Tuesday, May 23, 2006

I Know, I Only Just Came Back

I Know, I Only Just Came Back

It only seems like two minutes since I blogged that DA was going a bit quiet because I was going to Dundee. Maybe that's because it took me for ever to finish blogging about it, but we'll lay that to one side. Such is my cosmopolitan lifestyle though, it's time for another mini break. Tomorrow I'm going to London - to see Whistle Down The Wind. On Thursday it's Titus at the Globe (feel my excitement) and then I'm being dragged to see Lily Allen in the evening. Friday I may have to do something incredibly geeky that I've been wanting to do for a while, clue: think my spiritual literary home. And then on Saturday I'm off to Paris in honour of Nik's birthday. DA will subsequently be adorning Parisian chic for the next few days and avoiding anything to do with The Da Vinci Code. Even now I think that's going to be a fruitless task somehow.

So now there's just the small matter of: i)packing ii)stocking up on lemsip iii)re-packing because I've forgotten something iv)going to work tonight v)getting the right train tomorrow. Oh and remembering some French.

Salut! A la semaine prochaine!*

See, as the Meatloaf song goes, it's all coming back to me now.

*Goodbye! See you next week. **

**I hope.

"They've got jumping dolphins"

"They've got jumping dolphins!"

Even before multiple choruses of 'Hold on to our love', flag waving and Fox in a dubious blue suit I had a special place in my heart for Eurovision. If you're wondering the exact location of this special place it's next to musical theatre and the Steps back catalogue and under sparkly disco balls.

And years of watching shows with questionable hosts and even more questionable musical 'acts' there are some things that are necessary requirements of Eurovision nights. Predominantly some sort of extra-strong alcohol it must be said because there is a direct corrolation between how much you've drunk and how utterly hilarious the show is. Under normal circumstances a weird robot on stage - not very funny. In Eurovision and with a glass of wine - very funny indeed. The same goes for the whipping off of clothing, wind machines, fireworks, singing in a foreign language, bad clothing and breakdancing. And the more alcohol consumed the better this gets. In my case this also once led to my demonstrating my ability to do Irish dancing, which is no doubt in keeping with the spirit of Eurovision, if only for the fact that I lost all such skills of dancing around the age of ten.

This year - there were lots and lots of cliches for me to scream about. Gone were the big drums of last year and in were the white clothes and legs of 2006. Braces, ethnic dancers, uber wind machines and, sadly, not one classic Eurovision track amongst them. And it should be noted that what I might love for Eurovision has no relation to what I love in the real world (obviously excluding the Steps and Abba bit) so it's not that my standards are too high. But as we marked our way through the contest (marks for: song, performance, clothing and, crucially, Eurovision-ness) there was no stand out. Greece edged it by a couple of marks on my scoring over Sweden, Denmark and a number of other countries that did particularly badly in the actual voting.

There was, however, the highlight of the host. Notice I use that in the singular, as "amazing" woman - who seriously had no other adjective in her vocabulary - was anything but amazing. Sakis however. Made for Eurovision, what with the gold suit and the campness and being quite beautiful. And we do like the beautiful. Especially when it doesn't fasten its shirt properly. We had been hoping that - in a re-run of his Eurovision triumph (in my eyes) of 2004 - Sakis might be freed of some of his clothing. Sadly he wasn't. A tip for the future - I'll stop getting annoyed and bored by the voting if you bring Sakis on and whip off his top. Everyone would be happy.

And though I moaned - you know I'll be back next year. Because it's Eurovision. You can't fight it.

Friday, May 19, 2006

"Now I've Had The Time Of My Life"

"Now I've Had The Time Of My Life"

Dundee, Dundee, so good they didn't name it twice. Of course I joke. It took me three days to live the experience and then five to blog about it. There were ten hours of travelling tucked away in there too so it's been epic in every sense of the word. I also seem to have managed to get an extra present from my time in Scotland - Dundee flu. I'm writing this between mouthfuls of lemsip (which is probably the reason for the particularly lame opening sentence) so in 48 hours I will undoubtedly read this and want to know what the heck I was going on about. Either that or I'll be slumped in the corner building on the lemsip addiction.

I have to commend the BBC for realising that blogging is the way forward and thus giving away tickets for this very reason. Should any other musical/cultural gathering (preferably somewhere hot but if not I'll settle for somewhere near a good pub) want their event covering on DA you know how to contact me. I don't take up much room and am willing to sit on the floor if necessary. I can also make myself available for weddings, christenings and other major family occassions. Imagine the day preserved in all its glory on DA? What's that? No? Have it your way then.

But, Radio One and One Big Weekend - DA salutes you.


Chris Moyles Karaoke

Wellies & Sunglasses

Comedy Dave

Saturday 1: Posh Young Farmer Boy, The Other Corinne, and not quite Gnarls Barkley and the Mystery Jets

Saturday 2: Orson, Razorlight and Dirty Pretty Things

Saturday 3: Snow Patrol

Sunday 1: The View, The Feeling, The Ordinary Boys and We Are Scientists

Sunday 2: Feeder, (no Mystery Guest), The Kooks, Pink, The Zutons and Keane.

"I've Had Nights I'll Never Forget"

"I've Had Nights I'll Never Forget"

How many ways are there to describe a gig? I don't know but I think that we're in the process of finding out. So if you're still hanging on, well done. You wouldn't have heard about the toilet roll otherwise, so you made the right decision. We may be on the final lap here. Notice I said 'may be'. It's not definite, so don't come after me with a stick if there's more.

Right, next on the big stage - the mighty Feeder. And I think this is where experience and years and years of gigs came into play for the Feeder boys. Because not only did they manage to arrange their set so that you got the required moments to throw yourself about you also got time to catch breath and spy on Comedy Dave dancing in the wheelchair section (or maybe that was just me). Plus since they've just released the singles collection there was none of the undoubtedly worthy but not quite as exciting for the casual interloper business of 'here's a song that you won't know', it was instead a parade of the best bits of Feeder. And the best bits are very, very good indeed. Especially when delivered full pelt to an audience of thousands who are throwing themselves around. The best bit? A hard call but possibly the absolutely rocking 'Buck Rogers'. I know that the singles album is the last one that Feeder are contracted to but I hope there's more. It feels like I've only just properly made their aquaintance, I'd like to get the chance to throw myself about with them some more.

