The Peryls of Releasing a Record

Let me take you back in time to a sleepy North Shropshire town called Whitchurch.   It’s 1988 and I’ve tucked myself into a pair of stonewashed jeans and I’m stood in front of a mirror chanting “I’m gonna do it” while attempting to backcomb my hair.  It was the night that changed everything.  It was the night of the school disco.

I’d been thinking about this night for weeks.  Giggling over maths textbooks and batting my eyelashes while conjugating the French verb “avoir”.  All I could think about were freckles.  Freckles and the face attached to them.  Tonight I was going to put myself out there and ask him for the last dance.  The signs were good.  We’d shared a sewing machine in textiles and he’d once stood next to me in the playground.  He liked me, I just knew it.

After an hour, things were really hotting up.  “Come On Eileen” was in mid flow and the time felt right.  I nudged my best friend and nodded in his direction.  I tried to appear nonchalant as she made her way across the dance floor and stomped with aplomb at the rousing chorus of “too rah doo rah day”.  Within seconds she was back by my side.  I looked hopefully into her eyes but she gravely shook her head. 

The rest of the night passed by in a bit of a blur.  When the time came for the fated last dance, I stood in the corner by the pommel horse, choking back tears as the object of my desire stuck his tongue down another girls throat.  I vowed that night that I would never face rejection again…

So what the hell are we doing releasing a record???

You put so much of yourself into an album (quite literally in our case, we’ve been stockpiling toe nail clippings to sellotape to the front of the CD as a bonus item) and putting it out there to be judged by the masses is really scary.  Almost as scary as asking a boy to like you.  So…listen to it, order it and please, please like it.  If you don’t…just lie to us and tell us it’s great or we’ll cry.

The Peryls of Festivals

Now its mid week and my post-festival mind-fog is clearing, it feels appropriate to inform the world of our weekend of debauchery at Secret Garden Party.  The party consisted of me, Wes, Mr. B.P, my lovely sister (who has a secondary role as Wes’s girlfriend and Wes’s mate…newsman Kev.

Wes almost didn’t make it in as he was (unjustly) indicated by a sniffer dog when entering the festival and was so incensed that he insisted on the police doing a thorough search.  They did. He was a bit ratty afterwards and insisted on carrying a cushion around with him for the rest of the festival, but he’s over it now.

So what was it like?  Who did we see?  Where did we go?  To my mind listening to the details of someone else’s festival experience is probably akin to hearing about someone else’s dream so to save you from boredom, I’ve made you a little list of highlights…

Kicking the teenagers’ butts in a music quiz.

Swimming in a lake at 7.30 in the morning with a massive hangover and then not having a hangover anymore.

Wes going down a massive waterslide in a red top hat and swimming trunks.

Mr. B.P going down a massive waterslide like superman and leg sweeping a girl who was stood at the bottom – bloody nose for him, sprained wrist for her.

Naked trampolining – yes we actually did that and no, I haven’t got black eyes

Lying in a coffin while those present hurled insults at me before I was resurrected-such fun!

Having a Pilates-off with Wes while wasted and eating meze.

Properly scaring people while dressed as plague doctors before high fiving them and making them feel better.

Following the Faun on Sunday morning in a mad fusion of ballet and big gay raving in wellies-the best dance class I’ve ever been to!

Oh, and we saw a few bands…

The Peryls of Idiocy

You may not know this but Wes and Liam are sort of my brothers-in-law.  They live with my sisters; in different houses of course - that would be too weird.  Consequently I spend a lot of time with them outside of “band”.  I have mixed feelings about this.

A few weeks ago, we all went camping.  I’m not one of life’s natural campers.  I don’t really understand what the appeal is.  Tents seem to provide the perfect environment to capture and retain everything that emanates from a human being.  I’ve never shared a tent with Liam Slade but having been forced to leave  many a live room due to his trouser productions, I can only imagine what my sister has to endure.  Our capacious family tent is not much better.  Children seem to produce really hot, wet breath and Millie is no exception.

After a rubbish nights sleep, I decided to take a Saturday afternoon nap.  After telling Mr.B.P. to keep an eye on Millie I merrily dozed off for an hour before being woken to sounds of merriment.  “What fun” I thought, poking my head out of the porch.  My amusement was short lived however when I came to realise that Feats Of Strength had begun. 

