I complain. A lot.

A bit late in publishing this but here it is anyway...

I am moved to tears quite easily and quite often. I’m a bit soft to be honest. Last night I cried at the people on Gogglebox crying at something they had seen. Perhaps weeping by proxy should be a recognised condition.

Today I watched a YouTube clip of one million poppy petals raining down in the Trafford Centre in honour of the start of World War One. Everyone in there stood completely silent and still as their cheeks and hair were brushed by a wisp of red as it fell to the floor. It was incredibly moving and normally I would have been drowning in my own tears, on the brink of dehydration. However, today I was just watching and thinking. It’s very hard to empathise with what those soldiers endured during that war, indeed any war since but I did feel a sudden overwhelming sense of gratitude and an even more overwhelming sense of shame.

Shame? Yes. It made me think about what a completely selfish arse I am sometimes. I know that it’s straight out of your nan’s book of guilt trips but we really do owe an awful lot to those people whose entity was represented by a single poppy petal today.
This week, instead of moaning about everything I could possibly think of, I should have been saying a silent thanks that I am here and free to moan about whatever I like.

You think I am exaggerating about what I have found to complain about in the last few days?? Here’s a sample:

• ·      A traffic jam
• ·      There were no biscuits in the tin
• ·      The house was too hot because the radiators had been on for too long in the afternoon
• ·      My favourite boots were unmendable
• ·      I burnt the roof of my mouth on a gingerbread latte
• ·      The dog’s muddy paw prints were on the utility room floor
• ·      I had to get up and get the remote control off the other couch
• ·      I had to go back to Morrisons to get my receipt validated so I wouldn’t miss out on a money off voucher
• ·      Spotify crashed twice
• ·      Someone parked in my favourite spot in the car park at work
• ·      My phone hadn’t been plugged in overnight so it hadn’t fully charged

I could go on and on. This is barely scratching the surface of my whinging. Below it, like the subconscious of the Freudian iceberg, lurk many many more. Is it just me or are we all like this?
Regardless, in fear that it is just me, I have decided that I shall try and bite my lip before making an errant protest from now on. (Although even as I type, I am moaning in my head that there’s never anything good on telly) It starts now. I promise.

Counter Culture Part Two

It's been a while coming but people have actually asked when I will be blogging again - I know! How weird that some of you actually want to hear my inane ramblings. So, here is part 2 of 'tales from behind the counter' that I began...well...ages ago.

When last we spoke I had informed you all of my hideous ex area manager, my brush with a machete wielding shoplifter and my constant arguments with imbeciles who can't tell Saturday from Monday. And there's more? Yes, I'm afraid there is.

I often wonder how some people manage to put one foot in front of the other let alone be allowed out of their houses without full time care. Here is a brief selection of the questions I was asked whilst working behind a record shop counter...number 3 is my absolute favourite...

1. Have you got that Bob Marley and the Wheelies cd?
2. Have you got the new Robbie Williams cd? You do sell cds don't you?
3. Is this the opticians?
4. What was that song that was on Radio 1 yesterday?
5. Can I bring this back? I've recorded it and I don't like it.
6. Is that Spunky Nancy cd out? (I believe they meant Skunk Anansie)
7. Do you sell pants?
8. What cd might my grandson like?
9. If I take you out tonight can I steal some cds tomorrow?
10. Why are Hawaiian cds never number one in the charts?

So, now you have an idea of the clientele I was faced with day after day, try and think what it was like at Christmas. I arrived in the shop at 7am and often didn't leave until after 9pm. It was chaos: boxes piled high, people taking The Best Of The Beautiful South cds out of your hand before you even had a chance to put them on the shelf and trying to appease a queue full of impatient, pissed off customers with a box of Roses. 
Said queue often went the entire length of the shop and by the time people got to you they just stared like you had shat in their handbag before snatching their goods from you and stomping off secretly knowing they would be back sometime in the new year exchanging Michael Bolton for Motley Crue because it turns out they really don't know what cd their grandson would like.

When working there I had a vast array of band logo t-shirts, most of which were blagged from reps (see previous blogs about my relationships with them) and my tie dyed Levellers one was the one that caught the eye of one customer who stalked me for months. He passed notes to my colleagues to give to me, gave me dozens of mix tapes of varying degrees of scariness and regularly hid round the corner to watch me leaving. I know. Not right.
One day he actually got the courage to speak to me and leaned over the counter thrusting a t-shirt at me. "I nicked this from Bolton for you" he leered as I held out a rather cool limited edition Pearl Jam and mumbled thanks. 
His final note to me stated that his friends would torture him if he didn't ask me out. I moved to America shortly afterwards. Read into that what you will.