I was somewhat reluctant for the Feeder set to end, but such is the march of these things that you don't have much choice. So Nik and I took this as a cue to go and get a drink (from the Guest Bar, obviously rather than joining the five mile queue which greeted the one in the main area). Then it was time for the final, closely planned assualt that required only a little bit of dashing from tent to tent in order to see everyone we wanted to. But before I go on to mention The Kooks and their set I should probably note that this is where the Mystery Guest remained resolutely a Mystery Guest for me, until I overheard someone discussing said Guest an hour or so later. So, yes, I am the girl who missed Franz Ferdinand blowing the roof off the main tent. All I can say is that I didn't hear any of it. Not a whisper. Not even the guitar riff that appears in all their songs. So, let's just assume that from my point they weren't very good. Obviously this has no bearing on reality as I've listened to their set and they sounded, well, not bad but I'm not acknowledging that as it means acknowledging the fact that I missed said cracking set. Me, I don't know what the fuss was about. Literally.

But The Kooks I did see. And I'd wondered how rocking they were going to be, as their music doesn't strike me as being particularly aimed in that direction. But this was the small tent, so of course it was going to rock its socks off, and mid way through the set (probably when those Scottish upstarts on the main stage finished) it became incredibly packed with people all wanting to dispense with their socks. And The Kooks themselves? Well, they worked with the audience, they - predictably - decided to demonstrate the great 'How to screw up a set...' game by playing 'Naive' about two thirds of the way through, but - overall - I enjoyed them. I sense they're a band I might have enjoyed more if I'd have had their album. Plus they possibly suffered in my head a little for not being Feeder, but then that's not really their fault since no one other than Feeder is Feeder. If that makes sense.

It was a running leap back to the main tent when The Kooks had finished in order to see Pink. And it probably should be noted that this was a running leap more dictated by Nik than me, as I wouldn't necessarily call myself a Pink fan. If I like my popstars quirky then she probably just falls the wrong side of weird. I think it's the tattoos that push her over. Possibly by some form of osmosis, though, I seem to have a good proportion of the words to her songs in my head which is always a freaky thing to discover. Plus, I have to hold my hands up - this Pink, she knows how to perform. And she did so in that manner which is unashamedly, gloriously pop. Plus, possibly more than any act other than Snow Patrol, she proved a masterclass on how to intergrate the songs that everyone knows with the new ones from an album which only the select few will know. And she has a voice and a half on her. So whilst I won't be rushing out for the album top marks for Pink. And I liked her outfit.

Going from Pink to The Zutons (via an absolutely spinetingling audience participation version of The Killers's 'Mr Brightside' at the end of Annie Mac's DJ set) is one of the odder musical transitions I've had to make. The kind of thing that might happen if you put your generic mp3 player on shuffle and it decided to throw a curve ball at you. But, less than ten minutes after Pink had finished getting the party started, I found myself in front on The Zutons. I suspect that The Zutons are a group I will always like more live than I do on an album. There was an overwhelming energy about their performance, a sense that it was unfolding in an unknown direction, that it would never be the same again. And, let's be clear, there are not enough female saxophone players in chart music. We jumped, and stamped, and shouted the lines back at them and the tent was precariously close to explosion, even after we'd had the post-single exodus. It felt a very fitting end for all the acts who'd graced the In New Music We Trust stage over the course of the weekend.

But there wasn't even time to finish cheering for The Zutons given that their set had overrun and Keane had already come on to the Main Stage. So Nik and I hot-footed around to the furthest side of the tent that was surprisingly clear of people (it might have been the smell of the loos) to take part in Sing Alonga Keane. Because - as well as having a frontman I would recognise, if only for the fact that there aren't many chubby faced popstars around - to me Keane means singing along. Their songs are made for it. Not necessarily to be bounced to - unless you got rather carried away - but those soaring choruses, arms in the air - they might as well come with a warning saying 'You will find yourself tanked up on carlsberg and singing along with thousands of strangers to this song'. I didn't think they were as good a closing act as Snow Patrol had been the previous evening, or even as good as Feeder had been in the afternoon, but Keane - they're a band whose songs get into your head and won't get out. And 'Everybody's Changing', courtesy of its singalong, had a real kind of fractured beauty about it. It wasn't by any means perfect but it was close enough to leave me happy.

"Danny boy, don't be afraid, to shake that ass, and misbehave"

'"Danny boy, don't be afraid, to shake that ass, and misbehave"

Sunday in Dundee meant a later start, new green wristbands to let us into the posh toilets and so much sun that I managed to burn my nose before we'd even been allowed into the site.

It also meant The View on the In New Music We Trust stage. If you're not up with The View let me fill you in. They're a local (that is local to Dundee rather than just local in general, because that has very different conotations) band who have caused a little bit of a stir, primarily by supporting Babyshambles (never has a band name been more appropriate I suspect). Obviously I knew this ages ago and didn't read it out of the Dundee Courier on Monday morning. So 'hot new things' might be applied to these Scottish boys with accents that no one south of Edinburgh will understand. My - not inconsiderable - opinion after two songs? Not bad. Couldn't name a song - I'd have needed a translator and the BBC hadn't laid one on as part of the deal - but I was there tapping my foot, bobbing my head and generally being jealous that two people in the middle of the audience had tambourines. Because, if my escapades at Boro Town Hall weren't enough of a hint, I want a tambourine.

I didn't quite have time to follow this line of thought, or indeed steal either of the tambourines, as Nik and I had a pressing date on the main stage with The Feeling. And I'd been really looking forward to seeing them; Popjustice are holding them up as the saviours of pop after all. I don't know about that but bop along choruses I do know when I hear them and The Feeling have them in abundance. Maybe as it was lunchtime on Sunday - not a time of the week especially held up for its commitment to rock - the crowd weren't quite, erm, feeling The Feeling and - at least until we hit the 'na na nas' of 'Sewn' (and if a na na na isn't going to get a crowd going then nothing will) - it all seemed a strangely muted affair. The Feeling should be a great band for playing this kind of size of audience - how you want to dance - but I it didn't quite hold together. Oh, they were good, and I danced and I loved 'My Little World' but it wasn't out of this world, eyes closed, don't let this moment end stuff. Maybe it was just the slot. Maybe they need more time to grow as a band. I'd probably like to see them at a smaller venue (and not on a Sunday lunchtime) before I make my verdict. But the na nas - no, they were good.

The next band contained someone I knew I would recognise if I bumped into him in the Star Bar. Not because of my affection for his music (singalong choruses aside I'm kind of ambivalent about it) but because reality television is a wonderful thing for creating instant (if forgetable) recognition. Yes, next on Main Stage was The Ordinary Boys made up of Preston and other boys who no one knows the names of because they didn't go on Celebrity Big Brother and subsquently develop some kind of disease which required them to propose to every girl they'd come into contact with. But Preston wasn't there so I could rant about how fickle he is, because before he got famous there was music and he was here for the music again. Admittedly at least 85% of the crowd - possibly myself included - were in the tent because of the Power of Celeb BB. But that's good for the music. Milk it while it lasts, Preston. Look what happened to Mark Owen. And you don't have an early nineties career in the most successful boyband of recent history to fall back on.

