For many people, the “festive feeling” seems to happen all of a sudden. Perhaps when the television start spewing festive infused adverts and idents, or when the Christmas lights get turned on in their local town or village. For me the Christmas feeling is like the onset of a disease. You might feel a few symptoms here and there, but the full debilitating effects of illness are a gradual process. The only time I can fully relax into the Christmas spirit is when I have achieved all my shopping for presents. Which is usually around December 29th.
I did actually go to see the Christmas lights get turned on in our village for the first ever time this year. Being a small village, it was understandably a quite humble affair. At one point I even heard the rather sinister sounding announcement that Santa was - I quote - “round the back of the barbers giving presents for a pound”. So it was a humility which walked a fine line between the festive and the squalid. But personally speaking, there just didn’t seem festive about freezing my arse off, staring at light bulbs on a cold November night. I'll just remember having to purchase a cup of chicken soup from one of the makeshift stalls, just so I could hold it and try to warm some feeling back into my hands. Don’t get me wrong, I did drink it. But the cup of soup served much better as a hand warmer than a meaty beverage. For starters, the broth seemed devoid of any meat. Obviously there was a kind of chicken vibe to it and I’ve little doubt a chicken had been involved somewhere along the line (perhaps in some sort of homeopathic sense), but there seemed to be no actual substantial lumps of meat to chew. There were lumps to chew, but they were technically large clumps of congealed stock powder, all with a sticky, salty phlegm-like texture. The only way to face swallowing them was to try and delude yourself they were small dumplings. But in your heart you were always conscious of the truth, and couldn’t help but feel a bit nauseated whenever one of the globules slipped down your throat. And it wasn’t even that pleasant Christmas sickness you get from the gluttonous indulgence Jesus likes you to have.
The thickness of this particular broth also caused a bit of a problem. After keeping my hands warm a while, the cup was still rather hot, so the first sip I braved was taken with a degree of caution. The temperature seemed quite agreeable. And having allowed this initial taster to build by confidence up, I took a bigger slurp. But the cold weather had only really cooled the surface, like it would when forming an icy layer on top of a pond. Consequently I was left with damp-glazen eyes, quivery face and puffy lips as I had to force burning lava down my gullet. I suppose I could have spat rather than obliged a torturous swallow. But it just felt inappropriate to expel translucent creamy liquid out of a spasming face whilst in the presence of so many young children. It wouldn’t be fair to traumatise them. They’d already had endure the sinister grotto round the back of the barbers to get whatever presents Santa had for them.
So this day of soup-angst did little to fill me with the festive spirit. And neither did the Xmas-ing up of television. I tried to watch a movie about the superhero Batman the other day. Christmas is largely the only time when I can indulge in such schlock without feeling pangs of guilt or the abhorrent self-loathings of a timewaster. But clearly my mindset is still too set in work-mode to enjoy Hollywood frivolity. I sat through the antics of the caped crusader witnessing futuristic transport systems being torn apart, buildings getting irreparable damaged, innocent by-standers suffering injury. And I did so with a sense of great civil servant’s distraction, tallying all the insurance claims that would inevitably hit the council of Gotham City. It may have been all been a bit of harmless rollercoaster action to you, but all I could see was an unfolding bureaucratic nightmare. And not just for the Gotham council either. What about that Batmobile tearing around causing all them cars to crash and flip over on busy highways? Batman may well want to live a life of shadowy anonymity but is this really any excuse for him not to have the insurance policy like the rest of us? It just seems irresponsible; inconsiderate to the other road users really. Particularly for any victims who only have Third Party cover for their vehicles. What the hell happen to them? The premiums are going to be sky-high in the next financial year. It’s bad enough here in the Midlands, where thick people make a claim against the council after tripping over on a paving slab. So you wouldn’t catch me moving to Gotham City. Given the financial impact all that mayhem would have on public sector finances, I’d be out of job in a week. I very much doubt they’d have the budgets for me to book The Chippendales or Derek Acorah when they perpetually seem to have a city to rebuild. My best prospect might well be a career of hefty financial claims of my own, probably from soup-related injuries at Christmas gatherings.
Incidentally, I would not really sue over the soup burns I have endured. I maintain enough dignity to take responsibility for my own actions. When I slugged the aforementioned scorching broth, it may well have caused aural blistering, stripping the roof of my mouth. But as the burnt skin flaked away, dropping on to my tongue, it didn’t seem so bad. The way I saw it, at least there was something more authentically meaty to chew on beyond the bobbing tumours of powdery lumps; even if it was the flesh from my own mouth. I’m lead to believe human flesh tastes a bit like chicken anyway.
A Cracked Windscreen and a Dented Ego
I finally got my cracked windscreen replaced today. This is the same crack which occurred way back in January, when I was driving to Liverpool for a third interview for a job I wasn’t even sure I even wanted. I remember mentioning my uncertainties about the job to friends and family, but I opted to follow their advice, as they maintained, “you might as well go to the interviews, it won’t cost you anything.” This, of course, turned out to be bollocks. Firstly, I had to pay petrol for three trips to Liverpool (£60). Then there was the City Centre parking (£12). I also had to prepare a presentation for the interview, but since my printer cartridge ran out I had to buy 2 new ones especially (another £40). And to put the icing on the cake, my windscreen got cracked by a stone as I cautiously trailed behind a lorry on the motorway. So with the £75 insurance excess I’ve just shelled out for my windscreen replacement, I’m still paying for that damn interview now! It currently tallies up to £186.00. Even if there had been no monetary payments involved it still cost three days holiday. I shall never listen to my friends and family again. They are clearly delusional fools.
It is shocking to think that I have literally been staring at a crack for almost a year (and not in a good way). I probably wouldn’t have realised this had I not recorded the original incident in my blog. These writings only serve to confirm my suspicions that I am procrastinating fool. I have had the crack so long now that I have now become accustomed to the sense of dread and fear whenever I am about to drive over a speed bump, because of that advert where some driver’s windscreen crack gets bigger after doing so. Incidentally this never actually happened to me on a single occasion, but I never failed to expect it to. That’s the power of adverts I suppose.
The Autoglass man was due to arrive between 9 and 1, meaning I had to sacrifice my weekend lie-in to ensure I was awake and ready in time for his arrival. I knew he would not be here for 9 and that I would be lolling about for a good couple of hours, but I do like to be considerate and prepared. Not that preparation EVER goes to plan. He arrived about half eleven and typically did so right at the very moment I had commenced opening my morning bowels. There was a moment of sheer chilling panic when the door-bell rang. I knew I had reached the point of no return and all I could do was sit helplessly on the porcelain. Luckily my Dad was on hand to answer the door. By my calculations this is the 52nd advantage of living with my Dad that I have counted so far.
I finished my ablutions and went outside to meet him. By this time, Dad had already made him a cup of tea, meaning there was very little material left for me to greet him with. I stood awkwardly on the pavement for a bit, struggling to think of small talk to engage him whilst wishing I was somewhere else. Beyond the sanctity of tea-making (which had already been covered) I never really know what the social protocol is when somebody comes to your house to do a job. Is it polite to try and chat, or is that irritating and distracting? Is it best to simply make tea and then leave them to do their job, or is this seen as stand-offish and rude? Eventually he asked me, “Is this your first car son?” From a comment like this, it is natural to have assumed he thought I must have been rather young. Maybe shaving my goatee and losing my paedo-chic had given a fresh, youthful appearance. But in my heart I suspect he drew this conclusion because I was a man who appeared to still be living with his Dad; and that since I drive a Nissan Micra, it was clear I have not progressed as far on the automobile aspirations ladder than a man of my age probably should have. So in other words, if I appeared young, it was mainly for the wrong and slightly depressing reasons, all borne of my own stunted social development.
