My J.B. week-end
Until a couple of weeks ago I had no idea what a “Maxi” dress was. I do now though and I love them – especially if they are made by H&M, are labelled size 38, and I fit into them with ease. Its all thanks to Becky that I was able to wear a long dress and look glamorous in it – so thank-you La_Bec_Star. Mwwaaaa xxxx.
1970’s chic was the leitmotiv of our J.B week-end. We even had two alter-egos: our mother and her younger sister: Angelika and Annette. Becky being dark was Angelika of course. I being blond was Annette. I can still see my Aunty Ness, staring in a silent cine-camera video on her honey-moon in 1975. She steps out of a silver Porsche Boxer, having driven along the French Riviera, wearing a mini-skirt, long blond hair tied in a low pony-tail and a middle parting, and looking out over the beaches of Monte Carlo.
And then I can picture a photo of Angelika holding her ski’s aloft outside an Alpine Hut with long dark hair, tied back in a low pony-tail and middle-parting, sporting a red and beige stripped jumper, taken on a family skiing holiday in around 1978. If we were going for 1970’s chic it was obvious that they were to be our inspiration.
So, Becky came down by train from Amsterdam on Friday evening, just around the time we had the children settled, which was perfect timing given that Aunty Becky was still able to go up and give them a good-night kiss, before coming down to have a “grown-up” supper with G. and I and polish off a bottle of red-wine.
We had plenty to talk about – not least our hero of the moment: Mr James Blunt. Ahhhhhh – ex-army officer, talented musician, educated heart-throb. We like the video of him “turning in his sheets” J. G., who is my real hero of course and a perfect gentlemen, suffered with grace and good humour, our ramblings all week-end.
On Saturday evening, G. fell asleep on the sofa next to us (and he wasn’t even drinking anything having given up alcohol for Lent) as Becky and I watched endless James Blunt videos on You Tube, giggled, laughed and gossiped. At around 11 p.m. G decided to call it a night and headed off to bed – but Becky and I, what with a bottle of Rioja to polish off, decided it was time to prepare a dance for the concert. Becky, you see, had a theory that we would be invited to the “after concert party” and meet the man himself. We are so sure he would like us.
Apparently a brother of one of Becky’s friends went to school with James and hits the town with him regularly – and because this is not an urban myth, honestly, and because we had this tenuous connection, and because we were going to be all dressed up in Maxi dresses and wear our hair like a Charlie’s Angle, and finally because we were going to bring along the Union Jack tea-towel that someone once gave me, and hold it aloft to “Your Beautiful”, we were bound to be spotted and invited to the “after concert” party.
“K. you just have to believe it and it will happen.” Rebecca assured me.
“I’m a believer. I’m a believer.” I promised.
In any case having laughed, swooned and drank two glasses of red-wine both, both of us were in a very silly mood on Saturday after G. went upstairs to bed and so we put on the “All Lost Souls” Album and decided to do some karaoke in front of the gold-mirror above the mantle-piece. We were just amazing! Yep ladies and gentleman, La_Bec_Star and I choreographed a fantastic dance to 1973 which, were we better known, I am sure would become iconic. We performed it the following day to all four little VC-G’s and they were quite impressed.
“I want to come too.” K.M., age 8, pleaded.
“How does Erwan feel about you having such a teen-age crush on J.B.?” I asked her.
“Oh he just says its “Becky world” and knows its just for a bit of fun.”
We both agreed, however, that if either Erwan or G. watched You Tube videos of a cute, talented, and curvaceous female folk singer, before they set off to see her live in concert, we would be just a little bit peeved and probably not speak to them for a while. Double standards hey.
The baby-sitter came with her boyfriend at 6 p.m. Getting ready, as always is one of the best parts of a night out, so by the time we got into our C8 (not very glamorous I admit but better than taking public transport ) we were on quite a high already and singing along to “Shine On” at the top of our voices.
Poor G., who is still recovering from a nasty “meringitis bullosa” ear drum infection that has left him temporarily prone to hearing everything double in his left ear, took it all in his stride.
“Are you going to feel self-conscious when we turn up Becky? I mean, I’m sure that we’ll be the only ones wearing long dresses. Bet you everyone else will be wearing jeans.”
“Remember the “dare to wear” movement you and I have started K. Tonight we dare to wear.”
