I once knew a girl who knew Bobby Gillespie.

(One day you’ll see this line feature as the chorus of a song played by an Indie band of the future who call themselves ‘The Architexts’. It will probably go platinum. Their lead singer will have floppy hair, acid reflux and will go on to develop a glue habit (retro drugs use is the new craze of the future kids.)

However.

Don’t let my psychic premonitions distract you from the task in hand.

I once knew a girl who knew Bobby Gillespie. And she really wanted you to know about it. She achieved this by mentioning him as often as possible; prefixing her sentences with ‘My friend Bobby – you know, Bobby Gillespie” and would usually follow it with some jaw droppingly, head smashingly dull story of something which once happened on a tour bus with a Gallagher.

I’ve made the sum of that anecdote seem more interesting then its parts there.

The thing was, for all her casual –I’m-just-dropping-this-name-like-a-fucking-stone-into-the-conversation pretend nonchalance if you so much as mentioned it to her she reacted as though someone had just wafted a plate of shit under her nose.

It was quite a skill, to be so disdainful and scornful of something which – up until two minutes previously she had been practically jizzing from her ears about.

Her: …and then Kate Moss turned up and started doing ‘Oooops Upside Your Head.

Me: What, with Bobby Gillepsie?”

Her: Who? Oh I don’t really remember. We’d been drinking all day with the band.

Me: So did Bobby do ‘Ooooops Upside Your Head’ or what?

 Her: (long, drawn out sigh) I honestly don’t know. He’s very private.

Me: Ey? So were you there or not? I don’t understand”

Her: (rolls eyes) “Then don’t try to”

Me in my Brain: YOU’RE A TOTAL DICK.

Thom Yorke on the cover of the NME

Thom Yorke on the cover of the NME

 

It’s the equivalent of walking round in a t-shirt which reads ‘My Tits Are Your Eye-Toys’ and then moaning that people are looking at your breasts.

I dropped a massive shit-bomb on the first day that she tried it with me because as we all know I am the equivalent of a flatulent arse, musically speaking. I’d never heard of Bobby Gillespie –  let alone Primal Scream. The extent of my musical knowledge was some hip-hop and my Best of Van Morrison CD. And like the Pope without his hat, like Gandalf without his staff when confronted with my musical plebishness she lost all her power.

Her: Oh God. Did you just overhear that girl asking me about Bobby Gillespie? She should know I can’t talk about him. How embarrassing for her!

Me: Who?

Her: That girl over there, asking me about Bobby Gillespie. God!

Me: Is he your boyfriend or something?

Her: No, more like a brother to me really.

Me: Right.

Pause.

Her: I mean, she should know I can’t talk about him or the band. It’s not cool.

Me: Oh yeah?

Pause.

Her: She totally asked me for tickets to the London gigs they’re playing, and I’m like “Dude! No way. You shouldn’t even know that I know him.”

Pause.

Her: She totally did the same thing when they were at Glastonbury and I was with them backstage as well. Man, she’s embarrassing.

Me: Oh right. Is he in a band or something?

Her: (laughing) Just a little band called Primal Scream.

Me: Good are they?

Her: Please don’t tell me you’ve never heard of them. Primal Scream? Screamdelica?

Me: Nope. Doesn’t ring a bell. What kind of music is it?

Her: I can’t catergorise their music.

Me: Can you try?

Her: They’re totally unique. That’s like asking me to describe oxygen.

Me: Have they ever been number one?

Her: No.

Me: Have they ever featured on a Now That’s What I Call Music?

Her: NO.

Me: Well they obviously aren’t much good are they? Probably why I’ve never heard of them.

Her in her Brain: YOU TOTAL DICK.

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