I went back inside and left him to work on his own.
Half an hour later, the windscreen had been fully replaced. The evil Autoglass man summoned me to give me advice. In order to allow the adhesive on my new glass a chance to stick, I should not drive my car for the next hour. I must not go through a car wash within the next 24 hours. And for the next day or so I should not exceed 50 m.p.h. He gave me a wink when he told me the last one, adding “not driving 100 m.p.h. like you usually would”. Clearly he had concluded my mistaken youthfulness would inevitably mean I was some sort of Nissan Micra-driving boy racer. Since it is unlikely he will ever glimpse my birth certificate or experiences being my passenger, he will never appreciate how hilariously off the mark his assumptions were. My only hope is that one day I will glimpse his horrible, patronising face in my rear-view mirror, seething with frustration as he crawls on along the road behind me, waiting for an opportune moment to overtake.
It is shocking to think that I have literally been staring at a crack for almost a year (and not in a good way). I probably wouldn’t have realised this had I not recorded the original incident in my blog. These writings only serve to confirm my suspicions that I am procrastinating fool. I have had the crack so long now that I have now become accustomed to the sense of dread and fear whenever I am about to drive over a speed bump, because of that advert where some driver’s windscreen crack gets bigger after doing so. Incidentally this never actually happened to me on a single occasion, but I never failed to expect it to. That’s the power of adverts I suppose.
The Autoglass man was due to arrive between 9 and 1, meaning I had to sacrifice my weekend lie-in to ensure I was awake and ready in time for his arrival. I knew he would not be here for 9 and that I would be lolling about for a good couple of hours, but I do like to be considerate and prepared. Not that preparation EVER goes to plan. He arrived about half eleven and typically did so right at the very moment I had commenced opening my morning bowels. There was a moment of sheer chilling panic when the door-bell rang. I knew I had reached the point of no return and all I could do was sit helplessly on the porcelain. Luckily my Dad was on hand to answer the door. By my calculations this is the 52nd advantage of living with my Dad that I have counted so far.
I finished my ablutions and went outside to meet him. By this time, Dad had already made him a cup of tea, meaning there was very little material left for me to greet him with. I stood awkwardly on the pavement for a bit, struggling to think of small talk to engage him whilst wishing I was somewhere else. Beyond the sanctity of tea-making (which had already been covered) I never really know what the social protocol is when somebody comes to your house to do a job. Is it polite to try and chat, or is that irritating and distracting? Is it best to simply make tea and then leave them to do their job, or is this seen as stand-offish and rude? Eventually he asked me, “Is this your first car son?” From a comment like this, it is natural to have assumed he thought I must have been rather young. Maybe shaving my goatee and losing my paedo-chic had given a fresh, youthful appearance. But in my heart I suspect he drew this conclusion because I was a man who appeared to still be living with his Dad; and that since I drive a Nissan Micra, it was clear I have not progressed as far on the automobile aspirations ladder than a man of my age probably should have. So in other words, if I appeared young, it was mainly for the wrong and slightly depressing reasons, all borne of my own stunted social development.
I went back inside and left him to work on his own.
Half an hour later, the windscreen had been fully replaced. The evil Autoglass man summoned me to give me advice. In order to allow the adhesive on my new glass a chance to stick, I should not drive my car for the next hour. I must not go through a car wash within the next 24 hours. And for the next day or so I should not exceed 50 m.p.h. He gave me a wink when he told me the last one, adding “not driving 100 m.p.h. like you usually would”. Clearly he had concluded my mistaken youthfulness would inevitably mean I was some sort of Nissan Micra-driving boy racer. Since it is unlikely he will ever glimpse my birth certificate or experiences being my passenger, he will never appreciate how hilariously off the mark his assumptions were. My only hope is that one day I will glimpse his horrible, patronising face in my rear-view mirror, seething with frustration as he crawls on along the road behind me, waiting for an opportune moment to overtake.
Unlucky for Some
As you may have gathered from previous entries I am not really the type of person who believes in superstitions, fate, ghosties, ghoulies, Deities or any such nonsense. As far as I’m concerned the universe is a random set of events and we are all spinning round in a fortunately habitable environment until we eventually reach our inevitable eternal demise. Honestly, I’m a right laugh at parties I tell you.
So it was a great surprise to me when my mate Al called the other day.”Hello Al, how are things?” I asked. “Well... “, he said (ensuring that the vocal pause of three dots had been fulfilled), “To be honest, remember last week when we were coming back from Nottingham, and you had the car radio on at volume 13?”
“Yes?” I said (partially true - I remembered the trip but not such specific level of detail).
“Well...” he continued (again punctuated with the aural equivalent of three dots), “I should have said something at the time, but... well, you know.”
I couldn’t for the life of me anticipate what he was about to say. If you are anything like me, you’d expect him to accuse me of somehow impairing his hearing. But volume 13 on my car radio is not, as you might have assumed, two levels higher that the 11th setting like the amps on Spinal Tap or something. My car radio volume levels go up to about 30, so you’ll appreciate that setting 13 is not even remotely ‘rude boy’; it is less than half way on a moderately priced stereo and speaker system.
“What’s wrong?” I pressed.
“Well, it’s just that ever since then, everything has been going wrong.”
There followed a brief silence. It took me a while to work out what his actual point was. But when I did, it of course seemed most absurd to be blaming my stereo setting for a week’s worth of his own miserable misfortune. It is funny to think that during the drive I was completely oblivious whilst he sat there looking at volume 13, considering to whether to mention his disquiet over the setting, and then thinking back to it, silently fuming whenever misfortune befell him over the next week. How was I to respond to these allegations? Did I laugh derisively? Did I contradict his superstitions through a lecture based on reason and rational thought about the random nature of the universe? Did I give a pitying sneer to suggest he should, at 32 years old, probably start taking responsibility for his own actions? No – I did none of these- I simply apologised. That’s right, I actually sodding APOLOGISED!! And the weirdest thing of all was that I felt twinges of guilt and responsibility too!! Ridiculous behaviour. I tell you, militant rationalists like Richard Dawkins must be shitting themselves with me around. And for weeks I just couldn’t figure out why this was my initial reaction, but then today it struck me. The reason was empathy, pure and simple. For even I, “Mr-tell-the-kids-there’s-no-Santa-and spoil-Christmas”, can from time to time, fall victim to this mild superstition-belied obsessive compulsive disorder.
I actually noticed my own behavioural quirk at the gym. On the treadmill there is a digital display with a calorie-counter on it. I must admit that whenever the counter passes 66.6 calories, I am often mildly relieved. For some reason I never fail to convince myself there is a small chance that 66.6 calories, I might suffer a heart attack. Or worse still, get somehow wrong-footed and end up falling off the end of the treadmill. I never want to go through a humiliation like that again. Of course, realistically speaking the danger should be much worse when I hit 666 calories, rather than 66.6. But then if I get to a point where I have clocked up 666 calories on the treadmill, a heart-attack is realistically more a scientific and physical danger rather than a superstitious one.
