Simon, Simian, Simonon
Went to see Justice last night with the young ‘uns from work and their various siblings, mates and flatmates. Everybody in our group barring me around 24 years of age so I was totally hoping I wouldn’t turn out to be the oldest raver there. Was glad, then, when I saw my old friend from Virgin, Neil, now silver-haired and older than me if memory serves by exactly a month.

Somerset House gig, meaning outdoors and because beforehand heavy grey skies threatened a deluge we went via American Apparel to get Andrew something waterproof to wear. He bought a burgundy bomber, like the red one the Wifes had for V last year. Inside, we bumped into Simon Strange and Daniel and there ensued a giddy couple of minutes climaxing in us all showing each other our underpants. I had the store’s lemon Y-fronts on and Daniel was wearing the same in raspberry. It’s an AA world, kiddos.

Kept catching myself staring like a simpleton at gorgeous people all night. Not in a perving-over-youngsters way, you understand, more a feeling like I was scouting for a modelling agency, Storm or Models 1. The chap who sold Andrew his jacket was so otherworldly, pale and thin and chiselled (like Ziggy Stardust landed that moment from Mars, I shit you not) I’d have signed him up to face an international campaign right there and then. I entreat and implore you to go and look at him, even if you have to fly in from abroad – it's the Covent Garden outlet. And the crowd in Somerset House, too, all seemed so ridiculously handsome and gorgeous and trendy. I like so much the looks on the young of now – nice coats, nice colours, mint and scarlet, pinks, white, lots of green. And see! I even took a photograph of the vision in red woollens running the merch stall. I turned to Hannah and remarked, ”My God Sara Stockbridge is selling the T-shirts” - except she'd never heard of her so I set her straight. I explained in a kindly, avuncular way how SS was the acceptable platinum blonde of the eighties – how she summed up for me the good side of a bad decade.



Crowd utterly wankered by the time Late Of The Pier had finished their support (not bad – a bit Bauhaus-y / Japan-y in places) and nobody minded the rain. In fact, I’d go so far as to say the rain helped. It was of the gentle variety and I noticed later it made my scratchy beard go soft thereby lending credibility to that old Jackie beauty tip about washing your hair in rainwater. Luminous white crosses and big fat synth riffs and exciting samples and long breakdowns and amazing lights – they even finished with a cover of Soulwax’s NY Excuse which was a nice touch. Obviously everybody went mad during D.A.N.C.E. and the Simian one.

After, I was happy walking across Waterloo Bridge in the rain to catch my bus, clutching the Loveboxx festival programme somebody had pressed on me at the exit. For this sort of thing it’s very good indeed – exactly (and I mean exactly) like and early edition of i-D from 1984. Same layout, same typeset, even the same paper. See, the eighties are back! And I knew nearly everybody in it - Johnny Woo, Fashion Phil, Emily Dean, the Horse Meat lovelies. Reading their interviews lasted precisely the length of the bus journey and this made me happier still.

Got in and played music threesers with Fints. I’m mad on the Wailers’ Catch A Fire and Burnin’ albums I got from work recently so we had a bit of that (Small Axe is the one) and Kings Of Leon (also mad on Knocked Up off the last album), some E.L.O. (Strange Maaaaaa-gic!), some Abba. Fints has been mentoring Paul Simonon’s son all week for the lad’s work experience. He said he was a good kid, confident but not cocky, whose favourite single is the Maytals’ Pressure Drop. Pretty cool I’d say for a 16 year old but, then, his father is probably the coolest man ever to have walked the earth. Come to think of it I don’t think I could mentor Paul Simonon’s son – just about everything to do with The Clash, and PS in particular, makes me go funny all over.

Justice was the second good Friday night gig in recent weeks - Jock and I went to see My Bloody Valentine at The Roundhouse the other day. On the way in we'd sneered scornfully at the signs recommending we avail ourselves of the free earplugs on offer. This almost backfired on us. While we made it – just - through the gig without them, they were kind of necessary. The band had apparently shipped in an outdoors P.A. system, two or three times the size of The Roundhouse’s own. Eek!

Let me see – ‘loud’ isn’t really the word. At one point during Feed Me With Your Kiss the sound seemed to making the blood in my head actually boil: I was convinced I was having a nosebleed (I wasn’t) and that before the song ended my eyes would pop out of their sockets, my skull would collapse in and that would be the end of me. But I enjoyed the pain nevertheless – like eating a too-hot chilli or worrying at a loose tooth. During the fifteen minutes of pure, relentless feedback that was the encore I decided my frame physically could not take any more so I went and stood on the terrace for a cig, ears ringing like a fire alarm, and watched with amusement the other shattered bail-er out-ers. Invariably they crashed through the exit doors either laughing their heads off or crying real tears. Jock and Primal Scream’s Bobby Gilespie - who stood next to us all night – stayed the entire course, which makes them better men than me and I doff my cap to them both. They're hard, these Glaswegians.

In other news, my boss Michelle got married last week and her aunt is Dana! The Dana! We made friends with her – awfully nice and totally demure - and I’ll probably treasure forever the mental picture I have of Jelly doing the Gay Gordons with her to Chic’s Le Freak.

In other other news the Wifes have had their portraits done by John Bird. We are big fans of his work so we jumped at the opportunity to sit, or rather stand in the Tavern loos while he took photos of us. The reults are totally fantastic but I didn’t email them home properly so I’ll pop them up another time. Anyway, no vanity image in this post should be allowed to detract from the sheer beauty of MERCH GIRL up there ^^^.