come Ear, come Ear; there’s more, there’s more…

Stevie Martino is true to his word as regards a benefit gig. He has been beavering away behind the scenes, attempting to find appropriate venues. The following email is sent into the inter-ether (try to ignore the bit about “struggling with the opposite sex” – that’s just artistic licence, obviously):


Subject: STEVIE MARTINO NEEDS YOUR HELP!!!

My name is Stevie Martino. I have a favour to ask. It’s for a very worthy cause…

I have a friend called Andy who's had a bit of a rough time with relationships and struggles when it comes to attracting members of the opposite sex.

We were out watching a gig at the Luminaire last week when he plucked up the courage to talk to a girl who had caught his eye. They had a lengthy chat which resulted in him asking her out on a date to which she replied 'I'd love to' and she gave him her telephone number. Andy left the venue in the best mood he had been in for a long, long time.

When Andy got home he decided to text the girl but was horrified to find his phone had malfunctioned and only stored the name, Justine. This discovery left him distraught. The only details he had about the girl were; her name, the area where she lived (Kilburn), and where she was originally from (Ireland).

The following day Andy contacted the bands that had played at the gig (The Clientele and Darren Hayman) and asked them if they could post the story on their blogs in the hope that she might read them, they accepted. Then he set about messaging every Justine he could find on Facebook which resulted in him being barred from sending messages. That evening he travelled to Kilburn tube station (he lives in Crystal Palace) where he stood outside for two and a half hours hoping she'd show up, then he went back to the Luminaire to see if she was there, he visited a number of pubs in the area all to no avail.

After hearing his sad tale we, his friends, felt compelled to help him in his search. Hence I would like to stage a kind of benefit gig on his behalf. We should be able to bring quite a few of our friends but in addition we are going to hand out flyers all over Kilburn hoping that Justine sees one and comes along.

PLEASE, PLEASE HELP!!!

Yours faithfully,

Stevie Martino.


After a short lull in campaigning, Mr Martino receives the following reply from the good people at Ear Music:



Hey,

That’s a very moving story! Not sure how I could decline such a request!

I can book you in for a feature set at The Queen Boadicea any Sunday night if you like?

Hope all’s cool and let me know if this would work…

J
______________________________________________________________________
http://www.earmusic.co.uk/
http://www.myspace.com/earmusic



Hurrah!

A date is set: Sunday 3rd February at the Queen Bodecia, Islington. Not long to prepare. Get me the Saatchi brothers/Harvey Goldsmith/a new ink tray for the photocopier.

Reputation on[the]line

Fellow blogger and Clientele fan Fire Escape Talking has noticed Clientele’s myspace post about Justine and my newspaper ads.

Being neither Irish, a good looking woman, resident of Kilburn or even called Justine, Fire Escape Talking cannot in all honesty be described as my ideal readership. Nonetheless, Fire Escape Talking turns out to be a stand up gentlemen called Ben, who writes on my dilemma with no little aplomb and humour. I would recommend his mirthful musings to all and sundry.

The Fire Escape Talking blog came to my attention after my good friend Adrian emailed me to inform me that I am making enemies all over the internet. I cannot let such smears against my character stand - I have a reputation (of sorts) to protect -and consequently feel forced to contact Ben to ask him to let people know I’m not quite such a antagonistic dick as is being portrayed. Ok, so perhaps ‘desperate’ and is a charge that even Johnnie Cochran would struggle to get me acquitted from (if the glove fits…), but I really don’t know who Harvey Williams or Nicky Haslam are either. FET is kind enough to put up my declaration of innocence which you can see here.

“Are you 'Crystal Palace Andy'?”

“Well, are you?”

These are the words of my dear elder sister of the ‘I Saw You’ column in thelondonpaper. "Yes" I answer, somewhat reluctantly, wondering how often she peruses this Loot-for-the-Lonely. Nor does she appear to be the only relation/close(engaged) friend /work colleague who keeps a regular eye out for potential admirers in the London free press.

Eschewing potential exclusive serialisation income I spend another 50 pence to text rival free rag London Lite my plea which will, somewhat romantically, be displayed under the title ‘Lovestruck’

“Are you Justine from Kilburn? I met you in the Luminaire on 8/01. You gave me your phone number. I lost it. If you want to go for a drink please get in touch. Andy from Crystal Palace.”

