45 Does Gigging bite?

Do you still gig at 45? Now I'm under no illusions, and I do know that I'm heading ever closer to the big 50, but does that mean I can't gig?  I for one don,t think so. Admittedly the reason for going may be different. I mean, I wouldn't listen to a band, think to myself they're OK and out of interest go see them live. No, I have to pick my nights out very carefully, for one I don't have enough babysitters to call on, plus I don't have the energy to frequent large gig venues. It needs to be a band/artist I'm a fan of and would love to see. I suppose part of the question is answered right there, if you have young kids at home and are of an age that, by the time the band comes on your usually puffing up your pillows, it may seem obvious that your age is relevant. However, if puffing up your pillows at the end of the day is the highlight of the evening then surely getting yourself out there with your plastic pint, pushing an shoving through a rowdy crowd is whats needed to make you feel alive and if I dare say it, young.

I'm lucky enough to have a child in her twenties who is happy to come out with her old Mum, but if she wasn't eager to accompany me I would struggle to find a fellow gigger. When I say where I'm going to my friends the usual reaction is surprise then a kind of pat on the back in a good for you, you old boot way. No one has actually said can I come? Most say Id have liked to have gone but that's easy to say after the matter.  Maybe I should try harder next time and ask around a bit more instead of assuming no one wants to come. Ive got to say I have no apprehension about going to a gig and look forward to it.

 The crowd depends on the band of course so I'll use my most recent experience, Babyshambles. What?! I hear you cry, OK so admittedly not the greatest of human beings to have walked the earth but musically and lyrically he has a lot to beat. I love the Libertines stuff also so just had to go along. Maybe my age restricts the location and venue size as I don't want to travel  miles then get stuck to miles back with just a screen to watch. Local and small suits fine. The crowd was a complete mix of old, young, men, women what did seem apparent was everyone was already an existing fan. The night was brilliant swilling about with me pint and singing my socks off, even got down the front and jumped about. Scores on the door 10/10 for the night. I was even home for my 12 0 clock curfew for the sitter!

What's the answer then? I personally don't think there is an age where you should not gig, maybe your personal circumstances dictate the venue and the practicalities of late night, travelling etc. Personally I enjoy it and don't feel intimidated or out of place. No one else seems to care that your there if you're having a good time and not killing the vibe of those around you. My next gig is The View in November, looking forward to it already and brushing up on my lyrics. So, if you've ever thought 'Oh I love them, Id love to go!' Take it from me GO!

When the Cats Away the Mice Will Play

In this instance when I refer to the cat it's my kids, and I, the mice (OK, mouse). Being a single parent I look forward to the free time I get when the kids go off to their Dad's. By the time he collects them, I liken myself to Jack Nicholson in The Shining. On the arrival of the Ex my face appears in the crack of the half opened front door 'Here's Mummy' I grunt. After the initial dramas of the kids heading off, my son obliviously waving into the air,my daughters face imprinted against the window like a demented Garfield (bless her) calm resumes.

As it's the Easter hols I get a whole week, what I do during these long breaks is adorn my sombrero, apply factor 20, and finish every sentence with ' I'm on holiday.' I know allot of Mums will be reading this thinking you lucky bitch but believe me a week alone is not all it's cracked up to be. Being left....alone....is a weird and scary experience.

I start the week feeling relieved, I'm buzzing no kiddy commitments.No school runs, no play dates, no early mornings, no dinners to cook. But it's surprising how when all this routine and structure is taken away life can quickly fall into disarray, even as an adult. The beginning of the week is filled by tidying my new singles pad, and it stays like it for more than half an hour! Having a lay in with no 6 year old nagging me to put Milkshake on full blast. Then I start to make plans, after all i'm on holiday!

So the visits to friends ensue, lunches in the day, dinners in the evening. Now this all may sound enviable but by midweek the darkness begins to creep in. When the novelty of freedom has worn off and you've exhausted your address book of the 3 remaining friends with no kids,(come on lets face it who wants to meet up with the ones that do, bus mans holiday or what,) what do you do then?

Well, this is when things get messy. 'A night out?!.....' I exclaim '.....town? Oh no not for me.' I reply. 'Oh..okay,yes, I guess you're right. I am on holiday'. Bugger. The self convincing then begins of what a great night out I'm going to have, after all I don't need to stay out to late, and I may not drink anyway, may drive even. And there in lies the problem. You don't want to go, you can't take the post drink blues, the three day recovery period required at my age! I'll put my foot down I'm an adult in control of my own life, I don't have to go anywhere I don't want to!

When the dreaded night arrives I'm begging they've forgotten when the call comes. It's still on, no-ones backing down, you're all meeting at nine. Nine! That's an hour before my bedtime how ridiculous! I'm in a mood already. 

Then the 'I've got not clothes' routine begins. What should I wear, is it pub casual, is it pub casual dressed up with jacket, in case we go on somewhere. Is it dress up as we will go on somewhere? Well I'm not going out even if they think I am, I know I'll drive, that'll get them off my back. So outfit decision made, then remade, then remade, every things old or doesn't fit. I've got no clothes and I'm hideous. I'm not going!