But The Ordinary Boys, not Celeb BB's Preston, were there - so what can I say? Erm, well I enjoyed it. There wasn't enough bouncing in general (again Sunday afternoon stupor) but their set was fun. And there should be a place for music which is fun. They're not changing the world, but then they're not claiming to either. And 'Boys Will Be Boys' is a great song to yell along to. Plus Preston gets huge bonus marks for proving the fact he listens to the Breakfast show by shouting 'Fundee!' and - randomly - launching in to one of Comedy Dave's jokes which probably made no sense to anyone but Preston, Nik and myself. It almost made me forgive him for the whole Chantelle business. Almost. But not quite because that's a lot of blonde hair he's got to get over.

After a break for very expensive chips, a little blast of the ever rotating Sugababes (from the back of the tent I couldn't tell the difference from their previous incarnation) and a trip to our new best friends in the Merchandising Tent (see, Nik and I know who you need to be friends with, and it's not boys with guitars) it was to the smaller stage for We Are Scientists. Now my knowledge of We Are Scientists is somewhat sketchy. Even now, having seen their complete set, I couldn't sing you any of their songs without help. But I did already know that they had the most amusing (and grammatically incorrect) t-shirt in the Merchandising Tent which was emblazoned with 'I Are Scientists'. And I probably should have guessed from this that though they have the impediment that they are American (maybe accounting for the grammar) they are possibly The Funniest Group In Rock. And I know this might not be saying much when they're competing with such comedy legends as Chris Martin but you only need to glance at their website to see what I'm talking about. Possibly the greatest moment in the set came when someone in the crowd threw a toilet roll (yes, I know that in the land of the portaloo that is a waste of a toilet roll) and it hit Lead Singer Scientist squarely on the head. And rather than having a hissy fit, storming off stage and refusing to come back to Dundee even for all of the cake in the city he started laughing. He thought it was as brilliant and as random as we all did: "That was fucking perfect!". And with that one sentence he secured his place in my long term affection because if anyone can take being hit on the head with a flying toilet roll with such good grace you know that they're a person you want to be friends with.

As we were in the small tent - and anyway everyone had recovered from Sunday lunch hangover - W.A.S's set existed through what seemed to be one giant bounce. And as Lead Singer Scientist summed up at the end: "There's a great marksman out there. And you're all great at hopping. And not everyone is". Apparently Austria's not so good with the hop, so I'd better make a mental note not to go to a gig there. But W.A.S, oh you've claimed a place in my heart, dodgy grammar and all.

Thursday, May 18, 2006

"Put Sufjan Stevens on and we'll play your favourite song"

"Put Sufjan Stevens on and we'll play your favourite song"

Last up on stage on Saturday night was the big one. As you would kind of hope, because it would be a wimper rather than a bang to go out with Liberty X or something. Yep, up on stage we had those great rockers Primal Scream.

Only I didn't see more than a good sixty seconds of their set in the smaller circus tent because, hey, I'm predictable and however good 'Country Girl' is there is no way that it was going to make me miss the boys on Main Stage. Oh no. Because last on there we had Snow Patrol. And you already know how much I'm loving 'Eyes Open'. And if you don't where have you been? I love it to a worrying degree and am not even going to look and see how many times I've played it on my laptop. Let's just say enough that it automatically comes up when I open media player. Morning. Afternoon. Night. There is no moment that isn't fitting for a blast of the Patrol.

So a lot was riding on this performance. Perhaps not quite the future of humanity but at least the future of how much reverence I place on the album. Which, I'm sure you'll agree, is almost as important. What would happen if they couldn't sing, if the lead singer was just another boy with big hair and tight trousers, if - whisper - I didn't like them? How would I recover? How would Dundee recover? Because that would be it. The weekend would be fractured, my heart would be broken and I'd spend the rest of my time in Scotland in deep mourning.

And then I heard those twiddly guitars emanate from the stage. If you've heard any Snow Patrol at all, you'll know the twiddly guitar bits I mean given that they're in every song to some degree. They are Snow Patrol. I don't know what their music would be without them. They'd certainly struggle for intros. These particular twiddly guitar bits belonged to 'Spitting Games' and they make you bounce. They have bounce written on them. So I bounced. And I didn't need to fear or be afraid because those twiddly guitar bits were telling me exactly what I wanted to hear. They were screaming 'THIS. IS. GOOD.'. And my bouncing was yelling back 'oh YES it is'.

The Patrol had the good grace to perform two of my favourite songs on the new album - including the soaring 'Chasing Cars' which has very little to do with chasing cars and more to do with being very beautiful indeed and which made me feel wonderfully emotional. Wonderfully emotional in a way that had I had time to take a breath I might have needed a tissue. But between the new songs there were the favourites - 'Chocolate' and, emphatically, 'Run'. And when they sung 'Run' - which joined us all together again, arms waving, voices raised, the entire floor cascading as one - I thought they'd pulled a Razorlight and blown it. Where could they go from here? What could be better than that?

The answer? Their latest single 'You're All I Have'. When it was over and the band had left the stage to be replaced, momentarily, by Colin and Edith, Colin said that it was possibly 'the greatest One Big Weekend moment ever'. Now I'm not usually one to align myself with Mr Murray but this time. Oh yes. Because I felt it. Everyone in the tent felt it. We were screaming the words, arms aloft, knowing that this was it, there was nowhere else to go and that everything was within this song. The day rested on Snow Patrol, on 'You're All I Have', on the thousands of people in the tent. And we all passed. Gloriously. Triumphantly. And there was just a little bit of magic within it.

Wednesday, May 17, 2006

"Catching The Sparks That Flew From Your Heels"

"Catching The Sparks That Flew From Your Heels"

After partaking of the chicken sandwich - and after a detour to the VIP section with all its boys in tight trousers with big hair who may or may not have been popstars - it was time to go back in the main tent to see Orson. And it was good to note that the lead singer was bucking the big hair trend by being bald and wearing a black hat, thus meaning that had he wandered into the star bar I might actually have recognised him. Given that my knowledge of Orson doesn't extend much past the singles this was the first test of the weekend. What are you going to do, boys, to persuade me to lie prostrate at your feet? Are you going to make me bounce? Wave my arms about? Scream for you? The answer? Oh yes indeedy. Well not the bit about lying prostrate at their feet because there were thousands of people in there and I'd have got squashed. But the other bits - yes. Nothing in their set was quite as thumping as their rendition of 'Bright Idea' but they had that overwhelming confidence and command that led me to think they're a very good live act and I probably would part with pennies to go and see them again. If only for all the clapping they make you do.

