deck the halls...

Christmas came and went. My tree was decorated (an annual tack-fest I always look forward to), and the parents were visited at their rural retirement retreat.

The coolest thing about this Christmas was the set of knives that Bibliogirl bought me from Firebox:



They now do a version in black, but blood red somehow seems more appropriate :-)

foo fighters @ earl's court, 18/12/05

The Foo Fighters were a band that I’d never really got into. When their debut album came out in 1995, my musical tastes were rather heavier than the poppy-sounding singles they released. I also got really sick, really fast of not hearing, “hey, this is a great new band,” but a chorus of:

“Nirvana’s drummer,”

“Dave used to be in Nirvana,”

“Nirvana this,”

“Nirvana that,”

“Nirvana.”

“Nirvana.”

That Dave has largely managed to escape this is to his credit.

It wasn't until about six months ago that the band belatedly caught my interest. Much to my pertetual disdain, Radio 1 is usually the aural wallpaper of choice in my lab. I struggle to tune it out, and it's one of the main reasons I bought an iPod. But a particular song grabbed my attention... I kept listening, and the DJ said it was All My Life by the Foo Fighters. Then I heard and instantly rated DOA, and bought In Your Honour. Finally, I realised there might be something to love behind the hype.

Those who know me, know my usual gig-going MO is to arrive early at the venue, and queue to get as close to the front as I can. There are those who think I should be old enough to know better; but as far as I’m concerned, the pros (great view, a barrier to hold on to, and being within reach of the water usually handed out by security) greatly outweigh the cons (potential sunburn/hypothermia, depending on the season, and looking like a tit). Having never seen the band before, I had no idea if they would be worth enduring the near-freezing temperatures and perpetual drizzle. I wimped out.

By the time I got onto the arena floor, the second support band (Supergrass) were finishing up, and I let out a heavy sigh at the very depressing sight of thousands of people in front of me. I started snaking my way through the crowd… the closest I could reasonably get was around 20 rows of people from the front. My heart sank, as I wondered what a Foo crowd would be like, and whether I’d be able to get through them.

AC/DC was blasting over the sound system, and the mood was expectant. An excitable, disgustingly good-looking guy was chatting to me about the band. Anyone with any self-esteem may have thought he was flirting. I should have been happy, but couldn’t help wondering what drugs he was on that he’d waste time talking to me. I saw a small opening in the crowd, smiled goodbye and got a few feet closer to the front.

The lights dimmed, the stage lights went up, and the surge forward started. They opened with In Your Honour, then launched into All My Life, which was the cue for the crowd to go completely apeshit.

By the end of the song, I’d slammed my way to the second row of bouncing bodies, much to the irritation of the guy immediately behind me. He seemed to think jumping up and down while deliberately and repeatedly hitting me over the head with his elbow was going to make me move. Before I could do anything about him, one of the huge security guys saw what he was doing, got up on the barrier step, lent over and menacingly growled, “oi! Stop it…” I managed to look like a grateful, wronged party, and didn’t laugh until he’d looked away. It was the last I felt of him.

Dave worked the crowd well, and I smiled as he said, "ahhh... and this is the part where I'm supposed to say you're the best crowd on the tour..." His wording was not lost on me, old and jaded as I am... but about two-thirds of the audience were screaming, like "oohhhhh... Dave just said we're the best!" Involuntarily, my eyeballs rolled.

The gig was fantastic, and the crowd around me were amazing. Though I was left with a nagging suspicion that I would have enjoyed the show even more if I knew the band's older material. But I left feeling high, sweaty and physically drained… all the tell-tale signs of a great night out.

my new arrival

I love computers, and although I’ve always had a PC at home, we’re largely Mac-based at work. Some time back, I got an email from Apple announcing the arrival of the new iMac G5, and it was lust at first sight. In November, much to the disdain of the PC-loving Bibliogirl, I finally ordered one. The only decision had been whether to order the 17” or 20” model. A quick visit to the Apple Store on Regent Street made me realise the stunning 20” was the only option.

I excitedly prepared for its arrival like normal people might prepare for a new baby. But instead of preparing a nursery, I redecorated the living room, and bought it a new desk and printer. Online tracking even made the delivery relatively painless. It was beautiful, quiet, and easy to care for. Garageband and Logic Pro are fantastic (even if the latter is a rather steep learning curve cliff), iTunes is easily navigated with the compact remote control, and I have some other wonderful pieces of Mac-only software.

I’m writing this some time (several months) later, I still love my Mac. It’s easy, elegant and well designed. It’s also been sent in twice for repair. The Mac is a more effective muse, but I can’t work with Photoshop, and my beloved Paint Shop Pro is PC only. The PC was rescued from the dump zone spare bedroom, and improved with a 17” TFT monitor, new hard drive and a questionable copy of XP.

Each has their own workstation, but I occasionally wonder how many dork-points I score for having them networked across the same room.

frustration relief...

For some time now, one of my bosses has been threatening to teach me to play squash. For some reason, he always felt I'd be a natural. I've been putting him off for a couple of weeks, largely due to car-crash-induced whiplash, but he'd booked a court for 4.40 pm on Friday.

Unfortunately, this was straight after the lab's Christmas lunch, which was held at a local tapas restaurant. I'd promised myself I wouldn't drink, but when we got there, the table was adorned with bottles of wine and jugs of sangria; it was too much to resist.

After some shopping, I stopped at Starbucks for a sober-me-up latte, and wandered back to the lab, before heading off to the sports hall.

