2004-03-06..2:32 p.m.

Today is panning out to be one of those days I�d rather be in bed, but would end up getting all guilt-ridden and hoopy despite the fact I�m doing little more than browsing the internet (thanks to flatmate being gone again this weekend). It�s oppressively grey - dank clouds abound - and disruptively noisy. My mews is generally a sanctuary of peace and calm on the weekends, which is why this morning�s 8am outburst of concrete smashing and caber tossing (alright, small 4x4 plank tossing, but at 8am on a Saturday? The dramatics aren�t unwarranted) created such an unnecessary upheaval to my chillin� relaxation. The general atmosphere has plummeted from Saturday breeziness to knife-weildingly tense. If it were sexual tension, we�d be flinging ourselves up against the brickwork, undies torn asunder. If it were sexual tension, I�d be easing you back under the covers.

Instead, I�ve been on the cusp of finding things to throw at them all morning. It�s been a very long week for no particular reason, and I want my weekend, dammit.

I did actually try to escape to the library, but it�s awfully difficult losing yourself in reading titles off laminated spines when surrounded by fluorescent lighting and semi-constructed metal shelves. (The old library used to be at the foot of my street, and was lovely and cosy and cramped. They opened this one a couple of weeks ago because it�s got five times the floor space and a City and Islington branch attached, presumably thinking it�d be good for the college kids; but it feels more like an Ikea warehouse. You�d have thought the powers that be would have considered it wise to furnish the new library, unpack all the books, introduce the new staff to the computer system, and keep the old sweet library open until the new one was ready, but no.) Of the meagre selection, I managed to procure a history of Victorian women, two Graham Greene books (The Quiet American, and Our Man in Havana) and Homage to Catalonia by George Orwell which I have never read, but like the way the title reminds me that I should listen to Lemon Jelly more. And for the record, I am aware that the song is Homage to Patagonia, but it nearly rhymes!

Ever wonder what would happen if Priscilla Queen of the Desert spawned with the Village People? Six feet of faux-hawked, stilettoed biker, that�s what! A couple of nights ago on my way home from the Distance-Hot Puppies-AM Lovers gig (more on that in a mo) I was marvelling at the dragging gangsta swagger (you know, one leg gets sort of pulled along behind as if still recovering from a gun wound because he�s tough, yo!) and wondering if it in any way developed along the same lines that the Spanish have an inbuilt lisp, and out of nowhere this dude in flame-red spikes and midnight blue leather saunters around a corner, working the road like it�s nobody�s business. All high-cheekbones and full pout. Anyway, so he takes one look at El Gangsta ambling up on the other side, smirks and beelines to dish a once-over the likes of which the world had not seen. El reels from this mentally bitch-slapped and scarpers whimpering back home to mommy. The memory of this will make me happy for years to come.

So the concert. The Distance were not who I thought they were. I�m not sure who I ended up at the Water Rats thinking they were going to be, but be them they were not. I managed two and a half songs before giving up on any hopes I had that they�d cut the Cali-blah bullshit and morph into something worth seeing. They�ll very likely end up becoming big by virtue of sounding like everything else. Shameful end to the night because AM Lovers and the Hot Puppies were fucking excellent!

AM Lovers played to maybe thirty people, but for all the energy they put into it, it may have been a thousand times that many. Fiercely talented, stage-frisky, guitar-humping rockers. When the lead singer wasn�t on his knees, slathering the bassist, or dancing on the drum kit, he was screeching with a gusto that would make Jimi Hendrix rest peacefully. I don�t like to do it, because there are some people (entitled to their opinion though they may be) will attach stigma and negative type-casting, however, if you like the Darkness, then check out AM Lovers.

And lead singer for the Hot Puppies is basically a female Jarvis Cocker, a modern Kate Bush, and a brunette Debbie Harry rolled into one. So much power from the tiniest skinny thing you�ve ever seen. She had slashed the hem of her skirt, and on any normal girl, it�d have been up around her navel; on her it still hung down mid-thigh. Lyrically, nothing spectacular. Not exactly challenging stuff, but did she ever mean it. The drummer made me wonder if that�s how he looks when he�s about to cum.

Ok, enough of that. It's time for some pregame rugbying. If you're good, I'll do some more later.

xxmeep