GOAT GIRL

GOAT GIRL/GENTLE STRANGER AT THE LOFT, SOUTHAMPTON – 25/9/21

Wife is not impressed that they don’t have lime at the bar. “Lemon?” she says hopefully. 

  “No, sorry. No fruit at all,” says the bar person.

  Things get even worse when wife goes to the toilet. “It really annoys me,” she says, upon her return, “with venues like this how they don’t think they even need to try. I mean it wouldn’t take a lot of effort. Those toilets were disgusting. I actually found that a degrading experience.”

  And then she sees a discarded wedge of lime on the floor.

  “Look at that,” she says. “They obviously haven’t even cleaned the floor since last night.”

  The floor, I have to admit, is sticky. I have to keep moving my feet every minute or so, so they don’t stick to it. 

GENTLE STRANGER are a revelation. There are three of them but at times it sounds like there could be eight or nine. They’re a kind of fancy dress band, both sartorially and musically, adopting different styles like costumes, which might sound annoying but the whole thing is delivered with such impossible earnestness that it isn’t.

  “I love this band,” I say.

  “I know,” says wife. “They’re awesome.”

  I want to give them a standing ovation but I’m already standing up, so I just clap as loudly as I possibly can.

'a revelation'

About four or five songs from the end of GOAT GIRL’s set, wife turns to me and says, “I don’t know how much more of this I can take.” I wonder what she means. Is she feeling unwell? Is she worried about the fact that we are standing near the front of a packed venue and almost no one is wearing a face mask? But no, it’s the music she can’t take any more of. “I’m just not feeling it,” she says. “It’s just not for me.”

  I sort of shrug. “Oh,” I say, “OK.”

  “I’m going to go to the toilet, get another drink, and have a fag.”

  “All right, then.”

  “You’ve got your phone on you?”

  “Yeah.”

  "I'll call you when it's finished."

  I carry on watching, thinking about wife’s reaction. I can see why she might think that. In a way they are a little lacklustre. I probably would have been more enthusiastic, though, if wife hadn’t been so down on it.  

  There is no encore. I unstick myself from the floor and head for the door.

'not feeling it'

I find wife outside talking to a drunk man. Sober, I struggle to make it into the conversation. The drunk man’s friend joins us and reveals that he’s been carrying around a plastic cup for the last three hours. He had been hoping to reuse it, and thus do his bit to save the planet, but hadn't been able to for some reason I am not able to comprehend.

  We take the scenic route home and end up at the beach looking at the reflection on the moonlight on the water.

You can't see it in this picture, but the moonlight is reflecting on the water, forcing us to confront what we have done.

When we get home we argue about a noise I make when wife helps me with the soap as I am washing my hands after emptying the cat litter. I just don’t really want help with the soap. The noise expressed that. Wife wants me to admit that I am a “fucked up cunt”. 

  “Fine,” I say, “I'm a fucked up cunt.”