Things didn't start well. Rob lent me his spare racket, which may have been older than me. Hideously old-fashioned, it was wooden, and had an inordinately long neck and a tiny head. I couldn't hit the ball to save my life. In frustration, I asked if I could borrow his racket for a few minutes... that's when things took off.

It took a while to adjust to the speed of the ball, but by the end (and with me still in possession of Rob's decent racket), we actually got some decent rallies going.

This was fun that I intend to repeat. Preferably with men... they are less inclined to whine, and say things like, "did you have to hit the ball that hard?"

screech... smack... vroom...

Almost home, I was sitting behind the wheel after an otherwise uneventful day, waiting for an oncoming car to pass before I could make the turn into the car park next door.

I had realised a car was coming up rather quickly behind me, but I’m not entirely sure what registered first: the fact that he was unlikely to be able to stop, or the sickening screech of his brakes. I just remember thinking to myself, “not too hard… please don’t hit me too hard…” Time seemed to slow before the inevitable thud of metal on metal. I remember hearing a high-pitched squealing noise, but that may have come from me. My poor old car was flung forward, and I was thankful that the seatbelt worked. I realised I was OK and sat there cursing the dumb fucker for crashing into me, before seeing that he was about to drive off. As he sped away, I saw the registration plate on the rear of his car and memorised the number. I repeated it to myself over and over, as I got out of the car, walked around to the passenger side, found paper, found a pen, and scribbled it down.

Slightly shaken, I walked round to the back of the car, and checked the damage. The bodywork was dented in the middle of the now-shattered bumper, but it didn’t look too bad. Glass strewn in the road hinted that his car may have come out of the collision in worse shape than mine. I smiled as my eye was caught by something else: face down in the road I saw what could only be his licence plate. I picked it up and checked the number against my notes… I’d always wondered if I’d have the presence of mind to take details in a case such as this, and I felt rather self-satisfied that I'd got them down correctly.

By now, there was small crowd. Passers-by agreed that the guy was both culpable and a total cunt, and offered me their details as witnesses. Neighbours I’d never seen before had rushed outside to see if anyone was hurt; after checking I was OK, a couple of them invited me in for a cup of tea. Some guy rang the police, and put me on to the operator, who told advised me to report it my local police station, taking along my license, MOT certificate and insurance details. Geoff, who owns the car park, found a brush and swept up the glass from the road.

I bitch about many of the people in this transient and over-populated neighbourhood… I only seem to notice the smack-addicts, the ASBO'd chavs, and the drunken students who insist on regurgitating their donor kebabs on my door-step. I never realised I had such nice neighbours, and I was both surprised, and surprisingly touched.

Later that evening, I walked to the police station, and filled in an accident report. I wasn’t even that angry that the guy had hit me, just that he’d driven off. I didn’t know if the police would give even half a shit, but the desk clerk was sympathetic, and gave me the form to fill in. She asked if I got his licence plate. I nodded, and said, "it's a little grubby though," as I took it from a plastic bag and handed it across the counter. The look on her face was almost worth the damage to my car.

Some time later, I heard back from the police. They'd questioned the owner of the car, who denied he was driving it at the time of the crash. After they had stopped recording the interview, he offered up the name of a "friend," who he alleged had been behind the wheel. The police said they couldn't find him. I offered my assistance, but they wouldn't give me his details.

Bastards.

I would like to have spoken with him.

Preferably with a hockey stick.

tremors

One of the buildings in which I work is a testimony to the general crapness of 1960's architecture. While it is not quite as uninspired as some buildings of the same period, it is ugly and concrete, and was most likely designed by someone with a serious grudge against the university.

I've never felt them, but many people, especially on the top floor, have complained of tremors and swaying. It's something that you just don't expect in this geologically-stable part of the world.

So, by way of investigation, sensors were installed and monitored by an engineering company, and various surveys were undertaken to check the structural integrity of the building.

The reports recently came back. Apparently, the main company thinks the service life of the building can be extended with certain (expensive) remedial work. The subcontracors have a bleaker outlook. It appears the metal framework of the building is corroding, and their assesment can be summed up as: everybody out. Like now.

I think this may become a factor when they decide where to site a new GBP 600 k laboratory...

a final footnote

I passed my driving test when I was seventeen. Having lessons was just expected, but for various reasons, I hadn't driven since.

Almost two years ago, my sister bought an old banger of a car from a couple of her friends. She gave it to me for my Birthday, with the insurance paid up for a year.

Despite being a candidate for the scrap yard (or Pimp My Ride), I’ve only had to spend around GBP 300 in repairs, and I don’t think either of us would have predicted that it would still be on the road. It sometimes takes a little gentle persuasion to start, but it covered nearly 1000 miles in ten days, and got me back home safe and sound.

So Bibliogirl... thanks again ;-)

Saturday 10th September - Skid Row @ Bradford Rio's

First up, driving into a city I’ve never visited before without a map or directions may not have been the smartest thing to do. After repeatedly orbiting the ring road, and seeing somewhat more of Bradford than I intended, I gave up on the guess-work and bought a local A-Z.

