a ticket to ryde (the isle of wight festival, part one)

New Years’ Resolutions have never been my thing. This year, though, I almost broke with tradition, but instead made a collage of things-to-do-this-year. One of my ambitions was to go to a music festival. The closest I had got in the past were a couple of outings to the Monsters of Rock at Donington… it was a lot of fun, but this was pre-Download, it was still just a one day affair.

Last year, I had umm-ed and ahh-ed about the Isle of Wight Festival, but by the time I decided I really did want to go, it’d sold out. I wasn’t going to make the same mistake this year… especially as the first acts announced were the Friday night co-headliners: Placebo and The Prodigy.

To say I was already looking forward to June was an understatement. First up, the IoW festival, then a huge Foo Fighters’ show the following weekend at Hyde Park. The rest of the IoW line-up was confirmed over many weeks, however, I was particularly happy on the day that the Saturday and Sunday night headliners were announced… it was the Foo Fighters and Coldplay respectively. Cue much bouncing off the walls on my part.

My enthusing about the festival enticed Jean, a postgrad in my lab, and her housemates to book their tickets. She was also kind enough to borrow a large four-person tent from her aunt.

Ten days or so before the festival, things weren’t looking too good. Constant rain and unseasonably low temperatures weren’t what I had been hoping for, and I was checking the long-term forecast on a daily basis. Gradually it started to brighten up, and I became slightly more hopeful that my first festival experience wouldn’t be a complete washout. I’m not really one for the great outdoors at the best of times. I feared if I were cold and wet for four days, I would be completely insufferable. As it turned out, our biggest concern would be sunburn.

Thursday 8th June

In the hope of securing a decent pitch, we had collectively decided to head over to the island on the Thursday. The plan was for me to meet the others in Ryde, as I had the Fastcat crossing included in my ticket, whereas they had opted instead for the hovercraft.

The Fastcat docks at the far end of a pier… I think it was only the amount of crap I was carrying (heavy bag almost bursting at the seams, enough alcohol for four nights, and various pieces of tent) that made it seem like a very long pier. I lazily waited for the train to take me to the shore end, and wasn’t sure what reaction this would get me from the others. I felt better when Rachel, one of Jean’s housemates (and the only one of us to have been to the IoW festival before), told me how walking the length of the pier fully laden had nearly killed her last year. I felt like less of a slacker.

Double decker busses were lined up to take people to the festival site. Ours was open top, the sun was shining and we were already chilled out. It was a good way to travel.



As we entered the site, we were tagged with weekend camping wristbands. These were glittery and gold, the consensus was that they were pretty damn cool. Rachel knew the site, and was dismayed that many of the fields were already full. Another field was opened as we walked past it, and we decided that having our choice of pitch was preferable to fighting for space closer to the arena. Jean and I managed to erect the four person tent with a minimum of fuss, but the hot sun made it heavy going, and I would have killed for a nice cold Coke.

At this point, there were four of us with two tents, but this would later become eight people in four tents. Our little camp completed, we sat and watched with smug self-satisfaction as others struggled: first to find space, and to put up their tents.



Later, we wandered down to the Strawberry Fields, which was party central. Lots of bars, as well as stalls selling everything you could want at a music festival. I had to ask Jean to sub me some cash, after I was told that the cash machines were “still on the Ferry.”

Late into the evening, people were still arriving, and we felt thankful that we had been able to set up camp in daylight. I was amused at the range of crap that people carried, and what it said about them. I came to the conclusion that the most accurate measure of degeneracy seemed to be the camping equipment to alcohol ratio. I didn’t envy the neighbours-to-be of the man I saw struggling under the weight of three crates of beer and a groundsheet.

All the excitement of the day, combined with 90 minutes of sleep the night before, were catching up with me. I drank a glass of Bailey’s and ran a quick spider inspection before taking out my sleeping bag and crashing out around 10 pm. I felt like a wuss, but less so after we were woken by our chemically-enhanced neighbours at 5 am.

I’ll rant about them later.

placebo @ alexandra palace - april 11th

So I had a straight choice: pay twice face value for a ticket off eBay, or not go. I chose the former, and fortunately the show did at least live up to the inflated cost.

I’d never been to Alexandra Palace before (which may have had something to do with my mistaken stupid belief that it was in south London… Duh!), and I wasn’t sure what it would be like as a rock venue.

After realising where the venue actually was, I resigned myself to driving. I guess I’m getting old, but when I got there, the queue was already rather long, and the persistent, cold rain made the adjoining bar look all too appealing. My first impression was that building itself is beautiful, and it certainly made a nice change from places like Earl’s Court and Wembley, which are functional at best. When I got inside, my enthusiasm for the architecture waned… the stage was set up in a large hall, but just seemed rather detached from everything else around it.

