And it was a lifetime, cause you know you're getting on when your bands are having 30th anniversary tours, and age had wearied them (not to mention the flight down, as Terry constatly bitched about) but they rocked. Oh man, oh man, oh man, how they rocked. Fucking magic. Bliss.
Why I was so stunned to see them, aside from the 30 year wait for a tour, was, well, pretty much that. The Specials were part of the soundtrack of those early, formative years, part of a world that existed for me only through magazines, records (yes, those old vinyl things) and tv. It was an imagined Britain that looked to my young mind, well, exactly like Ashes to Ashes to be honest (which is why I love it) and to see The Specials step from that imagined Britain onto a stage in front of my eyes, to be live, to be real, well, wow. To be so bitchingly good, double wow. I mean, they were always good on record, but the stage show was something else. So that's what all those reviews of shows I read on cheaply inked rock press pages were talking about. At least, I experienced. At last, I knew.
And that, my friends, is real magic.
Oh, I loved it. They played all my faves and the dress circle (yes, the only ticket I could get) was bouncing up and down so hard I feared for my safety, but it was just...brilliant. What a party. What style, what jaunty tunes, what enthusiasm, what love and loyalty. Simply amazing. And Terry, never the most natural Smash Hits cover, was still looking mighty fine, I gotta say. Miserable sod, but that's his schtick. The band, they threw themselves into it with everything (a little too hard, they're not boys any more). But that, that was a performance.
A grand night out. Better still, I thought I'd be being cruelly reminded that I'm not a kid any more, but no, I feel fine. Better than fine (until the EBQFH stalks in, anyways). Nothing like jigging away to one's favourite tunes, I suppose. They made me happy.
Forgot to mention Stephen Fry was in Sunday night's Bones. I'm sure you all heard my squee of delight (and I damn nearly didn't watch it).
Well, I was right about today. I just had a mate ring up very upset because he'd been cc'd yet another nasty zinger from the EBQFH and was so sorry he might of caused it and I tried to reassure him it was just SOP and I received an abusive email like that every two minutes or so (sometimes every 10 seconds if she's on a tear), every day, and he wondered how I could stand it. I can't. I don't. That's the problem. But it's pretty bad if he was upset on my behalf. Sigh.
PM update: I'm supposed to be watching GenKill right now, but after today (I still bear teeth marks) it was more of a red wine and Whedon night. Just a rubbish Kiwi pinot noir. The fancy wine, the dregs of a rather pricey Penfolds, went into the home made pizza sauce.
Meanwhile, I'm disappointed RTD wasn't chased out of comic con with flaming torches or torn assunder by grieving Ianto fans. It's the arrogance of the man that gets up my hooter, as evidenced in several fan baiting interviews. And the way he says things like the complaints only come from a few people, when the whole Ianto thing was pretty much the topic of theday on Twitter. And then there's the whole Ïanto's dead, really dead, because killing off characters is like way cool and they gotta stay dead or it cheapens the whole finale and oh yeah The Master's back. I mean, do you even listen to yourself these days, Rusty?
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