What happens when parents read papers

"So, this thing you were at this weekend. Lots of people there?" my mum asked me yesterday afternoon, looking up from her newspaper.
"Yeah. Thousands" I said as I flopped face down on a sun lounger.
"Strange...I haven't read anything about a festival in Clapham. I have read about an illegal rave in Wiltshire though..."
"Well, rest assured, I was in Clapham"
"So you say..."
"Mum, I'm 25 this week. If I'd been going to an illegal rave in Wiltshire, I'd have told you I was going to an illegal rave in Wiltshire."

There then followed a pointless and entirely speculative conversation about how people find out about these sort of illegal events. Text message, perhaps? I humoured her, "Carrier pigeon I expect. They fly in through open windows and drop a note with a location on it". I'd unwittingly dug a hole. "Yes, they probably know where to go because of the funny stuff people smoke floating out. Why are you only drinking water today? What did you do at the festival?"
"Oh for gods sake. I got drunk, mum."

Clearly, the stories in my mother's head (and the paper) are far more illicit than reality. I had indeed been raving this weekend, albeit in a fenced off area on Clapham Common. There had indeed been moments of drug-like euphoric clarity; that moment where you reach a peak of happiness and things just couldn't get much better. However, that was caused by a rumbling bass and being balanced on a stranger's shoulders above a cheering, moving crowd; not some ambiguous pill that's probably 80% paracetamol anyway. Oh, and copious amounts of pear cider.

Now, my mum dabbles in the Daily Mail every now and then, which is much worse than it's class A tablet equivalent. In my opinion, if you want something that's going to instill paranoia and fear, you don't need a dealer. Just a news stand.

But parents will be parents, and where there's a daughter with a penchant for loud, fast music, there will apparently be illegal raves and drugs. Not that I needed any "funny stuff" in order to talk absolute crap. Picture the scene: 3 girls and a boy (more on that later) in a cab from Kings Cross back to Clapham (again, missions - don't ask) at 4:30am...and I look up at a low, orangey yellow circle of light shining through the trees. "Wowwwww" I said, in an open mouthed stupor. "Look at the moon! It's huggggge tonight...". The car went quiet.

"No, Jo - you idiot. That's Big Ben."

Promo ho

Last night in exchange for unrestricted access to the Island Records 50th anniversary festival at the Shepherds Bush Empire, I pimped myself in the foyer for two hours handing out copies of the anniversary booklet as people came in.

We had 15 boxes of the little bastards to shift, so I engaged my happy public facing smile and greeted all those coming through the doors with a cheery "Hello there! Would you like one of these?" and shoved a booklet towards them. Some were grateful and thankful for the free gift. Some wanted to know how much I was selling them for (CHA CHING!). Others just glanced my way with a sort of scowling frown, as if I was trying to sell crack to their 13 year old daughter. Some just ignored me altogether (their loss. It was a good booklet).

What I really got from those hours spent in the foyer was two things.

1. The queue for guestlist will always be longer than the one for those with paying tickets.

2. The firm knowledge that British people will never be happy. You can give them free entry to an event which costs anything up to £45 a ticket, you can give them good seats to an evening of bubbling reggae beats and legendary acts like Grace Jones and Tinchy Strider...but ask them to queue up for the pleasure, and what do you get?

"TUT. URRGHH. OHHH. You mean that's the queue for guestlist? URGH. URRRGH. MEEEEEEEEHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH." *flick of the hair* "For gods sake. Well that's just utterly ridiculous. TUT. URGGGHHH" *flounce*

What! You mean your free tickets don't get you in quicker than those who have PAID?

Cor blimey. There's truly no justice in this world.

Say what you see

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Jo's weekend sorted

Have a good one all!

AH! London, your reputation precedes you...

I like going out in different areas of London. Sticking to one place is something me and my friends did throughout our teens, but now with the whole of London in easy reach (on the odd days that the underground system is without delays, engineering works and people under trains) we like to try something new.

My mum's reaction to this exploration of foggy London town is amusing and always the same. Upon asking and hearing where I am going, she will without fail reply:

"Oh. Well be careful. People get stabbed in ..........."

Really? As a rule, or just generally?

It's as if by giving me this little golden nugget of information no doubt gleaned from a fortnightly scan of the Daily Mail's front page, that I'm going to put my bag down, remove my make up, put some slippers on, ring my friends and advise a night in front of the fire.

The fact that my mum has probably never been to Clapham North, or Brixton, or Kilburn High Road, doesn't really factor into the equation. No, they're not the shiniest, prettiest or reputable places in the world - but generally me and my friends don't partake in hanging around the streets or drunken goading of the local hoodrats. We get off the tube, walk 5 minutes to a venue, and there we stay until a cab has been booked to take us home.

And so it was that last night, having been asked by my mum where I was off to and I replied that me and 3 others were going to the aforementioned Kilburn High Road (where people get shot, apparently. Guns being the media's weapon of choice this week) that I got the now standard response. Unfortunately, this warning came less than 2 weeks after an pretty grim incident on New Years Eve in our local pub where the manager had been bottled, leaving him in intensive care.

"So we'll get shot in Kilburn in the same way we got stabbed in Clapham North?"
"I didn't say you'd get stabbed in Clapham"
"True, your exact words were a little less specific: 'People get stabbed in Clapham'."
"Well they do."
"Yes, just like people get bottled in our town. Mum, these things happen everywhere. It's not going to stop me going out"

And with that, I left a faintly anxious mother and trundled over to The Good Ship to watch some bands (the main act, a band called Nina, was amazing as ever and deserve a plug. So good every time I see them. Check out 'It's Time' on the myspace page).

