The kids are… really really dumb

I don't think I can listen to XFM any more. This afternoon they had a phone-in quiz to win some gig tickets. The question was 'Which band had hits in 1996 with Govinda and Hey Dude?'

The caller said 'Is it The Beatles?'

Dear Mr Slash

Dear Mr Slash

I'm writing to apply for the position of lead vocalist with your band Velvet Revolver, as advertised on various popular websites.

I don't know if this has ever happened to you, Slash – if I may be so informal – but lately I've had the feeling that I'm drifting, career-wise. I'm at a crossroads. I've been looking for a fresh challenge, a sign, if you will. I wonder if this is what it was like for you when you left Guns 'n' Roses, although perhaps Axl Rose's insistence on behaving like a drug-addled megalomaniac may have had more to do with your desire to seek pastures new.

I know you're a busy man so I won't waste your time. I feel that this is exactly the calling I've been waiting for. Let me first tell you something about my 'vocals'. I was regularly picked to sing solos at primary school, although I was always controversially overlooked for the prestigious first verse of Once In Royal David's City at the school carol concert but THAT'S JUST FINE. Choose a photogenic small boy, if you must, and don't blame me if there's some kind of nervous bladder incident. Then only a few years ago, at a Christmas karaoke work party, someone who was no more than very drunk told me I shouldn't sing with anyone else because 'they would spoil it'. However I do believe in total honesty, Slash, so let me say this. I'm not very good at singing the high notes, but since your previous vocalist was a man, I can't see that this minor shortcoming would hinder my application. 

As regards references, I would refer you to my friend who works at Kerrang, who I bumped into in Uniqlo at lunchtime. She told me that in a recent interview with the weekly rock bible, you had stated that you're fed up with unreliable frontpersons, and that you're looking for someone who can turn up on time and get the job done. Mr Slash, this is your lucky day. My timekeeping is excellent, as long as I am not required to be anywhere before noon, which I think is unlikely in the world of contemporary music performance. And as any of my friends would testify, I am extremely sensible. I have never even lost my mobile phone. I thrive on responsibility, and should my application prove successful, I would be happy to take on any additional band-related duties, eg starting birthday collections for members of the crew, organising quiz afternoons or editing the Velvet Revolver newsletter. I really think this could go places with a few new fonts and the addition of horoscopes or perhaps some fun puzzles, such as a heavy rock-themed wordsearch.

In addition to my not inconsiderable vocal skills, I believe we have a lot of other things in common which would make life 'on the road' go smoothly. Firstly, I, like you, am afflicted with naturally curly hair. Imagine the late-night chats we would have in our bunks on board the bus (I would have to take the top one as I get travel sick), discussing the merits of Bumble & bumble Curl Creme versus Aveda's Be Curly, and comparing wide-toothed combs. It would be a truly bonding experience, I believe, and I hope you don't think I'm speaking out of turn when I say you really would reap the benefits of a good six-inch trim. Those split ends are not going to grow themselves back together, whatever the latest 'miracle' product promises you.

I also have a keen interest in baking, which I know would go down a storm with you rock boys and your 'munchies'. And I'm not just talking leather-trouser-straining cakes and biscuits – I can also provide a range of healthy muffins and flapjacks. These are ideal as a nutritious slow-release pre-show energy boost, as opposed to the usual quick-fix pick-me-up. And by that I mean drugs.

Anyway, enough about me. I look forward to hearing from you very soon and keep up the good work.

Miss Jones

For my scarf, wherever I may find her

Grave news. I have lost my favourite scarf. I say lost. That would imply that I don't know where I left it. But I do know, most exactly. It was in Masala Zone on Marshall Street just after 2pm on Thursday. The service had been slow and we were late getting back to work, so I left in a hurry. As soon as I was a few yards down the road I felt a biting chill across my chest area – doubtless sensitive scar tissue from this calamity – and realised my mistake. But I couldn't turn back. I was late already, and no one is interested in your excuses when you're freelance scum.

