Friday, 22 October 2010

Come Fly With Me...The James Syndrome Vs The Phe-Tom-enon

I’m in LOVE fellow musers…unconditional, irrevocable, Bella-and-Edward-eat-your-hearts-out love (or necks perhaps…do vampires have hearts)?

The first time I ever saw him, I knew he was the one. Strong, sturdy, timeless and bang on trend. He was just what I wanted, and needed. Something to cosy up to, to keep me warm on those chilly winter nights that are fast drawing in. Allow me to introduce you to the new love of my life…my new Anika Flying Jacket…Courtesy of both Whistles and the continued generosity of an early Christmas present from Mummy Musing.

As much as work is proving to be quite the bane of my fabulous life at the moment, one does have to admit that grinding away in the dizzying heights of fashion retail management has its benefits, namely the discount. It is true that I have been working like an impeccably-dressed donkey over the last few weeks and missing days off in the absence of my new Assistant Manager starting. We’re straight into mid-season sale, I have staff dropping their hours left, right and centre and am now found to be working with the world’s most unruly printer. Times are hard, musers, but the collection is covetable and whilst I am often to be found staring at my new jacket, I have got my eye on the rather gorgeous Freya dress, a new vampy number for the December season I think.

To be honest, one cannot blame me for my obsessive behaviour over my wardrobe when the boys in my life are still acting so stiflingly strange…Shoreditch Boy has disappeared off the planet again. Perhaps he’s still on Majorca time? Or, even worse perhaps he’s still on Shoreditch time which means I’m bound to get a frown-prompting barrage of text messages in about three weeks. I think this one is best left where it is left. Number deleted, cuteness forgotten, the world makes sense again.

But the swift departure of one, as usual, signals the return of another. Tattooed One is back on the scene and looking decidedly hot. He’s up to his usual sweet, cuddly trickery making all kinds of small promises I’m sure he doesn’t intend to keep. I am not fooled boy, not for one second, but have to admit the thought has crossed my mind more than once. Plus he is lovely to have a cuddle with. Please somebody stop me.

Plus, there was the rather unfortunate incident with yet another James, a bar manager, who seemed cute and friendly but after a failed attempt to befriend me in his office, he swiftly landed on the twat pile and I wasted a perfectly good drawing of a telephone on a serviette. Obviously some men have no taste when it comes to artistic qualities in their women. Another James eh? But in true Bradshaw style it has ‘got me thinking’ about what’s in a name…

On reflection, it appears I am quite the stickler for consistency when it comes to names of the men in my life. I worked out that I have had not one but FIVE near misses with Jameses this year. There was Gally (say no more), followed by the Hopeful Affair with Fate on Brick Lane. Not long after that came Shoreditch Boy in all his Elfin beauty and then the sad, much regrettable, lingering with Twat Rep in Greece and finally Mr Rymans and his obsession with his office. Will I ever learn? Should I be paying attention to these names and the all the mischief and confusion they seem to bring? Should I actively avoid these names at all costs in favour of a much happier relationship future?

In fact, the newly-coined James Syndrome has now surpassed my previous name obsession I shall simply call the Phe-Tom-enon. Four bad Toms, four of them in my life which I’ll highlight for you now, at the risk of sounding like I’m naming episodes of Friends…

1) The First One – I was sixteen and vulnerable. He charmed, he cheated, he looked a bit like that chubby singer from Papa Roach.

2) The One Who Got Away – I actually sent him away as I couldn’t stand the ups and downs any longer during my crucial Uni years. It was horrible, psychotic in parts and one cannot help but wonder ‘what if’ from time to time.

3) The One That Never Was – I’m not sure why it never was, but it wasn’t. He was nice, but his jacket was too big for him, so maybe it was no loss.

4) The Electric Ballroom One – The less said about this one the better I believe. Though I was so plastered I kept calling him and his mate ‘Tom and Serge’. I also fell into a bin.

The Phe-Tom-enon doesn’t seem to be letting up either what with endless temptation from such fine specimens as Mr Rowley a mere seventy miles away. So what’s a girl to do? ‘The heart wants what it wants’ as Lovemenot always says and if that is the case, it appears my heart is never more enamoured than in the presence of a James or a Tom. Well my heart and I do not seem to be reading from the same page. I have never really bought the whole idea of ‘coincidence’, so maybe it’s time to address names further afield than these two familiars and see what the wealth of Adams, Dans, Joes, Bens etc have in store?

You’ve got to laugh (trust me, it was either vent it out in a Blog, or be sectioned) in these circumstances. Alternatively I feel it is important to reflect on the ludicrous nature of my lovelife…and try to turn it into a money-making scheme. So have decided to create a sweepstake amongst my nearest and dearest, all of whom are placing bets on what the name of 2011 will be. I have mine all set, ready and ever hopeful and Lovemenot is sticking with the consistency of the Toms. Others, however, are picking total wild cards, many names of which I have yet to be acquainted with, which could prove quite exciting.

Anyway, the weather is turning brisker by the second, the nights are closing in and I’m off for a romantic stroll safe in the leathery arms of my new boyfriend. Place your bets people….

Wednesday, 6 October 2010

Craziness Reigns at this Carnival Show...

