Old people and trainers

Why? Why why why do old women insist on wearing trainers, and, as I saw one this morning, a baseball cap?? Now I know that I perhaps don't dress for my "age" (what the fuck are nearly 40 year olds s'posed to wear? A-line skirts and wedges....? Well, I do...lol) - admittedly I wear my hair in bunches, but it doesn't seem wrong. Not to me, anyhow. But really - old people and baseball caps? And what possesses them to get a pair of Nike Shox? Is it 'cos in our heads we all still think we're 18? Did trainers and baseball caps exist in this country when they were young? I don't think they existed when I was young! So it's not like they're harking back to their youths... And they can't want to look like a scally, can they? Can they? Surely they have mirrors? I know it sounds harsh, but they'd look so much better in a nice sun hat, and nice shoes - there are shops that do such things....I know it's a matter of choice but I just want to run up to them and do a Trinny and Susannah on them. I'm all for being a funkster, but it looks like they've been dressed by an 8-year old. Rant over.

Spiders

There. Was. A. Spider. In. My. Caaarrrgh!! Now, I'm borderline arachnaphobic, and to see the it walk right in front of me across the windscreen, on the inside, was enough to make me nearly crash, as I was moving at the time! It ambled up to some sort of gap, and kept popping out from time to time. It could be laying its horrible eggs in there for all I know…what if loads of them come out one day??? Eurchhhhhh!!! How do I get rid of it?? I can't touch it, so I'm pretty stuck. It did remind me of the time I climbed out of the passenger window of a car in which a wasp decided to join me. I was in the driver's seat at the time. I'd hit a gate with the passenger side of the car, and as such the door wouldn't open. It was buzzing around the driver's side, so my only option was the passenger window. I must have emerged like a magician's assistant emerging from a Houdini-type box. Only hysterical. It must have looked hysterical, too. I wasn't laughing

Pies

I was watching England play football one night in Estonia, and saw a "Pukka Pies" ad up round the ground. Which country eats pies except the UK? Which country's got an obesity problem? So, we're in the wrong part of the hemisphere to grow mediterranean vegetables - so we're not like the Italians or the French, we haven't (historically) grown the veg and the olives (for oil) that will benefit us. So what do we do? Stick everything in fucking pastry. And do you know what a commercial pie manufacturer is doing? Mediterranean PIES!!! Oxymoron!! Or just moronic! Cornflake pie, anyone? And do you know what I saw on " The Great British Menu"? Fucking rabbit and crayfish pie. Together. Hello, anyone, want a stodgy pastry kill-your-heart stuffed with a cuddly, fluffy animal and something that thinks it's a lobster?? Bleurgh. Ok. Historically it was peasant's food. But why do we have to put pastry around everthing, and why is that innately British? I haven't eaten anything vaguely pie-y for years. Wouldn't cross my mind. But then when I drive round daily, I see "workmen", pies in hand, at lunchtime. WHY??????????????????????????? What the fuck do pies offer? Perhaps it's a girl thing. I just don't see the point. And I'm gutted that it's our nation's food.Sums us up. Stodgy. Slow. Difficult to digest. A danger to your health

The New Adult

The New Adult Being – YOUNG – Is not just a case of not having to rub in Two hundred and fifty Grams Of wrinkle-remover before you go to bed. Oh no. It’s being Just the right age to feel comfortable in pubs Getting smashed out of your head And not looking like some stupid kid And not looking like some old swinger. It’s swigging lagers And dragging on Marlboros It’s listening to John Peel And digging the scene, man. It’s heady days Immoral ways It’s still freaking to The Smiths in the Ritz. And everything’s legal when you’re 21. ‘Cept acid… In fact, no – happy times – to remember Just blackouts in the Hacienda. And the dipsomanic urge of Never Reaching 22.

Thaw

Thaw Tuesday. It was a Tuesday that merged into a Wednesday Speaking as we’d never spoken before Acting as we’d never acted before Together, as never before. I could not believe That in such a short space of time I would know someone so well. Having only ever spoken in jest Or slightly greeted in passing. Never, ever, any idea of any more. Then, suddenly, walking over And losing consciousness In a world that Made me Melt.