I went back after work but no one could find it. Come back tomorrow lunchtime, when the same staff are working, they said. So I did. This time they disappeared to the back of the restaurant and returned with a hideous green tie-dyed number, a monstrous insult to the memory of my elegant, understated former companion. 'Is this yours?' they asked, delighted with their discovery. I had to steel myself not to shout back 'LOOK AT IT! AND LOOK AT ME! DO YOU REALLY THINK THAT IS MY FUCKING SCARF?' 

Instead I just said, 'No.' And felt my sad face become a little sadder. 

Then a strange thing happened. They said, 'What does it look like?' And I realised I couldn't exactly remember. I had always marvelled at its chameleon-like ability to look blue when worn with blue, or grey when worn with black. But were the stripes in it gold or silver? Did it have tassels? I felt like Elton John in Your Song when he's forgotten if they're green or they're blue, just because these things he does. Which doesn't rhyme in this conjugation. Still, could it be possible that I had taken our happiness for granted and never really appreciated my scarf, never taken a true, good look at it in all its splendid detail? (I can't help myself here in channelling a scene from Act 3 of Our Town, staple play of the US high school English syllabus and once performed in The Wonder Years – Kevin operated the spotlight, as I recall. I saw a production of it up West when I was a teenager with Robert Sean Leonard, who I was in love with then, and Alan Alda, who I am in love with now.)

Now, without it,  I have only  a vague impression of its beauty, its reassuring cushion around my neck, and the strangely comforting smell of all those daily layers of perfume and moisturiser, lovingly built up over our months together.

Forgive me this shallow outburst of self-indulgence. I am drunk with grief.

Thinking of title posts is the hardest part

As I got off the train last night at London Bridge, I passed a man crouching down in the corridor, minding his bike, who was wearing an age-softened polo shirt that had the words 'Great Britain Team – Sardinia Cup 1990' printed somewhere over his heart. This biological detail had to be significant, otherwise why would he be wearing a shirt that was nearly 20 years old? (Apart from poverty – but if things were that bad, he'd surely have sold his bike…) I'm not making any judgements – until recently I was still sleeping in T-shirts I'd bought at various gigs I attended when I was in sixth form, which was scarcely more recent.

I think it's fair to say that history has not been kind to GB's 1990 Sardinia Cup team. We wouldn't, for instance, mention them in the same breath as the England football team of the same year. We wouldn't actually mention them at all. It is only through the medium of the internet that I have learnt that the Sardinia Cup is something to do with sailing. But perhaps The Man In The Shirt cleaves to the belief that if he keeps the faith shirt-wise for long enough, the cult of the 1990 Sardinia Cup team will grow and blossom into immortality years later, like Nick Drake or Van Gogh or Emily Dickinson. And everyone will claim that they were actually there, in Sardinia or wherever it was, when yachting's equivalent of Lineker did that really awesome thing with, oh, some sails or something.

Maybe TMITS was trying to say yes, I'm hutched up in the lobby of a filthy commuter train now, but back in 1990 I used to be someone. I was a panther on the water. I was the best in the country. Still, my friend Colin represented England at American Football some years ago, and he doesn't go to work in gridiron padding. Although I suspect he would like to. As I carried on with my journey home, I realised TMITS had reminded me of the time a couple of years ago when I saw the former rugby international Mick Skinner getting on a rush hour train, protected against the uniquely grey London Bridge microclimate in an England rugby cagoule, a good 10 years after his sporting retirement. Perhaps he was still involved with the game, of course… or perhaps he too wanted everyone to know that maybe not today, maybe not yesterday, but not so very long ago, he meant something more than just being a fellow commuter, to more people than the number who shared his carriage that day. It was the kind of random spotting I felt excited about reporting to my dad, in the split second before I remembered that I couldn't. And yesterday, when I thought about that – about how many things float away that we can't hold on to – I  couldn't begrudge the alumni of the 1990 Sardinia Cup his way of keeping the dream alive.

