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!
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