Anyway, I can now boast to have seen and heard Marilyn Manson perform, an artist I don't particularly care for but who Mick believes is a god. He's at that awkward age where he's desperately trying to assert himself by trying to convince us all that he really is sullen, ill-mannered and obnoxious...although he can't quite manage to pull it off. Sure, he'll shout and pretend he can't string two words together without at least some effin' an' blindin' inbetween, and he'll give you the fingers (yes, the old-fashioned fingers!) when he thinks you've turned your back already, but he really is a sweetheart. Always was, always will be, no matter how bad he tries to look the part: jeans riding ridiculously low on his hips, requiring several tons of bicycle chains wrapped round them to keep them from sliding down his thighs completely, and -get this!- black nail polish (I wonder who could possibly have been the role model for that?). The piercing in his left eyebrow was last year's birthday present from his mum, who had to come with in order for him to get his wish; and the bleach-blonde spikes I talked him into last time we were at the hairdresser's together. Sometimes I suppose, it sucks being the child of punk generation parents and family.
About Marilyn Manson: don't ask me how the concert's been 'cause I couldn't tell you. It was OK I suppose, but I'm not a fan and I really didn't pay too much attention. Mick, OTOH, 2 days later still has to come back down to earth, so I guess the evening's been a complete success in his book!