I don't know where to put you

I'd been wanting to see them live since first hearing the album back in 2010. 

They'd been the accompaniment to my final months of travelling; me, my now Ex, and our ever present soundtrack of the same songs, in the same order, wherever we went.

Now the gig had finished, and our sentences were glazed with that post-live music wonderment - you know, when the encore's done, the lights go up and you walk out, down the stairs, onto the street and all you can say is oh, I loved that, that was so good.

"How did you hear about them?" my friend asked, and I told her how he'd been all over this stuff, we constantly listened to music, stayed up til 6am dancing to it - this was what we did.

"Have you talked to him lately?" she said, because we live in the same area and, for a time, I seemed to bump into him every time I left the house.

"Not for ages," I replied, "Not since he was walking outside my old flat last year and I saw him, then completely forgot my housemate's name."

"But it's weird." I continued, as we walked among the throng of people heading to the nearest station, "usually I'll wonder how he is, and then he'll cycle past me at the bus stop or something."

"Alright, so you know he's still got legs. That's cool." and we laughed and I said, "Ha, yeah. I've been thinking about him a lot lately, just hoping he's ok. But I suppose you always do, don't you."

We got to the station and split up, her to go underground and me over. It was five minutes later when I was faced with a closed line, forced to retrace my steps back over the road and take a different route - such is the reliability of the London transport system.

As I placed my Oyster card on the reader and stepped through the barrier, at that precise moment and time at the overly busy station, some hair caught my eye, then trainers, then my brain pieced together all the different characteristics of this person in front of me.

And even though he hadn't turned around yet, I called his name because it was definitely him.

"Hello," I said, and I can't remember if we hugged.
"Hello" he replied, "how are you?"
"This is weird, that you're here", and of course he'd been to the same gig.

Then we walked down the escalator, onto the same tube, where we placed ourselves by the doors on one side of the carriage and his friends on the other, sometimes glancing our way.

There we stood as the tube rattled from one side of London to the other, catching up, carefully skirting topics, asking after people and family and jobs and travels; vaguely referencing a time we can't talk about here, like this; occasional silences where we looked at each other, smiled a bit and didn't know what to say next.

We reached the barriers at the other side and he hung back, waiting for his friends so they could get food.

We hugged. A goodbye, a good to see you, a quick, distant utterance of I'll text you or something and a Yeah, do thrown over my shoulder in case I'd misheard, or hadn't, and then I walked up towards the concourse at Liverpool Street Station.

--------------

Days later, the chance meeting sticks in my mind.

He's back there in my head, of course, because he always is anyway. It's fate, or chance, or I could bump into him at any time or place and it would seem as though I'd always just thought of him that moment.

With this one, there's no box to put him in. I don't know where he's meant to go. Everything fits, and nothing does at all.

He's just there, and, as long as we live in the same city, on the same road, and listen to the same music, I suppose he always will be.

Paul Simon said this:

And he also said "I am a rock, I am an island", so it must be true.

Girl Interrupted

This morning I decided to try out some music.

I've been avoiding listening to music because, as SingleGirlie mentioned last week, listening to sad songs after a breakup is anything but helpful. You just end up applying all the lyrics to your own situation and generally crying over the songs you used to love. But the one big thing me and the...argh, I can't even say 'ex' yet, me and him shared was just that: music.

When my own iPod broke, I inherited his old mp3 player. It's filled with his music, mixes and whatever he downloaded for me to listen to. It has sat on the kitchen table since last Sunday and I couldn't bring myself to touch, let alone use it. Soupy kindly lent me her Spotify playlists for work, but with a 40 minute journey every morning, I needed background noise for the commute.

So today, having survived the night and early morning without tears, I steeled myself, grabbed his mp3 player and plugged in. Nina Simone - Feeling Good accompanied me to the tube station. As I stood at the platform edge, engrossed in a Sunday Times supplement, I felt distracted from everything. A train spilling with people pulled into the station, and I started to get on.

Then I got tapped on the shoulder.

It was the first morning in a week that I felt anything remotely close to normal - not on the edge of crying, not feeling sick, not dreading the day ahead. And suddenly, there was my sodding work colleague grinning away, saying "Hi!" and jamming in to the already packed tube alongside me. In an instant, my relaxed mood evaporated. I reluctantly folded up the magazine and removed my earphones. All I'd wanted was just 40 minutes in my own little world and now I was stuck, uncomfortable, awkward, pissed off at the interruption. I didn't want company.