Feats of Strength.  It happens every time we leave London.  Perhaps the fresh air increases their testosterone levels or perhaps its because drinking before lunch somehow becomes acceptable on holiday?  Last year when we were in France, Liam “fell funny” while attempting to leap over a line of 6 sun loungers.  More recently in the garden of the family farm in Yorkshire, Wes cracked his head down onto a paving slab while trying to do a handstand push up and Carl ripped his shoulder doing a cartwheel (it was actually more akin to throwing himself to the ground upside down, but lets not split hairs). 

So what did I find when I woke up?  One armed press ups? Wheelbarrow racing?  No.  What I found was three grown men and an empty Heineken Keg, hurling it in the air to see who could get it the highest.  At the moment I spotted this idiocy, it had just hit a tree and caused a shower of deadwood to rain down.

Me  shouting from across the field

What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing? 

I move swiftly towards them with my arms outstretched

Give me that beer barrel right now.  I go to sleep for an hour and this is what I wake up to.  Where’s Millie?  You’re supposed to be looking after her.

Millie is sitting on a blanket watching the game looking completely nonplussed

Boys  What? It’s not going to hit anyone, we’re being really careful. 

They maintain their swagger and keep hold of the beer barrel

Me Have you got any idea what you look like?  This is a nice campsite with normal people staying on it.  Normal people who are playing rounders and Frisbee.  Not chucking a bloody beer barrel in the air.  It could land anywhere ffs.  You just decapitated a tree.

Boys No one cares.  No one has even noticed.

They have

Me People have moved away from you because you look scary and out of control.  You’re even scaring Millie

This isn’t actually true but it sounds good

Boys Ok fine

They are still trying to swagger their way through this but have started to look a bit sheepish

Me Give me that beer barrel.  It’s nothing but trouble.

They hand it over and we walk towards the tents

Me (hissing) honestly Carl, I almost expect this behavior from those two but you are 40 years old and your daughter is watching.  What sort of example are you setting.  You work in banking ffs.

The boys sulked until we went to the pub in the evening where a game of Darchery ensued.  What’s Darchery?  That’s another story…

The Peryls Of Eurovision

Let me take you back to 1981.  The nation was in the grip of Royal wedding fever as Charles and Di prepared to tie the knot.  My mother finally sired a boy and my darling little brother came into the world.  But something far more momentous was taking place.  Bucks Fizz were representing the UK at Eurovision and not only did they win but they did a skirt rip! 

The skirt rip!!!  It captured the imaginations of young girls up and down the county.  Boys were pressed into playing Bobby G and Mike Nolan in the playground with the promise of flashes of pants and tubes of smarties while girls argued over who was going to be Cheryl and who was going to be Jay.  This song had it all – great hook, great choreography and skirts with Velcro.  I’ve just watched it on you tube and can honestly say that I felt the same exhilarated “I want to do that” buzz that I felt all those years ago.  Only at Eurovision would there ever be a skirt rip.

As you’ve probably gathered, I adore Eurovision.  To me, it’s like the world cup final but with glitter.  I love the drama, the tears, and the tension.  And that’s just in my living room – imagine what the green room is like in Malmo!  What’s really important of course is the performances and so far this year they’ve been amazing. 

We’ve had the wildly successful, foot stomping fusion of traditional and contemporary music from Greece with Alcohol is Free.  The bizarre, but brilliant appearance of Igor the giant for Ukraine and the utterly charming Gianlucca Bezzina for Malta.  I could just pop both of them in my pocket!  Gianlucca would probably fit.  There have just been so many brilliant songs that I can’t even pick a favorite, let alone lend serious thought to who’s going to win.  It really is up for grabs and tomorrow night looks set to be one of the greatest Eurovision finals ever!

Do I believe in Bonnie?  Yes of course I do.  I would have liked a key change coming out of the middle eight but it’s a really strong rock ballad and I know she will give an amazing performance.  Will we win?  No, probably not but I don’t think we will do as badly as last year.  Bonnie has a good following on the continent so who knows?  I don’t want to build my hopes up but how amazing would it be if she brought Eurovision back to the UK!!!

Of course my true Eurovision dream has always been to represent my country.  I’m actually feeling slightly teary just writing that down.  The Peryls for Eurovision?  Keep dreaming Kate, keep dreaming…