You do mega boasts about how you are the Queen of Britpop know-it-all then do a massive fail.
My friend James Jam of ex NME and now-great-new-website-Shunt fame used to run a quiz at The George Tavern in East London. It was 10 types of amazing. There was a round where you had to hunt for a Boglin that was hidden somewhere in the pub. That was banned when Angela Gaggle kicked off and threw one at the bar staff in the style of Highlander, but I digress.
I was banging onto James about how there should be a Britpop round one week – I would seriously own it and it would make me look well big and clever in front of my Legion of Doom quiz-mates (who at the time included Karen Piper, Deborah Coughlin, Strick Gaggle and Russell Bloc Party. He thought I was a mental). So, low and behold one week I turn up and there’s ONLY A BLOODY BRITPOP ROUND. YESSSSSSSSSSS.
So it was all going very well until James asked what is now called ‘the question of destroyed dreams’. ‘What was Menswear’s first single called and what year was it released?’. Easy: I’ll Manage Somehow, 1994. I debated this with my mate Strick for a while and I was convinced I was right. CONVINCED I TELL THEE. So I sat back smug and waited for the glory of being an utter genius wash over me.
And then it happened. Answers were in. It wasn’t 1994. It was nineteen nighty fucking FIVE! Fingers of shame pointed from every direction as crowds of people stood up pointing and shouting ‘YOU FUCKING RETARD’ at me. I say crowds, there were about 6 people. And they didn’t stand up. Or shout. BUT IT FELT LIKE IT, OK?!. My team mates spat on me and made me remove my Legion of Doom shellsuit top. Karen started crying. Deborah shook her head and looked to the floor, Strick got out a sharpie and scribbled out the tattoo she has that matches mine. Russell just sat there under his floppy fringe doing nothing. I hung my head in shame and left the pub to get on the Number 15 home and listen to On and On whilst staring out of the window as a single tear of desperation and disappointment dripped down my face. As I got on the bus, the driver just looked at me and said ‘I’m not angry Allie, I’m just disappointed. ‘
As I lay in bed that night, quietly sobbing with remorse and frustration, I started thinking of ways to mend my tarnished reputation. Tomorrow it would be old news. Yeah, tomorrow nobody would care. I didn’t have to tell anyone. Nobody would remember. Then I got to work. And this had happened:
Oh fuck. Oh God. Oh No. I needed some support, someone who cared and would offer me support in my time of need.
So I sent Steve an email. He would understand!!
Little shit, This is how THAT email convo went:
From: Bailey, Allie
Sent: 23 March 2010 15:04
To: Horry, Steven
WHAT THE HELL IS THIS??????? (with the picture above attached)
From: Horry, Steven
Sent: 23 March 2010 15:05
To: Bailey, Allie
Q. What the hell is this??????
A. The funniest thing I’ve ever seen.
So I decided the best thing to do was a public outpouring of grief on my own Facebook page. That’s when things got REALLY bad:
I mean for fucks sake. I now had one of my heroes saying I was ‘dead’ to him. So I went out for a fag and contemplated throwing myself off the roof of Atlantic Towers. Then I came back to this:
It couldn’t get much worse. Simon White thinks I am a dick. Johnny Dean thinks I am a dick. I am, really, a bit of a dick. AND THEN I GO ASKING FOR A TAKE THAT ROUND?! HAVE I LEARNT NOTHING?! Do I really want Gary Barlow posting “you stupid twatting knobhead” on my wall when I fail to get Mark Owens childhood address right?! (I do know that, 52 Copstahill Road Manchester, thanks)
So kids, the moral of this story?
1: Don’t go boasting about shit when actually you know nothing.
2: Don’t make friends with your heroes on facebook and then expect them to ‘have your back’. They won’t
3: Don’t be on a pub quiz team with me.
Till next time x