Next up was the first of the bands playing the weekend that I'd thought that I really had to see - Razorlight. I'd just parted with money in the Woolworths sale to keep them in tight trousers for a little bit longer after all, so I wanted to be in the Main Tent when they were on. Only Nik and I were in the Star Bar when they started and it was only courtesy of our inante musical radar (and the fact you could hear the music) that meant we went colliding into the circus tent in time to hear their first song. So Razorlight boys, with your toe tapping, humming round your brains, songs, could you cut it live and meet the DA test? If there had been any doubt it was washed away as they launched into 'Somewhere Else'. I love 'Somewhere Else'. I would go as far to say that I would not trust anyone who doesn't love 'Somewhere Else'. And all ten thousand people in the circus tent seemed to feel the same way. It was the first time that I thought me, us, all these Scottish voices who boo when the English are mentioned - we're together in this. It was a wall of disparate voices all singing back, rebounding off of every surface and cascading through the tent. It was a piece of unexpected, total magic. 'I really, really wish I could be somewhere else than here'. Emphatically, totally not.

The only downside of this was that Razorlight decided to play the 'How To Screw Up A Set...etc etc' game because nothing was going to top that moment and again people started to leave, what with the need to get burgers and join the toilet queues that were snaking their way into central Dundee. Which all meant that the set dribbled away a little at the end. So, Razorlight, are you listening? If you'd have played 'Somewhere Else' last I'd have had to crawl out of that tent. As it was it became a memory that the rest of the set could never quite live up to. But don't take it to heart, you were good and it's one of my favourite moments of the weekend. Just think about the set order next time, right?

To the final strains of the Razorlight set it was a rush to the grandly titled 'In New Music We Trust Stage'. In reality this meant the smaller circus tent that - largely - had the less well known bands but the audience that was rocking their arses off. Seriously, every time I looked in the tent they were rocking. And for this they gained big respect from me. Now it was the turn of Dirty Pretty Things on stage, of whose output I know precisely one song. But with the kind of lyrics contained within that song - just how clever, and honest and broken are they? - I knew I had to see them. Because I like clever rock. It balances out the side of me that knows the dance moves to Steps songs. And it seemed like there were many, many more clever lyrics within their set and the whole thing had that wonderful illusion of rock.

The moment that the trumpet came out a scream enveloped everyone in the tent, we were ready and primed, in full singing voice.

"Bang Bang You're Dead!" sang DPT.

"Bang Bang You're Dead!" sang everyone back at DPT.

"Bang Bang You're Dead!" screamed the tent itself.

There was the inevitable mass exodus following the song, as the floor cleared leaving the hardcore and, erm, us but what a moment while it lasted.

"I'm Bound To Wander Down That One Way Road"

"I'm Bound To Wander Down That One Way Road"

You're probably wondering if amongst the VIP-ness, radio one DJ stalking and glasses losing escapades there was any actual music involved during my time in Dundee. Well, I'm sure you'll be pleased to know that there was. There was also bouncing, shouting, hopping and enough arm waving to put several Dundonians lives at risk but you'll just have to fill in the blanks for that.

First up on the Main Stage - which was like a giant circus tent, providing that a circus tent has a huge stage at one side - was Posh Young Farmer Boy. If you're wondering as to how he became so called, I coined it a couple of years ago when I - predictably - saw him at the Bedford. I'm not sure why other than that was how he looked at the time. It was also before I heard him speak with his very pronounced Scottish accent which might have impacted on the name. Needless to say he looked like he grew up in the country and was wearing the kind of effortless clothing I usually attribute to Posh Boys. And remember, I went to Oxford. I've known a lot of posh boys. So on comes Posh Young Farmer Boy not looking posh or like a farmer - though looking like a boy because, hey, that's what he is and he is still quite young. But two out of four two years down the line is not bad.

To my surprise, the crowd - possibly intending to camp out for the day with the kind of super human bladder strength I can only envy - was of a reasonable size. At the least I was pinned in somewhere around the middle and I couldn't see where they ended. And if they weren't quite ready to rock - it was early afternoon afterall and they hadn't made use of the bar yet - they were, as a commentator might say, up for it. Posh Young Farmer Boy sung three songs, the best of which was number two 'Last Request', his forthcoming single. And I awarded myself and Nik bonus points for knowing the words when no one else did. Because you know what this means. We're down with the new music. And I felt a little proud because he might not be one of my boys but he almost is. I gave him a pet name after all. And - in DA World - that stands for a lot. So - Posh Young Farmer Boy did good. And when he goes top ten you know DA will take it as a personal triumph and I will make big claims about having broken him to the world at large.

Next up on the Main Stage it was another of those singers who have graced DA's pages - The Other Corinne. I can't remember if she was introduced with the correct pronunciation but let's just assume that she was as it stops me having to descend into a four paragraph rant complete with phonetic spelling. When she appeared on stage she was wearing a gorgeous white dress and I have to give her special marks for upholding the good fashion sense of Corinnes everywhere because she is currently one of British Pop's Best Dressed Popstars (BPBDP's not a great acronym is it?). Popjustice haven't said that yet, but just you wait. And CBR understands that dressing for being onstage is an event and you shouldn't wander on in what you've been wearing all day. Because that's just lazy. For this alone she deserves several million selling albums, a Brit Award and a special fashion section in Heat.

CBR obviously didn't just come on stage just to look fashion forward, there was something about music in there too. Because she can sing. I already knew this from the Leadmill last month but it doesn't hurt for it to be reiterated, lest you think that all Corinnes sing like me. CBR's one of those odd singers who sounds exactly like she does on records when she sings live. Her voice is so clear and effortless it's striking and, despite the fact that I'm not usually a huge fan of female singers, I'm really liking her a lot at the moment. She was, however, the first person to demonstrate 'How To Screw Up A Set By Putting Your Most Recognisable Song Half Way Through'. When I saw her at the Leadmill I noted she'd played a curve ball by singing 'Put Your Records On' about two thirds of the way through the gig. Then it didn't matter too much, it was a room packed with CBR fans who undoubtedly had the album. Dundee's Big Circus tent, however, kind of knew 'Like a Star' but was really, really waiting for 'Put Your Records On' because - if only for how much it was plugged on the radio - everyone knows it. So once CBR had belted it out, and the crowd had sung their heads off to it, the atmosphere in the tent went down slightly and I witnessed the first of many post-famous-song-mass-exoduses even though CBR was still in full voice. But CBR shouldn't feel bad, I saw it happen to lots and lots of acts over the weekend. Maybe there needs to be a general memo to Pop about this phenomenon.