Surely, I thought as the train tumbled along, the two of us packed in with the expectation of conversation hanging over us, surely everyone knows that morning tube journeys are not for small talk. Surely you wouldn't squash yourself onto a packed and silent carriage when you have nothing to say, no friendship outside of work, no reason to talk to that person. Yes, we work together - but you'd just keep walking, catch up later. Today of all days, I did not want to have awkward chit-chat for the best part of an hour. Or, as we ended up doing, invading each other's personal space in silence. I spend all day talking about work, why would I want to do it on the way in? The platform and tubes were packed, you'd never notice or care if a work colleague walked past without saying hello. It's almost expected.

I made no effort to start conversation. And by the time we'd switched onto the Central line, my eyes were buried back in the magazine; his in the Metro. Maybe he'll get the hint for tomorrow.

My favourite bit of London isn't a place, it's 7am on a Sunday morning.

After a night of tequila with salt and no lemon, jagerbombs and some really dirty electro, we took a break from the dancefloor and headed outside. We'd gone into the club 6 hours ago, and now the fog had cleared and the flashing light on top of Canary Wharf's Citibank was visible again. We sat down on the floor, resting against the fence that surrounds the smokers' area, and talked. Or, more accurately, shouted. If there's one thing that keeps me coming back to that club, keeps me making the hike over to North Greenwich, it's the underfloor bass that tingles your nose and vibrates your chest, leaving your ears with a buzzing, low tinitus hum for the rest of the day.

When we go back inside, the crowd has dwindled and we decide to make a move. This is my favourite part of London. The sun hasn't risen yet and you can almost forget it's 6:30am. Then you leave a club and head to the tube station and there on the path are two people paid to stand outside, supplying us with free tea and coffee. Clutching steaming polystyrene cups, we head to North Greenwich tube with the intention of getting to Waterloo bridge in time for sunrise.

We wait a while then catch a bus which is full of pirates, vampires, witches and knackered, blood splattered faces. It's just a normal day.

He soon falls asleep but I'm awake, preoccupied with the London skyline. Nudge. "We're going to miss it!", the sky is tinged with pink and I can see it between buildings from the top of the bus, but that's all we're getting. He goes back to sleep and I rest my head on his shoulder. Last night seems ages ago, when we walked hand in hand into a pub where my uni friends were meeting, and I made a speedy, unexpected introduction to the Ex.

The early morning giggles get me 20 minutes later. I'm overtired and buzzing and laughing uncontrollably at nothing at all. It's 8am. Daylight is in full swing and the tube we get is occupied by people heading to or from work. For a while, I am quite taken with the sheer amount of stops on the Bakerloo line. Look! 25 stops! 25! Why so many? We lie down across the seats and I'm half sleeping, half laughing. 25 stops. Well we're not bloody doing that.

Eventually, Saturday comes to an end. We arrive home at 9am, still yelling over the ringing in our ears.

I draw the curtains and it's dark again. Bedtime.

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.

The 90s come to East London

Yesterday I found myself sitting on the roof of a flat in Brick Lane with the smells of spicy food drifting up from the streets below, the sun shining down and the towering heights of Canary Wharf visible in the distance.

Three of us had crashed into the flat the night before on the way back from a 90s hip hop night in Shoreditch, where we'd raved hands in the air yelling 'OHHH NOOO!' to tracks we hadn't heard in years. Clutching the remains of cream cheese bagels, we'd tottered down a debris strewn Brick Lane and arrived at the flat, joining it's five male inhabitants and watching Fresh Prince of Bel Air on DVD until the sun came up. Before that we'd watched reruns of The Villa on Sky Three, a match making reality show from the late 90s where horrendous single men and "women" took their high waisted shorts and crop tops to a villa in Ibiza to try and find love. Or just a shag. Class all round.

And that's where we stayed. I caught up with people I hadn't seen since me and the ex broke up and did the only thing possible to do when you've had 2 hours sleep: chill, enjoy the silence of a battery-dead phone and talk incoherent nonsense with friends. Still in last night's clothes, with unbrushed hair, unwashed skin and my feet now covered in plasters from a bad choice of shoes, we finally left late Monday night and walked back through Spitalfields to the station. Three sleep deprived girls in short dresses and flat shoes, ambling through East London, the sun slowly going down on our perfect bank holiday weekend.

"Ehhh girls! You off out tonight? Where you partying?" came a leering male yell from across the concourse at Liverpool street station.

Tonight? We're not back from Sunday night yet. Gissa chance.

