Harmony Constant

I don't think this will really get it out of my system, but here it is anyway:

29 OCTOBER!!  SOMEWHERE IN MANCHESTER!!!  ROBERT MICHAEL NESMITH!!!!  AAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I found out the news via Milton Keynes' finest export first thing this morning.  Normally I'm a miserable old sod of a morning.  I don't do conversation, I don't do eye contact and I certainly cannot smile before at least my second coffee.  But this morning was different.  The overcast drizzly British summertime morning seemed bright and breezy.  A song filled my heart, my eyes brightened, the smile on my face spread from ear to ear. 

Needless to say, the first thing I did when I arrived in work was book the time off.  It's happening.  It's finally happening.  Me.  Nesmith.  Same airspace.  In the words of Dusty Springfield - I just don't know what to do with myself.  I'm so excited it's beyond ridiculous.  I'm already trying to decide what to wear and realising that I might just be at my target size by October and I don't know how well I can cope with the dual excitement of Nesmith AND skinniness...

I need to link my excitement over the forthcoming Nesmith gig to a recant of my adventures at the weekend.  And I can't do that in a particularly smooth manner.  So... er... I won't.

I went to see Westlife on Saturday with my pal Sue.  She's a huge fan and was so upset that they'd announced they were splitting up before she'd had chance to see them live in concert that she thought 'to hell with it' and ordered two tickets, she didn't care where they were.  They weren't together, but they were on the same row - and I, in an unselfish act of kindness *removes tongue from cheek*, agreed to go with her to save her husband the trauma of spending the evening in a room with 16,000 screaming women.  Which is understandable.

They were actually very good.  Of course, I've liked them since they won the Smash Hits! Pollwinners Best New Act as Westside in 1998, and I used to be absolutely mad about them until around about their third album when I just became far too 60s for anything modern at all.  It also sort of coincided with the time they started to be marketed as a sort of Housewives' Choice act and, well, I'm not a housewife so I suppose I'm not the target audience any more.  I went to see them on their first arena tour back in 1999 (I think), when they were just another boy band as the boy band trend was dying out - and 90% of the audience was made up of 13 year old girls, and they were pretty good then, but naturally, over the years they've just gone from strength to strength and are genuinely a very good live act.  Vocally they're all absolutely spot on and their crowd interaction was brilliant. 

Everyone had a good night.  It was pretty emotional for them, it was their last gig as a group in Manchester.  I suppose it must be a bit weird if you've been doing the same job since you were 18/19 and then you get to 32 and decide it's time for a change - this tour is sort of them working their notice period.  Must be really bizarre for them. 

They did, however, at one point do a cover of 'Don't Cha' by The Pussycat Dolls.  I think the phrase "least said, soonest mended" would apply here.  I don't think the reaction they were after was hysterical laughter, and I'm not proud of myself for it, but it was hilarious in all the wrong ways.  Just... no.  Really.  Just.  No.  Someone will have put it on YouTube by now, and I'd recommend you take a look just for the comedy factor.  Which I have a feeling wasn't quite intentional.

All in all, though, it was a great night, they did very well.  It's strange that it's all over.  It's like they were the last of the great boy bands of the 90s (anyone who is of the mindset 'there were no great boy bands of the 90s' is simply wrong - the 90s were the decade of the boy band, it's like saying there were no great beat groups of the 60s!!).  There's quite a large chapter of my teenage years that's been closed by their breakup.  I'm not sad or upset or anything, it's just a bit sort of... strange.  Still.  Onwards and upwards.  They'll probably get back together for a reunion tour in five years anyway!!

I have no news on the weight loss front.  I'm pretty much back on it now - I discovered yesterday that I'm drinking far too much diet coke and it's made me a bit poorly, so I've quit that.  Herbal teas and water all the way it is, then.  Serves me right, of course.  If I'd only been sensible in my eating and drinking habits in the first place I wouldn't be in this situation now.  Still, if I didn't need to lose weight, I wouldn't have started this blog and what would you have to while 10-15 minutes of your day away with?!  Exactly.  You're welcome!!

Join me again on Wednesday when I might've calmed down slightly from the Most Awesome News Ever In My Life.  But don't count on it...!

The Lancashire Midget Greenie (1945-2012)

"7A."

"What number is this, Chip?"

"SEVEN - AY!"

"Okay, don't mean it, don't get excited man!  It's cos I'm short, I know."

You all know what comes next.  Daydream Believer is a timeless song that has touched the hearts of millions and been turned into football chants across the globe. 

It's very difficult to sit here and try and pin down all the ways that The Monkees have influenced my life.  After all, I wasn't even an idea back on September 16 1966 when The Monkees first aired in the US.  I didn't buy Monkees Monthly or subscribe to the fan club.  I didn't queue outside record shops to get my copy of Headquarters.  I wasn't there on 3 December 1967 when they played the UK's first ever stadium gig.  They were not, strictly speaking, of my time.  Yet, it is a complete truth to say that if it hadn't been for The Monkees, I wouldn't be the person I am today.

