The Subways, O2 Academy, Newcastle

Amazing.

Faith No More - If I Can't Go, I'll Just Make It Up In My Head

You probably already know that there’s more than one version of me – I’ve made no bones about it before. For example, in my professional life, I’m a meticulous planner and my Captain-von-Trappian organisational tendencies are unparalleled. But Weekend Nick? She is a pretty laid back kind of gal. You’ll find her with hardly any makeup, and so non-committal flying by the seat of her ripped jeans she's nary a care in the world. Making long term weekend plans is not her thing. “We’ll see,” she’ll say.

Except today, when someone asked me what my plans for the weekend were, my answer was out there without having missed a beat. “On Sunday I will mostly be moping, because Faith No More are playing two dates in London starting the day after tomorrow and I can’t go.” The tickets, dear readers, went on sale when I wasn’t working, so buying them as well as booking a hotel and train tickets was kind of out of the question. But now, the time has come and I’m proper doomed about it.

I’ll have a bit of a mope, and I’ll get over it. I’ll turn down my mouth and pout out my lip and puppy dog my eyes and do a bit of exasperated sighing and mooning. In preparation for this one-woman-pity-party, I spent a large part of today thinking about what kind of a setlist the band – who (unbelievably!) have so far eluded me for the duration of my gig-going tenure – might put together for the two London shows. And then I started dreaming up what kind of day I would have if I actually COULD get to the gig. And THEN, I started dreaming up exactly what kind of day I would have if I actually could get to the gig in a perfect world.

The last time I went to London was pretty hard to top, but I’ll give it a whirl.

Okay. So if it’s okay with you, I think I’ll set off on Saturday on the train. First Class, do you think? Obviously. Not because I’m a snob or anything, but because don’t you just love those seats that aren’t next to anyone else’s and you can get proper stretched out and comfy?

Mmm, yeah. Me, too. I’d have one of those, for sure.

As far as digs are concerned, if you have no wild objections, this suite at Claridges with the gorgeous piano will do nicely – is that okay?

Not too shabby for me.  No sir.  Allll good here.

It’s only right that I take afternoon tea in my room (if you please) and then – don’t tell anyone -- but I’ll jump on the bed for a bit. I might have a bath – I could take my book in there, couldn’t I? On the other hand, do you think I might be tired from my journey? Maybe a snooze would be in order. Then – do forgive me -- I’ll stuff an obscenely large wad of cash in my jeans pocket, grab my iPod and go for an explore.

First I’ll go for a pint of Moosehead at the Maple Leaf in Covent Garden. Then I’ll rock up to Camden Market where I will buy a couple of new pairs of boots. And some trainers, probably.

I’d sashay contentedly back to my hotel, pad around in my bare feet and play that piano for a bit before going to bed, where I would sleep in an obnoxious diagonal, for at least nine hours. None of that would prove overly offensive, to be sure. What say you?

I’ll fill Sunday in much of the same way, but not so as to wear myself out before the gig. I might go up to Rough Trade for a proper nosey around. I’ll need a good hour in there, minimum. I might head to Trafalgar Square to see the lions. Maybe go to the Tate Modern and listen to the inside of my head for a while.

And then -- the reason I’d be down there in the first place – Faith No More.

And, notwithstanding of course – this guy:

Mike Patton, Fantasy Husband

The setlist would include a good mix stretching the full length of their back catalogue and I’m not fussed exactly how they populate it as long as they include the following non-negotiables:

Remembering that this is a day constructed completely from fantasy, I’d throw in a couple of wacky covers as well – like the theme to the Muppet Show or some Kinks or Hollies or something. Still with me? 

Continuing through the Faith No More gig of my perfect-world imagining, Patton would notice me in the throng trying not to wet myself half way through Stripsearch and pluck me out of the crowd with one arm (in this world I weigh only very slightly more than a Russian gymnast) and let me lie flat on my back in the middle of the stage to watch and listen.

Ah, feck it - we had better bring Jim Martin back while we're at it.

The whole thing would be mind-blowing and skin-crawling and legs-crossing and boobs-squirming and all the things that I’m certain the real gig is going to wind up being.

