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I AM NOT PETER STRINGFELLOW
I AM NOT PETER STRINGFELLOW
posted 24th July 07 ___
We’ve done two more shows since I
wrote my last entry, and surprisingly we’ve managed to get through them
without serious injury or legal complications. In New Quay I almost
managed to brain our new sound technician, Stuart, with my keyboard
during a particularly violent solo during ‘Shoot Me Up’, but that’ll
teach him to attach it to the keyboard stand with velcro. I’d hoped
there might be a few high jinks when the Cornish contingent of the
Hell’s Angels turned up, and D.Wayne informed security that all members
of the Chapter were to be allowed in for free, but everybody behaved
with impeccable decorum, and the evening passed pleasantly. How dull.
The show, though, was wicked, and it was nice to see so many fresh
young faces in the crowd. But after the show, as so often, I’m struck
by a deadening sense of anti – climax. It’s such a wind up; after hours
of sitting around on the bus, sitting around in the pub, sitting around
at sound check, as the show draws near, you start getting excited… then
finally your on stage and all those dreary hours melt away in a hot
rush of adrenaline (or is that oestrogen?). The show flies by, you
climb off stage, tart around for a bit, drink all the warm Red Stripe
in the fridge, Then you’re alone the dressing room, sitting among the
wreckage of tinned tuna and processed cheese, wishing you’d stayed on
in college and done that M.S.C. in Town Planning.
In a desperate attempt to stave off this burgeoning sense of futility,
Steve XXXX suggests we repair to the Tall Trees… It’s a nightclub, with
alcohol in it, it’s right next to where the bus is parked, and there’s
a lap dancing clubin the back. Despite my vociferous and heartfelt
objections, Steve persuades me to accompany him to this dubious
establishment.
We stop off at the bus, and by the fire exit a member of security is
having a cheeky fag. We explain that we’re poor lost pop musicians from
out of town in dire need of late night refreshment. He tells us to go
round the front and say that Ross sent us. After a bit of wrangling
with his scary-looking co-workers on the door, we’re in.
We head for the main dancefloor, where we are greeted with a terrifying vista:
Three Hundred pubescent teens in a frenzied grope-fest. Everybody here
looks about 12, And they’re stuck to each other’s faces like their
tonsils are tied together. The D.J.’s on some kind of Dizee Rascal/
Aerosmith soundclash tip, but its hard to tell cos no tune lasts longer
than 9 seconds. Then every 2 minutes a siren goes off, and a hoard of
teenagers mob the bar for half price drinks. It’s the nightlife
equivalent of Quiz Call, like being trapped inside a fruit machine.
Then slowly, with creeping horror, I realize that one by one, the kids
are ungluing themselves from each other’s faces and staring at me. I
look down at what I’m wearing… I’ve neglected to change out of the
white MOR seventies style cream suit I wore on stage. Worse, earlier
that day I visited the local branch of 'Claire’s Accessories', and
treated myself to a large, imitation silver heart shaped glitterball
pendant and some cheap aviator shades to enhance the sleaziness of the
look. And I have just ordered a SMIRNOFF ICE. I look, in short, like a
CUNT. Many of the kids are now openly laughing and pointing. Oh my
fucking God, HOW DID THIS HAPPEN? A sneering security guard sidles up
to me and sneers ‘Like young girls, do you sir?’ In an imploring tone I
try to cry out “PLEASE! NO! YOUNG PEOPLE OF NEW QUAY! I AM BEING
IRONIC! I AM NOT PETER STRINGFELLOW!" But my words are drowned out by
the sound of a siren and the stampeding heard of the new generation...
*******
© Orlando Harrison 2007