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.