CBR was to be followed by Gnarls Barkley and though I am obviously a crusading music blogger with my finger on the pulse of modern culture there was no way in hell I was standing through the 20 minute set of someone whose current single makes my ears bleed. Seriously, if I don't hear 'Crazy' until the turn of the next century it will still be too soon. SO STOP BUYING IT. THAT MEANS YOU. Aherm, so I can't tell you what Mr Crazy sounded like, or what stupid outfit he'd chosen to wear, because I was seated on the grass outside the slightly smaller circus tent listening to the Mystery Jets set. But I can make it up if you'd like. He sung a couple of songs no one had heard of, then sang 'Crazy', which made the crowd have some kind of collective fit and was deemed to be enjoyable by all, and then he went off stage to sulk about the fact that someone from the BBC called him fat before he went on stage. See, I didn't need to see him. As for the Mystery Jets, well I don't really know their music but hey, there were guitars so - not bad. And they didn't make me choke on my chicken sandwich so all was right with the world.

Tuesday, May 16, 2006

"Scream in, Scream Out"

"Scream in, Scream out"

It was Sunday morning, the sun was shining and we'd just been given our new green wristbands [which, helpfully, co-ordinated with my outfit]. Nik and I were waiting to go through the VIP gates - did you hear that at the back, the VIP gates. Gates for VIPs if you will - when who should appear at the other side of the fence but a certain Comedy Dave who was waiting for some people who were also coming through the VIP gate. Did you like how many times I mentioned the name of the gates in that sentence? Good. Once more for good measure? VIP gates.

Now twenty minutes or so earlier Dave had been on radio and it had been suggested that no one in the huge queue of normos* would shout for him. So - can you tell what is coming? - Nik and I immediately felt the need to yell 'Daaaaaaaaave!' at him. Which is possibly not the best thing to do when when you're in possession of the magic wristband lest the people at the gate think you're stalkers and eject you from Dundee before you can say 'but I haven't had any cake'. Thankfully Dave thought this funny rather than worthy of a restraining order and, once we were through the queue, deemed it ok to have a photo taken with us:

Comedy Dave

Obviously I'd lost Coco by this point, hence why I'm the only one without sunglasses. And if you're wondering why Dave looks menacing it's because that's how he looks in photos. If he smiles it's worse.

*Normos is the accepted term for normal people. Non VIPs if you will. Copyright Dave I believe.

"I Felt The Earth Beneath My Feet"

"I Felt The Earth Beneath My Feet"

Let's not forget that we were in a big field on the outskirts of Dundee. And if there's a field you know what that means:


I think in general that the world doesn't have enough pink wellies in it. And though people laughed when I bought them nearly two years ago, I think they've proved their worth. Even if they haven't seen much mud. Or snow. Or countryside. They have, however, seen life. Which is much more important I think we can agree.

On a less amusing sartorial note if Dundee meant hello to the wellies at their first musical outing then it also meant goodbye to one of last year's constant companions. Coco the sunglasses. I wish there was some great dramatic story, something on a par with the destruction wrought on my previous pair but there isn't. All I can say is that Coco had a few happy hours - she'd just finished bouncing to Dirty Pretty Things and was happily in the Star Bar area. Then, some time during my being in the toilet queue and coming out of the rather swish portacabin, she'd disappeared. I went and checked for her but she was gone. I even checked lost property. But no. Which has to lead me to the conclusion that she was snaffled in the Guest Area loos. What a way to go.

Girl, put your records on, tell me your favourite song

Girl, put your records on, tell me your favourite song

There was a time when I didn't like the fact that Chris Moyles had been given the Radio One Breakfast Show. I was a Sara Cox fan through and through, I liked her style, I liked Chappers and Matt - but Chris Moyles. No, I had lots of prejudices about him. Because anyone who proclaims themselves 'The Saviour' has to be slightly dubious.

Fast forward a few years and I love The Chris Moyles Breakfast Show. I would go so far as to say I would be gutted if it wasn't blasting out of my radio on a morning. Chris doesn't irritate me as much as I thought he might - he's genuinely funny - and I adore the rest of the team. I may even say that I have something of a little crush on the show's Director of Comedy, Comedy Dave. With a job title like that I was always going to love him.

So getting tickets to 'Chris Moyles Karaoke' was a very, very exciting thing indeed. Yes, I'm aware that 'Chris Moyles Karaoke' is woefully in need of an apostrophe and an 's' but that's what the tickets loudly proclaim. Discovering that said karaoke which may or may not involve singing 'Chris Moyles' repeatedly was in a student union with student union bar prices was even more exciting. Because being able to buy two drinks for under three pounds is always going to please me.

And it was obviously met with much joy by everyone as inhibitions, good sense and any claims at musical prowess were left lying on the floor. Chris opened with a rendition of 'Ghostbusters' - complete with Michael Jackson stylee moves on the dance floor - and the evening meandered through such classics as 'I Will Survive' [sports reader, Carrie], 'I Got You Babe' [Comedy Dave and Jo Whiley] and 'Especially For You' [two Dundonian Girls who didn't know all the words. I obviously did because you all know how much I loved Jason Donovan. And if you didn't, let me tell you I loved him lots and lots and lots in the way that you only can when you're seven years old]. Colin Murray got up looking quite hairy and quite skinny [no, I don't understand the attraction either. And his feet smell. Apparently] and sung an Elvis song dedicated to his very pretty and very blonde girlfriend whilst Edith Bowman stood behind Nik and I and whistled. Jo Whiley and Scott Mills massacred 'Laura', somewhat understandably as neither of them knew the words and Scott was, and I quote, "arseholed". It was Vernon Kay though who took proceedings to new heights with his rendition of 'Relight My Fire' complete with Take That dance moves. And there is nothing like some boyband dancing to get a crowd roaring. Or at least get a crowd of drunken women roaring.

My own roaring got into full swing when Aled, butt of a good 70% of Chris's jokes/wrath on a daily basis, stepped on stage, attempted to remedy the fact that he wasn't drunk enough by downing a shot and launched into his '(Is this the way to) Aberystwyth?' complete with the words on a piece of paper in his hand. So, so cute. And mildly surreal.