After showering, and shaving parts that have not seen a razor since pre summer, well, it's either that or french plat, and sods law I'll get a sniff for the first time in three years! I squeeze into clothes now running late and it's time for the crusty old make up bag full of old hair clips in cased in powder. You always find one with a clump of wax in the U bend that some bastards put back in.

I got 48 different foundations, none cover, 34 lip glosses all the same colour and a bronzing brush that hasn't been washed for 4 years, beautiful. Base on it's time for my lumpy accient mascara that clogs the only three lashes I have into one large pointy one, this is then smudged by a humongous sneeze after which I have to baby wipe my neither regions and replace pants after a small wetting. Like I said...you never know.

Looking like Hinge or Brackett, either one, it's time to don my driving flats, you know you can't drive in your heels anymore. It's dangerous! I Find my going out purse and phone the one with just enough room for your card and bit of cash, then head out. Now, I know it sounds very irresponsible but I don't bother locking my door sometimes when out of a night. My explanation is that the likely hood of a stranger sneaking in and waiting to attack me on my return is less likely than my becoming paralytic and losing my keys. Especially if the attacker saw me leaving, they're unlikely to hang around for a mutton dressed as lamb, clown faced tranny.

Anyway, Ive made it out. 'Have a drink, don't be boring' first words I hear. 'I don't need a drink to have a good time, been there done it, got the t-shirt, gave up getting drunk when I was a kid' I preach. 'Go on...' they whine '....you can leave the car'. Buckling under peer pressure and pure out right bullying, I agree if just to keep them happy. Then agree again, and again, and again, and again.......oh dear. Now this is where the story takes a turn....for the worse.

Lets fast forward 4 hours. I am now in a bar/club stinking of Jaguar, because as I've repeated to every bar person I've come into contact with, 'I don't like the bomb, just the Jaguar!' cringe. I am no longer Hinge neither Brackett, I am, Beyonce. The dance floor ain't seen such fine moves since I was out last Christmas.  There ain't no stopping me now. After releasing the beast in me my selfish friends have dropped like flies one by one, sinking beneath the table I have slumped them over before I pack them off home in a taxi. I'm now in a bar surrounded by 20 year olds latched on to one of the bar staff from a previous pub, after all 'I'm on holiday!'. I'm showing everyone my comfy flats that Ive changed back into as me feet are in agony.  'I weren't coming out for long'. I slur over strangers.

Finally 3' 0 clock comes and the lights come on meaning I HAVE to leave now. I'm outside for half hour bantering with all the youth thinking I'm hilarious. I finally accost a taxi after being advised by the youth to go home as it's not safe for a women my age to be in town alone. On the journey home I haggle prices with the poor tormented driver whilst cocking one leg in the air showing him my comfy shoes in his rear view mirror. I estimate I did this approximately 37 times.

It's 4 am and I fall through the unlocked door I hunt the house where is he? That intruders got be here somewhere, please, let him be here. Sadly with no sign of him i resign myself to a night alone and after washing my face, yes I was my face no matter what state, the monster is laid to rest. OK, I pass out.

On awakening, i look over to the alarm clock, bastard 7.30, the body clock shows no mercy for this soldier. By the bed stands a glass of water and a Berrocca that I must have gotten to take up to bed but have no memory of. How sensible I am must have been feeling. My head bangs, my body is mummified by dehydration, I need a wee but I daren't move in fear of dry retching. I lay sprawled in the dimness of the dawn at the bottom of the black hole known as the post drink blues. I want to kill myself, a little extreme you may think but not until Wednesday. Until then death is the only option.

And there you have it, there is nothing more I can say. Except, bring back the cat as left alone, this mouse, is an arsehole.  

Jesus has Left the Village - I'm like Carrie Bradshaw........but with three kids........on benefits.

JESUS HAS LEFT THE VILLAGE.

When you move into a village one thing is always rammed down your throat 'The schools are fantastic!'. Being to shallow to give a shit, Id rather my kids be street wise than bullied boffins. I don't want them getting their heads kicked in first time they venture into the big city ( all though only 3 miles away). Another rule I live by is 'When in Rome'. However, being an Atheist what had never entered my head was the religious influence the school would have on the kids. I suppose there is a clue in the title 'Church of England School' so it wasn't long before God had crept his, or her, way into my house, getting his sandals or her mules well and truly under my table.

The signs weren't so noticeable at first, the odd song would be sang and when asked 'What were you singing so lovely?' the answer would be 'A Jesus song'. This I found quite sweet,, my son being just 5 at the time it was all so innocent and sweet. However, it wasn't long before the love for God and Jesus began to grow and the interest became a little more sinister, well in my eyes anyway. The love for his new found friend Jesus was becoming more apparent by the day. He'd sit at the kitchen table muttering to himself. 'What's that love?' I'd ask.'I'm talking to God Mum'  he said. 'Carry on' I replied like some sergeant major on kit inspection. I know, I'm weird too.

