Irrational fear....of foxes?

I don't like flying, but I'm not afraid of aeroplanes. I don't like travelling along the motorway, but have no fear of cars or speed. I have an irrational fear of mash potato, but I really, really, really like chips.

Foxes are something I not only dislike but am also stupidly scared of. Doing a google image search for a photo of a fox I can appreciate they are very lovely looking animals. In a rural environment with the backdrop of luscious green fields and woodland area. Urban foxes are foul, usually covered in mange, and shit in my back garden. But more than that, they're not afraid of me anymore. Me or my border collie, Jack.

In recent months it has got so bad I don't like walking my dog after dark. This is something of a problem when I don't get home from work until seven most days and then you have to take into account some sit down time, Hollyoaks and food. So by the time I'm ready for Jack to don his collar and lead, the foxes are out there.

Walking my neighbourhood streets, I'm on my guard. I'm looking everywhere, spying into front gardens, down alleyways, behind me, around corners and underneath cars. Then, when I see one, because I will see one, I freeze. I don't know what to do. The fox doesn't run away. It never fucking runs away! It will sit itself down and stare at Jack, and then stare at me. Sometimes I'm twenty feet away, sometimes I'm two. And each time it happens I don't know what to do. I won't take my eyes off the fox for fear it will attack my useless lump of a dog who does nothing but pull on his lead a bit because he's growing impatient as I slowly pull him back with me as I retrace my steps, never looking away from the fox. Playing a game of stareouts with a fucking fox.

Inevitably, despite being the human being complete with opposable thumbs, I will take a different route and flee the fox. I don't run though. Running makes it harder to look around and check if the fox is chasing.

Poor Jack's walks are becoming something of a nightmare. For me because of the foxes, and for him because I keep cutting the length and number of times a week they happen.

Obviously I need to Man Up and deal with this. But, fuck me, foxes are scary.

I do snot want to be ill

There's something wrong with me. Everything aches. I can't sit up straight. My nose and ears are running. Yes, my ears. I have bits of tissue stuffed in them at the moment. My head hurts and I'm fighting a losing battle with my eyes to keep them open.

I hate feeling like this. I hate being so weak and useless. So instead of curling up into a ball and sleeping it off I drag my sorry arse into work, trying to prove a point to illness or something. Martyr is me.

I think I might go and have a nap in the toilet now.

That Girl's An Indie Cindy

Club NME is something that seems like a good idea until you get there and your clothes begin to stick to your body from the sweat (please see photo to the left I took that night for sweaty faces and armpits), your shoes get wrecked because everyone is jumping on them, you get hit on the head by beer cans because people think throwing them down from the balcony is amusing and fail to see any of the bands that are playing because you find yourself trapped inside a violent mosh that is actually quite terrifying because the kids who are so desperate to "rock out, man!" have no idea how to control it.

I much prefer the gigs where I can stand on two feet, swaying back and forth, able to sip my beer without spilling it over myself or others and have a clear view of the band. I will never be cool.

But fuck it. I'm here to see Hadouken! (who I hate with a burning passion) and I'm wearing head to toe neon - for fun, obviously. It wasn't until I was sat in The Crescent sporting white hoodie with neon blobs all over it, stripey skirt, green tights and pink shoes that I realised dressing like the kids is not really mocking the kids sufficiently, because the kids won't get it. They'll just think we're one of them. We should have gone as goths. That would have been awesome.

But back to the mosh. I generally avoid them. They scare me. I don't like it. Too many people getting too close. I don't understand how injuring yourself can be considered fun. How can you know if you're enjoying the music if you're too busy getting battered? But I get myself involved anyway. And it was fucking horrid. I shit myself. I pushed everyone away from me because I was genuinely scared and they just pushed me back! I couldn't get out of it once I was in it because people assumed I was still "getting involved" and they couldn't hear me shout "fuck off!" because the music was so loud and they didn't care anyway. They're moshing to Hadouken!, man! It was a neon Hell pit lit with a thousand glosticks.

