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Bah

One of the gheyest things ever has happened to me.
You may recall that I was going to see the Yeah Yeah Yeahs. I thought the gig was tonight. Well, was I wrong or what? I texted Amy about meeting up and she texted back saying that the gig wasn't that great. WASN'T? And then I realised...I'd got the dates wrong. The gig was TWO FUCKING DAYS AGO!!!!! I MISSED THE FUCKING YEAH YEAH YEAHS!!!!! That's £15 down the drain. Good thing it wasn't System Of A Down. I seem to have bad luck with gigs:
- Mansun gets postponed (this is back in 1998 when I'd discovered the joys of gigging.)
- Mum can't come to Gomez because she had an operation on her leg
- Catatonia gets postponed, then cancelled altogether
- TWO Space gigs get cancelled, one after the other (although in the case of the second one, Jo decided to take Rob and me to the Krazyhouse and if we hadn't gone, I wouldn't have lost my virginity in the toilet, o the glamour)
- Courtney Love, the White Stripes and Lostprophets all pull out of Reading
- Gina, Aidey and me get lost on the way to Wembley and miss A Perfect Circle (although Gina and Aidey saw them the week after, and I saw them a couple of months ago)
- Marilyn Manson plays Manchester, but I don't buy tickets because I think he's sold out. He isn't, as Jim - who got to go to the gig - tells me later. Paul, typically, goes to see him in London and makes a point of telling me how good the gig was
- Owen dumps me on the day of the Radiohead gig that we were supposed to be going to see together
- I miss the Zutons because I'm having a Chinese with some of HARM (although the Zutons are touring in May and I'm going to see them)
- Raging Speedhorn gets postponed
- I miss the frigging Yeah Yeah Yeahs
If there is a god, he's having one hell of a laugh.
On a brighter note, I'm getting the adaptor for the four track soon, I'm nearly halfway through my Laviera essay, and I got to catch up with two lovely men last night. First off, I went for a meal with Rob. He's been working in Chester Zoo - no, Gina, he does not clean animals, he sells guides and does Gift Aid stuff. He's still rabidly pro-war, but who cares? (See earlier Matthew Granger-related rantings.) He's also got blonde bits in his hair because he bleached it a couple of months back. A blonde Rob, how weird. He wants to come to 42nd Street, but it's going to be difficult with his job and all. Still, never say never. Afterwards we went to the Falcon, where Adam and me used to go when we were together (urgh! I talked to Donna, Adam's sister's mate who worked with me in Oxfam in the Paul years and fancied Rob, and apparently Adam fancied her too, poor thing), where I drank vodka and crap coke (sadly, it wasn't Rola Cola). It was so nice catching up and reminiscing. I wish I'd spent more time with Rob, but then I found out Paul was in Rosies, so I went there afterwards and saw a lot of the old crowd - Lovely Pete, Louis, Steph Constantine, the ginger guy with the lip ring, Sam Gardiner, Jack and his mates, the ginger woman, the guy who looked like Mike Shinoda, and others. The DJs were pleased to see me (and Paul, when he turned up); they like us because Paul and me used to write reviews for their website. I did Kittie, Deftones, Jack Off Jill and Limp Bizkit; he did Ill Nino, Rage, Manson, Linkin Park and Lostprophets. His reviews were always politicised. Mine were always similar to old style NME stuff. Anyhoo, the music was pretty good. I would have liked to see more of Paul because he spent most of the time with his sister (if I tried to dance with Jack, he'd push me away) and his mates from Rob's year. Still, it was nice talking to him. He still dresses like an emo Cerys Matthews (I've never seen a man with so many bracelets, although Matthew comes close), he's got a beard growing and he's still a complete wuss. I tried to show him my tattoo and he recoiled.
(I've not mentioned my tat yet - it's a five pointed star on my left hip. I wanted an ankh but it would have cost me £50.)
Rosies felt weird, a bit too glamourous for a metal club. Metal clubs should be dank and smelling of beer. At least there are plenty of sofas to lounge on but it felt like we were boisterous little kids at a party in a hired venue. I feel like I don't belong here anymore. Even though I knew a fair amount of people there, I felt like a stranger. Also, as Rob said, when you've been living in a big city, Chester seems so tiny in comparison.
Nicked from Chantal:
1) My middle name is Claire, after my mum.
2) If I was a boy, god knows what my name would have been. Mum claimed she was going to call me Elvis, but she might be joking. I was nearly going to be called Becky or Harriet. Jack would have been called Toby, but my gran said "Jugs" and that put my mum off. Thank god. The name Toby is ghey.
3) I don't have kids, I'm at uni for fuck's sake.
4) Girl: Franny. Boy: TIMMAY!
5) My paternal gran's maiden name is Bradley. My maternal gran's maiden name is Esling, because she's part German, which explains why I kick ass at German.
6) I had imaginary pets, because I wanted a real pet but the parents wouldn't get me one, so I pretended I had two dogs, called Anne Albertine and Claire Beetroot. Jack had his own imaginary pets. I ended up having a bloody imaginary zoo by the time I was 8!
7) Does Tigger count? When Mum and Jon hooked up, we got him along with the house and the stepsiblings. He was a black Labrador-cum-Alsatian-cum Retriever and he stank the fucking house out. Mum wasn't upset when he was put down. Heartless, you may think, but she did have to vacuum up his hairs and wash his basket, and when I breathed in near it, I nearly threw up.
8) I kissed a guy called Jamie Devereaux in infant school. Apparently he is now an ugly nerd.
9) Stanford Infant School was the first school I attended, unless you count the Good Shepherd Playgroup. There was one in London before that, but I forget it, apart from when I fell over and smacked my face on the floor.
10) My English teachers were Mrs Cutler (Year 7); Mr Gannon (Year 8); Mrs Hampshire (Year 9-11, and she teaches Jack too); and Mrs Pleavin and Mrs Platel for the living hell that was A-Level English Language. English Language let me down, ha ha.
11) I don't have a car.