Hair diplomacy

When a friend or colleague has their hair cut, there are many warm and complimentary things you can say to express your appreciation of their new look. 'Oh you look gorgeous!' 'I love it!' 'You must be really happy with it,' all strike the right blandly positive note.

But among these inoffensive affirmatives, I would not include: 'Oh, it looks so much better. Really, it's 100% better,'  which I have just overheard. Because, however warm and enthusiastic you are in your delivery, what you're effectively saying is 'You looked awful before and everyone knew it. You were walking around for months, years probably, with dreadful, dreadful hair and now we can uncover our scalded eyes, let them recover from the heinous blight dealt to them by your personal appearance and just get on with our lives.'

It is the kind of comment that rankles with a person. It would rankle with me, but I am easily rankled.

Happy hour again

Many years ago, I upgraded my most beloved cassettes to CD format. And recently, with the premiership long since taken care of, I've turned to the lower divisions of my tape collection, now that their CD cousins are ubiquitous enough on eBay to sell for less than the price of a KitKat. So today I enjoyed a belated reunion with this:

The years have been kind to it since I was presented with my first CD player, and faithfully promised the tape-bound NTWICQG  it wouldn't be long till we met again in a new technological dimension. That was a lie, of course, it was almost 20 years, but I'm confident we can put our years of separation behind us. I wonder when I will feel overcome with sufficient nostalgic fondness to upgrade Keep Your Distance by Curiosity Killed The Cat or Turn Back The Clock by Johnny Hates Jazz.

On my way home from work, I am 93% sure that I saw Sebastian 'Lord' Coe walking down Berwick Street in Soho. This is not a place I would ever expect to see Sebastian Coe in his camel-coloured overcoat. Places I would expect to see Sebastian Coe include: a garden party, Austin Reed, Kloisters, Putney. Sebastian Coe's middle name is Newbold. I found this unaccountably hilarious as a child when I first discovered the fact many many years ago in my brother's Guinness Book Of Records. I disliked him, even then. Coe, that is. Not my brother. He's nice.

Simon has sensationally been fired from The Apprentice, despite being marked out as an early favourite. By the end, his mistake was blindingly clear. In his black-cab exit interview he said he gave 100% to the mission. The first thing they teach you at the Business Academy For People Who Pledge To Sell Until The Surface They Are Selling On Literally Bleeds is that you have to give 110%. Idiot.

Day tripper

I had a doctor's appointment this morning, so I did my commute at 10.30 instead 0f 8.30. And I found out that in those two short hours, London is rinsed an entirely different colour.

On the train, instead of sitting opposite someone in a grey Next suit who is robotically applying concealer or reading A Thousand Splendid Suns or listening to Mika on an Ipod Mini (if the Enigma code was comprised of tinny headphone emissions, I would be the Bletchley Park poster girl), I sat opposite an elderly couple, both dapper in their his-and-hers Burberry overcoats. She maintained excellent posture while he read a small text book on Mechanics (maths, not cars) and laboured with paper and pencil over a lengthy equation that outran my 15-years-distant maths A-level. When they got off at Charing Cross, he carried her British Museum shopper for her as they walked out of the station arm-in-arm, beaming.

I walked through Trafalgar Square, where, on any other day, I think the world is spinning off its axis if I see a pigeon with a leg missing. Today Keith Chegwin was excitedly interviewing (does he interview in any other style?) a gaggle of thirtysomething women. Cheggars is very grey these days, but has a super-nice overcoat.

Then I walked past the church on Wardour Street which smells of piss at 8.30am. At 10.30 it does not smell of piss, and a group of beginners were receiving instruction in t'ai chi on the grass outside. 

For an hour I felt like I was in a film that makes living in London look full of warmth and wonder. But at no point was my path crossed by Hugh Grant in bermuda shorts, and soon I was at my desk with my usual cup of tea, watching the rain clouds gather, and normality crowding back in.