Time For Twee...

(Le) Chunky Duckmunk.

2012-01-27T17:38:00.000-08:00

I turned 23in Paris.

My birthdaycake had a number 9 candle in it, and it hadn’t quite defrosted yet. A cream and sponge base, topped withraspberries and strawberries. We weretoo impatient to wait so we ate it anyway. It wasn’t the first time I’ve eaten a partially frozen cake in my life,and I expect it won’t be the last.

I tried toteach Becca how to use my 35mm SLR camera. I hadn’t touched since university, so I wasabout three years rusty in how to use it myself. And let’s face it – I never really understoodit in the first place.

She took aphoto of me in front of the Eiffel Tower. I’m positioned so that I appear to be wearing one of Paris’ most famouslandmarks as a hat. I look like theunholy love child of a chubby duck and a chipmunk. I’m a duckmunk. It’s to be expected with a combination oflips and cheeks like mine. I’m a littleworried that I know for a fact that I was skinnier then, yet I still lookpretty chunky.

A chunkyduckmunk.

We took aboat along the Seine, to avoid having to stand in queues and actually look attourist attractions up close. It wasbitterly cold. And towards the end,quite wet as well. We braved it,although the wind made Jen’s eyes water as though she was weeping. Three hardy Scotswomen, reduced to shiveringwrecks by the Parisian winter. In mypoorly exposed photos, the clouds are a lurid purple, threatening us, as wehuddle together and try to smile as a fellow tourist snaps us on the deck ofthe boat.

I found aperfect cream 1940’s dress, with a tiny blue flower pattern, in a vintage shopin Montmartre where Jen’s apartment was. It fitted as though it had been made for an awkwardly proportioned me(doesn’t anymore... sigh). And later, inthe window of a large fashionable department store, I found a unicorn. I wanted to say ‘lifesize unicorn’but... Well, I shan’t spoil it for thoseof you who believe.

We lay onthe floor, surrounded by shelf upon shelf of books, while the cat played aroundus, as we feasted on bread, cheese, grapes and Leffe. Jen was given a bottle of pink gin, a thankyou gift for allowing us to impose on her. She did all the talking for us, because I don’t know any French at all,having never been taught it at school. Becca knew a little to get by but would get stage fright when it came totrying it out.

We drank toomany drinks then climbed all the stairs to the top of the Sacré-Cœurat 3am, and took photographs in the dark that showedvery little of Paris. We met up withMark and Kate, who happened to be in the city at the same time and drank moredrinks and laughed. We ate pasta by acanal, and were impressed by the band playing loudly inside.

We saw Sigur Ros play at Le Zenith. But not before we got horribly lost first in some Parisian suburb, andwalked for miles, and eventually had to admit defeat and take a cab out of fearthat we’d miss the band altogether.

Becca saved me from falling over lots of times. My ankles are kinda flimsy. I must have dropped a knife and fork at leastonce while I was there, I always do.

I noticelittle things in the photos that have changed since then. I rarely wear silver jewellery these days,now I favour a once-shunned gold. I lostthat jacket, handmade by a Japanese boy on the top floor of Affleck’s Palace inManchester, later that year while drunk. And that plain white scarf was replaced with a blue and white patternedone, given to me by Cat at Christmas, one month later.

My onlyregrets – that we did not ride the carousel.

And that Ican’t remember it better.

Because I have been sleeping badly lately...

2012-01-23T18:03:00.000-08:00

I’ve alwaysbeen a dreamer. I get it from myMum. We both have really vividnightmares, and really ridiculous dreams, on a regular basis. And we both have terrible bouts of insomnia.

As far as Ican tell, my insomnia isn’t triggered by anything especially. I’ll have a night of interrupted sleep,waking every few hours, and then the next night, instead of being more tired,I’m more alert.

And there itbegins... It can sometimes lastweeks. People keep telling me I look‘weary’. Erm... thanks.

The dreamingis as bad as the insomnia. In the buildup to my first television writing credit in November last year, I had insaneanxiety dreams that made me feel more tired than not sleeping.

I have arecurring theme, that I have to save the world. Which is suitably narcissistic, and also exhausting. I frequently dream about teeth falling outand loved ones dying, both of which are extremely distressing. And then there are the ridiculous ones, likethe time I dreamt I met Brian Molko from Placebo in a supermarket and heautographed my calculator. Or the time Idreamt I was at a Christmas party with Britney Spears, Bill Gates and the castof Eastenders.

Although nothingwill ever beat the time I was watching Pet Rescue with my Mum, and at the endcredits she said ‘It’s a crime they didn’t have ‘in memory of Rolf Harris’ onit’.

‘What Mum?’

‘He diedyesterday,’ she told me.

‘Did he?’

‘Yeah, I sawit on the news. You’d think they’d dosomething at the end of the programme as a memorial’ she continued.

So the nextday I went into school and asked around but no one had heard the terrible newsabout everyone’s favourite wobble board player.

‘Mum, Idon’t think Rolf Harris is dead. Itwasn’t in the papers and no one else seems to know about it...’

‘Oh. Must have been a dream then.’

The worstdreams are the everyday ones though. Iremember when we were working on the Who Shot Calvin storyline, I dreamt thatI’d edited the story team’s work and wrote notes on it. And then I woke up. And realised I had to edit the story team’swork and write notes on it. I might aswell have not gone to bed.

And for thesleepless nights, I have numerous activities to occupy my time. There’s no point staring at the ceiling. I don’t need that kind of freedom tothink. I accept that I’m not going to sleep. Reading always works, although if it’s been afew days of not sleeping, my eyes can’t cope with it and my brain struggles toconcentrate.

Watchingfilms that I’ve seen a million times is good. I don’t have to focus on the plot too much, and if I do manage to driftoff, I won’t feel like I’ve missed anything. Last February, during a really bad stint that lasted about four or fiveweeks, I was racking up two or three films a night sometimes. Best double bill of that period? Practical Magic followed by DonnieDarko. Practical Magic holds a special placein my heart – it’s mine and Pete’s go-to film. It’s got everything two teenage (in mind) girls could ever want.

AND LET’SNOT FORGET – SANDRA BULLOCK’S LOVE INTEREST CAN RIDE A PONY BACKWARDS.

I cling feeblyto the hope that there’s a man like that in the world for me, while my eyeballsfeel like the gritty sleeplessness might force them out of my head... Oh, the thoughts that occupy you in thehours of the morning that you should only see if you’re running on a tank ofwhisky or rum.

My otherlate night occupation when counting sheep fails me is making compilationCD’s. Or at least, lining up theplaylists for people. When it comes tothe actual burning of the CD, I tend to be a bit slack. I frequently promise a mix to people and theyspend their lives waiting for it to actually appear. Chances are, if you’ve known me for a year orso, there’s a playlist on my Windows Media with your name on it that will neversee the light of day.

I have neverdenied being a commitment-phobe. I’m almost proud of it. Or at least I used to be.

But it’sworrying that even something as seemingly menial as committing a playlist to CDstresses me out.

WHAT IF IGET IT WRONG?

I sent myfeature script to my writer friend Mark to read, and his response was that he’dbeen expecting it to be High Fidelity from a female perspective, but it’sactually absolutely nothing like that at all. Which made me really glad. ‘Costhe only similarity for me was the fact that a bit of it’s set in a recordshop. The rest couldn’t be further fromit. But I did use it as a reference inthe initial days of developing the story.

I was neverparticularly into High Fidelity. I’mreally funny about the way people talk about music in television and film. The majority of the time, it rings hollow tome, untruthful. Maybe ‘cos I hang aroundwith a lot of people who seem to talk about music all the time. But John Cusack’s ramblings never quite hitthe mark for me.

The onlyscene in the whole film that really works for me is when he’s making amixtape. And he’s got a yellow notepadin front of him, working on the tracklisting, stressing about getting itperfect.

I’ve readlots of hilarious and beyond dorky ‘rules’ about making mixtapes. Oh, the Internet, you are full of loons andit’s very entertaining. I don’t have anyrules for it, other than I try to put stuff on that I think the person won’thave heard, that I really love, that I hope they’ll love too. Which is tough.

Twocircumstances that make mixtape-ing extremely difficult – 1) the person hasmore or less the same taste in music as you and 2) it’s a boy you REALLY like.

As forgirls, well, you’re just a pleasure. Ipost Pete a few compilations a year. Shealways says I’m the only person she knows who still buys physical incarnationsof music (which isn’t true, I’m pretty sure Miah does too, although she’sprobably way more download savvy than me). The only phobia that outweighs me being a commitment-phobe is probablyme being a technophobe.

I findmaking playlists satisfying though. Ilike picking out favourite tracks, listening to them a few times, matching themup with others.

I’ve beenworking on a playlist for someone since before Christmas but it keeps gettingredone. I can’t agree with myself aboutsome of the tracks. You know you’re introuble when you’re arguing with the order of your own selections at 4am, eventhough you know you’ve got to get up in a few hours, and even though you knowyou’re probably STILL not going to burn a CD at the end of it.

By the timeI finish it, all the bands will have split up or gotten popular.

Oh and whileI’m on playlists that never make it to CD - Hannah, if you’re reading this, I do have twoplaylists stored with your name on it. But then I get new music, and hear something I think you’ll like, andthen it requires a re-order. Andsomething has to get ditched to make room for the new thing and well... That cycle’s been going on for over a yearnow. At this rate, you’ll get thePERFECT mix sometime around... oh... 2055.

And by thattime, I’ll be the only person still listening to CD’s. Right?

One of thebiggest trip up’s is coming up with a name. I don’t have mix rules, but I do like to have a title for them when theydo make it onto a CD. The best one Iever came up with was ‘There Ain’t No Cowboy Code’, which I think was a quotefrom a Western, or a song maybe. It was a country-tinged compilation,naturally. I think it might have beenfor Bernard but I can’t really remember. It could very well have been for Pete, as it’s certainly one she wouldhave liked.

I have ofcourse made a compilation called ‘Time For Twee’ and it was of course full ofIndietracks-esque bands. There was afollow up called ‘Twee for Two’, which I think Ellen might have come up with,‘cos she’s dead good with the puns.

But the onlything better than making a mix (regardless of whether it ever breaks into thereal world and into someone else’s hands), is receiving one.

It’s deadexciting.

Two of mytop mixes were from Murray – one entitled ‘One For Joy’ and the other ‘Good Ol’Country Comforts’. I listen to them bothon a regular basis, and often put individual tracks on compilations for otherpeople now. Pete’s made me a few over the years, two mostnotable titles would be ‘I Like To Show You Off Sweetheart’ and ‘Dot Dot DotOpen Bracket Nervous Laughter Close Bracket’ which I can vaguely remember issome sort of joke from our uni days... ButI can’t remember why it is funny (if it ever was...).

Also vyingfor excellent title award – Mikey’s ‘Niki is Scottish’, which he made for me ata time when I was really down. Thehand-drawn cover featuring a gigantic sunshine and a leafy green tree, done incrayons, would bring a smile to anyone’s face. Even a grumpypants like me. Equally rating highly in the cover-stakes is Ed Bear’s compilationentitled ‘A Dungeons & Dragons Marathon At Mine’ – a promise I will stillhold him to.

Sometimesthe simple titles work best. I receiveda compilation (VIA EMAIL – OH YES, APPARENTLY SUCH MAGICAL HAPPENINGS CANOCCUR!) this week called 19 Songs, from a Twitter buddy who is also a bigHollyoaks fan. I was totally psyched, ashe’d mixed it all properly and everything. And intimidated. Like... seriously. MIXING THE MIX? AS IF I CAN DOTHAT! But I did my twee-est best andsent a CD in return. Knowing my luck, itwon’t actually play...