I wasn't even aware of Hadouken! leaving the stage, and the rest of the night drifted past in a whirl of mobile phone and money loss, more sweat, more drink, slightly more sedate dancing and getting the nightbus home in my neon get-up sitting with three girls who'd been partying at China White feeling utterly scummy and ridiculous. GOOD TIMES. < Really. Good times. I can't wait to go again.

eStalk

I have a dirty secret.

I stalk boys.

On the internet.

Facebook has taken over my life, and aside from adding nearly every friend I've ever had with the aid of the search function, I also have one or several boys I've made the sex with. Although to be fair to myself, I did delete a few the other day because I no longer care enough to be updated with their hourly status.

But now there's one boy. One boy that I F5 my page every ten minutes or so for because I desperately want to know who he's writing messages to. It's becoming an addiction. A horrible addiction. I read messages from his mates who happen to be girls and have this overpowering need to know if he returned their kisses. But they've got their profiles set to bloody private so I torture myself with "oh noes he's definitely shagging her" and leaving her x's.

I also get a pedantic pleasure from judging people by their spelling and grammar. Call me a Nazi, but these things are important. And I am infinitely superior to any girl that can't even leave a three line message without the use of one comma, full stop, capital letter or apostrophe. Oh yes I am. He should stop shagging them and shag me some more. I am best.

Oh. Fucking. Hell.

Bloggers Block

I haven't blogged in such a long time. Partly because I don't pimp this blog anywhere, so am fully aware that posting is mostly a waste of time. But also because I never know what to say. I don't want to be full of woe with my words, but at the same time how many times can I say I'm happy? My moods are so erratic, one day I'm up the next I'm down. There is no consistency, which I know is much the same for everyone but I don't generally have any reasons for why I'm swinging back, forth up and down.

Recently, my life seems to have taken a path I'm not sure I'm entirely comfortable with. It's not a massive change, but big enough for me to look at myself and question if I'm happy with the way I'm behaving.

I'm repeating a cycle. Over and over. It never breaks. And although I can lay as much blame on those who help me get myself into these situations, only I alone can at any point say "no", but I don't. I go with it. Because for a short while I'm completely happy and relaxed and enjoying myself.

I blog about my best friend and the mistakes she makes time and time again, yet I'm just as bad. Except my mistakes don't last as long as hers. They are brief and quickly forgotten. Until I do it again and spend four days beating myself up over being so silly and niave.

In a time when it's supposedly okay for women to do what they want when they want as long as they aren't harming themselves or others, you still have to reach a point where you're okay with it yourself. And I don't think I am.

Only I can sort this out. I need to think before I act. Put a bit more effort into thinking long-term and not just chasing after a fleeting glimpse of something I don't even know where to find.

The Internet Is Dead

And I am lonely.

My ears are a victim

Why is Kate Nash everywhere? Why are people twice my age recommending her to me? Why are so many blogs pimping her songs? I genuinely want to know. Her music is a whole new level of Lily Allen inspired awful dolled up in a Pipette's dress and I cannot listen to her stage school taught over-pronounciation without feeling like my ears are being raped.

The ex Brit School student clearly suffers from a case of the class frauditus as well and I can't bear to hear her spitting out "killah, killah, killah". It properly infuriates me. I have a problem with artists commoning themselves up. It's insulting to the class they are and the class they aspire to be. Pete Doherty is an excellent example of this. He sings songs like Killamangiro, but what does he actually know of being on the dole and living hand to mouth in a council flat? He can spray blood up as many bedsit walls as he pleases, but at the end of the day he will always have the safety net of a wealthy family, friends and girlfriend to cushion his life now and when he finally gets his act together. There is no romance in being working class. But, because they don't live the life they see it through rose tinted glasses and perceive it to have a certain charm and playing at being poor is probably fun for a while.

It's okay to be middle, upper middle and upper class! You're still allowed to make music, you know. Just stop pissing pretending you're something you're not. You look and, more importantly, sound like a cunt. Music shouldn't and generally isn't defined by the status of an artists background, but poor is apparently cool, in more well off circles, right now, so we have to suffer the likes of Kate Nash and her put on accent. Marvellous.

