As you may know, the first 22 episodes of this blog, from Jan to April 2013, are the text of my ebook, 'How To Become A Crack Addict', which you can purchase, if you so desire, on amazon. From then on, this blog is the daily, and sometimes more than daily musings of the man now typing at this computer...that man is Benjamin of Turnham Green. I hope you like today's reflections...if you don't, there is no complaints procedure, so you'll just have to let it fester.
SEARCHING INDIE BANDS ON YOUTUBE
I fell asleep in 1991. I can't say exactly when it happened. It may have been when I was listening to Mute Witness by Morrissey, in my bedroom at 69 Lorne Road, Leicester. The story of this bedroom is fascinating, as you're about to find out...
It was a good bedroom. Although I had no sex in it, I can't entirely hold the room responsible for that. There were probably other issues at play, of which the bedroom was utterly unaware. But it was a big room, in shades of tasteful brown, with a window, where placed was my desk, overlooking the humble grandeur that was Lorne Road. Because I'd had the backroom the previous year, on Bulwer Road, I had first choice of the rooms in our next house. I was sharing with two other girls (not that I'm a girl) and, I have to say, Lorne Road was a step up. We were students, of sorts.
One night, I drank quite a lot of Merlot before going to the Megadisco (yes, it was called the Megadisco, or Mega, by those in the know). Crossing Victoria Park, with its futuristic cycle-path arcing across the green towards the very tall Attenborough Building, I swayed my gentle way, for to meet a lady.
When I got to the Student Union building, I met a friend who I now realise was a Goth, Stephen Gregory, who was playing snooker in the Mandela Bar, probably. He had a Snickers bar sitting on the side of the table by his chalk, which I found rebellious. I was probably better than him at snooker, but my sight didn't allow that to be shown, but that's probably another story.
We went down to a bar named after another political prisoner and drank some cider, probably. There was Veronica, and crew. Veronica, on my course, was deep-voiced and wore tight jeans...she was on the cusp of slender and voluptuous, and therefore both confusing and enticing. She had her prog-rock boyfriend with her, a stocky economist, and a couple of girls from the wine society...yes, the wine society.
Although I'd just drunk a bottle of Merlot, I didn't think this would necessarily be a suitable opener. So I sat there, with my cider, Stephen Gregory, and a rollup that seemed to have hash in it, feeling peripheral, yet steeped in potential, and general dynamism.
When I was suitably drunk and stoned, I veered into the dark, high-ceilinged void that was the Mega. It was great in there, like a kind of indie petri-dish, seething, full of the future. They may have been playing the Stone Roses, amongst others, and I was heaving around like an indie mess in the midst of darkness. There were other people there...some of them female.
I was so gone I didn't even care if I came into contact with one of them. Now lost to previous acquaintance, I jolted about until someone leaned into me and tried to make contact. 'Hi, it's Hermione,' said a voice, and I sensed a bloke to her side, who might have been something of a nuisance. I shouted into the gloom, and our cheeks were nearly touching, her hair was in a crimped bob, and her eyes had rings of irony about them, as if to modestly declare a knowledge of her own beauty.
Although I've never considered myself an ouster, the bloke kind of gave up and wandered into the mass, to an indie beat. Hermione was one of Veronica's friends, from the wine society. This was, as still it would be, as good as it gets.
We talked, or at least shouted, over the Inspiral Carpets, and she placed her hand on my arm quite a lot. Used to being touched, I thought that was all there was to do, and that reciprocation was superfluous somehow, not necessary, would be worked around. So ensconced in my inner-cubicle, I took her interest as charity.
And it wasn't long before the music stopped. We could now talk. Turns out she loved Morrissey too. Turns out her birthday was May 23, the day after his, the day before mine. We remained in the middle of the emptying disco until a leftfield bouncer asked us politely to make our way.
In the vague vending-machine area outside, Hermione said she'd wait for me as I retrieved my coat from the ticket-based cloakroom-hatch. I got my jacket, which had something awful written on it, and we wandered back across the now dark Victoria Park, straying from the arcing cycle-path so as to arrive at the road that led to Hermione's house.
And then I guess we went in. Her friends and housemates were in the living-room, talking, watching something on the TV, and Hermione and I ended up in the kitchen. She said she wanted to do some voluntary work overseas. I endorsed her wish with expressions of general approbation, and unneeded extras. We were sitting either side of her kitchen table, and I wasn't sure what, if anything, I was meant to do.
Anyway, it was about three, I wandered home, and felt quite trendy for having been out so late.
Two days later, I got her number from Veronica and gave her a call.
I had to explain who I was.
And these were my glory days of indie consciousness, back in the early 90s.
That's all I can bare to say today.
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