A mix canalso help ease the difficulty of making new friends. Because I have the social skills of a plantand panic about how to make ‘proper friends’ with people when I first meet them,I find giving them a mix CD will often help ease the friendship in.

When I firstmet Christopher, I made him a mix as a thank you for making the new girl feelwelcome. He returned it with a sweetlittle compilation featuring galloping horses on the cover. When Christopher first saw me, I was in theHollyoaks canteen wearing a Scandinavian style jumper. So he naturally assumed I was Norweigian, andthat my name was Greta. Meanwhile I sawhim carting his bass guitar around work and decided that we should be friends,but it wasn’t until we were both a bit drunk at a Christmas party that wefinally talked. I say talked, weactually threw impressive shapes on the dancefloor. I canonly imagine he was bitterly disappointed to discover that I was Scottish buthe covered it up well with a brilliant CD that again, I still listen to andpilfer from a lot.

The mostcomplex mix I ever received was from Andy, entitled ‘DRAMA – The Tale Of Arthurand Daisy’. The best way I can describeit is... It’s a concept compilation. It features 5 movements and tells the lovestory of Arthur and Daisy, who meet (to Elle S’appelle I think) but are tornapart (as Ed Harcourt plays over) but thankfully, in the end, get it together(to Hot Club De Paris as far as I can tell). I have to admit that this is a particular favourite because many of thesongs feature lyrics about horses or ponies. We listened to it on the way to the Hillary and the Democrats gigsupporting ballboy in Nottingham, when I surprised Gordon and Sam drove us inMarried to the Sea’s now deceased red post van, Ludwig (RIP). Everyone agreed it was a particularlyspectacular compilation.

You see I’mreally a simple little creature with simple needs. Music, ponies, a bunch of daisies, Diet Cokeand late night movies. Throw in a cuteboy and a spot of afternoon tea with the girls. And that feature script getting made...

Gosh, that’sme happy.

Now, I’mcertain that more or less as soon as I hit publish with this, it’s going toinvite lots of people commenting that ‘it’s not a real mix unless it’s on acassette’ and other pedantic things. Don’tkill my buzz guys. Can we go back to myrule of – there are no rules? This ishow I like to do it. And a littlecommentary on what I like about compilations that have been made for me.

It’s all tothe same end, right? Share the stuff youlike. It’s a principle that should beapplied more rigorously to life in general.

And on thatnote...

If anyone islooking for a ponyshare in the area, I am totally your girl. Please apply within.

Just grab your hat, come travel light – that’s hobo style.

2012-01-19T15:51:00.000-08:00

‘So are youan actress then?’

Oh Liverpooltaxi drivers, you know how to get a generous tip out of me!

‘No, I’m awriter’ I fawn, beaming at him in the rear view mirror. Keep it up, mate. My ego is more than happy for you to ply itwith falsity.

He lookssuitably surprised, and goes on to add that I look far too young for that, andI respond with my usual simpering ‘Older than I look, but thank you’.

‘Where youfrom?’ he asks.

‘Glasgow,originally.’

I don’t knowwhy I add ‘originally’ to that statement. I always do it. It’s stupid. You’re from where you’re from and you can’tbe from anywhere else after that, right? Still I say it...

‘Really? You don’t sound it’

Again, Igive my usual response ‘People always say that. I used to... ’

‘You soundmore American’

I get that alot too.

‘I’ve livedaway from home for a long time,’ I tell him.

Is ten yearsa long time? It feels like it. I was still seventeen when I cantered off touniversity. Liverpool is the longest I’vestayed in one place out of choice (you have no choice between the ages of 0-17). I never thought I’d find anywhere that feelsmore like home than Edinburgh, but Liverpool has certainly filled those shoesmore than adequately.

It’s allabout people, isn’t it? That’s what makes a place home. You can easily replace places, like forlike...

Edinburghhas Bonsai, Liverpool has Wokit (I love you Wokit, I’m your biggest fan). Edinburgh has Victoria Street, Liverpool hasBold Street. Edinburgh has Armstrongs,Liverpool has Raiders Vintage.

Obviouslythese places have their own special charm, they are in no way the same, butthey can provide the same function.

You can’tsay that about people.

But even inEdinburgh, my history is cut short. It’sa slice of me – a four year window into a mostly happy time. There’s no sense of... personal heritage?

I’m stillvery close to my high school gang but we became friends around the age offifteen. I don’t have that childhoodbestie, y’know, the one you grew up with since nursery school. Everyone seems to have one but me!

When I gotback to Liverpool after Christmas, I went out with Sara, my children’s bookwriting buddy (she draws, I do words and you can check out Sara’s other lovelywork here)to meet her childhood best friend. Both are beautiful, talented and charming, and joke about how they’vealways lived parallel lives to each other. Things just happen to them around the same time. I’m envious of that sense of sharedhistory. All those memories that willlikely end up spanning a lifetime of friendship.

Then at theweekend just gone, it was the first 10 Bands 10 Minutes of 2012. Hosted by Married to the Sea, this one wasdedicated to Neil Young and was at the Kazimier this time.

‘It’s like across between a 60’s French Jazz Club and the circus’ I say, of the venue.

Ellen andJames frown and look at each other questioningly.

‘Who’s got syphilis?!’ asks James.

‘No...CIRCUS’ I repeat, and laugh my head off.

James and Ihave a history of mishearing each other at gigs, so this is a classic exchangebetween us. My current bout of insomniacombined with being loaded up on sugary whisky and ginger has me giddy, so Ifind everything hilarious all night. Anyonewatching on would think I was friends with the funniest gang of people in theworld (I am, incidentally, but that’s beside the point).

Ed Bear hassurprised us with his presence, jibbing off London’s fictional East End to hangout with the faux-Chester gang. It’salso Mikey’s birthday and this is his band Novice Mathematic’s first go atplaying 10 Bands. They are as ever deadnoisy, but a ten minute set means Mikey can’t give me his usual sweaty hug afters. He almost seems disappointed to have kept hisperspiration under control.

Simonabandons his post on the merch stall to watch his old school friend David Broadplay an acoustic set. David’s got asharp-looking quiff and is well received by the crowd. Simon keeps giggling and shaking his head, takinggreat joy in seeing his friend perform, and I’m envious of that shared history –years of friendship. Then later again, I’mintroduced to my studio buddy Alice’s glamorous childhood friend Betty. They both somehow get caught up in amisguided attempt to relive Mikey’s birthday fun of last year by returning toCaVa for stupid amounts of stupidly cheap tequila. But half our party are turned away at thedoor and I’m almost trampled by a 19 year old giant blonde girl, dead set onflattening me in her determination to get to the bar.

We bin offthis failed nostalgia-fest for Le Bateau (it’s basically Evol at The LiquidRooms, Edinburgh/Liverpool... like for like...) which I’ve never been crazyabout, but it’s worth it to laugh at some of the dance moves being pulled. If you’ve ever wondered what Mark Morrislooks like on the dancefloor, I can tell you... Like any other self-conscious indie boy out to let loose.

As we’releaving, Simon tells me that he’d seen some lads trying to put a blow up dollin the cloakroom, convinced it was the funniest thing anyone had everdone. He wasn’t impressed. As I go to retrieve my coat upstairs, I walkpast the lads and their reclaimed doll. They all look a tad glum.

‘It’s a sadday when a blow up doll isn’t funny’ says one of them, dolefully. According to Simon, it’s a sad day when it is funny, and I must agree with him.

At the topof the stairs, there’s a very drunk girl who’s cornered three of theindie-est-looking indie boys I’ve ever seen, and is attempting to impress themwith her musical knowledge.

‘Elvis isdead famous in Birkenhead, isn’t he?’ she says.

‘Erm.. I think he’s pretty famous everywhere in theworld,’ one of them replies.

‘Yeah but inBirkenhead. That’s where he’s known.’she informs him confidently.

I leave themto it, wincing at this painful pulling technique and get my coat back, relievedthat the extremely unfriendly cloakroom attendant from earlier has beenreplaced by a girl who manages a weary smile at me as I hand her my raffleticket.

After latenight chips, we pile into taxis and I crawl into my freezing cold bed around5.30am. I notice that I seem to haveended up with someone’s fingerprints bruised on my wrist. I have no idea who’s responsible – I bruiselike Gregory, and I usually perceive it to be the sign of a dead good nightout. And even though it’s been lacedwith envy of other people’s pals, I know I’m lucky to have come across thesekids in my life now.

I don’treally know how I came out of my childhood without retaining anyfriendships. I’m a nostalgic person, soit’s surprising. It doesn’t help that Ilive my life like The Littlest Hobo, with a general reluctance to commit orsettle.

I've gained so much since I left Glasgow in new friendship, that it seems silly to wonder what would have happened if I'd stayed. I guess I would have kept my accent...

But then I’dhave nothing to say to taxi drivers, right?

Keep away from him.

2012-01-07T09:16:00.000-08:00

‘Keep awayfrom him Niki, he’s a muppet,’ Ross sternly warns me.

We’re belowthe bunting and pompoms and balloons of the top floor at Studio 24’s Hogmanayparty, hosted by The Go Go. I’m beingcircled by the singer of an indie-twee band. One I used to like before they released a truly appalling second album.

‘I’m notinterested’ I assure him, and it’s true.

New Year’sEve kisses have never interested me. Idon’t really understand the pressure to be snogging at the bells. A peck on the cheek from Pete was enough tomake me content this year.

We makecocktails at Pete’s in the evening, a recipe for disaster if ever there wasone. Her first attempt at lavendermartini is too bitter, and her second attempt too sweet. I’m fairly certain I’ll be on the floorbefore midnight if the taste-testing continues, so I leave it to Miah to assessthe concoctions for the most part. Anyway, there’s beautifying to do.

‘Okayladies, I’ll be using the mirror in the bathroom at 8pm’ Pete informs us at thedinner table.

You have tohave an itinerary, you see, to organise three girls and one bathroom onHogmanay. This has to factor in myinevitable fake eyelash disaster and Pete’s inevitable blow dryingdilemma. Followed by the passing roundof eyeliner, the last-minute outfit change, the clouds of perfume andhairspray...

While Miahand Lees hum and haw over whether they’re coming to The Go Go or staying home(they come with us in the end, of course!) I settle on a grey playsuit with agold cinch waist belt and a gold and cream feather in my hair. It’s not too flash, but there’s no pointtrying to compete at The Go Go. Thereare always a crowd of young vintage beauties, in tiny dresses and VictoryRolls, whose red lipstick remains mysteriously perfect all night. I know by the time I leave at 5am, my curlswill have dropped, my feet will be crippled and my mascara smudged. Looking perfect on New Year’s Eve doesn’tinterest me either – I’m out to dance.

I see Davidfor the first time since his mega travels across America in the summer, andmeet his enchanting girlfriend Kate at last. She looks gorgeous in a long flowing polka dot dress and brown belt,which Stephen later (incorrectly) informs her looks like a wrestler’sbelt. He also queries the feather in myhair - ‘Niki, would you say that was a fascinator?’ I must look mildly offended as I reply ‘Ithink it’s more of a clip...’ because he quickly follows with ‘Sorry, is ‘fascinator’a bit Ascot?’

