Tuesday, 25 March 2014

Donks, Air-Drumming and Construction Workers.

It's been a while blog followers (hello dad) since I posted my last piece, nearly a year in fact. I could spend this entire blog summarising the events of the last year, but I'll choose to do it in a sentence:

I sang and drank a lot.

So to the present, music has been going exceedingly well* ...

*Exceedingly well (noun): A battenberg used to collect water. 
Example: "Mr. Kipling is standing by the exceedingly well."

... and I've been in a lot of sessions with music producers. One of which is a great friend of mine now, so I do mock him constantly, usually on his posh and polite disposition. In our last session we were talking about social media, and in a slip of the tongue he mixed up his letters and said something along the lines of: 'Yes I saw that on your fitter tweed'. I commented that this sounds like a hierarchy of tweed found only in the upmarket shops where he's from
 "Well you may have a tweed jacket sir, but I know for a fact its not the latest and most sought after fitter tweed that I possess".

       While I was waiting at Reading station to be picked up for this music session, I was cornered by a man collecting for Cancer Research. He asked how old I was but discovering I was 23 and therefore not old enough to take part didn't end the conversation. He said:

"Well, can I give you my number?"

"I'm sorry, I have a boyfriend."

"Well, what he doesn't know won't hurt him eh?"

For cancers sake, I hope his ability to flirt inappropriately is as masterful as his ability to collect donations. To be fair to the guy it was better than the old rotund man who simply gruffed "''ello gorgeous" at me the other day in Farringdon. A similar breed to these types have been hanging around my management's office, there is still some building work to be done on the unit and so construction workers are there most of the time. They often like to engage with us ladyfolk through wolf whistling or gruffing 'alright darlin'. This type of behaviour does intrigue me. I wonder if they think they'll find a life partner this way, if they imagine having an anniversary celebration in the future, parking up outside the building site where they first met. They'd take a blanket, sit by some rubble, stare up at the scaffolding and the stars, share a bottle of Frosty Jack and look lovingly into each others eyes. Then Dave (there's always a Dave) would say:

 "Darling, I remember when I first set my eyes on you, and I thought, I must have her, and to think, if I hadn't have shouted, "get ya tits out for the lads" that nippy Tuesday, maybe we wouldn't be 'ere now."

Talking of poetic language. I was in with another producer working on some dance tracks. We don't like to use rhyming apps because they often come up with silly suggestions, but, alas, we were stuck, and trying to find a word for luck, so we thought, what's the worst it could come up with... well, these were some of its suggestions:

Yes it suggested...Vagina. I'm not sure how this rhyming app has ever suggested this, vagina is one of those unrhymable words, like orange or purple. I mean OK, unless you are writing a song about angina or China, then you're kind of at a loose end.... accidental pun there. I apologise for the imagery. 

I've been working on quite a few dance tracks at the moment, and I do sometimes struggle to write on something that is very much "donk" based. See below:

The above is what I imagine happened with Avicii's 'Hey Brother', a song I do really like, but I just can't help but envisage this scene where a hard core country and western band like Union Station go in to record their song, just their sweet harmonies and guitars, and a producer goes, "yeah that's banging but, where's the donk mate?" and sure enough, after some debate, they stick a donk on it and it goes into the Radio 1 chart. I have to admit though. It is sick mate.

On a completely different note. I air drummed for the first time the other night, and in front of an audience. I was down the discoteque one evening and the DJ announced that an electric drum kit was up for grabs in an air drumming competition. I, seemingly being the only woman to want to make a tit of herself, went forward for it. It was tense, there were six of us, we were required to go on to the stage in groups of three, the winners of those rounds, would then battle it out in a nail biting finale. 

I watched the first three go up. One participant instantly jumped off his seat when the music started, hitting the air wildly. He was the first to be eliminated for not adhering to the boundaries of the air drum kit. If it were real, there would been disastrous consequences, parts of drum kit would have been littered around the stage from his furious kicking and flailing. 

Before I knew it, it was my turn, but alas, one of the participants didn't show, another girl had to take his place. I was nervous, another female could be a threat, however, she decided instead of drumming, to throw her drumsticks into the crowd and dance provocatively instead. It was a bold move, but one that did not pay off. She was eliminated. I meanwhile hit my imaginary high hat and snare, head banged like a mad woman to "Fat Lip", every now and again I'd do a glorious drum solo, hitting all those toms and cymbals. I eventually won the heat.

I was ecstatic but now came the final. It was I and a long haired man, we shook each other's hands like good citizens and prepared for the air-drum of our lives. I waited for the music to start. It was Wipe Out. My feet went wild on my imaginary double bass pedal, my arms constantly hitting the toms before going to the standard snare and high hat to cymbal combo. Just when I thought I could drum no more, the music ended and there was no more I could do. The winner was decided by a crowd vote... and sadly friends... I did not win. Not for lack of passion might I add, but for not bringing enough loud friends to cheer for my cause. Do not be disheartened, for I had given the drum performance of my life, and the DJ, he had noticed. He found me at the bar, gave me what was essentially a "donk" compilation CD (win), a voucher for a free bottle of bubbly, and free entry for the next time I go. And now, just for your viewing pleasure... here I am partaking in the said activity:

And so on that note, or rather, air-thud I'll end this blog.

As my Grandad says:

Don't call me, I'll call you.

Seriously though, don't call me, I'm really not that fond of you.

All the best,


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