Feeling yourself disintegrate

In the days since the last trendthrift update, two absolute truths have become apparent to me:

  • Wisdom teeth are a pain up the arse
  • The Flaming Lips know how to put on a damn fine music show
  • I’d been wanting to see the band for a while now, so naturally I was excited as the recent Hammersmith Apollo date grew closer. Unfortunately for me, the very same wisdom teeth I mentioned just a few words back started giving me some trouble the day before the gig. By the time I was on my way to the venue, the dull ache in my mouth was spreading to my head, and I was convinced that my evening was ruined. Within a couple of hours, Wayne Coyne was crawling over my head in a giant inflatable hamster ball.

    I needn’t have worried. Huge ticker tape cannons, groups of dancers dressed up as aliens and Father Christmas, a town crier and a majestic rendition of Race For The Prize to open; how could manky teeth possibly bother me when faced with that? My balls could have burst into flames and I still would have loved the show. Although that probably says more about me than the gig. If you like their music but haven’t yet caught them live, rectify the situation as soon as possible.


    Treat yourself

    The guys at NonStuff have posted up the 50th iteration of their frequently excellent podcast. I’ve not had a chance to check it out yet – I’m still too busy swooning over the Pink Nasty/Will Oldham track from Podcast #49 – but I thought it a landmark worth mentioning. These digital mixtapes are clearly put together with love by people who are genuinely passionate about their music, and all this on a weekly basis. I’d consider myself to be relatively well versed in semi-obscure music, but these guys have opened my eyes to a bunch of artists I would have otherwise likely missed out on. And for that I’m genuinely thankful. Do yourself a favour and sign up for a (free) subscription. Here’s to another 50 at the very least.

    Set in stone

    It is done. There will be a wedding on July 28th, and I will be there. Getting married.

    Angry Anderson will be freestyling over some fly beats as the bride turns cartwheels down the aisle. No doubt Dustin Hoffman will turn up at the last possible moment, begging me to reconsider my actions. No can do, Rain Man.

    It’s all pretty exciting, although I imagine my bank manager is less than thrilled. I wouldn’t know though; I don’t take his phonecalls any more. He’s resorted to texting recently, but despite being a relatively young man, I’m not really down with that. I tried a Caeser cipher, but I’m still no closer to decoding ‘Soz m8, u gt no phundz :(‘

    Dedication’s what you need

    Ladies, remove all breakables and lay down some foam or bubble wrap or something; reading on will likely cause your knees to buckle as your brain sends the following message to the various extremities of your broken, convulsing body. The rumours are true. I’m getting married.

    The future Mrs. trendthrift will actually feature on the cover of next year’s Guiness Book of Records following her triumphant victory in the ‘Fastest transformation from jubilant bride-to-be to stress-addled wreck’ category. So impressive was the metamorphosis that Roy Castle actually rose up and tap-danced on his own grave.

    Bless her. She can’t wait to get married, but the thought of getting everything organised is slowly killing her. We’re talking full-blown sleepless nights. Still, with any luck, we’ll have a date confirmed by this time tomorrow, which will be something.