My ultimate highlight [other than the bar prices and blagging two of the big 'Radio One' posters that were hanging behind the karaoke stage] was the - possibly misguided - duet between Comedy Dave and Breakfast Show producer Rachel - 'I've had the time of my life'. For anyone who listens to the show you may well have heard them sing before as their duets have passed into drunken legend. If you don't listen to the show then say thanks for the fact your ears haven't been damaged by this particular legend. As it was it was completely, utterly, amazingly terrible. So bad that it was jaw achingly hilarious.

Maybe because of all the vodka and rum I wasn't aware of the relative merits of those who stepped up to the mic. Indeed I came away with the general impression that everyone had been quite good. Quite good in respect of the event having the word 'karaoke' in it anyway. It was only on Monday morning when some of the audio was played on Radio One that I realised how completely off key everyone had been. The word 'good' probably shouldn't have been in the same paragraph, let alone in the same sentence. And I was mildly impressed that - knowing that their efforts would end up on national radio at some point - they'd all taken part. Because it can't be good for the ego. I know, I've had the misfortune to catch my own voice on audio enough to realise this.

The entire evening was rather like being witness to a drunken group of friends letting rip at the office party, only with the added bonus that - hey - this group of friends is one I hear on the radio most days. I think the word would be surreal. Made only more so as we ended up talking about spam and the fact I don't look anything like the-other-Corinne to Chris's friend Longman. So - thankfully - this time it wasn't all about the music.

Monday, May 15, 2006

Mega. There Is Nothing More I Can Say.

Mega. There Is Nothing More I Can Say.

Train ticket to Dundee: Fifty Four Pounds.

Paying to go to the loo at Edinburgh Station: 40p

Two rides on the Dundee Shuttle Bus: Six pounds.

Wristbands for One Big Weekend & the Star Bar, tickets for Chris Moyles Karaoke, seeing 18 music acts in 24 hours, meeting Comedy Dave & getting to use the posh loos : Priceless.

Wednesday, May 10, 2006

I Now Know Where Fundee Is, If Only From The Map We Used To Plan Griffin's Kidnap

I Now Know Where Fundee Is, If Only From The Map We Used To Plan Griffin's Kidnap.*

I am not going to insinuate that Fundee doesn't have internet access, or electricity, or running water, or any of the other things that I associate with civilisation (namely cocktail bars, theatres and quirky shoe shops) but the fact remains that I suspect DA may be a bit quiet in the coming days. Which is ironic given that the reason that Nik won the tickets for One Big Weekend was blogging related. But they never mentioned wireless internet access in the hospitality deal so George is staying firmly at home. And - anyway - did you seriously expect me to be standing in the big circus tent bopping around with a laptop? No, no, no. I need my hands free so I can wave them in the air as much as is humanly possible whilst not decapitating anyone.

Before I can really think of Fundee though I've got two WYP shifts to work and a day in the office at Wetherby. Which means that the only chance I've got to pack is either i)this afternoon before I go to work or ii)Friday morning before I get on the four and a half hour train ride which awaits me. Today is too early (imagine how much I'd need an iron come Saturday morning) so Friday it's going to have to be. And that is not me being lazy, it's me being realistic. Plus I'm currently in denial about the weather over the weekend - obviously, in my head, since today is glorious the rest of May will be too. Come Friday when it's chucking it down I might be better prepared to pack the right clothing. And the wellies.

There is only one small downside of going to Fundee [and - let it be noted - that I don't actually believe I'm going yet, only when I'm on the train will I allow myself that thought or nothing will get done. Or at least even less than usual when the sun is shining and I've got Snow Patrol on full blast] and that is that I had plans for Saturday. Plans which involved Leeds, cocktails and the Riccardi boys. And you know how much I love the Riccardi boys. So I - and this is odd - feel a bit guilty. Like I'm cheating on them. And not just with anyone, oh no. With lots of boys with guitars. All in the name of dancing in a tent with 15,000 other people and getting some freebies. What can I say - I'm only human. My devotion can be bought. But then I feel guilty because of the free beer, and biscuits and CDs that the boys have flung my way. They've already paid for the devotion. And I feel more guilty because Fundee is going to be amazing, and it never crossed my mind that I might have to make a decision about it. There wasn't a decision to be made. I might be hopelessly loyal but I'm not stupid. Toodle pip, boys. Watch out for the bus lanes.

I can see where all this guilt is going though; it's going to end up in a nine hour coach journey to Bournemouth in July. On a par with walking to Canterbury I think. Posh Young Farmer Boy had better be good.

But, to return to where I started before my infidelity smacked me in the face, it looks like there will be no more blogs until Monday at the earliest. I'm not saying I won't throw a curve ball if I find ready internet access, if only to prove that it is possible to blog from Fundee. Otherwise you'll just have to paint a picture in your mind over the next few days.

The wellies are pink if you're wondering.

*Obviously I didn't buy it for this reason, I went round the lochs with it first I'll have you know. Only then did I use it to help plot a route from Whitby to Falkirk.**

**Obviously we didn't actually kidnap Griffin. Or plan said kidnap in any real detail. That's the crucial difference between stalking and non-stalking I'll have you know.

Tuesday, May 09, 2006

I Hope They Give Us Cake

I Hope They Give Us Cake

How to make sure that my already limited interest in the inner workings of the sub-contract payment system is reduced even further:

1. Leave me a voicemail and then text me to tell me to go and listen to said voicemail in the toilets.

2. Reveal on voicemail that we are going to Fundee*...

3. For not just one of the days of One Big Weekend but BOTH thus meaning that the whole groups-I-want-to-see-are-split-on-both-days issue is solved...

4. And - yes there's an AND - we're getting hospitality passes. Which - in plain language - means that Radio One are footing the bill for the hotel. And breakfast it would seem.

5. Make me vomit from excitement** and leave me in a state where I cannot manage to lock the stationery cupboard on my own. Yes, I know this implies that our stationery cupboard has a lock but there are battles fought over much less than a missing biro and some bulldog clips so it's a necessary evil.

It's probably noticeable that whilst my ability to do any proper work was somewhat limited I did manage to off load my shift at the WYP on Friday night [the good thing here being that there aren't a lot of shifts at the theatre at the moment so they're much easier to give away than usual] within five minutes of coming off of the phone to Nik. Priorities would be the word.

But you know what this means? It means Snow Patrol. It means the-other-Corinne. It means Dirty Pretty Things and Razorlight and The Feeling and Keane. But most of all it means Posh-Young-Farmer-Boy. How fab is that?

*Dundee. But for ever more known as Fundee. Until it rains that is.