Days pass with no reply. Justine obviously reads something improving on her way to and from work; and so do her wide circle of intelligent friends. Such are the crumbs of comfort available for me to dab at in the dry roasted packet of life as I sit surrounded by work colleagues in that well known philosophical alehouse, Wimbledon’s ‘Hand and Racket’. Comradely support is in short supply however as even the the most senior manager is joining in the general ribald banter – aka border line psychological abuse - that now seems to permanently surround my plight.

The last word before closing goes to our Finance Officer, a man who'd likely fail a Talksport audition for being too blunt:

“So you’ve [insert Justine attention seeking method here] and heard nowt?”

“That’s right, Steve.”

“Give up. She’s obviously seen one of them and just thinks you’re a bit weird; or she wasn’t going to go out with you in the first place.”

“You’re probably right, Steve. Thanks.”

We are the world

My good friend Stevie Martino contacts me about my plight. Pertinent facts about Stevie:

1) He is a songsmith extraordinaire;
2) He is a very nice chap;
3) He resides in the north west of London and is touched by my story of woe.

He offers to put on a ‘Find Justine’ benefit gig and will try to find an appropriate venue in Kilburn to accommodate! I accept this lovely gesture; at least the good burghers of Kilburn will get an evening of very fine music out of my misfortune.

To paraphrase Sir Bob “Give us yer f***** phone number, Justine. Again. Please.”

A face in the crowd

‘Have you tried Facebook?’ asks Gaz, confidante and flatmate extraordinaire. No, is the answer because without a surname or email address I’m liable to spend all my time searching for an electronic needle in a virtual haystack.

Nonetheless, Gaz’s suggestion has aroused my interest. So, giving thanks that I have never suffered any pollen-related allergies, and happy to find yet another reason to prevaricate over a college essay deadline, I plunge myself into the world of cyber frustration.

Feeling very much like I’m engaged in yet another painful administrative task doomed to failure, and between digesting passages on mandatory Palestine, I begin to trawl the supernet.

I soon discover that there is many a Justine in the world of Facebook. Undeterred (well, almost) I immediate eliminate those who evidently aren’t her based on the tiny pictures. Those Justine unfortunate enough not to be distinguishable in this method and who live in ‘London’ (helpfully vague that) receive a message from me, outlining my quest.

I desist only when Facebook prevents me from sending any more messages. Apparently I may be a spammer sending unwanted emails! *cough*

Back to the books.

I'll have one of whatever they're committing to vinyl, please

Today is one of those days which reaffirm one’s belief in human nature as inherently kind, warm and fluffy. It will also go down in history (perhaps) as the day when The Clientele guaranteed they will always sell at least one copy of whatever they decided to release in the future. Even if they make a left turn into industrial noise, I will be there for them.

Why? Well they were there for me. As the fateful encounter took place at one of their gigs I think that maybe Justine was a fan of theirs. So I write to the band via the magic of the interwires. I lay out my dilemma - in a shudderingly embarrassing fashion, it has to be admitted – and, perhaps surprisingly, they don’t mock me mercilessly. Rather they are the personification of helpful and friendly.

Evidence of this wondrous piece of niceness lies here

May God, or the patron saint of album sales (Genesis?) bless them.

The power of advertising

I awake with a sniffle, and a germ of an idea concerning the newsagent in Kilburn Tube station: shop window adverts. If they’re good enough for ‘Man With Van’ to stake his livelihood upon, then they could surely be good enough for me.

However, after a morning of toil my early enthusiasm has dipped somewhat. By the time lunch rolls around I’m ready to file this one under the heading, ‘Dates you could have gone and then messed up’* Just as I’m ready to throw in the towel, I receive a welcome boost when my friend Jon replies, strengthening my resolve – he is a believer!. His reply to my email is reproduced in full, below:

“Mr A,

The very least I can do is see if the shop will put up your ad.

Your story makes me want to cry every time I think about it. If you aren't able to at least get in touch with this girl then I will be convinced that there is nothing but blackness in the world and that we are all condemned to a life of pain.

“Best of luck, then.”





*Not the catchiest title of all time, granted, but then you can’t be on top form all the time. Anyway, it sums it up pretty well.

Stumbling about in the dark

‘Didn’t you phone her at the time to give her your number and to check you’d got hers down correctly?’

