Subliminal Partying

When Isabelle invited me to a Sublime gig as a birthday present, I jumped at the idea. OK, so I hadn’t listened to Sublime for a few years – perhaps since I last smoked pot, but that didn’t matter. I remembered them fondly. They were ska, but stoner ska.

So I drove to London, my vast back catalogue of Sublime CD’s strewn across the passenger seat as I reacquainted myself with the band. Uh-oh. Not as many chilled out stoner songs as I remembered, and quite a few more shouty shout shout. The kind of music that gets all my friends to the mosh pit and me fainting from the heat somewhere near the back.

We arrived at the Shepherd’s Bush Empire and formed an orderly queue. Two queues. One, we were told, was for the seated. The other, our queue, for the standing. The moshers. Us. Me. A fish out of water. An alien in New York. An alien in Shepherd’s Bush.

We got to the front and handed over our tickets. ‘You’re in the wrong queue,’ said the 6ft by 6ft bouncer. ‘You’ve got seated tickets.’

Isabelle and I turned to each other, one of us hiding our disappointment, the other hiding our glee. ‘I’m so sorry!’ said Isabelle. ‘Oh shucks,’ I said, shaking my head in mock misfortune. ‘Nevermind.’

We were still rock and roll. But we were rock and roll with seats. We stood, we danced, but we also had somewhere to put our bags and didn’t get beer thrown on us by the crowds above. Accuse me of fuddy duddyness. I don’t care. I was so comfortable.

From my view point, I found myself mesmerised by one of the bouncers. He was huge and, unlike the others, who had formed a ring of defense along the foot of the stage, this one had positioned himself on stage.

The other bouncers at least got some action – crowd surfers were taken away by their cuffs, screaming girls were handed water. They talked into their ear pieces and perfected the burly and menacing look they’d no doubt practiced in front of the mirror.

But this guy? He seemed to be almost enjoying himself. I swear I saw him nod his head at one point. I’d wager he was even listening to the music. I liked him. The other bouncers looked like jobsworths. This guy I just wanted to cuddle.

Apres the gig, Isabelle and I met up with some friends and, being a smug little thing, I declared that my sister’s nightclub, Ginglik, was just down the road and we were all on the guest list. Probably.

After two more hours dancing and drinking, we called it a night. It was 1.30am and we had to be on form the next day too. We left Ginglik and made our way back to my sister’s flat where we were bunking up for the night.

My sister and her boyfriend, Colin, were in north London at a gig, so Colin had left us his key.

Thirty minutes of jamming the key in the lock later, we had to agree that Colin had given us the wrong key. What to do? It was 2am, we couldn’t get hold of Tammi or Colin, it was a bit cold and we were a bit tired.

‘Right,’ I said, taking affirmative action. ‘There’s a hotel over there. We can sit in the bar and have a nice cup of tea while we wait for someone to help us.’

As we approached, the doorman held his hand out to stop us. ‘You staying here tonight?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Room 101.’

He didn’t blink. Just opened the door and guided us through.

As we made our way to the bar, who should I spot but the cuddly bouncer fella – the one who had mesmerised me with his head bobbing policy.

‘Hey, were you on stage with Sublime earlier?’ I asked him, running up to him. ‘I watched you all night!’

‘I sure was, I’m here with the band,’ he says, turning to reveal the lead singer just behind him.

The next two hours went by in a blur. I remember getting my longed-for cuddle with Kimo. That was his name. A bit like mine, but with an O, I told him. 'So now you won’t forget my name will you?' I said. He did.

I remember running up and down the corridors of the hotel trying to locate the Jack Daniels vending machines, telling Rome Ramirez, the lead singer of Sublime, that he shouldn’t have to pay £14 for a miniature bottle of whiskey, and then proceeding to kick the vending machine in the hopes one would just fall into our laps. He loved it. ‘You English girls are crazy!’ he said.

That’s right Rome, you should have seen me earlier when I got a bit tired during your set and had a little sit down.

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What a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive. It is true. Today I feel like a drunk spider. The web is a right old mess.