I refuse to link a Kate Nash mp3, but here is the excellent and also ex Brit School attendee Adele singing the beautiful Daydreamer.

Doing My Own Head In

I haven't left the house for almost one whole week. Oh, actually that's a lie. I was out of the house briefly on Thursday to pop to the doctor's to ask him if he could stop the constant flood of blood that is coming from the back of my throat.

I had my tonsils out on Monday, you see. But I won't go on about that. Okay, I will a bit. Because it was really fucking painful. Seriously, I expected *some* pain and *some* blood, but the reality was much harsher. And the agony of eating toast a couple of hours after surgery will stay with me forever. Silent tears slid down my face as I feebly picked at a corner of the slice with my teeth while the nurse watched over me with her "you're not going home until you've eaten it" face.

I don't remember the last time I only had myself for company for so long. With everyone else out of the house during the day and only the internet, the telly and my two dogs to keep me sane I've spent a lot of time doing pointless tasks just to fill up another unit of time until someone comes home and talks to me with an actual voice.

I like pointless tasks. Really, I do. I like going through the motions of emptying all my drawers and then putting everything back in them again. But the other day I found myself rearranging my mum's spice rack whilst waiting for the kettle to boil in order of usage. At first, it really was just something to do while the kettle boiled. But then it became so much more than that and all the spice pots had to be taken out of the rack and lined up on the counter. I took a butter knife from the drawer and bent down so my eyes were level with the pots. Then I spent over half an hour using the knife as a straight edge to determine which pot had more than what pot left inside. Over half an hour. Measuring cinnamon. And I had to boil the kettle all over again. Which got me all annoyed. At myself. For wasting my own time. Even though I have nothing else to do. And this is how I've been all week. I can't even take my annoyance out, unfairly, on someone else because there is no one else during the day.

Today is the first day I woke up and didn't feel like I had a seven inch blade wedged in the back of my throat, so I got up, had a bath and put on proper clothes. Not pj's and an old comfort cardi. Jeans and a jumper. And now I'm going to walk the dog. For quite a long time. Like, an hour. Maybe. Getting out of the house is Best Idea, I think.

The Turncoat, The Little Ones and Jamie T

According to their MySpace page, The Turncoat hail from Wimbledon. This is the most interesting thing about them. Seriously. Their songs seem to have no choruses and from what I could gather were all about drugs. Whoopdidoo. Yet more songs about drugs! Although kudos to them for using a didgeridoo during one song. Oh, and the long haired guitarist was pretty cute.

The whole time they were on I did have a niggling feeling that I was missing something, as the fourteen year old kids around me knew all the words to the songs and were going crazy for the band's take on Walking In Memphis, Walking In Chelsea. Hmmm.

The Little Ones I liked. Fun, poppy songs with catchy tunes. Plus, they all looked genuinely pleased to be on stage for us with the whole band sharing massive grins throughout their set. And, after listening to their MySpace songs, I can honestly say they are miles upon miles better live. Their energy is brilliant to watch and the only thing that put a damper on things were the sixth form try harders stood next to me who insisted on analzying every song with pointless remarks like "ooh, this is just the kind of song you'd play in the summer whilst making pancakes!". What? I mean, really, what? What does that even mean? Making pancakes in the summer? Who the fuck even makes pancakes in the summer? Just fuck off you runt. Fuck off and stop ruining my night. Then came the "ohmygod! They have totally stolen this rift from..." gaaaaah. Shut up, go home, get out of my FACE. What is it with kids these days that they can't just enjoy music without proving to their peers how superior their musical knowledge is to eveyone elses?

And then the man of the night appeared at bang on 9:30pm. Being so close to the metal railing that seperates crowd from stage, I was suddenly thrust forward and crushed to fuck by the overexcited children who were desperate to be living the indie scene dream and create utter chaos amongst the crowd. We were pushed to the left, to the right, forward, backwards...at one point I was standing on one tip toe and being held up by everyone around me. Two nine year olds (really) were jumping up and down and hitting me in the head with their elbows, a very young boy had his groin pressed up against my bottom and then Jamie T threw a can of Fosters all over me. Hurrah! I lasted like this for three songs. Then I couldn't take anymore. I was sweating, covered in beer, being pushed and pulled in all directions and beaten up rowdy teenagers who were preventing me from enjoying the live act. So I made my friend stand on the stairs by the bar where we watched with perfect view and no pain.

