Rock n’ roll Birkenstocks

This weekend I mosied on home for my dad’s big day and all the proverbial knot tying a girl could hope for. Little did I know it would be a ‘jam’ packed musical mystery tour of the south east as well a much deserved opportunity to see the older members of my family strut their stuff on the dance floor.

I’ve been to a few gigs this year, through no fault of my own. I love a good gig, and a good pre-gig curry, as my boss pointed out, but given that you need to buy tickets years in advance I tend to rely on the organisational skills of my friends. Still, I digress. Why have I called you here today? Well, for the musical mystery tour of course. On Friday night we ended up in a venue I have not set foot in for the best part of 8 years, The Forum, in Tunbridge Wells. Formerly some kind of Victorian public restroom and now the preserve of death metal enthusiasts of Kent. I was there because my brother’s friends had made it to the final of a local battle of the bands. I was assured that we would miss the metal portion of the evening and that the band would be worth seeing. You know what? He wasn’t wrong.

Ladies and gents, girls and boys, teens and toddlers, I give you Clockworks. Lead singer Josh looked a little skeletal in comparison to the ball of death and sweat that rolled off stage before him, but didn’t seem too bothered by it all. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen a front man with such genuine swagger and natural stage presence. His voice slightly reminiscent of Brian Molko, of Placebo fame, is unaffected and sincere. In fact unaffected and sincere may be exactly what they’re going for… when was the last time you saw a bassist on stage in white sport socks? The songs were catchy without being annoying or tedious, on further listening the lyrics are (in my mostly humble opinion) pretty damn brilliant and the band appear to be enjoying themselves. Slightly novel, given that one of the rock last gigs I went to, I wished the lead singer would just help himself to a handful prozac.

Maybe I’m just high on the joy of seeing originality and talent untouched by executives, hairdressers and personal trainers. Maybe it’s the achingly high notes on now favourite track ‘Always’. Maybe it’s the infectious joy of the groupies apparent. Three gorgeous 20-something Abercrombie boys that stalk the band from gig to gig, know all the words and make drummer Simon’s attempted seriousness impossible as he beams from behind his high hat. I joined the groupie boys (really friends of the band) and spent Sunday in the grounds of Arundel castle as Clockworks filled a last minute spot at the Arundel festival. Bassist Luke is still in his socks, Josh is sporting Birkenstocks and Simon is fighting a whole new battle with a snare drum and despite the less competitive atmosphere (and shock heatwave), they’re still outstanding.

I don’t want to say it...but I’m going to…god it’s too cheesy, but its true. They may have lost the battle, but the war is theirs. Theirs I tell you! They’re just a kilt and pot of blue facepaint away from going straight to the top.

Oh and for a bit more Clockworks magic and musical mayhem, check out http://www.myspace.com/clockworksonline

cold as gasoline

I don’t drink Guinness. It’s a meal in a pint glass. I. do not. drink. Guinness. Although 2 bottles of red wine can make a pint of Guinness seem rather appealing. So why not, I’ll have a pint of Guinness. Thanks.

Moving to London is a disaster, it really is. My brain is a manipulative little bastard. Last night I had planned one of my favourite anally retentive activities. Clean sheets night. You see, it’s not just clean sheets. It’s clean, crisp, ironed sheets. It’s machine washed, fabric softened pillow-cases and duvet covers. Once those are neatly on the bed, it’s time for clean Danni, fresh from her bubble bath and in her clean pyjamas. All day I dreamt about this. Thoughts of sliding under cool sheets, sinking into pillows and a still dreamless sleep. But, oh no, this is not what happened, not at all.

One farewell drink for a colleague turned into a lot of farewell drinks for my common sense. Like teenagers with a wad of fake IDs we cleaned out the booze isle of the supermarket and bid goodbye to our lovely colleague the only way we knew how. Getting drunk on the patch of grass they dare to call a park outside work. One drink, that’s what I’d told the brain, then it started to reason with me, in the process erasing the thought of clean sheet night, and my then unmade bed…

Wine wine wine and Guinness later, I navigated the mammoth four stop tube journey home. Memory returning slowly, biting me sharply on the ass, the unmade bed dawned on me. Clean sheet night was ruined and so was I. I made the bed, I made it, after I made toast, with mustard and ham and shortly before not taking off my makeup.  So much for my anally retentive order of events. No sliding into anything, no neat and tidiness, no bubble bath, just a harsh beam of light breaking through the blinds at 6am demanding a handful of nurofen and a cold shower. Goodbye lovely colleague, we will miss you. 

nutter.

It’s a simple fact of life that some of us have a weirdo homing device. What this essentially means is that people, like myself, who are in fact perfectly normal, are carriers of a mutant ‘weirdo gene’. Like the call of a wild pheasant, it sends out a signal to the more barmy members of the human race and says “talk to me”. It overrides your screaming internal monologue and says, “Yes, I, Danielle, am happy and willing to give you a spare second of my time and am, much to my own annoyance, so polite that I wont run away screaming”. 

In an office of hmm, lets see, nearly 30 people, why is it that a slightly odd man, roaming the corridors of our sizeable building, found me? More to the point, who let him in? He then tried to recruit ten minutes of my time to test out a new digital reading invention, which no doubt has robbed him of thousands of daylight hours, his bank balance and a sense of humour. He hovered around my desk, talking painfully slowly in a way that suggested I might not understand the higher level he normally communicates at. In the politest way I knew how, I managed not to be welcomed onto Starship Enterprise and suggested that my colleagues were more than likely too busy to participate.

Did they thank me? Did they sigh with relief, run over and throw their arms round me out of gratitude? No, of course not. Mutiny broke out in the school yard and the bullying began.

“Oooh, Danni, is that your new boooyfriend?”

It should be noted that I am fairly accustomed to this behaviour. Indeed, it is not the first time I have been a victim of their mockery, for they too know about my mutant gene. The previous story goes a little like this:

Colleague: “Danni, a really rather attractive man came to see you while you were away, about the office move”

Danni: “Really?”

Colleague: “Yes, he’s coming back later, he looks a bit like Jesus. In a good way.”

Well the Jesus part was true. Since the move took some time to coordinate, Jesus was to pop into our office from time to time and as such he became my boyfriend. Not really! pfft! Don’t get carried away. They called him my boyfriend.

I threaten them with mock emails to HR, swear that I will never unlock my alcohol cupboard (yes, we have one), but none of it matters. I am the youngest, doomed to be mocked!