Starting Monday With A Bang

I had a superbly musical weekend, at the weekend.

Saturday night was a gig night and we were playing at a fortieth birthday party in a seriously trendy venue to a seriously trendy crowd. They were a bunch of high flying and mega cool creatives, the kind of people who went to the toilet a lot and all had the sniffles when they came out.

Our first set was tough. People were warming up and chatting, getting loose and starting to relax. But, the second set was a bit fantastic. We played well, I played well and everyone fed off everyone. It reminded me, not that I needed it, how much I love playing the drums and how much I love being in a band, or two as the case often is.

Sometimes being the drummer has its downsides, but that's actually part of the role and I'm convinced that there are different personality types that are attracted to different instruments anyhow. There are times I feel that little twinge of "bugger it, I wish I was a lead singer" but overall I'm happy to sit behind the kit and overall I can't sing.

On Saturday it happened too. I played my heart out, watched people go radio rental (cockney rhyming slang for mental) as I drummed, I did my solo bit in Dakota and had the audience whooping and hollerring and cheering, all for me. Then, not fifteen minutes after we'd finished, as I walked out of the building, I passed a woman in red tights. Err, I mean she was wearing the read tights, not me. I was wearing the silver spangly tights that go with the little skirt.

Anyway, I walked passed her and she smiled at me, then said.

"Hello, that was great wasn't it. Were you in the band?"

I smiled demurely, thanked her and answered in the affirmative. In my head the conversation sounded very different. It went like this:

"Aaaargh, yes I was in the fucking band you stupid cow, I was the one behind the drumkit grooving like a groovy mother and playing so fucking brilliantly as you danced the night away to my funkiness."

But, enough ranting and raging. Sunday evening saw me at a thing that Theena, Java, Confab and a few others whose names I'm not sure of would have probably loved. It was an event put on by Zildjian, the cymbal company, to honour Ginger Baker. Mr Baker is the former Cream drummer, though has played in many other great bands. It was an event featuring more world class drummers than you could shake a stick at, unless you're a world class drummer, as then you'd be particularly good at shaking sticks.

Theena, Java - Jack Bruce was there on bass with Ginger Baker and it was stunning. At one point, during a drum solo, Jack had strolled off stage as he wasn't playing and I saw him standing there taking a photo, with his bass slung round his neck, of Ginger Baker playing. It was such a nice show of humility and mutual admiration and I only wish I could have taken a picture of the scene.

I went home quite late, ate noodles, then went to bed. I'm seriously into noodles at the moment, to the extent that I might even, were I interviewed for a magazine and asked what my hobbies are, say that eating noodles is one of them.

In the still of the night, at what felt like about 4 AM my mobile rang. I answered it, that's what I do when it rings. It was Jay, my right hand chap from work.

"Ah Rhythmic, are you coming in today?"

By now you'll probably know that I like to start work early, I'm normally at my desk by about 6.45 AM. The couple of hours before the phones start to ring and the people start to arrive are my most productive and I miss the rush hour traffic too.

I glanced at the alarm clock and saw the time. It said 7.09. I'll tell you something that has just made me laugh at myself. When I first typed that time, the one that I told you the alarm clock displayed, I hit the "8" by mistake to show "7.08". Then, before I could think about it much, I'd deleted the "8" and changed it to a "9", which was the actual time. Then, I thought and realised that I must be losing the plot. I mean, do you, the reader, actually care about that minute's difference? It hardly changes the fundamentals of my story or anything does it?

Now, to make matters worse, I've gone and written a paragraph about it. At least I didn't go on to a second paragraph. That would have been really mental.

"Fuck, bollocks, sorry Jay I've totally overslept, sorry about that, I'll be in in about half an hour." said I.

I sprang out of bed with all the speed and urgency of an airport porter at BIA heading towards a crowd of white people. I hate oversleeping, it messes me up and invariably makes me feel groggy for the whole day, sometimes the whole year. I knew that there was going to be a need for some drastic compromising in my getting ready for the day. Clothes were sorted, the pile from last night was still on the floor. Pants and socks had to be changed but that was easily done.

The bathroom business was the thing that needed thought, something I didn't really have the time to do. It was such a rush that I didn't even have time to think that there was no time. Now, before you judge me, please bear in mind that it's cold here. The temperature reading in my car said that it was -2 degrees when I got home last night. So I figured that not having a shower wasn't going to be disastrous. I also didn't have a poo, though it's a rare RD morning on which I do have one.

I brushed the teeth, and did just the essentials; some hydra energetic moisturiser on my face, some mouthwash and a liberal spraying of Lynx to most areas (it's irresistible to all women you know). The clothes were attached in the blink of an eye and I was ready to go, or good to go in American.

Just as I was about to scarper I looked in the mirror and had a last minute change of mind. No showering and no pooing was one thing, though it was actually two things I know. But a metrosexualish man like me has limits, standards, image to maintain and I almost crossed a dangerous line. Yes, I nearly left without putting hair product in. What the hell was I thinking?

I quickly opened the jar of the new product that I'm so pleased with. I bunged a bit in the hair and within about a minute my long flowing locks had that carefully crafted messy and dishevelled look, as if I'd just woken up and rushed into work without having time to do my hair.

I darted out of the house, jumped in the car and steamed into work.

It takes effort to look this rough you know. It would have been oh so easy for me to have left my hair alone.

But then it would have looked dishevelled and messy.