in the first place?
Him: OH MY GOD. Could you BE any more passive-aggressive?! That's the most passive-aggressive thing you've ever said!
Then my head exploded.
6. Do you ever threaten to quit writing so people will tell you not to stop?
Urgh. God, no. If I was going to quit, I'd say so (or not) and do it, no matter what people said.
7. Are you in therapy? If not, should you be? If so, is it helping?
No. Maybe. It has before.
8. Do you delete mean comments? Do you fake nice ones?
No to both.
9. Have you ever rubbed one out while reading a blog? How about after?
Yeah, when Stu posted his arse pic.
OR AM I?!
10. If your readers knew you in person, would they like you more or like you less?
You'd have to ask them, I guess.
11. Do you have a job?
Yeah, I research, write and edit for some publishing companies who work on GEEK stuff.
12. If someone offered you a decent salary to blog full-time without restrictions, would you do it?
Sounds great but I honestly don't think I could keep it up. I have a hard enough time not pulling the plug when I realise I'm being boring as an amateur. If it became a job... brr.
13. Which blogger do you want to meet in real life?
I'd like to meet any of the people on my blogroll thingy. I'd love to keep Stuart tied up in my bedroom.
ho ho ho
14. Which bloggers have you made out with?
Like I'd tell you for free when I could sell my story to The Sun.
15. Do you usually act like you have more money or less money than you really have?
Neither. I spend what I've got and enjoy it.
16. Does your family read your blog?
No. To my knowledge, only 3 people I know "in real life" read it, but now's your chance to tell me if you're lurking...
17. How old is your blog?
A year and a half. Still cute sometimes, but entering that bratty stage.
18. Do you get more than 1000 page views per day? Do you care?
HA! No and no.
19. Do you have another secret blog in which you write about being depressed, slutty, or a liar?
I have a diary I write other things in.
20. Have you ever given another blogger money for his/her writing?
21. Do you report the money you earn from your blog on your taxes?
You can make money from this?! I didn't spot that feature on the New Improved Blogger Dashboard (TM).
22. Is blogging narcissistic?
I guess so, a bit.
23. Do you feel guilty when you don't post for a long time?
Not really, because when I don't post for a long time it's because I've got nothing to say or because I realise my last few posts have said nothing and I'm boring myself. Mind, that doesn't always stop me...
24. Do you like John Mayer?
25. Do you have enemies?
I hope not. Unless you're counting Bigotry and Injustice (maaaaan!)
26. Are you lonely?
27. Why bother?
posted by bandhag | 6/07/2004 04:40:00 PM
So, in an effort to dislodge that meh feeling, I shall blog about my good weekend.
Friday night was off out to the club where some bands were playing, one of whom has some of my mates (I hope I can call them that) in and it was their last gig, which was kind of sad but the new stuff some of them are doing is ace, so I guess that's a bit of a payoff. Then the usual dancey-dancey behaviour. A few of my really good friends from Cambridge were down, M, N and H (oh, I'm so inventive with my pseudonyms, aren't I?) - N and H, in particular, I don't see much of so it was great to be out with them.
Saturday - a quick and much-appreciated bacon sarnie provided by Superfriend R (even though I hadn't stayed there, bless her heart), then off to Cambridge for Strawberry Fair. It's a funny old thing, Strawberry Fair. It's a totally free one-day festival thang, which is very cool. Several stages/tents, shitloads of stalls selling clothes etc and loads of really tasty food places - none of the chain crap you get at "proper" festivals.
The whole thing kind of brings it home that there are a shitload of indie/crusty/alternative types in Cambridge. Mind, people travel to it from miles around. In fact, the travellers always used to come and park up their buses etc along the river - come for Strawberry Fair and stay 'til Glastonbury - but The Man stopped all that a few years back. It's a good atmosphere, despite attracting a mix of Cambridge's aforementioned hippie/crusty/etc crowd and a liberal smattering of sports-geared Chavs, there's never usually any trouble (although some girls who pushed in front of us in the massive toilet queue nearly got some. Grrr). Generally we miss/avoid the bands (though I always like the ever-present-at-festivals big booming dub basslines you can always hear as you wander round) and just amble about, soaking it all up - the stalls, the crusties, the real ale*...
