Happy For Hardcore

I’m a 5’3 blonde with a passion for Pinot Grigio, pretty tea dresses, rom coms and um, hardcore music.
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I’m a 5’3 blonde with a passion for Pinot Grigio, pretty tea dresses, rom coms and um, hardcore music.

Being kicked in the head is not an option, it's a given

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Up until about the age of 16 I’d never really been a big music person I mean obviously I’d had all the usual obsessions, Take That, The Spice Girls, Aaron Carter ok, maybe that was just me, but it was never really my thing. I’m not even really sure what my “thing” was, probably drinking too much Lambrini and vomiting on my shoes if I’m really honest.

That was until I met Samson (that’s not his real name, his real name was Dave, you can see why I’d want to change that), Samson was my first boyfriend well unless you count Ben Stone who I went out with for the sum total of 20 hours in 2001 – he dumped me, twat. Samson was 20 to my 15 years old, he had tattoos, piercings and was genuinely about the coolest person I had ever met. Granted I grew up on an island and had only ever really met about 12 people, but still.

He liked all these things I’d never really experienced before like BMXing, smoking and hardcore music. The first I didn’t even try as my inability to ride a bike was already well documented with a series of scars from ankle to neck, the second is a habit I shall continually try to kick and the third I absolutely loathed. I couldn’t for the life of me begin to get why people would want to listen to bands which to my ears sounded like live recordings of people being anally raped.

You’re being smashed around the venue like you’ve just stepped into a life size washing machine, but instead of it being full of nice soft clothes, it’s full of big sweaty men.

But when you’re young and in lust you’ll do anything to impress and like most things if you do something enough times you’ll grow to love it, obviously that is not true of most things, I’ve been eating brussel sprouts for 22 years and they still taste like absolute shit, but you get the picture. I initiated myself with the softer stuff, early At The Drive in, The Used (mostly because I loved Bert McCracken), Dashboard Confessional (not really hardcore at all) two years later and not only did I love the music heavier now: Have Heart, Off With Their Heads, Killswitch Engage, I’d gone all out on the look too. Lip piercing, nose piercing, dyed black hair, I was like a slightly more rotund version of Avril Lavigne. I was so “Scene” it hurt – that’s what we called weepy emos back then.

The thing is though, that as I got a bit older I realised cut off fish net nights and black hoodies were not going to look good forever. I was headed to University and I wanted to be taken seriously, not only did the Lambrini/Vomit combo have to go, the look did too. But there was a problem. This anti-establishment scene which prides itself on its individualistic outlook just didn’t get it, they didn’t get me. Marching into the Camden underworld in a floral mini-skirt, my hair quaffed to within an inch of its life people look at me like I’m bloody mental. It gets even worse when I think, after one or two luke warm beers – that’s right I drink beer as well – that it would be a good idea to enter the mosh pit. Now for those of you who have never experienced a mosh pit up close and personal allow me to explain:

It all starts with a bit of friendly pushing, like the physical equivalent of your early evening pub banter, two minutes later and you’re being smashed around the venue like you’ve just stepped into a life size washing machine, but instead of it being full of nice soft clothes, it’s full of big sweaty men who will, given half a chance, hit you to the floor. Sounds like fun? Well yes, it is. See even though you come out of it looking like you’ve done ten rounds with Mike Tyson and your body will, most probably, hate you for days there’s some kind of rush that you don’t get from anything else.

The excitement it’s like a physical appreciation of the music as well as a mental one, kind of like clapping but a whole hell of a lot more violent. And it’s that excitement that makes me not care if people think I look like a mentalist, or if I lose my favourite hair clip under the crush of several hundred size 9’s. See maybe what people don’t get is that such a small little girl could get such a thrill out of something which is essentially quite dangerous, but for me it’s like an addiction I don’t think I can quite kick. Whilst mine and Samson’s relationship may have fizzled out some years ago that legacy is definitely one thing which still lives on, that and the smoking of course, cunt.

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