Sinister: we kiss in his room, to a popular tune, oh, real drowners.

[idleberry]

hello sinister,

as you might have guessed, there was a "picnic" on
Saturday in Breams' honour. We had inteded on
celebrating after he left the country, but we were too
impatient to wait.

I say picnic, in inverted commas,because I'd
personally been hoping for an orgy. Wrong party, I
guess.

I could tell you lots of things about it, but I see
that pigtails, lucy, And Richard The Lurker (Is that
like, a title, like Richard the Lionheart? Or
Alexander The Great?) and co have beaten me to it, and
Richard has thus renounced his throne by not lurking.
Doh!

Breams put me in charge of his guitar until he
returns. I was considering setting up a guitar creche,
so if theres anyone with nicer guitars than mine, who
would like their little darlings to be looked after by
one almost careful person, then let me know.

Then I started remembering how I got my first guitar. 
*the screen goes all hazey as we are transported back
to 1994*

I was 15. It was the year Kurt Cobain shot himself,
only a few months after I'd discovered who he was. I
didn't actually discover him- I like to think that was
some record company man, but i only found out who he
was recent to his death.
It was the year that Suede released "Stay Together"
and Bernard Butler left; The year when Wet Wet Wet
were at number 1 for 15 weeks- toppled by some dizzy
dididadida dane singing about saturday night. And I
was fifteen, in my fourth year, about to take my
standard grade exams.

I'd met this boy. I had met boys before, but this was
a special sort of boy- the sort you fancy.

Not that he was much to look at. He had long, tangled
dark brown hair, he wore black scuffed Doc Marten
boots and black jeans. He had deep dark brown eyes,
and wolf teeth- a spare set of teeth growing through
his upper gum. He liked to wear four tops- A
lemonheads one (Come On Feel The Lemonheads, I think)
A levellers one, a Carter USM one and I can't remember
the last one. He used to wear his short sleeved t
shirt over his long sleeved one, usually under a plaid
shirt, all hangin' very loose and baggy. 

He was a minger.
He was my rock god. 
(well, apart from Brett Anderson, but thats another
story... bottom slapping flouncer- no wonder I got
into Belle And Sebastian...)
This boy I fancied. He worked in the school library.
He barely ever spoke, but when he did, he had this
rumbling deep voice. Himand his friends used to sit at
lunch times reading the NME, and saying "fuck" alot,
and doing Beavis And Butthead impressions. Me? I had
no indie friends. I'd only just discovered Animal
Nitrate the year before by accident on my Smash Hits
compilation tape, and had secretly been trying to get
my head round why I found those wailing orgasmic
guitars so darn sexy- without my parents overhearing
it from my room when i was obviously supposed to be
studying.
I had posters of Keanu Reeves and Johnny Depp and Evan
Dando, taken from Just 17 when they went grunge, and
Smash Hits, tucked inside my blue ring binder for
Technological Studies. I kept Smash Hits stickers of
Brett Anderson in my private "Keep out! Really
Private!!! If you read this I'll kill you!!" diary,
with words and phrases like "Brett Anderson- 100%
official sexgod" written next to it, in gold pen. I
still have this dairy, and its a hoot to read
actually. 
Anyway, this boy. 
I asked him out. 
He said yes.
I was over the moon.
I sort of asked him out actually. I think I called him
a tosser or something, and then flirted with him for a
week. Every time I saw him, he blushed at me.
It started off with a discussion about music, and how
he was going to see Nirvana play, in April in
Edinburgh- it might have been Glasgow though.
And I asked if he had a spare ticket.
And he said no.
And I asked why not.
And he looked a bit confused.
And I called him a tosser, cos he should have gotten m
one, and then we were inseperable.

The relationship itself lasted a month. We never got
round to kissing. I wrote in my diary, how I tried to
kiss him, but he moved away, and I missed. And I got
his chin instead, and headbutted his nose in the
process.