It all started when my boyfriend got called on a job on the day of one of our very best friend’s wedding. We called to tell them that we couldn’t go to their wedding. Well, I could have gone, but I only knew the bride and groom and wasn’t sure they’d be up for hanging out as a trio on their day of betrothal.

And so, we hit them with the news. They were understandably devastated, because Gareth and I are, let’s face it, an asset to any party.

And then Gareth said it. He said the words that are now haunting us.

‘We didn’t get you a present from your John Lewis list. We went off-list. What we got you instead is incredible.’

Even as he said it, I looked at him in astonishment, my head shaking. Don’t set us up to fail, man! Gareth looked back at me, his face already saying ‘I don’t know why I said that’ while his mouth reaffirmed it.

Now, let’s break it down. The first part is true, we hadn’t got our act together in time to get one of the presents they had actually asked for. Being arrogant types, we’d instead opted to go off-list and decide for them what they wanted from us.

But we hadn’t yet got round to making that idea a reality. Thanks to Gareth’s desperate attempt to let them down gently (good cop, bad cop in one swift move: Can’t come to your wedding, got you an amazing gift. You still like me now, don’t you?) we now had to come up with something pretty spectacular.

As it happened, Gareth was back in time from his job and we made it to their wedding – of course, our ‘brilliant gift’ was left behind because it was ‘too big to carry’.

They went on their honeymoon and we, well, we sort of forgot about it. But it was okay, because they were on their honeymoon and we had weeks to sort out something spectacular.

We now have 11 hours until they arrive at our house for dinner. I’m not saying they’ll arrive and start looking over our shoulder for the gift we promised, but having only remembered one hour ago that we are without incredible gift, we are at a loss as to our plan.

‘It’s so big, we have it in storage at a friend’s house.’ No, that won’t do, limits us to only buying a large gift when we do get round to it.

‘It hasn’t arrived yet.’ No, that won’t do, we’ve had two months.

‘It’s not ready yet.’ Intriguing.

‘Gareth’s an idiot.’ Hmm, that one could work.

I need a gift that can only be defined as amazing, and I need it now.

Scratch cards. E-U-bloody-REKA!

By Jove, I’m such a good friend.*

*Just ran this idea past Gareth. He told me I was a pikey and shot my idea down. He’s not really in a position to refute any ideas, but I suppose he’s right.

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Like a Virgin.

Removing the TV from my life was harder than I expected. Not because I crave it, but because the people that control the fact 99% of homeowners own a TV make it really, really hard for you to give one up.

In my case, it’s Virgin Media.

I hate Richard Branson, I hate his company and I hate giving them my custom. So I was delighted to call them today and tell them I would no longer require their set top box. I didn’t anticipate the reaction, but what follows is further proof that the people in charge really want us to keep watching TV. Which in fact reminds me of the best quote from my anti-TV book. When TV first became popular, a government official said: ‘Well, we have to think of something to do with them when they’re not at work.’

We’re not lemmings! We’re not robots! Come on people, pick up your TV and throw it out the window! Take up a hobbie, learn a new skill – opps, sorry. Tangent. Smug Moron. But Virgin’s reaction reminded me how sinister the notion of television is and my soap box was gathering dust.

A highlight of any call to Virgin has to be the endless ‘press one’ lists before you finally get through to a real person. In India. Before I’d even got to that stage, an automated voice told me that, peril! Calamity! It looked as thought I hadn’t updated my smart card and I was in danger of losing channels. In danger? That’s a bit of a drastic choice of words.


OH MY GOD, MY BOAT IS SINKING, I’M IN DANGER.
MY HUSBAND IS TRYING TO KILL ME, I’M IN DANGER.
MY TELEVISION IS THREATENING TO CUT ME OFF, I’M IN DANGER.

Ridiculous. I ignored the message, because I was here to cancel my TV anyway. How very dangerous.

‘Option One,’ Virgin begins. ‘To add more channels to your account, press one.’

No, Virgin, I don’t want more channels. I want less. I want zero channels. Which button do I press for zero channels?

The automated voice bangs on. ‘Option Two,’ bla bla bla. Finally, in the dark recesses of the handset, the number no sane person would be waiting to press: ‘Option nine, to make a change to your account, press nine.’

I’m in!

