It’s been a funny old week. I’ve mainly been eating mince pies and knitting snowflakes. Outside spring looks like summer and the rest of the world is enjoying 16 degrees (in old money, I don’t understand farenheit). I am no optimist, I’m knitting a winter hat.
I’m feeling pretty poor at the moment. Too many spontaneous trips to Brighton, meals out, bottles of wine or gin and making plans for the summer. So I empty out the piggy bank fingers crossed for about twenty pounds, count up all the pennies and what do I have? Pfff. Not enough to take to the bank. Oh and I owe my flatmate £60 for council tax I’ve been ignoring. My lovelife is a shrivelled up dried prune. No word from GM, no word from Posh Josh. Not a peep from Ross=Toss. Ahh never mind. I’m off to Brighton again anyway. This time in support of an upcoming band night run by a much younger friend. He has four bands playing. I pretend I’ve heard of one. They sound like 65daysofstatic which is unfortunate. 65daysofstatic are very good and this new band doesn’t do it quite as well. At times they sound exactly the same. I start to wish I had come to Brighton for the whole day instead of trying to avoid vegetarian shoe shops and health stores. The sun was shining wonderfully but it took me four hours to get ready and the best bit of the day was spent on a train. Those four hours consisted mostly of procrastination and indecision. I wore jeans and a fairly plain non-descript jumper.
The place was packed out with hot indie boys in skinny jeans and black rimmed glasses. The bands were amazing and people bought me drinks. And I collected at least one phone number. This is what happened in my head. In reality seven people turned up, the bands were loud (one could even be described as ‘metal’), my young promoter friend was in a terrible mood, was rude to everyone lost a pile of money and threatened to not pay the bands. I met a boy called Harry Salmon. This was not his real name. His real was Twiz. I imagine this is not his real name either. He had a notebook full of random scrawlings and half formed song lyrics and ill formed logic. “Let’s go to the casino!” he said.
“But I have minus eighty pounds.”
“Yeah but you could double your money!”
“Then I would have minus one hundred and sixty pounds”
“Huh?”
Sunday night I was planning to see the Bridge Gang. I love this band dearly. And it’s free. By the time I have finished baking mince pies, cleaned up and thought about it I decide it’s a bit on the late side and I can’t face another night at another Shoreditch gig on my own free or not. Tuesday night I decided I really can’t afford trainfare for another trek to Brighton this time to see the Rakes. Thursday night I pass up free tickets for the Virgins, and more excitingly Lesser Panda. I know little about the latter band, but fell in love with the song Ghostdance and desperately want them to play my band night.
Monday, the leak from the kitchen has got progressively worse. It’s now a pretty steady drip. I totally forget to ring the landlord. On Tuesday I remembered. By Thursday (today) still no-one has been to have a look at it. I step over a bucket each time I enter the kitchen and avoid turning the lights on. I sometimes wish I spent my money on rent or moving house and lived somewhere less like a revolting squat. But then in the morning I am flying to Glasgow in a poorly budgeted mission to see the Rakes again. It has been a week of missed opportunity and constant disappointment. The weekend is forecast for heavy constant rain, and heavy constant fun times.
Friday, 24 April 2009
Thursday, 23 April 2009
And then Reader, I am married him.
Not really, this isn’t Jane Eyre. But I have been thinking about marriage a lot recently. First of all a friend from university had a birthday which prompted me to send a card, eventually, about a week late. This friend has been with the same guy for 12 years. They have been married for maybe 3. I met him ten years ago and thought he was a cock. He was an arrogant, know-it-all show off and my friend was a vivacious, independent and beautiful woman with a first class degree. Over time she has wilted into an overweight, under-confident alcoholic and has been off work sick for the last year following a drink-driving car crash. She was the drink driver, obviously. She wilted under the glare of his constant criticism, the casual manner in which he gradually isolated her from all her friends and restrained her financially by a constant string of obligations she couldn’t afford, from a wedding in New York to a slightly too expensive house, wrote her car off to prevent her going anywhere and at least on one occasion punched her. According to her blog her life is a perfect canvas of sunshine and rainbows. Baking, gardening and a pet cat, or my ideal lifestyle. One entry she records “I’m such a lucky wife. My husband cleaned the bathroom.” Amazing. Did make me think. Who am I to think her life never reached its glittering potential? Maybe she thinks I’m equally pathetic for never settling down, buying a house, keeping a job for more than a year, keeping a house for more than a year for that matter.