Bizzarest/coolest moment of the day was seeing one of my ex-housemates from the co-op, who's a singer/digital poet/all-round supercool guy, who somehow managed to creep up behind me with his act for the day, which involved him walking around with a MASSIVE retro tape recorder playing one of his tracks, and him singing along on the mic. R&A said he looked like maybe he didn't recognise me, but then we mused that he probably couldn't work the pharse "Hi, bandhag, how you doing?" into his song. I'll email him later. Perhaps the pink hair threw him. Or the liberal amount of Stella I'm willing to bet was swilling around inside him by that point in the proceedings.
After we'd had our fill of the Fair we went off to our favourite tapas place and ate ourselves immobile, went back to N and H's and watched lots of Happy Tree Friends and drank hot chocolate with rum in it (*droooooool*), and then back here this afternoon after being eased into the day with yet another cooked breakfast and some Sunday morning telly.
I had a great time. I really fucking love this bunch of friends. I pretty much know all of them thanks to working in a record shop (a job I got due to a lucky coincidence where the manager of the shop I did a Christmas stint in at my home town moved to Cambridge a few years later and called me to find out if I wanted a part-time job while I was at uni) and meeting them via each other, but they feel like people I've known all my life and grown up with. Not that any of us has actually grown up, mind you...
Anyway. Sorry this post is a bit schmaltzy and "junior school news book", but hey - it's my blog, and I needed to write down the good stuff.
*Not for me, like - I's a lady, innit. Lager, cider or some kind of mixer affair for me. Only I'm not allowed cider anymore due to bad behaviour, and they don't do mixers at festivals, so lager only. Wow. That was a deep paragraph, no? I'll stop now.
posted by bandhag | 6/07/2004 01:26:00 AM
Sunday, June 06, 2004
Do you get emotional comedowns after extended periods of having fun with your mates?
[snip - boring paranoid nonsense removed. Blame it on the hormones]
Never thought I'd say it, but I think I prefer the kind of hangovers that involve vomit and headaches.
posted by bandhag | 6/06/2004 11:27:00 PM
Friday, June 04, 2004
We were in the front row.
I saw them all, no heads in the way, no bobbing up and down on tiptoes trying to catch peeks of someone's arm or a microphone stand from between other people's shoulders. Perfect.
I only started "doing" front rows at gigs a couple of years ago when R convinced me that the crushing isn't actually that bad, so long as you brace yourself against the barriers. The only drawback to being at the front is if you don't like people rubbing up behind you. Frotting doesn't come close to it - as you all attempt to dance in absolutely no space the situation basically resembles a whole crowd of strangers dry humping each other, in a doggy-fashion-daisy-chain stylee.
Anyway, there was absolutely no "bracing yourself" to be had tonight. Brixton Academy has a standing capacity of close to 5,000. There were maybe 25-30 people maximum in the front row, so I calculate I had the weight of around 160-200 other people pushing on me from behind (fnerk). Probably more as we were right in the middle. The crush was like nothing I've experienced before, but not totally unbearable. The only particularly unpleasant bit was during the encores (which are always worse for some reason - do the people behind think that those at the front just magically disappear after the main set is over?), as some guy who was very apologetic about pushing me at first started practising the Second Row Technique of giving up standing up of his own accord, and just leaning on me for support. With his elbows on my shoulders.
Usually, you can hold onto the barrier and push backwards a little against the pushing forwards and it all balances out fairly nicely, albeit your legs and arms get tired. But not this time - like everyone else in the front row, my arms had to go over the barrier and in my case, for about an hour, the weight of all 160-200 of those people behind me was borne by my tits.