So there you have it. My mind is both stupidly delusional and pathetically irrational. I give it four months before I’m caught with my dick in the caviar jar, trying to create myself an upper-class mermaid.
So it was a great surprise to me when my mate Al called the other day.”Hello Al, how are things?” I asked. “Well... “, he said (ensuring that the vocal pause of three dots had been fulfilled), “To be honest, remember last week when we were coming back from Nottingham, and you had the car radio on at volume 13?”
“Yes?” I said (partially true - I remembered the trip but not such specific level of detail).
“Well...” he continued (again punctuated with the aural equivalent of three dots), “I should have said something at the time, but... well, you know.”
I couldn’t for the life of me anticipate what he was about to say. If you are anything like me, you’d expect him to accuse me of somehow impairing his hearing. But volume 13 on my car radio is not, as you might have assumed, two levels higher that the 11th setting like the amps on Spinal Tap or something. My car radio volume levels go up to about 30, so you’ll appreciate that setting 13 is not even remotely ‘rude boy’; it is less than half way on a moderately priced stereo and speaker system.
“What’s wrong?” I pressed.
“Well, it’s just that ever since then, everything has been going wrong.”
There followed a brief silence. It took me a while to work out what his actual point was. But when I did, it of course seemed most absurd to be blaming my stereo setting for a week’s worth of his own miserable misfortune. It is funny to think that during the drive I was completely oblivious whilst he sat there looking at volume 13, considering to whether to mention his disquiet over the setting, and then thinking back to it, silently fuming whenever misfortune befell him over the next week. How was I to respond to these allegations? Did I laugh derisively? Did I contradict his superstitions through a lecture based on reason and rational thought about the random nature of the universe? Did I give a pitying sneer to suggest he should, at 32 years old, probably start taking responsibility for his own actions? No – I did none of these- I simply apologised. That’s right, I actually sodding APOLOGISED!! And the weirdest thing of all was that I felt twinges of guilt and responsibility too!! Ridiculous behaviour. I tell you, militant rationalists like Richard Dawkins must be shitting themselves with me around. And for weeks I just couldn’t figure out why this was my initial reaction, but then today it struck me. The reason was empathy, pure and simple. For even I, “Mr-tell-the-kids-there’s-no-Santa-and spoil-Christmas”, can from time to time, fall victim to this mild superstition-belied obsessive compulsive disorder.
I actually noticed my own behavioural quirk at the gym. On the treadmill there is a digital display with a calorie-counter on it. I must admit that whenever the counter passes 66.6 calories, I am often mildly relieved. For some reason I never fail to convince myself there is a small chance that 66.6 calories, I might suffer a heart attack. Or worse still, get somehow wrong-footed and end up falling off the end of the treadmill. I never want to go through a humiliation like that again. Of course, realistically speaking the danger should be much worse when I hit 666 calories, rather than 66.6. But then if I get to a point where I have clocked up 666 calories on the treadmill, a heart-attack is realistically more a scientific and physical danger rather than a superstitious one.
So there you have it. My mind is both stupidly delusional and pathetically irrational. I give it four months before I’m caught with my dick in the caviar jar, trying to create myself an upper-class mermaid.
Revelling In The Sheer Insignificance Of My Actions
I have been a bit stressed of late. Mainly due to work worries to be honest. In case you have not guessed from my previous entries, I do worrying particularly well. I’ve started this week feeling to get a bit more levelled though. I think my pattern of behaviour is basically to worry myself into near-illness, then to suddenly take the camera lens of my life, and metaphorically zoom out to see my concerns in light of a much grander context. Soon enough, on a contemporary global scale, the things I worry about at any given moment seem to have about as much significance as a single grain of sand on a whole beach. And realising the sheer insignificance of my actions always becomes a great comfort to me. I appreciate that celebrating one’s sense of personal futility seems a rather odd way of looking at things. But this should not come as any surprise. I remember writing in an earlier blog about how most people find comfort through believing that their deceased friends and relatives watch over them; whereas I find the finality of existence much more agreeable (citing the example about how it would be of absolutely of no comfort to me to imagine my dead relatives watching over my indulgences of lustful onanism). Clearly, I must be wired differently to the common man. I guess this must mean I am probably a genius. Not that I'd want such a burden you understand; obviously if I were a genius I couldn't stand the responsibility of my own significance. But I can’t see any other reason why I’d hold such contrary views to the general consensus. Unless I was just your run-of-the mill psychopath. But I feel too calm to be one of them.
Talking of which, my current sense of tranquillity will be of great relief to my colleague Simon with whom I share an office, for he has had to bear witness my unpleasant moods for the last couple of weeks or so. Things came to a head last Thursday when – with him generally fed up with my wearying curmudgeonly face - we ended up having a bit of a row. It is quite uncommon for me to row. But I suppose a row now and again when one is under stress is inevitable. After all, I am cocooned for eight hours a day, five days a week with just Simon for company. I am under duress to spend more conscious time with him than I do with anyone other single person in my life. Which means effectively he is the closest thing I have to a wife. Ignoring how fundamentally depressing and warped as this sounds, it does mean make the odd row rather inevitable. But it didn’t stop me feeling guilty. When I applied for my current job, amongst other things I wrote on my CV that my character was “non-aggressive”, “honest”, “patient” and “even-tempered”. I probably should have written that I was “generally laid back but had a tendency towards repressed passive-aggressive behaviour which manifests in an occasionally irate temperament”, but at the time it didn’t seem a very enduring thing to put in a job application. Although sadly, since I also wrote I was “honest” I inadvertently wrote in a clause which obliges me to demonstrate all the other virtues I listed. Failing to do so could technically be a breach of contract, for which I could lose my job over. I think that’s how CV’s work anyway. Otherwise what would stop people writing a load of self-aggrandising bollocks?
I suppose what I am basically saying is that if you have had to bear witness to my screwed-up miserable stress-face over the course of the last two weeks, then I can only apologise, But although I am sorry, lest we forget what big news we’ve all learned here today. For if you agree with the notion that I might actually be genius, then let’s be honest, it must be quite an honour for you humble folk to have witnessed the live torturous workings of a genius’ mind. But if you find such proclamations absurdly delusional, then by proxy, you must believe me a psychopath. In which case, it would be equally ill-advised to condemn my failings.
Talking of which, my current sense of tranquillity will be of great relief to my colleague Simon with whom I share an office, for he has had to bear witness my unpleasant moods for the last couple of weeks or so. Things came to a head last Thursday when – with him generally fed up with my wearying curmudgeonly face - we ended up having a bit of a row. It is quite uncommon for me to row. But I suppose a row now and again when one is under stress is inevitable. After all, I am cocooned for eight hours a day, five days a week with just Simon for company. I am under duress to spend more conscious time with him than I do with anyone other single person in my life. Which means effectively he is the closest thing I have to a wife. Ignoring how fundamentally depressing and warped as this sounds, it does mean make the odd row rather inevitable. But it didn’t stop me feeling guilty. When I applied for my current job, amongst other things I wrote on my CV that my character was “non-aggressive”, “honest”, “patient” and “even-tempered”. I probably should have written that I was “generally laid back but had a tendency towards repressed passive-aggressive behaviour which manifests in an occasionally irate temperament”, but at the time it didn’t seem a very enduring thing to put in a job application. Although sadly, since I also wrote I was “honest” I inadvertently wrote in a clause which obliges me to demonstrate all the other virtues I listed. Failing to do so could technically be a breach of contract, for which I could lose my job over. I think that’s how CV’s work anyway. Otherwise what would stop people writing a load of self-aggrandising bollocks?