Picture the scene if you will…You’re all trussed up in Breton stripe and red lips, exposing the décolleté to a slightly nippy September evening breeze, chillin’ with your nicotine famished friends. The man almost directly opposite you, the one you’ve really rather fancied for quite some time, the one whose been both subtly and not-so-subtly making eyes at you throughout the evening, is chillin’ with his friends. He’s having a good time looking hot in his tight jeans, the set went well, and he’s laughing away at some private joke. So you decide to seductively slide onto the Evening Standard unit you are casually leaning against to keep up that ‘playful’ image and re-establish the eye-sex…
This is the point you should stop. Or at least I should have…
So I’m back from my Grecian adventure, soaking up the last of September’s sun and slipping back to reality. And my most favourite part of reality is being shunted from pillar to post on an overheated, overcrowded train on my commute from Dalston Kingsland each morning. A train that appears to get more crowded by the day. I’m sorry, I must have missed the newsflash that Dalston was, in fact, the hub of instant human cloning experiments. I keep expecting to bump into none other than myself whilst slowly being asphyxiated between a rather beautiful handbag and a tramp in a hurry.
Now it’s no secret that I like my music much like my men, Northern. I’m also partial to a lead singer with next to no facial expression and a touch of ginger along with some dark songwriting material involving killing, maiming, guilty consciences and all that. Lucky for me, Dead Sons exist.
Dead Sons are the latest musical triumph of the rather gorgeous Thomas Rowley (a man who, it seems, has the sole mission in life of being a member of as many bands in the North East region as humanly possible). Expanded from the ashes of The Backhanded Compliments, Dead Sons are darker, more 70s inspired with a whole load of new equipment and two new members. Plus they were coming to London…So I dragged one of my work friends plus MMH on Tuesday night, the heels were ridiculously high, the skirt a little short and I was ready to rock.
A few stops on the sweat-inducing Victoria Line and a rather annoying wait around for the doors to open, we were there and I was anxious to get in the building and, more importantly, hunt out Rowley and his band of merry men. Anticipation ran high as I spotted drummer Greeny escape the doors of Buffalo for a cheeky cigarette, followed closely by another two. Before I knew it, my heart had skipped several beats and I tried my absolute hardest not to stare as I sat splayed across the pavement.
There they all were, strutting like five hairy highwaymen hell-bent on having their wicked way with you and leaving a trail of messy destruction in their wake (one can dream). If this were the early 1400s, this fair maiden would have ridden away to elope in a flash.  But wait, who was this quiet and unassuming young man with just the right amount of swagger in his skinny-jeaned step, hopping into Buffalo to check out the evening's events?  Sporting a tight black top to compliment the denim topped off with a gorgeous swept hairstyle, the type you immediately want to ruffle as soon as you see it. Or at least I do. Wait, was that a wide-eyed double-take I spotted? Choosing to ignore my work friend’s comparison to Garfield and Cogsworth from Beauty and the Beast, I believed him to be perhaps the most beautiful man on the planet, and that’s a huge statement, one I have previously only dished out for Serge Pizzorno and John Taylor (Mummy Musing is very much in agreement with the latter).  I needed to know who this man was.
It wasn’t until we were inside the bar that the fun really started, there was eye-catching left, right and centre. Deliberate turns in my direction mid-conversation from Mr Delicious, deliberate staring at his arse whilst my friend was finishing off a must-read edition of Glamour not to mention a very deliberate and strategic walk (well, strut) right past him to the Little Girls’ Room only to then miss him by about two seconds as he went to the Mens. Perhaps it was a ‘look but don’t touch night’, and I was informed on my return to my friends that the strut had, in fact, had the desired effect.
The gig was awesome, lots of people turned out to see Dead Sons, including the scary paedo who is forever on the tails of young musicians (I’m a 26 year old girl, I’m allowed). Plus I would like to take this opportunity to thank the demented, drugged up couple and their off-putting PDAs for near enough ruining both my view and enjoyment, there’s always one (or two in this case). Luckily I am far too nice a person and was able to stamp my feet and overlook these gross tongue-flicking acts emanating in front of my face whilst I was innocently trying to sing along with ‘Sun Song’. MMH had an awesome time too. Their music sounded amazing, especially considering how new the material was and the atmosphere of the place really suited them down to the ground. I was all rocked out and, frankly, a little lustful.
So afterwards, outside, we waited patiently for Mr Delicious to make his way out.  This was to no such avail as upon his exit, he was deeply engrossed in conversation with friends of theirs. I was merely a bystander. Something had to be done. So I took it upon myself to make like a diva and slide myself onto the Evening Standard Unit I had been leaning against to try and re-ignite the flames of burning desire between myself and Mr Delicious.
Well it’s safe to say gone are my dancing days of ease and flexibility in high heels. After a false start, rather than slipping onto the Unit like a cheeky, wanton elfin-seductress, I couldn’t get my heel placed high enough, needed a push to keep me steady and the whole event culminated in me doing nothing more than giving the innocent Unit a really poor lap-dance, whilst MMH crumbled in floods of hysterical tears whilst trying to shield me from view of anyone. I can only thank my lucky stars that Mr Delicious’ skinny-jeaned behind stayed permanently facing me throughout my ordeal and live in hope that, one day soon, I will get to rectify this horrible situation.
Back to the present day and you find me, once again, pondering the inner workings of the male mind. You may remember a fleeting mention of a young man I took a fancy to in a Shoreditch bar a few weeks ago? The one I swapped numbers with after a brief encounter only to never hear from him again? Well whilst on a shopping trip for upcoming Birthday treats who should I receive a text from? Yes that’s right, Shoreditch Boy, the world makes sense again! Not only have three weeks flown by since our lovely encounter but I had near enough forgotten what he looked like when he breezes in to tell me things have been a little hectic. It turns out he is currently on holiday in Majorca which adds to the conundrum somewhat. Obviously I am doing what any strong-willed, independent woman would do. I am staring at my phone every five minutes in the hope that we may finally be able to meet up for that drink. Don’t judge me!