Everyone who heard my sorry tale posed this same question. Well, as I’m sure you can guess by now, the answer is, no, of course I bloody didn’t. Why?

a) I was trying desperately not to come across as the kind of person who expects a girl to give them a fake number. So much for wanting to appear relatively cool and relaxed.

b) I was under the impression that keying a few numbers into a phone without making a mistake wasn’t beyond me. Obviously I was mistaken.

‘What do you know about her?, asked Si. Just the bare (oh, so very bare) facts.

- Her name is Justine.

- She is Irish (or at least capable of adopting an Irish accent good enough to fool the likes of me)

- She lives in Kilburn.

“Surname?” I am asked.

Err, no.

“Job?”

Nope.

“Anything else traceable?”

Sorry, but no. Well, not unless there is a database of Cliff Richard impressions I can peer through.

“You do realise there is another track and field night on at the Luminaire tonight - you could go and check to see if she is there? I’ll go to the pub with you if you’d like.”

Why the heck not? Good idea, Don Simon. If you are going to go out on a whim, you might as well use all your limbs, as my mum used to say.

I decide to get to Kilburn tube early and-somewhat creepily-stand in the corner of the ticket hall peering over my (purposefully purchased) copy of Private Eye. Tube upon Tube upon Tube arrives and disperses. If I do see her, what the hell I am going to say anyway - “Hello, I meet you last night, lost your phone number but I’m an optimistically romantic, nay desperate, type of character so I decided to venture north for a stake out. Fancy a drink?” I consider how I’d feel to hear this.

However, it is academic as, a) she doesn’t go past; and b) after an hour my jaw locks with cold rendering me speechless. Simon rescues me and buys me brandy in the pub. No sign either at the gig.

Back to the pub. More brandy.

In the beginning there was technological incompetence...

We are a mere week into the now customary New Year resolution of ‘no drinking until February’ and already I realise this will inevitably and imminently be downgraded to ‘All right, let’s just give it as long as I can actually last out’. So imminently in fact that this evening – 8 January 2008 – will see me reject the January ennui and accept the offer of a ticket to the ‘Track and Field Winter Sprinter’ gig at Kilburn’s finest Luminarie. Still a healthy, wholesome, whole six days have passed since alcohol passed my lips. I deserve a treat.

I’m enjoying the mellifous sounds of the lovely The Clientele, and the fine company of my friends Simon, Steve and Jon, when an attractive young lady standing about two feet in front of me catches my eye. I would like to say that I spent the rest of gig subtlety glancing in her direction to see who she is with, filtering and selecting my best witty introductory remarks, but the reality is probably closer to slightly inept glances at the poor lass from behind the my Guinness.

Before you know it, the lights have come up and its last orders at the bar. I finish adding some courage to my Dutchness and resolve that if she is still in the bar when I have finished in the facilities, I will try and talk to her. Upon exiting the facilities, I am surprised to find that fate must be on nights this week as I bump straight into her. “Errrrrr…” says my brain but, despite this, I manage to start a conversation. Unbelievably it doesn’t end with a curt brush off in under a minute (Yes, I am timing it. I mean, come on, you’ve been there too, no?). Anyway, “Blah, blah and more blah.” – that’s what it sounds like I’m coming out with - and I’m waiting for Mallet’s mallet to puncture my mood. But hark! The hammer blow does not come. Instead the realisation dawns that this isn’t going quite as badly as I feared. Rather I realise something: she is funny, intelligent and pretty. This moment must not pass. “Do not hesitate!” screams my brain. Be bold. “Will you go for a drink with me?” intones my mouth. “Yes” she replies. “May I have your phone number?” I ask. Once more: “Yes.”

So, at this stage: HURRAH!

I return to my coterie. “Where have you been?” asks Simon. Who knows what conjecture crosses his mind as I reply, “Oh, just to the toilet” with an incredible smugness spreading over my chops [which can’t be a pleasant sight – sorry Simon].

I decide to retire for the evening and head for the Tube, doing a passable impression of Morecombe and Wise dancing off backstage along the way.

I arrive home and make a cup of tea. I decide to inflate my ego by looking at the name and number nestling in my phone. Hmmm. Hang on. There is just the name ‘Justine’ there. No number! No! Cue furious searching. Cue obviously futile attempts to shake my phone into coughing forth the precious secrets I thought I had entrusted it with. Alas, the number is nowhere to be found.

Bugger.

So, we have ourselves a time honoured tale: Boy goes to gig. Boy meets girl. Boy loses girl’s phone number. Boy is idiot.

But boy is not finished yet.