The first support band did have some fans there, but you couldn’t help suspecting they’d bussed in their family and friends for the night. I’ve already forgotten their name, which probably says all you need to know about them. The second support band was White Rose Movement who were OK in a pretentious art student kind of way, but they never really rocked my world. Their bassist had the looks and all the right moves, until he started rocking out in front of the drums… I'd at least like a little foreplay before I see a guy’s arsecrack.

Placebo was great, although they concentrated mostly on material from their recently released Meds album. It was kind of a double-edged sword, as I’d like to have heard more of their older stuff, but with five studio albums, they’re spoilt for choice. I did at least manage to shove my way into the second row of sweaty bodies. The gig was fantastic, and during the encore, Alison Mosshart of The Kills joined the band for Meds.

I probably spent too much of the gig wondering why the hell I'd have an inexplicable crush on Stef. He is kind of cute, incredibly cool, and a bassist, but he's also rather scrawny (well, compared to me and my oversized arse) and very gay. I'm going to chalk it up to a naked torso and a thunderbird ;-)

just a quick note about toys...

It probably wouldn’t take too much imagination to work out what I typed into Google to find this site (which, unless you are Bibliogirl, isn’t particularly worksafe by the way!)

They sell sex toys, and their website has a menu down the side of the page. It's mostly quite standard fare (gift ideas, butt plugs, strap ons, special offers and the like); however, the first item on the list is “Adult Vibrators.”

I read down the rest of the list looking for the childrens' range… they don’t appear to stock them, though…

bass porn

Last June, I gave into the temptations of my mid-life crisis, and bought a second hand bass guitar. Until December, I even had lessons. I had a cute-but-married bass tutor called Steve; I acted like a child, and spent half the lessons laughing. It was good fun, but after about five weeks of cancelled lessons (sometimes his fault, sometimes mine), I realised I was getting on OK by myself. And I could spend the £15 a week on bass tab books instead.

I'm still practising on the damn thing, but my sloppy playing is annoying the (slight) perfectionist streak that seems to run through my family. I think I'm slowly getting less bad, but I'm nowhere near the point where I think I deserve a halfway decent instrument.

Yet.

I'll get there... Until then, I'm just resigned to late-night sessions of Googling for bass porn. Like this:



:-)

the secret machines

After seeing The Secret Machines in Amsterdam, I'd downloaded their Now Here Is Nowhere album from the iTunes store. I absolutely loved it, and really wanted to see them play live again.

I was considering heading up to London to see them at the Shepard's Bush Empire, when I suddenly realised they were playing a venue somewhat closer to home. (It's much closer... think five minute walk). I've been to the venue several times before, but in the past it's usually just been to see so-so bands for the sake of going out.

The show was billed as An Evening With The Secret Machines; it was just them, no support act. I don't know if the Foo Fighters paid them in lighting, but what they had was better suited to a larger venue with higher ceilings; it was unnervingly like staring into the sun. It was a minor grumble, though. The gig was great, spell-binding almost.

As much as I like gig-inspired road trips, on the way back, I realised how nice it was to see a band I really like, and be able to walk home and sleep in my own bed.

amsterdamned

I needed to get away from here.

January is always depressing, and I felt the need to escape from the cold and grey city that I currently call home. I also wanted to see the Foo Fighters again. Since seeing them at Earl’s Court, I’d bought the missing parts of their back catalogue, and was getting a little obsessed. I needed another fix.

I checked out their upcoming dates, the second leg of their European Tour, while considering the best destination. Although I knew it would be just as grey, and probably even colder, the winner was Amsterdam. A return bus fare of just GPB 9, a Foo Fighters gig, semi-legal drugs and sex shops galore – I figured it had to be better than staying at home.

I had been to Amsterdam before, but at the time of my last visit, I was only 18.The trip was a lot of fun, but potential misdemeanours were limited by my chaperone (my mother). It had also been bitterly cold in October; I tried not to dwell on the mind-buggering coldness that was likely for late January.

Also, I’ve always had a soft spot for the Dutch. Each Easter, my school hockey team would tour Holland. We’d stay with local families, and their children would take us out to bars, where we’d drink with the locals, and cycle back on borrowed bikes (thank God for wide cycle lanes…) The Dutch are also reputedly the tallest nation, which means I can go out in heels and not have quite so many short men give me strange looks.