Alarm

Alarm I’ve got a clock That says “tock tock” Not “tick” Which is a bit of a con And my friend’s got one that says, “Isn’t it time you got up now? You lazy cow?”

There's more to life than a 22-inch waist

There’s more to life than a 22 inch waist I hate to admit From my very first zit I was caught. So futile it seems that those teen magazines That I bought Could influence ME, The adolescent rebel. At fourteen years old I bought crap to be told I was fat. If I wasn’t size eight I was well overweight, I believed that! To believe what I read Well, it has to be said, I was dim. But so hard that I tried I could’ve just died To be thin. Choked myself with fingers Trying to throw Weighed myself daily Hoping not to grow Just stopped eating No breakfast or lunch for me “Gosh, I’ve eaten all day!” I’d say, Pushing away my tea. Faddy diet I would try it Hold myself in Yearn to be thin Food never tasted Teen years wasted I wanted to look like a stick! So I made myself sick! I couldn’t see That my curves were womanly Obsessed by looks and diet books I forgot about the real me Embracing their philosophy: “Girls, to get those men You really must be a sylph-size 10!” Wanting to look pre-pubescent What a brain-washed adolescent. I could’ve spurned my fears In those adolescent years With just one line from the teen-crap editor With a lot to answer for. “Make the most of what you’ve got.” I had a 38-inch bust, 35-inch hips Eyes of navy blue, full red lips Super personality, making people laugh Was far more important than what I looked like in the bath. And I began to see What those mags had done to me They weren’t ashamed Or afraid When mind games with young girls they played. I want teenage girls to know It’s WHO they are, and WHAT they know I know. My hair isn’t long as they’d like it My belly not flat and taut My make-up’s not expensive My beauty can’t be bought. I’ve got my own personality, The thing most important to me. I’ve got my own style A uniqueness you can see. I’m different and I’m lovely And it all comes from within So sod your mags and diets ‘Cos it’s NOTHING to be thin.

Maya

Maya (*Hindu goddess of illusion) Essentially Quintessentially The matt-black fading of the tumescent heart. Just seven days before: A bed shared And pudenda Not ONLY that But Wholly Totally To all intents In all respects A tacit communism of bodies AND minds. And now That which had been effusive The ultimate in sentience, Embarrasses. The radiant bliss of my core The beautiful sublime of prurience Now no more than an obese, puffy, pot-bellied vacuity. Despite this; (the spurning, rejection, the valuelessness of the “us”) My feelings remain, unscathed. For life For those days Was Unparalleled So my feelings remain, Recondite.