Life soundtracks

I've been listening to Jagged Little Pill today. Not because I'm some closet Alanis Morisette fan, I just like that album. It's angry. Some of it's really pissed off. It's perfect for getting your head on straight. It talks about sore points and break ups without sentimentalising them, it just puts everything out there.

Those of you on twitter will know that I was having a bit of musical angst this morning. I was getting very frustrated at my iPod, which was supposedly on shuffle, yet continued to throw up break up song after break up song. Or nostalgic stuff like "Better Together", "Better that we break", "Back to you", and "Ben Harper - Forever". Turns out it was just on normal play, and we'd got to the 'B' section. Bum bum.

It wasn't what I wanted to hear. What I wanted to hear was the music I'd been recommended in a facebook message yesterday. I loved it after the first listen. It was spot on, just my kind of thing. Exactly the sort of album I, or should I say "we'd listen to relentlessly" - which is exactly why I can't listen to it. The music is immediately inseparable from the message that it came with. The recommendation was of course from my ex.

Anyway - it got me thinking. Music's the soundtrack to life, right? They don't even have to be good songs to qualify, they just stick in your head. Like You Oughta Know from Jagged Little Pill is my ultimate song to get angry to. Warwick Avenue by Duffy reminds me of the night of the break up, because it was playing in my iPod on my way home afterwards as I was on the Bakerloo Line. John Mayer's Something's Missing and Back To You plucks some heart strings for me too. My "I'm feeling ok, now" song has to be I Am A Rock by Simon and Garfunkel.

I was just wondering - what are your buzz tracks? Like what song has a real link to an event or heartbreak, or amazing night, awful day in your life? A song or album that you hear and immediately smile, or conversely just start howling like a massive walrus?

Say what you see

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Jo's weekend sorted

Have a good one all!

I am a rock, I am an island.

Before I start on this slightly strange post, the attempt at 'teaching' went alright today. But let's nip this career speculation in the bud: I'll stick to writing, ta ;)

_____________________________________________________

I love Simon and Garfunkel. The Definitive is one of my favourite albums, ever. It reminds me of car journeys with my mum when I was little, when I'd always choose the music and it would nearly always be that cassette.

Now it mostly reminds me of my ex, because we'd sit and listen to it. We'd always sing along to "At the Zoo" in the car when we were off somewhere.

"Well the monkeys stand for honesty, giraffes are insincere, and the elephants are kindly but they're dumb. Orangutans are sceptical of changes in their cages and the zookeeper is very fond of rum"

Then once when we were sailing in Croatia, I climbed onto a rock in the sea and started singing "I AM A ROCK, I AM AN ISLAND!" and absolutely pissing myself (I always make myself laugh, even if no one else does. It's a saving grace).

Now, "I am a rock" just makes me feel happy in the same way that "At the Zoo" makes me a little bit sad. It's that strange thing, sometimes things happen that make you feel like you've achieved a lot and you feel happy, then I feel sad because I can't just ring him up and go "GUESS WHAT!!!" or, I could, but I won't.

The other day I was driving home from work and put that album on, and when "I am a rock" played, I thought about how I was off to Italy and felt all proud of myself. Then I felt sad because I wanted to tell him, to be like "Look at me! look how well I'm doing! All on my own!". He was back on my mind again. Last night I went to bed worrying about a thought that had popped into my head earlier: How long hadn't we been on the same page for?

Today, out of the blue, I got an email from him. A link to a funny BBC news story in the subject, with a choice quote from the article in the main body. I laughed, then felt sad. Zoo, Rock. I've been quiet this evening, lost in thought. Mind everywhere. Emailed back. Told him whats coming up for me. Felt better.

Sometimes I can't articulate myself very well with all this stuff, I can't explain why I'm happy but also sad. It's irritating me that I can't explain it. It's irritating me that I miss him even though I'm busy and happy enough not to, so it doesn't make sense. So this post is a bit strange (sorry) and best ended with the verses from a song that makes my head a little bit clearer, and me a little bit happier, even though it's actually a sad song about being alone. Paradox eh, don't ya just love it.

Dont talk of love,
But Ive heard the words before;
Its sleeping in my memory.
I wont disturb the slumber of feelings that have died.
If I never loved I never would have cried.
I am a rock,
I am an island.

I have my books
And my poetry to protect me;
I am shielded in my armor,
Hiding in my room, safe within my womb.
I touch no one and no one touches me.
I am a rock,
I am an island.

And a rock feels no pain;
And an island never cries.

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)