And then after? I’d float two feet off the pavement, body buzzing, ears ringing, feet killing, throat bleeding, lungs stinging, head swirling back to the hotel. Too wired to sleep, I’d go down to the bar and have a quiet drink or two; that post-concert rapture making my bone marrow fizz.

And in the ultimate perfect world? At the exact same moment the barman pours me my second, Mike Patton, too wired to sleep and wondering where that enchanting green-eyed blonde wound up, descends from his Claridges hotel room looking for a drink.

STONE ROSES: MANCHESTER 2012

MINE ALL MINE.

So I’ll tell you, if you like, how Himself and I came to be at the Stone Roses gig this past Sunday in Heaton Park, in Manchester.

Like most Roses fans, over the years I had learned to pay very little mind to the frequent rumours of a big reunion. Many an arrogant drunken wager was offered up on many a Friday night, me slurrily offering my next born child/my right tit/a naked stroll down Northumberland Street should they actually reform in my lifetime.

But then! The rumours started to pick up a bit more speed and substance. I raised a sceptical eyebrow, maintained my cucumber cool and tried not to let anyone see that my guts were helter skeltering. But lo -- An Official Statement...like boom! Ticket sales announcement...like pow! Then all of a sudden I find myself at work on a Friday morning clockwatching for 9am with my credit card in my hot little hand to score me some tickets for a gig that I never thought would ever materialise.

Now, dear readers – you know I am old school. I’ve slept cross legged on a sidewalk in the rain to get tickets for gigs, I’ve tag-team queued in 6 feet of winter snow for Ticketmaster outlets to open. INFINITELY preferable to the maddening process of getting tickets to a show online, and I’ll tell you that for nothing. I just can’t be handling the stress of it! I do not like the lack of control! At least in a lineup, one can, if required, use one’s considerable girth as a human blockade. But in a virtual ticketing scenario, the scariness of one’s boots/voluptuousness of one’s arse is of little matter. All you can do is have twenty-five goddam web browsers open and F5 REFRESH F5 REFRESH F5 REFRESH hoping that you don’t lose your WiFi before you smash your keyboard to bits.

I mean. COME ON.

So there I was at work. I’m F5-ing like a motherfucker – phones are ringing and I’m ignoring them. People are querying and I am growling at them. Must refresh. Must refresh. 30 minutes goes by and I’m thwarted by every error message in the virtual world. F5, F5, F5. Another 30 minutes go by and I’m trying not to hyperventilate. I am sweating. My lips are pursed, my teeth are grinding. My eyes are little slits. I am muttering all the swear words and vitriolic filth I can call to mind.

THEN! Infuriatingly – a guy at my work comes flying into the room to boast that he got through and got some tickets.

AND THEN – AGAIN! Another guy at work comes flying into the room to boast that HE also got through and got some tickets.

I am livid. In normal circumstances, I’m not a big fan of hiding my emotions and am ready to throw an unholy wobbler of a strop, but I know I do not have time because F5 F5 F5 F5.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAND THEN?! Bam. I’m in. Credit card number entered in a feverish blur and ZING – confirmation of purchase email received.

I was going. I WAS GOING! I flung my arms up into the air and let out a victorious howl. I was going.

Fucking GET IN.

(Part 2 later.)

most days i win: An interview with Nicola

HEY EVERYONE!  My brilliant friend Danielle over at Most Days I Win sent me some questions to answer, and while my kids destroyed the living room I obliged her!  You'll find the gory details just here:

most days i win: An interview with Nicola

You will love her, too.

GO NOW! 

VIVA 1988, Hate and Morrissey

SCENE:  The Voluptuous Woman and the Bearded Man are in the car.  They are heading southbound on the A19 and are about 5 minutes away from their house.  Despite a recent haircut, the Voluptuous Woman is in fine form.  Also despite a recent haircut, the man is sporting a beard that will, in a day or two’s time, be at that notable stage just after “Blithe Untidy Student” but before “Stinking Dirty Hobo”.  This song is on the car stereo, and as it begins, our heroine turns the volume up a little.

VW:  God, I remember when this record came out like it was yesterday.  I was 13.  I’d come to England to go to my Auntie Lisa’s wedding and it was big news at the time – Morrissey’s first solo album – it was everywhere.  I remember coming home from that holiday and going to the library to borrow the LP.

