Status: Finished, but never forgotten.
Live Forever
It really, really, really could happen...
It’s strange how some things never change.
Like people. Stella is still as childish and excitable as ever, even with the dog, husband and two kids (in order; Cowell, Dave, David and Victoria). She and Dave are just as lovestruck as they were when they first met; even after he had the affair, they were so equally hurt by it that they cried it out and became more sickly sweet than ever before. I’m not a great believer in love, but those two are the definition of love. They never seemed to come out of the honeymoon stage, and they’re all the happier for it.
But, for some people – people like me – love doesn’t come from the people we sleep with. I’ve never quite managed to have a functioning relationship with a human since that first one; they’ve all been hopelessly devoted to me, and I’ve grown bored of humouring them. Buying into ‘love’ means you’ve got to take your feet off the ground and live in a stupid little bubble where love is everything, and knowing how much it hurts when the bubble is forcibly popped, I can’t do it. My affections lie solely with two things; Chelsea FC (who would’ve known that we’d be FA Cup champions for the fourth time in twelve years?) and my record collection. And, in amongst the spotless cases that I get from my job and the hundreds of famous-for-a-second indie bands that line my CD racks, there are a few cracked, scratched and sellotaped cases in the middle that have been listened to so many times that I don’t need to look at the lyrics book to sing every word. They’re the ones that briefly united this Godforsaken country all those years ago, back when people actually wanted a Labour government (ha!) and the Internet was a newfangled toy rather than a way of life. Back when I thought that one day I’d marry Dan, and we’d just listen to Oasis and Blur and Elastica and Suede all day long. But it’s the love of music that’s never changed in all those years. I may live in London (!), have a fantastic job (most of the time) and attend gigs every week, but an unwavering love of good lyrics or guitar riffs – that’s my raison d’être. That’s why I’m on this squalid Tube train, snaking under London, soon to be reunited with my childhood love...
...the one that didn’t leave me until six years ago, in any case. The one that is contained in MP3 files that I’m listening to now; drowning out the relentless pounding of the trashy hip-hop blaring from the wannabe-gangster next-to-me’s iPod and the awful screech of the metal that the train gives off. I’ve never found any magic in the Underground, especially not after four years ago – I walked to work for a year after that and saved a fortune on the gym and my Oyster card. The walk to work was powered by Parklife and The Great Escape, the lunch break fuelled by 13 or Blur, the walk home by Modern Life Is Rubbish and the others soundtracked dinner parties and nights spent in eating Chinese takeaway and writing articles. I never lost my love for Blur. They’re always there for me, and now I’m returning the favour. Hyde Park! Bloody Hyde Park! I just hope I’ll be able to see them, that I’ll be near the front...
The first of two gigs in nine days. Because, no matter how much they hold aching memories, I’m still an Oasis fan. Even though they’ve been turgid since What’s The Story (the last time I saw Dan was when I bought my copy of Be Here Now, which turned out to be crap. I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of letting him know that his music taste had had a profound impact on my life, so I cobbled together some story about buying OK Computer, for which I’m always the lone voice of reason in the office when pointing out that it is little more than overhyped music for stoned wrist-slitters, and that their only decent song is Creep). And I’m writing an article on it in any case, but I guess I wanted to see them again to make up for the disasters of last time.
It sounds like Dan has been far more of a totem pole in my life than he is; of course I blame him for my skewed view of relationships, and he made the foundations for my love of Oasis, and he was the last time I lost myself in all the fripperies of romance. He was the last person who I mutually adored. And though I occasionally think about what might have happened with us – usually a thought process that follows too many glasses of wine – and small things like Yorkies remind me of him, I’m fine. He’s just a face from the past. A poignant and vivid one, but one that I don’t waste too much time reconsidering. It’s just that the summer of Britpop (as Dave dubbed it when I trekked up to Manchester for Stella’s birthday the other week and told them that I was revisiting 90s) inflames all the memories and the happiness and the hurt. I haven’t felt like that since Daisy’s funeral in 2001. She overdosed on heroin, no thanks to her drug-dealing, abusive boyfriend. The melancholy coffin made me simultaneously forgive and pity her. I can’t hold grudges against dead people, except for serial killers. And Daisy wasn’t evil – she was just lonely and sad. I’ve softened up since my teenage years.
The train continues to scrape through the stations. Doors open and close, people get on and off. London’s not always a massive adventure; it’s steeped in so much routine that you could easily get bored. Except that-
I happen to be looking out the window whilst listening to The Universal when we pull into Leicester Square. It’s not as busy as usual, but there are always a few people who just happen to miss the train. They get there just as the doors are closing. But there’s this one bloke, who jumps down the stairs and is about to get on the train when he drops his ticket and has to go back and get it, before turning round to a set of closing doors that he’s too far away to get into, but it’s with a sudden surge in my chest that I know who it is. Coincidence or God? It’s the same face that I’ve pondered during the journey, Dan bloody Rigby, and in my stupor I shout his name between the closing doors and he looks at me and knows who it is and shouts my name as the train pulls away...