There is much much more, but next time I think, we should crank it up a gear. I shall share some tales from when I worked at EMI Records. Oh yes I spent almost two years getting paid a lot of money for schmoozing rock stars. Bet you can't wait. 

Oh say can you sing...

I know I promised more tales from behind the counter in the next blog but I must interrupt that trilogy to bring you some musings on my recent holiday. I just got back from Florida and I have the jet lag to show for it. All day yesterday I almost had to physically push my eyelids up to stay awake during the day and then PING as soon as I went to bed they shot open and I remained awake until the early hours. Damn you time difference!

Despite its' affect on my body clock, I love Florida. I love America - there's not one thing about it that I don't like. It holds some of my dearest memories and is home to some of my dearest friends. The minute I set foot through the swooshing of the automatic doors at the airport I am hit with a smell that I would like to bottle and sniff in moments of dark, dreary weather in merry old England. It smells like chlorine, barbecue and heat all mixed together. I do appreciate that sounds a bit odd but if you've been you will know precisely what I mean.

When I was growing up, I was convinced that all Americans behaved like the kids in the video for 'All Night Long' by Lionel Richie and that every week there was a prom like in Grease. They had romances like in Dirty Dancing and their radios played songs that were meant for cruising up the Pacific Coast Highway. I knew I had to go. So I did. 

One day in June 1995 I left and didn't return until far longer after I originally intended to. So, when I visit that general region of the US now and have to come back after just a week or two, I am genuinely gutted because I know what I am missing, some of which, I shall now list:

• The sun
• The beach
• Hearing people say 'erbs instead of 'herbs'
• Superbowl Sunday
• Thanksgiving Pies
• Bath and Body Works
• Drive through ATM machines
• Cheez-its
• Dunkin Donuts
• Taco Bell 
• Yes I am listing a lot of food stuffs
• Decent radio stations
• Being able to wear shorts and flip flops from March to November
• Restaurant workers who actually care if you are enjoying the food
• People mocking my accent and asking me if I am Canadian/Australian
• People asking me if I have met the Queen or if I know 'Dave' - he lives near me in England apparently. (He doesn't)
• People calling me 'Miss Amanda' (I believe this may only apply in certain Southern states)
• Really getting into Halloween
• Seeing bands who are massive in the UK in tiny little venues before they're famous in the US
• And finally a one off - giggling at someone asking me if I hurt my fanny when I was drunk once and fell over flat on my arse :)

Oh my, I could go on and on...Mr B and I have set our hearts on buying a holiday home there in a few years. As I sit here, I have a crazy grin on my face at the mere prospect - somewhere we can retire to for months at a time, somewhere our friends can use for cheap holidays and somewhere we can use as a base to go and visit our gorgeous friends who are lucky enough to call America home. 

America taught me many things, not least how to handle multiple children at once - I worked there as a nanny. Sidenote - I went to pick up the dad of the kids I cared for one day and made one of the staff in the military building call up for him and say 'Sir, Mary Poppins is here to pick you up'. Hehehehe - I think perhaps you had to be there. 

The children I cared for and their parents treated me like their family (cue cheesy piano music) and their kindness and generosity was utterly selfless. They didn't mind when me and my friends made their house our own for the weekend, they gave me air miles as gifts and encouraged me to see the country. They afforded me the possibility to live on a Navy Base, littered with men in uniform and shirtless Marines. (*fans self at the memory*) and I am happy to report that, I believe, they still like me.

I learnt many other things too - Taco Bell will not serve you at their Drive Thru window at 2am if you are not in a car. Even if you are pretending to drive one.
The weather may have been ninety degrees at 2pm and the sand may cause third degree burns on the soles of your feet but the ocean is a bit nippy at dawn.
If you climb into the back seat of a car through the front passenger window, you will be so bruised you will look like you have been fighting. 

You just have to get used to the socks and sandals look

And finally, no matter how much you try and Americanise yourself, there will come a day when you bang your foot on the edge of the bed and blurt out 'sh*t a brick, I've banged my buggering, b*stard toe' and all your northern Englishness will be spotlighted in seconds.

It is with this knowledge that I am armed and ready to make the east coast my second home so I can eat tacos until my eyes bulge, I can tell people to have a great day and not sound sarcastic and I can put the roof down on my car and sing my heart out to 'The Boys of Summer' and not have to have someone hold an umbrella over me and put A&E on alert for someone with frostbite and a frightwig.