I managed to score a ticket for the gig, and booked a couple of hotels. Rather than spend five nights in a mediocre hotel, I opted for two nights in a one star hotel, followed by three nights in a five star (it made sense, if only to me!) I spent the rest of the month counting down the days, grateful to have something to look forward to.

Some people wondered why I didn’t fly, but long road trips don’t bother me… I’d even go so far as to say I enjoy them. Frequent childhood holidays to South Africa largely cured me of my English perception of distance*. My pain barrier was completely broken by a long-but-fun Greyhound bus journey from Chicago to L.A. It took around 48 hours, and after that, nothing ever seemed so far.

*It maybe a slight exaggeration, but someone once pointed out to me that, in the US, some people will drive a couple of hundred miles to have dinner with friends. Whereas in the UK, if most people travel that kind of distance, they want to stay there for a couple of weeks, “to make the trip worthwhile.”

After getting up at an ungodly hour to ensure I got to London Victoria in time, I settled down on to the bus and relaxed as we drove out of London. The only disappointment I had was when I realised we were heading for the Channel Tunnel; I’d been hoping for a ride on the ferry. I’d been to Paris on the Eurostar, but it was my first time on the vehicle trains. I’ve also redefined my own worst nightmare… it would now be trying to drive a bus onto one of the carriages. I think when designing these vehicle cars, they took the maximum dimension for a passenger coach, and added about three inches on either side:




I couldn’t tell you how long the trip through the chunnel took. Both ways, I slept like a baby, and now dream of having a bed that mimics the bus-on-a-moving-train motion that so successfully rocked me to sleep.

Four countries, lots of farmland, a couple of rest-stops and countless Ikeas later, we arrived in Amsterdam. I got a taxi to my first hotel; I didn’t mind that it cost more than the London-Amsterdam part of my trip. It was cold and getting late, and I really didn’t fancy trying to navigate the tram network of an unfamiliar city in the dark. I checked in and sat with my guidebook, planning the next day’s amusements.

The Hotel Princess was OK, although suffered from having the stupidly steep staircases that seem to be typical of old Amsterdam buildings. The tatty, drafty attic room was exactly what I would have expected for the price. The American Hotel made for an interesting contrast. A beautiful, listed, art nouveau building, it had warm rooms and lovely bathrooms with more soft, white towels than even I could get through. The default TV channel was the feed from a camera mounted on the front of the building, facing into the square. It seemed odd, but somehow it worked.

Aside from Gig Day, I spent most of my time in Amsterdam shopping and eating. The only really touristy thing I did was one of the cheesy boat trips around the canals. And buy pre-rolled joints... still seems like a wonderful concept. I also had arguably the worst sex of my life. Never mind...





31/1/06

I arrived at the Heineken Music Hall around 1 pm, and joined the queue (well... the three or four people in front of me). Damn, it was cold! Before leaving home, I’d bought a jumbo pack of air-activated, self-adhesive heat pads; they’re meant for back pain, but having frozen my arse off in many queues over the years, they seemed like a worthwhile investment. Not a very glamorous solution (they look rather like sanitary towels, see pic, model's name unknown)... I wore most of a pack and, as well as amusing others in the queue, they did successfully stave off hypothermia.



I was wearing an ankle length fun fur coat (yes, it’s as tacky as it sounds… it’s also very warm), and a woman in the queue behind me couldn’t understand why I was still so cold. I flashed her the very short shorts I was wearing, and she looked at me with suitable pity (though, I suspect, for my stupidity and not my situation).

As time marched on, we realised the gig was to be filmed, probably for a future DVD release. A camera crew were hanging around, asking people if they spoke English, and they were pointed in my direction, I guess largely on the grounds that I am English. I declined to be interviewed, largely as I hate cameras, as well as the sound of my own voice. I’ve also learned that shit like this catches up with you. However, it was having a runny nose, being half frozen to death while dressed in a coat that made me look like an overweight teddy bear that swung it.

The nice security people opened the doors earlier than advertised, and we rushed inside to the comparative warmth of the hall. Five or so hours in the cold were rewarded with a position on the front barrier, dead centre.

The current FF stage show includes lots of lasers, but I prefer their description:



First up were Rye Coalition. Their tour blog makes for amusing reading, and it also made their attitude (angry and pissed off) make a little more sense. They didn’t really seem as one, and I was amused by their bass player, who seemed fed up, and rolled his eyeballs at his fellow band members antics with the disdain that only a bass player can.