‘I’m moreworried it’s a bit Aintree to be honest,’ I tell him ruefully, before beingdistracted by the arrival of my old college pal, Catherine. She hasn’t changeda bit – a beauty queen from Shetland, with long hair so blonde and shiny it’salmost white, tall and slender in a polka dot playsuit that compliments Kate’s dressrather well. As I take in the ladies alldressed up and the chaps in sharp suits or plaid shirts, I think...

Aren’t we afine looking bunch?

Catherineand I quickly catch up over some Mango Mojito, prepared by Pete, who’s fiercelypounding mint plants with a pestle and mortar. Catherine tells me she’s recently seen my old boss Angus, who told herthe story of how I became employed by him in the first place (‘Niki just walkedin one day and told me I was going togive her a job’). We realise it’s beenan insanely long time we saw each other last, as we fill in ‘the details’ ofthe last few years, and promise that it won’t be so long before we see eachother next.

At thebells, we all gather in the living room and drink champagne from teacups,hugging and kissing cheeks, posing in the first photographs of 2012 for myDiana camera.

Who’s tweeas fuck now, eh?

At half 12,the taxi nonsense begins, as we head over to The Go Go. I end up with David, Kate, Stephen and hisgirlfriend Stef. Stephen informs thetaxi driver that his dad was also a taxi driver, and commends him for stayingat home with his family for the clock striking midnight before coming out towork. ‘Daddy never stayed with us! I’mstill not over it’ he mock-bawls. Thetaxi driver is good sport, and laughs along with the rest of us.

At The Go Go,Ross and Colin play a blinding set with Les BOF! – they’re the perfect band fortonight, looking sharp in their matching suits. Me and Catherine, who’s oblivious to the admiring glances of every manin the land, don’t stop dancing throughout. We soon migrate upstairs once the band are finished, where there’s amore distinct party atmosphere given the decorations and the tighter crowd dueto the smaller dancefloor. Catherine andI make a space for ourselves by a pillar and I try my best to protect her fromthe unwanted attentions of a chap with a ‘tash in a blue shirt who thinks it’sacceptable to put his hand on her bottom without so much as a ‘Happy New Year’first.

Note for2012, boys. It’s not acceptable to dothat.

As the hourswear on... me, Catherine and Ross are the last dancers from our gangstanding. Which is when we’re approachedby the lanky-legged, high-cheekboned, floppy-haired, beige-trouser-wearingindie boy. Ross comes to my rescue andwhirls me off round the dancefloor to ensure my safety.

‘I wouldn’tknow what to say anyway,’ I laugh, but Ross isn’t taking any risks. Dancefloor social skills do not take priorityon my CV. I should never be leftunattended in these scenarios, because I inevitably become a magnet for everyoddball in a room. Pete has a similarquality actually. Over the weekend, we’dbeen talking about all the weirdoes we’ve attracted over the years.

My favouritewill always be the boy in the green or blue cardigan on the dancefloor at TheEgg, who kept trying to dance with Pete. Eventually, Barker’s protective mode kicked in and he told the guy toback off, that she wasn’t interested. ‘Youdon’t understand’ said Cardigan Boy indignantly. And then more sinisterly... ‘I know her. And I know what she wants.’

With thisimpressive statement out there, we quickly swept Pete off the dancefloor andinto a taxi, fairly certain that this was exactly what she wanted.

Another highlightin the long list of crazy was the boy who approached me after a talk by DeborahMoggach and told me he’d got my name off the Internet (with no furtherexplanation than that...) then asked if I wanted to go out in Manchester withhim.

Completelythrown, I laughed and pointed out he hadn’t even introduced himself.

‘Oh sorry,you know what it’s like when you’re ill...’ he muttered.

Erm,no. No, I do not.

When the Hogmanay indie-boy does manage to make his pursuit clear, it's more painfully awkward than weird. I'm not sure which of us has the poorest social skills but I'm here to have fun with my pals. He practically runs away to the other side of the dancefloor for the rest of the night. I escape anyfurther awkward encounters until 5am. Catherine and I are more than readyto go home and call a taxi. The deadnice wee wifey on the other end of the phone apologetically informs me it’s anhour’s wait.

‘I’d ratherthat than wander around Edinburgh in the rain, blindly hoping one willmagically appear’ I tell Catherine. Sheagrees, so we step outside, where Ross tries to convince us that a delayed taxiis a sign we should party on. Given Ilost all feeling in my feet at least an hour previously, it’s unlikely.

And then themiracle happens.

A taxi pullsup across the road. Even though we’vebeen waiting less than ten minutes, Ross goes to check if it’s ours, ‘just incase.’

He returnslooking grumpy.

‘It is.’

Stunned,Catherine and I kiss Ross goodbye, clamber in and are whisked off home.

As I settledown in my nest on Pete’s living room floor at 5.30am, I decide that this unexpectedlyearly taxi is a sign that promises 2012 will be a better year than last.

And I’ll happily takethat over a midnight snog with a stranger on a sweaty dancefloor any day.

I'm here to bang the hot guy who hit on me at the bar.

2011-12-30T18:24:00.000-08:00

Pete: Niki, is there any particular kind of movieyou want to watch?

Niki: Noooo.

Miah: The Inbetweeners?

Niki: No...

Pete: Erm... Brighton Rock?

Miah: Nooooo!

Pete: (defensive) Have you seen it?

Niki: Brighton Rock’s amazing!

Miah: Niki’sseen it. Something else.

Pete: Conan the Barbarian.

I decide notto merit this suggestion with an answer. She is clearly joking. And Miahretorts ‘What? No!’ But is then ensnared by Pete muttering ‘Ilike Gods, okay?’ As Miah wonders aboutthe plot and Pete starts to explain, I zone out a little. If we end up watching it, I’ll be able to dipin and out.

Pete: Sleeping Beauty?

Niki: Is that the one with her from Mamma Mia init?

Pete: No. Butshe kinda looks like her...

Niki: Well, that’s not selling it to me.

Pete: I didn’t tell you anything about it!

Finally wesettle on Crazy Stupid Love, which was the film we originally wanted to watch,but you know how you have to go round the houses on these ones.

I have neverheard noises like the sounds that came out of our mouths when Ryan Goslingappeared onscreen. The thing aboutGosling is – boys like him too. Childrenlike him. Pets like him. Everyone likes him. He’s not human. He’s a gift. And we should worship him appropriately.

‘I’mactually in love with him,’ I declare. ‘This isn’t like with Zac Efron. I mean, I’m actually in love with him. I’ve never felt like this about any manbefore.’

As I go onTwitter to search to see if he’s got a page, Miah and Pete exchange worriedlooks.

‘You’re notproposing are you?’ asks Pete.

‘No!’ Iexclaim. Then add ruefully... ‘He’s not on Twitter. ’

I’m notactually insane (although I am actually in love with Ryan Gosling). I’d never say... write him a letter... But if I did write him a letter... it might go something like this...

No, really,I’d never do that.

...

It’s been aday of movie talk. It started out withmeeting Gordon, the first time we’ve seen each other in ages. I’ve been rubbish this year in coming up toEdinburgh and he’s been rubbish ALWAYS in coming to Liverpool (apart from thetime he drove me home from Indietracks, but he can’t keep playing that cardforever...). After we’d caught up on allthe personal news, we moved on to the best films we’d seen this year.

And that’swhen Gordon dropped the bombshell.

He’s neverseen The Goonies.

‘WHAT?’

‘I’ve neverseen it. See this is a generationalthing...’ he begins.

‘WHAT?’

‘I’ve neverseen Back to the Future either’ he says, offhandedly, as though somehow thismakes it better.

‘WHAT?’

I’meventually stunned into silence. I covermy face with my hands and take a moment to recover before muttering ‘I don’teven know who you are...’

‘Those arejust two in the long lines of films that I haven’t seen’ Gordon tells me,apologetically.

I don’t wantto know anymore, I can’t afford to lose my mind.

Pete made mewatch Thor the previous night (which is another reason why I zoned out when shetold Miah she loved Gods). ‘I like thechemistry between Thor and Natalie Portman’ she insists, her tone entirelysincere. I’m doubtful but she’s keen, sowe stick it on.

About tenminutes in, I have some questions. SincePete admits that she’s already seen Thor twice previously, I direct themtowards her.

‘So... they’re in space, yeah? But they’re also Greek myths?’

‘Yes, kinda.’

‘So who’sthe Norwegian guy and why’s he there? And who’s the chick? And this guythat’s meant to be his brother, is he Greek too?’

For someonethat’s seen it twice already, Pete’s a little short on answers.

By the timeThor and Natalie Portman are constantly smiling at each other while the otherone isn’t looking (BECAUSE WE NEED TO UNDERSTAND THAT THEY FANCY THE PANTS OFFEACH OTHER AND THIS IS AN EPIC LOVE STORY AND WE SHOULD WANT THEM TO BETOGETHER SO THAT THE ENDING FEELS TRAGIC), I’m completely lost as to why thegrey guys with blue eyes who look like melted candlewax are so fussed aboutwhat Thor’s brother’s up to.

Again I lookto Pete for help, and again, we don’t get any closer to understanding the plot.

‘I feel likeI am my Mum asking my Mum what’s happening in a film, it’s a strange feeling’ Itell Pete. She agrees with this, and isthen distracted again by Thor demonstrating sacrifice and valour for the sakeof true love or something. Which resultsin him getting his pet hammer back. He’svery pleased about this, and then leaves earth for his home planet of Crete, wherehe gets into a fight with his brother about playing with his toys while he wason holiday and then he accidentally smashes a bridge, allowing Natalie Portmanto gurn inanely into the camera with her boyish sexual charm for the final shotof the film.

‘You totallyloved it, right?’ says Pete as the credits roll. Oh, yeah.

It was mymovie highlight of 2011.

Notreally. But it rates pretty well, simply‘cos I watched it with Pete.

I’ve justrealised though – if you haven’t seen it yet, I’ve probably ruined the ending.

Oh well,with a bit of luck Thor 2 will be out in 2012. And I can promise you it’s unlikely I’ll be seeing that before you...

I’ll be toobusy with my new husband Ryan to go to the cinema.

Go Ahead

2011-12-14T18:16:00.000-08:00

In our old,old house, where I lived between the ages of maybe 5 and 10 shall we say, therewas a built-in wardrobe in my parents’ bedroom with a long shelf that wentalong the wall cavity. It was mostlyfull of things that Mum wanted out the way – spare pillows, clothes she didn’twear but didn’t want to throw out and I think maybe even the ironing that sheloathed doing.

It was greatfor hide ‘n’ seek. You could clamberbehind all the crap that was piled up, and if your seeker wasn’t particularlythorough, then chances were, you’d emerge from this secret cubbyhole, squintingat the light with cramped muscles, but triumphant.

This is howI discovered Santa wasn’t real.

Sorrykids. I know. It’s a tough one for us all, but today’s theday I sock it to you.

OneDecember, I clambered in there to hide and found there was less space thanusual. As I investigated further, I cameacross a big cardboard box, proudly proclaiming it’s contents to be a PollyPocket world – exactly what I’d asked for from Father Christmas. So while this bounty promised that my festivewishes were coming true, it also signalled the end of childhood. I continued the pretence – as children oftendo ‘just in case’ – but deep down, I knew that I’d been pedalled fiction, andhappily swallowed it.