G., what a sweetie, dropped us off outside Vorst National in the pouring rain and went off to find parking. He was gone for what felt like a long time and only found parking, a good 20 minutes walk away, from the venue. Given that it was bucketing it down outside, Becky and I were delighted to have been dropped off. Poor G. turned up later looking just a little bit wet around the shoulders.
Whilst I was waiting for G. inside the lobby I did not feel self-conscious. I felt great, glamorous and gleaming. Ohh the pleasure of being 38 and not 28 when self-consciousness inhibits one’s true self-expression.
The Hoosiers, kooky and whacky, were the support band for the night and we quite enjoyed them. Mingling at the back of the pit in front of us were quite a few Brits including a “ballet dancer” called Claire who introduced herself to us. She was impressed when we told her that we had a special dance that we were going to perform to 1973. “Can I join in too?” she asked “Sure” we replied delighted to have met a kindred spirit and impressed that a ballet dancer might actually consider us any good.
We liked Claire. She was taking the evening about as seriously as we were. For the rest, the crowd were pretty tame. Mostly couples, hugging each other back to back, and swaying to the music in a very dull way - and G. was worried that it might be full of giggling female teenagers throwing their knickers on stage. J.B. could only wish.
Becky and I were having a whale of a time. We were moving our arms in the air, swaying our hips, tossing our Charlie’s Angels hair from side to side and sashaying to “and we’d both go out to the morning light. Singing here we go again!”.
Having listened to “All Lost Souls” so often now, we both pelted out the songs and waved our Union Jack tea-towel around a lot.
“So shine on! So shine on!” J.B. sang
“So shine on! So shine on!
To our Union Jack,
here at the back”
we sang back to him at the top of our voices. But the camera didn’t pan on to us and we still weren’t spotted. Damn!
Becky said at one point, “Lets try and move closer to the stage.” But the closer we got the more crowded the pit became and there was a lot less room for dancing. We were getting closer and closer to the front of the stage when a rather “Sloany” lady, probably younger than me, clutching a navy-blue patent leather hand-bag, tapped Becky on the shoulder and said.
“I’m sorry but someone else is standing there.”
Right. OK. That’s a first. Numbered standing spaces. She cramped our style though. So we gave up on reaching the front and headed back towards G. who was guarding my, very funky, tan leather, hand-bag.
When “You’re Beautiful” was sung I said to our new friend, Claire.
“You do realise that it was me he spotted in the crowded place. You see I was heading up the escalators at Euston Tube Station and he was heading down, and so it was never meant to be because I had a train to catch and we just lost each other in the crowd.”
Clair stared at me. I almost thought she believed me.
“So I have met his muse?” she asked all wide-eyed. I could see she was a very good performer.
“Yep you have.”
“I saw your face in a crowded place
And I don’t know what to do
‘cos I’ll never be with you.”
James crooned.
“It’s alright James” Becky and I shouted. “Don’t jump off the cliff!” we pleaded.
“You found us. You know that face that you lost in the crowd. Its here. Its here in the back! Its OK. Just don’t jump.”
Becky and I had to laugh.
All of the songs J.B and his band performed brilliantly. We enjoyed each and every one of them – even G. who heard it in double, had a great evening. He did keep quite a distance away from us though – whether that was because we moving our arms around so much and he was scared he might get whacked, or because he was embarrassed and did not want to be associated with us, or perhaps because he didn’t feel part of our gang what with not wearing a Maxi dress, I have no idea.
We didn’t make it to the “after concert” party. Becky told me its because I didn’t believe enough, and because I didn’t fight my way to the front of the stage, and because I agreed with G. that when the J.B. sang his last song and the curtain had fallen, it was probably time to head home rather than hanging around to catch a glimpse of him. I’m sure she’s right – I just didn’t believe enough. But, hell I had a great time.
He’s really well worth a visit and gave a great show. If you get the chance to see him - go. Oh and don’t forget the 1973 rock glamour look. Just don’t wear jeans – promise. Unless they are really, seriously, flared and you wear them with a very long collared, tie-died shirt, that ties in a knot just below the mid-riff. Then its OK.
On a final point – a big cheers to G. who tolerated my J.B. week-end with grace and good humour and a round of applause to La_Bec_Star for lending me her dresses, her style and her go for it attitude.
