I’m so sick of people thinking they can just waltz into my room when I’m obviously listening to music in 4/4.
I just wanted to reblog this again because I find it inordinately funny.
Cute people complimenting me is so surreal like someone cute thinks I’m cute let’s get married before you change your mind
I feel so happy right now. And confident. How rare. What a delightful change from the usual weak and shy. If I wasn’t so knackered (I’m already in my PJs, I’ll have my tea, then bed), I would text that guy from that other time something along the lines of “I’m feeling lucky tonight. Let’s have a drink.” Though, to be perfectly honest, I’ve moved on from him, and would much rather have that drink with The Chosen One (TCO) from last night. Unfortunately, I don’t have his number and he probably won’t be back in Paris for a long, long while. He’s a roadie for Glasvegas, you see.
Last night was the best night of my short life. We went to their concert with a friend of mine. It was more for her than me, really, but I’m up for anything, as long as there’s good music and good friends. The gig itself was great. So intense, I could barely stand by the end of it. Like good sex. It was a tiny venue, a pretty cool place, a mere 10 minutes away from home. I knew it would be good, I had no idea how perfect it would turn out to be.
After the end of the gig, my friend and I stayed by the stage, still in a post concert trance, barely able to move. We asked TCO if he was free for a drink later on. Not only his reply was positive, he also told us the band would probably come by any moment. And the band did not disappoint. We talked briefly with Jonna, the drummer, then had a short chat about music Paul, the bass player, as funny and charming as you would imagine. That’s when James, the frontman, came by and swept us away. I would like to state officially, now and without any further ado, that we are friends forever with James. His words. I grinned like a motherfucker at that (and still am) but did not faint, go me. It’s not everyday you meet such a talented artist and get to talk to them and know them, even if just for a short night. And by short, I mean a good three hours. And by good, I mean as brilliant as it was surreal.
The crazy thing that followed, was when we joined the adjacent party, James, my friend, and myself. Some guy was being insistently flirtatious, so we hid behind James and the guy pissed off. It happened again later on, and James is not particularly that menacing a Glaswegian. Surreal, I tell you. We then bumped into Paul again, who drew our attention to a weird robot guy before going after him. Weird people attract, which is probably why I felt like I belonged. We talked some more, and somehow TCO was mentioned. “Do you like him?” Why, yes, my new friend forever, I do, he seems awfully nice, we merely exchanged three words, but he’s Scottish, ginger, and hot. What can I say? I am vain.
So then we met TCO, along with the remaining band member, Rab, the guitarist and James’ brother. More beer and more talking. I guess it’s not the most fascinating thing to read about, but I’ve got one more weird occurrence to tell you about. The band was about to leave for Leuven, Belgium, so I called my dad to come and get us, because, as Rab and TCO told us several times, it’s not a great place to be walking alone at night. (No shit guys, I’ve been here 20 years, I never realised.)
With a bit of convincing, I got my dad to come inside (so as not to have to leave early) and actually introduced him to James and to the gorgeous roadie. They were thrilled to meet a fellow Scot in Paris, and my dad is cool enough not to look like he is almost 20 years older than James. He even got invited to Glasvegas’ next show in Paris. These were probably the weirdest 10 minutes of my life. A fairly amusing conclusion to an awesome night.
Now, I wonder, minus this odd final anecdote, is this the life of a groupie? These girls are the stuff of legends, unfortunately, they are usually portrayed as spending most of their time under legends - and wannabe legends. There is a strong sexual connotation to the groupie, and from a writer’s point of view, I find it is a terribly misogynistic trope. And don’t even know much about it, the only two examples that pop into mind are Loretta, Barney’s mother from HIMYM, and that girl in Pink Floyd’s The Wall (Young Lust/One of my Turns “Oooh, I need a dirty woman…”). The thing is, groupies are an actual thing, not just a fictional trope. You may think of the fangirls of today, screaming their lungs out at their favourite band member. I’m pretty sure I saw more than one episode of Chatty Man in which Alan Carr asked some pop singer if it was true he’d* had sex with a fan (would or had, depending on the interviewee).
As far as I am concerned, this is totally irrelevant, I don’t want to shag rock stars. No more than I would other people, anyway. For me, it’s more about attraction and mutual interest. Boring, isn’t it? No, what I am truly interested in is people. It’s meeting people like the ones I did last night that helps me remind myself that not every single soul on this rotten Earth deserves my contempt. That people are not just a bunch of bastards, only some are. And a man as truly talented and funny and lovely and overall brilliant as James is worth a hundred arseholes. As for TCO, he is much more than nice to look at, and I wish we would have had more time to talk about music, and all the great places he’s been to, and even football. Did I forget to mention his magnificent Glaswegian accent?