There wasanother Christmas in the old, old house where my brother and I woke up andsneaked halfway down the stairs ‘to see if he’d been’. There were two massive parcels wrapped up,and we both almost exploded with excitement – we knew what those were! Our very first bikes! They both had disc wheels, pink for me, greenfor Steven . I would later graduate toSteven’s bike when I got a bit taller and he got a proper mountain bike. The rubber on the handlebar would rub againstmy thumb, wearing away the skin, but I didn’t care. There was a time when bikes could take youanywhere you dreamed. They allowed youto go further than you’d ever been allowed before, and faster... They afforded freedom and exhilaration...

These days,I eye them with fear and distrust. Everyso often, I think I’d like one, to stop relying on public transport. And then I see a cyclist get mangled at anintersection and I realise it’s an utter madness. Bikes belong in childhood. For me at least.

I was in HMVtrying to do some Christmas shopping the other day, then I remembered my Dadhas an I-pad and simply downloads anything he wants... Does anyone own anything tangible these days,I grumbled to myself. As an oldergentleman, probably in his seventies, appeared next to me and examined aThundercats boxset. ‘Yes’ he saidsuddenly, as though I’d been doubting his decision, and he hurried off to thetill point...

And he wasright – I did doubt his decision. It wasmarked up at £30, and he was obviously buying it for a grandchild. I’ve got nothing against Thundercats – I’mfull of nostalgic love and adoration, as I’m sure many of you are too. But as if this guy’s grandkids know anythingabout Thundercats. They’re all watchingBen10 or Yu Gi Oh! Hell, that’s what I’mwatching these days too! I felt he waspaying a big chunk of pension money for something that wouldn’t be appreciatedfully.

I might bemistaken – perhaps he’d judged it perfectly.

But I doubt verymuch that ‘Thundercats boxset’ is on any 5 year old’s Christmas list these days. Should have gotten him an X-Box Grandpa. Or downloaded a Lady Gaga album for hisI-pod.

My Mum rangme up the other week and completely threw me by asking what I wanted forChristmas this year. I’d forgotten Iwould be getting presents – I’d been too busy trying to figure out what I wasgoing to buy the family who appear to have everything. I told her I’d let her know, then I didn’tand now she’s in the Caribbean, so whatever it was I wanted is unlikely tohappen. Even now, I can’t really thinkof anything other than the obvious (‘Apart from the obvious!’ she’d said,without prompting... ‘Well, we couldexpand ‘the obvious’ this year to include a puppy or kitten, as well as apony. I’m not fussed’ I replied. I got told off for being a littlewiseguy. As if I was kidding...).

I guess I’dlike this year to be over. Everyone’smaking their 2011 lists apparently – top albums, favourite tracks of the year,best gigs, favourite films... highlighting and remembering...

While I feelquite impatient to shunt it all aside already

It’s been atumultuous year. It felt like 2010 hadbeen hit with a battering ram halfway through, and I came limping into 2011,still in recovery. And whilst this yearhas undeniably contained some of the highlights of my lifetime – moments that I willtreasure and recall with fondness and pride forever, it seems like it wasliberally peppered with kicks to the gut as well.

I don’treally want to take those moments with me forever, and most of them willprobably fade with time in importance or regret. So as an antidote to this gloominess, here’smy list. A different list from everybodyelse’s.

The ThingsFrom 2011 That I Never Want To Forget:

1. Emma’s Getting Married: The smile on her face when Emma walked downthe aisle. If I get a fraction of thatcertainty someday, I’ll be grateful.

2. We Don’t Have Any Neighbours: Dancing to The Chemical Brothers at stupid o’clockin the morning, on a hillside in the middle of The Lake District, drunk andhappy and silly... more content than I’vefelt for a long time, with seven people who are more important to me than ponies(my greatest compliment).

3. Be My Bridesmaid?: Ellen and James got engaged. Being a bridesmaid for them will be an honournext year, and presumably one of the major highlights of 2012. But for this year, it’s the first time anyone’sever asked me, and it’s an extraordinary testament to my friendship with Ellenthat after such a short time, she’d want to include me in this way.

4. 11.11.11: It was apparently some sort of bigdeal as a date in accordance with the universe anyway, and I don’t mean tosuggest that the universe revolves around me, but the evidence would seem tospeak for itself. The date of my firstsolo screenwriting credit, the realisation of a dream I’ve had since I was fouryears old, a groundbreaking stunt and a massive party to celebrate my imminentbirthday, featuring four amazing bands – Married to the Sea, Novice Mathematic,Theresa Stern and Hillary and the Democrats. Another honour – that so many people came, that an old face from my pastcropped up unexpectedly, that I got thrown around the dancefloor to Footlooseby Joe Pasquale’s son... I could go on,but I won’t. A night like that defieswords.

5. An Ever-Expanding List of Individuals: It seems fair that in a year where eventsseemed perpetually poised to take a turn for the worse, that fate would balancethis out by throwing in the introduction of some new people to act as constantreminders as to why we bother. I madesome new friends this year who I hope I’ll get to keep for life. I’d list you all by name, but it would be embarrassingfor us both. I’m sure you know who youare (not you Richard Brint. Not you!).

Really, itwas not a bad year. I saw a lot of happinessfor me and other people. I think I justfelt the need to remind myself to take that away with me, instead of the clamberingover hurdles part.

Andactually, if nothing else, it’s helped me narrow down one very important thingabout 2011.

My album ofthe year is indisputably Loud Planes Fly Low by The Rosebuds.

There. You can go ahead and bring in the New Year now.

What's the magic word?

2011-12-03T17:15:00.001-08:00

I rememberbeing struck dumb by Sigur Ros the first time I saw them live.

I wasseventeen and I had a terrible case of Freshers’ Flu, that would stick with mefor a good six or seven months through my first year of university.

Myboyfriend-at-the-time, David, a stoner journalism student, who would oftenrefer to me as ‘wee girl’ and once told me that while I was quite pretty, I wouldn’t ‘blossom’ untilmy late twenties (form an orderly queue now boys!), tried to convince me tohave a beer, but I was scared of being ID’d. So I insisted that I was too sick to drink and only wanted orangejuice. We’d only been together fiveminutes, and obviously mismatched even at the time, but I didn’t want to facethat embarrassment in front of him.

The ticketswere a leaving-Glasgow present from Becca. I asked her to come with me, but she suggested I take someone from mynew Edinburgh life. I guess it wasintended as an aid in making friends. Ihadn’t made many yet, so I took David, even though it really wasn’t his kind ofmusic at all. Come to think of it, Icouldn’t tell you anything that David was into. I honestly can’t remember a single thing. I know he made me laugh, a lot, and thatunder the stoner facade, he was extremely intelligent. Those are his defining qualities, asremembered ten years on.

We broke upbecause I went home for a week and forgot to tell him. And when I got back, he hadn’t noticed I’d beengone. If ever there was a time to callit a day...

On the daywe were all moving out of Halls, I stopped by his flat to say goodbye. He was sat on the kitchen floor in a sea ofplastic carrier bags from the Scot-Mid on Lothian Road, despairing. He gave me a hug goodbye and then as aparting blow, told me my boobs had gotten bigger. Charmer.

But on thenight we saw Sigur Ros together, leaning on an amp down the front right, he toowas overwhelmed into utter silence.

We were atthe Queen’s Hall. I’ve since seen themat the Barrowlands, Corn Exchange and Le Zenith (on my birthday, no less). I lay on my back, in parched grass, under amidnight Tennessee skyline and listened to them with my eyes closed in thedark, because I was too tired to stand and watch them like everyone else.

I couldnever quite believe that the sound came out of his mouth. Like when I saw Coco Rosie perform and firstheard Sierra sing. It didn’t seem real. I rarely listen to Sigur Ros now. I haven’t pursued them after Takk... beyondseeing them live occasionally.

I think somebands are like family. You don’t need tohear them to know you still love them, it’s a given.

I once toldGordon that I didn’t like Belle and Sebastian anymore, but I’d always lovethem. Likewise Radiohead and TheSmashing Pumpkins. It’s nice to pop myhead in and say hello every so often, but the fact is, we’ve grown apart. And whilst love withstands that distance,because it was given so wholly and freely and so young, we don’t have much tosay to each other anymore.

I wasawestruck all the way home that night. Iremember the walk, David thanking me for taking him, being amazed, because he’dnever heard music like that before. Asking me questions, suggesting we go somewhere else for a drink... And I could barely speak. He laughed at me. I’d probably never been silent around himbefore. When we got back to Halls, Itried to describe it to my housemates, but to them, it was just a band with afunny name. They didn’t understand why Iwas so moved by it.

Davidmanaged to get me the setlist, by asking the security guard for it after they’dplayed. The security guard looked at meand said ‘what’s the magic word?’ and for a split second, I almostautomatically answered ‘Abracadabra’. Then caught myself and said ‘Pretty please?’

I probablystill have it somewhere, stuffed in a bag or a box. It was pinned to the wall of my bedroom invarious flats for a long time. Back whenthings like that seemed important. Inthe same way being down the front was important.

I think thelast time I was properly at the barrier for a band I wasn’t actually pals withwould be The National, two or three years ago... me and Pete at the ABC in Glasgow. And that was by accident really... We were standing having a drink hovering, andtwo people walked away from a gap at the barrier. It was too easy, so we slotted in. Truly effortless... Otherwise, we wouldn’t have bothered. And it was dead good actually, ‘cos we’reboth pretty small and seeing anything at gigs is always a challenge. Especially in big cities like Glasgow orManchester, where I’m destined to be standing behind a fat-headed, middle-aged,drunken muppet who wants to shout through the quiet songs and trample me duringthe loud songs.

There shouldbe rules according to height at gigs. Little people at the front please. Noisy staggering fuckers in the back. Or outside.

I’m in afoul mood tonight. My neighbours arehaving a party and all I can hear is the incessant buzz of a techno bassline,reverberating through my bedroom walls like a bouncy ball. This is my passive aggressive way of ventingat inconsiderate people who don’t understand that I have to get up early andwrite the stuff I get paid to do.

But Isuppose it made me listen to music in bed in a failed attempt to drown it out,which I rarely do these days. But couldn’tsleep without when I was at university. And Sigur Ros were always a bedtime favourite back then. That’s what got me thinking...

About Jonsi,and the first time I heard Sigur Ros play live, and how I couldn’t speak, Icould only smile, dazed and happy...

Although, I’dmuch rather be asleep. If someone couldgo knock on for me and tell the little fuckers to turn it down, that would bejust great. Thanks.

Happy Birthday!

2011-11-15T01:26:00.001-08:00

Today I turn27. And with waking up came a smallepiphany of sorts. I realised that theolder we get, the more we’re all running around, trying to use the present tofix what happened to us in the past. Indoing this, we’re usually just fucking up the future.

It’s a morecheerful thought than it sounds.

‘But why doyou write for teenagers? Why do youidentify so specifically with that age group?’ I was asked last week.

I frowned,because I knew that the question implied that I have some big dark issueresiding in my teenage years, and that I was attempting to address it via mywriting.

Which wouldbe quite exciting but entirely untrue.

Because thetruth is this – I like writing for teenagers because it’s the point in yourlife when you feel everything the most keenly – because it’s the first time you’vefelt it. And whilst it feels sooverwhelming and complicated at the time, it’s sadly when things are the mostsimple. That doesn’t diminish the power,or the relevance, or the impact of it at all. But the fact is, and sorry kids if you’re reading this, as you trotthrough your twenties, you’re just saddling your pony with more and morebaggage. You end up wearing a bumbagover your backpack. And then you can’tget into your backpack anymore, ‘cos you’re wearing too many layers.

That’spossibly the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever written, but I’m going to leaveit. It’s amusing me.