Like people. Stella is still as childish and excitable as ever, even with the dog, husband and two kids (in order; Cowell, Dave, David and Victoria). She and Dave are just as lovestruck as they were when they first met; even after he had the affair, they were so equally hurt by it that they cried it out and became more sickly sweet than ever before. I’m not a great believer in love, but those two are the definition of love. They never seemed to come out of the honeymoon stage, and they’re all the happier for it.
But, for some people – people like me – love doesn’t come from the people we sleep with. I’ve never quite managed to have a functioning relationship with a human since that first one; they’ve all been hopelessly devoted to me, and I’ve grown bored of humouring them. Buying into ‘love’ means you’ve got to take your feet off the ground and live in a stupid little bubble where love is everything, and knowing how much it hurts when the bubble is forcibly popped, I can’t do it. My affections lie solely with two things; Chelsea FC (who would’ve known that we’d be FA Cup champions for the fourth time in twelve years?) and my record collection. And, in amongst the spotless cases that I get from my job and the hundreds of famous-for-a-second indie bands that line my CD racks, there are a few cracked, scratched and sellotaped cases in the middle that have been listened to so many times that I don’t need to look at the lyrics book to sing every word. They’re the ones that briefly united this Godforsaken country all those years ago, back when people actually wanted a Labour government (ha!) and the Internet was a newfangled toy rather than a way of life. Back when I thought that one day I’d marry Dan, and we’d just listen to Oasis and Blur and Elastica and Suede all day long. But it’s the love of music that’s never changed in all those years. I may live in London (!), have a fantastic job (most of the time) and attend gigs every week, but an unwavering love of good lyrics or guitar riffs – that’s my raison d’être. That’s why I’m on this squalid Tube train, snaking under London, soon to be reunited with my childhood love...
...the one that didn’t leave me until six years ago, in any case. The one that is contained in MP3 files that I’m listening to now; drowning out the relentless pounding of the trashy hip-hop blaring from the wannabe-gangster next-to-me’s iPod and the awful screech of the metal that the train gives off. I’ve never found any magic in the Underground, especially not after four years ago – I walked to work for a year after that and saved a fortune on the gym and my Oyster card. The walk to work was powered by Parklife and The Great Escape, the lunch break fuelled by 13 or Blur, the walk home by Modern Life Is Rubbish and the others soundtracked dinner parties and nights spent in eating Chinese takeaway and writing articles. I never lost my love for Blur. They’re always there for me, and now I’m returning the favour. Hyde Park! Bloody Hyde Park! I just hope I’ll be able to see them, that I’ll be near the front...
The first of two gigs in nine days. Because, no matter how much they hold aching memories, I’m still an Oasis fan. Even though they’ve been turgid since What’s The Story (the last time I saw Dan was when I bought my copy of Be Here Now, which turned out to be crap. I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of letting him know that his music taste had had a profound impact on my life, so I cobbled together some story about buying OK Computer, for which I’m always the lone voice of reason in the office when pointing out that it is little more than overhyped music for stoned wrist-slitters, and that their only decent song is Creep). And I’m writing an article on it in any case, but I guess I wanted to see them again to make up for the disasters of last time.
It sounds like Dan has been far more of a totem pole in my life than he is; of course I blame him for my skewed view of relationships, and he made the foundations for my love of Oasis, and he was the last time I lost myself in all the fripperies of romance. He was the last person who I mutually adored. And though I occasionally think about what might have happened with us – usually a thought process that follows too many glasses of wine – and small things like Yorkies remind me of him, I’m fine. He’s just a face from the past. A poignant and vivid one, but one that I don’t waste too much time reconsidering. It’s just that the summer of Britpop (as Dave dubbed it when I trekked up to Manchester for Stella’s birthday the other week and told them that I was revisiting 90s) inflames all the memories and the happiness and the hurt. I haven’t felt like that since Daisy’s funeral in 2001. She overdosed on heroin, no thanks to her drug-dealing, abusive boyfriend. The melancholy coffin made me simultaneously forgive and pity her. I can’t hold grudges against dead people, except for serial killers. And Daisy wasn’t evil – she was just lonely and sad. I’ve softened up since my teenage years.
The train continues to scrape through the stations. Doors open and close, people get on and off. London’s not always a massive adventure; it’s steeped in so much routine that you could easily get bored. Except that-
I happen to be looking out the window whilst listening to The Universal when we pull into Leicester Square. It’s not as busy as usual, but there are always a few people who just happen to miss the train. They get there just as the doors are closing. But there’s this one bloke, who jumps down the stairs and is about to get on the train when he drops his ticket and has to go back and get it, before turning round to a set of closing doors that he’s too far away to get into, but it’s with a sudden surge in my chest that I know who it is. Coincidence or God? It’s the same face that I’ve pondered during the journey, Dan bloody Rigby, and in my stupor I shout his name between the closing doors and he looks at me and knows who it is and shouts my name as the train pulls away...
♠ ♠ ♠
:)