Shoot You Down
Boots are reconceptualising the birthday:
Yes, it’s my birthday month. You know: birthday month, everyone says it. Like they say Christmas Month instead of December.
And shoe poles instead of legs. What? Am I not allowed to mock something that is being nice to me? Oh, I’m fucking sorry, I’ll live in a world where I just mock bad things shall I? Jesus, if you love Boots so much why don’t you marry it?
I don’t really have much time for birthdays. I like what Don Draper said about them when it was Peggy’s birthday in Mad Men (and she was working rather than meet her boyfriend and family for a celebratory meal),
“By the way, you are twenty-something years old. It’s time to get over birthdays.”
That said: I do like receiving presents and doing what I want. It’s just, I do what I want anyway and buy myself what I want – other people tend to get me nice, thoughtful things – that I really appreciate – but I get myself what I WANT. And yes, that currently seems to be some Pretty Green sunglasses so I can understand why no sensible person would be considering that as an option. Or spend £85 on me. Probably both.
I have made some tentative and mature plans for my birthday: I think I want to go to the new football museum and watch Spiderman, maybe get a pizza. That’s right: I am 12 next week.
The Second Second Second Coming
Comparing art is like asking a toothbrush to get you a job in the mafia. It’s not: it’s nothing like that at all. But it’s the kind of thing people whose art doesn’t get loved might say. I can’t put my finger on why watching The Stone Roses was better today rather than Friday. If I had to guess I would say it was because The Stone Roses were better tonight. That is kind of a wild guess.
Oh and it was also better because Mani showed that he had Man Utd writtten on the back of his bass and kissed it, such a partisan display of United supportingship by the lads had been notorious by its absence on Friday. And I also enjoyed Plan B, not sure I can speak for the rest of the crowd though. I think it’s safe to say we were all a bit bemused by the beatbox guy who provided an interlude to B’s set, though. You know the guy out of Police Academy films who does the noises? Imagine he came on a stage in the middle of a music gig and did an impression of a transformer. Well it was a bit like that.
Credit it where it’s due (the bank accounts of Mssrs Brown, Squire, Mounfield and Wren) the organisation had improved from Friday. However, people are still cunts and so despite there being more toilets – and the queues not being that bad anyway – people were still pissing mainly not in toilets. To be fair the toilets I mainly used at the back were in the middle of a quagmire. This didn’t explain why people navigated it only to stand and piss at the side of an empty urinal. One lad did manage to piss in the urinal but complained loudly that “we are being treated like cattle” because the toilets were in mud. People agreed with him and he went on to point out this extended to the fences forcing people to queue for beer.
I didn’t point out that this really wasn’t treating people like cattle. Had they been fattening people up with mashed cow bone, sucked milk out of people’s tits, stopped people getting over a bridge my making it a grill or shooting people in the head with a nail gun before cutting them up and selling them in supermarkets and butchers (sadly). What the lad had done is mix up the treatment of cattle with rudimentary public event management. I think he’d had a drink, though, so we’ll forgive him.
This should have been finished off by a lovely fucking slideshow of pictures from the gig but WordPress wont let me embed it, even though it says you can. WordPress: you’re a fucking idiot. As a punishment I have ‘bought’ the domain and got rid of it out of the blog’s address – look, it’s now just www.lifeinadayofhouse.com. Amazing.
If you are desperate to see some poor quality images of The Stone Roses third and final Heaton Park gig go to this.