There is acertain aspect of my past that churns up the same feeling of dread as lookingat a bank statement when you know you’ve overspent, but you’re not sure by howmuch. Similarly, if you avoid looking atit for too long, you end up paying even more for it.

I guess,like most things in life, there’s a balance to be struck between looking back,experiencing now and planning next. I’vealways been such a ‘what next?’ kind of person, I’ve frequently thrown myselfinto things without really thinking it through too much. I say yes to a lot more than I should, andwhilst I can kinda write that off as impulsiveness, it’s probably more a fearof missing out on something.

After me andthe evil ex split up, I felt the most sensible thing to do was make up for allthe things I missed out on while I was with him. There was an incident during our relationshipwhich is referred to as ‘Indian Summer’, and a standing joke between me andPete is that ‘we don’t talk about Indian Summer’. There’s no point trying to explain it anygreat detail here – the very simple point is, Indian Summer was something Iwanted to do really badly but chose not to because of the evil ex.

And the word‘chose’ is quite important there – ‘cos a person can only have as muchinfluence over your decisions as you let them. Ultimately, missing out was my own fault, because I chose to listen tohim. And to be fair to him, hisarguments at the time were fairly sound, even if his true motivations behind itwere not.

Anyway... To make up for Indian Summer, I spontaneouslybought tickets to Bonnaroo, a music festival that’s pretty similar to Glastonbury(I imagine), just outside Nashville, Texas. I was owed an adventure to make up for the one I felt I’d missed out on,and what better than a hot sunny festival full of bands I really loved, cruisingaround in a Chrysler convertible and hitting up karaoke bars owned by crazycowboys.

And I thinkthe trip had the desired effect at the time, on reflection. When I put that impulsive side to good use,it can result in a really healthy and life-affirming experience. The problem with impulsiveness is that youoften don’t know until afterwards whether you were putting it to good use ornot. It also dances a fine line withrecklessness, and it’s rare for that to have a positive outcome.

But thatdistinction – my desire to identify which motivation my actions came from – hasonly cropped up after I turned 25. Priorto that, I really didn’t give a thought to the why. I just did.

And that’sthe thing that you lose from your formative years. Just doing stuff because you feel compelledto, going down with the inevitable shipwreck that comes after and then wadingthrough the consequences until you find an island to sit on for a while untilanother ship passes by.

You tend tohang around on the island, paddling in the shores you just came from, whilstcasting a casual glance over your shoulder to where you’re going next, once you’veworked up the courage to plunge back in. And all the while you’re doing that, you don’t stop to think – hey,check out this mega cool island I’ve ended up on. I think I’ll have me a coconut!

Wow – that onewas even better than the rucksack/bum bag combo. Perhaps the question should have ended at... ‘Whydo you write?’

I started bysaying it was all more cheerful than it sounded, but I don’t think I’ve donemuch here to prove that. I guess the cheerful thing is – I haven’tforgotten the purity of being 15, and how your first failure or heartbreak orloss feels like it’s the end of the world. But then it isn’t. As life getsmore complicated, it gets less raw, and in a way it hurts less. And actually, while it’s useful to rememberhow painful it is to have been 15...

A lot ofpeople forget it works the other way too.

I’ve neverexperienced the same raw happiness and anticipation and excitement aboutanything since I did when I was 15. Seeing Radiohead for the first time, bumping into my school crush in acorridor, being told that the thing I loved more than anything – writing – was definitelywhat I was supposed to do with my life...

If there’ssomething I’d like to carry with me from my past, into my present and my future,I’d like to make a concerted effort for it to be that. The passion for good things, rather than the painof bad.

And if thatfails to make right now a better time, well... I guess all I have to think about is this...

If it’s thisridiculous at 27... at least it’s not asbad as it’ll be when I’m 50.

You've got so much to live for...

2011-10-20T16:52:00.000-07:00

‘The girl inthe red beret...’

Christopherspots her to our left, a little in front of us. I’d have to stretch to tap her on the shoulder, but I don’t. It’s hard making friends when you growup. If we’d been in a playground, Icould have tapped her shoulder and said ‘I like your beret. Wanna play ponies?’ or something similar and afriendship is born. You do that as agrown up... Well, the answer’s unlikelyto be yes.

I have toinform Christopher that while Stephen and I were waiting outside for him toarrive – him having been delayed by his travel plans going awry – I saw thegirl in the red beret rock up with her boyfriend.

Naturally. We’re at a Jens Lekman gig in Manchester.

Everyhandsome boy is accompanied by his pretty girlfriend and vice versa.

Not that Iwas looking.

But I’malways looking. Which is different.

The daystarted with me up early working, but when lunchtime rolled around, I was stillin my pyjamas. When my phone rang, I assumedChristopher was going to ask me to do some work for him – writing for thewebsite or something, which I have done once in the past. But it was a social call – he wasvolunteering me an early birthday present in the form of one Jens Lekmanticket.

YES PLEASE.

I thank himfor giving me a reason to get dressed that day, and plans are swiftlymade. Plans that later nosedive and endup with me and Stephen hanging around the Northern Quarter waiting forChristopher to get to Manchester over an hour behind us.

‘Fire on theTrack at St Helens’

It should bea Jens song title really, shouldn’t it?

We miss thesupport act but who cares? We’re herefor the Swede. He comes onstage, andwhile he’s playing, although I am entirely engaged and loving it, some smallpart of my brain starts to think... thisis why you’ve never been able to write music reviews. I can’t write about what a band or musiciansounds like. I don’t think about musiclike that. I run out of adjectives fast.

If I thinkabout what it sounds like, it goes something like this... Erm... poppy? It’s Swedish pop? Sometimes it’sa bit disco? Jens looks really happywhen it all goes a bit disco. Aw it wasreally cute when the guy with the beard who’s playing the drums said ‘What’sup, Jens?’. I don’t know why it wascute, or funny, but it was. Oh I didn’texpect that to turn into The Opposite of Hallelujah. Ellen told me a good story about listening tothat on the way down to the beach at ATP in the early hours of themorning. This song reminds me ofEllen. I wonder if she knows it remindsme of her...

What itsounds like... what actually happens at a gig... it just seems so...contained. So small. And not really the experience.

Likelistening to an album then writing about it. I can’t do that either. I canwrite about why it matters to me –who and what it reminds me of, why that’s important. But I can’t tell you what it soundslike. It’s all in the details. And the details I remember probably aren’tthe ones The Skinny would want to print. They’d want me to remember the name of the guy who was playing the drumswith Jens. I don’t. But I thought he was awfully nice.

Anyway, you’vegot your own ears, right? Go use them.

So nobodysees The Opposite of Hallelujah coming – Jens breaks into it suddenly and intypical Manchester gig fashion, the crowd doesn’t exactly go wild... They show mild enthusiasm at best (althoughthe Swedish boy in front of us with the red sweater didn’t get thetoo-cool-for-school memo and doesn’t give a shit about this standing aroundlooking moody and posing bullshit. Hesings at the top of his lungs even though no one else does and he bops around, withhis (naturally) very pretty girlfriend being bounced around in his arms). Christopher and I dance of course, because we’refront-of-the-indie-class kinda geeks.

I worry thatsome of the people on the balcony look so miserable, they might jump off. I wonder if they’re actually at the same gigas me – ‘cos Jens is being pretty damn adorable and none of them have cracked asmile or at least, nodded in time to the music.

Jens picksup on the vibe. He tells us to feel freeto dance around, but quickly senses that it’s not going to happen when only usand Swedish Red Sweater Boy bust some moves. Jens asks us to help him with the words to Julie – it’s been a whilesince he’s played it apparently. It’snear the end of the gig and the crowd have jazzed up a little by thispoint. A handful of male voices join inso forcefully on the first line that Jens stops, laughing and tells us off forbeing too forceful – ‘Gently, it’s a gentle song!’

But thegeneral reluctance to participate beyond just being present actually worked outquite well when Jens invited us to sing along to Pocketful of Money. Only people who could actually sing seemed totentatively provide a tremulous, reticent (adjectives spent...) backingvocal. The overall effect is quitefragile and very pretty (oh there were two more in me. Thesaurus exhausted now).

Ittransports me to a frayed wicker chair and a very slow Internet connection, inthe study of the Morrison Street flat, where I wrote my dissertation with theworst cold I’ve ever had in my life, whilst stressing over the imminent gradfilm shoot, wearing a brown sweater with turquoise snowflakes on it over awhite vintage polka dot shift dress. Thefinal year of uni, when we first discovered and constantly listened to Jens.

Which led tothe ban on Jens.

Yeah, youheard me.

When Jensstarts playing A Sweet Summer’s Night On Hammer Hill, I’m overwhelmed by asense of bittersweet nostalgia.

‘My evil exhated this song’ I mutter to Christopher.

He reallydid. He wouldn’t let me listen to it inthe flat if he was around. It became aheadphones on the train song - that was my secret listening time. Just me and Jens together, since he’d beenbanned from seeing me at home. Like abad influence.

It’s odd,listening to Jens play this song live, round the corner fromthe-flat-that-IKEA-built, where I wasn’t allowed to listen to his recordings. We’re not far from Chop Chop, I tellChristopher and Stephen – a takeaway that does the best Salt and Pepper Tofu I’veever eaten. This used to be my territorybut I have happily relinquished control. Before the gig, I take Stephen to Trof to kill the time beforeChristopher arrives. I do like it there,it’s quite cool, but it triggers one of those unpleasant Manchestermemories... of which I have many.

There’sabout two months to go maybe, before the end, and he promises me a nice dayout. I’m disappointed when it turns outto be lunch at Trof. Which is about fourstreets from the-flat-that-IKEA-built. Where I’ve spent the last year going slowly insane (and not listening toJens Lekman). Not to be ungrateful oranything – it’s a nice place to have lunch. But it sums up the rut we have found ourselves in, and I am sad andgrumpy because of it. We ordermilkshakes – back in the days when I would drink a milkshake – but they don’tshow up. We use this as an excuse to getincreasingly snippy with each other until he demands I put a smile on myface. When we go home, we barely speak,and late that night, when we do speak, we say unspeakable things. Which we then take back, though we probablyshouldn’t have.

You know you’retwee when an absent milkshake is one of the markers in your relationshipdecline.

What kind ofperson hates Jens, anyway? It’sridiculous. He’s so charming. When he sings ‘Fuck you, no you fuck you!’,profanity has never been more endearing. You’d think it would have occurred to me that my love was falling intothe wrong hands on the day my evil ex told me to switch Jens off. But you don’t notice that sort of thing atthe time.

Which is whyI think that although the girl in the red beret arrived with her boyfriend,Christopher’s still in with a chance.

The boyfriendis wearing a coral jumper, with a waffle texture, similar to the texture of thegirl in the red beret’s cream trenchcoat. He has his hands in his pocket for most of the gig, and his eyes arelocked on Jens. I clock the girl in thered beret smiling at him, she stares into his eyes adoringly. But his gaze is reserved for Jens.

I can seeshe’s broken the cardinal rule – never love him more than he loves you. That’s how you get heartbroke, sister. I hope for her sake it happens sooner ratherthan later. And when it does, I hope shequickly realises she’s still got so much to live for.

Jens knows,I did.

I used to fly like Peter Pan

2011-10-14T17:27:00.000-07:00

‘The typicaltyranny of families: the youngest child always gets the worst room’.

Too right,John Irving. Too bloody right.

I neverunderstood the rule. He gets the biggerroom because he’s older. All he did wasget born first – how is that an achievement you can reward?

