I had this story
relayed to me by a gentleman I will refer to only as The Spy. I'd heard it before, in garbled, retold versions from others, as you often hear the anecdotes of friends of friends, but last year I heard the tale from his own lips and in his own words, in an all-you-can-eat brazilian restaurant, where I sat with my old chum The Doob, who is said mutual friend, and The-Spy's-sister-who-is-the-doob's-current-girlfriend.

At the time of our tale, it was the mid 90s, and The Doob and I had both quit our first university in mild disgrace. While I had drifted back towards my family, the Doob had moved to the city in the west country where his then-girlfriend attended university. While they squeezed into a single bed in one room of their shared house, The Spy lived in another.

One of the defining characteristics of the mid 90's, at least as far as a lot of people I knew were concerned, was being into stuff other people weren't, primarily musically. Life in a provincial city such as the one in which they all lived didn't lend itself well to this, as most bands skip town for London or Manchester or wherever. The Spy had a way around this, involving relatives in the smoke and his own car.

The Spy had planned a trip to London to go to a gig, and was taking with him his friend The Prop. The Prop had then asked if they could bring along a guy he knew, The Subject. The Spy had shrugged and agreed, so long as he threw in his cut of the petrol money. It was early in the morning, and they threw their stuff in the boot of the car. The Prop had a hangover and opted for the back seat, where he promptly fell asleep, and effectively plays no further part in this narrative. The Subject sat in the front passenger seat while The Spy drove. The countryside blurred past in faint autumn sunlight. Although they had met each other before, they had never had a prolonged conversation. They had stilted exchanges, then periods of silence.

Eventually they turned to the concert they were attending that evening. The Spy asked The Subject what he thought of the headline act. The Subject replied that they were ok, but they weren't really his bag. What he was going for, he stated, was the main support act, or rather one member of said band.

"Have you been to this venue before?" asked The Subject
"Yeah" replied The Spy
"You know the support acts often have stands and stuff where they sell merchandise?"
"Yeah, I suppose". The Spy had noticed them but not paid much attention to them.
"After they've got off stage, I'm going to find the singer of that support band, and I'm going to try and fuck her" The Subject had an unrealistic belief that he was something of a ladies' man.
"She nice then, is she?"
"She's well fit, mate, well fit. Been banging them out over her for weeks"
"Which band is this again?"
The Subject told The Spy the band's name. The Spy had heard of them, and raised his eyebrows slightly. They were on the up, but certainly not household names. Having confessed his intentions this became a watershed for The Subject, and he revisited the topic every half an hour or so. He was, he said, definitely going to fuck her.

They completed the journey, dropped their gear off at the house they were staying at, headed out and went to the concert. They got there midway through the openers, as everyone always seems to do, then watched the main support perform the slightly-truncated-ends-on-best-song set that support acts always perform. The Subject watched lustily as the singer of said band bade the crowd farewell and departed the stage. As The Subject had predicted, the singer re-appeared by a display of tshirts and cds that anyone impressed enough with their performance could purchase.

"Here we go" said The Subject, and made a b-line for the singer. The Spy sauntered after him, wanting to see how it panned out. The Subject began to get the jitters. The Spy offered to introduce them, and The Subject, at a loss for what else to do, accepted.

The Spy bowled up to the merchandise stand and leaned on it with his elbow. The Subject stood next to him while his jaw gaped and he caught flies.

"Anyway", said The Spy, "Brian, this is my friend The Subject, The Subject, this is Brian". He patted The Subject on the shoulder, wished him luck and strolled away while staying in earshot.

Brian Molko, lead singer of the not-yet-very-famous Placebo wondered what the hell just happened.

The Subject stammered and said something about wanting to know the price of a tshirt. He didn't say much else for the rest of the evening.

This is the second qotw answer I've got out of Placebo. Fancy.
(cs1ca, Sun 9 Oct 2011, 0:44, 8 replies)

So well written!
*clicks*
( The Mock TurtIe ™ --- Thinks you are a cunt, on, Sun 9 Oct 2011, 2:15, closed)

Better than any of that lazy, shit 'nuff said' stuff, huh?
oh...
( scarpe We Stole Bikes, Sun 9 Oct 2011, 8:45, closed)

Take your trolling back to /talk.

( The Mock TurtIe ™ --- Thinks you are a cunt, on, Sun 9 Oct 2011, 18:58, closed)

Good story,
but less really is more.
( monster munch person, man, woman... camera... TV?, Sun 9 Oct 2011, 9:50, closed)

nice story
Have a click
(andythepieman Is surfing the waves of indifference on, Mon 10 Oct 2011, 9:44, closed)

I suspect
this could be condensed to a few lines, but I can't say for sure as it is bordeline illiterate, and I didn't get past the first paragraph.

Just out of curiosity, when you say The Doob is 'said mutual friend', where exactly was that said?
(username failed moderation, Mon 10 Oct 2011, 9:56, closed)

so your story is
your friend once had a crush on a girl who turned out to be a bloke.


I hate trolling answers like the one I've just written. Really hate them. But sometimes nothing else will do, I'm afraid.
(El Fandango carved a big EF onto his nemesis' doublet on .., Mon 10 Oct 2011, 12:51, closed)

The Subject
should have gone through with it.

Brian would probably have been up for it.
(Iris_Wildthyme is three sheets to the wind, Tue 11 Oct 2011, 0:07, closed)