I'm having a personality crisis

also I'm still obsessed with Velvet Goldmine

“Babe,” a mate said to me the other day, giving me a sidelong glance from the passenger seat of my car. “You got anything you need to talk about? Not being funny or owt, but are you like… having a personality crisis or what?”

“Mate,” I said, keeping my gaze locked on the dark road ahead. “Come on. Why you gotta read me like that?”

She levelled a long stare my way. At the lights, I looked over. There was a beat of who’s-gonna-break-first silence, then we both started cackling. Some mates don’t let you get away with anything. Because I hadn’t put it in those words until my friend said it, but… in a way, she was right.

Not really. But, y’know. I’m a writer, so. We exaggerate for dramatic effect. You know that, yeah? I’m trusting you to indulge me here. I’ll tell you more about my personality crisis, sure, but first: let me take you on a journey back in time. 

It’s 1999. Queer as Folk is on Channel 4, scandalising everyone with its graphic gay sex scenes. Napster’s a thing, meaning we can download all the obscure scuzzy bootlegs we want. Pop-punk is back. But I’m a Cheerleader has those beautiful scenes of Natasha Lyonne making out with Clea DuVall that I definitely didn’t rewind over and over again. Baby One More Time is all over the airwaves, but so are Catatonia, the Manics and Placebo, and for those of us who've got MTV, it’s non-stop Korn, Silverchair, Limp Bizkit and Buckcherry. 

It’s a Friday night in 1999, and I’m in the scabby Blockbuster Video round the side of Walkden precinct. Yeah, baby. We’re going back almost a quarter of a century, and shit’s about to get retro as fuck. Blue and yellow nightmare carpet. Bins full of family-size sacks of toffee popcorn, racks of strawberry twizzlers, freezers full of Ben & Jerry’s Phish Food. I’m with my bezzie mates, scavenging the shelves for a slasher film we haven’t already seen. Gem doesn’t want owt too scary, and it’s her mam’s membership card, which means she’ll get the ultimate veto. Li, who’s the most boy-crazy of us, only cares about who gets to go up to the counter, because the lad working there is the older brother of someone she knows, and she reckons she can charm him into letting us have any 18-rated gore or filth we want. 

Embedded among the endless racks of empty VHS cases, there are TV screens, showing an in-sync, infinite loop of trailers for the hottest new films now available for at-home viewing. The sound is muffled, but the song - when it comes on - still freezes my feet to the floor.

This is it, I say, pawing at Gem’s hand to make her look, dragging her over to the nearest TV. This is that one I was telling you about. 

On screen, a rainbow kaleidoscope of clips. Ewan McGregor, bare-chested in silver PVC pants and eyeliner, panthering across a stage and growling like Iggy Pop, and a long-eyelashed, glitter-cheekboned Jonathan Rhys-Meyers, in tight pants and platform heels. 

You know where I’m going with this, don’t you?

Velvet Goldmine, the cult classic from Todd Haynes - the one that was originally going to be a David Bowie biopic but then Bowie wouldn’t sign away the rights - had finally come to video. 

I’m no longer sharing my writing on Substack, but you can read the rest of this piece over on my website.