From their tour journals:

We made our way down to the stage, but Jon [one of their guitarists] was nowhere to be found. We waited for a few minutes, but our set was supposed to have started. The lights went down and the fans started cheering. I guess the rest of the band thought it was a good idea to go out there, but I knew better. After about 30 more seconds and no Jon, I knew I had to go out there and say something. So, I went to the mic, introduced the band, and asked it anyone had seen our guitar player. All of sudden here comes Jon running on to the stage with his yellow beer socks pulled up to his knees. He kicked into “Clutch the Pearls” the second he got his guitar strapped on. . There was no monitor sound for the first song. There was another blunder somewhere too, delays in counting in songs. Nothing that would be too noticeable by anyone but a few [keep telling yourself that...]. But I always feel the need to be as honest I can with our faithful readers.

Next were The Secret Machines. I’d never heard of them before, but was pleasantly surprised. Although pretentious (and then some, see below), they had a great sound, and fantastic songs… I made a mental note to check out their stuff when I got home.

To anyone who thinks the pretentious tag may be unfair, you can read more like this on their website:

Imagine the worst thing you’ve ever said to a loved one. Now recall the instant you realize you can’t take it back. Your stomach drops; your mouth tastes metallic. What is done can’t be undone. A short time later you’re defiant—feeling that you don’t need anyone and will die alone. That naïve, insolent, singular moment is thoroughly explored and set to crystalline music on Ten Silver Drops, the new album from the propulsive trio Secret Machines.

I don’t think that was supposed to make me howl with laughter. Oh. Dear. God.

Before the FFs hit the stage in London, you could feel the anticipation and excitement in the air… not so in Amsterdam. Here, the audience seemed really laid back and mellow, and I honestly don’t think it had anything to do with the occasional cloud of sweet-smelling smoke that wafted over the audience. When the house lights eventually dimmed, a cheer went up, and there was a little pushing and shoving, but it was all... well, rather civilised.

This time, starting the show on the barrier, I could at least concentrate on the stage instead of trying to pre-empt the movement of the crowd and slam people out of my way. My spine tingled at the opening chords of In Your Honour, and I smiled as I sang along, grateful for the best view in the house.

They played all the songs that I've recently come to love... a particular favourite being Stacked Actors. Monkeywrench and DOA were also highlights.

For some unknown reason, an audience member threw a carrot onstage. Dave looked rather puzzled, and made some comment along the lines of, “of all the weird shit… well, you’re certainly a very healthy audience!” Then someone threw bread...



I also suspected that Dave was, quite possibly, a little tipsy. Everlong was sung with “up the butt” added to most of the lines. I couldn’t help thinking that all he needed was a Metallica T-shirt and a life-size cardboard cut-out of Beavis by his side.

Dave introduced Big Me by taking the piss out of some poor guy in the audience. I suspect Dave's laughter, and the guilty look on his face, meant that even he knew he'd overstepped the line and was officially being an arsehole. Maybe I wouldn't have minded as much if I actually rated the song...

During the encore, Taylor took the lead vocals for Cold Day in the Sun, with Dave heading to the rear to smack the shit out of Taylor's drums.



All in all, a damn good show :-)

And if you're not totally bored yet, there are more photo's here.

A quick note about the internet:

This is the first show I’ve been to where I’ve found bootleg videos online (such as this one), shot by people standing close to me. I thought this was cute and amusing. Until I stumbled across a short clip of Everlong (the quiet, pseudo-acoustic bit). The moment it started to play, I realised it was shot by someone who must have been standing pretty much next to me. And I could hear myself singing along. Really, really badly.

*winces*

The bus journey back to London was less relaxing than the outbound one. I've been told that the braking distance for a bus is around three times longer than for a car. The bastard of a driver insisted on sitting about 15 feet off the vehicle in front of him, and braking every 10 seconds or so. I was just glad to get home, seething, but unscathed.

The other downer about the journey home was French Customs (and I'm not talking about abusing the English). We were ordered off the bus with our baggage, while it was searched by humourless officials armed with guns and sniffer dogs. The bus had AMSTERDAM - LONDON emblazoned on the front and both sides... Although I could understand the temptation, could anyone be that dumb??

We were also sent through English passport control [located on the French side, so that any alleged asylum seekers could be detained on that side of the channel]. There were several men on the bus who I would guess were not (western) European by birth. They collectively seemed to think it most unreasonable that the guy with:
a) a non-EU passport
b) one-way ticket and
c) no work permit or visa
was not allowed to continue his journey. Duh!

After the long journey, I was glad to be home, but less than happy when I realised that in my absence, tickets for the Placebo gigs I would like to have gone to had:

- been announced,
- gone on sale, and
- sold out.

This leaves me either ticketless, or at the mercy of the fucking-bastard eBay touts.

Long post, I know. Sorry!

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: