“I can’t bring myself to set the scene”

I should have twigged from the sheer volume of people, but the vast number of obvious “out-of-towners” sealed the deal – Aimee Mann was not the only musician plying her trade at the o2 on Friday night.  The teeming hordes of Scissor Sisters fans made things a little more crowded than we’d have liked, but what’s a gig if you don’t seriously compromise your ribcage trying to get in and out of the venue?

Indig02 is advertised as an intimate jazz-style venue, but in reality it looks more like the set of Stars in Their Eyes.  Lots of metal and twinkly lights don’t quite hide the fact that this is a fairly arbitrary space carved out of the much larger whole.  I didn’t bother visiting the Dome when it was… whatever it was, but they seem to have got the right idea in cramming in three different entertainment venues and enough food and drink stops to keep the masses from rioting.

Before I get on to the delightful Ms. Mann, probably the highlight of the evening was the deliciously grown-up bar.  The venue is over-18 apparently, and the absence of the screaming weans was a delicious experience.  Not to mention that drinks were being sold at regular prices.  Well, regular for London at least, and with a range of spirits that actually offer a choice rather than grudging acceptance, I was pleasantly surprised.

Still, it’s not about the surroundings, is it?  It’s all about the music, man!

Only one support act; a blessed relief since it’s such a hit-and-miss tradition.  You either end up with a polar opposite who will never reach this particular fanbase, or headliner-lite who simply leave you impatient for the real thing.  We were treated to Jenny Owen Youngs, who was mostly adorable and quite taken with the collective Britishness of her audience.  I think the shouts about badgers confused her though.  Her own stuff was pretty enjoyable, though only one song grabbed me right away – the one built around a refrain of “What the f*ck was I thinking”.  The piece de resistance though, was her cover of club classic “It’s Getting Hot In Here (So Take Off All Your Clothes)” – you haven’t lived until you’ve heard it in angsty-girl-with-guitar style, and that’s a promise.

After much faffing about, we finally got ourselves some Aimee.  It’s been two years since I fell in love with her at Shepherd’s Bush (having been just flirting with a couple of her albums before that).

She seems to have grown in confidence since last I saw her, or maybe it’s the difference between playing a set of old favourites compared to the unfamiliarity factor of p!mping a new album like she was back in 2005.  Her outfit was a little floatier, but she’s still tall, skinny and perfect for a mid-life crisis (to paraphrase how support act Jenny so aptly put it).

I forget that she’s been around for a while, our Aimee, much longer than my own acquaintance with her.  Long enough in fact, to forget the words here and there, most spectacularly on “Momentum” and “Other End of the Telescope”.  I suppose that’s all part of the magic of live music, seeing it raw and human, not just a karaoke rendition of the CDs you can listen to any old time.  It was charming, and there’s a real connection moment of yelling out the words to the songs you love.  On that note, you can’t please everyone unless you plan on playing your entire catalogue, but I’ve noticed at every gig I go to the audience suggestion part is always vociferous to the point of aggression.  Personally, I find it rude.  You can have a favourite song all you want, but don’t mar the atmosphere in often small venues by chanting that song name over and over again to the point of stupidity.

Aimee’s voice is getting smokier and sexier with age.  Her own admission of lowering songs by a key give some previously girlish songs a deeper resonance and it feels like she knows her audience better, treating us to songs that have never been played live before.  It’s supposed to feel that way isn’t it, a little treat just for you, and never mind the other few hundred people in the room.

I think I need more live music in my life, for sneak previews of songs like “Freeway” which bump January’s new album to the top of my list; for laughs and moments of explanation that make the crush of the tube and the tiredness all worth it.  I love my slightly whiny girls with guitars and awesome tattoos, never mind the lyrics that make my head spin.

“will anyone who’s free from shame e’er be the candidate?”

Finally, a UK political campaign that I can actually get interested in, I may even join in some form of active campaigning should I ever find the time.

I’m a little mixed in my views on Ken, his pseudo-commie crap annoys me in terms of ties with Chavez; and his punish-the-wealthy rhetoric irks me no end.  That said, he has a pretty good record when it comes to p!mping London internationally, and important things like promoting diversity.  Professionally, his over-promotion of the buses is irritating because people think they can travel the length and breadth of London on one bus.

Boris amuses me, but more than that I agree with a large number of his policies and ideas, particularly his views on higher education.  His bumbling persona usually hides a pretty sharp mind at work, and there’s an affability about him that appeals to me at base voter level. 

So, should the hustings go well, bring it on!

“because reason says I should have died three years ago..”

Finally Facebook becomes the real internet, by descending the the rather base level of vaguely improper propositions from foreigners I have never met:

hey whats up. saw ur profile on face book. How are you doing, would like to get to know you. ahh well. I am a nigerian in Ghana. studying maths science. Ahh well, am just in for friendship though, not into anything more, cos am sure u are backing like 3 kids already. just teasing. well abit about myself. I can be very silly attimes, but i know when u draw the line, but u know the line is very thing. But honestly… want to be someone u would call on, when u have a problem. not saying am one problem solver, but if am sure can make you have more problems that u forget the one u first had. hahaha. well let me hear from you aiight. and lets see whats up. have a blessed day….

