The Misfits Dream

I dreamt that my family and I drove to Manchester with my Mum in her sports car (it's not actually physically possible to fit more than four people in her car, so already it's odd) to go watch the Misfits. Mum didn’t come to the gig; I’ve no idea why she was there. We’d obviously been staying over somewhere because the boot of her car had to be rammed closed for duvets and clothes.

We went to the gig and after sitting through the lameness that was the support bands*, the Misfits finally came on stage. 

Bean then decided he needed the loo, so I went with him and after much messing about; having a poo, not having a poo, having a wee, having a poo, we returned to find the Misfits leaving the stage. 

I stood there hoping against all hope there’d be an encore, but none came.

I felt like the world was against me.

I’d come all this way.

I missed it.

Again.

Once again, because of Bean’s toilet habits, I’d missed out.

(To explain; last summer I missed the more poignant parts of both Nana and Granddads funerals because I was in the bathroom with Bean).

Deflated, we returned to the car, parked just outside.

I mentioned to a few people as we passed that I’d missed the gig and they, like me, were horrified. Then one of them turned out to be a member of staff at the club, and she said she’d do her best to make up for it. 

I didn’t hold much hope, I just felt screwed over.

Then all of a sudden, that was it, I was going backstage, in like, 20 minutes. That’s how long I had to prepare myself. I was grubby and sweaty after the long drive, my clothes were all wrong; I look frumpy and daggy, I really wanted to brush my teeth and my hair was tragic but I couldn’t fix any of it.

I was about to meet the band that I adored for 12 years.
The whole fan thing doesn’t come naturally to me, if at all. But this band is the one constant in my life. 

The one band that I’ll listen to on a regular basis. 

The one that whatever mood I’m in will perk me up and get me boogieing and singing along at the top of my voice again. 

I haven’t done anything for as long as I’ve been listening to the Misfits.

I’d had tickets to go and see them in the Summer of 2007, but we didn’t go last minute because I was pregnant with Ed, so very nauseous and completely exhausted.

I had been so excited to see them, now I was just freaking out.

They called me in, walked me up, then left.

I knocked gingerly on the door, but as I did, it opened to reveal the kind of madhouse I’m very much used to, but not the kind I was expecting. Instead of instead of punk rockers with tables full of snacks and beer, taking shots through the eye, I was met with two double beds covered with kids of various ages, playing computer games, reading, drawing, relaxing. Dogs were running about, there was one causing a to-do in the en-suite and on the floor there was a bowl of manically escaping guinea pigs. One by one they’d hop out and be quickly plonked back in by one of the wives. She seemed a tad stressed about it all.

I introduced myself to the room; ‘Hi, I’m Cat’ I say, waving my hand in the air self-consciously.

‘What a donkey you are’ I think to myself.

But then Jerry Only hugs me in a great big embrace, and I can feel every single muscle on his body, all hard a pokey and not sexy at all, but comforting.

We chat awkwardly.

Dez stand in the corner looking surprisingly normal but still like an old man out of his depth**.

Suddenly I realise there’s a big bowl full of eggs on the floor and one of them is jiggling about – it’s hatching. One of the wives grabs it and opens it up – I’m thinking; ‘shouldn’t you leave it to hatch on its own so it’s strong enough to take on the world? Or is that just birds?’ – and inside there’s a baby guinea pig. She explains that they breed them for meet and I babble about having three cavies of our own and how we have spoken about breeding chickens.

I don’t know what to say, what to talk about. 

There are too many uncomfortable silences. 

I feel like I’m intruding, in their bedroom, in their private space. I realise that I never knew anything about them, about their family lives.

This wasn’t what I was expecting.

I want to say that I’d listened to the new album and that I really liked it, but I don’t want to seem lame. I don’t want them to know I only just got it, 18 months too late. Like it’s not bad enough I’ve never listened to the pre-1995 albums, that I don’t know anything about Glenn Danzig.

I wish I was cooler.

Jerry Only stays close, always touching, his hard arm always against mine.

It’s not weird, just over-friendly. But it makes me wonder if after 35 years in a world famous band, maybe it’s been a while since anyone said 'no' to him. But there’s no groping or anything so I figure he’s just one of those people.

I realise I’ve been standing here for over an hour and my family are downstairs waiting for me. I need to drive the boys home and get them into bed.

Then I wake up.

I feel I should point out, my husband and I are going to see the Misfits tomorrow night, and the boys are being babysat by my Mum.

I cleaned out the guinea pigs hutch yesterday.

I do over-think everything.

Lately I realised just how much of my rock chick self I let go when I had babies and I would very muchly like it back, hence the constant worry throughout the dream that I’m just not cool enough.

*although I have investigated the support bands on YouTube, I don’t actually know in real life if they are lame or not, so no-one get offended, OK.
**I probably shouldn’t say that about him. I’m sure he’s an amazing musician and a legend, but to me, in my humble opinion he does seem a little tiny bit awkward on stage (having watched a few recent YouTube videos). I look forward to watching him prove me very wrong tomorrow night when they rock the Manchester Ritz.

Please note; these images are not mine.