I suppose what I am basically saying is that if you have had to bear witness to my screwed-up miserable stress-face over the course of the last two weeks, then I can only apologise, But although I am sorry, lest we forget what big news we’ve all learned here today. For if you agree with the notion that I might actually be genius, then let’s be honest, it must be quite an honour for you humble folk to have witnessed the live torturous workings of a genius’ mind. But if you find such proclamations absurdly delusional, then by proxy, you must believe me a psychopath. In which case, it would be equally ill-advised to condemn my failings.
Cold Hearted Traditions
My Dad press-ganged me into going to a fireworks display in Penkridge. He was quite insistent as he is a big kid at heart. I was quite reticent, as I am an old man at heart. But sadly I was not as reticent as he was insistent. Which means I am not as old as he is childish. So I win. I think.
It seemed a bit sad for a single 31 year old man to spend his Saturday night being taken to a fireworks display with his Dad. But he promised there was a bar so at least I’d be able to drink myself into alcohol induced fug, to temporarily mask the despair of my dismal existence. So with no other real plans with which to counter his proposed ideas, I found myself donning my coat to brave the freezing conditions of a particularly uncompromising November evening.
Turned out the display would be very popular indeed. There was a long traffic queue up the road, just to get into the car park. On the face of it, such disruption would appear as poor organisation, but I suspect it was actually very cleverly premeditated. A three-point-turn would be impossible even if I’d wanted. Meaning we were trapped in our car, waiting for the inevitable entrance fee collectors. It wasn’t long before a young lady approached with a bucket. I wound the window down.
“That’s £8 please” she said. I scrambled about in my pocket. “Could you pay mine for me, I’ve got no change?” asked my Dad. Well what could I say? He was my Dad, who had co-created me, kept me in food, clothes and shelter for the formative years of my life. It should be nothing short of an honour to make such a paltry repayment for man who had made so many sacrifices through the years on my behalf.
“Yes that’s £8 each then please. It’s for a Children’s charity” she said. As I dropped the money in her bucket, I gave her a kindly smile. But inside I was secretly fuming. Sixteen quid for a few blood-curdling bangs abound the night sky? I used to get them for free when I lived in Penn Fields. Our carriage had been drawn to a halt and now I was being robbed! Apparently it seemed the bloodline of Dick Turpin was alive and well, and living in Penkridge. I don’t care if this was for charity. If anything, that just made it seem manipulative. I don’t even like children for Christ’s sake! And don’t come with all that “Maybe so, but childhood is an integral formative step to becoming an adult” or all that “You were a child once, you know” bollocks. That holds no water with me. It’s precisely that little sod’s fault I’ve turned out the way I am. Consequently I have nothing but resentment for the young.
The fireworks could best have been described as brief. Thankfully since you couldn’t get within 200 feet of the bonfire itself, the cold weather soon deterred my Dad from wanting a lengthy stay. Presumably this slightly over zealous fencing arrangement was for reasons of public safety. Quite ironic considering the possible onset of hypothermia that would threaten my Dad. It appears that age catches up with us all eventually.
Thank God for that.
It seemed a bit sad for a single 31 year old man to spend his Saturday night being taken to a fireworks display with his Dad. But he promised there was a bar so at least I’d be able to drink myself into alcohol induced fug, to temporarily mask the despair of my dismal existence. So with no other real plans with which to counter his proposed ideas, I found myself donning my coat to brave the freezing conditions of a particularly uncompromising November evening.
Turned out the display would be very popular indeed. There was a long traffic queue up the road, just to get into the car park. On the face of it, such disruption would appear as poor organisation, but I suspect it was actually very cleverly premeditated. A three-point-turn would be impossible even if I’d wanted. Meaning we were trapped in our car, waiting for the inevitable entrance fee collectors. It wasn’t long before a young lady approached with a bucket. I wound the window down.
“That’s £8 please” she said. I scrambled about in my pocket. “Could you pay mine for me, I’ve got no change?” asked my Dad. Well what could I say? He was my Dad, who had co-created me, kept me in food, clothes and shelter for the formative years of my life. It should be nothing short of an honour to make such a paltry repayment for man who had made so many sacrifices through the years on my behalf.
“Yes that’s £8 each then please. It’s for a Children’s charity” she said. As I dropped the money in her bucket, I gave her a kindly smile. But inside I was secretly fuming. Sixteen quid for a few blood-curdling bangs abound the night sky? I used to get them for free when I lived in Penn Fields. Our carriage had been drawn to a halt and now I was being robbed! Apparently it seemed the bloodline of Dick Turpin was alive and well, and living in Penkridge. I don’t care if this was for charity. If anything, that just made it seem manipulative. I don’t even like children for Christ’s sake! And don’t come with all that “Maybe so, but childhood is an integral formative step to becoming an adult” or all that “You were a child once, you know” bollocks. That holds no water with me. It’s precisely that little sod’s fault I’ve turned out the way I am. Consequently I have nothing but resentment for the young.
The fireworks could best have been described as brief. Thankfully since you couldn’t get within 200 feet of the bonfire itself, the cold weather soon deterred my Dad from wanting a lengthy stay. Presumably this slightly over zealous fencing arrangement was for reasons of public safety. Quite ironic considering the possible onset of hypothermia that would threaten my Dad. It appears that age catches up with us all eventually.
Thank God for that.
My Expenses Shame
Today I had a long overdue hair trim. It was good riddance to the Roy Cropper look I have been sporting over the last month or so. I have also shaved away the goatee that has adorned my face, and having done so, I’m not sure why I ever grew it in the first place. In retrospect the most positive thing I can say about it, is that it was the closest my mouth has been to a vagina in quite some time. Ha ha - actually, that’s not a bad line. If only I’d thought of it three months ago there might have at least been some humorous point to carrying my ludicrous facial growth around.
The problem is I am not a vain man. I fail to gauge any self-awareness about the way I look until I am smacked in the face by my own ridiculous, erm, face. The latest occurrence of this happened last Thursday. A promoter from London had arrived to see a show she had booked with us. That’s right - of all the places of the tour she had chosen to visit Wolverhampton.
In order to somewhat compensate for such misfortune, it was agreed I would take her for a curry on council expenses. I know this is not a very popular thing to say in the current media climate. But it was, after all, a short-term expense with a greater long-term intent. A good impression is all for the good of the Wolverhampton entertainment scene. And let’s be honest, nepotistic bribery is the best we can possibly aspire to offer.