People keep blessing me lately, especially over the phone at work. Clearly I have the intonation of a godless wandering soul. Well, good, quite frankly.

In other news, I think I might finally be developing a healthy addiction – swimming. I joined the gym like a good girl, and despite my previous reluctance I actually sort of love it. There’s something comforting about an induction where your instructor prefers the word ‘arse’ to any stupid muscle names, I find.

It’s hard, and occasionally painfully so. My workout programme has variety and it’s actually fun. But never mind all the pressing and jogging nonsense, the real epiphany is all about the pool.

I haven’t been swimming properly in years, barring the odd paddle in a rooftop pool (ouch, that makes me miss travelling!). My learning experience was the clichéd one of being chucked in with armbands and flailing until I got it right. Not that I really remember the moment itself, but you know how family lore is.

Following that was the Catholic/Protestant rivalry of my childhood, largely unobserved by me. To prevent us going to Mass, Grandad offered to take us to swimming club on Sunday mornings. Given the choice, what do you think two squalling brats opted for every time? Although the post-exercise fry-ups probably didn’t help my unhealthy relationship with food.

In the interim, a few nasty experiences with cramp and one near drowning put me off entirely. I stopped going, I lost my confidence, and on the few occasions I was dragged I refused to venture beyond shoulder depth.

I can’t describe how wonderful it felt on Thursday to splash around in 14ft of water having forced myself to do what I truly was scared of. In a state of quiet euphoria I was doing lengths instead of paddling aimlessly. It turns out that I can do breaststroke *insert immature snigger here* after years of sticking solely to crawl and backstroke. Don’t get me wrong, I was knackered and my shoulderblades were planning a mutiny, but it was so incredibly worth it. I fully recommend, nay command, any of you feeling sluggish and not fit enough to get yourself to a pool. If you can’t swim, learn! It’s awesome, enough that I’m getting up at 6:30am tomorrow to fit in 40 mins of chlorinated fun before work. This is so unlike me, which can only be a positive thing…

“think you’ve seen me ’cause you’ve seen every line on my face”

So, I sort of hate Beth Ditto. It’s been brewing for a while, and for ages I’ve been just putting it down to the fact that I can’t really stand The Gossip.

I can admit that it’s perhaps slightly rooted in spite or jealousy – after all, if any fat lezzbian is going to be rich and famous and allowed to sing in public, it really ought to be me. But the longer it goes on, the more places that her annoying face pops up, the more tempted I am to smack her one.

Truthfully, I didn’t know she existed until the bezzer happened to be interviewing her. At first the camaraderie of the obvious things-we-have-in-common made me at least receptive to liking her, but that somehow failed to materialise.

I don’t find her attractive, but that’s subjective at best. What really grinds my gears is this patronising nonsense that has sprung up around her, with all the skinny indie freaks who’d top themselves for finding a size 12 the teensiest bit tight, cooing over how defiant and cool she is; like it’s some unbelievable feat of courage to be chubby and entertaining all at the same time. The fact that Ms Ditto allows this, at times seems to revel in it, irks me beyond reason. The sentiments are no more than a half-baked attempt at ignoring body fascism in a world that positively thrives on it. Beth can stroll around semi-naked all she wants, but it’s not any genuine acceptance of anything; what remains is the slimster cultural norm. It’s a device to let people feel good about themselves, believe that they’re not shallow, all the while still fretting over the 2lbs they’ve gained since Easter.

It’s best I don’t get started on the stupid Gossip poster that’s right by my spot on the platform for the Tube coming home. Boob tubes DO NOT look good on anyone who isn’t skinny. That’s not social conditioning speaking, it’s fact. And for the love of Jaysus, she doesn’t even shave her ‘pits! This is not who I want the media to serve up as my representative, this mouthy fuck-off attitude that seems to suggest that being fat excuses you from any sense of modesty or propriety.

It’s not my own self-loathing that has found a target here, I genuinely don’t think she’s an attractive woman, and if some of the ‘right-on’ lefty brigade in the media would stop claiming her as some sort of conscience-salve, one or two of them might admit to feeling the same way too. Look at Dawn French, a big bit of a lass, but with a gorgeous face and striking features (albeit normally contorted or uglified by costumes and props).

I know there’s a simple solution – if I don’t want to be identified, it is I who will have to make the changes. So with a shiny new gym card clutched in my sweaty little mitts, we’ll just see if I can’t put myself in another bracket entirely.

To counter that little burst of negativity, here’s the best thing I’ve ever seen on YouTube: the Hillary lezzbian crush video!

“Tony, Tony, Tony”

I never hated the man, even if I didn’t partly agree with most of what he’s done, the blatant contradictions of the “B-liar” labelling numpties would have put me directly in his corner.

But with this, he has made me a fan forever. Is it so hard for anyone else to talk a little sense every now and then?