Life has been… difficult. A mess.
I type out a post on Word, other thoughts overwhelm me, and I discard my post.
2009 was the worst year ever. I look forward with fervent hope that 2010 could only get better.
If only I could forget it all. Undo it all. Life should have a CTRL+Z command.
So this is how the whole gig with The Script went down. Weeks before they were due to play, I sent L an email:
“Hey, wanna go see The Script?”
“I don’t know who they are, so no thanks.”
A couple of weeks after, L heard a song on the radio that she always liked but had never knew who the band was. It turned out to be Breakeven. She sends a message saying she really wants to go see them. Not gonna lie, I swore. Loudly. She becomes more fangirly than me which is hilarious. This means a lot less work on my side in terms of buying tickets, organizing the night out, etc. 
The whole thing is like lulzy on one side but epic fail on the other.
We met in Chinatown for dinner, which was near the gig venue. L bought a bottle of wine to share over our greasy dinner. On our separate journeys to Chinatown, we both noticed a line forming outside the venue. Personally I thought it was a bit sad, but then again I’m easily pleased as long as I get to hear the band.
After dinner, we made our way to the venue, putting up with ID checks (are you guys SERIOUS?!) and a chilly wind. When we got in, we found a place right up the front towards the side, where there was a little door that said ‘Authorised Personnel Only’ and guarded by a bouncer.
Prior to the gig L and I discussed the fact that the Sydney gig sold out, and that was the only one open to all ages. This raised my concern to the type of crowd The Script attracted. I suspected they probably attracted emos and I was partly right, judging by the amount of black eyeliner, dyed black hair and oversized black sweaters present. L, in her vodka-induced state, proclaimed it attracted fatties. Er. No comment. I value my life, thanks.
At one point, while the opening act was playing, L and I caught Danny O’Donoghue peeking out from the ‘Authorised Personnel Only’ door. On two separate occassions. He grinned and waved like he couldn’t believe there was a huge crowd waiting for the band to come on. L was all fangirly. I had to maintain composure for er, review purposes. Yeah.
The crowd went berserk when The Script finally came out. They’ve only got one album out so they pretty much worked through about half of it. Not that I’m complaining – it’s an excellent album with some really catchy tunes. What initially caught my attention was how some of their verses almost came out as rapping. Mixed with rock music it was a fresh, different sound. Their best song live? Probably The Man Who Can’t Be Moved. I was a bit disappointed with the one ballad they did, I’m Yours, but I guess it comes down to personal preference. They got the crowd on a real high three-quarters through the set, only to slow it down. Might have been just me, but I found that a little bit awkward.
They closed the set with a cover of Heroes, which, I have to say, was so freaking awesome. Better than The Wallflowers’ cover.
Any band that panders to my delirium gets a big A++++ in my book. “Anyone from Ireland tonight?!” HEE.
Verdict – they are an awesome band live. They look like they are genuinely enjoying themselves and still cannot believe people are there to see them, and that people know the lyrics to their songs. That kind of overwhelming innocence is so rare these days. This makes them so much more awesome than Bloc Party. Or Kings of Leon. They are all so sweet and down-to-earth, and soooo dorky. <3
Sleeping in the next day was heaven. I’m glad I took the day off, not just to recover from the gig, but I think I needed a little time to myself regardless.
When Michael Owen joined Manchester United, I set down some rules on what ’success’ at Manchester United for Owen would be. This includes scoring at least 20 goals, and any goals scored by Owen against a team that, at the moment of the game, is at the bottom three of the EPL table, would not count.
Yes, I am being very unfair. But, could you blame this fan considering Owen’s history? Jules argued, “If that’s how it is, any goals scored by Owen against a team that is at the top three, should count as two.” I shouted that argument down right quick, saying it’s not a true reflection of what Owen can do.
Then the bastard proceeds to save Man Utd’s sorry defending arse against Man City.