We arrived home at 4am and happily, the only thing we injured were our alcohol soaked livers and heads the next morning. Another Sunday spent in my PJs, quaffing Neurofen. Wonderful.

The Prodigy, Brixton Academy - Saturday 13th December 2008

When I was about 12, I had a poster of Keith Flint on my wall. I had to take it down after a few weeks because his eyes scared the crap out of me everytime I looked at him. With this in mind, last night I trotted off to Brixton to see The Prodigy for the second time and yep - I can confirm he's still looking a little bit mental.

It's normal for a gig to end leaving people wanting more, in fact that's probably a sign that things have gone according to plan. But still, when the Prodigy left the stage after just an hour and a half last night...I couldn't help but feel a bit disappointed. It didn't feel finished somehow. With the end time on the ticket saying 3am and our cab booked for quarter past - when the lights went down and came back up again on decks and a DJ at half past 1 there were definite mutterings of 'what now? is that it? No, they'll come back out again...surely' about the place.



Although until that point, it had been absolutely heavy. A sold out crowd with tickets outside the venue going for anything up to £300, everyone was up for it. I went in immaculately groomed and came out a sweaty, scruffy mess having been dragged to the front of the stage for five minutes so a girl I'd met in there could get some good photos. It's pretty easy for two small girls to worm their way to the front of a dancing mass, but unfortunately for my bones, we arrived in the centre of the heaving, hot, surging crowd just in time for the drop of Breathe, which was more than a little bit mental. No amount of pushing, shoving and absolute carnage could wipe the smile off my face as I threw my hands in the air and leapt around with hundreds of sweaty Prodigy crazed men and a bassline that absolutely tore up the venue.

After a warm up set from Does It Offend You, Yeah? and BBC Radio 1's Zane Lowe, the main act came one with a mix of old, very old, and new - playing everything you'd expect - but I don't think they played 'No Good For Me'. I could be wrong, because after several vodkas, jagermeister shots and at least 5 strongbows I think they could have slipped Ba Ba Black Sheep in the set and I would have forgotten, but still.

And the good thing about Brixton Academy is the sloping floor, so if you're 5ft 4 and don't fancy wearing stilts, you can still see the stage. In other news, I'm pretty sure I saw Lucy Beale from Eastenders a couple of times in the toilets. I pretty much hit the big time with that celeb spot...

If you go to any gig and the only complaint at the end is that they weren't on for long enough - you know you'd do it all over again. See you at Brixton in another few years, lads...

FYI - Brixton, 1997

Paying to print off your own tickets - THE CHEEK OF IT!

Wooooooooo yeah tonight I'm off to the far reaches of outer Mongolia....(aka Greenwich in SE London) to see Mr Scruff at Matter. I'm excited like a small goat in a herd of other goats because past experience tells me I'm in for a chocolaty treat of musical goodness. Mmmmm.

 

Anywho - so to attend this worthwhile event I had to purchase tickets from a website - and you may be familiar with the plight which is to follow. Off I logged onto www.ticketweb.co.uk to buy my 2 wonder passes, priced at 15 Great British Pounds each. These tickets would then have to be sent to me by post or maybe some other new fangled way of delivery, like carrier pigeon, so I anticipated royal mail or bird training costs would figure into the equation. However! Joy of joys, there were even more options at my disposal. Which to choose?

 

First up, I can print them off myself! Hurrah, thought I, this should save a few pennies, after all, I'm using

• my paper
• my printer
• my time
• ergo my money

to procure the tickets in material form. Either that, or I can pick them up from the box office after my long plane, train, camel, taxi, bus, and donkey trip to Greenwich on the night. This, again would (you'd expect) save a few pennies, because I'm

• picking them up myself

Unfortunately, I then noted a few numbers by the side of these options, accompanied by a pound sign. It seems that even though I'm using

• my paper
• my printer
• my time
• ergo my money

effectively, I am paying for them to send me an email, or for them to keep them safe until I get to the box office and collect. I chose email. A glance at my inbox tells me that most people, nay, everybody in the world - manages to do this for free without charging £1.75 for the pleasure. So I pay for the tickets, I pay for them to be "delivered" to my inbox so that I can enjoy printing them out, and then I check the total cost and LOW AND BEHOLD....

Total Face Value:	15.00
Service Charge:	1.88
Delivery Fees:	1.75

 

SERVICE CHARGE? SERVICE CHARGE? But you haven't bloody done anything! That's like the time I went to Pizza Hut buffet and the waiter bought us the bill with 'service not included' and 'THANKYOU' scrawled across it ringed in red as if we owed him something for not bringing me my food and drinks! Are you kidding me?

 

What service have I actually received? As far as I can tell, I've done all the work here and paid £18.63...that's £3.63 more than the actual face value of the ticket.... to do everything myself.

 

Ticketmaster.co.uk is even bloody worse. £4.55 PER ticket service charge. So 2 tickets for the Prodigy next year

 

Tickets (The Prodigy - Seated)
FULL PRICE TICKET	£32.50 x 2
Total Service Charge(s)	£4.55 x 2
Standard Post (includes Order Processing Fee)	£2.75
TOTAL CHARGES	£76.85

 

HA! Service charges! HA! Paying to print off my own tickets which are on a sheet of paper covered in adverts! BAH! £2.75 for an envelope with a bit of paper in it not even sent recorded delivery. GAH!

 

Bloody ridiculous.

Humph.

 

(Not that it's going to stop me going to any of the above events, but still. It's the principal of the thing)