Faggots & Bloggers April 28, 2009Posted by BiB in Uncategorized.
Tags: bloggers, faggots
Clutching at straws. Young straws. Thought I’d better have one last go at being young. Like an old tosser moonwalking at a wedding. Not that I want to be young, of course. But something youngening caught my attention.
Darlings, I hate music, naturally. If we take hate, for the sake of fun, to mean like less than something else. And I think I probably prefer silence to music. But I have found last.fm bordering on the enjoyable. I mean, it’s got ELO and everything. But I probably wouldn’t have paid it much attention if the itinerant, who’s decided to beat the credit crunch by robbing a bank and swanning off to Mexico – at least I think that’s why he’s there – hadn’t got me more addicted and introduced me to all sorts of new folk. I’ve discovered all sorts of lovely German stuff, a fun Argentinian song that I torment my beloved with, as well as trawling through to find songs that might evoke particularly intense moments of happiness from the past.
So the itinerant or the programme itself led me to Fink. “Ooh, that sounds rather nice.” Though I wondered if he was trying to pretend to be American. And then bollocked myself for daring to wonder when who am I to know what any musician from Brighton sounds like in this day and age when the last time I went there all one did was eat rock and perhaps stumble, amid much guffawing, onto the nudist beach and wrap your feet in bandages from all the blood-letting wrought by the stones and contemplate that the sea as viewed from England’s southern coast looked almost nothing like the sea one saw on the travel catalogues I used to order as a teenager to try to broaden my parents’ horizons. And then the site cleverly tells you if the musician is on tour or not. And, blow me, Fink was. Playing in Berlin too, if you don’t mind.
“BiB, this could make you young,” I thought to myself. I could go along to a concert. I could perhaps wear make-up other than the stuff I put on my nose to hide the alcoholic’s veins I’ve got there. If I get the application wrong, I look almost exactly like the scarecrow from The Wizard of Oz. I could take narcotics. I could binge-drink alcopops. And snog folk. And vomit and hold my lighter in the air. And then cry because Mark from Geography got off with Stacey and not me. Wanker. Bitch. And then ring my mum and say I’d spent my bus fare home on Diamond White and would she pick me up from Harrow Weald.
I got this close. I’d composed an e-mail to everyone I know in Berlin – an unholy alliance of foreign faggots and foreign bloggers, adding a couple of made-up German-sounding e-mail addresses to pretend I was integrated – to suggest we all go together. See how young I am? Yes, let’s go to a concert. We’ll dance and take drugs. Oh yes, a week-night of course.
“Darling, I’m inviting everyone I know in Berlin to a concert on Thursday so you have to put a temporary tattoo on my neck and spray my hair blue on Wednesday,” I warned the Russian so he had time to get accustomed to the idea of the new, young me.
“Yes, darling, Thursday. It’s not as if I’ve got a job to go to. And it’s Fink’s… Fink. Don’t you know him? Oh, he’s incredible. Amaaazing. I’ve, like, got a lot of respect for him actually… it’s his only night.”
“But Syurzday ven you go beenge-dreenkink veez ze fyeggots and ze bloggyers.”
“Darling, you’re right. Thank fuck you remembered.”
I deleted the e-mail and cried from relief that I hadn’t forced myself to listen to noise live. I kissed the Russian goodbye – he was going skateboarding – and poured myself a sherry.