Towards the end, he stopped talking to me. He wouldn't
even acknowledge me, and started drooling over
pictures of Eva Herzigova, who I think had started her
Wonderbra "Hello Boys!" campaign, and acting
basically, like a boy. And I don't ever like being
ignored. So after a week of deliberating, and
conferring with my friends by messages written in the
back of orange maths jotters during class (we didn't
have mobile phones back in those days) I decided our
relationship was over. I was about to start study
leave for my standard grades, so I sat, one evening in
April, writing him a "Dear John" letter. His name
wasn't john, by the way.
I remember it so well, sitting here at my desk, as I
am now. The sky had turned to late dusk, and I had my
lamp on, and was listening to The Evening Session on
Radio One, back in the days when I taped it, and Jo
Whiley still presented it. I remember they played a
song by Motorcycle Boy called "Big Rock Candy
Mountain" while I wrote this letter.
Anyway.I posted the letter. I went for a walk with a
pal, who I went to primary school with. She had went
to a different secondary school, and after a rocky
start 
(Her dad made her wear school uniform and carry a
breifcase on her first day, that he had bought her for
her birthday. She got bullied rotten for a year. By
14, she rebelled against going to church on sundays
and wearing laura ashley dresses, listening to music
he didn't like, playing guitar instead of attending
piano lessons- eventually he raided her room- throwing
out her clothes, tapes, and posters of Axl Rose,  He
made her do lessaons at schoolshe didn't want to- so
she made her own portfolio for standard grade Art with
the help of her art teacher so she could do it as a
higher subject. She went on to become an art
therapist, and lives in Birmingham now, working with
kids.)
Her name was Deirdre.
Her boyfriend was best mates with mine. Deirdre
listened to my story, and I kept insisting I was over
him. Only hours after I'd written this letter. Then
iwent home and cried.

Study leave came and went.I regretted dumping him. He
carried on. He didn't want anything to do with me.
The summer term arrived. So did a new crush.Another
boy who was into music. His pal fancied my pal. We
plotted together to get my friend, Jennifer and his
friend together.
His name was Andy.
Andy was great.
He did even better impressions of Beavis And Butthead,
and was twice as chatty as the first guy I fancied.

We even went out- into edinburgh. We went to play
laserquest, and then to the cinema, all with the idea
of getting his pal and mine together, on thi double
date.

Throughout the summer holidays, I couldn't think of
anyone else but Andy. I went to Norway, and told my
pal there about this guy I liked back home. 

After summer holidays, Andy ignored me.
(see a pattern?)
My pal Jennifer changed schools, and I was on my own.
At first, I thought "ok, he's back from holiday. No
pressure. He'll get round to talking to me, after he's
seen his guy pals"
but thatnever happened.
The indie kids at school didn't like me. I was an
outcast with my own kind. They went to Teenage Fanclub
gigs, and I wanted to go with them, but I wasn't
allowed. They wouldn't let me go with them.

The kids at school bullied me. I was in fifth year. I
got it from all angles. From the younger year. From my
year. I'd hide in a corer of the library, writing
stories, just to get through lunchtimes and
breaktimes.

Andy called me cruel names, so did his pals. They
sneered when I walked past. 
I soon got over my crush for Andy. But I began to miss
the guy I'd been out with.  He'd been my boyfriend, if
only for a month. Surely he must be different? deeper?

So anyway. All the boys were into guitars. So what did
I do? Decided to ask for a guitar for my 16th
birthday. Sure enough, I got one, from a music shop in
Hamilton.
When I went to tell these blokes, they asked what sort
it was. "Accoustic"
"Accoustic guitars are shit.".

There was a lot more mess at 16, and pretty much for
most of being 16, I got bullied. I tried to fit in,
but I didn't. I was weird. I was a freak. They caled
me that. They wrote it on the blackboard in the common
room. So I just listened to Suede on my walkman, and
wrote stories and poems.

Eventually, it got better. But not for a while.

Still. I got a guitar.

Sometimes, I'm guilty of buying things to impress
people.
And usually, it doesn't impress.
Like the time I bought a Velvet Underground album so
this other bloke would like me, when I was 18.

But.
The best bit.

Forgetting the boys- all the boys- I got some cool
stuff. And the remenants of teenage "please like me"
moments, are things I love now. My guitar. My Velvet
Underground album. I'd rather have them than the boys.


You can always have more fun with a guitar than you
can with a teenage boy. It'll last a lot longer and be
your faithful companion when you need it most.

And whats more, I'm off to pretend to be 15 again, and
pogo round my room to Suede. 

she sells hearts, 
 she sells meat, 
oh dad,
 shes driving me mad, 
come see

;)

Like. what-eva.

idleberry
















=====
http://groups.yahoo.com/group/corduroysmoke/ starting playground gossip and passing notes

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