This wasn’t just a derby. This is a team that looks like it has joined the ranks of Liverpool, Arsenal and Chelsea. With the oil money pouring in, they could waste no time in getting the talent they need to campaign for a successful EPL 09/10 season. Sir Gaffer didn’t believe Tevez was worth the money asked, so he moved right next door. United fans have always favoured Tevez, but opening his mouth against Sir Gaffer after the transfer did not help matters. Did he deserve to get booed every time he touched the ball? Perhaps, but the magnitude of his little vendetta against United quite possibly could not match that of another new City signing, Adebayor, who, last weekend, ran down the sidelines to celebrate his City goal in front of the fans of his previous team, Arsenal. He subsequently delivered a boot to Robin Van Persie’s face, and gets himself banned for a month.
Which makes Tevez’s bad foul in this game look like almost nothing. Having said that, I’m sorry it has come to this between Tevez and United. There was absolutely no animosity when Peter Schmeichel moved to City during his second spell in the Premier League. To this day fans still regard him fondly, and Schmeichel will always be my number one hero between the goalposts, and my number one Manchester United hero of all time.
Back to Owen, who, in his second (or third?) starting game as a substitute, apparently is trying so very hard to derail on my hilariously awesome idea of ’success’. The fact that he subbed Berbatov, whom I am still going to be abusing for a long time to come, did not help matters. Subbing a player I dislike for a player I dislike and have no faith in? Capital, Sir Gaffer. I spent the last five minutes of the game screaming myself hoarse. And when Owen scored the goal in extra time to save United, OH MY GOD.
United still need some serious fixing to the back four. Foster’s mistake that led to City’s equalizer was such a howler. And Bellamy’s goal that made it 3-3 in the 89th minute, that was a horrible mistake by the likes and experience of Rio Ferdinand, arguably England’s finest defender.
That is probably what United need to focus on, regardless of Owen’s heartstopping heroics against our backyard rivals.
Up – Rooney’s first strike against Wigan becomes his 100th goal for Manchester United.
Down – after the crisis at Burnley (yes, it was a crisis) this was definitely a significant improvement, considering Wigan gave us a run for our money. At times Jordi Gomez’s profile looked almost like a former Manchester United striker. Oh Ruud, I miss you so. That lazy bastard Berbatov does not hold a candle to you. (Oh hey, Tevez left, I GET TO ABUSE BERBATOV BWAHAHAHA!)
UNCLEAN – Michael Owen’s first goal for Manchester United. UNCLEAAAAAAAN. (The previously hilarious, now horrifying, brochure that brought Owen to United. Someone must have spiked Sir Gaffer’s morning coffee that day. I mean seriously, look at Page 12!)
Lulz – Nani’s goal because he always celebrates with a series of somersaults that totes makes Sir Gaffer burst an artery. HEE. <3
Talk about insensitive. Just because I’m made to do unpleasant things involving retrenchment doesn’t mean I like it. Or I secretly relish in the ‘learning experience’ of it all. How could someone think it’s a learning experience to tell another that they no longer have the means to support themselves and their families? To put a roof over their heads, provide meals for the kids, pay the bills so no one needs to freeze in winter?
Then I get a letter (so obviously drafted by a boss with Microsoft WordFail) from the CEO thanking me for the hard work.
I don’t need thanks. I need to know that these people are going to be okay. That they will find their feet quickly. That ultimately, what happened to them turned out to be a blessing in disguise, even though such things never are. It’s been four months and I still haven’t seen a silver lining. What I so desperately hope, what I so desperately wish for, it’s nothing but impossible dreaming.
The letter also states that, for my efforts, I am to purchase an item of my choice and provide a receipt for a reimbursement of up to $100.
They can stick it up their arses if they don’t count a Unicef donation as an ‘item’. If they accept the donation for reimbursement, at least I know the money would have gone to a good cause. I don’t need a physical item to remind me of the guilt, when I live with it every day.