The same day I receive an invite to a wedding in the Lake District. The bride already has two children and is significantly older than the groom. I did wonder why you would choose to have children with one man but not see him as worthy of marriage and then marry another man a decade or so later.
The next event that made me think of marriage was Sunday’s Facebook announcement my cousin is getting married. We’re not a close knit family; I’ve only met her twice. We’ve had more electronic contact than real world contact. She will be getting married in southern Spain in a red and blue dress and honeymooning in Indonesia. December happens to be a wonderful time to have a holiday in Spain. I get a polite email saying “close family only.”
Sunday morning I woke up convinced I was in love with a man I barely know. He is rather good looking, flirty and lovely. He just happens to be in a moderately successful rock band too. And gay. I thought maybe bisexual. He does flirt rather a lot. We have an as yet unfulfilled sushi in soho date. All indicators of bi. Turns out, one msn conversation later, he was stringing me along and is in fact seeing another man in a glam-rock-pop-electroclash outfit. Our relationship may have been pure fantasy but nevertheless I feel crushed and despondent. He takes pity. He has an engaged status on Facebook and needs a name to put after it. Oh why not. All my hopes of not settling for second best have been dashed. I am Facebook engaged to a gay man I have never met. I am total fail.
The same day I receive an invite to a wedding in the Lake District. The bride already has two children and is significantly older than the groom. I did wonder why you would choose to have children with one man but not see him as worthy of marriage and then marry another man a decade or so later.
The next event that made me think of marriage was Sunday’s Facebook announcement my cousin is getting married. We’re not a close knit family; I’ve only met her twice. We’ve had more electronic contact than real world contact. She will be getting married in southern Spain in a red and blue dress and honeymooning in Indonesia. December happens to be a wonderful time to have a holiday in Spain. I get a polite email saying “close family only.”
Sunday morning I woke up convinced I was in love with a man I barely know. He is rather good looking, flirty and lovely. He just happens to be in a moderately successful rock band too. And gay. I thought maybe bisexual. He does flirt rather a lot. We have an as yet unfulfilled sushi in soho date. All indicators of bi. Turns out, one msn conversation later, he was stringing me along and is in fact seeing another man in a glam-rock-pop-electroclash outfit. Our relationship may have been pure fantasy but nevertheless I feel crushed and despondent. He takes pity. He has an engaged status on Facebook and needs a name to put after it. Oh why not. All my hopes of not settling for second best have been dashed. I am Facebook engaged to a gay man I have never met. I am total fail.
Wednesday, 15 April 2009
Old Enough to Know Better
... or The back story
When I am old and have dementia no-one will be able to tell. A few weeks ago I put a band night on with a friend. It was so much fun. Some of my favourite bands came to play and we actually made some money for a wee change. But things are never straight forward. I’ve had a bit of flirting with one of the guitarists. Bit of flirting, bit of heavy flirting, bit of mutual thigh rubbing. Lots of texts and emails. Lots of late night drunken msn conversations. Tonight would indeed be the night. Except his (lets call him GM) ex girlfriend is there and he seems to be a bit confused. Oh and I still have stitches in my mouth following oral surgery. NICE. Bit rank tbh, they smell and they look vile. I prolly shouldn’t have told him this. I know I shouldn’t have told him this because when I made my sophisticated move (“fancy a snog, love?”) I was rebuffed with “you’ve still got stitches in your mouth”. True. “But your mate Josh didn’t mind.” Yeah that’s right. Someone else got there first. Bassist in another band. So GM not interested I wander back to Posh Josh. Wander – stumble drunkenly. In between snogging Posh Josh and snogging Posh Josh some more I accidentally kissed someone else and I’m not entirely sure who. I have ideas. It was either the singer or the other guitarist from GMs band. You see I was trying to kiss him (whoever he was) on the cheek but missed, kissed his lips and carried on a bit. Oops.
