Some kids lie about being sick to skip school, I got drunk and ended up on TV.
I was 13, my parents were on holiday, the house was free, and a concert was calling. Naturally, I answered, with a bottle of cider and enough misplaced confidence to power a small nation. I don’t remember much of the concert itself except for laughing too loudly, spilling everything, and dancing like I was trying to summon lightning. The important part is that someone filmed it.
Not just someone. Not just a camcorder. It was televised. National TV. A music programme my parents watched every single week.
There I was:
Front row, bright red face, drink in hand,
singing (shouting) the lyrics with all the grace of a malfunctioning robot,
absolutely sloshed.
They were still abroad when it aired.
But they called. Immediately.
“Have you been out somewhere?”
“Uhh… I don’t think so?”
“Funny. Because we just saw you drunk on ITV.”
Oops.
Was I grounded?
Yes.
Did I care?
Not really.
Because at 13, I had lived, I had danced, and I had accidentally made it onto national television in full cider-fuelled glory.
Would I do it again?
…I mean.
You don’t get that kind of chaotic debut twice.
Budapest is beautiful, romantic, old-world charm with music drifting from hidden courtyards. Naturally, we ended up in a salsa bar. I hate salsa, I do not salsa, I do not possess the hips for salsa, I am built for staring dramatically out of windows and making cutting remarks; not for wriggling sensually to cowbell percussion.
But there I was, jet-lagged and slightly tipsy on cheap wine, dragged into a low-lit bar by a colleague who assured me, “It’ll be fun, come on!” It was not.
The room pulsed with sweaty confidence and twirly skirts, men in linen shirts with far too much chest hair were spinning women around like they were on some kind of Latin-themed carousel; it was terrifying. I tried to hide behind a potted plant, it did not work. A man made of rhythm and menace spotted me, he approached, smiled, held out his hand like I was about to be executed… rhythmically.
I said, “I really don’t dance.”
He laughed.
“Everyone dances in Budapest.”
That’s not a rule.
That’s a threat.
He pulled me onto the floor and immediately did something with his hips that should be illegal in several countries, I panicked, I stiffened like a Victorian corpse, he tried to loosen me up by shouting, “Feel the music!”.
I was feeling a lot of things.
None of them were the music.
I flailed, I stepped on his foot, I tried to escape, but he spun me back like some kind of rhythm-bound boomerang, I accidentally hit another dancer, I think I ruined a proposal.
Eventually, he released me, sweating and wide-eyed, like a hostage set free; I bolted back to the bar, ordered the strongest thing they had, and said I needed to “cleanse my soul.”
When I got back to the hotel, my friend asked if I’d had fun.
I told her the truth:
“I did salsa once in Budapest. And I will carry that shame with me forever.”
(Nottingham Rock City – mid-2000s, vibe: volatile)
It started with a little dress, well, technically it started with Courtney Love walking on stage in a little dress and no underwear, which is the kind of energy that says: “You’re not here for a concert. You’re here for a reckoning.”
She stormed the stage, guitar in hand, one foot planted up on the amp like she was trying to moon the entire front row through sheer geometry, and it worked.
There she stood:
chaos incarnate,
leg up,
grin on,
everything very much visible, like it was the most normal thing in the world.
About twenty minutes in, just as the crowd settled into “okay, this is happening”, the universe tapped out. Total power cut. Lights gone. Amps dead. Mic useless.
Courtney, still leg up, stood in full darkness.
She didn’t miss a beat.
Didn’t try to fix it.
Didn’t even pretend this was going to be salvaged.
She yelled:
“FUCK THIS, I’M GOING HOME.”
And she did.
No goodbye.
No encore.
No pants.
We waited, thinking she might come back. She didn’t.
Security looked unsure. The bar staff just carried on like it was a Tuesday.
And honestly?
It was peak Courtney.
An entire concert boiled down to one visible leg, one epic flounce, and twenty of the most feral minutes Rock City ever saw.