As we sat down for our meal, things genuinely seemed to be going well and we had a good chat. In fact, there were even compliments being bandied about. Obviously having no concept of how to process a compliment I could feel my cheeks flushing a little. Or at least that’s what I thought was happening. But one thing I had neglected to anticipate was the fact that currys are generally quite spicy, and I had inadvertently seemed to have picked one of the hottest on the menu. There were whole chillis in it for God’s sake! Not that I realised they were whole chillis. This only became apparent to me after I’d eaten some, and my initial flush had developed into a spontaneous and un-quenchable sweat-fest. I felt sparkles appear across my face and in a concerted effort of damage limitation, I hurried to the toilets and try and dry the moisture off my head with toilet roll. But now my shaggy unkempt hair was now completely flattened to my head. As I returned to the table the self-consciousness of my evident perspiration made me sweat even more. As I felt the little runny liquid trails sliding down the back of my neck, I knew I had already used the get-out toilet guise once, so to announce I was instantly returning would have looked weird. All I could do was sit back down and admit defeat, as my hair started to resemble some sort of bizarre skull cap; albeit a skull cap where the material is starting to look quite worn and thin around the forehead area. I started making weak excuses about being too full, for I could not possibly risk devouring any more torturous spices.
On the way out I happened to catch my reflection in the mirror. As my hair hung limply and greasily down the side of head, I couldn’t help thinking that I looked rather like a man who you would probably wish to avert children away from in the street. Believe me, this is not the ideal situation to become aware of your need for a haircut. I had been wishing to make an impression that night, but I am not sure the sweating and slightly sinister man was quite impression I had intended. I am just grateful that there were no expenses-claim-hyped journalists or photographers out that evening. This would not have been an endearing look to accompany a “Council worker in curry shame” headline.
In future, just to be on the safe side, I should take any promoters or agents for something less spicy. And I will have an appropriate haircut with which to eat it. Can’t think of many other types of restaurants in Wolverhampton though. Might have to be Subway sandwich or something. It goes without saying, I will hold the jalapenos. In fact to be on the safe side, I’ll probably just have lettuce and nothing else. It may not be glamorous, but at least it is safe.
The problem is I am not a vain man. I fail to gauge any self-awareness about the way I look until I am smacked in the face by my own ridiculous, erm, face. The latest occurrence of this happened last Thursday. A promoter from London had arrived to see a show she had booked with us. That’s right - of all the places of the tour she had chosen to visit Wolverhampton.
In order to somewhat compensate for such misfortune, it was agreed I would take her for a curry on council expenses. I know this is not a very popular thing to say in the current media climate. But it was, after all, a short-term expense with a greater long-term intent. A good impression is all for the good of the Wolverhampton entertainment scene. And let’s be honest, nepotistic bribery is the best we can possibly aspire to offer.
As we sat down for our meal, things genuinely seemed to be going well and we had a good chat. In fact, there were even compliments being bandied about. Obviously having no concept of how to process a compliment I could feel my cheeks flushing a little. Or at least that’s what I thought was happening. But one thing I had neglected to anticipate was the fact that currys are generally quite spicy, and I had inadvertently seemed to have picked one of the hottest on the menu. There were whole chillis in it for God’s sake! Not that I realised they were whole chillis. This only became apparent to me after I’d eaten some, and my initial flush had developed into a spontaneous and un-quenchable sweat-fest. I felt sparkles appear across my face and in a concerted effort of damage limitation, I hurried to the toilets and try and dry the moisture off my head with toilet roll. But now my shaggy unkempt hair was now completely flattened to my head. As I returned to the table the self-consciousness of my evident perspiration made me sweat even more. As I felt the little runny liquid trails sliding down the back of my neck, I knew I had already used the get-out toilet guise once, so to announce I was instantly returning would have looked weird. All I could do was sit back down and admit defeat, as my hair started to resemble some sort of bizarre skull cap; albeit a skull cap where the material is starting to look quite worn and thin around the forehead area. I started making weak excuses about being too full, for I could not possibly risk devouring any more torturous spices.
On the way out I happened to catch my reflection in the mirror. As my hair hung limply and greasily down the side of head, I couldn’t help thinking that I looked rather like a man who you would probably wish to avert children away from in the street. Believe me, this is not the ideal situation to become aware of your need for a haircut. I had been wishing to make an impression that night, but I am not sure the sweating and slightly sinister man was quite impression I had intended. I am just grateful that there were no expenses-claim-hyped journalists or photographers out that evening. This would not have been an endearing look to accompany a “Council worker in curry shame” headline.
In future, just to be on the safe side, I should take any promoters or agents for something less spicy. And I will have an appropriate haircut with which to eat it. Can’t think of many other types of restaurants in Wolverhampton though. Might have to be Subway sandwich or something. It goes without saying, I will hold the jalapenos. In fact to be on the safe side, I’ll probably just have lettuce and nothing else. It may not be glamorous, but at least it is safe.
Mole's Gone To Sliceland
Not a very productive day today. In fact the only thing I have really achieved is a good old bleed. This is a consequence of my particularly poor shaving skills this morning, when I managed to cut the head off one of my neck moles. I blame this mishap on tiredness, having had to work a clubnight shift last night till the early hours of the morning. It followed a show by the 70’s pop entertainers The Nolans, most famous for their single “I’m in the Mood For Dancing” (rather ironic, given that it had been a fully seated concert. Our Health and safety regulations would not allow for dancing, irrespective of the audience’s mood).
Sadly The Nolans had a lot of equipment and the stage crew had their hands full, so in order to get the venue cleared ready for our clubnight, our staff had to chip in and carry all the catering stuff out of the venue for them. The burly security looked after the big flight cases full of catering equipment, whilst I took care of the baskets of ingredients and stock (interestingly, I couldn’t help noticing that none of the produce had actually been bought from Iceland – another illusion shattered!). It probably sounds as if I had the easy job, but if you’ve seen the size of The Nolans nowadays, you’ll appreciate just how much stock there was to contend with. It took stamina, believe you me.
This might sound like an easy tabloid-esque pot shot, putting unnecessary emphasis on physical attraction of women and their increased weight but don’t be offended, it is a shallow victory. Who, after all, is the real joke? Four women who got paid handsomely to entertain a sold out room, or a man in his early thirties who humps trays of food down the stairs, whilst continuing to nest an unused prophylactic in his wallet that he has failed to find a willing recipient for by its not-immodest expiration date?
Incidentally, I have just peeled my plaster off again and I am still bleeding even now. Will it ever heal? Honestly, if it carries on at this rate, I might as well think about starting my own range of man-made black pudding. Annoyingly, had this injury occurring yesterday, I could have made some sort of personalised black pudding offering to the ever-hungry Nolans who would probably appreciate it.
Sadly The Nolans had a lot of equipment and the stage crew had their hands full, so in order to get the venue cleared ready for our clubnight, our staff had to chip in and carry all the catering stuff out of the venue for them. The burly security looked after the big flight cases full of catering equipment, whilst I took care of the baskets of ingredients and stock (interestingly, I couldn’t help noticing that none of the produce had actually been bought from Iceland – another illusion shattered!). It probably sounds as if I had the easy job, but if you’ve seen the size of The Nolans nowadays, you’ll appreciate just how much stock there was to contend with. It took stamina, believe you me.
This might sound like an easy tabloid-esque pot shot, putting unnecessary emphasis on physical attraction of women and their increased weight but don’t be offended, it is a shallow victory. Who, after all, is the real joke? Four women who got paid handsomely to entertain a sold out room, or a man in his early thirties who humps trays of food down the stairs, whilst continuing to nest an unused prophylactic in his wallet that he has failed to find a willing recipient for by its not-immodest expiration date?