 

BM:  You borrowed records from the library?

VW:  I totally did!  I borrowed Morrissey’s ‘Viva Hate’ and T’pau ‘Bridge of Spies’. 

 

BM:  Admitting liking T’pau won’t do anything at all for your street cred.

VW:  We’ve all got skeletons in our cupboards, Mr B’Witched ‘C’est la Vie’.

(the man scowls)

VW:  Anyway – I think the timing of this song was pretty parallel to my sexual awakening.  These lyrics drove me mad at the time.

BM:  How do you mean?

 VW:  Well... listen to this bit – where in like, a snarly, surly, sexy way, he says: 

“Were you and he lovers?  If you were then say that you were...”  

and then in the next verse he goes:

“ Put a note upon his desk:  ‘P.S. Bring me home and have me. ‘ 

Leather elbows on a tweed coat?  Oh, is that the best you can do? 

So came his reply: ‘But on the desk is where I want you.’   

So I ask (even though I know): were you and he lovers?”

BM:  And?

VW:  And HOLY SHIT -- that was a pretty alarming discovery for girl whose leisure time was previously filled with riding bikes and jumping rope. 

BM:  Aaaaaah...I see what you mean.

VW:  I was like... ‘People leave rude notes for other people about doing it on desks AND THEN THEY DO IT ON DESKS?!’  Screw riding bikes – get me some leather elbows on tweed coats!  Get me ‘on a canvas with the tent flaps open wide!’  I want in on this!

BM:   (pensively, then mocking)  I’ve got a song that was 'parallel to my sexual awakening', as it happens..

VW:  Oh yeah?

BM:  Mmm-hmm.  Arguably less poetic than Morrissey with his tweed coats or what have you, but I know what you’re talking about.

VW:  You do?  What was the song?

BM:  I’m not telling you the song.

VW:  Tell me the song!

BM:  I won't.

VW:  Why not?

BM:  Because you will laugh and then you will take the piss, and then you will write a blog about it.

VW:  (laughs)  As if...

A few minutes pass while the song ends and the couple arrives at their destination.  The woman pulls into the drive, applies the handbrake and unbuckles her seatbelt.  The man follows suit, and goes into the house, shutting the front door behind him.  The woman is retrieving a shopping bag from the back of the car when the front door opens, and the man’s head peers out from behind it.

BM:  If you must know, it was W.A.S.P.’s ‘Animal (Fuck Like a Beast.)’

The front door shuts.  The woman shakes her head.

 END SCENE

Valentine’s Day, Schmalentine’s Schmay

Me & him, circa loads of years ago.

So I was over here on Momversation today watching the always lovely Rebecca Woolf from Girls Gone Child and her main squeeze, Hal, talking about Valentine’s Day.  I started making a comment but thought I’d respond here instead.

Have I ever told you the story about Himself’s and mine first Valentine’s Day?  I haven’t?  WELL THEN!  *cracks knuckles*  Pull up a chair, romance lovers – this one’s a corker.

We are in the year 2000, and Himself and I have been (coughcoughsleepingtogether) going out for about 4 months or so.  I lived in Leeds; he lived up here in Newcastle, and we only saw each other on weekends when I wasn’t working and/or in school.  It was fun, but the unpredictable nature of our time together left me wondering if we were actually Going Out-going-out or if we were actually just coughcoughsleepingtogether.

As girls – and particularly, I – am almost ALWAYS wont to do, I talked about “The Situation” with all my female compadres to work out what was to be done.  I whirled between being absolutely certain that he seriously dug me and yet constantly wondered what the hell I was doing to make him want to hang out with me so much.  So I and my team of home-girl-romance-counsellors-extraordinaire decided that Valentine’s Day would be the big tell.  If he got me a card, it would DEFINITELY mean something.  If he didn’t get me a card, it might mean something else.  And if he DID get me a card, the kind of card would definitely tell me something.  Would it be a funny card?  A romantic one?  What would the verse say?  Would it say ‘To My Girlfriend’ on it?  How does a guy like Himself choose a card based on price?  Aesthetic appeal?  Poignancy of poetry?  A quick smash ‘n grab at the card store?

