Nat Luurtsema: Nocturnal Daydreamer

Yesterday morning I found that my car had been blocked in by a white van. It was a handyman’s van, painted in red and blue and my initial irritation melted a bit when I looked over the road and saw a man up a ladder, wearing the same colours as his van.

I do like it when people dress to match arbitrary objects in their life. I can’t, I drive a Toyota Yaris Verso (THE number one car of choice for the elderly and disabled, ladies..) in an eggy beige colour, the only sartorial match would be an NHS neck brace. This is a shame, but I console myself by accessorising to match the bins. Big, green, suspicious liquids.

I walked across the road and called “Excuse me?” at the man up the ladder. In response a bloody huge bull mastiff appeared from NOWHERE and leapt at me, snarling. Fortunately he was on a lead, unfortunately at the other end of the leash was an extremely wispy, ineffectual specimen of man. I have never seen anyone who looked more like bellybutton lint. He could’ve been any age between 21 and dead.

He was trying to hold the dog back but all he was doing was slowing it down. So the dog was advancing on me slowly, dragging a man behind, which frankly just added to the menace. It was like the dog was saying “look how strong I am, I might do some press-ups while I eat you.”

Wispy Lint man apologised: “He doesn’t like aggression.” I turned this sentence over in my mind. It didn’t actually seem like much of an apology, in fact it seemed a bit…accusatory, with twattiness drizzled all over it. “I wasn’t being aggressive” I said. “Yes, you were,” Wispy Lint whimpered, “you were yelling at that poor man up the ladder.” These sort of half-men pullulate around this neighbourhood, men so middle-class they whisper everything, obsess over condiments like fetishists and presumably keep their severed nuts in the fruit bowl.

“I wasn’t being fu…” I stopped, realising the ridiculous situation I was now in. I was all geared up for a fight. I admit, I am a bit ‘fighty’, I get this from my Mum, we have no shame in a stand-up yelling row with a stranger in Morrisons over being barged by a trolley. If anything, we rather like it, gets the blood pumping, you get a chance to exercise all your best swears and the only downside is a stranger thinks you’re a prick. I’ve done a talking head show, I bet plenty of people saw that and now think I’m a prick. I’m comfy with that, my only regret is that I didn’t get the fun of calling them Nature’s Biggest Mistake And Yes I Am Counting Hitler in the Biscuit aisle.

But this man had called me aggressive when I WASN’T being aggressive. And he’d done it in an infuriatingly passive-aggressive way. So now I wanted to yell at him, but to do so would be to prove him right. It was a knotty problem, and one being watched by the man up the ladder. It’s like when someone tells you they know you fancy them and they’re sorry they don’t feel the same. There’s no way to convince them that you really don’t actually fancy them. I’ve been shoved into this situation several times, you cannot win it. Short of pouncing on them, ripping their clothes off then puking, disgusted, all over their unsheathed body, you will always look like a big sad sack of unrequited love.

So I settled for ripping old Wispy Lint apart, in soothing tones. Which was as creepy and weird as it sounds. “I wasn’t being aggressive,” I trilled melodically. “I was trying to get the attention of a man up a ladder, it can’t be done with a whisper.” “No, he pouted, “you were aggressive, there was no need to be so horrid.” (He actually said “so horrid”. Surely no one but that lisping brat from Just William has this vocabulary.)

“Well maybe your dog is over-sensitive,” I warbled. A songbird landed on my head. “Perhaps he’s dangerously over-sensitive. Perhaps one day a child will sneeze in a pitch that displeases him, and lose a nose.” At this point the man had descended from the ladder to defend me. “It’s alright mate,” he said, in reasonable tones (thankfully, for the sake of his nose). “There’s no harm done.”

Wait… “No harm done”?! What a shitty defence, that’s basically announcing “Look, she was rude and aggressive, but I’m prepared to turn the other cheek.” That wasn’t fair, I had been polite even though he’d blocked my car in by, frankly, parking like some sort of despotic tit too lordly to acknowledge things like double yellow lines and simple basic manners.

“Brilliant, thank you for you that” I crooned sarcastically at him. A small crowd had gathered at this point, regrettably, as I didn’t feel I had covered myself in glory. You must remember this argument had been conducted entirely in whispering sing-song, with me backing away throughout, pursued very slowly by a snarling dog dragging a man made of fluff, while a man dressed like a van walked alongside this slow backwards funless Mardi Gras, looking like he was definitely someone’s carer.

I then gently and tunefully called the dog-owner a string of my favourite insults, which I’d love to share, but they are mine and excellent, and if you and I ever got into a fight I don’t want you to be as well-armed as I. Although, if we started slinging insults around and found we had a lot of favourite ones in common, would that derail the fight and make us warm to each other? “Oh I like f***** c***-sucking k****-mongerer too! Oh that’s so funny, I’ve never been on the receiving end of it, it’s got some game hasn’t it? I feel crushed!”