So the next morning, I feel dog rough. Bit confused. But happy. I mean, I have no intention of seeing Posh Josh again but he kissed me. That’s good. And he asked for my number. And then eventually he asked my name. Log in to Facebook. Work of the devil! Who does facebook think I might know? Oh yeah, Posh Josh! Oh go on then lets have a peak. How old is he? 21?! Hmmm could have been worse. GIRLFRIEND???? Oh noes! Check the pictures…. Oh yeah no internet irony here. This is no fake relationship. What a rat. Send him a text message. Generic rubbish something like “hope you had fun! Thanks guys for playing my gig!” he can’t possibly misinterpret that, can he? Well, I never did get a reply.
Fast Forward a week. I have not heard much from GM but he is on tour. Too busy to reply to texts perhaps. Or perhaps its because another ex is hosting the York party and he’s confused over that too. Pfff. Anyway forget all these losers its Good Friday! Foals are in Brighton! HURRAY! I’ve got a pint of Guinness, the support band are on, I love my friends, I have a sudden massive urge to turnaround – ARGH! Posh Josh! And Girlfriend! Two feet away damn. He so made eye contact with me. Raced her out of there kick march. Well, fuck you boyo, I haven’t done anything wrong. So down a pint and say hello. Bollocks this could go wrong. Singing to myself in my head “just keep smiling, just keep smiling” (to the Finding Nemo tune) I am as polite as pie to both of them. “Lovely to meet you” I say straight at her. Yeah, so clearly mutual. That’s a look that would stab me up in a dark alley. Pppffff. Drink another three pints of Guinness. Oh why? I’m raging drunk and got three hours of journey time home. *sigh*
Ok Saturday I feel appalling. Nothing new there. Remember not very much. I think a bottle of red wine was consumed on Brick Lane. Oh yeah I remember now. And a bottle of vodka when I got home. A little one. Hipflask sized. I’m not an alky.
Easter Sunday.. man, I’m rough. Up rather early for Church. Wobble lots. Miss the bus. Fuck. Finally get a bus. Miss the stop. Fuck. Run, run, run. Oh text! Run and read! Its GM! I do exist! Oh it’s a generic “Londoners come to our gig tonight” hmmmm perhaps. I reply “perhaps, but you know it’s a religious festival today” “I’ll be cross if you don’t come” he says. Yeah true dat! Cos I didn’t go and not a word since.
Easter Monday. How on earth am I hungover today? I don’t deserve this. Posh Josh and band have gig walking distance from my house. It would be rude not to go. On the other hand I’d be alone. Hmmm. OK I will go, only cos I like the band not him. So I will go late, and blend in at the back. Not speak to him. It will be fine. Doors are at 8pm. I get there 8.45 hopefully they’re not onstage yet. Oh fuck. Swim Team dropped out, doors now open at 9pm. I’m early. Early and alone. Joy. Pint of Guinness it is then. And another. Oh look at me. You can’t not look at me. I’m the only fucking person here. Me and three teenagers and the support band. The support band are rather good. Have another pint. Posh Josh is definitely ignoring me. I read the paper. Definitely ignoring me. So his band are on. I feel rough. Very, very rough. They’re good. Very,very good. I feel a bit sick. After the gig I run to the loo. Feel a sweaty arm around me. Its Posh Josh! He says something. I stare blankly feel a bit sick. Chat drunkenly to the support band. Offer them a gig another time. Feel ill go home. Outside Posh Josh is on the phone. Probably to his girlfriend. He takes the phone away from his face but doesn’t hang up I notice. Hugs me and kisses me on the cheek. Hmmm not sure about this. I fail to smile. I go home.
