I’m re-bobbed, permanently jobbed, and my body is mobbed with bruises.
I know you shouldn’t really gloat about a black eye, but I’ve never felt so punk in all my life (an admission that immediately removes any punk credentials I formerly possessed). I got lovingly elbowed in the eye socket at Ho99o9‘s gig at The Old Blue Last a week ago. Despite being pinned to the front of the stage and being told by security “NOT TO TOUCH THE MONITORS!” I felt no pain for 45 minutes and I would happily live that night on repeat for the rest of my black-eyed days.
I really want to upload pictures, but I’m aware that they’re grotesque and no filter will really do these purple/green markings justice.
I look like I’ve been in a street fight (and I felt like it on Saturday morning) but it was the most insane gig I’ve ever been to. It was also insane of me to mix white wine with tequila, but that probably helped me on my journey to black eye city. I’ve been furiously applying foundation to cover up my war wound for work. By day I’m a genuine adult with a job and responsibilities, and by night I’m a juvenile wine connoisseur who finds the meaning of life in a mosh pit.
I probably should have crowd-surfed to safety like the girl next to me did, because I know I bruise like a peach. Not a ripe one though; the type of peach you can’t make an instant thumb-print on. I’m talking CO-OP peaches when they’re freshly picked. You have to squeeze pretty hard before you make a dent on those bad boys (punk credentials have decreased again to -50).
Anyway, during the week I also received some shining news to go with my shiner: I’m being made a permanent member of staff at my current job. This means a) I’m actually quite good at my job, and b) the next time I get a black eye at a gig, hopefully I’ll be living in London, so I’ll have less of distance to commute home with my war wound.
There were a few minor low points this week amidst all the glory. I’d pre-bought dinner on Friday night because I had plans to go out and drink gin and love life after work. Unfortunately, those plans got cancelled last minute, and I got in a bit of a strop and went to bin the pre-purchased food. I decided I was going to storm home, tear my bedroom walls down to some Blood Red Shoes, and if I felt lie it; cry to my Mum – because that’s what adults with full-time jobs and black eyes do.
I approached the bin, ready to chuck my dinner in to it; but then I realised I was being a selfish, stupid arse. I returned to my desk, put the food in my bag, and on my walk home through central London I passed it on to a homeless man. Even when you think you’re having a mildly shit day, it’s best to remember that someone else is probably not going home to a bed, a nice family, and a hot dinner. That’s the kind of punch in the face we all want to avoid really.