My life in music

I have to write. Tonight, I realized I’d be very wrong about something, and it got me into a massive chain of thoughts about music, and how I’d got to where I am musically now, and I just have to write it all down to stop it going around on repeat in my head. I saw “Seven Ages of Rock” tonight – no, not some bad Queen tribute show, but a TV prog that is charting the course of music since the 1960s, and tonight’s first prog was about Jimi Hendrix. I tuned in with preconceptions. Well, the one preconception I had: I hated Jimi Hendrix. I hated his songs (with the exception of “Wild Thing”), I hated the hype. And why? I’ll come to that later. Regardless, I tuned in because I want to see all seven programmes, I just HAD to. And I figured the whole hour wouldn’t be devoted just to him and I’d get to see some other great stuff from 1966 onwards. What I saw astounded me: Reader, I am ashamed. Ashamed that this preconception of probably the greatest guitarist of an age has been with me for the best part of 26 years, that I’ve been so blinkered. But what I saw excited and inspired me, and despite my shame, I feel enlivened that I’ve “discovered” something that is so amazing. I was born in 1968 to relatively old parents, in a time when technology wasn’t fast-moving. Black and white TVs in a wooden housing, record players that included speeds of 33/45/78 (in a wooden housing), phones that plugged into walls, phones the size of a small African nation. TV wasn’t 24 hour, it even stopped transmitting for periods in the afternoon (the thought of which is enough to make an entire population today hyperventilate). One of my dad’s first purchases as a youngster was a crystal set, and on this basis music became the love of his life. I was born into a household where music just was – the radio was on most of the time, and if it wasn’t the radio then records or tapes were playing. Entire Sundays were given over to listening to Jimmy Savile recounting tracks from two yester-years (which my dad had me guess), and then dancing to my dad’s 78s. I had a much older brother whose influences were the Stones, Lou Reed, Rod Stewart, the New Faces, Bryan Ferry, all of whom he had seen live. All of whom he played on his record player (housed in wood). And so it was that music became my love, my life. I listened to Radio Luxembourg and Radio 1 (much different then to how it was now – staffed then by ex-pirate Radio Caroline DJs, playing fantastic music). I was taught how to treat vinyl with respect, how to handle it, how to clean it, how to change the stylus. And from being very young I would spend hour upon hour playing all of my dad’s and my brother’s records. I bought my first record, myself, when I was 7. I made my brother take me to the Music Box on Liverpool Road in Eccles, and the 7” was 50p. New pence, it was the 1970s by now. And if you’re interested, it was “Bohemian Rhapsody” by Queen. They’re getting a mention or two tonight. And then 1976 came, and punk happened. I remember the front of the Daily Mirror, a picture of a “punk” with a safety pin in his ear, one in his nose and a chain connecting the two. A generation was outraged. I thought it was amazing and it appealed to me greatly. At the age of 8, I was buying Sex Pistols records. On 8 December 1981, I was walking through Manchester with my mum, when I saw the Manchester Evening News headline on a seller’s board near Debenhams: “Beatle Lennon Shot Dead”. It felt like my heart stopped beating. The world stopped turning around me, everything went into slow motion. I couldn’t have felt worse if my own mother had dropped dead before my eyes. How could he have gone? What would I do without John Lennon in the world? To say I mourned for weeks is understatement. The effect that moment had on me lives with me to this day. The newspaper stand is still in the same place, and each time I pass it, I relive that day. And so my musical journey continued. I have to say, my music collection from that time is eclectic. I’m not ashamed about that – and it provided the foundation for who I am today – I’m open-minded about music and will listen to new stuff/recommendations – I don’t like it all, but I don’t have to – the appreciation is all subjective. Although I cannot lie – I don’t like genres of hip-hop/dance/today’s r&b – and I tend to avoid those. And I don’t like insipid music. And then I got into boys. As with now, wit and intellect prevailed over looks, and my first serious boyfriend was very intelligent, but even better, he played a Les Paul. Very well. He was clever, he was in a band, and I was his girlfriend, it couldn’t get any better. With him I went to see The Damned, The Stranglers, Siouxsie and the Banshees, PiL. Lots of firsts with Mark. And then he fell in love with drugs. Looking back, I was lucky – I didn’t get involved with drugs. But from that point on, his perspective changed. At this point, he got into Hendrix – hence the negative association for me. I couldn’t appreciate the artist because to me he represented the whole drug culture to which I lost my first love. And until tonight, that opinion has remained. In 1985, two wonderful things happened to me. I found The Smiths, and in finding The Smiths, I found James. After the noise and craziness of the late 1970s, the early 1980s had given way to a different type of music – synthesized. A move away from guitars and real drums, and whilst it still has a place in my musical history, when I first heard “This Charming Man” I was blown away by the return to pure guitars/drums/vocals. I immersed myself in them, and on seeing them for the first time, James were the support, and I was equally mesmerized by the amazing sound and the freaky dancer. As I had immersed myself in The Smiths, so too I did James, even ringing Factory records and ending up in a “pen-pal” situation with the band for some time to come. I was 17. Heady days. I properly mourned when The Smiths split. I felt my life had ended. These influences seemed so right on the diet I’d had when I was younger: Roy Orbison, Lonny Donegan, Johnny Cash, Donovan, The Dubliners, The Beatles, the Stones, Eric Clapton, plus all the 1960s and 70s stuff that was being played on the radio stations I listened to at the time. Good stuff. Guitars. Vocals. I could name intros in less than one bar, name bands and singers and the year (and month) the records were out. My record collection grew and grew. Songs had been and continued to be the soundtrack of my life. There was always a pertinent lyric, always a track I could bung on for catharsis, or for making me dance. To this day, I use lyrics to explain how I feel. Madchester happened. Grunge happened. Britpop happened, I’d find myself in small basement record shops seeking out obscure bands and tracks, buying promos. I’d sit by the jukebox in Corbieres and play fantastic track after fantastic track. I’d be up dancing like no-one was watching in sticky, grimy clubs. I loved it. I love it. The years have gone by and my love of music has never waned. Live gigs are to me like a shot in the arm. I feel alive. I love to feel the bass reverberating through my body. I laugh, I cry, I dance. I get dumbfounded. My repertoire has expanded, but some of my favourite tracks have not been consigned to the past and continue to be played. They still evoke the old feelings. I can be 14 again, sat in my bedroom crying because Martin Harrison dumped me because I wouldn’t let him take my bra off. If he’d waited a few more months… And the return of James – I still feel like it’s all been a dream. Being in Club Academy whisked me back 22 years to seeing them in a similar basement location at the Boardwalk. When they played “If things were perfect” it was 1985 again. To be honoured to get that time back, with them sounding still as good, if not better, has been a privilege. They say be careful what you wish for – but who wouldn’t have wished for that wonderful April just gone? And so, back to tonight. I knew the programme would be good when the opening music was “New Rose” by The Damned. And I watched, and I learnt. Jimi Hendrix: awesome. 23 years old and playing like that – how could I have underestimated him so? It feels liberating to have cast aside such a hang-up on such a major musical influence. After the programme, I felt educated, and I’m looking forward to the coming weeks, despite next week’s including Pink Floyd. Well, I may have to draw the line somewhere… It is some weeks later I write this addendum. Tony Wilson has died. Above, I wrote about the impact John Lennon’s death had on me, and Tony’s death has impacted the same way. Tony was always around as I was growing up: on Granada Reports, and on So It Goes, where he introduced me to the music I know and love. He WAS Factory Records. I’ve met him a few times, saved him from my mum at the airport once (a story for another time), and I guessed I thought he’d always just be around. And as ever, a lyric prevails, swimming round my head. What did Don McLean sing? “The day the music died”. This is how it feels to be lonely.