 One day when his Dad was collecting him, we were both on the landing when we heard 'God is wonderful God is Good...' coming from his bedroom. We both froze looking at each other 'Fucking hell' was his fathers reaction. We peeked through the crack in the door, we could see him sat on his top bunk flicking through a book whilst singing. His Dad and myself pushed and shoved each other childishly neither wanting to enter the inner sanctum. As we muffled are nervous giggles he turned to look at us whilst singing. The soundtrack to the Omen thundered around my head, the smiles were wiped from our faces as we both gulped.This behaviour continued to increase, prayers, homemade crucifixes nicely coloured in, stories of the bible being told, grace at meal times! Until one day it all came to a head.

It was world book day at school and all the children had been encouraged to dress up as a character from their favourite book. I, being a crap Mum hadn't got organised, and my son went off to school on the bus in his uniform leaving me feeling like an unfit Mother surrounded by beaming Mummy's waving off the untold amounts of Harry Potters and Horrid Henry's. At the end of the day I stood at the bus stop as it pulled up. When the doors opened there was a sight that would scar...I mean stay with me for life. As the only ray of sunshine that day broke through the grey clouds it beamed down onto the opening doors. An unbelievable sight lay before us. For through the sunbathed dusty haze my son stood at the top of the coach steps. His arms spread- eagled draped over the rails either side of him. His head hung low for what felt like a life time his hair tumbling forward finally lifting it to expose a beard and moustache that had been drawn on his face!

I held my breath staring at the vision before me. Could he be who I thought he was? Is this his favourite books character? Frozen, my heart pounded through my chest, my knees weakening, about to buckle at any moment. It wasn't until one of the Harry Potters piped up that slow motion sped back to real time. I looked at my son uttering  the question that  I was so afraid to hear answered. 'W-Who are you?' I whispered. It was at this point his arms reached forward and a blue book bag came hurling toward me smashing me right in the face. 'I'm the Go Compare man' he shouted.'Can I have sweets' he screamed as he pushed me out the way and heading to the shops. 'Thank God!' I cried (I know, the irony) as I dropped to my knees in relief. He was normal! That was the end of the obsession and after a hair cut and discovering the Wii he's never looked back. Good job, as this weekend I'd be hiding the nail gun in fear of a re-enactment on a Cuprilnoled crucifix!

However, my daughter now attends the same school 'You're so special' I said to her the other day 'Yes Mummy, just like Jesus' she replied.......

I'm like Carrie Bradshaw...but with three kids.....and on benefits.

I AIN'T DEAD YET!

You ever had that feeling that you've made an almighty mistake?  Well I have. When I had the opportunity to move to the chocolate box like village where I live, I jumped at the chance. Having lived in the inner city at the time, I had made the jump from being the irritating noisy neighbour, to having one.

I'd lived on a busy road surrounded by pubs and clubs for nearly 15 years, where I had successfully avoided  being barred, just by the skin of my teeth I may add. Don't get me wrong I loved this period of my life and I wasn't doing anyone any harm just being young, drunk and an arsehole! First out last home. I'd don my raving gear and hunt down free raves in a car loaded with pilling buddies swearing blind we could here music. It could have been the wipers, everything sounded like music.  We'd often get down to our own tinnitus.

Id have a house full of drugged up revellers, getting in at 9am on a good day, getting the Jungle on and swigging back whatever alcohol we could get are hands on from the local Asian shop. The music was probably pounding but you think your being quiet, you know what I mean. As I h-hum matured, the raves and pills died out replaced by heavy drinking sessions and a little powder, again with loud music and a house full of people clattering about. My God if I was my neighbour I would have hated me.

I digress, we can touch more on these glorious days in future blogs. I may even pop half a pill when writing, to get into full creative flow. Yeah right, I'm to petrified to even take a quarter, I'd end up sectioning myself at the local mad house with just the anticipation of 'Coming up'. Now, I wouldn't even risk half a herbal Nytol after a shandy in fear of not waking up again. The point I'm trying to get to is, have I gone to far the other way, have I got old before my time? Can a once hard core party animal move to the country side for the quiet and scenery and still have a good quality of life?

After the birth of my two youngest I was forced to calm down quitting the drugs, drinking and fags, and to be honest I didn't give a shit I quite enjoyed the enforced abstinence. In fact I thank God for it. I mean who knows where I may have ended up. I could have been one of those old wrinkly alcoholic women that prop up the bar at the local shit hole, regularly pissing them selves and sleeping with any takers. Oh no, I did that when I was in my teens, that box is ticked then. (That reminds me, I'm out Friday)

So having sorted out my act, calming it down, moving to the country to be away from those God awful neighbours who played their music at 11pm, I know 11pm, disgusting. Why am I not content? Is it the fact that my daughter of 23, (I know looking at my photo you'd never have believed it, I had her when I was 12 you know) refers to the village as the nearly dead club. Is it the fact that I and a neighbour younger than myself (a mere 45), spent half an hour Saturday staring from my front window, tea in hand, watching and counting as her 7 pigeons circled by again and again before returning to their loft in her garden.

I need to get to the bottom of this and during the lifetime of this blog I'll peel back the layers to get to the inner core of my being. Crikey the blog will only last two weeks then, I ain't that deep! Any way after much thought and annihilation, I mean analysis, I will make the decision whether I should stay or go?