Besides, it will be really nice to spend time in a country whose people really care about if I have hurt my fanny. 

Counter Culture

Since blog no.1 loads of people have told me that they remember the years I worked behind the record counter I mentioned briefly whilst discussing my need for high volume on music. They should - the years were quite extensive and covered several shops. It would be all too easy to breathe a smiley sigh and go on about how much fun we had and the shenanigans we used to get up to so that's exactly what I am going to do. Obviously I can't discuss all the shenanigans (my kids might one day read this) and in places I am going to have to change names to protect the guilty but hopefully this won't detract from the enjoyment.
Also, there's so much to say that this might have to be part of a trilogy or a small book. Perhaps a large volume, who knows?

Let's go back to 1991 - a time when people thought that Bryan Adams would be at number one until hoverboards were invented and that the Conservatives might be in power until the same time. I was almost 19 years old, still had 20/20 vision, a ring through my nose and jeans so tight they appeared to have been sprayed on. My weekends were spent banging my head to Axl Rose, Jani Lane and Bret Michaels and swearing that I was never EVER drinking again. (Ms Waters - you have a lot to answer for!)

My first counter was at a now closed shop whose name I shall refrain from mentioning lest the person who I will describe later recognises themselves, gets their broomstick out and tracks me down. I shall just say that despite internal aspirations (delusions) of grandeur it was not a national chain. 
It was in this shop that I got my first taste of shoplifters, bomb threats, people on day release and the harsh reality that the colleagues whose instructions you were supposed to follow were not always the sharpest knife in the drawer.

It was also here that I got my first taste of new release deliveries, record reps and the knowledge that who, not what, you knew was your ticket to freebies enough to drown in. Let's start with the first. Back in a non digital era, Monday mornings in the shop were a zoo. If someone had a big new album out it would be bustling from the moment you opened the doors. Said album had normally been in the shop since Friday but because of record company embargoes it wasn't to be sold until Monday. We would play the cd to try and get more interest over the weekend and whilst it was on, I often had a conversation that played out like this:

Customer: Can I have a copy of this new album?
Me: It's not out until Monday
Customer: But you're playing it now.
Me: Yes, we can play it but I can't sell it to you until Monday.
Customer: Can't you pretend it's Monday today?
Me: No.
Customer: I'll go and buy it from HMV then.
Me: They won't be able to sell it to you either.
Customer: They will.
Me: They won't.

Cue flounce out from customer who proceeds to sheepishly show up Monday morning to buy the album avoiding eye contact with me throughout the entire transaction. 

Monday mornings were often so busy that once I was so flustered that I accidentally called an artist by the nickname we had given her in front of my customer. I searched through a box to no avail and shouted to a colleague across the shop just as a song ended (of course) "Have we got the new Mary J. BILGE cd?" The horror as the customer pursed her lips and pretended she hadn't heard me. It could have been worse - I could have asked if anyone had seen Kate's Bush.

1991 was a time before health and safety had gone mad and so staff would generally, at some point in the day, find themselves alone on the shop floor invariably trying to serve customers, file cds, answer the phone and keep an eye on the little scumbag eyeing up a Bob Marley t-shirt. It would normally be at this point when the area manager (AM) would come in and demand to know why there were still unopened boxes left to be sorted. Despite your protestations that it was 3pm, you had not had a break all day and you and one other person were manning the shop single handedly because two people had phoned in sick, the AM would rant about "If it's not on the shelf they can't buy it".
I rarely want to spew vitriolic rage about someone but if I were still in contact with the AM now, I would be tempted to psychologically torture them until their nose bled and they had no idea why. Yes, they were that vile. When they left a couple of years later me and three friends went to their leaving party. We bought them a bottle of vodka, drank it in my bedroom before we left and then replaced it with water and handed it over. It was a small victory but even as I type now, it makes me smile. 

Speaking of undesirables, I once approached a would-be shoplifter and asked if I could help him find something. He whirled around and with a stare branded with the biggest pupils you will ever see leaned into me and declared that he was 'taking this rack of t shirts'. The absolute mania on his face almost made me ask him if he wanted a bag as he lifted about four out and strode out of the shop. Normally, I would have laughed along and tried to dissuade him but this time I didn't. Security from the nearby mall came in to tell me that they had apprehended him some time later and he had a machete in his pants - this is not a euphemism. 