10 April 1996.  No idea why I remember the date.  I was twelve years old and just starting that awkward, self-conscious, not fitting in stage (still in it!).  Although, in fairness, I had never quite fitted in anywhere.  I am ten and a half years younger than my closest sibling.  My parents are old enough to be my grandparents and I've always described my situation as an only child with five parents.  Because I was always with my parents and their friends who were all 40 or so years older than me, I never really had much in common with my peers - after all, what self-respecting adolescent really wants to be friends with a precocious, squeaky voiced, bespectacled, fat, ugly Jehovah's Witness kid with a 30,000 word vocabulary at the age of 12?  I just felt as though I'd always been on the periphery of everything.  I'm not saying I had an unhappy childhood because, hand on heart, I had the best childhood anyone could ask for - but I've never really been quite old enough or quite hip enough to fit in, or I've been too old and still not hip enough.  I've never acted my age because I'm not sure how a person my age is supposed to act.

Channel 4 had been advertising the fact they were going to show re-runs of The Monkees on Sunday nights at six o'clock.  I'd never heard of it before but it looked bright and fun and funny and my curiosity was piqued.  I'd planned to watch it.  I asked Mum and Dad if I could watch it on the little portable television in their room after tea and they'd agreed.  Six o'clock came.  The first thing I saw was a tiny fella, with longish, shiny brown hair, wearing the smallest pair of red shorts I had ever seen in my life.

"This is it.  I love it!" I declared.  Before a word of dialogue had been spoken.

By the time the opening scene was over, I was hooked.  I can still remember vividly, being sat on the end of Mum and Dad's bed, the first time I saw those opening credits, and just knowing that nothing would ever be the same again.  I still remember, week after week, being unable to breathe with laughter as Davy, Micky, Mike and Peter got into and out of all kinds of scrapes in the most hilarious and zany ways.  I counted down the seconds from the end of one episode to the beginning of the next each week.  They were my show, they were my boys, they were my music, they were my sense of humour entirely.  They spoke to my soul on so many levels - I finally felt that I had something that could belong to me, that I could belong to.  That, even though the show was 30 years old, being a bit different, being seen as being a bit weird, not fitting in didn't matter; just being who you are - that's all you need to be. 

Through The Monkees, it naturally followed that, four or five years later, I broadened my 60s horizon and embraced other bands - starting with The Animals and then moving on to The Who-> and Hermans' Hermits... in fact, I'd discovered most of the 1960s before I even gave The Beatles a second thought.  The Monkees are my Beatles.  They're where it begins and ends for me.  Not just musically.  Although I've always loved writing stories, it wasn't until I became a Monkees fan that I ever even considered writing comedy of my own or putting it into a script.  They broke so many boundaries and inspired so much creativity and were behind so much of modern popular culture - it's easy to just dismiss them out of hand as a kids' TV show.  But they were so much more than that - and they still are.  It wasn't until yesterday that I realised just how much they've affected so many people, and how much people still love them - especially the little one with the shiny hair and the tiny red shorts.

My brother broke the news to me yesterday that Davy Jones had passed away.  It had only been a few weeks ago he'd said to me that he had been a Monkees fan right from the beginning and had watched their show while he was growing up, long before I was born - but now, whenever anyone mentioned The Monkees, he always thought of me.  I must've had ten text messages all saying how sorry people were - one even said 'I'm sorry for your loss', which was so sweet - as though I'd really lost someone so close to me.  Perhaps I have.  I'd hoped that, when I finally heard the news about one of The Monkees - as I knew I'd have to one day - I'd be in a different position.  I'd be settled down, probably married with kids, and that I'd have other things to concentrate on, that it would just be a sad piece of news but that I'd still get on with my life mostly unaffected.  I hadn't expected to still be the oversized kid that didn't quite grow up and who still doesn't really fit in.

The tears haven't come too badly yet.  But I have a feeling they will.  I know I didn't know him.  I know it was 'just' a show and they 'just' made some great music and he was 'just' a person.  I know it's silly to feel his loss so deeply, as though he was really my friend, when I know he wasn't.  It sounds melodramatic and ridiculous, I know - but the truth is, when I'm depressed, I watch The Monkees and they take my pain away.  They never get the breaks and they never get the girls - but they always have each other and they never give up hope.  They're my sunshine, my warmth and my heart.  And a very, very special part of my life has gone. 

I may be a Nez girl through and through - but the true Heart and Soul of The Monkees has gone.  All my thoughts and best wishes are with his family and friends at this tragic time - and especially to his three brothers-in-arms, Mike, Peter and Micky.  My boys.  My music.  My Monkees.  And they always will be.