Now, Jamie T himself was bloody brilliant. He didn't keep us waiting, he thanked us for being there and humbly introduced himself to the crowd before ripping into the first song. Having known friends who have seen Jamie T on previous tours, this one was not a case of just him and a guitar perched on a stool. He had a full band behind him and songs such as Salavdor were condensed into 90 second (approx - I'm just guessing here but it was no way album verion length) stunners.

Ed Larrikin joined Jamie on stage for the final song, Sheila, and spent the whole time prancing around the stage with an umberella. The tit.

Buy Panic Prevention here.

Ways To Fill A Working Day...

1. Play catch with a foam ball you found under a desk. Not with someone. Play on your own.
   
2. Build a wall out of box folders
3. Wander around the building clutching a piece of paper pretending to be Very Busy On Very Important Business when really you're just looking for someone to annoy
4. Annoy people - achieved in various ways including spotting someone with the tell tale flashing msn icon and standing by their desk for an age, not really saying anything but preventing them from continuing their online conversation.
   
5. Paperclip chain!
   
6. Watch people stranded at the bus stop outside - they don't realise the M25 is closed (or something) and they're going to be stuck in the rain for AGES yet because the traffic just up the road is, apparently, hellish. Ha ha ha.
   
7. Call you mother three times to argue over tonight's dinner.
8. Have an msn argument with your best mate.
9. Play with the foam ball some more.
10. Visit friends flickr accounts and leave comments for each and every photo using no more than two words.
11. Clock watch.
12. Take down all your old post it notes and re-write them using neater hand writing - this is not actually productive work and therefore allowed.
    
13. Wonder how the hell you manage to keep your job despite using this routine most working days at least every two hours.
    

Being Cultural

Or at least, trying to be.

It's a Friday evening and I'm sitting front row of second circle Sadlers Wells to witness the first ever Sadlers Wells Sampled, in association with Playstation, weekend.

What is Sadlers Wells Sampled? Well, quite. I wasn't sure either. Despite studying dance until my midteens, I've become pretty uncouth these days when it comes to the arts.

Soon enough all becomes clear and I'm about to watch six completely different styles of dance all crammed into one show. And so there I am, with one dance fanatic, one dance lover and one dance IDon'tKnowWhat'sGoingOnHere. I feel a bit nervous. What if I don't "get" some of it? What if I laugh when I'm not supposed to laugh? What if it's boring and my friend thinks I'm a philistine?

I'd like to say I needn't have worried, but thirty seconds into the first dance and I'm lost. On stage is a boy and a girl. They run, leap, fold and bend. Then they do it again. Then they're wrapping limbs around each other, then the guy is doing a solo. It's called Random Dance. To see it is to understand why. The whole time I'm watching, I'm trying to build a story in my head. I don't want them to be bounding around the stage for no reason. I NEED A REASON. Random isn't bloody good enough. I can clearly see they are very talented dancers, but I'm not appreciating it at all.

Now it gets good. The Vagaband Crew are an amazing hip hop dance act. Spinning on heads, bouncing on hands, popping along the stage on their bellies - I could have watched this for hours, these young, fit, apparent owners of bones made from noodles, men. And the majority of the auidence seemed to agree as the applause was raputous.

The next piece was "Jump" by the Yegam Theatre. I'm not sure how long this went on for. However long was long enough. They were all very talanted at jumping around and breaking slats with their hands and feet but the silliness began to grate after five minutes.

Fag break - also known as "interval" - and we're standing outside. I suddenly realise that there are a lot of people the same as IDon'tKnowWhat'sGoingOnHere girl and I. Some people are "getting it" and others clearly aren't. But it didn't matter, because everyone was enjoying themselves. Just on different levels, I suppose.

