In 1992 I made a promise to myself. It was after the Madder Rose gig at the Riverside. Nicholas Hawkes had just persuaded me, against my better judgement, that I should go backstage and speak to the band. I did so. It turned out I had nothing of interest to say to popstars and they had very little to say to me. At least after they'd tried to make conversation and I'd given them very little back. So I went home and had an asthma attack. It was utterly, utterly humiliating. And it made me decide that I would never again put myself in the lowly position of approaching a person who did not know me to tell them how great I thought they were. In fact, I would only tell a stranger I thought they were great if they said it to me first.

Permitted:
Michael Stipe: Er, excuse me, aren't you Helen Parker?... I loved your latest movie... and that speech you gave at the Oscar ceremony... fantastic!
Me: Thanks. Stand was quite a nice song.

Not permitted:
Me: Hi aren't you Michael Stipe? I (gush, gush - I can't even write it it's too embarrassing).

Anyway, that brings me nicely round to Sunday. I'd just enjoyed a double bill of music - Malcolm Middleton supported by Jennie and the Bets. I enjoyed Malcolm's disgustingly depressing songs so much that I bought his album. A wee Scottish chap standing by the merchandise stall pointed out that Malcolm was just standing over by the bar and would be happy to sign my cd. I said thank you very much but really there's no need. He implored me "it'll be the only chance you get!" I again politely declined and returned to my pals. Seconds later, a tap on my shoulder and there was the man dragging Malcolm Middleton along and thrusting a pen at him. I said that I really hadn't asked to have it signed, but of course I thought he was great. . . (NNNOOOOOoooooooooo! Promise broken!)

Much mutual embarrassment ensued. He signed the cd with some jaunty birthday wishes. I didn't have an asthma attack. I got away with it. I admired someone and it didn't make me feel like a useless pleb.

Walking out of the Cluny I passed by him as he sat at a table near the door, I smiled and said "thanks for the birthday greetings!". He responded with a tired ah-leave-me-alone-now-will-you look.

Never again.

This time I mean it.

See a review of the canny Scotsman.

Happy Birthday Mary!

Laura Cantrell facts I have discovered in the last twenty-four hours:
a)by day, she is a financial researcher
b)in September she is playing in Gateshead
I am very, very excited. (More so about the latter admittedly.)

I was watching a band I like last night (at the Distraction Weekender) called Chippewa Falls. Two of them are twins. Sometimes I wonder if I love their music or if I am just being bowled over by the magic-y-ness of nature. There's one. . . whoop, there's another one. Disappointingly, they do not have their own language. However, during last night's set they were glancing supernatural twinny looks back and forth with abandon.

Today I've been wondering a lot about the etiquette for dealing with strangers crying in cars. On the way back from Asda yesterday, turning into Bath Terrace, I noticed a woman hunched over at the wheel of a stationary car, head in hands, crying.

What are you supposed to do? If she was sitting on a wall crying I would have asked her what was wrong. Even, at a push, if she was in her front garden, I would enquire as to her well-being. But she wasn't. She was in a car and asking how she was would first mean knocking on the window and, if she didn't immediately wind her window down, I would have to make a potentially goonish expression/ gesticulation. She might have locked the door and looked terrified. So, bearing in mind there was no hosepipe nipping in the back window, I just politely looked away and pretended I'd not noticed.

For two seconds anyway, then I had a quick, guilty glance back. She was just putting moisturiser on her face.