This man hates me.
No, really. He does.
Many, many years ago I was much cooler than I am now and had pink hair (um, okay I still have pink hair but let’s ignore that for now) and a nose ring and wore corsets and short faux fur skirts with ripped fishnets and big boots and hung out with Boys In Bands and was allegedly quite pretty.
Hard to believe isn’t it?
Anyway, on one momentous occasion in 2002, I turned up at Rock City in Nottingham for the club night after one of their gigs and was accosted on the dance floor by the very lovely Trev Ghost who said something along the lines of: ‘Ooh, Melanie, there’s someone who wants to meet you! Come with me!’
Reader, I followed him downstairs to the Rig club, which is a formerly nasty little glam rock and punk hangout in the bowels of the building and was led to a very small but rather pretty man with too much eyeliner and a glittery scarf. Now, before I proceed, I would like to say in my defence that it was VERY NOISY downstairs in Rock City and that any blame for what happened next should be placed at the feet of the management and not me.
‘Melanie, this is Billy,’ yelled Trev. ‘He’s in a band.’
Or at least, that’s what I thought he said.
I turned to Billy and we smiled at each other. ‘Hi, Billy! What band are you in?’
‘I’m HIM,’ said Billy, his smile beginning to slowly drain away to be replaced by an expression of mingled doubt and confusion.
‘There, there Billy, it’s okay. What band are you in again?’ I encouraged him, thinking he must be in some awful goth pub band that he was simply too mortified to name. I mean, it happens to the best of us, doesn’t it? And also the worst. Mostly the worst.
‘HIM. I AM HIM. I AM IN HIM.’ Billy started shouting and it was at this point that the penny dropped as I looked at the posters on the walls and the press of screaming women that surrounded us. ‘HIM. HIM. HIM.’
‘Oh dear, Mr Billy, I’m really sorry,’ I muttered, feeling more aggrieved than embarrassed as is my wont. ‘I’m afraid that I didn’t know who you are!’
‘Don’t worry,’ he sneered in a very rock star way. It was quite impressive if you like that sort of thing. I don’t really, but you might. ‘I wouldn’t expect someone like YOU to know who I was anyway.’
Oops. And indeed BURN.
It gets worse though.
I really ought to have gathered my tattered remnants of dignity and swiftly made my escape at this point, only, oh woe, it was too late for we were surrounded on all sides by dozens, nay HUNDREDS of pudgy teenaged goth girls with cameras who insisted on taking dozens of photos of us standing together looking cross with each other and were pressed in so tightly around us that neither of us could actually get away from the other for a very very long time. I mean, I was there for YEARS. In fact, I’m STILL THERE.
Feeling mortified and rather out of place, I smiled gamely for the cameras before, for reasons that I can’t quite fathom but may have something to do with trying to appear nonchalant, turning to him and asked for a light for my non existent cigarette, WHICH I WAVED IN HIS FACE.
Darlings, if looks could kill…