So if you live near London’s N10 beware, there is a dog that considers anything above a whisper to be a car-jacking and responds appropriately, and there’s a man leashed to him who is so annoying he’ll make your gums itch. They’re like a pair of nun-chucks, with something toxic either end, and hopefully one day they’ll meet a tiny, passive-aggressive dog, with a huge angry man the other side, battle will commence and other bits of Wispy Lint can join his nuts in the fruit bowl.

Late one night I was heading home on the train, gingerly fingering the free paper next to me, unsure if it was damp or just very cold (a small but important distinction). I was then snickering at the word ‘fingering’ as I am only human.

My high-octane vida loca fun was interrupted by a group of young teenaged girls walking past me to the train doors. The train stopped, the doors opened and then one said to the other “Oi, you forgot your jumper.” It was about four feet from her jumperless body. The jumper-owner shrugged, made a weary “meh” noise and they all got off the train.

Now I remember being a teenage girl (just a few years ago, I lie coquettishly to blind men) and back then I loved my clothes with an unhealthy fervour. I’d save up for them with hours of waitressing and once I’d finally got something new I cherished it to an unhealthy degree.

I didn’t get the impression that this Jumper-Abandoner was a spoilt rich girl, I guessed the reason for her cavalier attitude and a glance at the jumper confirmed it. The label said “Atmosphere” and I nodded like someone off CSI who just KNEW there’d be semen all over the window sill. It was a Primark jumper and as such possibly cost her less than a sandwich and she couldn’t be arsed to move her body four feet for such a cheap thing.

When I was her age clothes cost more than sandwiches. I’m sorry if this makes me sound like a deranged old lady but it’s true, they did.

And chocolate bars were a decent size, but that’s an argument for another time. Now Primark has shuffled clothing down the list of valuable items until it’s hovering just above earbuds and jam.
When I was a teenager I’d no sooner leave a jumper on the train than I’d abandon a leg, with a breezy “Oh whevs, I’ll pick up another one.” Whenever I fight my way into the heaving morass that is Oxford Circus’ Primark it’s always full of foreign tourists aghast at the prices.

They’re convinced that they’re looking at a huge admin error or they’ve misjudged the exchange rate (“Are we billionaires in this grey and backwards land Julio?”)

Clothes can now retail for as little as a pound, which kicks the arse of charity shops and even jumble sales. Hurray for a bargain, and YET I worry that this sartorial elysium is only achievable because somewhere a kid is sighing “Well, there goes my last finger…Come on thumbs, time to up your game.” So how much is that jumper now worth? In money terms, clearly so little that a 16-year-old can’t be arsed to take two steps towards it, because she knows her babysitting money can buy her 10 more. But in finger terms, it cost far too much. It’s two things at once, a Shrodingers Cat of a jumper. Or is that bollocks sophistry? I mused as I pulled the jumper over my head. (I should’ve mentioned earlier, I was drunk. And also Finders Keepers. My two reasons why I was wearing her jumper before the train had even left the station. She looked a little snitty but I styled it out with a “Yes? Problem?” face.)

It’s nutty that I am broke and powerless, and rightly so, and yet I feel like a tyrranical oligarch whenever I pick up a dress and think “But HOW are you six pounds? Explain it to me slightly wonky shirt dress.” It goes against my instincts to object to this cheapness because I love a bargain, I grew up poor and this attitude sticks with me, which is why so many nights out end with some poor sod trying to talk me out of a skip (“Honestly Nat, we don’t need half a filing cabinet.”) And also explains why I can’t resist the lure of cheap clothes. If you ever tell me I look nice I will respond with boasts about how cheap my clothes are, despite being constantly told not to. Apparently if a man says “you look nice” and I gesture at my bottom half and announce “Five quid in the sale!” the whole interaction suffers a shift in tone and I look like a hooker on special offer.

I try to justify my love of cheap clothes with several weak and flimsy arguments. Firstly, that no matter how cheap they are I still value them, I’d never leave them on a train and I care for them like they’re Lagerfeld. Made by Lagerfield, not Mr Lagerfeld. If I had to care for an dainty old German man I’d hope I’d do more than shove a shoetree in him. I’d stretch to a biscuit. Secondly I try to limit my cheap clothes-buying, though I find it embarassingly difficult. Over the years I have become more and more of a consumerist whore, buying a lipstick here, a pair of shoes there, to “treat myself” though I never noticed I needed so much “treating” before. Am I a child, or a fungal infection?

Advertising has finally trickled through my skull and now I need, nay demand, my treats! What, I’ve done a whole day’s work? What selfless, brave dedication. What a huge achievement, somebody get that girl a treat, preferably from the Rimmel collection, no, left a bit, the new Kate Moss things, lovely. Buying these little treats gives me an almost physical sensation of pleasure, like a breakfast cigarette. It’s a little jolt in my stomach as I fight my way along Oxford Street, six quid shoes clutched to my panting chest. It may be a jolt of joy, it may be a fellow shopper’s elbow in my diaphragm, who knows, but I like it.

