![]() Some boys had sleek blonde fringes with brown streaks in the middle, others had short black hair that spiked up at the back. All I could see was his pale stringy arm sticking out from beyond the camera, his maybe-he’s-born-with-it hair, one blue eye, his mouth which had not one, but TWO lip piercings, and an impossibly tight t-shirt that said BRING ME THE HORIZON in melty, ghostly type-face. The boy had an outrageous sweep fringe, worthy of a shampoo-ad, and he’d taken his profile picture himself from a very high right angle. Someone sent me a link to an emo boy’s profile and from that moment I was obsessed. I was the first person at Streatham and Clapham High School for Girls to get MySpace. It was a good look, and very much in vogue today, but when I discovered MySpace I knew I needed a re-brand, stat. I wore wide leg Criminal Damage jeans that swooshed when I walked, chunky skate shoes (ideally DCs but I could live with Etnies), fishnet crop tops and belts made of real bullets that cost an entire week’s EMA. My hair was long and Babyliss straight and I did most of my clothes shopping at Camden market. Previously I’d been a grunger, but at the age of 14 I’d transitioned to emo, and that decision was entirely the fault of a social media platform and cultural phenomenon called MySpace.īefore MySpace I’d been into Green Day, Blink 182 and System of a Down. I’d been emo for nine months when I met Taz. “Oh really sweetheart? They sound like a couple of dickheads.” The office worker might have arrived home and said to their loved one “darling – I saw two little greebos try to hotbox a phone booth today…” One has the pipe, the other has the lighter, and both have only one eye – because the other is engulfed in a dramatic sweep fringe. They might also have heard lots of snorting and snickering – the occasional guffaw – and if they’d decided to open the door they’d have found two pint-size emos crushed inside, one upright and one in a kind of wall-squat. They might have noticed our green and black parkers with faux-fur hoods smushed up against the BT sticker, and if they listened really carefully they might have heard a posh London accent say “why don’t you try poking it in a bit further” and a strong Merseyside accent say “come on yeh fucker.” An office worker hurrying past on their way home might have noticed two pairs of twig-like legs with scuffed up Vans protruding from the bottom of the booth. It was a cold spring evening in 2005 and we’d chosen a telephone booth just outside Euston station. We were 15 years old, we had weed, a pipe and we knew about the word ‘hotbox’. But Taz and I did not care about technicalities. I use the term loosely, as it is not possible to hotbox a non-air-tight space. I had spent only fifteen minutes with Taz before we tried to hotbox a phone booth.
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