'Hello, I will no longer be using my set top box. Would you like to come and collect it or shall I throw it away?’

‘If you throw it away we’ll charge you £250,’ came the curt reply. Well trained, Branson, well trained.

‘Alright mate, I’m only asking. I’d like to remove my TV package from my account please.’

'Why?'

'TV is evil.'

'What do you mean by that?' he asks, unamused.

I explain and request for someone to pick up the box. He begs me to ‘stash’ it in a cupboard somewhere, because it’s likely I’ll change my mind in a few months.

Complete stranger, telling me it’s likely I’ll change my mind.

‘I won’t.’

'You might.'

'I won't. Can you arrange for someone to pick it up please?'

'Are you sure you don’t want to keep it in a cupboard, just in case?'

'No.'

'Please hold while I put you through to an advisor.'

Brilliant. Isn’t this a marvelous system? I’m having so much fun. I could do this all day, just listen to the Virgin music and get passed from pillar to post, being told what I feel and why I need to keep my TV. I haven’t had this much fun since I called the TV license company and told them to cancel my direct debit.

Yes, I had to call them, because nowhere on their website is there an option for canceling your license. Sinister, no?

When I finally got through to them, I was told that in no uncertain terms, if I was lying about no longer having a TV, I would be fined. And that an officer may call round at any time to check up on me. I would be charged £1000 if I was found to be using my TV.

Crumbs. Thank god I replaced it with losing scratch cards, so the officer won’t have anything to complain about.

However, if he’s bored while he’s inspecting my property and looking for potential televisions I may have hidden in the fridge, perhaps I’ll give him Virgin’s number – always a good way to wile away your afternoon.

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TV Go Home

I have given up TV. I am now one of those annoying people who, when you say: ‘Did you see X Factor on TV last night?’ retort with: ‘No, I don’t have a TV.’ What a moron. I hate people who say that. But that is now me. I am Smug Moron, how do you do.

I had to do it. I didn’t want to have a TV in my life for the rest of my life. It’s too much commitment to an object that doesn’t know what my favourite food is, what my favourite colour is, or what my name is. It’s a one sided relationship and it's over.

My cantankerous decision to part with the box started when I read a book about the evil black hole in the corner and the sadistic advertising that starts infiltrating our minds as babies and carries on until death. Death on the sofa, in front of the TV. It put me right off. So I sold it to a friend for £25.

(£25 I promptly spent on scratch cards. I won £4. Moron strikes again.)

Gareth didn’t really get much of a say in our mutual decision to sell his TV. His TV, that had cost him £400. I read my anti-TV book and declared that we were selling the TV. ‘But I quite like TV,' Gareth protested wearily. One of the things I love about him is that he knows when I’ve got my soap box out and there’s a bee in my bonnet, it’s easier to just go with it. Anything for an easy life, Gareth always tells me. He’s very lenient.

So we sold our TV. Half way through X Factor, which I will miss terribly. I don’t mean half way through the series, half way through an episode. It was terribly inconvenient, but the disappointment at the timing of the sale further confirmed my decision as the right one – if I care that the TV is being taken away half way through X factor then it’s time to take away the TV.

Last night Gareth was in London and it was my first night alone with no TV. Ordinarily, I’d cosy up to a rom com, possibly a Thai green curry, don some comfy pyjamas and enjoy the early evening removal of contact lenses.

Not tonight. With TV removed from the equation, I looked through recipe books and chose a delightful cake to make for my brother’s upcoming birthday. I built a desk and wrote this column. I dyed my hair a sunny shade of red, and, consequently, certain parts of my face. Now, if that’s not a productive evening, I don’t know what is.

The plan is to now become ridiculously intelligent from all the books I’ll read and as cultured as milk from all the cultural nights out I’ll enjoy.

Although, there’s always i-player.

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Lemon Curd.

I like lemon curd now.

I know, I know. Hold the front page, stop the clocks, call off the search.

But it’s true! I do! And I didn’t! I mean, I really didn’t. My mum will attest to at least 14 occasions where I’ve been near lemon curd and balked at the idea, screwed my face up into a ball of disgust and banged on about how putrid the very notion of a curd of lemons is.