Tuesday. MY WORD. Do I feel grim. The builder is trying to knock down a wall while I am trying to stay up right against it. He should ask me to move. He doesn’t. I don’t. The world is an agony. Supposed to go to a raw restaurant tonight. I’m not sure why raw food is so expensive, its not like it takes much to heat. Anyway I can’t cancel I hardly ever see this friend so I go. On the way there I try not to heave. Eat and eat. Wow! Its all so nice. And I do love a merlot. Mmmm. Half way through dessert (chocolate and orange marble cake garnished with pansies) I feel ill. Ahh nevermind, it’s a shame to waste food and its too bloody expensive. On the way home I have a sudden stabbing pain in my fat belly. Oh fuck the bus is a long time coming. There’s something stuc in my throat. Get a tissue, have a cough, fell better. EXCEPT … not just a cough. Damn. Why are there no dark alleys left without CCTV? Fuck. I’m sick on the pavement. Worse. I put a tissue to my face and end up back splashing myself. IN MY HAIR. MY FUCKING HAIR. Oh and my eye. Nice. Purple lumpy sick in my hair and eye. Turnaround. Fuck. I had an audience of Tapas eaters over the road. *weeps* wipe my face and hair as best I can. I wish it would rain and wash the pain away. No rain. Get the bus. No bumps please I still have a belly full. Oh I recognise that woman. Oh noes! A psychotherapist form my real job has just got on the bus. She looks at me quizzically. Yup. I still have vomit on me somewhere, don’t I? damn.
When I am old and have dementia no-one will be able to tell. A few weeks ago I put a band night on with a friend. It was so much fun. Some of my favourite bands came to play and we actually made some money for a wee change. But things are never straight forward. I’ve had a bit of flirting with one of the guitarists. Bit of flirting, bit of heavy flirting, bit of mutual thigh rubbing. Lots of texts and emails. Lots of late night drunken msn conversations. Tonight would indeed be the night. Except his (lets call him GM) ex girlfriend is there and he seems to be a bit confused. Oh and I still have stitches in my mouth following oral surgery. NICE. Bit rank tbh, they smell and they look vile. I prolly shouldn’t have told him this. I know I shouldn’t have told him this because when I made my sophisticated move (“fancy a snog, love?”) I was rebuffed with “you’ve still got stitches in your mouth”. True. “But your mate Josh didn’t mind.” Yeah that’s right. Someone else got there first. Bassist in another band. So GM not interested I wander back to Posh Josh. Wander – stumble drunkenly. In between snogging Posh Josh and snogging Posh Josh some more I accidentally kissed someone else and I’m not entirely sure who. I have ideas. It was either the singer or the other guitarist from GMs band. You see I was trying to kiss him (whoever he was) on the cheek but missed, kissed his lips and carried on a bit. Oops.
So the next morning, I feel dog rough. Bit confused. But happy. I mean, I have no intention of seeing Posh Josh again but he kissed me. That’s good. And he asked for my number. And then eventually he asked my name. Log in to Facebook. Work of the devil! Who does facebook think I might know? Oh yeah, Posh Josh! Oh go on then lets have a peak. How old is he? 21?! Hmmm could have been worse. GIRLFRIEND???? Oh noes! Check the pictures…. Oh yeah no internet irony here. This is no fake relationship. What a rat. Send him a text message. Generic rubbish something like “hope you had fun! Thanks guys for playing my gig!” he can’t possibly misinterpret that, can he? Well, I never did get a reply.