Finally, let me end the first part of this series on a nice note (*puts on hipster face*) - I went to a lot of free gigs. A lot. I saw the early days of Pearl Jam, Faith No More, Nirvana, Nine Inch Nails and so many more. These were courtesy of records reps who were agreeable in handing tickets over as long as you played their latest releases. Although the Warner reps did once threaten to rescind my privileges when I got rather drunk and tried to engage Evan Dando from The Lemonheads in some innane banter. They soon came back though when they realised that there was no way they could market the new album by TAFKAP without help from their independent shop devotees. 

Next time - the most moronic questions I was ever asked, how to deal with admiring customers and Christmas Counter Culture. Bet you can't wait. 

So, is it you?

Much has been written and spoken about Sherlock in the last few days as series three drew to another enigmatic close. The latest villain and his face licking antics left viewers gasping as the programme took on a darker twist than we have probably ever seen. It was not, however, Charles Augustus Magnussen that had me literally scrabbling back in my chair to get away from the screen but Sherlock's arguably ultimate nemesis. 

Andrew Scott's portrayal of titillatingly charming psychopath Jim Moriarty genuinely frightens me. Although truthfully that's not giving his scaring credentials much of a shout out because I am still too scared to watch Doctor Who having been traumatised by the opening sequence during the Tom Baker days. Oh, and don't even think about putting the Wizard of Oz on if I'm at your house. The scene where the Wicked Witch of the West is up the tree unbeknown to Dorothy makes me feel a bit sick.

Nevertheless, Moriarty is terrifying simply because he could be your mate. He could be your mate's boyfriend. He might be the man who cleans your windows or the woman who served you in Asda this morning.
It's estimated that approximately 1-2% of a general population are psychopaths - about a million potentials in the UK. Given the average amount of friends a person has on Facebook, this indicates that most of us will know a psychopath. But how will we know? Will it be the moment they strap explosives on our bodies and call a famous detective to solve a puzzle before we can be released? Unlikely. 

If you get the chance, read 'The Psychopath Test' by Jon Ronson, the book whose line (spoken by a convicted murderer under questioning from a clinical psychologist) "I have no idea what the emotion is on that face but it's the one people have just before I kill them." sent a chill of horror down my back.
You see, apparently, there's a test that mental health professionals use to determine if a person's personality traits tick enough boxes for them to be labelled. I am guessing that the quoted man above's tick list was fairly extensive. 

The point I am trying to make here is that the stereotypical characteristics of someone who you wouldn't wish to bump into down a dark alley when walking home alone aren't necessarily the ones you should be most afraid of because statistically, you are far more likely to encounter psychopathy elsewhere. 
Keep an eye on anyone who doesn't care when you tell them your cat has died. Watch that person at the office who makes 'friends' with everyone and becomes the most cold hearted manager you ever had. Try to avoid the person who talks about their third time base jumping. Oh and definitely give a wide berth to the person whose need for instant gratification is spellbinding.
Why? Psychopaths tend to have a few common traits but on the surface they lurk with a different face for every need. Statistically, we all know one but who is it? Have a think...

Queen Moriarty

It isn't a family member nor is it a friend. You've discounted your colleagues and the people at the gym. There's no way it could be the window cleaner and you would state unequivocally that it isn't the woman who served you in Asda. So, is it you? 

http://www.channel4.com/programmes/psychopath-night

http://www.amazon.co.uk/The-Psychopath-Test-Jon-Ronson/dp/0330492276/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1390076211&sr=8-1&keywords=psychopath+test

Passing the Baton

Those of you who know me will know about my ongoing love affair with music. Well, when it comes to music it's more like a bit of outrageous sluttery than a romantic encounter. That is to say that largely, I'm not fussy about the type although I do prefer some over others (rock could be used here as a rather laboured metaphor for redheads...but my husband has dark hair. Hmmm, more on that later)

My Spotify playlist is testimony to my musical slut fest; Ministry are on top of Matt Goss who happily spoons Macklemore whilst Lawson nestle snuggly between The Lemonheads and Living In A Box. People frown at my speakers when, after having hummed along to Bananarama's 'Cruel Summer', they are aurally assaulted by Pantera's 'Walk'. I just smile and shrug. "I like it" I offer as a form of apology as they waggle their finger in one ear trying to get rid of the shrill shrieking of temporary tinnitus. 