I’ve decided I’m going to stop buying whenever possible. I’m 29 and I reckon I own the clothes for whatever life wants to throw at me. Funeral in a hot, rainy country? Got a dress for that. Moving house but with handsome removal men? I have just the outfit for that. There’s no need for any more stuff, so I’m going to stop accruing.

I should’ve done this years ago but my personality is nothing but a collection of vices that I try to keep in check, while retaining enough pleasurable feelings to keep me sanguine til bed. So I’ve decided to stop quitting smoking and start quitting cheap clothes. Not that I’m going to start buying expensive clothes, a quick google tells me their origins are rarely more ethical AND they have the sheer cheek to not even be cheap. Stuff that. I acknowledge that this system of self-improvement is a bit limited but I am flawed person trying my best. I’m trying to be a better person one tiny step at a time.

I anticipate an uphill struggle, but I’ve never been lazy, as I announced with an epigrammatic flourish to a friend the other day: “Work will set you free!” Nice phrase, I forget where I first heard it, the second verse of Love Will Tear Us Apart? Um Nat, she said, google that phrase and then stop using it IMMEDIATELY. I’m an awful person. First step, stop accidentally adopting mottos of pure evil in a zesty can-do spirit.

This month I am learning a lot of things.

I am now part of a sketch troupe (I can’t find a collective noun that doesn’t make us sound like monkeys). It’s Dan Antopolski, Tom Craine and me, and we’re called Jigsaw.

I love being part of a tiny gang, it’s made me realise how lonely I had become as a solitary stand-up comic. I was spending so much time driving alone to gigs that I could now live in my car for a week without problems. I have everything in there, from deoderant to moisturiser to a selection of books, shoes and a pillow.

I havent talked to myself in weeks, which I think we must chalk up as a Good Thing.

There are downsides. With every new sketch we write, we’re accumulating props. We said at the beginning that we didn’t need props and wouldn’t use them. But after ten minutes struggle to mime a bird’s face we gave up and bought a mask. It’s a slippery slope, now I can;t be arsed to mime anything when Ebay’s just a click away.

The thing with mime is it’s very difficult, takes ages to master, but once you’ve mastered it no one gives a fuck. It’s a thankless chore. The best response you’ll get from a comedy audience in response to a great mime is a small “huh” that says “I appreciate that must’ve taken ages to rehearse, though I’m baffled as to why you bothered. But still, I’ll throw the puppy a biscuit, so here, have this small noise.”

Now we’re wasting zero time on mime (hurray!) but lugging round a box of props (boo.) I never appreciated how much cooler it was to wander into a comedy club, smooth an eyebrow and say “yeah, I’m one of the acts..?” Now we have to stagger through the door with a bag of poles and a huge box of what looks like childrens’ toys, basically announcing “Look! Here is all our funny! We are bringing our funny to you, instead of keeping it neatly in our heads.” Then we have to barge through our waiting audience, murmuring “sorry sorry sorry, mind your…oh, sorreee..” None of which inspires faith or a life free of back pain.

I used to be in an eight-person sketch group called Superclump that collapsed under sheer weight of numbers. To be a tight, slick sketch group I believe you shouldn’t have to do a headcount before heading on stage, or say things like “well, most of us are here..right?” Although it felt great being part of a gang so big we dominated every backstage area and frequently eclipsed audience numbers, there is a lot less money in live sketch than live stand-up. Superclump took our loss of income stoically enough, but it’s hard to remain chipper when you’re sharing out twenty quid between eight and bothering the bar staff for change for a pound.

Jigsaw is only three of us, which requires very few headcounts. Again we’re all stand-up comics, which means, like Superclump, our first instinct is to cram the show with funny punchlines and then stand in front of each other while delivering them. I think a stand-up’s first attempt at sketch is invariably to have a few people standing next to each other having a very witty conversation and doing nothing with their bodies, bar occasional pointing and arm-folding. Basically a stand-up monologue, arbitrarily sliced up between several “characters”.

After a few gigs we spotted this and decided to move our bodies a bit more, if only to prevent deep-vein thrombosis mid-show. We may have over-compensated, the show is now stupidly exhausting. I grabbed Tom’s face in yesterday’s show and he was so sweat-drenched I dropped his head. We laughed it off but his eyes didn’t focus until later.

We’re now reaching a really exciting stage of creating a show when we can see the final show beckoning coyly through the carnage, and we’re all starting to argue over the finer details. I like July, the stressful month when Edinburgh performers fight.

It’s because I don’t have much in the way of manners. I try, I do, but in the heat of the moment, in creative discussions, I reach for phrases like “that idea is shit” and “stop saying such shit ideas.” It’s inexcusable behaviour so I don’t attempt to excuse it, I just shrug and say “well stop coming up with such shit ideas then.” When Edinburgh looms and everyone gets stressed and argumentative, suddenly I don’t seem so rude. My horrible personality is nicely camoflagued in other peoples’ mental disintegration. Win.

