Being a disaster isn't easy. It takes a lot of effort. Years of practice, a relentless suppression of common sense, a method actor's commitment to the cause. At times physically and/or emotionally draining, disaster is not a mantle to assume for the faint-hearted. "You want disaster? Well disaster costs. And right here is where you start paying... in sweat". Debbie Allen knows.
The awards season is upon us, Whiplash for the win goddammit, so in the spirit of things I've prepared a list of those to whom I owe a debt of gratitude for achieving Towering Inferno levels of disaster.
First of all I'd like to thank God, i.e. Michael Stipe, because that's what every self respecting (American) winner would do at the Oscars and if Mr McConaissance himself says so then that's pretty much final. Any potential objection rendered obsolete. In his speech he explained that God "has graced me with opportunities that I know are not of my hand or any other human hand". Here I beg to differ though, God/Stipe has graced me with plenty of opportunities that I know for definite were of my own hand.
Secondly I want to thank my mum (still on the Oscars tip) for providing excellent lineage in the art of spending. Pedigree of the finest order. Honourable mentions also go out to my employers, current and previous, for providing me with the financial foundation to develop into a first class disaster; Asos, Primark, Topman, H&M, River Island, Zara, any other menswear retailer and various manufacturers of electronic equipment for continuing to pour out fuel for the bonfire of disaster; Tinternet for 24 hr shopping; Aviation for the ability for disaster to go global; life itself for providing untold recipes for disaster.
I've put in a Herculean effort for disaster greatness over the last week or so. Like the fluffiest, pinkiest Duracell rabbit I've just kept on going. My excuse: everyone's still peddling sales and we're almost into February. I've bought the following items in quick succession, all crucial purchases obviously, if not for playing the lead, then for providing Oscar worthy supporting roles:
Checked wool blazer from Topman - £22.50
Skinny stretch jeans from Topman - £24
Mustard chinos from Zara - £12.99
Black t-shirt with black patent print from River Islanwd - £5
Yellow printed t-shirt from Pull and Bear - £2.99
White printed t-shirt from Pull and Bear - £2.99
Multicolour printed t-shirt from Pull and Bear - £2.99
Blue wool blazer from Pull and Bear - 2 x £19.99
Green jumper from Asos - £5
So some might say that it's slightly excessive to buy 4 t-shirts in one fell swoop. Not me. Na-ah. Granted, I've got quite a few t-shirts already (disastrous amount to some, capsule collection to me) but I reckon quite a few of them are nearing retirement. I've got my t-shirts divided into two categories: those worthy of being on display and those that need covering up. There's obviously a natural turnover/progression so there's always a need for new starters. Call me a call centre, though not Ant Marketing. I draw the line at that.
The doubling up on the cost of the blue blazer is not an accidental typo. I mean come on. Rather, I made the slightly inexplicable manoeuvre of trying on a medium in the shop, deciding that it didn't fit, and buying a large instead. In the cold light of day, the large is just too big. Maybe I'd had an all you can eat dinner and a KFC family bucket tea that day or something. I grabbed the first opportunity to rectify the situation of course. I've now got a medium sized blazer which does fit, and a large one which requires more calories than Elvis. Oh well, the combined £39.98 for one wearable blazer is still cheaper than the original full price. Besides Elvis might be on the horizon.
I bought the bulk of the clothes in London, spent 5 days of work then leisure there last week. Highlights included dinner at Palomar and a cocktail bar tour of Soho with the mighty Gaspari and the free Daylight Music gig at Union Chapel in Islington. Knowing a fair few people down there has its benefits for sure.
One of the bands performing at Union Chapel was The Papas and The Mamas, a newly formed cover band with none other than Sarah Cracknell of Saint Etienne as a third of the female vocal power. Sadly but unsurprisingly Saint Etienne songs were not on the menu. Afterwards we all congregated in a pub directly behind the chapel and much to my delight The Papas and The Mamas were all in there. At one point I deliberately shuffled sideways so that I was stood next to Sarah Cracknell, just to be able to declare it in a blog like.
I drew the line at that. Regardless of where the person is on the A-Z list of celebrity, I wouldn't be able to think of anything remotely interesting to add to the conversation. Though at some point I might try "Do you know who I look like?". Rupert Cook on the other hand made good use of his encyclopaedic music knowledge and helped Sarah Cracknell out by answering her question about the name of the band whose song was the second one they covered in their mini set. Offspring Rupert said. Thank you Sarah said. Wow he's chatting to Sarah Cracknell and Surely not
that Offspring I thought. Turns out there's another Offspring. They should've covered both, a rousing version of Pretty Fly (for a White Guy) would've gone down a treat.
My other celebrity encounters are limited indeed, a really rather embarrassing exchange with Phil Oakey in Gatecrasher ("I remember listening to you when I was a kid" is not cool) and a really rather amusing encounter with a pissed up Guy Garvey in Manchester after a First Aid Kit gig.
My all time favourite celeb moment though involved TV's Dr Christian. They were filming Embarrassing Bodies - the sex special, at Hallam University's fresher fair and working in sexual health promotion at the time, we'd been approached by the production team to provide a stand and represent the local sexual health services. At lunch one of the crew members took me down to the catering room for a free dinner. As we walked in Dr Christian was having a massive rant at the production team, effing and blinding about students asking him questions expecting him to know the answer. The guy I was with did a loud 'ahem' and introduced me and immediately Dr Christian snapped back into his public persona and politely shook hands.
Maybe being a celeb is more of an effort than being a disaster...