Oh, how I agonized, analyzed and all kinds of other ized’s over this.  My little 22 year old heart was all a-flutter, and I didn’t know where to put my damn self. 

And then!  What kind of card should I buy him?  Serious icks-nay’s on the “to-my-oyfriend-bay’s”.  All the mushy ‘To The One I Love’ shit was RIGHT out of the question.  But if I got him a funny one, would he think I was kidding?  And then, how to sign it?   

People:  I’m talking ulcer-inducing levels of Girl Stress, over here.  Looking back, it was rather comical.  If I could have a word with my 22 year old self, I would wallop her with the nearest heart-shaped red satin embroidered pillow and tell her to chill the fuck out.  I'd grab her by the shoulders and give them a shake -- who is this weird chick, fretting herself into an aneurysm, rocking back and forth in the corner of a bedroom under a pile of half eaten Mars bars and a notepad full of signatures with someone else’s last name?  Where is that cheeky, sexy, wildly hilarious and exotic* girl we'd come to know and love? 

I digress.  

Anyway.  The big day rolled around.  I’d carefully chosen a card that was just the right balance of affectionate and funny, and painstakingly constructed something equally affectionate and funny to write in it, and I mailed it to him in enough time so that it would arrive on the 14^th of February.

My letterbox was empty that day.  And the next day.  AND THE NEXT DAY.  When I asked him about it he shrugged it off and said that he’d forgot. 

He forgot.  Waaah!

I felt sorry for myself for ages about it.  My Mum even called him (oh, cringey cringing cringe-o-rama) and told him off for it.  (Thanks, Mum.)  But I rallied - drowning my sorrows in cheese and onion crisps, midget gems and Strongbow and lo, eventually I got over it – and myself – until a few weeks went by and I realized the date of my birthday was approaching.  Cue the whole sorry cycle again, but this time with a birthday card. 

Surely here, surely now, I would get the concrete evidence of his undying love for me that I’d been mooning about for, all this time. 

My birthday arrives, and I rocked up the country on the fastest train I could jump onto, and came up to Newcastle to see what he, this potential life partner I was carefully brainwashing to my exact specifications, would produce.

I’m here to tell you now that he actually did get me a card that year.  I was pretty happy that he remembered.  I’m also here to tell you now what he wrote in that card:  and by the power vested in me by the state of my own obnoxiousness I give you the verbatim bone fide quote:

“Nichola – we are all gonna party for you BIG TIME, from Jason.”

(I’ll give you a minute to roll your eyes.  You can ‘tsk’ if you like, as well.)

Seriously?  SERIOUSLY.  How lame!  And did he just spell my name wrong?  MY NAME?  Oh, yes he did.

I had a bit of therapy (aka cheese and onion crisps and similar) and wouldn’t you know it, he was right all along?  That very weekend there did occur quite a bit of big time partying!  Such that I really didn’t give a rat’s arse about what he wrote or didn’t write or spelled or didn’t spell in my card because wheeeeeee look at all the funky lazers in this club and let’s dance until NEXT TUESDAY and aren’t we all so pretty and I totally love all of you in this room!

I guess I did something right, and I guess he did, too.  Because here we are.  I’m still alive and so is he, despite the fact that we live in the same house together.  We even made two people.  And also?  He now finds it easy to spell at least the last part of my name because, after all, it is also his.

* A Canadian in the North East of England is exotic.  It is.  It is!

This Kind of Crap Stops Me From Going to Sleep On A Night: January 2012

The Voluptuous Woman is in bed. She wears an eye mask to block out the light. Her luxuriant hair is swept up into a loose knot and she is nearly asleep.

A man enters.  In about 3 days, the Voluptuous Woman's requests for the man to HAVE A SHAVE ALREADY are going to reach fever pitch.
 BM: Ha! Monkey spunk moped!


VW: (removing her eye mask) Um, are you high?


BM: It was a cartoon! Did you not have it in Canada? It was a cartoon about a moped powered by monkey spunk.


VW: Oddly, no.