Seems like my entire fucking department has lost its sense of compassion. How can you smile when you are handing out termination paperwork? How can you say, “Glad to do it,” when you know, the situation could have been reversed? I’m not the most tactful person in the world, but I think I can spot a mile away when others behave tactlessly, without regard for the sensitivity of the situation.
My department now belongs to Catbert.
Home from watching Noche Flamenca. Ms Rosita was kind enough to have an earlier class today so I could run home to get ready, but I was still rushing.
We’d met a couple of the dancers earlier in the week. Madam Principal had organized two evenings of workshops. I signed up for Level 1, which felt more like Level 100, at the rate Juan Fernandez was going. He was a fabulous teacher, but he went at the pace of what flamenco dance schools in Spain apparently go. Which is the speed of light.
Unfortunately I couldn’t stay to watch the other two levels on the first evening, having to run off to tango lessons. Which sucked, I would have loved to have seen what Soledad Barrio taught the higher levels. Her performance made up for missing the first evening. I did manage to catch the second evening, but the teacher this time was El Torombo. The only way I could describe him at the class is: nuts.
Seriously. He played a snippet of flamenco music, mostly cante (singing) and then he stops, and his 5-minute ramble went something like this to my ear (and brain):
ElTorombo: Spanish spanish spanish spanish Bob Marley spanish spanish spanish Michael Jackson.
MyBrain: What. The. Fuck.
Cue him playing an MJ tune. I had to hide my face at that moment, though I am sure Madame Principal must have thrown me a dirty look at some point because I could not hide my shaking shoulders. Thankfully I did not start howling with laughter. He was a strange fellow, you had to see his antics. I understood what he was trying to explain at some point, but really, did it need to involve metaphors of trains and borrowing a handbag to illustrate god knows what?
Gina and Ryn (my seniors) had warned he was even more flamboyant on stage. At one of the shows, he took off his shirt. I prayed to the gods I would not be witness to this, hoping that the improvisation so embedded in flamenco will keep that from being a repeat performance. His style is a lot less controlled than that of Barrio’s or Fernandez’s. It was a lot more fun, though. That’s not to say that Fernandez wasn’t as good, I loved his farruca, the strength in that piece was pretty amazing. And he’s just a really lovely dancer to watch, with a really friendly smile. Between Juan Fernandez and Joaquin Cortez, I pick Fernandez. Sorry Joaquin, you’re like the Ronaldo of flamenco, therefore, wtf.
So Gina and Ryn figured out the Spanish phrase for “Nice ass!” for when Juan Fernandez next came onstage, much to my horror. Look, he was a lovely teacher, very friendly, etc. but the urge to grab a pair of scissors to snip the mullet off? Unstoppable if I didn’t have any common sense. And then, karma is laughing somewhere and then he does this booty-swaying thing at the finale and my eyes bugged out, followed by an “OY VEY.” However, I would still not tap that. Come on. Ew.
(I was standing in the front row at the workshops. Karma is totally laughing at me.)
Soledad Barrio had my jaw on the floor the whole time. For one thing, none of her performances involved a bata de cola. Yes, it’s very impressive to dance with a skirt that has a long train, but it just gets kind of old if it’s used all the time. Gala Flamenca drove me bonkers when every single female dancer, including the great Belen Maya, danced wearing a bata de cola. Barrio kept her costumes simple, preferring to let the footwork do all the talking. Boy, did it talk. The speed of some of her footwork could put the Bionic Woman to shame.
After the show, Gina and Ryn wanted to find the stage door. I managed to persuade them to come get a drink at the bar first, not wanting to use my Stage Door Locating Skillz of We Will Rock You Origin superpower. Of course I doubt this particular show would attract many screaming groupies. Also, El Torombo scared the bejesus out of me, Barrio was just plain intimidating on account of being an Awesome Flamenco Dancer, and Fernandez, well, I did not have a pair of scissors, but I would have totally checked out his booty at that close a range and it would not have been very discreet.
So the entire week of flamenco overload is over. I’m partly glad, because I’ve had the flu, and now I can sleeeeeeeeep.