R was saying it was a good job we weren't silicone-enhanced or there'd have been explosions. This made me think about those inflatable breast implants you can get: someone has to adapt them with airbag technology for gig-goers. You get a surge of crush from behind, your baps fill with air, cushioning you and the other moshers against the barriers. Sorted.
So, when someone develops and markets that, you know and I know that the idea was MINE and I'll sue their arses. Hurrah.
Unsurprisingly, I ache. I'm going to bed. Knackered and happy.
posted by bandhag | 6/04/2004 01:55:00 AM
It was like a Greatest Hits gig. You want Wave of Mutilation? You got it. Where is My Mind? Check. Gigantic, Debaser, Monkey Gone to Heaven. All there. And three encores. After they'd finished the first set, R was disappointed that they hadn't played Cactus or U-Mass, while the guy behind us had wanted Caribou. First encore, they played U-Mass, second they played Cactus, third they played Caribou. They are WITCHES!
As I've said, the Pixies have to be one of my favourite ever bands and, like most of my friends, I'd given up hope of ever seeing them live so there was this constant "Oh my God, I can't believe this is happening" vibe to the whole thing. I don't know whether it's the best gig I've ever been to - it's certainly one of the best, and the one I'm most glad I got to go to. They rocked the house and I think seeing bands live is always going to beat the crap out of listening to their recorded stuff. They're legends, simple as that.
Oh, and Dave Lovering did his magic show as support. It was cool to see someone doing something different as a support act. We'd heard Ash or Keane were rumoured to be supporting, neither of which particularly sparked excitement for our motley crew, but give us a man doing pseudo-magic science geekery like making a gherkin glow by passing 240 volts through it or blowing smoke rings with a bass drum and we're on Cloud 9.
This was my first time at Brixton Academy and the first time I've wandered around Brixton full-stop. I'm not sure I like it much, on first impressions. I got shouted out for being "a white girl with braids". I'm not white, as it goes, but it seemed unwise to hang around and argue the point.
Anyway, back to the gig. I can't describe it any better than to say they played basically all of their greatest songs, were on for over an hour and a half and rocked my world.
Death to the Pixies, my blue arse.
posted by bandhag | 6/04/2004 12:05:00 AM
Thursday, June 03, 2004
People who don't like to be bored by other people's music nerdery should probably skip this entry, because it's just a written-down version of the "Tee hee! Hooray!" that's going on in my head at the moment.
Only 16.25 hours until Pixies o'clock. One of my mates saw them at a festival in Barcelona last weekend AND is going to all four shows in London. The greedy (rich) bastard. Anyway, he says they've been fucking excellent both times he's seen them so far(well, duh) and played different sets each time and that the crowd have been really friendly and polite both times. Probably because they're all old duffers like me.
I'm almost getting misty-eyed at the fact I'm finally going to see one of my favouritest bands. I know it's just a cynical cash-in on their part, but for me it feels like supreme, almost unbelievable, good luck that this tour is happening. I discovered them at about the same time they split up (timing - never one of my strong points) and was always gutted never to have seen them live - gutted that I believed I never would see them live.
But now I will.
And it's my sister's (yes, she of macaroon trial - she's fine, though) birthday tomorrow, too, so I'm having the day off work and taking her for lunch and shopping in Covent Garden.
I will no doubt be unbearably happy and totally void of anything interesting to write tomorrow night/Friday, then.
"For a change".
posted by bandhag | 6/03/2004 01:40:00 AM
Tuesday, June 01, 2004
Moi? How dare you imply such a thing?! Why, I'm clearly hard at work, in between fannying around with my blog template...
It's just messing. I'll probably ditch it soon.
Having managed to spend my entire bank holiday doing Fuck All (a mortal sin in freelance world), I'm now knocking my brain out trying to get stuff finished in one day. Other things are far more tempting. Like threading the "pokies" (bits of real hair that stick out at various points) back into my braids. Or playing with the cat. Or tidying my room. Yes, it's that bad.
Strict disciplinarian required. Must have GSOH and experience in motivating slovenly wenches. Apply within.
posted by bandhag | 6/01/2004 02:21:00 PM