That's another thing - having spent years behind a music shop counter, I think that my definition of what constitutes 'normal' volume has been warped. "How do you work with this racket?" I would get asked at least twice a day. I answered honestly "I don't even notice it's on" So, in my defence if I want to really hear it, it must make the wallpaper begin to slightly peel and render all outside noise inaudible. "You'll go bloody deaf!" my dad used to bawl after shouting upstairs for ten minutes. Perhaps I subconsciously decided to learn sign language based on this threat. That's another thing for future pondering.

I make no apology for my lack of music snobbery - there are very few artists whose music renders me running for the mute button. Although it is worth mentioning here that despite his fabulous sense of humour and clear all round niceguyness, Michael Buble's music makes me want to push cocktail sticks in my ears. So does Jessie J's, though I have no idea why.  

Before I had children I swore that I would ensure that when I did, they had a passion for reading and for music. So far so good. Indeed, it is a gorgeous moment with my then 10 year old daughter that inspired me to write this about it. She loves music too. Loves it. Also, my 7 year old son can sing the lyrics to pretty much any song we ever have on in the house and that covers a multitude of genres and eras. One child plays the drums, one plays the guitar. Mission Love Music is currently a success.

My now 11 year old daughter is almost as tall as me. Her emotional maturity far outweighs her life experience and she exudes a confidence that I would have paid good money to have when I was 21 let alone 11. She will have a listen to pretty much anything and makes good, rationalised reasoning for why she does or doesn't like something. So, when I came home early last year and tried to find a song called 'Chocolate' that I had heard on the way home and had taken an instant liking to, she sat with me and listened as we played it all the way through on Spotify. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FfBKqaVk2Co


We loved it and now, pretty much a year later we love everything else that The 1975 have since and previously released. She looked them up and learnt everything about them. She searched for clips of them on YouTube and as their popularity grew and they played more and more events, so did her favourites list on said website. The fact that their lead singer has a bit of a swagger and is, ahem, quite handsome was not lost on her. Me? I might be 41 but I love a song that sends the dopamine flooding through your body as soon as you hear the opening chord. Also, can I hear anyone say cougar?


So, tickets went on sale for a gig at The Ritz in Manchester. It would be stupid not to go right? Wrong. Initially, we didn't buy them because sadly it was admission for 14+ only and Erin was only 10 at the time. Eventually though, we knew we had to. I had sweet talked security many times in the past and was sure I could do it again if need be. Doc Marten boots, eyeliner and a beanie hat made her look older than some who were actually 14 but there was a heart stopping moment at the door. "How old are you?" one massive security gorilla asked. "14." she replied without dropping a beat. "Is that your mum?" he continued nodding at me. "Yes." still utterly deadpan. "Go on then" he smiled. And we were in. No need to state the fake birth date we had rehearsed on the way there.

Eventually, they came onto stage, everyone goes wild, it is hotter than hell, there's beer flying everywhere, a creepy guy starts to talk to her but still she is just standing, staring awe struck at the band. She sings, screams, dances and smiles constantly. It wasn't her first gig by any means but the first gig by a band who she really loved. 

Fast forward to the single song encore and here finally is the point of this blog entry. We had slowly been creeping further down to the stage having initially started close to the back as it really was heaving and I didn't want to traumatise my child in a mass of people standing too close to each other with no idea of where their limbs were flailing!
She stands in front of me and turns around as the initial chords of the song 'You' start with a look on her face that, even when I think about it now, I might cry. I could try and describe it but will never capture what it said so instead I will tell you what it felt like to me. It was like the moment where everything I love about music I could see etched on her face. We stared at each other and had it been a cartoon, a line of musical instruments, treble clefs and love hearts would have left my eyes and entered hers. It was like I was passing the baton. Here - take everything I have and use it to fill your life as much as mine has been with songs that you love. 

The look was gone in an instant and replaced with me frantically trying to keep an eye on her as she moved further and further forward into the heaving mass whilst simultaneously trying not to slide on errant, one hopes, pints of beer. 

We went to see them again this week, an even more swaggering 11 year old daughter whose love affair with the band shows no signs of waning. Indeed, the beginnings of a little indie rock chick are hatching out. Her wardrobe is full of black skinny jeans, hats and DM boots and her playlists are starting to tilt in favour of My Chemical Romance, Bastille and Imagine Dragons. 
This gig was no less eventful than the last but for a whole different reason. Details on that to follow but for now, I am going to go and make a brew and bask in the knowledge that even though she may have inherited my freakishly large earlobes she has also inherited my passion for music and that, I feel, is a worthy trade any day. 

The 1975 - You
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KsGp64w3XsA

And thanks to some gorgeous person who filmed the entire Ritz gig:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tlYahV2Wdts