Althoughoften bratty, I don’t think I’m being particularly unreasonable in stillresenting this, ten years after I moved out of the tiny bedroom I lived inbetween the ages of 10 and 17.

I honestlyhad a bed and a couple of square metres of floor space. There was an in-built cupboard which housedbooks and the boiler, so not only was the room tiny, it was also hot ashell. For years, I was crammed into a ‘cabinbed’. A novelty that seemed like a goodidea at the time, but the cupboards below the mattress soon fell prey to thesquirrel-like habit of hoarding bits of paper, which I’ve always been prone to. Eventually, we got rid of it, and I had a ‘normal’single bed for the last year or so before I ran away to university. I have no idea where I kept my clothes.

Oh wait.

On thefloor.

I did have atelephone in my room, which was the envy of my friends in my early teenageyears. I had to share the line with theeldest though. We fought over itconstantly – demanding that each other hung up, both bristling with our own senseof entitlement.

‘I’m talkingabout homework’ I’d screech at him.

As if.

I wastalking about boys. Or Buffy the VampireSlayer. Or boys in Buffy the VampireSlayer.

As bitter asI am about the lack of space though, I still remember fondly that it wasdefinitively my room. There’s no way you wandered in there andmistook it for his room. It was obvious from The Smashing Pumpkinsposter - black and white, featuring Billy, D’arcy and James only - and the BigTop Tent Tour Radiohead poster – and the gig ticket proudly framed on thewindowsill – and The Lord of the Rings poster – free, from a newspaper – that itwas my room. I had Snoopy mirrors on thewall and on top of the radiator, for doing my make-up in. Despite the lack of room to breathe, I stillmanaged to accumulate four or five CD racks full of noise that I’d howl alongto while doing my homework, sprawled as best I could on the floor spaceavailable.

The phone –yellow, with a fuzzy spider sticker on it – later moved to Edinburgh with me,and was sadly left behind in Morrison Street, after the evil ex declared it ‘nota necessity’. As though we were severingcommunication with our past lives rather than moving to a different city.

In MorrisonStreet, also left behind, were the posters that made my room definitively my room there. It couldn’t have been mistaken for Pete’sroom. Hers was all too obvious from the frocks,handbags and scarves in every available hanging space, photographs and magazinescraps plastered on the walls, postcards from eras gone by...

Whereasmine... Again, a Radiohead poster. A different one – the demon heads, over andover in black, apart from one, in red. AHail to the Thief poster and a Mogwai poster – both acquired when buying albumsfrom back when Avalanche Records was on Cockburn Street. And then there were the Belle and Sebastianposters – each almost as tall as me, bought from a street vendor after theirgig at the Usher Hall, when Stevie Jackson dedicated a song to me.

For a time,Pete went through a phase of printing off anime pictures from the Internet,verging on pornography, and sticking them to my bedroom door for me to giggleat when I got home from uni. Myfavourite surprise – a picture she’d drawn of me and her on a scrap of card,all long fringes and holding balloons, and a Pog with a unicorn on it. Another time, a laminated piece of card withSailor Moon on it. And another, a tinyvintage photograph of a scraggy horse. Istill have those actually.

Not theanime porn, obviously.

OBVIOUSLY.

But all the rest - the posters - wereleft behind, binned callously, for bare magnolia walls in the-flat-that-IKEA-builtin Manchester.

It was onlypaper. Right?

But sometime passed by, and I was given the freedom to accumulate new bits ofpaper. And now I can afford frames.

ATPavement. The National. Les Savy Fav. Wilco.

And ScottPilgrim Vs The World.

And thepostcards – from clubnights past, trips to Paris, Iceland, the Lake District.

Thephotographs... childhood throughteenhood to adulthood, Blackpool, Glasgow, Toronto...

Still rolledup and waiting to grace the walls – The Illusionist theatrical release poster, snaffledfrom The Cameo Cinema and stills from My Neighbour Totoro in watercolours.

The postersmight have changed but I suppose the intention is still the same...

‘For halfyour life, you’re fifteen. Then one day,your twenties begin, and they’re over the next day. And your thirties blow by you like a weekendspent with pleasant company. And beforeyou know it, you’re thinking about being fifteen again.’

Oh JohnIrving.

You went andassumed I got past fifteen in the first place.

At least I’mnot stuck with the worst room anymore.

It's not always ALL ABOUT ME. Only MOST OF THE TIME.

2011-09-26T15:45:00.000-07:00

I don't usually share links and stuff with this.

Y'know, 'cos I like to keep it ALL ABOUT ME.

But this is awfully good, and I know those of you who are reading Time For Twee would probably like it. So here you go. A short documentary about some things that wash up on the shore...

Flotsam & Jetsam HD from Flotsam and Jetsam on Vimeo.

Directed and produced by Sam Walkerdine and Luke Marsh, and shot by Nick Duckett. Talented boys...

Sam and Nick are also in Married to the Sea, who are a superband...

...which also features another talented boy called Simon Turner. Who illustrated this fabulous image for me,to give to Emma and Gregor as their wedding present in Iceland. He captured Emma and Gregor perfectly and thebeautiful church and waterfall where the wedding took place.

Hats off to these clever ones... Whilst simultaneously being hideouslyjealous.

But as I often tell Ed Bear apparently... jealousy is not anattractive quality.

'the place with the most allure'

2011-09-25T18:07:00.000-07:00

I can’tremember how I got into Clem Snide.

It’s reallybothering me. Someone in my ancienthistory books has got to be responsible for introducing me to them, but it’sescaped me.

I rememberlistening to Bright Eyes for the first time and reading the His Dark Materialstrilogy in my flat in Marchmont, over the Christmas holidays during 2^ndyear. I remember that I’d fallen outwith my housemates and didn’t want to leave my room, so I spent three dayseating Doritos in bed and reading this gigantic hardback book from beginning toend, with Conor caterwauling in the background to keep me company.

How can Iremember all that, but not remember what compelled me to buy Clem Snide in thefirst place?

I remember Ifirst heard Bonnie ‘Prince’ Billy because Bernard – who I was in the habit ofexchanging music with – had made me a CD. The first three tracks were ‘The District Sleeps Tonight’, ‘NothingBetter’ and ‘Such Great Heights’ by The Postal Service, and that was myintroduction to them. And after that, he’dput the whole of ‘i see a darkness’ on there. He would later say to me ‘I should have just copied The Postal Servicealbum for you too really. I don’t knowwhy I only put three tracks on’. But Iwent out and bought that and ‘i see a darkness’ as well anyway. As I’ve always been in the habit of needingto own the actual album.

How do Iremember that but not Clem Snide?

I rememberthe first time I heard The Mountain Goats – it was live. Clare liked them already and they wereplaying in the Subway on the Cowgate – a death-defying place that I’d come moreacquainted with when Pete and I, then later Murray and I ran a club/gig nightthere. To be fair, it’s understandablethat I’d remember The Mountain Goats more clearly, as it was the first time Iever spoke to Gordon. He’d played anacoustic support, and Clare and I became quickly aware of the uncanny likenessbetween Gordon and a young lad I’d just cast for my first short film atuni. I needed someone to play the ‘grownup’ version of the same character and it seemed fate that Gordon should havesuch similar mannerisms. So I asked himto be in my film and he said yes, and I asked him if he could learn to limp andhe said yes and I sent him a script and that was that.

He forgot toask which leg he’d have to limp on, so he learnt to do it with both, just incase.

What a pro.

I – ofcourse – remember the first time I heard ballboy. I bought the single Where Do The Nights OfSleep Go To When They Do Not Come To Me? because I liked the title. I bought it from Avalanche Records. I think it was probably a mere £3.99 orsomething. A cheap price for what turnedout to be an invaluable friendship. It’sfunny actually – I didn’t even know Gordon was going to be the support act atThe Mountain Goats. The clammy claw offate, maybe, decided we should collide that night. The boldness that comes with being seventeenthough, to march up to him and demand to know if he can act. And the kindness of him to be so tolerableand accommodating.

And yet,even though I can so easily recollect all of this, I cannot remember whateveror whoever possessed me to buy a Clem Snide album.

Was itperhaps Doug Johnstone? In my 1^stand 2^nd years of university, I treated his reviews in The List asgospel. He seemed to know what I wouldlike without knowing me – essential on student finances. The worst thing ever was when someone youknew recommended something and you forked out pennies on their word that you’dlike it, only to be heartily disappointed. There are still a few of those unpleasant surprises rotting in a box inthe spare room. Aside from Doug, andBernard who’d proven himself with a track record (he introduced me to MercuryRev, At the Drive-In, Desert Hearts, Elliott Smith, Grandaddy and many more...)of excellent compilations, I had a string of dubious ex-boyfriends with evenmore dubious taste in music, so this why I used to believe that most boys were not reliable sources ofrecommendation for music.

That’s notthe case now. The lovely boys in my lifethese days are always introducing me to new and interesting things.

But I wasstill aghast when, upon meeting Ed Bear, he announced that he only everinvestigated a girl’s bookshelf when he came round to her house for the firsttime... Because ‘girls only own musicthat their ex-boyfriends were into’.

Don’t worry,he left that conversation physically and mentally scarred.

Anyway, themore I think about it, it wasn’t Doug Johnstone ‘cos the record release datewouldn’t tie in with the time of my life when I suddenly decided that listeningto Clem Snide was a good idea.

I stoppedlistening to Doug after a time as well actually. He gave Plans by Death Cab For Cutie aparticularly scathing review when it came out and I was devastated. I conceded Ben Gibbard had gone and named asong after his approach to music – different names for the same thing. But I liked that you always knew what youwere going to get with a Death Cab record. I was shocked to realise that this music journalist whom I’d never metand had zero connection to should dare to have a differing and disparaging viewon the same album as me.

That was thenail in the coffin for you boys, really.

That’s nottrue.

The nail inthe coffin was when the evil ex put The Goo Goo dolls on a compilation for me,about three months in after we’d started seeing each other. It’snot that I’m only interested in aesthetics (I am kind of) but had he not beenso handsome, that would have been the end of that (he was terriblyhandsome...). In fact, after the firsttime he met my parents, my Dad sang his praises because he knew about footballand my Mum turned to me and said...

‘He’s notwhat I expected...’

‘What didyou expect?’ I asked her, nervously. Iwas wondering if she could tell from looking at him that he was the type of guywho’d put The Goo Goo Dolls on a compilation CD, and think that was an okay thing to do.

‘He justdoesn’t seem like your type’ she side-stepped.

‘What do youmean?!’ I was beginning to think hemight as well have worn a t-shirt emblazoned with ‘I HEART THE GOO GOO DOLLS’on it.

‘Well...’ Mum squirmed. ‘He’s very handsome...’

ThanksMum. Thanks very much.

But she wasright.

Then, Mumsalways are.

How can Iremember ALL of this and still have no clue as to how Clem Snide entered mylife?!

I know Iheard Jonathan Richman because Pete played Buzz Buzz Buzz on endless repeat inthat flat in Marchmont. I moved out toescape the flatmates I’d fallen out with and she took my old room, with thedinosaur wallpaper and the crappy sliding mirrored cupboard doors that alwayscame off the runners.

I know Iheard Beachwood Sparks because Murray put Desert Skies on a compilation called ‘GoodOl’ Country Comforts’, which came in a green case with a card featuring him and his brothers at Christmas aschildren, playing with a Millennium Falcon.