The second half and I fall in love with ACGI (Anyone Can Get It). A tap group from New York, their piece involved a "tap off" between two groups of three. Then they'd come together, tapping heel for heel, toe for toe in time with the drum and each other.

The mood darkens for Hofesh Schecter's (no, I have never heard of him either) piece which involves eight normally dressed men running around the stage in an animalistic fashion, then hugging, then running, then fighting, then shrugging shoulders, repeating process. I likes this. Why? Fuck knows. Same as with Random Dance I've tried my hardest to build a story in my head, but it all turns to shit with the next sequence of hugging. Generally, I like moody things. Music, films and now it seems also dance. Plus, you can't really go wrong with eight male dancers, can you? Any girl is going to find something to like there.

Now, this is where give up trying to make sense of anything. Swamp by Rambert included a guy with ginger hair wearing lime green spandex and lots of dragging of bodies across the stage. I spent the whole time watching ginger lime guy in morbid fascination. Why, just why, would you put a ginger man in lime green? But, ginger lime guy aside, I found this piece a bit....I'm loath to say this but....pretenious. Oh no! What have I done?! I'm sighing right now, by the way. Because I can understand that I don't understand, but don't know how to make anyone else understand that. Do you see? The working class gal in me wants to scream "WHAT A LOAD OF WANK!", but I know that's not true. I can appreciate why others would love this. But I never could. Mostly because it's a load of wank. And has a ginger guy wearing lime fucking green spandex which moulds around his willy and leaves nothing to an innocent girls imagination.

And that was my Friday night. Dance is good. Dance is fun. I liked the tap best cos it goes taptaptaptap at really fast paces!!!!!!!!!

If you'd like to see what I'm going on about with your own eyes, watch highlights from the weekend here.

Winterkids

The Winterkids have been on the receiving end of some blogging hype. Not all of it good, with one blogger comparing them to Menswear. Oh dear. And, I have to say, they're not amazing. Everything about them should be everything I hate in a band; the image, the trite lyrics, the mandatory girl tinkling on a keyboard...Except, except for this one song, Tape It.

This song is nothing out of the indie ordinary. But that bassline gets me by the soles of my feet and makes me want to dance. The chorus is too damn catchy. I defy you to get it out of your head. I *know* I shouldn't like it, but I do. I really, really, really do. Oh woe.

Having fished around and listened to some other mp3's of theirs that are floating around, this is by far the only song worth lending your ears. Although be prepared for it to steal them for a while.

Find out for yourself at their Myspace page here.
Or, if you're deaf, purchase things here.

Lean On Me

I seem to attract unstable people. I seem to be the shoulders everyone offloads their weight onto, so once they're done complaining and feeling better I'm still sat there worried sick about what is to become of them. Friends shouldn't cause me this much stress, or take this much from me without giving something back.

Case in point, my best friend. Or, my sometime best friend. The best friend I have when she's fucked up yet again and needs someone to take charge of her situation and sort it out, give her a plan, put the plan in action, make sure she sticks to the plan. Then, when everything's settled down and she no longer feels the urge to pop three packets of pills, I don't hear from her. She's too busy going out with her other mates. The other mates that, strangely, are never around when she's hit rock bottom and a bottle of vodka. Again.

Without putting the reasons for her stupidity out there, I should say now the girl has some issues. Some issues I'll never quite get my head around, no matter how many times she tells me about them, or cries to me about them, or makes a passing joke, or throws them in my face when I dare to moan about anything that may have happened to me, past or present.

I don't mind her getting the stuff in her head out into the open, if it stops her doing something ridiculous then I'm all for it. But I am tired of having to watch her make the same mistakes time and time again.

I've tried sympathising, I've tried shouting, I've tried staying away, I've tried moving her into my house, I've tried alcohol, I've tried constant nights out, I've tried sitting in watching MTV and eating comfort food....but in the end she will still make a silly choice and disregard everything everyone around her says because she is convinced she knows what she wants and what she's doing.

Why do I bother? Because she doesn't have anyone else. No one. I am the only person who will drop everything to support her. Once this current mess is cleaned up and thrown out, we'll drift apart once again. And during that period of occasional emails and vague texts I will worry and I will wait. Because that is now my role in her life and although I've accepted it, I'm becoming increasingly tired of giving up parts of my life to accomodate for it.