Fast Forward a week. I have not heard much from GM but he is on tour. Too busy to reply to texts perhaps. Or perhaps its because another ex is hosting the York party and he’s confused over that too. Pfff. Anyway forget all these losers its Good Friday! Foals are in Brighton! HURRAY! I’ve got a pint of Guinness, the support band are on, I love my friends, I have a sudden massive urge to turnaround – ARGH! Posh Josh! And Girlfriend! Two feet away damn. He so made eye contact with me. Raced her out of there kick march. Well, fuck you boyo, I haven’t done anything wrong. So down a pint and say hello. Bollocks this could go wrong. Singing to myself in my head “just keep smiling, just keep smiling” (to the Finding Nemo tune) I am as polite as pie to both of them. “Lovely to meet you” I say straight at her. Yeah, so clearly mutual. That’s a look that would stab me up in a dark alley. Pppffff. Drink another three pints of Guinness. Oh why? I’m raging drunk and got three hours of journey time home. *sigh*
Ok Saturday I feel appalling. Nothing new there. Remember not very much. I think a bottle of red wine was consumed on Brick Lane. Oh yeah I remember now. And a bottle of vodka when I got home. A little one. Hipflask sized. I’m not an alky.
Easter Sunday.. man, I’m rough. Up rather early for Church. Wobble lots. Miss the bus. Fuck. Finally get a bus. Miss the stop. Fuck. Run, run, run. Oh text! Run and read! Its GM! I do exist! Oh it’s a generic “Londoners come to our gig tonight” hmmmm perhaps. I reply “perhaps, but you know it’s a religious festival today” “I’ll be cross if you don’t come” he says. Yeah true dat! Cos I didn’t go and not a word since.
Easter Monday. How on earth am I hungover today? I don’t deserve this. Posh Josh and band have gig walking distance from my house. It would be rude not to go. On the other hand I’d be alone. Hmmm. OK I will go, only cos I like the band not him. So I will go late, and blend in at the back. Not speak to him. It will be fine. Doors are at 8pm. I get there 8.45 hopefully they’re not onstage yet. Oh fuck. Swim Team dropped out, doors now open at 9pm. I’m early. Early and alone. Joy. Pint of Guinness it is then. And another. Oh look at me. You can’t not look at me. I’m the only fucking person here. Me and three teenagers and the support band. The support band are rather good. Have another pint. Posh Josh is definitely ignoring me. I read the paper. Definitely ignoring me. So his band are on. I feel rough. Very, very rough. They’re good. Very,very good. I feel a bit sick. After the gig I run to the loo. Feel a sweaty arm around me. Its Posh Josh! He says something. I stare blankly feel a bit sick. Chat drunkenly to the support band. Offer them a gig another time. Feel ill go home. Outside Posh Josh is on the phone. Probably to his girlfriend. He takes the phone away from his face but doesn’t hang up I notice. Hugs me and kisses me on the cheek. Hmmm not sure about this. I fail to smile. I go home.
Tuesday. MY WORD. Do I feel grim. The builder is trying to knock down a wall while I am trying to stay up right against it. He should ask me to move. He doesn’t. I don’t. The world is an agony. Supposed to go to a raw restaurant tonight. I’m not sure why raw food is so expensive, its not like it takes much to heat. Anyway I can’t cancel I hardly ever see this friend so I go. On the way there I try not to heave. Eat and eat. Wow! Its all so nice. And I do love a merlot. Mmmm. Half way through dessert (chocolate and orange marble cake garnished with pansies) I feel ill. Ahh nevermind, it’s a shame to waste food and its too bloody expensive. On the way home I have a sudden stabbing pain in my fat belly. Oh fuck the bus is a long time coming. There’s something stuc in my throat. Get a tissue, have a cough, fell better. EXCEPT … not just a cough. Damn. Why are there no dark alleys left without CCTV? Fuck. I’m sick on the pavement. Worse. I put a tissue to my face and end up back splashing myself. IN MY HAIR. MY FUCKING HAIR. Oh and my eye. Nice. Purple lumpy sick in my hair and eye. Turnaround. Fuck. I had an audience of Tapas eaters over the road. *weeps* wipe my face and hair as best I can. I wish it would rain and wash the pain away. No rain. Get the bus. No bumps please I still have a belly full. Oh I recognise that woman. Oh noes! A psychotherapist form my real job has just got on the bus. She looks at me quizzically. Yup. I still have vomit on me somewhere, don’t I? damn.
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