And then one morning, just days ago, I woke up and I needed it. I needed the curd. Just like that.

I don’t think I’m pregnant. I’m not sure lemon curd is the kind of thing pregnant people crave anyway. Don’t they just crave lumps of coal? Lemon curd is about as far away from a lump of coal as you can get, in colour and consistency. And taste. Mmm, lemon curd.

(Is the word 'curd' beginning to sound warped to you, too? Good.)

Anyway, no coal for me thanks, I’m on a lemon curd diet. Soon after the wondrous morning of curd-wakening, I was in the jam aisle at Asda looking for something I’d never cared for before. I bought their finest and smothered it on toast.

D-licious!

My craving was satisfied. Then I started to worry. How many other people were there like me who hadn’t been buying lemon curd? Cursed with such a terribly unflattering name, production is probably dying off at the same speed as old people.

It dawned on me there were all kinds of food old people love that I don’t buy. I used to eat Jamaican ginger cake with my Grandma. Is that still in production? I haven’t bought one in years. I can just see the Jamaicans now, barely two pennies to rub together, hoping just one more granny buys their cake before popping off.

Never fear, Jamaicans! You’ve come to my attention! I think I can single-handedly rescue lemon curd and Jamaican ginger cake from production abyss. I can buy it in bulk. I can give it to friends. I can stand next to the jam and send out subliminal messages to young people picking up Marmite.

'Oo! Lemon curd! That's just what I fancy!' I'll say, and they'll suddenly realise Marmite is so last season. Curd is where it's at.

Crumbs. I’ve taken on a big responsibility. I'm like the new Spiderman of Aisle 12, spreads and preserves.

I better go, Asda’s open and those globules of lemony sugar aren’t going to sell themselves.

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Baby Blues

With the tent successfully erected as the sun set over the magnificent Gower, waves crashing against a not too distant shore, we cracked open a chilled cider. Footloose and child free.

Players in this weekend being Gareth and myself, my sister Tammi and her fella, Colin. We like hanging around with other childless couples who don’t want children. It means we can spend our time commenting on the things we’re enjoying now but couldn’t if we had dirty little pesky children running around demanding our every second of attention.

Tammi and Colin have pretty much decided child-rearing isn’t for them. This spurred Gareth and I on. Hurray! Other people who’d favour freedom and finance over poo and sick! We were in good company.

We spent the weekend lazily meandering between our campsite, the local pub and an exquisitely beautiful beach, where we downed shots of rum before hitting the sea to bodyboard. We went quad biking, and got up when we bloody well felt like it. All to the chorus of the strained parents and whining children in our campsite arguing over muddy shoes and fizzy drinks.

In the pub, Tammi got stroking a dog and soon the owners were chatting away. They happened to mention to our slightly sozzled crew that the dog was a child substitute – this couple had forgone children for a life on the open road. Naturally, we pounced on them.

‘We don’t want children either!’ I exclaimed. ‘How did it work for you?’

The next few hours were spent listening to their tales. ‘Prepare to lose friends,’ they warned. ‘And people will presume you’re infertile.’

But we were not deterred. This couple were us, just 15 years later. They were in good shape, hadn’t lost their physique to the emotional and physical drains and strains of parenthood. They were cheerful and not, as I’d feared, weird.

‘Did you know that if you have a baby, it renders everything else you could possibly do to reduce your carbon footprint, completely obsolete?’ I said, keen to impress our new friends.

They did mention that we might experience the odd pang of regret once in a while, in the years after the body can no longer provide, but the mind still wonders. But by then, I wasn’t listening. They’d said everything I wanted to hear. Negatives I wasn’t looking for.

Fuelled in confidence that if they could do it, we would to, we left them to their beer and headed inside for an intense game of poker, the mentioning of which serves only for me to gloat of my winning.

The following morning, Colin bought the Observer.

‘The happiness years: Once the kids have grown up and left’ said the well-timed headline.

There followed a report on how couples could expect to be £600 per month better off, endure less arguments, more hobbies and activities, less stress and more happiness. And, what’s more, they’ll feel ten years younger.

‘You’ll relight the fire, for life in general and each other,’ it declared.

