I have somewhat of a hangover, not a big one, an irritant. The blame lies squarely at the feet of a combination of Pinter, Music on TV and an oddity. Chuck in an extra few glasses on the basis I’m missing my brother and… I have a hangover.
When I left the office yesterday evening I cycled home with the bloke I’d arrived with. He followed me down the hill, expressing concern when we overtook slow moving traffic, and joined me when we peddled down the towpath by the small river. The weather was mild for a late February afternoon and bright, on the verge of being sunny, even. As we continued on to duck under the pretty railway bridge it occurred to me that the last time I’d cycled with anyone in a similar fashion was returning from school with my friend at 15. When I contemplated this fact it rather freaked me. I think it was because I was aware of existing in a moment of nostalgia that appeared real. For a split second I was actually 15, un-projected.
This gentle realisation underpinned the rest of the evening, it didn’t inspire melancholy nor was I irritated by a fragment of hindsight, it was, I suppose, one of those timescale quirks. Death-affirmation. Anyway, after a fine wank and bath I stuffed my maw with grub and had a long lazy shit.
With my bottle of wine and grass-packed spliff I watched Pinter’s Conversation which I enjoyed muchly, despite being highly critical of aspects of the script, acting, and the dreadful mockney accents that seem to plague his works, it was well worth it. I even taped all the luvvie crap that followed in order to watch Charlie Brooker, which was disappointing to the point of being a little shit. By now I was feeling the lovely effects of a quite sensational bottle of vino -a rather cheeky little Bordeaux wine fans- and was munted off my noodle on the chronic.
‘Tis here we enter the hangover to be zone. Welcome.
Channel 4 was broadcasting something about the 2006 NME ‘heroes’; I say ‘something’ because I was unable to get over the age of the editor, the way he looked and the tripe that spewed forth was so distracting it fractured my concentration. Laurene Laverne, who I used to adore was looking tired and, frankly, embittered though some of the music was attractive to mine ear and I was inspired to remain awake to watch Muse ‘Live at Abbey Road’. But before the Muse set, and bearing mind it was getting late, I had to endure a set by The Kooks.
My ex once told me a ‘kook’ was a Lancashire word for ‘poo’ and whilst The Kooks are far from being shit musically, they’re fucking dreadful. Firstly the lead singer really thinks he’s Dylan circa Blood on the Tracks, so much so any merit in their music is devoid of credibility by ‘Bob’, secondly the ginger lead guitarist is without doubt one of the ugliest cunts I’ve seen in my life, in addition to being poisonously ginger with skin so translucent you can actually see the veins in his fingernails, he was wearing a fucking orange scarf that magnified his coppery persona to such a degree I felt like I’d suddenly drunk 3 litres of Lucozade and eaten 7 bags of warm Cough Candy, that’s right, I actually felt sick at the sight of him.
And here is the nub of modern music, it’s not enough to just bloody well stand there looking all ginger (and smelling probably) you’ve got to do more, you’ve got to get off your arse, in thought and deed, and ROCK! If your band mate looks like a fucking giant mental carrot (in a scarf) kick him out the fucking band…
I fell asleep just before Muse came on. Blast.