1970’s chic was the leitmotiv of our J.B week-end. We even had two alter-egos: our mother and her younger sister: Angelika and Annette. Becky being dark was Angelika of course. I being blond was Annette. I can still see my Aunty Ness, staring in a silent cine-camera video on her honey-moon in 1975. She steps out of a silver Porsche Boxer, having driven along the French Riviera, wearing a mini-skirt, long blond hair tied in a low pony-tail and a middle parting, and looking out over the beaches of Monte Carlo.
And then I can picture a photo of Angelika holding her ski’s aloft outside an Alpine Hut with long dark hair, tied back in a low pony-tail and middle-parting, sporting a red and beige stripped jumper, taken on a family skiing holiday in around 1978. If we were going for 1970’s chic it was obvious that they were to be our inspiration.
So, Becky came down by train from Amsterdam on Friday evening, just around the time we had the children settled, which was perfect timing given that Aunty Becky was still able to go up and give them a good-night kiss, before coming down to have a “grown-up” supper with G. and I and polish off a bottle of red-wine.
We had plenty to talk about – not least our hero of the moment: Mr James Blunt. Ahhhhhh – ex-army officer, talented musician, educated heart-throb. We like the video of him “turning in his sheets” J. G., who is my real hero of course and a perfect gentlemen, suffered with grace and good humour, our ramblings all week-end.
On Saturday evening, G. fell asleep on the sofa next to us (and he wasn’t even drinking anything having given up alcohol for Lent) as Becky and I watched endless James Blunt videos on You Tube, giggled, laughed and gossiped. At around 11 p.m. G decided to call it a night and headed off to bed – but Becky and I, what with a bottle of Rioja to polish off, decided it was time to prepare a dance for the concert. Becky, you see, had a theory that we would be invited to the “after concert party” and meet the man himself. We are so sure he would like us.
Apparently a brother of one of Becky’s friends went to school with James and hits the town with him regularly – and because this is not an urban myth, honestly, and because we had this tenuous connection, and because we were going to be all dressed up in Maxi dresses and wear our hair like a Charlie’s Angle, and finally because we were going to bring along the Union Jack tea-towel that someone once gave me, and hold it aloft to “Your Beautiful”, we were bound to be spotted and invited to the “after concert” party.
“K. you just have to believe it and it will happen.” Rebecca assured me.
“I’m a believer. I’m a believer.” I promised.
In any case having laughed, swooned and drank two glasses of red-wine both, both of us were in a very silly mood on Saturday after G. went upstairs to bed and so we put on the “All Lost Souls” Album and decided to do some karaoke in front of the gold-mirror above the mantle-piece. We were just amazing! Yep ladies and gentleman, La_Bec_Star and I choreographed a fantastic dance to 1973 which, were we better known, I am sure would become iconic. We performed it the following day to all four little VC-G’s and they were quite impressed.
“I want to come too.” K.M., age 8, pleaded.
“How does Erwan feel about you having such a teen-age crush on J.B.?” I asked her.
“Oh he just says its “Becky world” and knows its just for a bit of fun.”
We both agreed, however, that if either Erwan or G. watched You Tube videos of a cute, talented, and curvaceous female folk singer, before they set off to see her live in concert, we would be just a little bit peeved and probably not speak to them for a while. Double standards hey.
The baby-sitter came with her boyfriend at 6 p.m. Getting ready, as always is one of the best parts of a night out, so by the time we got into our C8 (not very glamorous I admit but better than taking public transport ) we were on quite a high already and singing along to “Shine On” at the top of our voices.
Poor G., who is still recovering from a nasty “meringitis bullosa” ear drum infection that has left him temporarily prone to hearing everything double in his left ear, took it all in his stride.
“Are you going to feel self-conscious when we turn up Becky? I mean, I’m sure that we’ll be the only ones wearing long dresses. Bet you everyone else will be wearing jeans.”
“Remember the “dare to wear” movement you and I have started K. Tonight we dare to wear.”
G., what a sweetie, dropped us off outside Vorst National in the pouring rain and went off to find parking. He was gone for what felt like a long time and only found parking, a good 20 minutes walk away, from the venue. Given that it was bucketing it down outside, Becky and I were delighted to have been dropped off. Poor G. turned up later looking just a little bit wet around the shoulders.
