June 10th, 2003


some people say my love cannot be true please believe me my love and i'll show you

(I decided to do my own version for several indeterminable reasons I care not to share. Kindly c.f. Bnaks' entry and try to ignore the bits I subconsciously copied)

*fade in*

I was sitting in the graveyard looking out, enjoying the warmth and basking in my absurd lack of empathy for those lying dead around me; after all, it was sunny.

Once there, it was only natural that I should text userinfoSammie (and even Mini Galley for good measure) to arrange a meeting. Once in the common room, I idly chatted with several Reigatians, played pool with Suda and quietly remarked to myself that it was lucky I hadn't been yet ejected by the upper sixth. Nadia seems to have changed in little ways a lot and also, I nearly felt myself starting to cuss JI a bit but, overall, it seemed that everyone has grown up a bit. Molee was more hilarious than ever and he showed me something that almost made me weep. He showed me a window of the fun we used to have and how I was very much a part of it.

After some time there, userinfoSammie Wammie and userinfoSuda accompanied me back to userinfoDavid's house where we lay in wait with the intention of bnoeing Catriona. userinfoSam recklessly destroyed Catriona's wonderful Book Of Win which wasn't actually a magazine and, in fact, was truly utterly beautiful. Seeing that she had made it just made me smile.

After parental units had returned from wage-earning endeavours, it was established that, after all, Catriona would not be allowed to attend the evening's entertainment and so I concentrated my efforts on getting userinfoDavid ready for departure. Naturally, he spent a million years coming. All of this was to my great distress. We managed to catch trains and such but were still hindered by his tardiness. Thus, after navigating a tube station that, despite being several fathoms underground, was the windiest place evar, we found our way out into the still air of Londinium lacking in enough free time to do any crazy shit. And then, curse our luck, after urinating in the venue's attached bar, we found out the giggage was going to be start an hour late and so had to sit outside reading a hard copy of The Fly and swigging my foul concoction anyway. The magazine included a fantabulous review of Winnebago Deal which only had one flaw: the failure to correlate the fact that both the men are called Ben and the excellence that is Hairy Jeremy's friend.

When we were finally allowed into the giggage area, we were amazed by how wonderfully small it was. Sitting on the floor at the side with our beers, we watched band-people wander around and I even managed to persuade Seymour to sing Happy Birthday for dear old userinfoDavid.

The first band were called P45* but, apparently, they were changing their name soon - supposedly already finding themselves with a terrible reputation. They truly were the wrost bnad evar, though you could tell they were trying and they were rather humorous. They were entirely comprised of a man identical to Richie Nye but with Kappo's brain poncing about on bass and gurning whilst trying to do elaborate solos which emulated that guy from OPM (I only just got the magical pun!). The lead vocalist was some complete wannabe chick about four feet tall who was trying to play guitar like Avril, but failing in the same way you'd expect a girl wearing Punkyfish trousers to fail. And as for the drummer (oh boy, the drummer), she was more poo than a aging heap of fetid pony turd. She was some blonde Sugarcoma reject who was pretending she was all hardcore and everything but ended up looking like she had less strength than Charlemagne. She banged out her beats with her mouth open in some orgasmic pose and struck the drums with all her might. Still, none of this covered up the fact she had so, so much less talent than someone's sister and not even a fitness value to make up for it like Meg White does. Oh yes, there was also some other guy just thrown in on stage right. Presumably because he had cool hair and could smoke and strum at the same time. So that was P45* - a gallimaufry of assorted fools who actually sounded quite fun and could be good if The Offspring would ever be good (if that makes sense). I noticed that there were a couple of suited men in the crowd trying not to look like idiots and subtly taking photographs of the band as they played. And meanwhile, userinfoDavid and I sat there carefully calculating our beer ingestion rate so as to engineer our alcohol metabolism to allow us to be perfectly twd for when Seymour took the stage.

And that is how I found myself dancing like crazy to Miss Black America. It was so good to let it all out and a bit of an abreaction after my wary head bobbing and lyrics whispering back at the acoustic gig. We were there at the front going crazy and giving it our all just inches beneath godly Mat. Seymour was a lord, they played the best songs evar and Cooper was ace. Quiggers even remembered to play Happy Birthday for userinfoBanks even though neither of us noticed at the time. It was just so ... jesus, it was fantastic.

On another note, the whole time we'd been there, I'd been carefully eyeing userinfodissolvedgirl_ and userinfoplug_in_phil, unsure about my delusional identity assumptions. userinfoDavid actually approached userinfodissolvedgirl_ once, which made me terribly embarrassed and everything. As for userinfoplug_in_phil I wouldn't dare talk to him as he seemed to be surrounded by hot chixors and he looked sweet self-consciously mouthing the lyrics. Gosh, it really was all very, very ace.

After all of that exertion, we were incredibly tired and sat down for the whole of the rubbishy The Keys' set. Nobody else liked them either for they had an identical consistency to excrement. We just rested at the side and I eyed some cute girl with dreads (I never find dreads cute) while the inebriated userinfoDavid propositioned some silly French-looking woman reading a trashy novelette.

After we'd replenished our liquids in the urination station, Seymour caught up with us, promptly enrolled us as groupies, and made us hand out shit for him (where shit is equated to gig flyers). It was joyous, especially as I won by successfully handing out about three times as many flyers as userinfoDavid thereby furthering such a good cause by a greater amount. Later on we talked about Transformers with the amazing crazy Mat who told us how much we rock. We couldn't help but agree.

And so, on that high, we went home after purchasing cheap crisps for immediate consumption.


The next day I was sitting at home and felt that I wanted some nice loud music. Everyone was out, so I went into the front room to our über sonic system. After being tempted by the wonders of Winnebago Deal, I settled on Mogwai and listened to the awe-inspiringly perfect Rock Action through some good speakers at a horrendously high decibel level.