**Good job I was in the toilet already.***

***Ok, so I didn't actually vomit. I just felt like I was going to.

Monday, May 08, 2006

"You're Cinematic Razor Sharp"

"You're Cinematic Razor Sharp"

Having almost completed the raft of applications for jobs in Edinburgh I had to go and get some passport size pictures to go with them. Which, in itself, isn't too much of a problem - that is if we discount the fact that I always look translucent on such photos. This time I managed to look like I'd been taking illegal substances, which is probably an improvement on being see through. No, the problem lies with the fact that to get the photos I had to walk past lots of shops. And I know that between shows on Saturday I had a wander into Leeds but that was different. Because who wants to buy things just after 5.00pm on a Saturday? Half of the stuff in Primark is on the floor anyway, so it's pretty safe.

Today meant walking past Woolworths. And normally Woolworths doesn't bother me as I'm past wanting a Barbie doll but at the moment they're having an "Entertainment Sale" which involves lots of CDs being at ridiculously cheap prices. And every time I've been past in the last couple of weeks I've been pulled in by the force of music-that-is-calling-to-be-put-in-my-collection. When there are CDs for under four pounds it is rude to leave them. So this drip of four pounds here, four pounds there, has lead me to some Embrace and some Razorlight that I never got round to buying and the discovery of Stephen Fretwell* whose album I bought on the strength of the facts: 1)he's a boy with a guitar 2)he has funny hair 3)there are 'this is tremendous' style comments from Athlete and Snow Patrol on the front on the CD. Which is probably not the way to chose music, but for four pounds who wouldn't? Today was another 'hey I wanted this but was so far into my overdraft that my bank manager would have personally come to see me if I bought it' so Travis's Singles joined the parade. And yes, I am aware that I have mutiple Travis albums already and could probably burn my own Singles CD if I so desired but this is the obsessive compulsive in me who needs the real thing. I'm the kind of girl marketing men love. Now I can pretend that I'm 18 again with a Travis poster on my wall and Sylvia Plath in my head.

As I'd been looking longingly at it in the reviews I also bought the new Snow Patrol album. And yes, I confess I jumped on the Snow Patrol bandwagon around the time of Final Straw but I can't be music-forward all the time, can I? I actually thought 'Final Straw' was a bit of a patchy album (especially towards its tail end) but I adore 'Chocolate' and 'Run' so I had them in my head as a-band-I-like. And when all the reviews go along the lines of 'this is THE BEST Snow Patrol Album in the history of the known universe' you marketing men will know that I'll want it.

My considered verdict? Well, they won me over on the second track** ('Hands Open') with the opening line "It's hard to argue when/ You won't stop making sense". I actually laughed out loud. And there are lots more moments of lyrical brilliance - and just a smidgen of oddness and saddness - that makes it a very good thing. Though there are points when you may well say, erm, haven't you used this intro before - like on all of your last album? But that's not something I'm going to hold against them, we've all been there***. So well done Snow Patrol, here's a gold star for you and go sit at the top of the class. Just next time try to hold in the desire for putting a track of 3:55 duration which consists of half-heard children's voices. That's just weird.

NB: Yet another line from a song as a blog title. We've been a bit over run with them in the last week or so. Bonus points, a DA badge and that smug feeling of knowledge if you can place them all without using google.

*Bonus points for a freaky, freaky website. Albeit one that doesn't seem to have been updated recently.

**I already knew that track one - 'You're All I Have' was brilliant so that doesn't count.

***Yes, Griffin, that includes you.

Sunday, May 07, 2006

We've Got AmDram In The Theatre So Now We All Speak In Exclamation Marks!

We've Got AmDram In The Theatre So Now We All Speak In Exclamation Marks!*

J: "There was one bloke who stood up and said 'Last time I made a comment and you cut it out!'"

C: "How many times had he been?!"

J: "There was another woman who Trisha said hello to when she came in!"

C: "They're Trisha groupies!"

D: "Don't you mention groupies"

C: "Point taken"


D: "I want to be a Trisha groupie!"

C: "Everyone wants to be a groupie!"

*Amateur Dramatics. Or LAOS! to be precise. They don't actually have an exclamation mark in their name but they should have.

Thursday, May 04, 2006

"I'll Walk On Water 'Til My Luck Runs Out"

"I'll Walk On Water 'Til My Luck Runs Out"

There was one look that was agreed on back in March. That when Griffin came to Boro Town Hall for the follow up gig for Brian Clough the dress code was to be Rock Chick, circa Britpop Era. So when I found a t-shirt with Debbie Harry on it I almost did a mini celebratory wave around the shop. Because whilst Blondie may have been a couple of decades before Louise Werner there is no doubting that Debbie is possibly my favourite rock chick. Even if she was, well, blonde. It didn't hurt Marilyn did it?

The only problem with the dress code was that I need very little to convince me I'm actually in a band. In my head I think I kind of am. I have a guitar, plectrums and a drum stick after all. I have the right clothes. After a riccardi and coke I have the right attitude. And it was decided long ago that in our girl band, Monroe ,(with its rotating third member) I would be lead singer. Not because I can sing. I can't as anyone who has had the misfortune to stand near me at a gig will know. But because I believe I am the lead singer in some impossibly cool group. And all my boys with guitars are just fueling the fantasy. So not only was I wearing the right clothing I was inhabiting the role. I was that lead singer. Forget the Griffin bloke.

Needless to say as my fantasy flowed (and the doors had to get wider to accomodate my head) so did the riccardi and coke. Don't ask me to provide a tally. I tried the next day and I couldn't so you're just going to have to imagine. But it was a lot. Enough that I by the time we arrived at the venue (post pub and Kebab Shop) I'd lost all of my remaining inhibitions (not that there are many of them anyway) and found everything in the world hilarious. Everything that is, bar the arrangements in the Crypt at the Town Hall, which more closely resembled a tea dance. And you try being a rock chick when you're waiting for the vicar to come out. And so began, tablegate.

As we'd (the we would be: Drummer Cat, rotating third member and sometime Press Officer Gayle, Manager Val, Groupie Monitor, Shona and me and my head) popped into the hall when the second of the acts was on (the lead singer seemed to be torturing a small puppet when I looked over) we decided there was no way we were staying put and hot footed it over to the Hairy Melon*. Which was cramned with more inches of Boro thigh than anywhere else in the city. But the drinks were cheap and the DJ played a medley which traversed Chesney Hawkes to the Kaiser Chiefs through the Artic Monkeys and back to Gina G. Needless to say we WERE EXCITED. And when I got soaked with some guy's pint during 'I Predict A Riot' it felt like I was at a proper gig. I was just sad it was in the wrong place.