Incidentally, I have just peeled my plaster off again and I am still bleeding even now. Will it ever heal? Honestly, if it carries on at this rate, I might as well think about starting my own range of man-made black pudding. Annoyingly, had this injury occurring yesterday, I could have made some sort of personalised black pudding offering to the ever-hungry Nolans who would probably appreciate it.
The Difficulty of Just Saying No
As much as I like my computer, I can’t help but feel it is annoyingly melodramatic from time to time. Just a second ago, it flashed up a warning “AT RISK – You need to back up to protect your file from loss and disaster”. As much as I am flattered by its high regard for the survival of another of my largely frivolous blog entries, I think to call its potential loss a disaster might be to overstate its worth. I certainly don’t think that if a plane were to come hurtling from the skies this evening, the passengers would be thinking – “well we might be dropping rapidly to a horrific and untimely death, but so long as the next Days of Enlightenment blog gets fully composed then at my tragic loss of life will be somehow compensated”. Such a scenario would be nice, but not very likely.
Never mind this entry, I think to go as far as to label the loss of ANY of my computer files a “disaster” might be a bit of a disservice. In fact between me and you, far from being a disaster, the loss of a lot of the files on my hard drive would probably be doing me a favour in the long run. But we all have melodramatic behaviour from time to time. Just last week, I got asked if I could cover an overtime shift at work. Now I like to be helpful and will often go to great pains to be co-operative. But I really didn’t want to do this particular shift as it would have meant working three consecutive weekends. Even so, the thought of having to say “no” really disgruntled me. I’m not kidding, it genuinely stressed me to backed into a corner to face my own unhelpfulness. So the way I reacted was to answer “no” in a rather stern, even aggressive manner. It was as if by asking me the question in the first place, they only had themselves to blame for this hostile response. And this was just over refusing an extra shift! Thank God I didn’t select a career path in the Emergency services...
ME: Hello, is this Mrs. Smith?
MRS. SMITH: Yes. How can I help?
ME: May I come in? I have some bad news about your husband.
MRS. SMITH: Oh my. What is it?
ME: I’m afraid there was a plane crash earlier on.
MRS, SMITH: Oh my God! When did this happen?
ME: About 24 sentences ago.
MRS. SMITH: The plane my husband caught?
ME: Er yes... Yes I can definitely confirm it was the plane your husband was travelling on.
MRS. SMITH: But he survived though didn’t he? There was a parachute, right?
ME: Well...
MRS. SMITH: Please... He’s alive isn’t he?
ME: Madam, if you don’t mind, you’re making this very difficult for me to say...
MRS. SMITH: Just tell me! Is my husband alive or isn’t he?
ME: OK OK, IF YOU MUST KNOW, THEN NO. NO HE DIDN’T SURVIVE. HE’S DEAD. COMPLETELY LIFELESS. KAPUT. TORN APART INTO A BLOODY MESS BY VIOLENT IMPACT AND CHARRED BY RAGING INFERNO. ARE YOU HAPPY NOW? ARE YOU??!!
See – saying no in a context so serious just wouldn’t work for me. Although in my defence, wouldn’t it have been fairly evident that her husband was dead by the time I’d said there had been bad news and specified there had been a plane crash? Surely anyone would have worked that out? Yet she still felt the need to badger me. She’s clearly an idiot. And to be honest I am glad she is freshly widowed.
Other jobs I am probably best off avoiding include being the dog from the Churchill commercial. I’d have a hell of a time delivering HIS lines. As the number of adverts progressed, I imagine I’d become more and more rabid. It is difficult enough to trust a dog to sell you insurance at the best of times. But a dog with a muzzle? No chance. And I should also probably avoid being the singer of duo 2Unlimited as well. Or Dawn Penn. Now I know what you’re thinking. This last one seems like a bit of an anticlimax, but let me assure you these 90’s pop references are actually very clever and funny. And I’d love to explain why, I really would. But sadly, I’m afraid my computer is about to cr@$#...............
Never mind this entry, I think to go as far as to label the loss of ANY of my computer files a “disaster” might be a bit of a disservice. In fact between me and you, far from being a disaster, the loss of a lot of the files on my hard drive would probably be doing me a favour in the long run. But we all have melodramatic behaviour from time to time. Just last week, I got asked if I could cover an overtime shift at work. Now I like to be helpful and will often go to great pains to be co-operative. But I really didn’t want to do this particular shift as it would have meant working three consecutive weekends. Even so, the thought of having to say “no” really disgruntled me. I’m not kidding, it genuinely stressed me to backed into a corner to face my own unhelpfulness. So the way I reacted was to answer “no” in a rather stern, even aggressive manner. It was as if by asking me the question in the first place, they only had themselves to blame for this hostile response. And this was just over refusing an extra shift! Thank God I didn’t select a career path in the Emergency services...
ME: Hello, is this Mrs. Smith?
MRS. SMITH: Yes. How can I help?
ME: May I come in? I have some bad news about your husband.
MRS. SMITH: Oh my. What is it?
ME: I’m afraid there was a plane crash earlier on.
MRS, SMITH: Oh my God! When did this happen?
ME: About 24 sentences ago.
MRS. SMITH: The plane my husband caught?
ME: Er yes... Yes I can definitely confirm it was the plane your husband was travelling on.
MRS. SMITH: But he survived though didn’t he? There was a parachute, right?
ME: Well...
MRS. SMITH: Please... He’s alive isn’t he?
ME: Madam, if you don’t mind, you’re making this very difficult for me to say...
MRS. SMITH: Just tell me! Is my husband alive or isn’t he?
ME: OK OK, IF YOU MUST KNOW, THEN NO. NO HE DIDN’T SURVIVE. HE’S DEAD. COMPLETELY LIFELESS. KAPUT. TORN APART INTO A BLOODY MESS BY VIOLENT IMPACT AND CHARRED BY RAGING INFERNO. ARE YOU HAPPY NOW? ARE YOU??!!
See – saying no in a context so serious just wouldn’t work for me. Although in my defence, wouldn’t it have been fairly evident that her husband was dead by the time I’d said there had been bad news and specified there had been a plane crash? Surely anyone would have worked that out? Yet she still felt the need to badger me. She’s clearly an idiot. And to be honest I am glad she is freshly widowed.
Other jobs I am probably best off avoiding include being the dog from the Churchill commercial. I’d have a hell of a time delivering HIS lines. As the number of adverts progressed, I imagine I’d become more and more rabid. It is difficult enough to trust a dog to sell you insurance at the best of times. But a dog with a muzzle? No chance. And I should also probably avoid being the singer of duo 2Unlimited as well. Or Dawn Penn. Now I know what you’re thinking. This last one seems like a bit of an anticlimax, but let me assure you these 90’s pop references are actually very clever and funny. And I’d love to explain why, I really would. But sadly, I’m afraid my computer is about to cr@$#...............
Sat 26th Sept 2009
Since returning from holiday near the sea, I have really wanted to try cooking mussels. Today I decided to indulge this mild fascination with crustaceans, and headed over to Morrisons (favourite supermarket of the pop group Take That, though I have never once seen any one of the members in there). The man at the fish counter told me how to prepare the mussels, giving me an unnerving crash-course on the extensive necessary shell testing you have to to avoid poisoning yourself. The amount of effort it took to prepare them was a revelation in itself. I had also been surprised how relatively cheap a big bag of mussels were as I’d always thought they were a bit of a delicacy. Although after my chat with the fishmonger, I would soon realise the real expense is more to do with the number of supplementary things you need to make a decent sauce. This expense would also be compounded when I got to the check-out queue. As I pulled out my wallet, I ended up dropping a coin. Typically, it hit my foot and rolled off, losing itself the jungle of other people’s queuing legs. And typically out of all the coins it could have possibly been, I had lost a pound – the second most valuable of the sterling coin family.
