Saturday, July 30, 2016

At home with Robert Smith from The Cure.

'Mary darling, there's a kitten stuck on the curtain again!' 
I went and saw The Cure on Monday night! They’ve always been my favourite band, Robert Smith was my first love and I’m not ashamed to say I would still have his baby, even though I’m 41 - there’s still an egg or two stashed in my ovaries that could be put to good use!

They’re not as fresh as they were twenty-five years ago mind you when I had his poster up on my wall… I dreamed of kissing those smudgy red lipsticked lips and tangling my fingers in his mop of teased black hair. These days he’s looking more like the spider from the Lullaby film clip, with a pudgy waistline and greying hair, not that I mind though, I fell in love with his lyrics and guitar.

But as I watched him on stage I did start wondering if his blood pressure was alright - I mean, a three hour set would be quite a workout, and then they took so many encores I started worrying about his prostate - running off and on stage half a dozen times in my mind means only one thing…

I looked around at the crowd, a few vintage goths still had died hair, the rest just looked like tired parents who’d gone to a lot of trouble and expense to have a night out. Two middle aged men jumped up to sing Boys Don't Cry together, bless ‘em.

I wondered if Robert was still married to his high school sweetheart Mary. I’d read they never had children because they wanted to pursue artistic careers, they were a lot smarter than me obviously, they figured out before they became parents that children, as cute as they are, do kind of cramp your style…

A house with no kids I thought, but I bet they’ve got tonnes of cats - they must do, because he’s written songs about love cats and caterpillars and spiders - but there’s never been any song that mentions birds, obviously because the cats eat them all. All Robert’s got left in the garden to write about are insects - but not butterflies, the cats eat them as soon as they’re out of the cocoon.

Must be a super nice place to live if you’re a cat - three ply kitty litter, wall to ceiling carpet… Robert looks like he indulges a bit, he obviously likes his pudding. I bet he watches Nigella in bed with all the cats when he gets home from touring…

I wonder how often he washes his hair… Maybe Mary washes it when she can’t stand it any longer. Maybe she secretly runs a bath every six months or so on a nice sunny day, then goes around catching all the cats and finally lures Robert in with a trail of Nigella cupcakes… Then she throws them all into the bathtub, hissing and howling and spitting together and gives them all a good ol’ shampoo, before letting them out into the garden to sit in the sun together and lick themselves, poor old bedraggled cats and lovely Robert looking like Insy Winsy washed out of the drainpipe…

Tell me... which ageing rocker would you still get knocked up by? 
PS. Mick Jagger, if you're reading this, we're just talking hypothetically okay?
Life Love and Dirty Dishes

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