So my back hurts, my manners aren’t improving and I’ve been eyes-deep in our Edinburgh show for so long I realised I hadn’t opened our fridge all week. So I did. Then instantly regretted it, a small eco-system has sprung up which I now intend to leave until September. When I return from the Edinburgh Festival I will destroy it like a vengeful god, but until then it’s free to flourish.

Oh god I’m lonely. So terribly lonely. I’m doing 3 gigs up north this weekend (like most comics do ALL THE TIME) and im staying in hotels and losing my tiny mind. I foolishly thought I’d kill time by visiting Manchester’s Arndale Centre because it’s apparently the largest shopping mall in the UK. With wearisome predictability it is huge and i am lost. Ive given up and slumped in a Starbucks because that crab-handed mermaid logo calms me, even though their coffee’s horrible. (Im no expert but should coffee make your tongue furrier than an exotic caterpillar?)

Also, i refused to pay £12 for 4 hours parking because thanks to Primark i now look at sums like £12 and think ‘Get stuffed, that’ll get you a dress and a half in Primark, i’m not paying that sort of money to RENT a dirty piece of FLOOR’. So i have parked my car on a wasteland nearby, the sort of wasteland where men with tattooed foreheads hit each other with bricks for fun. So long as they don’t dent the Yaris Verso, live and let live.

I gave £4.50 to a mute Indian man under a huge umbrella who i assumed was in charge. As i walked away i realised that he never made any such claim, i just assumed this because when i was parking he did the ‘back a bit’ wave at me. But ALL MEN do that, it’s a genetic sickness. Complete strangers will wave instructions at the back of my car when i park, while their womenfolk do ‘sorry about him’ with their eyebrows. I wouldnt mind but im actually shit-hot at parking. Now where are these men with their help when im trying to pay my gas bill online? Then i could do with a bit of support and advice, not when im executing a classic Luurtsema reverse parallel park (one smooth movement, wheels gliding to a stop, a mouse’s soft cough from the kerb. Sexy.)

And now i can’t remember where this wasteland is. I can’t just follow tattooed men clutching bricks, the risks outweigh the hope. Im woozy with loneliness and tiredness (my hotel check-out was 10am. AM, in the MORNING. Horrible, my head’s all bubbly from an incomplete shampoo-rinse. If i get caught in hard rain i’ll end up wearing a cape of bubbles.)

Also, in the Arndale Centre i did a bit of a shop. I couldn’t help it, shopping soothes me, it’s like non-violent hunting! Although thankfully as it’s February i can call up members of my family and say:

“I am about to buy a £20 jumper”
“Well done?” They’ll offer doubtfully.
“If you give me £20 we can call this your birthday present to me”.
“Deal.”

I am ignoring my birthday this year as its 29, the birthdays that end in 9 are so boring and unmilestoneish, except of course when you reach 79 or 89 and then people will congratulate you on staying alive (as if you’re the only one making an effort, surely we’re all chasing this same goal more or less?) However ignoring my birthday does not extend as far as presents, because the Luurtsemas are a gifty sort of people. We don’t think they’re superficial or a bit silly after a certain age, we think they are Simply Lovely.

I’m really lost by the way, im going to look for someone motherly to help me. Failing that, draw a picture of my car with some crayons (there’s a kid in the corner with some, my car’s beige, no one EVER uses the beige crayon, i think we can do a deal) and go around tearfully showing it to people.

I’m gigging in Woodford tonight, if you are going to that gig applaud heartily if i appear on stage, because you know now there’s a big risk i won;t make it there at all. If i stumble on stage limping and a bit of fire you’ll know why.

NB
I feel I have a little bit of explaining to do. I have slightly* abandoned the NME (Nat’s Musical Education) because frankly, i was filling my days with music and this wasn’t making me like it any more. If anything, it was having the opposite effect and i thought why make myself miserable? So i have compromised, i will try and be a bit more open-minded towards music (though realising i dance at adverts has reassured me that i am not completely dead inside.)

Also, ive been a bit quiet on the blogs because the nice people at Hodder Publishing want me to write a book based on living with my parents! Which is hellacool and to celebrate i am going to buy one of these: http://www.kigu.co.uk/ (Not sure which one yet though the tabby cat appeals) so i can write in comfort and style. I may get a friend to smash a bottle of cava on my furry side as i begin Chapter One, just to feel like a proper author. I imagine they all write like this, i heard Salman Rushdie dresses as salmon. He giggles for hours about the wordplay there, because he is a man of words and that’s what they/we like.

However it does mean whenever i have a thought i squirrel it into the book. It wouldve once got directly to the blogs but now the book is gobbling up all my thoughts. I can only apologise for this and assure you that as soon as the book is complete (hand it in Sept, published Spring 2011) all my thoughts will then be flung all over the blog once more. I hope that’s cool with you, i will still blog on here but i cant promise to do it daily for the next few months. But of course whenever im lonely and stranded in an unfamiliar city i will come running back here like a 40 year old with emotional problems towards a childhood blanky.

* Linguistic maverick that i am, i am here using the word ‘slightly’ to mean ‘completely’. As in ‘I’m sorry flatmate, i have slightly destroyed your blender.’ Feel free to use it yourself, it does cushion the blow when you’ve fucked up.

Tiernan Douieb has taken my Musical Education in hand now. He’s noticed that, despite my yawning indifference of, and rudeness towards, music, i dance at adverts. It’s very true, i DO dance at adverts, i like them, they always use punchy music, I often like the product advertised (not crucial but it helps me get my groove thing on) and they’re only 30 seconds long.

So now he’s playing me punchy ‘tracks’ that ‘change it up a bit’. Im nodding, im a fairly passive subject here, wrapped in a blanket with the curse*. I really don’t know what to do when played music by someone who then watches how i react. It’s like a noisy eye test. I’ve wiggled my shoulders a few times and nodded my head, but we both know I’m faking it.

I feel very under pressure around music, i think because everyone thinks they can ‘convert’ me. It mustve been like being a lesbian in the past. ‘Oh no, she just needs a really nice husband, one with shiny hair, that’ll do it.’ My mum puts me under more pressure because around music (and booze) she’ll start dancing and part of her dance involves pointing her fingers coquettishly at you and singing the lyrics like they have some meaning to you. I think its a 70s thing, but its unforgiveable, what do you do when your mum’s mouthing ‘Dancing queeeeen, young and sweet only seventeeeeeen’ at you? I settle for a curt nod and a ‘same to you.’

Tiernan’s played me some Jurassic 5 but their music makes me feel seasick, it always seems to have the same bounce in rhythm that you’d get on a cross-channel ferry. They’ve also got a song called ’17 MCs’ where 1 man raps in 17 different voices! Except…as far as i can tell, it’s 17 remarkably similar voices. I like to imagine him running between microphones while the rest of them (Jurassic 4?) nod supportively, saying ‘it’s amazing….and that’s really coming from your mouth? Seriously?! No! I bet William H Macy’s under the tablecloth’.**

Tiernan’s playing me one of his favourite albums now. A lot of people have played me their favourite albums, ive got a bad feeling about this, it always ends in hurt feelings. He keeps popping out of his bedroom to check up and me and my enjoyment. So i just keep dancing manically whenever he appears.

Still the only song that gets me grooving spontaneously is Britney Spears’ Womanizer. Craine played it this morning and i actually danced myself awake. I drifted into consciousness, aware that my hips were wiggling under the duvet and my fingers clicking against my jammies. I don’t know what it is about Britney, i think its because we’re the same age, we grew up together, she felt like a peer, and just when i started to get depressed a couple of years ago that i was a useless clown who just did stupid jokes for a job while other people save lives, she went cuckoo and shaved her head, to make me feel better.

Tiernan’s weird album is still going. It’s merciless, like the 100 years war. It’s got bits of film dialogue in it, this is mad peoples’ music! All i really want to do is dance to the M+S Christmas advert. I’m going to plug my headphones into my laptop, find it on youtube and groove in the bathroom. And i blame Music for this entirely. Stupid music. Today has been quite the backwards step for our relationship. Though it is very sweet that Tiernan’s treating me like his favourite unresponsive lab rat. What more could a girl ask.

* Yep, i like to use old lady terminology about it, it makes me feel like part of a long and noble heritage of honourable women who behaved like moody bitches 3 days a month.

** Alright, none of the 17 voices sounded like William H Macy, and in my opinion the song is poorer for it.

In the spirit of my Musical Education i have been forcing myself to listen to some music every day. I realise now this may not the way to foster a love of it. It’s hard to like anything when you make it a chore. I always think this when i read about Kiss n’ Tell shaggers boasting of 18 hour sex marathons. Really?! 18 hours?! I couldn’t do anything for 18 hours without getting bored and reaching for the TV remote, which experience has taught me is frowned upon by your sex-colleague, even if you promise to keep the sound low.

Still, im getting through a lot of crap. There’s a lot of music out there i don’t like. Craine showed me this video of a girl called Jessie J. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TswOLHUQFPk Now, safe to say, me and Jessie J won’t ever be friends, we’ll never spend a pleasurable afternoon rifling through charity shops in a posh neighbourhood then fleeing with our bounty, congratulating ourselves on being like Robin Hood, if the rich voluntarily gave their possessions away and we meekly stumped up £2 to buy them. Chances are if Jessie ever tried to say something to me i’d be so confused by her contrived urban parlance that i would have to pretend to be french and scuttle off to safety. However, undeniably the girl has an impressive set of pipes on her, i was in awe.

So, hot on the trail of New Music (i always hear radio DJs blathering on about this and ignored them, now i felt the same thrill, it’s like hunting! A quarry that wants to be caught! And i found that Jessie J and her brilliant singing voice have a single out. I congratulated myself, everything seemed to be falling into place.. I was brilliant at Enjoying Music! I would soon be allowed to own a pair of big DJ headphones and nod knowledgeably on the bus!

Then i experienced her single*. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pOf3kYtwASo

I spent a fruitless 5 minutes trying to tug my own ears off. You’re probably doing this right now. Sorry, they stay red for ages afterwards.

So, Jessie…your point is that you can be just like a man. Ok, fine, it’s good to have ambition** but you’re not really paying much attention to the men you emulate are you? Because you’re convinced it’s simply a matter of grabbing your groin (PLEASE stop it while I’m talking to you, it’s not nice.) and wearing your hat low. Is that really all the characteristics covered? It’s pretty limited, i know computer game characters who exhibit more personality traits when you stop playing for 5 minutes. Is there a chance you’re getting men confused with pictures of men? Pictures of men wearing hats and holding their balls?

So that was that, she’s off the list. Her and her crotchy hand. God knows what the other one does, i bet her next single builds on her keen eye for human behavioural traits and filthy hand antics and is called Thumb Up The Bum Like A Nun.

*Sorry, i couldnt find one without adverts in front. Put your fingers in your ears and only remove them when you see a girl grabbing frantically at her crotch like a particularly unfortunate STD victim.
** Teehee. Come on, I’m clearly joking, they don’t even get to bleed. Losers.

I am sticking with my musical education and have been dabbling around in various bits of music i have encountered. I found myself humming along to an advert the other day, i think that’s a sign of progress right? I don’t expect to become a more sensitive, in-touch-with-her-emotions person overnight but i reckon i’m making strides. I can measure my success easily because I live with Craine who loves drippy folk music and cries at The Secret Millionaire pretty much from the off – “My name’s Mike, I’m a Liverpudlian” – cue hysterical sobs. Well, i guess if you grow up in Bath, most other places look unimaginably shit. He visibly flinched at the grey pate strewn with vomit and broken glass that we pretentiously call Watford.

I have listened to the Manu Chao album called Clandestino at a friend’s recommendation and i did enjoy it. So i listened to it again (maybe that’s not what youre meant to do with music, i don’t know. I wouldnt do it with a book but i would with a bag of crisps and i feel CDs lie somewhere between these 2) On the second listen I noticed that it does feel a bit Gap Yeary, which is off-putting. Also, all the songs begin the same way, which is objectionable, but then TV shows do too and i handle that without punching anything.

I’m not sure however that I’m ready to be a Manu Chao fan. I was thinking about this, so much of liking music and having favourite music is about identifying yourself by it, and i don’t like travelling, and i HATE flip flops and weed makes me queasy nowadays, and i suspect all these things would make me stand out (in the bad way) at a Manu Chao gig. With this in mind, i really dodged a bullet by not liking the Tuvarian Throat Music, or i wouldve had to get a WHOLE new wardrobe, i doubt Wallis trousers are the way to blend in at their gigs.

I just went back home* to check my parents havent gone completely batshit. Mixed results, i’ll be honest. It’s a very difficult time of year for them, it’s the tail-end of the Marks and Spencers sale when there’s scattered bits lying around at rock bottom prices. My parents now own strangely tall tea-light holders which seem odd, given how much they love the cats and how much the cats enjoy shoving things with their faces and being furry and flammable. But when questioned, Mum fixed me with the sort of look you see on zealots before they fling themselves off tall things towards hard things and declared ‘£3! They were!’

Apparently she found one in Watford for 3 quid, then found another in London Colney for 4 quid and she argued the point with the cashier (as if she even NEEDED to say that) and when they foolishly attempted to argue back (silly boy, surely they have a picture of her in the staff room on some sort of Nutcase Gallery?) she exclaimed ‘Would YOU like ME to go to the car and fetch the other one?!’ as if it was the final damning piece of evidence in a pivotal court case, rather than a rather impractical tea-light holder. The cashier backed down, i imagine he thought a pound was a fair price to pay to make this conversation stop.

When i got home i found Mum buzzing. She had been waitressing at the opening of a gym and returned FULL of news. Dad and I were watching Human Planet, there was an incredible man who could stay underwater for 5 whole minutes unaided and walk on the bottom of the ocean floor! But he could fuck off apparently, because Mum Had News. Her news was:

1) She met Frank Bruno.
2) He was LOVELY!
3) And really BIG. Fancy that! (she ignored our sarcastic responses)
4) He remembered her name and kissed her goodbye (because he’s SO NICE)
5) Jermaine Defoe was there and was short and a right prick and EVERYONE thought so and agreed when she said so, cos she was the only one who said so but once she said so everyone agreed.

She had also made a pile on my bed of ‘things you probably want to throw away’ which, it transpires, was just things i own that she dislikes. So about 7 mini skirts were refolded and put back in the drawer, while she hovered in the doorway enquiring ‘not going to throw that? Oh, i thought…no reason… just…thought….bit slaggy….your age’ as she wandered away. So basically i spent 20 fruitless minutes tidying away a pile of things i like that Mum doesn’t. I should do that with her Daily Mail, see how much she likes it once she’s had to piece it together like a big papery reactionary jigsaw.

*Incidentally when WILL my parent’s home stop being called ‘home’? I also call my own home ‘home’, i don’t call it ‘fake home’ or anything. But still, i feel linguistically torn.

NME: Nat’s Musical Education. This year i shall Get Into Music. I shall be a normal sensitive cries-at-songs kind of person. I am tired of peoples’ disgust and of taking a book to Glastonbury (Bleak House last time, sat in a ditch with a falafel and earplugs, had a bloody lovely time). But people don’t see it that way, they look at you like you’ve said ‘babies, uneducated twats’ or ‘puppies, why don’t they just calm the fuck down?’

So FINE, FINE world, i shall endeavour to like music. I’m aware this is a bit of a task though, i’m horribly aware that as another year goes by, there are more songs to know about and have opinions on, more albums and dates and names remember, so i guess it’s best i make a start now.

So, day one and there’s no twatting about here, it’s Tuvarian Throat Music. Yeah, begin bold, show no fear, other such bullish statements. My flatmate Tiernan has so many CDs that guests recoil slightly from the sight and begin flicking their eyes around for tell-tale signs of deranged lunacy. At which point i say ‘oh no, he’s lovely’ and they smile but keep doing it. Tiernan, almost professional Music-Appreciater, says this is the only music he cannot get into. Which sounds like a challenge.

We have a CD by Huun Huur Tu (already an off-putting name, feels like the word ‘cunt’ is hovering just a letter away, but i persevere). And…Play. (I know all the technical terms).

Song 1 has an unforgiveabley long introduction. Such is my hatred of a long, wordless intro that i will frequently fast forward through it. I have no patience for stuff without words. (Perhaps now you’re appreciating quite what an uphill battle NME is going to be.)

Craine tuts at my fast-forwarding but then the actual song begins. It’s hard to describe, and without being culturally insensitive…have you ever tried to cough while straining to poo? Yes, it’s a little like that. Plus, while the vocal acrobatics are amazing, as it’s on a CD it’s hard to be sure what’s actually coming from the throat of a person. I mean, if it all is, that’s incredible, but it’s not clear.

Song 2 is a bit more jaunty (i tell you now, i won’t make it through the album). This one has lyrics along the lines of ‘a wimba wey nimba wey’ and sounds quite froglike. I’m convinced it’s on the soundtrack of Lion King 4.

Song 3 has another gratuitously long wordless introduction and with that, the CD is ejected. However, 3 songs on an album is quite good for me, i’ll often get bored after 1. I definitely didn;t hate this music, there’s a lot to like about it:

1. It’s not trying to be cool. That wins points from me as i despise 19 year olds with one catchy song strutting about insisting they’re the cool kid in school and i should be intimidated by them and YET want to hang out with them, no matter how uncomfortably nervous this would make me. Ok, yes, they don’t explicitly say this, but they’re clearly thinking it.

2. This music makes me think of fields. Which is quite nice. But then i wouldn’t list ‘fields’ on my top ten hobbies list so there’s really only so often i’ll want to think about them. And i think an album’s length is too much thinking about fields.

3. It feels very sincere. Which is lovely, it’s wonderful when people are sincere about things, it’s what makes me tear up a little when i see Dad’s meticulously coiled balls of string that he keeps in his shed, or his collection of baskets for ‘just in case’. (Just in case what is never explained, presumably some sort of mass Easter parade that we must excel at or be shot.)

But that’s about it. The image of a constipated frog is never far from my mind, and while i’d love to go to a concert by Huun Huun Tur, just to see how afficionadoes dance to it, i suspect this is not the genre for me.

Tomorrow I’m trying more new music. Keep sending suggestions and CDs in, i will try them all. Within the year i will have my new musical ‘thing’! What will i be? A goth? An emo? A scat jazz dude?! There’s everything to play for.

I’m racking my brain for all the information i have about music..it’s interesting how, though i’ve never sought out music knowledge, some bits do just sneak in over the years. I’m disappointed to find that that i can name The Fit One in most Britpop bands though NONE of their songs. I was a shaken snowglobe of hormones back then, thankfully ive plateaued out now to the extent that skinny useless-looking boys with fringes can go about their daily chores unmolested.

The only other bits of musical information i have are:

1) Joanna Newsom is who my boyfriend would leave me for, given the opportunity. I know this because he’s told me several times. Good luck with that chummy, ive heard her sing, she sounds like a drip, i’d slap her and have him home and sulking on the sofa within an hour. Depending on where she lives i guess.

2) There is a song with the lyrics that go (‘go’? Do lyrics go? Or ‘scan’ or… I have a whole new vocabulary to learn for this.) “Hey 98.6 it’s good to have you back again..” written by a man who thought 98.6 was the temperature of a woman’s body. Pretty effing sensual eh? Except it’s a bit hot, in fact it’s actually the internal temperature of a hen. Which for me makes it a far more emotionally complicated song.

And i think that’s it, apart from useless scraps like Radiohead are from Oxford (Johnny Something, pretty one on the guitar, i got tangled in his kite in a park in Oxford. It’s a good story, clearly.)