The World Was A Mess, But His Hair Was Perfect

The Rakes. Fuck, they're cool. No?

Alan Donohoe, that be the singer if you didn't know, is like a new and improved, sexed up to the max Jarvis Cocker.

The album, Capture/Release, was forever the top CD on the "most listened" pile by my stereo and I once nearly walked out of a pub where my friend was playing live for the first with her band because they did a fuck awful version of Strasbourg. I had to settle for hiding at the bar because deep down I'm just too nice a person to desert a mate in their time of need - and need me they did because the venue was pissing empty.

Seeing them (Rakes - not friend's band, please keep up) live last May was the gigging highlight of my year, and I saw The Pipettes in September, dude, so they had some stiff competition.
Throwing out elbows, jerking his knees, knocking back beer and admitting that they were "off to take some drugs" before the final two songs....I spent an hour captivated by the energetic and tight set that got everyone, and I mean everyone, dancing like kangeroos on acid. Also, I was pretty aroused. Heh. For a very fleeting moment I considered running to the toilet and taking off my stripey knickers so I could throw them at Alan. Then it was all over and I came back down with a thud, sitting on the tube home playing Work Work Work on repeat, trying to relive the excellence of their live performance by unable to capture it properly.

I always get that with live music. The minute I walk out of a venue, I forget all the best bits about it and am left feeling a bit underwhelmed. Not because the music was bland or unremarkable, just because....well, it's all over innit? The thumping in your chest has died, the excited bubble in your belly burst and there's no longer any music to thrash your head or stomp your feet to and you're just left feeling a bit empty, smelling faintly of beer and sweat as you make your way home. At least that's how it is for me.

But goodness of goodness, I'm going to see them again in March. Whoop! I'm seeing Hot Puppies and Jamie T between now and then, but finding out I'm going to see The Rakes (*swoon*) again has left me giddy with glee. And in need of some new stripey knickers.

So, to get us all, but mostly me because I'm seeing them live and you're probably not, in the mood let's listen to The World Was A Mess But His Hair Was Perfect. Taken from forth coming album (out 19th March fact fans) Ten New Messages.

The Rakes, everybody!

Pre-order Ten New Messages from Amazon here.

Sad Girl

Sad Girl - Amy Allison

Apparently, Amy Allison is New York's best kept secret. I'm not going to disagree, I'm yet to seek out any more of her work. But the almost sickly sweet voice teamed with the matter of fact lyrics and the county tune are nice. Very nice.

The Worst Day Of The Year

Apparently, today is the worst day of the year. A combination of winter weather, left over Christmas bills, failed New Year's resolutions and general downtime after the festive fun times leaves everyone feeling blue.

To be honest, I felt this the day after Boxing Day when I realised there really were no more presents and I'd spent far too much money on people I won't be seeing for another twelve months.

But, I can't help but feel slightly....down. There is no spring in my step today, no song in my heart nor joy in my laughter. In fact, there is no laughter at all today. Because everyone else around me seems to be feeling it too. We're all sat at our desks tapping away half heartedly at our "work" whilst the phones don't ring and the radio provides mellow background noise.

Even the supposed snow London will be receiving soon isn't raising a small feeling of child like glee in me. And I bloomlin' love snow, me.

Being in a middle ground mood where I'm neither annoyed or happy is not somewhere I usually am. I tend to be an all the way up or all the way down kind of person. Which isn't something I particularly like about myself, but what cannae do, eh? So, to be perfectly content with feeling perfect apathy is...odd. It's not something I can even explain properly. Because I can't be bothered to find the right words. D'ya know what I mean?

Pffff.

Getting Nowhere Fast

I braved the gym last night. This isn't something I do very often.

On a whim one sunny winter day last year I joined my local gym. I paid right up for twelve whole months. I somehow managed to not cry when I saw how much they charged per month. For the first three weeks I think I went six or seven times. Not bad, eh? For someone who had shunned excercise since PE at schooll. I wouldn't say I enjoyed the experience of excercising in public those first few times, but I dealt with it the best way I knew how. Didn't think about it. Just went through the motions of actually getting myself to a machine and then using it and then getting off it and then finding another one and then using that and so on and so on until I'd been there a hour and it was time to go home.