Well, we’ll just cut out the middle man! Genius! Our £600 a month of happiness starts right now!

Smug in our self righteous decision to remain barren, rich and lonely, we headed home.

Home, to the news that one of my very best friends is up the duff.

I squealed in delight when she told me. A baby! A little tiny cute baby, for me to buy miniature Nike Air Max’s for! And a baby gro! And a bib that says: ‘I’m cute!’

My mind waivers. I’ll see how my friend gets on. If she positively glows from the whole experience, maybe I’ll declare my womb available for rent.

But if that baby so much as throws up on me, then it’s goodbye parenthood, hello yacht in the Caribbean, £600 a month for life and a ten year reduction in age.

Baby, it’s all down to you.

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Running Away

So there I was, just a humble not-so young girl who likes cake and needs to run a few miles a week to keep the bits that could go podgy from doing so. Because there’s no way I’m giving up cake.

I needed a gym membership. Now I’ve moved around plenty, I’ve been a member of countless gyms. I should have known an evil, over-priced under-maintained gym from first whiff. But I was conned, duped, fooled into parting with – ouch - £500 a year.

A six foot lesbian showed me round Fitness First, waving to people as we toured. ‘Alright Pete?’ she said, smiling. ‘Going for a drink later?’ What a friendly place! Everyone knows everyone and they drink together! Where’s the dotted line, I thought, I’m not just going to keep in shape, I’m going to go drinking with Pete!

Little did I know Pete was a plant and big fat lesbian had no intention of drinking with him later, or ever.

The assault on my gullibility didn’t stop there. For your benefit, I’ll put in brackets the information she didn’t give me at the time.

‘Over here, we’ve got the steam rooms, sauna and ice room.’ (The steam room has never worked and we have no plans to fix it. The door doesn’t shut on the sauna, letting out vital hot air and aiding our carbon footprint.)

‘Girls changing rooms, plenty of space here.’ (Not at the times you’re planning to come, when there won’t be room to tie your shoelaces.)

‘Showers, free soap and shampoo dispensers.’ (The showers will take turns at being out of order, the soap will run out soon and don’t expect us to fill up the dispensers.)

‘Plenty of running machines. You can plug your headphones in and listen to any of our six channels.’ (You’ll mostly have to queue for the running machines and the volume control doesn’t work so it’s either silence or so deafening you can wave goodbye to hearing. Your membership fee alone would fix the problem, but we'd rather put that towards opening another gym.)

‘I mentioned the six channels. We’ve got Sky Sports, MTV, E4, the History Channel. (We’ll play local news on every channel, on a loop.)

‘Here’s the stretching area. Plenty of gym balls and weights.’ (The number of gym balls available here will slowly decrease, we won’t replace popped ones. Soon you’ll be fighting over the final one, and it won’t be the right size for you.)

I’m thoroughly against an escalator taking you into a gym. Surely the last place you need an escalator is on your way to exercise, but lo, Fitness First has one. (This will mostly be broken. Because we know how weird it feels to walk up a broken escalator. Just somehow different to stairs, isn’t it? Always that risk element that it might start while you’re on it, sending you arse over tit.)

Ignorant to all the information here bracketed, I signed up. And for two years, every exercise routine was endured through gritted teeth. Paula Radcliffe suggests you count to thirty while running, to take your mind off running. I’ve got my own method. I count all the things that annoy me about Fitness First.

Sometimes I left comment cards. They did nothing. Most of the time I gave nothing but a cheery smile to the receptionist, with their fake nails and Americanised training which has them greet me by name: ‘Hello Kimberley, enjoy your workout.’

No! No I will not! You don’t know me, don’t use my name. And I will not enjoy my workout because I’m here under duress. I only exercise so I can eat cake, and I’m only here because your small-print committing me to 18 months minimum was so small I missed it. Now go fix your escalator and leave me in peace.

I’ve never said that to a receptionist. And now my contract is up and I’m leaving. There’s a new gym just opened up around the corner and I’ve got a brand new company to make a silent list about.

You know what? I think all this inner fury has me burning more calories than the happy people all around me. Maybe I shouldn’t leave after all.

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