I had a few little glances, but to no avail. To have a more thorough exploration would have meant compromising my place in the queue, and rummaging around people’s feet, which seemed like an indignity not necessarily carrying much promise of success. Begrudgingly, I wrote the money off, paid for my goods and traipsed toward the exit. And as before I’d even left the building, the realisation hit me that I had forgotten to buy any fish stock, so I would have to take my carrier bag back to the car and start again. I don’t know why I always feel obliged to get rid of the goods I have already purchased before I can re-enter a shop. I just have a strange paranoia that I would be a suspected shoplifter if I didn’t, which would be of social embarrassment to me in a public retail space. Silly really, when you remember the purpose of being issued a receipt is solely for proof of purchase.
So I returned to the store and grabbed a box of fish stock, heading back to the checkout. I did not wish to join the same queue as before in case the checkout girl recognised me as the forgetful dimwit I was, so I joined the next one along behind a man waiting to pay for a pre-packaged sandwich. This turned out to be a shrewd move on two counts – firstly I had joined behind a man who was waiting to pay for a single pre-packaged sandwich so the queue instantly became shorter than it looked. But even more impressively, I could see my pound coin on the floor just a few meters ahead. As I slowly shuffled up the queue alongside the fish stock on the conveyer belt, I waited in anticipation to retrieve my gold nugget, praying that none of the other shoppers in front of me would spot it before I could get to it. Luckily, no-one did and when I reached the coin I surreptitiously pounced on it like a tiger. Although it wasn’t quite as discreet as I’d hoped - as I bent down, I made one of those involuntary groaning noises that sometimes occur when you get to a certain age and start stretching, standing or bending. This new development of vocal accompaniment to minor exertions was both a surprise and worry for me. If I am groaning like this at the mere age 31, lord knows what noises I’ll be making at 61. At this rate, it’ll sound like I’m doing a weird one man re-enactment of the fabled scene from “When Harry Met Sally”.
To add to my embarrassment, the checkout girl rung my fish stock through and gave me a disconcerting look, whilst asking “Is that everything?” The enquiry may appear rather innocent when read from a page, but had she given the same line of questioning to the single-item buying gentleman and his pre-packaged sandwich? Oh no – of course not. Buying a single item is fine if it is a pre-packed sandwich. But apparently there is something deeply odd about a man who just wants a box of fish stock. What on Earth was she thinking? Did she believe I was friends with the sandwich man, and we would step on to the car park together – him tucking in to the convenient bread-based snack he’s just purchased, and me standing alongside him, crumbling cubes of dehydrated fishy flavourings into my gob? What sort of sea-life obsessed weirdo did she think I was? Oh well. Who cares? At least I had retrieved my pound. This would sweeten the bitter pill of any unnatural-looking fish stock eccentricities that may have been levelled at me.
The mussels were ok, but if I am honest they failed to leave me sated. They had seemed like such a big bag when I bought them. But for starters, the fishmonger had scared the living hell out of me with his stern tutorial, and during my rigorous safety check on the shells I probably discarded many more mussels than I needed to, just through paranoid caution. And when I’d finally finished prevaricating and actually cooked the mussels, the little bits of Gieger-esque meat were actually a lot smaller than I’d anticipated. In fact they were so tiny compared to their vast shell cups, it rather reminded me of trying to find the clitoris. But enough of the sentimentality from bygone years. The point was that to appease my appetite I had to follow my main dish with sandwiches and a rather too healthy (or indeed unhealthy) portion of cheesecake. So when my friend contacted me to tell me he was going for a drink and a curry in the town I was keen to join, but certainly only the former seemed of any appeal. Which brings me to my next point. When someone invites you to catch a bus into town for a drink and a curry, surely it is safe to assume that the activities would occur in that order. Drink first, curry later. Surely that’s the English way isn’t it? Not my friends. They must be continental or something. I joined them in town just as they were heading to the curry house. I can’t emphasise enough – I wanted drink not food. Yet I didn’t feel comfortable going to a curry house just to order drink. Maybe my ideologies are all askew, but this is something that appears much weirder to me than standing in queue to buy fish-stock. And this is how I found myself standing all alone in a pub, self-consciously supping from my pint. Which I pretty much did until the last bus home. I wouldn’t have minded so much, but the barmaid I had been set up in an ill-conceived date with in this previous entry was working. And she kept walking past. What must I have looked like, standing in the middle of busy Saturday-night town-centre pub, drinking completely by myself? The best I can hope for is that I appeared so un-popular I am completely bereft of any friends who I can call and meet up with, even on a Saturday night. I’d seem weird, but at least I would pitiable. But what if she thinks I am only going there to watch her, like some discomforting lonely obsessive? This would no longer look pitiable. This would be a whole new level of weirdness.
Could have been worse I suppose. At least I didn’t drop any coins and start groaning when she walked past. Or have a powdery residue of fish stock smeared across my lips.
I had a few little glances, but to no avail. To have a more thorough exploration would have meant compromising my place in the queue, and rummaging around people’s feet, which seemed like an indignity not necessarily carrying much promise of success. Begrudgingly, I wrote the money off, paid for my goods and traipsed toward the exit. And as before I’d even left the building, the realisation hit me that I had forgotten to buy any fish stock, so I would have to take my carrier bag back to the car and start again. I don’t know why I always feel obliged to get rid of the goods I have already purchased before I can re-enter a shop. I just have a strange paranoia that I would be a suspected shoplifter if I didn’t, which would be of social embarrassment to me in a public retail space. Silly really, when you remember the purpose of being issued a receipt is solely for proof of purchase.
So I returned to the store and grabbed a box of fish stock, heading back to the checkout. I did not wish to join the same queue as before in case the checkout girl recognised me as the forgetful dimwit I was, so I joined the next one along behind a man waiting to pay for a pre-packaged sandwich. This turned out to be a shrewd move on two counts – firstly I had joined behind a man who was waiting to pay for a single pre-packaged sandwich so the queue instantly became shorter than it looked. But even more impressively, I could see my pound coin on the floor just a few meters ahead. As I slowly shuffled up the queue alongside the fish stock on the conveyer belt, I waited in anticipation to retrieve my gold nugget, praying that none of the other shoppers in front of me would spot it before I could get to it. Luckily, no-one did and when I reached the coin I surreptitiously pounced on it like a tiger. Although it wasn’t quite as discreet as I’d hoped - as I bent down, I made one of those involuntary groaning noises that sometimes occur when you get to a certain age and start stretching, standing or bending. This new development of vocal accompaniment to minor exertions was both a surprise and worry for me. If I am groaning like this at the mere age 31, lord knows what noises I’ll be making at 61. At this rate, it’ll sound like I’m doing a weird one man re-enactment of the fabled scene from “When Harry Met Sally”.
