It seemed like a good idea at the time.
That's what they'll put on my epitaph, not that folks have epitaphs these days. My grandparents were posted in letter boxes and my father dumped somewhere, I don't know where, I wasn't included, but I digress, as usual.
Not that it matters. By late Friday my chill turned into full blown and very, very nasty flu and had it been anyone but Them, anyone but Him, and I would have rolled over and returned to my aching, fever soaked nightmares, tangled in sweat stained sheets.
But no, it was Them. So, somehow, on the weekend, I crawled out of bed and down to the bus stop, being waved off and told not to have a good time, but to remember to tell the first aid stand that I was privately insured and covered for ambulance. That's how wretched I looked. Only sheer force of will kept me upright.
Had it been anyone else but Them, I should not have done it.
The trip in was mildly amusing because two very affectionate boys got on, and I was witness for the first boy/boy smooch I've ever seen on that particular bus. This bemused because if they'd tried that where I'd gotten on, they'd have been stoned to death, but two hours later and hugging the city and it's okay. My how one can travel through different lands on just a single, albeit very long, bus route. One tried not to watch the smoochies, lest one be caught staring, but one was also curious, as I never get the opportunity for first hand study and observation these days, and where would a would be writer be without her people watching.
Stopped off for a very necessary Starbucks and then off I went. Them. Him. And it was fucking marvellous. This was the first time I'd ever been down the front. The last time was I was just a kid blowing a year's worth of lunch money on the cheap seats up the back but this time, dammit, well, why do I work in a job I hate if not to buy pricey tickets up the front when occassion demands it. For Them. Him. And it was so worth it. To my mind it was a better show than the last time, and it didn't really matter that they were all old and fat and alarmingly like a tribute band now. I'd still crawl across broken glass to see Them, and I'd pretty much done so, and it was so bloody worth it. I loved every minute of it. So long as they were playing, I felt no pain, only joy. It was transcendant. I was bubbling with delight.
There's something about My First Pop Band, my first paper the walls with pictures knee trembling crush that never goes away, not really. Indeed, there's still one pic still up on the wall, all frosted tips and headbands, stuck behind the bookcase, because it was still up when I moved back home and I couldn't bear to entirely dismantle my shrine to St Simon of the blessed leather trews just then (or now, probably, despite the tweeness of it all).
Are we getting there yet? Yep, still with frosted tips, but in a very chunky season 4 Angel kinda way. Sometimes you wish a man his age would have more dignity and dear lord, please don't let his shirt fall open again. Still, there's something about the man that's makes me not care a jot. It was so silly but I had the best time, grooving away to old favourites, blowing away old memories and replacing them with new. And it was good, so very very good.
Yup, that whole bucket of cred I acquired from going to Homebake last week? Forget it. I am 100% grain fed dag, and loving it, as Maxwell Smart would say. I had the bestest time and I wouldn't swap a minute of it.
Well, maybe the very nearly dying from the flu bits. I'm going to be wrecked for the rest of the week, more than anticipated, and I've still got the house to clean, scrub, polish and dust.
I suppose I should mention I loved MGF, though I think I was the only one who did, which is a pity. They're very Skyhooks. The older members of the audience thought they were diseased. Nope, just very, very naughty in that 70s winking way. Some folks must be real puckered up and have no sense of cultural history, which is what I thought the weekend was all about (cultural history, not being puckered at both ends). Never mind, Pinky, I loves ya.
I also discovered whatever happened to Max Beesley, as I pondered upon this for a moment the other week, as his co-star in Tom Jones, young James D'arcy, is currently appearing as Lt. Tom Pullings in M&C. Max was last seen in Glitter, of all things (not that I've ever seen it, you understand, I just happen to know he's in it) and well, it looks like only his particular friend Mr Robbie Williams will hire him as he was there on stage in a Veronica capacity, ie, tambourine. Mind you, from the way they rubbed up against each other, that particular friend theory (and old Attitude article) is holding water. Heh.
Also spotted on the weekend were Jamie Bamber in Peak Practice, of all things. Nobody told me, damn them, and the last time I watched Peak was when Sean Pertwee guested on it playing a teenager, so as you can imagine, it was many, many moons ago. Hell, I didn't even watch it when my cousin was on it. It was on my Touching Evil tape so hopefully I'll get all of the episode today (btw Touching Evil features Andy Serkis and even if I didn't remember this one it'd be a fair bet as to who the psycho du jour is gonna be). Sunday offered up the spectacle of James Purefoy in a kilt in the Mayor of Casterbridge. Ah, Summer, and Brit boys au go go.
Quote of the week:
"Now that they've made it legal in Massachusetts, expect an announcement from Matt and me soon." Ben Affleck on E! Matt Damon followed up with a similiar quote and added he was so over the whole J-Lo beard thing. All very amusing.
Meanwhile E! did a whole thing on rumours that the LOTR cast were a pack of confirmed shirtlifters, with lots of shots of the boy cast making kissy face with each other. Spurious gossip (aside from dear Sir Ian), because, like who really cares, but a lovely montage nevertheless. All this after QAF on Fox8. It bemused.