T H E  A M P  D I A R Y
4 September 1999
The thing about 35-year-old men...

So far, it's been the hottest September in years, and tonight's Luna gig must be the hottest place in London. I stand in front of Mr J on the stairs of the London Embassy Rooms, but it's too hot to touch. My pink dress sticks to my back and sweat tickles its way down my thigh. I peer at the band from between the head of a girl with bleached yellow crop hair, and the shoulder of an American man.

The man onstage, Dean Wareham, must have the palest skin in rock. I gaze hungrily at it, enviously. A summer of cycling round town has left my face and arms all freckly. I want my pallor back! Dean's hair is black, like the bowling shirt which hangs off his skinny torso. He has white stick arms and a persex guitar. He buries his head in a towel while the bassist tells the audience to 'quit that stuff'. They are bawling for songs from Dean's old band, Galaxie 500. Yeah, Dean's been around awhile. He must be 35 or more.

I've never met any 35-year-old men, but I think I'm developing a fascination for them. I think 'jaded' is such a decadent word, and I imagine a man half-way through life to be jaded. You'd throw off your bra and a 35-year-old wouldn't leap up like a boy does. He'd sigh, turn away, change channels with the remote.

As Dean sings, squeezing up his concertina eyes, I think I hear someone yell 'Take your shirt off!' Mr J doesn't hear it. Maybe it was in my head? I watch Dean. He has crevices and caverns in his cheeks, and furrows round his eyes. His face is like an old snowbank where dogs have been, where wellies have trodden mud in. Ravaged. Perspiration slides down my spine as I stare hard at him. For some reason, the usual peverse fantasies don't come. I just want to lay Dean down, and rub him. I imagine Dean's bowling shirt must be all damp and clammy. I know underneath it is a white chest and dark hair. Does the hair have grey in? I want to colour in the grey with a magic marker, and put putty in all the furrows of his eyes.


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