The man giggles to himself. A few moments pass. The Voluptuous Woman’s breathing starts to regulate and it is quite clear TO ANYONE WITH HALF A BRAIN that she is dropping off to sleep.


BM: Did I ever tell you about the time—


VW: (interrupting him; mildly irritated, somewhat sharply) YES. Yes, chances are you probably have already told me about this time. I was asleep, you spaz.


BM: (with a hint of exasperated defeat) This is rubbish. There MUST be, somewhere in me, SOME interesting and as yet undiscussed fact that I know, that I can talk to you about. I can’t have told you all my witty anecdotes between (he looks at his fingers) 1999 and now.


VW: To be fair, I’d never heard you say ‘monkey spunk moped’ before.


BM: (brightening) Really?


VW: Yes, really. So I guess the solution to this problem is that I have to get you a subscription to Viz magazine again, for you to nick stuff out of and pass off as ‘fresh’ and ‘new’ bedtime conversation?


BM: I’ve never had a subscription to Viz magazine.


VW: Okay, so I have to get you a subscription to Viz FOR THE FIRST TIME?


BM: Anyway, it’s a saying.


VW: What’s a saying? Monkey spunk motorcycle is so not a saying. How would you use it? ‘Oh, monkey spunk motorcycle, I’ve misplaced my car keys again!’ or ‘Wow, I haven’t seen you in ages, isn’t that a monkey spunk motorcycle!’


BM: Moped. It’s Monkey Spunk MOPED.


VW: Whatever. I win at marriage.


END SCENE

More adventures with our intrepid couple here, here, here, here, here and here.

Dear Diary: My Higher Education: Part 1

Please enjoy the first in this series -- I will leave you to decide whether or not all of this actually happened... :-)

Tuesday 28th October

Interesting development occurred during my lecture this afternoon. Don’t ask me what it was about, I spent most of it staring at the back of **Michael’s head. Amongst my lecture notes, I wrote the following:

Two seats up and one seat over and all I want to do is sniff the bit of your neck where it meets your shoulder because I know that the smell of you will make me aware of all of my skin, all at the same time.

So apparently, I’ve got a crush on my teacher. Who knew? How delightfully unexpected!

**names have been changed to protect the not-so-innocent.

(Part 2 coming soon.)

In Which I Attempt a Musically Related Top 5 List

Recently, I caught a Twitter gauntlet thrown at me by the always delightful @WriteOnNZ in a conversation with the equally congenial @BretInVancouver. The challenge: to come up with a Top 5 list of songs/books/films, etc.


“IMPOSSIBLE TASK / ONLY FIVE? IT CAN’T BE DONE / THIS IS THE STUFF OF MADNESS!” quoth I; my protestations resolute and many varied.

And yet – here we are: never one to shy away from a contest, I thought I’d have a go. I figure the odds of sending myself to the loony bin could be significantly stacked in my favour if I did a Top 5 of a category of a category of song or something.

So without further ado, I give you:


TOP FIVE SONGS WHICH I CAME UP WITH OFF THE TOP OF MY HEAD THE ORDER AND CONTENT OF WHICH MAY CHANGE IN THE NEXT FIVE MINUTES WHICH HAVE A KILLER OPENING 30 SECONDS
SUBCATEGORY: GOOSEBUMPS
SUB-SUBCATEGORY: WHICH MAKE YOU CLOSE YOUR EYES AND SMILE GOOFILY SUB-SUB-SUBCATEGORY: IN WHICH REWINDING THE SONG TO THE BEGINNING AGAIN JUST TO HEAR THE BEGINNING AGAIN IS NOT ONLY COMPLETELY PERMISSABLE BUT KIND OF EXPECTED

Waterfall/Don’t Stop – The Stone Roses
Really, the opening 30 seconds of Don’t Stop depends very heavily on your ability to identify the ending of the previous track - Waterfall - which, if you’re a Roses fan, you know kind of meld into one another. You know how it goes: you’re grooving on the trip of the end of Waterfall, and you notice the track number on your CD player has changed so you know Don’t Stop has started, but you’re not sure exactly when. So I’m about 1:24 into Don’t Stop and here’s where you must pay attention: listen to when Reni (drummer) switches from hi-hat to whatever that other cymbal is called.... are you there? I make it about the 1:40 mark. And then? They all come together – Squire’s swirly guitar, a tambourine comes in on the 2 and the 4 and everyone follow Mani’s ascending bassline for what – five notes? It kind of goes da-da-daaaa, da-daaaa, da-daaaaa.... just before the vocal comes in? Are you there? That – that right there MAKES ME DIE.




