The Drones.

Last weekend I attended the Annandale Hotel to see The Drones. It was brilliant (this is a review). My highlights included seeing not only Tim Freedman, but also Phil Jamieson enjoying the show. Freedman is either the world/Newtown's youngest looking 60 year old or the oldest looking 26 year old - it's hard to tell. I estimate that he is closer to 60 than 26, as he apparently used to date the mother of a kid in the year below me at school. Whatever the case, Freedman spent the early part of 2004 recalibrating in New York. Phil Jamieson is a shorter man than I had previously imagined. Resplendant in a navy blue business shirt and a smug look, his head to toe profile read like a speech bubble: "I am the lead singer in a very good band. I know you are all aware of my personal issues as you saw me talking to Andrew Denton on television. Ah, talent and the problems it brings: Cobain, Whiteley, Doherty, Cave, Jamieson."

Phil Jamieson's speech-bubble projecting aura is very similar to one of my former high school PE teachers, Mr X. This particular teacher had never been interviewed on Enough Rope, but made up for it by being allowed to wear tracksuit pants to work every day. There is not many men in a hundred, or even a thousand that can boast that.

Several years after high school finished I ran into Mr Q., an old maths teacher whilst drinking at a pub. Mr Q. was always considered a pretty cool guy, as he smoked across the road during lunch and swore on occasion. During the course of our chat I worked up to asking him what Mr X. was like to work with. My old maths teacher paused for a second to think and adjust the cuff of his short-sleeved shirt: "Without using the word 'fuckwit' or 'idiot', the best way to describe X. would be anecdotal. I'm not going to use any specific examples, though. A specific example will just give you a story to repeat, and you asked for a brief summation of his character."
He paused and stared over my left shoulder momentarily. I didn't bother turning around myself, I had an inkling that he was deep in thought rather than staring at a pie-warmer.
"Mr X. is the kind of bloke who... The type that would... I don't know, he's just a cunt. He'd take your last cigarette, rip it up and say 'one less nail in your coffin, mate. No worries, don't thank me.'"
"Did he actually do that?" I asked.
"No, he didn't."
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Strontium-90
Removed from milk
As curious an entity
As bullshit writ on silk
- The Drones.