I tend not to like other people that much. The only time I break the code and talk to strangers is:
- when traveling North of Newark
- at the bar. (Might get a free drink and or/phone number. Aiiiii)
- in the event of a cardiac arrest. (Someone has to call the ambulance, it might as well be muggins)
And of course:
- in a mosh pit
Sometimes I don’t trust others (or myself) but I have been known to blindly smoke anything put into my mouth in a mosh pit. It’s something about the intimacy, the sweat, the united love of the band. Nostalgia, as per. *Isn’t most of our lives afforded to yearning something?
*Wait, hang on, put the crack pipe down Loll. And step away…
I met a hottie at The Smyths gig. The Smyths being the no.1 Smiths tribute band. (Nothing like a fake Morrissey to get your loins pumping).
MOSH PIT GROUND ZERO. NORTHERN BITCHES TAKE A STAND.
After pulling his eager tongue out of my mouth, the mosher introduced himself. (Better late than never). Unfortunately, he had the same name as my ex-boyfriend. Not a flying start. My ex is lovely and all but he did fragment my heart in such a way that I could never again love anyone with goolies.
ANYWAY, my mind was working overtime, I was suddenly faced with the imminent danger that I may be called upon to ‘put out’. I haven’t shaved my legs since 1992 but this guy was tasty and I owed my foo foo some fun. I’d kept her lonesome for long enough. I sometimes think of her as Moira Stewart in the tax return advert: grim faced and caged under the stairs.
Mental thoughts started invading my brain:
- ‘What if he wants to follow this up with a food date’? (I have an exposed gum on my fangy canines so stray herbs can blight my smile. No one wants to be rendered unshaggable between the starter and the Main).
- ‘What will he make of my tofu encrusted bedsit? Will he judge the ironic cat cushions’?
- ‘Will he overstay his welcome and not fuck off the next morning’? I’m a writer dude, I want to lay in pools of my own thought juice, eat sweetcorn out of the tin and catch up on Big Brother…
I tried to push away such psychotic meanderings as we danced to Shoplifters of the World Unite…and then it hit me. He wasn’t even a proper Smiths fan. Was he shouting along to the vast intricacies of Sheila Take a Bow? WAS HE BALLS?! A hummer, we had ourselves a hummer.
“What’s your favourite song”? I whispered in his ear, all sexy like Pfeiffer’s cat woman.
If it’s Charming Man, you’re a fake, if it’s Charming Man, you have no imagination, if it’s…
“Charming Man. Such a tune”.
And on cue, fake Morrissey launched:
‘Punctured bicycle on a hill side desolate…’
Lover boy didn’t even know the words. I kissed him just to quench his silence.
“What did I do to deserve that”? he asked.
That was it, right there. My worries diminished. I knew in that second that I was heading home to Jack Bauer and a reheated stew. Don’t ask me such questions. Grab me. Tell me what you’re going to do to me. Be the man. BE THE MAN!
Nothing but a phoney in a room full of phoneys.
I spent the rest of the evening spontaneously tonguing him and walking off on adventures like a feral cat with commitment issues. I broke into the club next door, (which was turd so I returned), I repeatedly told a student that he looked like Darius Danesh until he alerted security…at one point, me and my friend Emma pretended to lez off on two pouffets. A clever ruse to get the old man bassist to notice us. He did, moving our drinks out the way like a helpful dad. (The best thing about that moment is that it wasn’t awkward).
All in all, the evening was odd. Nothing like a tribute band to enforce the ideal that you are playing at being an adult. I sometimes feel I’m living in the glitch in the matrix, the unhelpful space between two pouffets as your arse sinks downwards.
Yes fake Morrissey, you have a smashing quiff and you sing pretty good but you’re probably called Melvin and work in IT.
And yes, kisser boy with the same first name as my ex-boyfriend, you may look the part of a sexy mosh pit pull but you never broke into a palace with a ‘spoon and a rusty hammer’ and you’re far too approachable and easy to read. The Michael Mcintyre of leading men basically.
So next time, I will go to a ‘real’ gig and find myself a genuine riff-tastic shamen. (Maybe I’ll even shave my legs in anticipation).
And I will of course fill in that tax return, Moira. I think we’re all due a big, fat rebate. Aren't we love?