I felt quite a lot of pain those first few weeks. Thigh ache was probably the worst. Sitting down became no easy task.

So anyway, three weeks of regular excercise and I decided to give myself a break. That break only ended last night. Nearly a whole year of not going to the gym, despite paying for the privlidge every month. Money to burn, you think? Alas, no. At the time of signing away my money for a whole year I told myself repeatedly the gym was a luxery and I should think of it as such and make sure I got my monies worth. But did I fuck. I sat at home eating crisps and watching Big Brother instead.

Then last night I went, and I kind of enjoyed it. Feeling the burn...it was good.

And now the question is, do I sign up for another twelve months? I get a 10% discount this time! But then there's crisps and Big Brother, man......

Poxy pissing New Year. Making me feel almost duty bound to better myself in some way *this* year. Because, of course, this will be The Year I sort myself out. It would have been last year, but, you know, stuff got in the way.

Finding ways of annoying my colleagues is a favourite past time of mine and one of the most effective seems to be playing a song on repeat for as long as I can stand it. I can stand it for an impressive amount of time. They can't.

Today, the song of choice was this:

The Magic Position - Patrick Wolf

Listen. Enjoy. Dance if you feel like. G'wan. Do a dance. You know you want to.

Buy The Magic Position from Amazon here.

Where The Cool Kids Go

KoKo, Camden.

Friday night, it's cold and the queue is round the block. An hour previous a friend had text me to let me know she and one other mate were safely nestled amongst the scenster kids and my group must rush our pints and run to join them.

So we finish our pints and leave the busy but nicely buzzing World's End and make our way down the road. We found them less than a third of the way up the queue, hunched up from the cold and gazing wistfully at the gates they were no where near reaching. At least when you reach the gates you feel you're getting somewhere.

Despite blatantly queue jumping myself, I became something of a Queue Nazi within ten minutes of arriving. Any groups of mates less than five groups infront of me were not allowed to let their friends go before my group. One guy tried to bribe me with a can of Becks. Had it of been a Carling, he might of had a deal. But Carling? Nah mate. Get to the back. You ain't welcome here. His giggling girlfriend did nothing to help him as he slowly plodded down the road. I didn't feel bad.

I love Camden. I really do. I don't tend to wander too far away from The Dublin Castle, World's End or Lock Tavern, but those are all I really need, no? Probably not. But I live in the deepest SE London and am ignorant to most places beyond Waterloo. Give me a break.

One thing Camden does do to me, though, is bring home the fact that I am no longer a teenager. Yes, I may have only just graduated from teens to twenty something, but in an area thriving with The Cool Kids sometimes I do have to take a moment to remind myself that, you know, I'm alright. I've got my mandatory battered Converse - in three different colours, no less, I can wear a tie without fear and my grey checked bomber jacket has a Sparklehorse badge pinned proudly to the front pocket.

The fact that I have to remind myself I'm alright is the actual problem. Not the feeling of total averagness these kids infect me with. Why am I marking myself up against a girl of seventeen who is clearly dressed head to toe in Topshop, with hair that doesn't seem to have been brushed since 1999 and make up Amy Winehouse would shy away from? Who is the real Cool Kid here? And, more to the point, who gives a fuck? No one is judging me because I'm wearing a tatty hoodie with more holes than buttons and a hairstyle my mum would have been proud of in 1983 - which is completely unintentional, I must stress - so why am I looking to judge them?

Probably because, for the first time in my young life, I'm starting to experience Growing Old. And it's only going to get worse the more birthdays I go through.

Anyway, back to the KoKo queue. We gave up. We're not that desperate to bouce around in a sweaty club so packed you can't even lift your overpriced can of Fosters to your mouth without getting most of it in your hair.

We got in a cab and boogied on down at the far more comfortable Borderline. Where everyone is welcome. And most are over 20. Hurrah!