I don’t like not knowing stuff, im usually quite good on information. Im fearsome in a pub quiz* and slappably smug on things like etymology and ‘what’s the name of that guy who was in..?’ Maybe this is why ive resisted getting involved with music so long, i simply didnt want to step into an arena i knew i wasn’t good at. Wow, am i really that pathetically pettily egotistical? Well, im posing rhetorical questions to myself in a blog where i write about myself and expect people to read it, so perhaps we’ll just take that as a resounding Yes. That’s alright, so im a bit of a twat, i have soft hair and a big vocabulary, we’re all a jumble of flaws and flair.

Im going to make list tomorrow of musical genres that might be just my cup of tea but ive never heard them before. I reckon i can discount the biggies like rock and pop and hip hop, theyve had their chance, theyre not for me. Sorry guys, gyrate your tears away over the bonnet of a hummer. Or whatever it is rock/pop/hiphop stars do on crisp winter nights.

* Are YOU, Joanna Newsom? Thought not, stop looking at my boyfriend before i wallop you with your harp.

It’s a new year, new me. This is not a confession of identity fraud before you get agitated. I have made a new year’s resolution. The boyfriend suggested it be to wash EVERY day but i refused. I am a woman of principles who grew up without a shower and still finds the whole ‘Torrential-Rain-In-A-Box’ experience a bit distressing.

No, i am going to fix a part of my personality that i have always been comfy with, but other people* tell me is weird and soulless. I don’t like music. I don’t dislike it hugely, it’s just, like crack cocaine, i fail to see the fuss and conclude it’s not for me. At this point people* look horrified and start playing a mental game of ‘Where is Nat on the autistic spectrum’ like it’s Pin The Tail On The Donkey.

So last night was the first step in my campaign to dip a tentative toe in this ‘Music’ of which you speak. Tiernan took me to a gig (dragged me if I’m honest, it was raining and i’d made a nest on the sofa out of cushions and coats.) The gig was in East London, and populated by people in East London clothes. These are vintage clothes that fit awkwardly and unflatteringly and i think the point of them is to declare to the world ‘Yes! I may look a bit shit in this outfit, but observe, I have a lovely body. IMAGINE how massively shit someone short and fat would look in this!!?’ This is all i can assume.

I stood there in my Wallis trousers and Marks and Spencer boots (living with my mum for 6 months has just turned me into her Mini-Me. I can’t afford to rehaul my look, i might as well just slide prematurely into middle-age. I might pretend I’m 39 and then people will tell me how young i look for my age, that’ll be nice.)

I don’t go to music gigs, obviously. I’ve been to Glastonbury loads of times but i just think of it as a lovely camping holiday in a field with noisy neighbours. So I stood in this trendy East London music gig, cradling my drink and wondering what on earth i was meant to do. I listened to the music, and i really liked it, it was harmonious and pleasing. Then 5 minutes passed and then another 5 and my legs hurt. In a book or a film, i reflected, something different would’ve happened. I quietly voiced this thought to Tiernan. It was not well-received. He pointed out, in a bit of a hiss, that different things WERE happening, because other, different songs were being played.

At this point i was too embarrassed to admit that i struggle to tell the difference between songs, it’s only the brief silence in between that tips me off. I am completely tone deaf and have a short attention span. I nod my head gently at music because experience has taught me that this is what music appreciation looks like.

So i carried on standing and cradling my drink. I started to feel like i was queuing in a noisy room. At this point let me stress very earnestly and sincerely that EVERYONE else in the room was enjoying the acts, they were clearly excellent bands, and i take full responsibility for my struggle. I did a bit of a dance, then felt self-conscious and stopped. I thought maybe i was just too awkward to get my groove on, if indeed i ever had a groove. I thought booze might help me locate it, so i drank 4 rum and ginger beers in the spirit of experimentation. A tentative hip wiggle 40 minutes later established that it hadn’t helped. If anything, it had robbed me of what little rhythm i arrived with.

I think part of the problem is that i am acutely aware that i am not a music fan and i don’t like to lie and pretend that i am when i don’t know all the facts and the trivia and the dates that albums were released. Boring trivia often feels like a passport to music fan acceptance. I’ve only felt this acceptance once, when i went to a talk by Lynne Truss (author of ‘Eats, Shoots and Leaves’) and she said she thought the semi-colon was ‘quite a sexy piece of punctuation’. As one the whole audience (minimum age 50) let out a raucous spontaneous cheer and i felt like part of a gang! An HRT-fuelled cru in comfortable shoes.

So i feel like im gatecrashing whenever i’m at a music gig, and that i’ll be outed as a liar at any point. None of this encourages a person to get their crazy funk on. So i drank some more, bopped my head shyly and left. I am going to keep trying though, i am sure there’s a musical genre out there for me, i just have to find it. Any suggestions welcome, i will try all of them (just don’t get cross if i don’t ‘get’ it, it’s like yelling at a dog for chewing your dvd cover, insulted that it shows so little respect for the Coen Brothers. I will try my best.)

* Bunch of dicks.
* Them again. Dicks.