Bradford is known (at least down south here) as being one hell of a shit-hole. I don’t know if it was just my low expectations, but it was nowhere near as bad as I anticipated. One of the most depressing things was the apparent abundance of empty warehouse-type buildings. Living in a city where property is stupidly expensive (and that can’t expand much for reasons of simple geography), a part of me was insanely jealous. If there were buildings like that around here, they would have been snapped up by some rich, fat cunt of a property developer and converted in un-affordable, loft-style apartments. (I’m bitter, I know…)

My hotel was exactly what I expected for a GBP 30 a night room above a pub. Labyrinthine corridors and narrow staircases led me to a small, furniture-packed room. It had a tiny en suite bathroom, with a pleasingly powerful shower that generated enough steam to strip the paint from the walls. The window didn’t shut, and rain-water had damaged to contents of the ubiquitous basket of tea, coffee and sugar. (At least, I’m assuming that is what had happened… either that, or they were recycling the teabags, and even I can’t believe Yorkshiremen are really that cheap.) Anyway, I hadn’t chosen it for glamour… it was the only affordable place in easy staggering distance from the venue.

Over the years, I’d heard about Rio’s. It was only when I was queuing outside that I realised quite how small it is… just my kind of place! In front of me in the queue were some of the people I’d spoken to at Camden. They said they had been particularly impressed with Head On (the support band that seemed to loving smashing up old video recorders for no apparent reason). They told me the song that included this carnage was called Here Comes the Hammer (I didn’t bother pointing out that it was actually a wooden mallet the singer was wielding with intent, but what the hell…) The bloke proudly informed me that he’d carried the mallet hammer into the venue for the band earlier... This made me feel slightly less tragic for driving nearly 200 miles to see a band I’ve loved for the last 16 years.

Fortunately, the gig more than justified the trip. But the only problem with repeatedly seeing the same band on the same tour is that you become somewhat immune to the between-song banter. Yeah, shit has happened in the world. Yeah, the UK is a great place for rock and metal. Yeah… whatever... just shut up and play the next fucking song. In all fairness, the locals lapped it up and the band rocked.

All to soon, it was over.

And in record time... I wanted more. I consoled myself by getting a fantastic chicken curry on the way back to the hotel (I figured to come to Bradford, and not eat curry would be unforgivable).

(I'm writing this some time after the event, and should add that I am now addicted to curries...)

Friday 9th September

While last night was spent eating and drinking to excess - it was the course meal - Friday I had been looking forward to an evening of doing absolutely nothing - except examing the contents of Wimble's Tivo hard drive.

It did feel a little odd, though. I sat in Wimble's house, while he had driven to my sister's for her thank-God-we've-finally-sold-our-"spare"-house drinks... I was tired, and pondering a long drive north the next day.

Wednesday 7th September - Skid Row @ The Electric Ballroom

In all my years growing up (I use the term loosely) in London, I'd never set foot inside the Electric Ballroom. Aside from the strangely high stage (and no security barrier), it was pretty typical for its size. In its favour, though, the barstaff were friendly and efficient, the drinks may not have been watered down, and the security people failed to piss me off.

First onstage were The Renegade Playboys. That "they don't spell Playboys with a z," is the best thing I could say should tell you something ... They truly sucked.

Even in LA, in 1989, no one would have taken them seriously. Fast-forward 16 years (fuck me, that makes me feel old) and I teetered between admiring their balls (under the make-up, I'm sure they did actually have some) for sticking to their guns, and wondering quite what they hoped to achieve. Their strangely out-of-place drummer looked as though he was playing hooky from his family's kebab shop... and I breathed a large sigh of relief when all five of them fucked off at the end of their set.

I'm a bitch, I know ;-)

Next up, again, were the mallet-wielding support act. I had been informed in the queue that they were, in fact, called Head On, and not Hhheaaaooonnn... another town, another solid performance, and yet another smashed VCR.

Anyway, to Skid Row... The short version: they fucking rocked.

Again, I took a camera, and thanked God for digital. Being snap-happy is so much cheaper these days, and you don't have to keep re-loading film.

My favourite shot was Rachel singing Psychotherapy:



Each time I've seen them play this week, watching Rachel play bass has made me want to cry. I tried to console myself by reminding myself that they guy must have been playing for around 25 years... but I'm still left hoping that one day, I can play one tenth as well as him.




Anyway, the highlight of the gig, for me at least, was Scotti stealing my camera before imploring the audience to raise their middle fingers then taking a picture of us from the stage... makes for a nice souvenir, if nothing else!



Me grow up?? No... at least I don't see it happening any time soon!

Johnny was in great form, and took great pleasure milking the crowd for all we were worth:



Scotti's always been my favourite... but most of the photo's I got of him were total shite. Especially this one:



Johnny consistently refers to him on stage as a crazy man... he looks more like Devil Man! I looked at the photo, and eventually decided I have better things to do than Photoshop horns onto it ;-)

At the end of the show, I wanted the setlist. I asked Mike (the cute tour manager) if he'd get it for me. It was too noisy to hear his reply. I suspect it was "no," "later," or "get a fucking life you sad muppet." In all honesty, there were too few syllables for it to be the latter, so I suspect it was just "no".

I got it anyway, but it's torn in two. And I had to vault onto the monitors to get it... I should apologise for the view to anyone unfortunate enough to be standing behind me...

Anyway, I had a great time, and amazingly, was in bed, in Oxford, by 2 am.

Wednesday 7th September - Camden

When I received the course timetable, I'd smiled when I saw that Wednesday afternoon was free, and quickly booked a ticket for the Skid Row gig at The Electric Ballroom. Oxford probably has some of the best city connections to London, so after the morning classes, I walked up the road to the bus-stop, and waited for one of the cheap 24-hour coaches to take me "home".

It was seven years to the month that I moved out of London, and there are parts of the city that I truly do miss. There are, however, also neighbourhoods that I could happily go the rest of my life without returning to. On my way to Camden, I realised I hadn’t been there for almost ten years... and I’d forgotten quite how much I dislike the place.

