I’m going out in a bit. With my current stepping out with person. She is 35. She wants me to meet her friends, God help me. What on earth will I talk about to them?
I mean, I find Massive Attack, thrillingly modern and bleeding edge hip. She and her chums were barely germ free adolescents – if that – when Blue Lines appeared.
Germ Free Adolescence! Bloody hell! They won’t get that reference. The Clash? They’ll say “oh yeah, I’ve heard of them. Think my parents might have one of their records. Wait, isn’t it a pub in Shoreditch? Not sure..who’s for another Dirty Martini?”
Dirty Martini? Didn’t I see them at the Roxy? I’m confused. If I start talking about Thatcher and Lewisham 77 and The Who at The Valley, I’ll sound like a boy soldier who joined up to serve with Kitchener.
I think she’s told them I’m “older” but not the Ancient fucking Mariner for God’s sake! They won’t believe me if I said I’d pull all dayers in the office followed by all nighters in Soho, or the other way around, off my tree on gak and vodka.
Bloody Oasis ruled the land then! Bloody Blur! Mansun!
I am going out. I may not be any time at all. I may just make my excuses and slip back home to watch that Dexy’s doc. With a nice mint tea.
Oh God. What have I done? What am I doing?