After I'd demonstrated that I still knew some of the moves to 'Oh, Ah, Just a Little Bit More' we made our way in the drizzle back to the Crypt in time to catch the last of Bob Fischer's set and the immortal line "I've heard it all before and it was shite the first time". Regardless of any other impression we might have had Bob elevated himself to cult status within the Northern Division in one great leap with that line. It was also around this point that (Val having insulted me and then dragged me through a puddle) I found myself holding my leg under the hand dryer in the ladies. Which, let me tell you, is harder than it sounds when you're short and powered by the contents of the generic white rum factory.

Thankfully I'd dried off by the time Griffin came on stage (wearing his rowing top**) but I'd managed another drink so I wasn't about to keep anything to myself, disquiet with seating arrangements, bad singing, bouncing and all. And as Griffin powered through the set - sounding as heart wrenchingly brilliant as he always does - I wanted to lose myself in everything. I couldn't - the indignant anger was too near the surface - but I felt proud and hopeful and moved. Because, fucking hell, I believe in him. And he's good. When he just stands on stage and does his thing - it makes your heart swell. And I wanted more. I wanted more than that room, that audience. I wanted the reality to coincide with everything in my head and everything I think he deserves. I wasn't angry with anyone in particular but with the scene in general. Because if this is it can I bear it? And I know that, at this moment, as he takes these baby steps forward I've got to believe that there will be something else. Because what else is there to believe? Sometimes we all need a happy ending.

After Griffin had finished with the new, strikingly beautiful 'Silent Suicide' (and, on a less poetic note, I'd heckled about what the Band name was) we settled about deciding where we were going next. Until that is Gayle and I spotted Griffin and, with a haste I can't remember for many a gig, made our way towards him. When we were practically next to him we were stopped by the Town Hall's answer to the Mitchell Brothers who informed us in no uncertain terms that we weren't to go near Griffin. Had this been the inevitable restraing order I'd have been fine but as security had clearly already ballsed up by allowing some people through and I could feel the emotions (and the white rum) I wasn't letting this be the last word. And without exchanging even a glance it was clear Gayle had come to the same conclusion. Given you should never underestimate a Northern Division Girl (especially when it comes to one of our boys) we both managed to speak to Griffin, albeit somewhat unelegantly over the arms of the security men before we were unceremoniously removed from the spot. Which also gave me the opportunity to vent my spleen about mishandling and unfair treatment as the same rule was not being applied universally. As with the Rock Chick thing I need no excuse to rant. Just ask Mickey in Liverpool.

Having left the hall - still to the sound of muttering - we were going to hot foot it to a local bar before we were invited back to the Thistle Bar. And the Thistle Bar - whilst having not to cheap prices - has some fantastic memories. It has one painful, horrible one that made me ashamed to be a Griffin fan post Boro Music Live 2004 when I hated what I was witnessing Griffin being subjected to (and no doubt felt my own small piece of responsibility in the debacle). But the good memories, of that night back in 2003 when we ended up in the bar, meeting Griffin properly for the first time as he sat with us, seeming slightly bewildered, poking fun at us and sending - me at least - off on the journey by thinking that we were disappointed in his reality. And saying something that has never really left my head, even when I thought it might not be true: "If I come to a gig and I don't see you it's not because I don't want to, it's because I didn't see you". And the Thistle Bar is all that and more. It's Griffin's story. But it's mine and my friends too. It will forever have a special place in my heart, for a time I can't quite grasp, for emotions I will never have again, for a place that was painfully, joyfully innocent where there were no limitations but endless, infinite possibility. Even given the chance I wouldn't erase all that has come between this point and that but, as Cat and I ran down the corridor to discover the scene of our previous triumphs (when I was not from Leeds or Oxford but from Southampton), if I closed my eyes I could almost imagine. And I know that as long as that moment remains, as long as I can stand in the Thistle and be back there, it'll be alright.

As it was even the bar prices were alright as we were soon being shouted by Waggo. But more generic white rum wasn't really aiding sensible conversation and from favourite lines and mutual congratulations we'd moved to playground demands and who we heart. Given I was still flying on the alcohol - along with it must be said three quarters of the bar, including Griffin who had just attempted to fit the goldfish bowl which housed the free boxes of matches on his head - when it became apparent that nothing but the Emergency Tim Button was going to save Val I played my 'Allowed to stay out in bar' Card I'd gotten after the whole breaking my leg incident and certain friends staying to schmooze with actors in a York bar. Gayle and I remained in the Thistle, starting another drink (going to the toilet a lot) and being informed by the lovely, lovely barman that we were staying in room 201. If he'd said 101 I'd have been worried.

By 3:45am I'd rediscovered just how beautiful Griffin really is (I'd like to say it was the rum goggles but I'm just shallow) and that the time when he dealt with us with hushed reverence and gentle mockery is long, long gone (though the competitive streak clearly isn't). The git. But I'm taking it as a little bit of a compliment, it's probably only fair given the crap about deck shoes he's had from us.

At 4:30am there was only Gayle and I in the bar and in unison we rose from the sofas where we'd spread ourselves and pulled our best 'Griffin and Fox Celebrating Lawn Darts' poses (goal scoring poses for anyone not familiar with the mighty Oak that is Lawn Darts). No doubt the night had been mindblowing, for so many reasons, big and small but I suspect - despite the brain cells I lost through the rum - I'm not going to forget quickly.

*Actually named the Hairy Lemon.

** So called because some time ago I christened it thus as it reminded me of the tops that Oxford boys wear on the river. Admittedly now it seems to have stretched in the wash slightly.

Wednesday, May 03, 2006

Glamorous Indie Rock and Roll

Glamorous Indie Rock and Roll

The following is what happens when The Great God of Free Drinks shines down on you:

"We were going to mention the fact that we're sharing a bed"

"And that I don't have my pyjamas"

"He'd have been interested; after all it was him who asked if we had pillow fights in our knickers"

And that's without going into the great playground debacle ["Now it's our turn to have a play"], my wrath, and the whole issue of who we heart:

"We heart Cat Towers"

"Bob Fischer hearts Val"

"The barman hearts Gayle"

"We heart Griffin 4eva"

Needless to say there is much, much more to divulge about the 24 hours that took in: Middlesbrough, Whitby, one gig, several pubs, a hotel bar, the fanciest kebab shop in the world, more riccardi and coke than you can shake a stick at, girl bands, bouncing and being a rock chick. There is also the slight fact that in The Cause of The Bounce (DA is going to start an international campaign) I have knackered the ankle that formerly was The Beach Ball. And as the painkillers impair judgement (see everything in this blog) you're going to have to wait for the details.

Fucking great night though.