Keen to avoid the rush hour, I got there unnecessarily early. There was no queue to speak of outside the venue, and nothing much to do but wander around. I felt nothing but disdain I felt as I walked through its over-rated markets and crappy streets, which were customarily filled with dealers, hopeful-but-misguided wannabes, and foreign language students whose guidebooks had cruelly misinformed them that Camden was cool.

I was hit on by a couple of desperate-looking smack addicts as I perused the overly familiar pseudo-goth-rock crap on offer, and marveled at how familiar it all looked. The vast majority appeared unchanged from the days when I used to shop there as an impressionable teenager.

Wow... I really do sound jaded, don’t I?

Unable to take any more, I gave up and sat outside the venue, trying to block out the local sights, sounds and smells with Donna Summer on my iPod (not very metal, I know!). Sick of people tripping over my legs, I later decided to be a little more sociable and chat to the other people in the queue.

They told me the name of the sexy-as-fuck Snake substitute was Keri Kelli. I laughed even before I later saw the spelling on a guitar pick. It gave some hint as to his rather dodgy, very glammed up past... the evidence is on his website... under Big Bang Babies ;-)

Tuesday 6th September - all the fun of the fair

On Tuesday, Wimble took me to the fair. St. Giles' Fair to be precise, which is traditionally held in Oxford town centre in the beginning of September.

Anyway, the whole thing is really rather cool, with some of the cities' streets closed to traffic, and filled instead with a noisy, tacky assortment of thrill & fairground rides, food vendors and side stalls.

After perusing the rides on offer, Wimble and I started rather conservatively with a slide down a traditional helter skelter. Things got progressively more stomach-churning, with a stint on my personal childhood favourite, the Twister.



Despite being scared of heights, I insisted on going on one of the vertical drop rides.



I managed to take one photo of the view from half way up (or half way down, depending on your perspective), before I gave up on the amateur photography, and concentrated instead on alternating between involuntarily screaming, and apologising profusely to Wimble for the screaming. Poor man...



By the end, Wimble had decided maybe free-fall wasn't his thing... so we decided to chill out a little (with a ride on the dodgems), and discuss the implausibly high chav count.

Ride-wise, we probably saved the best 'til last. Step forward, The Booster.

Boasting the highest ticket price, and the longest queue, this ride looked truly terrifying. One long arm, with spinning seats at either end, this thing soared into the night sky, and when running, was the source of the loudest screams. Christ... the people at the top were screaming when it was stationary, and they were loading the bottom seats!

I haven't uploaded the quicktime movie I shot - when safely back on the ground (mostly 'cause I don't know if anyone will care enough to download the 11 MB file) - but it was 45 seconds of pure, unadulterated terror... compounded by the close proximity of the downward spin to the top of a neighbouring building. I hadn't had a rush like that since I went skydiving... Wimble, however, may have been less impressed...

Anyway, you can view the manufacturers' (strangely silent) mpeg here (Wimble, this may bring back some bad memories!!)

Anyway, although I thought I'd already OD'd on junk food, the evening was perfected with the purchase of a bag of marshmallow kebabs to eat on the bus ride home.

Thanks again, Wimble ;-)

tired... so very tired... (Monday 5th)

I must have had a couple of hours sleep before I reluctantly managed to haul my oversized arse out of bed for the drive to Oxford. Never a morning person, getting up and out when it's still dark just feels, well... un-natural.

Despite roadworks, things were going well until I mis-placed myself (I couldn't get lost two days running, could I?) searching for Wimble's house. A long standing friend of my sister, he'd kindly agreed to provide me with somewhere to sleep for the week, as I attended a course for work.

I arrived at the course venue only a couple of minutes late, and although I was tired, sat at the back of the room checking out the guys as I flicked through the barrage of assorted paperwork. One bloke in particular caught my eye... it was only later I realised he used to work in the same lab as me.

Anyway, I was pleased that the course looked as though it would be both useful and fun, but skipped the evening meet and greet (i.e. drinking session) to flop out back at Wimble's house, and catch up on some much needed sleep.

Sunday 4th September - Skid Row @ The Bierkeller

Even with directions, I hate driving into cities I don’t know. I’d only been to Bristol once before. I came in by train, and I find it much easier to navigate on foot. Anyway, with a leap or two of faith (and a little help from The AA), I found the Travelodge and ditched my poor old Ford in their car park. No-one’s ever going to steal my car, indeed I often wonder why I bother locking it, but the various scatterings of broken auto glass warned me not to leave anything more valuable inside than a couple of scuffed up pairs of boots (and an inflatable shark...)

I can imagine the Travelodge is cosy enough in winter, but this was an oppressively sticky, humid day; the hotel windows didn’t open, and they didn’t have air-con. I thought ahead to the evening’s gig, and could imagine the sweatiness that was to follow.

Skid Row were playing Bristol’s Bierkeller. It’s an odd venue, with copious amounts of seating around the main floor, and almost unnervingly low ceilings. As soon as I saw the (knee height) stage, I had flashbacks to a gig in Cardiff where the crew spent much of the gig going ape-shit. As the crowd went nuts, the people at the front were shoved forward, pushing the monitors across the stage, and knocking everything in their path loose. I’d spent the next two weeks wearing black, very opaque tights to cover the bruises on my knees as they cycled through various colours that living flesh should never be (the green was my personal favourite). Before the first band came on, the security guys belatedly began constructing a barrier. I felt like a wimp as I breathed a small sigh of relief.

Gripshift were OK. I find it hard to dislike any band that has a girl guitarist. However, a good stylist may have been able to drag them kicking and (almost certainly) screaming into the 21st century.

Next up (again) were Hhhheeaaaooonnn (name still unknown, now sounds like singer attempting violent throat clearance). Their music was at least starting to grow on me, and when they did occasionally bore me, their guitarist made an attractive distraction. Again, a VCR was sacrificed with the mallet, and I was still no wiser as to why. At the end of the set, some of the guys to my left were clamouring over broken plastic pieces of the smashed-up video recorder. I will admit to being a sad muppet... but sweet Jesus!

Anyway, the important bit: Skid Row. The gig started off a little slow, but after a few songs, they had the crowd (including myself) eating out of their hands. The sound was much better than Rock City, although not quite so deafeningly loud.

Before long, it felt like even the walls were sweating, and the nice security people started handing out glasses of water. As I tipped the first of many over my head in a desperate attempt to cool down, I prayed that I’d used waterproof mascara, and felt pity for the poor bastards behind me, who must have been hit with a slick of diluted Frizz-Ease.

Personally, the highlight was Rachel singing his cover of The Ramones’ Psychotherapy. I can’t imagine how many times he must have played that song, but tonight, it felt like the first time. Someone had really put a rocket up his arse. Or he was high. He also won the award for The Coolest T-Shirt... it was black, with Psych Ward emblazoned across the front in stencil-style lettering. I wanted one!!

By the time the band walked off-stage, I was still somewhat drunk, and drenched in the traditional gig-mix of water, sweat and beer. Lost in a state of ecstasy, feeling heady and bruised, I left the venue knowing that feeling is why I’m willing to drive a couple of hundred miles for a gig. Some people instinctively understand, others think you’re nuts. At times like this, I truly don’t care.

The plan had been to float merrily back to my hotel. That was until I got lost. This doesn’t happen as much as people might think; I have an arrogant self-belief in my ability to find my way anywhere, and I find it unnerving, to say the least. Directions from a taxi-driver appeared to get me even more lost, until a nice policeman kindly pointed me in the right direction.

Depressingly, I knew I would have to get up at 4.30 am to drive to Oxford.

12.30 am, I was sitting in my hotel room finishing off a chicken shish kebab, wondering quite how long it’d take me to get to sleep, in the hot, humid sweatbox that was my hotel room.

Saturday 3rd September - Skid Row @ Rock City

When I lived in London, I’d frequently head up to Nottingham’s Rock City to see bands. Several years later, I wandered around, unsure if the city centre had changed, or if my memory is not what it was. Despite the tempting array of shops, I managed to limit myself to anything I could eat, drink or read before the doors opened.

I got to Rock City about an hour and a half before the doors were due to open, and sat on the steps outside at the back of the fledgling queue. The loud, grating, pig-ignorant Brummie bitch behind me made me regret leaving my iPod at the hotel. I just tried to tune her out, and concentrated instead on reading The Times while tearing apart a particularly flaky almond croissant, and washing it down with several small bottles of Bailey’s. It wasn’t working, and I was on the verge of offering her cash to shut the fuck up, when Scotti walked past.

He saw me, stopped, and asked how I was doing. I gave him a typically lame response, and as he walked off, I sat there thinking once, just once, I’d like to say something witty or amusing to him. Or at least not seem quite so much like a stupidly-shy 16-year old. Ho hum. (And I’m still not sure if he meant to imply I was an alcoholic, or if it was just my guilty conscience).

One of the things I always loved about Rock City was their security. They were still as cool and helpful as ever. Before the doors opened, I asked the muscle-bound bloke outside if it was OK to take a camera in. Since the band have fans’ photo’s on their website, I know it is... but I want clarification instead of a hard time on the door. Instead of getting a gruff, unhelpful response, he actually went and checked. Contrast this with the brain-dead pricks at places like Brixton (and Wembley... and Manchester...) Anyway, it’s amazing what a difference it can make to your night out!

On the flip-side, the worst thing about Rock City was their reputation for watering down any alcohol that wasn’t sealed and bottled. After knocking back several over-priced triples, I suspected they were still doing it. However, I’m really shallow, and the barman was cute... so I was prepared to forgive them (at least this time...)

After the first, heavy-as-fuck support band walked off stage, all I could think was, “wow, thank you... I’m now deaf!” I didn’t catch their name, but it sounded much like “heeeeaaaoonnn” with some indistinguishable consonant thrown in the middle for good measure. I’m not sure why, but they also did something with a mallet. As the muscle-bound lead singer smashed up an old VCR, I didn't get it, but I was sure it must have been deeply symbolic.

Second up was Jeff Scott Soto. Apparently, he’d been booked to play a smaller room at Rock City, but after Skid Row announced, the management combined the shows. The band was tight, and Jeff was kind of cute, but he knew it; I got the impression he’d spent way too many years practicing those pelvic thrusts in the mirror.

They started out playing their own songs, which had a funky, rock vibe. They then moved onto a slick series of funk and disco cover versions. A dubious highlight was their rendition of The Village People’s Macho Man, something I never expected to hear at a Skid Row gig. Anyway, maybe it’s a sign that things have changed, but they were applauded, and not bottled off the stage (and yes, I was singing along...)

Normally, the changeover between bands can be rather dull... Not with Skid Row. I’ve seen one or two good-looking roadies before, but watching their current crew makes time just fly. I know one is potentially a bit of a prick (long story, on which it may not be entirely fair to judge him), but their cute-as-fuck tour manager makes for one hell of a distraction, and has the kind of hair most women would die for. (He's the blonde in the back, by the way - apparently sitting next to a headless, white-vested torso... very strange!)

Anyway, The Ramones were cranked up as the house lights dimmed, and the crowd went wild as the band came on stage and launched into their set. Within moments, I was lost in the music, singing my heart out with a huge smile on my face.

Then I was suddenly distracted. I looked across the stage, and thought “OK... that’s not Snake.” Earlier, when I’d seen Scotti, he’d been walking down the street with an unfeasibly cute, ultra cool-looking guy. I assumed it’d had been their new drummer, but was in fact their substitute guitarist. They later said Snake was in rehab., and I thought “hmmm... now there’s a surprise,” but apparently he’s suffering from some type of RSI-type problem with his wrist. Poor bastard.

The sound could have been better... Instrumentally, the band sounded fantastic, but Johnny’s vocals were way too low. Not that it really mattered: I know most of the lyrics, and live Skid Row karaoke is kind of fun!

I took some photo’s, but the light wasn’t great, and I’m not too fond of using the flash in venues... partly ‘cause I’ve never found out quite how annoying it is for the artist, but also you just lose any atmosphere you may have had.

But anyway... Here’s Johnny:





The gig was fantastic, and by the end, I was hot, sweaty, bruised and half deaf. By the time I left Rock City, I was sober enough to find my way back to the hotel, but still drunk enough to think that buying a re-heated chicken kebab from a fast food shop that sells a “McKurd” was a good idea. Fortunately (or perhaps miraculously), I didn’t get food poisoning.

Friday 2nd September

Four Skid Row gigs and a week-long course for work...

OK, logistically, I knew I could spend the next 10 days running into one self-inflicted hell after another. Fortunately, as I drove out of town (six hours later than planned), the optimist in me put in a rare appearance. I put on my sunglasses, wound down the window, turned up the radio and sung loudly as I headed north.

Despite having printed off directions, I missed my turn off the M3. Instead of turning back, I decided the sensible option would be to stay on the same road, head around the M25 and up the M1. Three mind-numbing traffic jams and five long hours later, I finally arrived at the Nottingham Moathouse. Deciding it was too late to anything interesting, I curled up on the bed and watched CSI.

A few weeks back, I’d mentioned my plans for the weekend to Alison, an old school friend who also used to love Skid Row. She hadn’t sounded particularly enthused, so I didn’t push it. It was only when I took my phone from my bag that I saw the text she’d sent. She’d forgotten it was this weekend, and was wondering if it was too late for her to come. She’d sent the text eight hours ago, and by the time I got back to her, she decided it was too late to make a decent weekend of it.

She was missed :-(

never look Bach back

I don’t know if I should describe my love of live music as a passion, a bad habit, or a full-blown addiction.

For me, the best rock gigs are comparable to the best sex you ever had. Just as hot and twice as sweaty. You leave feeling bruised, abused, entirely exhausted, and briefly satisfied. But a one-night stand is never enough, and you’re always left wanting more. Once a band hits the right spots, I’ll happily travel many, many miles to see them again.

There are two types of people: those who understand, and those who don’t.

Those in the know realise the trip is half the fun. It’s an excuse to see places that you’d otherwise have no reason to visit. It’s an opportunity to hit the road, to misbehave, and meet weird and wonderful people whose paths you’d never normally cross.

Anyway, one band that rarely failed to satisfy was Skid Row. Sebastian Bach was the lead singer when they hit the big time. He was an amazing presence, and I’ll never forget the first time I saw him (he was leaning out of a car window, screaming “kick aaassssss” at the top of his (quite considerable) voice as the vehicle drove past the queue of expectant rock fans outside the Marquee Club). I was 15, and he certainly made an impression. However, over the years it slowly became apparent that when he was doing anything other than singing, the guy was a first class, grade-A dick.

Despite earlier warning signs, the penny only started to drop for me personally after he faxed a self-important, empathy-free attack on Kurt Cobain to various rock magazines in the weeks after his suicide. I forget the exact content, but apparently Kurt “killed himself before he had a chance to become a man...” Silly me. I thought it may have had something to do with a long history of mental illness and heroin addiction (and, perhaps, marriage to Courtney Love)... I stood corrected.

It was during their ’95 tour that the friction within the band was becoming obvious, and it was pretty clear the end was nigh. I don’t when, if ever, the band officially split up. One version of events suggested that a long-suffering band-mate never called Sebastian back after returning home to find a particularly abusive message on his answerphone. Who knows?

Anyway, a couple of years ago, my brother-in-law mentioned to me that Skid Row were playing some dates over here, so I went along... more for old times’ sake than anything else. They had a new singer (Johnny Solinger) and a new drummer (Phil Varone), and a new CD. I wasn’t really sure what to expect from Johnny, but they opened with Slave to the Grind, launched straight into Piece of Me, and I never looked back. The gig fucking rocked, and the personnel change never bothered me in the slightest. The core of the original band was still there, and perhaps not surprisingly, they seemed much happier.

Out on his own, Sebastian has been keeping busy, in part by making appearances in various musicals (Jesus Christ Superstar, anyone?!!). His website still looks as though it was designed thrown together by a colour-blind eight-year old. I think I’ll pass on the “Sebastian Bach Glitter Thong Panties” (I shit you not... they’re 20 USD, should you wish to purchase a pair). When I was 15, the thought of his face that close to my pussy may have done it for me... those days are certainly over! (Girly note: considering they’re only available in large, they really don’t look like a particularly flattering cut.)

