Seb, author of the fabulously funny How to be a Better Person, something that obviously I have already mastered, was in a previous publishing existence the author of Hell Bent for Leather: Confessions of a Heavy Metal Addict .
This, then, would explain why, when I approached the gorgeous Fran who was deep in conversation with two girls with very long black tresses and dark sexy eyes she turned to me and said: 'Thank Goodness - (you see, evidence of my, erm, inate goodness) You can help me out here, we're discussing the relative merits of Iron Maiden over AC/DC.'
'Alas my dear, I'm too blonde to help you out.' I replied taking a very, very large gulp of wine.
There was a mention of Bon Jovi in this sentence but when I asked around the office if anyone knew anything about heavy metal, Mathilda replied: 'What do you mean? Lead, polonium....?'
And before I could interject, added: 'Only that you get white lines across your fingernails if you accidentally ingest any of them, which does not, unfortunately, apply to the music...'
'Erm, no I meant, specifically the Waa, Waa, Waa, Waa sort with head banging,' I said as I hurriedly checked my hands for signs of inadvertent heavy metal poisoning of the sort not detectable after your son has copied over the one surviving copy of your lost 'breakout' novel with Queens of the Stone Age (oh yes he did), who I'm told are, like Bon Jovi, merely hard rock and not heavy metal.
'Bon Jovi heavy metal? I think not,' said Mathilda, scornfully.
'According to wikipedia...it's hard rock.'
'Very, very light hard rock, mibbe...' she agreed grudgingly in the dulcet, yet dismissive, tones in which we Scots excel. 'Not that I would want to argue with the wiki..'
So, Bon Jovi, wiped from the conversation, but it still leaves me looking at two lovely, but earnest and extremely devoted heavy metal fans. 'I'm too old, I'm afraid. I was more of a David Essex fan, back in the day.'
I expected that this would be pitifully awful, like when your mother tries to interest you in Cliff Richard as a sex object.
But, not so much... At least not with Daniel, 'the king', MD who swooned, momentarily, before launching into a romantic reverie of David's greatest hits. I was surprised. Nay, shocked. Though I still know the entire songtrack of 'That'll be the day' (ooh-ho) I wouldn't have picked 'the king' as a fan. I had expected to be boo-ed off stage and instead, I merely elicited an encore.
The girls wandered off, but not before telling me that I was very much mistaken about 'Metal'. They insisted they had the combined age of 147 and that Heavy Metal kept them young. So, forget botox and Restylin and just try a bit of Metallica. It's a lot cheaper.
I then met yet another fellow Scot - a man I took to very much because I later ran into his wife while she dallied in the Ladies' Room and I examined my wrinkles under the 300w lighting waiting for her to flush, after which she told me that I didn't look a day over 35 (because, obviously, I had been humming Speed King to myself since the previous conversation. I kid you not - the first three albums I bought: Tapestry, Deep Purple in Rock and Cat Steven's Mona Bona Jacon - what is that? - the bad, the banal and the get-me-drunk-and I can sing you Will You Still Love me Tomorrow with chord sequences...
Of course, I liked him for himself too, and not just by association to his flattering wife. We started of the night with him being quasi English and me being moderated Scots, introduced by Daniel 'the king' MD, but within seconds Daniel had gone off to reign supreme in another conversation and the two of us were snarling ochs and achs like a pair of gruff terriers, bonding in Proddy solidarity over a sectarianism neither of us believed in.
'I'm a Rangers supporter, and I hivnae the heart to tell ma wee boy the deeper implications...' he said.
'My cousins got married in Rangers' tartan.' I shared, woefully.
We both shook our heeds in sympathy, before launching into a pyrotechnic display of language over the curse of religion in small town Scotland.
'Aye, ye've got tae admit, we Scots we've a talent for swearing,' he said.
I thought back to my mother (now, admit it, you didn't see that coming) and realised he was right. That woman could make an exhortation to finish your supper sound like being thrown out of a Rangers vs Celtic match. Not that she said a word that would make the vicar blush - though our vicar drowned himself in the number 6 pond at the mine (true, I'm not making this up), so I'm guessing his tolerance for profanity may have been higher than normal... I doubt it was the bad words that pushed him intae the watter. No, rather it was, the colour of her speech. She had a gift for metaphor that made her threats infinitely believable.
My new friend was a little more succinct in his examples, but no less convincing that his thesis did, in fact, hold water.
And then he was wrenched away from me as Seb gave a lovely, touching speech thanking everyone at Pedantic for the pleasant publishing experience.
We are a nice bunch of people. See you'se I luv yeez aw... I thought, as I came home and got into bed and....
Tonight when I repeated the exercise I was very surprised to find myself half way through a film that I seemed to have watched ten minutes of last night before sleep claimed me. And I couldn't even remember putting the DVD into the laptop.
In Scotland we would say that that was a result.
Good night.
Magic.
Braw.
Aye.