I know Iheard The Flaming Lips back in the days when the alternative music channel was ‘M2’and I used to stay up half the night watching music videos after everyone elsehad gone to bed, lying on the floor in front of the tv, with my feet up on thescalding radiator under the window. SheDon’t Use Jelly came on and I thought it was amazing.

It really isridiculous that I remember all of this so clearly, yet Clem Snide is being soelusive.

And while it’sprobably not important...

This isexactly the sort of thing that bothers me... when the nights of sleep do not come to me.

While we’reon the subject of firsts, we celebrated Bex’s birthday round at Mike’s theother night, and I learned a fact that makes him infinitely cooler than me.

The firstgig I ever went to was Wet Wet Wet. Imust have been about 5 or 6 years old, and they played a big concert on GlasgowGreen that my parents took me and my brother to. I have weird and vague memories of this (YETNOT CLEM SNIDE?!), mainly because my Dad bought me a glow in the dark headbandto wear, from one of those street vendors. Rock’n’roll.

Mike,meanwhile, went to see Michael Jackson for his first gig. Damn him.

I can claima lack of responsibility for Wet Wet Wet – my parents didn’t leave me much sayin the matter at that age. But if anyonewould care to come forward and stake claims on opening my eyes to Clem Snide soI can quit trying to figure it out, it would be gratefully appreciated.

Thanks.

Bare legs in a storm

2011-09-21T17:49:00.000-07:00

I’m not afan of August.

I can tracemost of my worst moments in life back to August.

Fuck you,August.

But at leastyou’re out the way now.

I wasworried on the 1^st of September, because I woke up all ready to bekitted out in a cute wool sweater and wool tights and boots. And September woke up in the mood to wearsunscreen and a visor. I don’t know whyI always expect autumn to crash in on us straight away, but at least today itwas cold and windy, and felt like the season it should be.

See that’sthe thing with August – it can’t make up it’s mind. September has settled into itself and now we’reset up for crisp leaves of orange and early sunsets of crimson. August, well, one minute it’s sunny, the nextit’s chilly, then there’s an insane thunder and lightning storm and suddenly you’vegot hailstones. I never know what toexpect with you, August, and it gets boring fast.

Don’t get mewrong, I like life to be a little unpredictable. But I need regularity in the seasons.

I mean, whatdoes August belong to? It’s the end ofsummer but somehow, also the beginning of autumn. It’s a transitional month. It’s not like November, where you wake up andyou know for sure that winter’s hanging out now. And it’s not like April where you’re alllike, ‘Hullo Spring!’ and waving joyously as the ice and snow melts away. No, August is sitting on the fence and thatpisses me off.

There’s asaying in Edinburgh that my old boss Ali used to tell the tourists with a wrysmile during the festival – ‘If you don’t like the weather, wait five minutes’.

I got usedto carrying the essentials for all four seasons around with me in Edinburghwhen I lived there. Umbrella, sunscreen,gloves, sunglasses. Covered. You can’t do anything about how windy it isin Edinburgh – skirts are always getting blown up everywhere. It’s the place teenage boys’ dreams are made of I suppose, if you think aboutit. Provided the girls are pretty andwearing nice knickers. Which theyusually are.

I can livewith Edinburgh being changeable in it’s weather – it’s consistent throughoutthe year in it’s unpredictability. ButAugust feels like it’s just being a moody bastard, doing it’s own thing everytwo minutes ‘cos it doesn’t know what else to do with itself.

Which Ithink makes me feel like I don’t know what to do with myself.

NowSeptember is here, and I had to wear my coat today because it was cold, and I’mthinking about putting my earmuffs in the washing machine ‘cos I’m certain I’llneed them in the immediate future. And Ido know what I want to do with myself.

I want towatch lots of films.

That’s how Igot thinking about weather, really.

I saw TheTroll Hunter and You Instead. Both filmsleft me feeling a bit cold and damp.

The TrollHunter reminded me a lot of being a film student, in the freezing cold inwellies and waterproofs, headphones on, a skeleton crew and about twenty pencebetween you, rain teaming down and your cheeks frozen. As someone utters those heart-sinking words ‘Canwe go for another take...’ Not even myuniversity puppy fat did much to make me warm in that scenario. The film is extraordinary on many levels, butfor the first 45 minutes, all I could think about was how cold and damp thosekids must have been while they were shooting.

Cold anddamp is a special kind of misery, all of it’s own kind.

And then YouInstead projects a very particular kind of cold and damp at it’s audience –that of having been in the muddy confines of a music festival for three days,where your socks are sodden and your bones are chilled but you’re running on asleepless booze tank through ‘til Monday morning and the long trek home... It started out ropey but won my heart by theend. It’s actually quite an accurate portrayalof how it feels to be at a festival, albeit sprinkled with the appropriateglamour of following two rockstars with backstage passes...

I could’vewon money if I’d bet out loud the predictable inclusion of The Twilight Sad andFrightened Rabbit on the soundtrack, but that was balanced out by thedelightful surprise of Strike the Colours and Withered Hand.

But the eerilyempty shots of the trampled grass and discarded litter in the early hours afterthe first night of T in the Park caused a thousand memories of waking up inprecisely that scenario many times at music festivals... and feeling... cold... and... damp.

I fuckinghate camping.

Almost asmuch as I hate August.

'Put that on your blog!'... So I did...

2011-09-19T16:17:00.000-07:00

‘Put that onyour blog!’

According toEmma, he doesn’t remember it. But that’sexactly what Gregor said to me after planting a big wet slobbery kiss on mylips towards the end of their wedding party in Aberdeen. I’d told them off for snogging in front ofme, and this was Gregor’s revenge. Isuppose if anything, I should be offended that my kisses are soforgettable. Kinda like the time I gaveMike a birthday kiss on the cheek and he drunkenly informed me that I kiss ‘likea ripe avocado’.

Mike doesn’tremember that either.

Thanksguys. Thanks a lot.

It’s myfirst time in Aberdeen ever. Thefurthest north I’ve ever been in Scotland actually. The seven hour train ride was daunting enoughwhen I booked it, but then I foolishly went out and got wasted the nightbefore. I’m sure you can imagine howenjoyable that experience was.

Mike had agig hosted by Edils Recordings (cancelled then suddenly not cancelled again) on the Friday, so me, Ellenand Jim popped down to watch Novice Mathematic. The plan was to stick to Diet Coke. And then I fell under the influence – as often is the case – of boys. Too many beers later... I was destined to sleep in for my train thenext day. It was worth it though – dear Christopherwas handsome and lovely on bass as ever, and I got to see Huw for the firsttime in AGES, and his gorgeous girlfriend Katie. Mike offered up some very sweaty hugs afterhe played and I had an awkward encounter with Stephen Hudson who was alsoplaying, which reminded me why I shouldn’t write everything I think on theInternet.

My blushing aside, he and his band (The Fiat Pandas) were excellent as ever. I’m prettysure one of his songs referenced the word ‘blouse’ which set me and Ellen on adebate about who wears blouses these days.

Pete does.

She looksgood in them.

Anyway, thenight resulted in a fun but ill-advised trip to Heebie Jeebies in which wedecided that life should contain more trips to the cinema and that Nick was ‘Braveand Sensitive’ while Sam was ‘Creative and something I can’t remember now’. Because these are the qualities girls areseeking in boys. Maybe.

Personally I’minto ‘Rich and Away A Lot’ but y’know, all girls are different.

I felt a lotless fun on the train from Manchester to Edinburgh. But I perked up on arrival when the firstthing I saw while waiting for my connecting train were two extremely hot gingermusician boys. Again, why did I leavethis city? I’m slightly disappointedthat Pete didn’t make the effort to come meet me at the station and nurse mypoor sickly little head.

Arriving atmy hotel in Aberdeen, I feel a bit too much like a grown up, although I’mfairly certain that the girl at reception is one step away from asking me wheremy parents are. No make-up and dressedin an odd assortment of what was on the floor when I woke up and packed mysuitcase while still drunk and the taxi was beeping outside... At least I’d sobered up by this point. So when I get into my room (after first ofall managing to accidentally knock the towel rack off the wall... oops), I putCome Dine With Me on the telly and jump up and down on the bed to remind myselfthat I’m still a child on the inside, no matter how worn out I feel.

It’s nice tosee some of the new faces we met at the Iceland wedding amongst all the oldfaces from back home, gathered to celebrate Emmy and Gregor getting marriedagain. We throw ourselves into the Ceilidh,during which I’m accidentally dropped in the middle of the spinning bit of TheCumberland Square Eight, almost taking out an entire table of party guestswhile I’m at it. My dancing partnerseems really worried about me as he helps pick me up, apologising profusely,but I assure him that me falling over is an almost daily occurrence. At least I had a good excuse this time...

Emma’splaylist for the ‘disco’ part of the night is impeccable. There’s loads of Springsteen, The Beach Boys,Chuck Berry and some classic Scottish wedding hits. We spend a considerable portion of the nighttrying to explain to Becca’s friends Matt and Laura (previously of PunctureRepair Kit and Betty and the Werewolves fame) who’ve just moved to Scotlandfrom far down South, why ‘A Ship Called Dignity’ is a wedding anthem, and whyeveryone forms a circle around the bride and groom for the Ceilidh band’sencore of ‘The Bonnie Banks ‘o’ Loch Lomond’ but it’s that weird cultural kindathing that you can’t really put into words...

I spend alot of the night on the dancefloor with Gills and Matt and Laura, laughing atGregor lording it up on the stage, in control of the laptop playlist with greatpride. Before we know it, the night isover and we’re the only ones left. Thebar staff are clearing up, and we’re told it’s the last song. We clap and cheer at the end and Gregordecides that’s not enough. He sticks onanother song. As a bemused Em goes uponstage to tell Gregor off, he grabs her and forces her to dance. It’s adorable, watching them up theretogether, but then we spot the bar manager next to us, also watching them. Earlier Clair had told me his tight trouserswere making her feel uncomfortable and I had to agree – they were slightlyobscene.

‘Ohdear... I think he’s gonna get grumpyand chuck us out’ I mutter.

And then oneof those moments occurs, one of those magical little moments that sometimes astranger brings unexpectedly into your life, that confirms everything you’veever hoped to be true as absolute fact...

The bar guyturns to me and nods at the stage...

‘I’m sosentimental’ he says to me. ‘Look atthem. That’s what you call really beingin love. It’s beautiful. They’re forever’.

I’m a bitshell-shocked – I was expecting to be told to get my cardigan and get out ofhere. As I’m trying to process this, hebrings me back to earth with a bump.

‘Your dressis ripped by the way pal’ he tells me and heads back to the bar, collectingglasses on the way.

It’s true,the sleeve of my original 1950’s blush pink gown has been ripped completelyduring a particularly frenetic go at ‘The Twist’ earlier. I shrug it off. Bruised legs and ripped dresses. That’s what you call a wedding party...

We cuddleour newly married friends and we hit the roads of Aberdeen, packed with drunkenyoung people. We seek out a chippy wherewe talk Matt and Laura into experiencing some top quality Scottish cuisine andthey order a ‘pizza crunch’ (English translation: a deep fried pizza). This delicacy apparently swiftly made it’sway into the bin, although I’m not surprised. I wouldn’t eat it even if you paid me. But I did have some chips...

On the wayback to my hotel, me and Gills find a 15 year old girl in tiny hot pants and avest crying on some stairs that lead to a sinister-looking back alley.

‘I writestorylines about this exact scenario’ I tell Gills as we stop to make sure she’sokay. She’s absolutely stunning, andtiny like a doll. I’m a bit jealous thatshe’s one of this kids that can make weeping look good. I look terrible when I cry. We discover she’s lost her pals and refuse toleave until her mum comes to pick her up.