Factor into this, that at the top of the page, there is a repeating, sound-free video, where he appears to be saying “come buy stuff...” over and over again. It reminded me of an attack (OK... one of the attacks) he launched another band, in which he accused them of being more concerned with merchanise than their music or fans. He said he’d rather cut off his balls than turn into that. Is he now singing castrato? I think not. Hmmm.... the idealism of youth.

Enough of the past.

A few months ago, I took a look at SR’s website and realised they were playing more gigs over here. The smile on my face, alongside the subsequent scheming and booking frenzy made me realise how unlikely I am to grow up any time soon.

;-)

July

Finally, just when I thought it was all over, my family forced me to endure a humiliating fancy dress parade (also known as graduation). The ceremony was dull the first time around, the second time it was unbearable. I snuck out early to drink the champagne I’d bought, and found my Mum outside: she’d gone outside for a cigarette. Neither of us felt compelled to go back.

At least I got lunch out of it, followed by a fun afternoon of bowling. I also got a certificate. Although as I sat looking at it, it didn’t seem like much of a reward for all the anguish.

I also got a new title. It’s now Dr. JJ.

:-)

June

Despite local property prices pretty much doubling in the last five years, I’ve always wanted to own my own home. Since I’m now earning more than I’m spending (just...), I decided to bite the bullet, register with the local estate agents, and see what I could find. It was a whole series of posts in its own right, so I’ll save it for later. To cut the long story short, I looked, I found a place, but the sale fell through.

I finally did the thesis corrections, and handed in my official copy to the registry on the last day of the month. The whole PhD ordeal finally felt like it was over.

I also saw the ever-wonderful Red Arrows:

it passed??

The main thing I now associate with May, is my car’s annual MOT test. For those who don't know what I drive, the only non-specific way I can describe it, is as a candidate for Pimp My Ride.

I dutifully took it to the garage for the annual round of safety checks. While I sat outside eating breakfast, I wondered exactly what it would fail on this year. Last year, it needed new headlights, there was minor welding, the back seats needed to be fixed to they’d lock in place, and the track control arms needed to be replaced. I hadn’t even realised my car had track control arms.

With the testing complete, the mechanic came out, and I asked him if I should drive it straight to the scrap yard. He looked a little bemused, and said to me, “but it passed!”

They had to change one of the tyres for the spare (I’d been driving around for God knows how long with a nail in it), but that was it. The garage owner seemed as dumb-founded as me, but pointed out that as older cars are less reliant on electronics, there is often less to go wrong. They did warn me that it was rusting, but said it was not yet bad enough to fail it on. Maybe next year.

I rang Bibliogirl, who had given to car to me for my Birthday 18 months or so back, and thanked her again.

what’s a girl to do?

So you feel like you’re having a mid-life crisis, but you can’t afford a sports car... What’s the best way to get in touch with your inner child?

As I saw it, the solution was simple: buy a bass guitar!

I’d always wanted to learn, but it was one of those things I’d never got around to. I had a look on eBay, and there were various beginner-type kits, but I wasn’t sure what I wanted, or if I liked the Fender Jazz design-alikes that most of the kits contained.

One day in May, we’d been to the pub after work. I stopped on the drive home (one drink... I’d had one drink) and popped into a local guitar shop. With hindsight, it must have been the easiest sale they ever made.

“I want to learn bass,” I said. The bloke pointed at a glittery red Yamaha. I immediately loved it, and cautiously asked how much. He said it was second hand, so 80 pounds. Nothing seemed to be falling off it, so I said “sold!”

About five minutes later, I walked out of the store with the Yamaha in a nice new case, a second hand (but very cute sexy) Fender practice amp, a strap, a DVD and some picks. Oh, and some cleaning solution that I have yet to use (it’s now September). All for GBP 155.

I got home, laid it all out on the floor and just sat there looking at it for ages, with this big dumb smile on my face, and kept thinking “hey!! I have a bass guitar!!”

I figured all I had to do is to learn to play the bloody thing. Fortunately, the guys in the store also gave me the phone number of a bass tutor.

May

Much of May was spent stressing about my impending viva. For those not in the know, this is the way in which a PhD thesis is passed or failed in England. Two examiners (one from within your institution, and one from outside) are chosen, and they fire questions at you for however long is deemed necessary for them to determine that you are not a complete fuckwit.

In the week before, my boss (Tom) kindly went through my thesis question spotting for me. The reams of paper I got back did nothing to increase my confidence. I just kept thinking that I would walk into the room, and they’d realise what a total airhead I was. And fail me. Fortunately, the voices of reason within my department pointed out that if my thesis wasn’t good enough, I wouldn’t have been allowed to submit.

I already knew the references were not up to scratch, and was planning to make a pre-emptive strike against my examiners by sorting it all out before the viva. Somewhat predictably, it never happened.

In the hour before, I felt surprisingly calm, and once the questions started, I barely stopped talking for the three or so hours it had taken. Despite all the stressing, I realised I would have done just fine if I hadn’t even picked up a copy of my thesis since it was submitted in January.

I was given a month to make minor corrections (mostly sorting out the references), but I passed!

I walked back over to my office to find my sister had shown up to congratulate me (with champagne and cookies)... she seemed slightly disappointed that I was not surprised to see her. I knew she’d be there! Anyway, much alcohol was drunk, and I staggered home wondering what all the fuss had been about.

April

Ditto.

March

Must have done something. I’ll be buggered if I can remember what, though.

