they don't know what it means but they love their london scene
I will finish this when I am less excited.
This is a lovely little pointless story that sort-of-not-really explores Dom Masters' mind. There really is no plot. I'm very pleased with it. Written while uploading Combat Rock for a friend with a mash-up of "My Sherona" and "Formed A Band" on repeat. That's a recipe for a disaster, that is. Rereading it, it's a bit like my state of mind as well. omg, how deep.
Subtlety is not something Dom Masters does well. Or at all. Life is too short to contain your excitement, he figures, so why bother at all?
It helps, of course, that Dom couldn't contain his excitement for something he loves if it killed him. He bounces across the dance floor, throws his arms around the first person he comes into contact with and spins the poor sod around in a circle with all his might.
"Oh hello there, give us a breather," says Peter, amused and not all afraid of this wild haired, wild eyed boy who can't keep still.
The Libertines are the soundtrack to Dom's life. He was born to "What Katie Did", he lives by "Vertigo" and "What A Waster" and he knows he'll die to "The Good Old Days."
"You. Are. The. Greatest!" he enthuses, releasing Pete, shoving a demo of his own band into Pete's hand and throwing himself back onto the dance floor in one go.
Pete is surprised by the demo. It's not good. It's terrible. But there's a certain honesty in the terribleness of it all, an honesty that Pete likes, and when he can arsed into moving again (it takes a certain amount of time to recover from a night out in London) he calls Dom.
"Hullo."
"It's not bad really."
Dom hangs up the phone, screams with all the force his lithe body can handle and then redials.
"You really like it?"
"Yeah, I think it's quite good actually. There's something about it that's just. . ." Pete's at a loss for words. Dom doesn't mind. The silence gives him time to calm down a fraction.
"What are you going to do?" asks Dom. Stupid question, but it's not everyday Peter fucking Doherty likes your band, is it?
"Give it to McGee," mumbles Pete, still lost in thought. "Or maybe Mick. I think NME is coming over today, maybe I can give it to them, they usually know who to call."
Dom hangs up again, give himself a big slap around the head and picks up the phone. Johan wanders out of their bedroom and puts his arms around Dom. "What is wrong with you?" he asks, giving Dom a big kiss on the cheek.
"Peter Doherty likes my band!" he yelps and redials. It's not Pete who picks up the phone this time, but Carl.
"If you are the one who wrote this rubbish, I might have to kill you," says Carl cheerfully.
Dom can barely stand up, he's so happy. "You think it's shite!"
"I think it's brilliant," says Carl. "Would you like to come over and jam sometime?"
This is a lovely little pointless story that sort-of-not-really explores Dom Masters' mind. There really is no plot. I'm very pleased with it. Written while uploading Combat Rock for a friend with a mash-up of "My Sherona" and "Formed A Band" on repeat. That's a recipe for a disaster, that is. Rereading it, it's a bit like my state of mind as well. omg, how deep.
Subtlety is not something Dom Masters does well. Or at all. Life is too short to contain your excitement, he figures, so why bother at all?
It helps, of course, that Dom couldn't contain his excitement for something he loves if it killed him. He bounces across the dance floor, throws his arms around the first person he comes into contact with and spins the poor sod around in a circle with all his might.
"Oh hello there, give us a breather," says Peter, amused and not all afraid of this wild haired, wild eyed boy who can't keep still.
The Libertines are the soundtrack to Dom's life. He was born to "What Katie Did", he lives by "Vertigo" and "What A Waster" and he knows he'll die to "The Good Old Days."
"You. Are. The. Greatest!" he enthuses, releasing Pete, shoving a demo of his own band into Pete's hand and throwing himself back onto the dance floor in one go.
Pete is surprised by the demo. It's not good. It's terrible. But there's a certain honesty in the terribleness of it all, an honesty that Pete likes, and when he can arsed into moving again (it takes a certain amount of time to recover from a night out in London) he calls Dom.
"Hullo."
"It's not bad really."
Dom hangs up the phone, screams with all the force his lithe body can handle and then redials.
"You really like it?"
"Yeah, I think it's quite good actually. There's something about it that's just. . ." Pete's at a loss for words. Dom doesn't mind. The silence gives him time to calm down a fraction.
"What are you going to do?" asks Dom. Stupid question, but it's not everyday Peter fucking Doherty likes your band, is it?
"Give it to McGee," mumbles Pete, still lost in thought. "Or maybe Mick. I think NME is coming over today, maybe I can give it to them, they usually know who to call."
Dom hangs up again, give himself a big slap around the head and picks up the phone. Johan wanders out of their bedroom and puts his arms around Dom. "What is wrong with you?" he asks, giving Dom a big kiss on the cheek.
"Peter Doherty likes my band!" he yelps and redials. It's not Pete who picks up the phone this time, but Carl.
"If you are the one who wrote this rubbish, I might have to kill you," says Carl cheerfully.
Dom can barely stand up, he's so happy. "You think it's shite!"
"I think it's brilliant," says Carl. "Would you like to come over and jam sometime?"