Meeting Morrissey

My Morrissey story, every word of which is true. I promise you I am not delusional… ‘Twas 17 March 1994, St Patrick’s Day, and Mozzer was signing albums in HMV on Market Street that evening. At lunchtime, when I saw that the queue was already forming, I wangled the afternoon off work, and took my place in the queue, in a fenced off area on Market Street (we looked like slaves….and in some ways, we were – slaves to Morrissey…) Anyhow, eventually, after my toes had snapped off in the cold, the queue started moving, and snaked its way around the CDs in HMV. Finally, seven hours after I’d started queuing, I was at the front – and Moz was stood there, at the singles desk (ironically appropriate.) I moved forward, put my album down (for I still adore vinyl – plus there’s more to write on!) “I’ve waited 11 years for this moment,” I said. “Have you really?” he replied, somewhat bemused. I asked could I touch him (it only seemed respectful) and placed my arm on his tweed jacketed shoulder. Before I could say whatever it was I wanted to say, he looked me full in the face and said, “I know you.” Excuse me? He said it again. “You’re from Eccles, aren’t you? I know you.” I could’ve fallen over. “How??” I asked. I had to know. And then, laughing, he said he wouldn’t tell me that! But spookily, when he wrote in my album, he spelt Johanna correctly immediately, even though I always pronounce it “Joanna”…. Then it was my turn over, turfed out the back door of HMV, and I had to leave…..and to this day, I still don’t know how he knows me. And how did he recognise me out of all those people, and where from??? Over the years, I’ve tried to find out, to no avail. I’ve emailed Boz Boorer and asked him to ask Mozzer, but though he replied, he wouldn’t do this for me. I’ve contacted various presenters of shows he was going on (Janice Long replied, the sweetheart), I’ve contacted his management. I’ve emailed Dave Haslam, Stuart Maconie, anyone I think could get in touch with him on my behalf, to no avail. Yes, I’ve met Mike Joyce in the Hac, but Moz wasn’t with him. Was it something to do with the poem I performed for Granada, with ref to The Smiths – but how would he know I was from Eccles?? Ohhh, can you imagine – I’d worshipped him for YEARS, and for my hero to tell me he KNOWS me….and I can’t go to my grave not knowing. But how can I find out?