February

So I finally started my new job in earnest. It felt good to be back in the lab, and even better to be getting paid again.

I know lust is supposed to be a sin, but ever since I first saw them, I really, really wanted an iPod mini. So I treated myself.

People were surprised that I went for the pink. On one hand, I was trying to get in touch with my girly, feminine side. It does, however, have lyrics to Piece of Me by Skid Row engraved on the reverse.

It seemed like a fair compromise ;-)

one to file under What The Fuck??

I have many work avoidance tactics, one of which is browsing the BBC News website. While the lack of detail can be rather annoying, it's add-free, and frequently updated.

It was January when I originally saw this story:

Three charged over car park death

Two men and a woman from Essex have been charged with the murder of a man whose burnt body was found in a wheelie bin in an east London car park.

Mark Evans, 48, from Dagenham, was strangled and transported in a wheelie bin to Electric Parade, Ilford.

Anthony Aldis, 38, of Goodmayes, Steven Fullerton, 28, of Gants Hill, and Leanne Terry, 26, of Seven Kings, have all been charged with his murder.

All three will appear at Waltham Forest magistrates court on Saturday.

They also face charges of perverting the course of justice.

A member of the public discovered the burning body on Wednesday morning after finding his garden fence on fire.

My first impressions after reading the story:
- Why?
- How?
- That must have been a bit of a, er, surprise for the “member of the public.”
- What a fucking way to go...
- Oh, and why??

Mark Evans is a pretty common name, and it wasn’t until I received a couple of emails that I realised that this Mark Evans was formerly the drummer of Warrior Soul, one of my favourite bands of the 90’s.

Shocked and bemused, my sister and I googled for more information, and found a message board that carried the story. The comments started out along the lines of “great band,” “what a shame, he was a top bloke,” and “never really liked their music, but what the fuck” etc.

Then came the inevitable question from an American.

“What’s a wheelie bin?”

What followed were a morbidly amusing variety of comments pointing out that no, it’s not a dumpster... and it’s not a trash can. Followed by people wondering quite how you could actually get a body into one (I spend too much time watching re-runs of CSI, so I’m guessing rigor mortis couldn’t have set in. Tasteless, I know.)

I know it would change nothing, but I still wish I knew what happened and why.

Mark Evans, RIP

the final card collection

As I was writing, Bibliogirl and others had kindly sent me a weird and wonderful array of postcards by way of encouragement.

Thanks a million... this was the final collection:



And yes, the postman did wonder what the hell was going on...

January

Technically, I started my new job on January 1st. In reality, most of the month was spent desperately writing and re-writing parts of the damn thesis. I honestly didn’t really care; I was just looking forward to the regular pay cheques that would keep the wolves (or HSBC, and they are more widely known) from the door.

I only panicked briefly when I saw Tom in the middle of January, and asked if I should have had some paperwork (such as the customary employment contract) through from personnel. Suddenly he looked rather concerned, and said he wasn’t sure if anyone had told them I was starting work this month. Oops. Fortunately, the whole mess did get smoothed over... eventually.

Anyway, by the end of the month, the thesis was almost ready. It was never supposed to be like this. When I started as a postgrad, I viewed some of the theses I read with a certain level of contempt. I was appalled at the numerous typos, obvious omissions, formatting and grammatical errors (they obviously never had a sister/proof-reader like mine). I know it sounds arrogant (in retrospect, delusional even), but I honestly thought mine would be fantastic.

What bollocks!

The original plan was for me to drive to the book-binders, while supervisor Tom provided directions. I pointed out that I’d slept for two hours - the night before last - and his self-preservation instinct kicked in. He commandeered the departmental 4x4, sat outside my flat with the engine running, calling me every five minutes to point out the binders would close before we got there. I was inside googling for references I had lost and/or misplaced.

Finally, I got home, drank a bottle of Bailey’s, and slept for about 24 hours.

New Year, same hell.

I hadn't been paid since the end of August, and I'd been sitting in a room by myself trying to finish a PhD thesis. Not surprisingly, I had little motivation to go out and celebrate.

As the local cacophony of fireworks and foghorns blasted us all in to a new year, I wondered quite how my life had come to this.

(I realise in hindsight how self-pitying this was, by the way).

;-)

Christmas

I can barely remember it, which I'm going to put down to being stressed and tired (excess alcohol consumption may have also played a part).

There were presents, and it was white. I briefly stopped writing in order to eat way far too much food, and watch crap TV.

my apologies in advance

As my regular readers will know (yes, both of you), I didn't post to this blog for quite some time. As much as for any other reason, I keep this as a diary for myself... So I'm posting updates of my year so far.

Apart from trying to keep the entries in a logical order (that's logical to me, Bibliogirl), the dates and times will mean nothing. Sorry!

wa-haayyy

After this year’s annual Glastonbury ticket debacle (Bibliogirl and I tried for three long hours to get tickets before they finally sold out), it was a feeling of déjà vu this morning as I repeatedly hit redial, trying to get a ticket to the extra Foo Fighters Gig at Earl’s Court in December.

This time, I was more successful, and it only took 30 minutes.

Current mood: happy. Very fucking happy.

the queen of procrastination strikes again...

I have been meaning to update this poor, neglected little blog.

Since Christmas, in fact.

Anyway, eight months have passed (which is slack, even by my low standards)…

I started to writing a quick summary of what I've been up to, and realised that my New Year's Resolution - to get out more - has really fallen by the wayside. I’ll post it a month at a time, and you’ll see what I mean.