And that’sthe drama over for the night. I’m sooncurled up watching some weird Kung Fu film in my hotel again, dreading themorning alarm and faced with the dawning realisation that I’ve paid six poundsfor breakfast despite knowing that the only thing I’ll want to eat is toast...

I think thesudden observation of true love from a stranger was one of the highlights ofthe night... but there’s something evenbetter that will forever stay with me as an outstanding memory of that night.

And that’sClair doing tequila at the bar with Em’s Mum.

‘Cos whileit’s uncommon that a complete stranger would unexpectedly pinpoint exactly howyou feel about a very close friend’s new marriage...

I think it’seven more unlikely that I’m ever going to forget Clair and Bernadette singingalong to Terrorvision and downing shots.

Much morememorable than my kisses for sure.

Things the grandchildren should know...

2011-09-07T18:18:00.000-07:00

I considerit one of my life’s great tragedies that I’ve never seen the eels live.

If you knowanything about the tragedy of Mark Oliver Everett’s life, you’ll know mygrumble is trite by comparison.

You shouldalso take into account that I’ve had ample opportunity to see E play live – hetours every couple of years, and has produced... how many albums? Yet somehow, I’ve never made it along.

It allstarted when I was fifteen. No, wait, itstarted before then.

We allidentified with Beautiful Freak, right? Teenagers in our bedrooms, listening to songs about how we’re pretty onthe inside, how we’re not ready to smile... This guy got me. And then by thetime I was even more angsty, electro-shock blues. An album I still reserve for my most down day– ‘cos if anything’s going to remind you of how lucky you are and why youshould goddamn smile, it’s that album.

So a coupleof years of listening to that on the go first... And falling in love with it... every note, every word... and one day, when I’m fifteen...

I get a freeticket to see eels at The Glasgow Royal Concert Hall, courtesy of my friendAlice.

Alice was myRayanne, my Kim Kelly, my Jen Lindley. She was trouble, and I loved her. When I was heading off to university, my parents admitted they’d beenconcerned about my friendship with her initially. They thought she was going to lead meastray. Apparently they decided theytrusted me to make the right choices, and left me to it. More fool them...

Alice didlead me astray, but I needed it. Heroccasionally patronising but often illuminating take on life encouraged me toget into all kinds of mischief. Some ofit harmless, some of it ill-advised, all of it fun. Alice was last seen spangled and dancing toBasement Jaxx at T in the Park, with her parents and sister, who were equallyspangled... Off they danced into thenight, and I never saw them again.

Alice’sparents were as wild as Alice, and we often stayed at their house where therewas more freedom to do things we shouldn’t be doing. Alice and her sister Helen called theirparents by their first names, which seemed like a terribly grown up thing todo, and Helen and her best friend Caroline were exotic, charismatic andcompelling to be around. We would listenthen repeat their strong opinions on music and film and school and life as ifthey were our own. When we stayed atAlice’s for sleepovers, I’d lie on the floor, with one of their cats curled upbeside me, and stare up at the Portishead poster on the ceiling, and feelsafe. These people got me.

It would bea family trip to see the eels – Alice’s dad had bought the tickets and told hershe could take a friend. Alice couldhave picked any of us, but she picked me. I was so excited.

Around thistime, my parents mentioned we were going on holiday. I didn’t want to go, but they thought Ishould. That I needed a break or neededto spend some time with them or something. My brother wasn’t coming, so it would be just the three of us. I tried to pretend it wasn’t happening. And then...

They bookeda two week holiday to Cyprus. And ofcourse, the dates covered the night of the eels concert.

ARE. YOU. KIDDING. ME?

I AM NOTGOING.

THERE IS NOWAY I’M GETTING ON THAT PLANE.

I CAN’T MISSA FREE EELS CONCERT.

I AM NOTGOING!

I AM ON AFUCKING PLANE. NO FUCKING WAY.

‘Cos youdon’t have much choice in that scenario when you’re fifteen.

Perhaps ifwe hadn’t thrown that giant party for Emma’s 16^th earlier that year,I might have had a little more say in the matter, but there was no changingtheir minds. We were booked. I was going.

I was at anage where the trauma of wearing a bikini was excruciating. Actually, I think the last time I feltcomfortable in a swimsuit was when I was about 8, on holiday in Spain. Since then, I’d rather eat the giant spiderthat currently resides in my flat than wear a bikini or swimsuit. No one needs to see that, least of allme.

So, I wasbeing utterly vile to my parents on this holiday. They bought me a CD player so I could sit onthe balcony of our apartment and listen to Nirvana and the Pixies, and scowl,and miss my friends back home. I thinkmy mum let me borrow her mobile a couple of times, so I could call up Becca andfind out what everyone was up to. Iremember that one of the things that came out of this holiday was me decidingto break up with my boyfriend. He wouldlater go on to date Alice, then turn out to be a crazy compulsive liar, andthen got into the habit of prank calling us all, playing Marilyn Manson recordsat 3am.

I startedunplugging my phone at night.

The worstpart of the holiday was when we discovered an ‘alternative music’ bar, at theother end of the town we were staying in. A bit of a Hard Rock Cafe type affair. Initially I was thrilled. The DJ was older, handsome and had tattoos,and was bored out of his mind, so was quite up for playing pool with me betweensongs while my Dad bought him drinks, presumably grateful that his daughter hadalmost smiled for the first time in a fortnight. But my poor, well-meaning Dad would of courseruin everything... ‘Cos everyone knowsyou can’t please a teenager by being nice to her.

I’m playingpool with my Mum, and I’m probably winning. I’m actually having quite a fun night, enjoying singing along to thealt-rawk and drinking virgin cocktails. And that’s when Novocaine for the Soul comes on, my Dad bounding backfrom the DJ booth with a big grin on his face.

‘I thoughtthis would make up for you missing them tonight’, he tells me.

I HAD TOTALLYFORGOTTEN THE CONCERT WAS TONIGHT. THANKS FOR REMINDING ME I’M MISSING OUT ON THE GREATEST THING TO EVERHAPPEN TO ANYONE EVER IN THE HISTORY OF EVERYTHING. THIS IS THE WORST THING ANYONE HAS EVER DONETO ME!

That wasit. For the rest of the holiday, I wassullen and sulky tenfold, and I think my parents just left me to myself formost of it. I got an ear infection onthe last two days, and had to go see a doctor who advised I probably shouldn’tfly. As if I wasn’t getting on thatgoddamn plane. It hurt a lot, but it wasworth it.

I don’tremember who went to see the eels in my place. Apparently they played for two hours that night and did twoencores. It does sound tremendous.

I think it’smore that I missed out on that specific time to see them. If I saw them now, I’m sure it would be ace,but I wouldn’t be fifteen years old and at the most enthusiastic about music I’veever been. That’s why it still bothersme now – when I think about the way I felt when I went to see Radiohead and TheSmashing Pumpkins at that time, and I was so thrilled, so joyous, theanticipation was sooooo great... Youlose that as you get older. Gigs are awesome,but they don’t feel like the most important thing to ever happen to youanymore. That’s a real shame, but it’sprobably the way things should be.

I guess that’swhy I haven’t taken up any of those countless chances to see them.

The weirdthing about the eels, even though I really like them, I lost touch with themafter Daisies of the Galaxy. I rememberfirst hearing that album and finding it so strange – it was mostly so upbeat,but the lyrics were mostly so sad and dark. I found it confusing, but I liked it. Then I guess other music came along, and E was just too prolific for meto keep up. I moved on and so did he,and we seemed to go in different directions.

It’s funny –I guess me and the eels drifted apart like me and Alice did. New people happened, and we had differentlives and different paths and off we went... I’ll always love the eels, and I guess I’ll always love Alice. Like I’ll always love the feeling I had whenI went to see bands when I was fifteen. But again, things are probably the way they should be now.

I reallyhope that wherever Alice is now she’s happy.

Although I’vemoved on from the eels’ records, I recently reread Mark Oliver Everett’sautobiography. Ellen recommended it tome when I was living with her, and I was completely blown away by it.

For a whileI was in the habit of giving it to people as a gift, with cute little inspirationalquotation cards inserted at random throughout – my favourite one I used was JohnKeats – ‘There is nothing stable in this world; uproar’s your only music’. I wrote to one of my friends that you didn’teven have to know who the eels were to enjoy the book. It’s more the story of some guy’s life, andhe just happens to be in an internationally successful rock band.

If you’veknown and loved any of the eels songs, it’s strange to read the firsthand andoften harrowing experiences that resulted in E writing the lyrics and musicthat he did. But what really captures meevery time is the story of when he was twelve...

‘...a planecrashed in our neighbourhood. I wasalone at home that night... a weirdorange light started to shine through the curtains. Then I heard an awful droning sound that wasgetting louder and louder. Suddenlythere was a sonic explosion... I ran outinto the street barefoot... I ran towards the huge funnel of smoke that was litup in the night sky by flames and emergency lights, passing seats and ashtraysand body parts that were littered all over the neighbourhood... As my bare feet hit the asphalt, I sped upand thought about how these people were just alive, but now they were dead, andhow much I felt alive at that moment.’

Jesus.

Like... most people... if that was the ONLY thing of any note thathappened to them in their lifetime, at any age let alone twelve yearsold... You’d be fucked up.

E then goeson to deal with the sudden death of his father, the suicide of his older sisterand the long painful death of his mother, as well as the loss of two relativesin one of the 9/11 plane crashes and the overdose of his roadie and good friendSpider.

And this guykeeps getting up every day, eating, breathing... writing songs.

I couldquote endlessly from E’s book. There areso many extraordinary passages and enlightening stories. There’s a whole chapter entitled ‘I LoveCrazy Girls’ where he reluctantly and bashfully admits that if there’s a crazygirl in the room, he’ll be in love with her within three seconds of settingeyes on her. I know so many boys who doexactly that. It made me laugh, and itmade me sad. But that’s how boys work,right? You say you don’t want neurotic,but deep down, you like the way the crazy girls make you feel important. At least E has the balls to admit it.

And thestory he tells about his hero Tom Waits agreeing to record a vocal for atrack. E sends him a four track, withhis bits recorded and detailed instructions to Tom, telling him what to do. Tom Waits ignores the instructions,accidentally erases E’s vocal track and sends back a suitably crazy-Waitsyrecording with an apology. E writesgleefully ‘I, of course, am thrilled by the whole thing. TomWaits erased my vocal’.

Fuck, yeah.

And when hecame to terms with his relationship with his father... His realisation that he’s grown to be so muchlike his Dad as he’s gotten older, and with that, he’s understood why theyweren’t so close when he was alive. Butmore importantly, that he shares what his father said a few days before hisdeath – that he’d had a good life. Evenwith all that astonishing shit that happened to him.

But myabsolute favourite thing about the book is when E talks about the expectationsof his fans.

‘I just havesome things in me that need to come out. If you only like one kind of music, sorry again, but life’s tooshort. Every record I’ve ever put outhas been met with some torrent of angry fan mail because it wasn’t what theyexpected. If you want what you expect,why not make your own album then? I’mjust trying to make mine, and it’s probably not what you’re expecting. I’m glad we had this little talk’.

I love theway he stuck to his guns for every single release. Even when everyone was saying no, he knewwhen he was doing the right thing. Thewhole book is a lesson in courage and conviction. ‘Cos apparently, once you’ve got thatpegged...

HeyMan... Now you’re really living.