Sweat – Tool
I have a very distinct memory of how I came to appreciate the beginning of this song: I am 16, maybe 17. I am waiting for the bus to take me to school – I am late, as usual, so I have missed the bus I should have caught, and quite possibly the one after that. I don’t care – I have a Sony Walkman. Remember the yellow one with two earphone jacks, that claimed to be waterproof? That one. I have a backpack full of Bic pens (to help rewind tapes and conserve double AA power) and loads of batteries. I’ve got the volume cranked all the way up, and this song comes on. Now, as you may or may not know, everything on headphones is intensified anyway, so while what I am about to introduce may just be one solitary strike of one solitary part of one solitary instrument, it had an eyes-rolling-into-back-of-head effect on the young bus stop me, and I wore out the buttons on that bloody yellow monstrosity all the freakin’ way to school just so I could hear it again and again and again. I’m talking about the single, solitary, smack of the drum (it kind of echoes) at about the :21 second mark before the song really starts. Love, love, love.



So Says I – The Shins
Nothing fancy about this one – another headphones discovery. The first 5 seconds I love; the guitar just trickles down, sneaks up on you and then WAH-BAM the song gets on with itself. Slick, jangly, attention grabbing.

Where the Streets Have No Name – U2
Controversial – I know they’re not everyone’s cup of tea. But they were the first band I properly lost my shit over, when I was a young, impressionable girl. I first saw them in 1992 and the introduction to this song is what I heard in my mind when, I was sitting in the back of my Dad’s Toyota on the way to the big city to see them for the first time. Ontario friends – you know when you get off the 427 by Lakeshore? The introduction to this song is the noise of the view of the majestic Toronto skyline coming around that corner.



 Can’t Stop – Red Hot Chili Peppers
CONTROVERSIAL AGAIN. I love, love, love the first 30 seconds of this song, and then I fucking HATE this song. (Yes, Jason – it was necessary to swear there.) This song will also feature in an upcoming sub-category called UNIMAGINATIVE MELODY WHICH COMPLETELY RUINS AN OTHERWISE BELTER OF A TUNE. I am from the Freaky Styley Uplift Mofo Milk Magik school of Chili’s fans and this ‘new’ music they put out doesn’t grab me like it used to. But this song? This song did. I heard it one day and thought HEY, WHAT’S THIS? IS FRUSCIANTE BACK ON SMACK AGAIN, BECAUSE THIS IS GOOOOOD!!! And then Keidis comes in and covers up all that guitar divinity with a completely parallel line of melody. 2006’s biggest musical let down. Get thee to the naughty step, Anthony.





There you have it. That’s what I have produced (with the aid of my current iPod playlist). Undoubtedly there will be more, but I am spent. I need a lie down.


Honourable Mentions (Bands I Like Because of the Introductions of These Songs)
Let’s Dance to Joy Division - The Wombats
Date With the Night – Yeah Yeah Yeahs
Blue Orchid – White Stripes
Never Let Me Down (Again) – Depeche Mode
Patti Smith Math Scratch – Thurston Moore
Dogs of Lust – The The
Would – Alice in Chains
Pearl Jam – Porch
Going Up (To Portland) – Swell (can't find a link!!!)
Superstition – Steve Wonder
Take the Money and Run – Steve Miller Band
The Criminal – Sons of Freedom
Dirty Boots – Sonic Youth
So Far Away – Social Distortion
How Soon is Now – Smiths
A Side Wins – Sloan (the lyrics of this will be part of my next tattoo, incidentally...)
Well Thought Out Twinkles – Silversun Pickups
Crank – Catherine Wheel


GAH! I can’t do any more. I was right the first time:  THIS CAN’T BE DONE.

This Kind of Crap is STILL Keeping Me Up At Night

Deleted post rescued!  Here it is from yesterday; apologies if you've read it once already.


