I’m still right here.
Oh, the irony of that lyric now – if only we’d have known how true that would have been 8 months ago. We might have put a bit of money behind some advertising.
Before you think oh great, another artist ranting about lockdown post, don’t worry. This is the only mention you’ll hear of it. Sort of. Not.
I mean, come on now. Who would have thought the apocalypse would be so beige?
I thought there would be zombies! Or at the very least, some sort of Mad Max-scenario.
Now, I know that I still have a provisional (yes, I’m nearly 30) but I reckon I’d do well in a hellish wasteland. Running with the wolves, living on the road, bartering to survive.
Because I’d have a trick up my sleeve and that trick is yeast.
As the old saying goes: “when the going gets tough, the tough cultures a sourdough starter.”
You laugh at me now, but when the dust settles, you’ll find me holed up in “la boulangerie de l'apocalypse” – satisfying the wheaty needs of super mutants when they grow tired of purging the non-believers.
Of course, I learnt how to bake. What else was I going to do? Learn Spanish? No, because I’ve tried that and failed for the past 7 years and old habits die the hardest.
You may ask if this is feigned mockery to show off my new skill and you’d be right. In my humble opinion I should be on Bake-Off 2022. I can almost feel Paul Hollywood’s sweaty palm when I close my eyes at night…
Sorry, got a bit hot and bothered there - where was I?
Sadly, my dreams are worth their weight in shit and none of this will come true. Nostradamus got it wrong - the end of days doesn’t come with a bang. It isn’t a cataclysmic moment. Instead, it’s a perpetual series of Zoom quizzes.
Don’t get me wrong, drinking on a Wednesday was pretty awesome at first, but after several months it starts to lose its charm and apparently not putting clothes on is deemed “distasteful” during a 9am conference call.
It’s fine though – because there is an end in sight. We will see each other again. We will very much “still be here”, but we’ll be there, instead.
“There” being gigs.
God, I miss gigs. I miss our gigs. I miss going to other gigs. I even miss not being able to see a thing because the tallest person in the venue decides to put their girlfriend on their shoulders so she can watch the entire gig through her phone. I miss the overpriced pints. I miss the fact that some venues are still carpeted. Honestly, if you want a cure fast, just swab the floor of a London venue.
For now though, we’ll keep doing what we can. Which isn’t much because we’re stuck in 4 different households across 3 different cities and sadly the internet isn’t good enough to let us gig together. Sort it out 5G.
But we will get there. And I’ll be laughing. With a fuck-off baguette and a can do attitude.