Whilst I was waiting for G. inside the lobby I did not feel self-conscious. I felt great, glamorous and gleaming. Ohh the pleasure of being 38 and not 28 when self-consciousness inhibits one’s true self-expression.
The Hoosiers, kooky and whacky, were the support band for the night and we quite enjoyed them. Mingling at the back of the pit in front of us were quite a few Brits including a “ballet dancer” called Claire who introduced herself to us. She was impressed when we told her that we had a special dance that we were going to perform to 1973. “Can I join in too?” she asked “Sure” we replied delighted to have met a kindred spirit and impressed that a ballet dancer might actually consider us any good.
We liked Claire. She was taking the evening about as seriously as we were. For the rest, the crowd were pretty tame. Mostly couples, hugging each other back to back, and swaying to the music in a very dull way - and G. was worried that it might be full of giggling female teenagers throwing their knickers on stage. J.B. could only wish.
Becky and I were having a whale of a time. We were moving our arms in the air, swaying our hips, tossing our Charlie’s Angels hair from side to side and sashaying to “and we’d both go out to the morning light. Singing here we go again!”.
Having listened to “All Lost Souls” so often now, we both pelted out the songs and waved our Union Jack tea-towel around a lot.
“So shine on! So shine on!” J.B. sang
“So shine on! So shine on!
To our Union Jack,
here at the back”
we sang back to him at the top of our voices. But the camera didn’t pan on to us and we still weren’t spotted. Damn!
Becky said at one point, “Lets try and move closer to the stage.” But the closer we got the more crowded the pit became and there was a lot less room for dancing. We were getting closer and closer to the front of the stage when a rather “Sloany” lady, probably younger than me, clutching a navy-blue patent leather hand-bag, tapped Becky on the shoulder and said.
“I’m sorry but someone else is standing there.”
Right. OK. That’s a first. Numbered standing spaces. She cramped our style though. So we gave up on reaching the front and headed back towards G. who was guarding my, very funky, tan leather, hand-bag.
When “You’re Beautiful” was sung I said to our new friend, Claire.
“You do realise that it was me he spotted in the crowded place. You see I was heading up the escalators at Euston Tube Station and he was heading down, and so it was never meant to be because I had a train to catch and we just lost each other in the crowd.”
Clair stared at me. I almost thought she believed me.
“So I have met his muse?” she asked all wide-eyed. I could see she was a very good performer.
“Yep you have.”
“I saw your face in a crowded place
And I don’t know what to do
‘cos I’ll never be with you.”
James crooned.
“It’s alright James” Becky and I shouted. “Don’t jump off the cliff!” we pleaded.
“You found us. You know that face that you lost in the crowd. Its here. Its here in the back! Its OK. Just don’t jump.”
Becky and I had to laugh.
All of the songs J.B and his band performed brilliantly. We enjoyed each and every one of them – even G. who heard it in double, had a great evening. He did keep quite a distance away from us though – whether that was because we moving our arms around so much and he was scared he might get whacked, or because he was embarrassed and did not want to be associated with us, or perhaps because he didn’t feel part of our gang what with not wearing a Maxi dress, I have no idea.
We didn’t make it to the “after concert” party. Becky told me its because I didn’t believe enough, and because I didn’t fight my way to the front of the stage, and because I agreed with G. that when the J.B. sang his last song and the curtain had fallen, it was probably time to head home rather than hanging around to catch a glimpse of him. I’m sure she’s right – I just didn’t believe enough. But, hell I had a great time.
He’s really well worth a visit and gave a great show. If you get the chance to see him - go. Oh and don’t forget the 1973 rock glamour look. Just don’t wear jeans – promise. Unless they are really, seriously, flared and you wear them with a very long collared, tie-died shirt, that ties in a knot just below the mid-riff. Then its OK.
On a final point – a big cheers to G. who tolerated my J.B. week-end with grace and good humour and a round of applause to La_Bec_Star for lending me her dresses, her style and her go for it attitude.
posted by Kathleen at 6:15 AM
1 Comments:
Yay - an excellent weekend K. I had a real blast boogie-ing awy with you from Friday to Sunday - a real refresher :)
Can't wait for my Kenzo dress to arrive, thanks for picking it up for me. Have a great time over the Easter hols, and see you November (as well as before) for the JB concert in BDX xxx
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