SCENE: BATHROOM, LATE EVENING


A man and a woman are brushing their teeth. They are getting ready for bed. The voluptuous woman has very striking hair. The man seems as if he is in more of a hurry than normal, and worth noting, he has at least 6 or 7 days’ worth of stubble.

W: What’s your hurry? Got a hot date?


M: I want to watch the end of ‘The People Under the Stairs’ – it’s just about to finish on Sky.


W: (without speaking makes a noise to illustrate her obvious indifference)


M: Actually, you know, ‘The People—‘


W: (interrupting) WAIT! Don’t tell me! I know this one: ‘The People Under the Stairs’ was the first film you ever watched on Sky.


M: Cripes alive! (spits in the sink, and shakes his head in what could be construed as an overly melodramatic manner) I’ve mentioned that before, I suppose?


W: (smirking) Once or twice.


The couple continue their night-time routine.


M: I suppose this is it, then?


W: What is “it, then”?


M: Well, it took 9 years of marriage but I’ve finally run out of new and interesting facts to educate you with?


W: (raises eyebrows) To educate me with?


M: You know what I mean. Anyway – 9 years is a pretty good innings. Maybe we should call it quits.


W: Hmm. You might be right. Just think of all of the poor, unsuspecting single girls in Newcastle who could benefit from an education as only you could provide.


M: Oh?


The man scratches his beard. The woman supresses an urge to ask him to shave. Again.


W: On second thought, perhaps it is my duty to spare this poor wretch, whomever she is, from your 'interesting' facts.


M: I do know some great facts.


W: Undoubtedly. What compels you to issue them in triplicate is the mystery.


M: I have lost some brain cells over the years, perhaps.


W: A likely explanation, to be sure.


M: I sense we are at an impasse. How do we move on from here?


W: Well, if I could just call to your attention my present comprehension of the following, perhaps you might commit to memory my prior learning and in so doing, spare me from any future tutelage?


M: Very well.


W: I already know that Ken Barlow is a Druid.


M: Okay. Fair play to you.


W: I already know that ‘We Will Rock You’ by Queen was written about Sid Viscious.


M: That might be the answer in a pub quiz scenario one day. You might be grateful for that.


W: I already know that ‘Dude Looks Like A Lady’ by Aerosmith was written about Vince Neil.


M: (knitting his brow) Now you’re just being petty.


W: I have heard your theories that nipping people causes cancer, and that Kurt Cobain was responsible for the death of hair metal.


M: Well, I –


W: AND, I know that you sometimes say that the first film you watched on Sky was not, in fact, ‘The People Under the Stairs’ but ‘Pump Up the Volume.’


M: I quite liked the girl in that.


W: Hmmmm. May I continue?


The man gestures in the affirmative.


W: I know that you used to look after your first car so well that you used to take the alloy wheels off and clean them with a toothbrush AND that sometimes if you’d just washed it and it rained the next morning, you’d leave it in the garage and make your Dad drive you to work in his car.


M: This is getting out of hand, now.


W: And finally, whenever Scott Walker comes up in conversation, I already know that when your Mam was young she wrote ‘Scott is fab’ on her school ruler.


M: She also wrote, ‘Nasty Neil’ next to it, after a boy in her class she didn’t like.


W: Would it surprise you at all to know that I already knew that?


The man gestures again, this time less politely.


W: (smug) No, you’re the tosser. Good job I still love you.


The couple exit the bathroom and walk to their bedroom. They switch off the lamps and get into bed. The house is very quiet, and the woman falls off to sleep while the man watches television.


M: Are you awake?


W: Well, I am now. What’s the matter?


M: In my defence, Scott Walker doesn’t come up in conversation all THAT regularly. And that girl was called Samantha Mathis.


W: Is that all?


M: Yes, I think so.


W: I can go to sleep now?


M: Yes you can.


W: (through gritted teeth) Thank you so much.
 

END SCENE



More adventures with our intrepid couple here, here, here, here and here.

Oh, and also most recently, here.

Blogger Ate My Last Post

Hello, friends.

