It’s over, 1997. I love Taylor Swift now. (Now go and cut your hair and chuck the Pulp T-Shirt in the bin. You look daft).
“There were men there who still had 90’s style Oasis haircuts that had gone grey” – My friend Mary, after a recent Shed Seven gig.
I got an over excited email from an old friend asking me to go to this gig with her:
Can anyone say ‘tax bill’?
Not a fucking chance in all Hell.
The Bluetones, Sleeper, the next one who was the bloke out of that band, the woman who was in the really crap band who were possibly called Salad and the one (probably) from Liverpool who’s band was a one album wonder. Space! Thats it, they were called Space. The singer reminded me of a young Fred West.
Christ, they are all so 1997. I have no desire to re live 1997. So I am not going. Plus, it’s £42. I’d rather pay the gas bill – but then I guess, so would the Bluetones, so I don’t begrudge anyone else paying it.
This makes me a miserable fuck, according to my friend, because she thinks it will be an excellent night out. It won’t be. It will be other middle aged fucks like us trying to act like they did 20 years ago, dress like they did 20 years ago and still desperately trying to cling onto their youth.
Think of all those poor old knees pogoing up and down at the front of the stage.
It would be like a mass midlife crisis and I have no interest in being part of it.
Like that bloody poster. Please put photos of them as they are now – mid forties and fat with receding hairlines just like the rest of us who used to hang around Camden in the mid nineties.