An accidental eye lift

I accidentally had an eye lift this morning. Yes, I went to the hospital for a consultation with a plastic surgeon specialising in eyes, and yes, I knew I may end up having something done, but coming away with an eye lift courtesy of the NHS hadn't been an option when I got up at 5.30am! You know how it goes. I got up early, earlier than usual, because I had a hospital appointment first thing. First thing on a Monday - ideal. It was a blur of rushing round, breakfasts, getting children clean and dressed and off to crawl through morning traffic. I'd gone for a consultation. Said consultation resulted in me being told I was having some small lesions (to remove an ongoing skin condition)....so to find myself on an operating table wasn't unusual. The consultant had a joke with me that I looked like I was laid out for my funeral (oh, what a jest!) and then he looked into my eyes. Not like that. He looked at me, and said, "No! Too many for bshhh bshhh...bilateral blepharoplasty." And off he strode. "Do you know what's going to happen?" said the other doctor. "We're going to do this," - and he pulled his eyelid out in an alarming manner. "You mean I'm getting an eye lift on the NHS?" I joked. "Yes, " said the surgeon nonchalantly. Ironically, I'd been at a ladies' fashion lunch last Friday, surrounded by ladies who lunch. I'd felt a million miles different from them, yet here, just 48 hours later, I was entering their ranks. All I'd need now would be bleached blonde hair, a permatan and tooth veneers...and to move to Cheshire! Enough of my reverie. Suddenly, all hell let loose, both around me and inside my head! I was awash with gowns and towels and iodine and...I'm going too fast. But so was my heart at that very moment. I was glad I hadn't had time to think about it and thus worry, but at the same time I felt I'd been led blindly onto a rollercoaster and really couldn't get off. All I kept thinking was that I was going to undergo surgery...awake. I felt the surgeon moving something across my eyelids. "I haven't had any anaesthetic yet!" I screamed. "I know," he calmly replied, "I'm drawing on your eyes first." Oh. Right. Phew. As if it wasn't bad enough having iodine brushed all over my face (luckily no ceiling mirrors in the theatre) they then have to give me a local anaesthetic. Needles in my eyelids. I need an anaesthetic for them to administer the anaesthetic! Needles in my fucking eyelids. God love the surgeon, despite me wriggling and shmiggling and blaspheming, he got them in with minimal fuss. Very quickly, my face and head numbed, a bizarre sensation. And then I expected a scalpel. How wrong I was. A warm sensation and then the smell of burning flesh. He was burning the skin off my eyelids! Now at this point, I was squirming and squeezing the hand off a wonderful nurse (thanks, Elaine) and wondering how the hell I'd got here. The sensation of blood running down my face made me want to faint. And then he was stitching me up (this tickled) and then I was done. Well, I say done, to complement the eye lift, the thick sticky tape that had secured towels around my face was r-i-p-p-e-d off so quickly and hard that I'd had a face wax, too. Events took a further turn. I had to have gel packs and bandages on both eyes, rendering me blind. As I was wheeled into recovery, the receiving nurse actually yelped in shock - which made me laugh out loud - did I look so bad?? Turns out she wasn't expecting me to have this operation - no shit, Sherlock. Neither did I! And then the trip back to the ward. In one short journey, I got an insight (pardon the pun) into blindness - no-one told me where we were going or which way they were going to steer me, so I was off on a disorientating journey which was very unnerving. Even moving me from wheelchair to chair was peculiar as I had no idea where I was sitting. And when they told me I had a cup of tea beside me - well, which side?? I couldn't even switch my phone on to call home. Eventually, the eye pads were removed and I could go take a look at myself...ohmigod. Think Bride of Wildenstein. And then, like a closing scene of a film, a thick trickle of blood ran from the corner of my eye down my cheek. Argh! Faint or vomit? Faint or vomit? Or both? Luckily, neither, and so off home to rest. And to explain to my boss that after a simple hospital trip I'd had fairly major surgery and would be off for two weeks. To conclude, though, whilst I look like I've had a fairly good fight (and lost), and am rubbish at applying my ointment, and keep wanting to rub my itchy eyes, my son summed it up on getting home from school. He flinched, then stepped closer and said, "Oh, you still look like mum." That'll do for me.