I am blue.  Blogger ate my last post.  Because I am a bonehead, I hadn't saved it in Word, either.  So I implore you, dear subscribers -- if there are any amongst you who receive my blog in an RSS feed and still happen to have the post called 'This Kind of Crap Stops Me From Going to Sleep On a Night - AGAIN' and you could copy and paste it to me in an email, I will love you forever.

Even more than I already love you.

(Stupid Blogger.)

:-(

Me and John Barrowman Say Tomahto

A couple of weeks ago I declared that England was confused.  It’s nearer the truth to say that it’s me that’s the wrong way round – especially when it comes to my speaking voice.

I was born in England, as you may well know.  We moved to Canada when I was 5 years old, and some of my earliest memories of that time involve being very quickly labelled ‘the kid who talks funny’ so it wasn’t long before my schoolyard survival instinct subconsciously began to kick in, and my Teeside twang gave way to a rounded Canadian drawl.  My brother was exactly the same.  At least, between the hours of 9am and 3.30pm while we were at school.

But as soon as we were home, we’d slip straight back into our ‘normal’ accents.  With our parents, we spoke as we ever did.  And that’s the way it was.  ‘English’ with English people, and ‘Canadian’ with Canadian people – it just made sense at the time to our still fresh-off-the-boat brains.

Now?  My accent oscillates between the sublime and the ridiculous on a daily basis.  I speak in a Canadian accent in front of my husband and kids, though neither of the boys have really picked up any elements of it.  There was a brief interlude when Ben was very little, when certain words (“candle”, for example, or anything else with a short ‘a’) would come out a little bit Canadian, but it didn’t last very long.  

But hooooo-weee, when my parents are visiting from Canada, I get completely confused. I can be sitting in a room having a conversation with my parents and Jason at the same time, and if I reply to something my Dad has said, it’ll be in an English accent, and if I reply to something Jason has said, I’m Canadian again.  It is such a struggle - I don't know whether I'm coming or going.  It really is most unconsciously done – it’s just something that happens involuntarily, like sneezing or a bout of the hiccups.  I must sound like a total knob.

Jason says it even goes further than that –  even the Canadian-ness varies by degrees:  he says that when I talk on the phone to my Canadian friends, I get ‘extra-Canadian’ and as soon as I put the phone down I revert back to ‘regular-Canadian’.

And here's another one:  normally I speak in a Canadian accent to tmy kids, but when my Mum visits and it’s just me, her and the kids, I speak in an English accent to them.  They must think I'm completely bananas.  

I blame my mother, God love her.  I can hear the change in my Mum’s accent when she’s talking with her Yorkshire brothers and sisters.  It's 'put t'kettle on' this and 'by 'eck' that and  lots of 'lick road clean wi' tongue' flying about the place.  And then the next thing you know, she's a bit more North Eastern when she’s speaking with me and Dad.  Don't even get me started how Canadian she sounds when she answers the phone in her office.  IT IS BONKERS.

What is 'hubba hubba' in Scottish?

I thought I was alone in this madness, until one day I watched a documentary about John Barrowman.  John, star of Dr Who and Torchwood (which I love, love, love) who was born in Glasgow but grew up in the US.  I can’t remember what show it was – it was a biographical documentary about him, and there he was, in his mother’s American kitchen speaking with a lovely hard Glaswegian burr.  And then… AND THEN!  He turns to the camera and speaks ‘American’ again! 

Oh, but did my heart ever skip a beat!  I’M NOT THE ONLY ACCENT WEIRDO.  Hurrah for me!  And hurrah for John! 

Here he is, speaking about it a little.  

 
The peculiar thing about it all now, upon reflection, is that when I was a kid all I wanted was to be able to blend into the background – I changed the way I spoke to fit in, and for no other reason.  And yet now?  I want to distinguish myself from the background any chance I get.  I’m no wallflower; the hell with blending in.  So living in England, unless I’m with my family In Yorkshire, I speak with my Canadian accent.  And just to eff with things in a balanced way (I'm nothing if not well rounded) -- when I am Canada, say, for example at the supermarket with my Mum, I’m the bloody biggest blimey Limey you ever did hear.

I know you think I’m a total nutjob.

Never mind, I know John would understand.