To add to my embarrassment, the checkout girl rung my fish stock through and gave me a disconcerting look, whilst asking “Is that everything?” The enquiry may appear rather innocent when read from a page, but had she given the same line of questioning to the single-item buying gentleman and his pre-packaged sandwich? Oh no – of course not. Buying a single item is fine if it is a pre-packed sandwich. But apparently there is something deeply odd about a man who just wants a box of fish stock. What on Earth was she thinking? Did she believe I was friends with the sandwich man, and we would step on to the car park together – him tucking in to the convenient bread-based snack he’s just purchased, and me standing alongside him, crumbling cubes of dehydrated fishy flavourings into my gob? What sort of sea-life obsessed weirdo did she think I was? Oh well. Who cares? At least I had retrieved my pound. This would sweeten the bitter pill of any unnatural-looking fish stock eccentricities that may have been levelled at me.
The mussels were ok, but if I am honest they failed to leave me sated. They had seemed like such a big bag when I bought them. But for starters, the fishmonger had scared the living hell out of me with his stern tutorial, and during my rigorous safety check on the shells I probably discarded many more mussels than I needed to, just through paranoid caution. And when I’d finally finished prevaricating and actually cooked the mussels, the little bits of Gieger-esque meat were actually a lot smaller than I’d anticipated. In fact they were so tiny compared to their vast shell cups, it rather reminded me of trying to find the clitoris. But enough of the sentimentality from bygone years. The point was that to appease my appetite I had to follow my main dish with sandwiches and a rather too healthy (or indeed unhealthy) portion of cheesecake. So when my friend contacted me to tell me he was going for a drink and a curry in the town I was keen to join, but certainly only the former seemed of any appeal. Which brings me to my next point. When someone invites you to catch a bus into town for a drink and a curry, surely it is safe to assume that the activities would occur in that order. Drink first, curry later. Surely that’s the English way isn’t it? Not my friends. They must be continental or something. I joined them in town just as they were heading to the curry house. I can’t emphasise enough – I wanted drink not food. Yet I didn’t feel comfortable going to a curry house just to order drink. Maybe my ideologies are all askew, but this is something that appears much weirder to me than standing in queue to buy fish-stock. And this is how I found myself standing all alone in a pub, self-consciously supping from my pint. Which I pretty much did until the last bus home. I wouldn’t have minded so much, but the barmaid I had been set up in an ill-conceived date with in this previous entry was working. And she kept walking past. What must I have looked like, standing in the middle of busy Saturday-night town-centre pub, drinking completely by myself? The best I can hope for is that I appeared so un-popular I am completely bereft of any friends who I can call and meet up with, even on a Saturday night. I’d seem weird, but at least I would pitiable. But what if she thinks I am only going there to watch her, like some discomforting lonely obsessive? This would no longer look pitiable. This would be a whole new level of weirdness.
Could have been worse I suppose. At least I didn’t drop any coins and start groaning when she walked past. Or have a powdery residue of fish stock smeared across my lips.
Mon 7th Sept 2009
I’ve started going to see films again at the cinema. Tonight I went to see my third film in three consecutive weeks. It was called “Home” and was about a family living next to an abandoned highway, which gets re-opened, resulting in disintegration as their deepening isolation slowly leads to madness. Last week’s film was “Moon”, in which about a man who works all alone on the moon and starts thinking he’s going mental. The week before that we watched the psychological horror “Antichrist”, about a man and woman ravaged by grief, who head to a cabin in a forest alone together in an attempt to come to terms with the loss of their child, and eventually end up going insane and debauched. In case you haven’t noticed, I only like films which feature single-word titles, bitter isolation and slow, tortured mental decline. They are my favourite type. In fact I will only watch films which feature all these three elements.
Antichrist has been the subject of some particular controversy and on the way in, the cinema’s steward warned each if us about its explicitly offensive content, despite the fact that there were already numerous warning signs around the box office. This actually unnerved me a little, because I have never seen such diligence of caution. And sure enough, as soon as the lights went down, we were subjected to an onslaught of cruelty as the screen lit up with imagery that can only be described as gratuitously offensive. Apparently U2 are advertising Blackberry phones now and we had to sit through at least 30 seconds of yet another of their songs which was the Rock equivalent of aural fresh air. It was little more than obscene. Haven’t those fuckers got enough money? Why use U2 to ruin our cinematic experiences? What do they have which qualifies them to ruin cinematic experiences nationwide anyway? Why not use, say, long-lived African-American doo wop vocal group, The Drifters? They’ve been banging on about Saturday Night at The Movies for fifty years now. I’ve never seen such a loyal allegiance to the movie industry. In fact they must really love films, because they also wrote, “Kissing in the Back Row of the Movies” which I’d argue could be seen as a kind of homage to the concept of a sequel. Ok so lyrically it was pretty much the same concept as “Saturday Night At The Movies” which made it a bit rubbish. There’s only so many times you can listen to songs about taking a girl out to the movies and giving her a kiss and a cuddle on the back row. Sure it would have been nice to hear a little a progression. But in their defence, it was different time and their conclusion to the trilogy, “Fingering through the Trailers” probably wouldn’t have gone down very well in the 50’s. For this reason it’s probably for the best the demo remained unreleased.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying that The Drifters would be perfect for cinema advertising. It’s just that they’ve already been frequenting the movies for 50 years, so surely they seem more deserving to have such long-standing custom rewarded in some way. But if they have been cruelly overlooked, I suppose they have no-one to blame but themselves. Given a closer inspection of their lyrics, they freely admit, “Who cares what picture we see?” And whilst they are clearly helping keep the fledging cinema industry alive they obviously have no respect for the film as an art-form. In any case, to me it seems a bit reckless to have no regard for “what picture we see”. It would, for example, be very unwise to take their “baby” to go and see Antichrist. I couldn’t imagine scenes of explicit sexual imagery and harrowing sadistic genital mutilation being a particularly comfortable or appropriate context for “hugging with your baby on the last row of the balcony.” Even assuming this "baby" is of the required age of 18, surely the bit involving a clitoris and a rusty pair of scissors would kill the mood stone dead on any first date. It’s little wonder they never get further than a kiss and a cuddle.
That’s the problem with them Drifters. No forward planning.
Antichrist has been the subject of some particular controversy and on the way in, the cinema’s steward warned each if us about its explicitly offensive content, despite the fact that there were already numerous warning signs around the box office. This actually unnerved me a little, because I have never seen such diligence of caution. And sure enough, as soon as the lights went down, we were subjected to an onslaught of cruelty as the screen lit up with imagery that can only be described as gratuitously offensive. Apparently U2 are advertising Blackberry phones now and we had to sit through at least 30 seconds of yet another of their songs which was the Rock equivalent of aural fresh air. It was little more than obscene. Haven’t those fuckers got enough money? Why use U2 to ruin our cinematic experiences? What do they have which qualifies them to ruin cinematic experiences nationwide anyway? Why not use, say, long-lived African-American doo wop vocal group, The Drifters? They’ve been banging on about Saturday Night at The Movies for fifty years now. I’ve never seen such a loyal allegiance to the movie industry. In fact they must really love films, because they also wrote, “Kissing in the Back Row of the Movies” which I’d argue could be seen as a kind of homage to the concept of a sequel. Ok so lyrically it was pretty much the same concept as “Saturday Night At The Movies” which made it a bit rubbish. There’s only so many times you can listen to songs about taking a girl out to the movies and giving her a kiss and a cuddle on the back row. Sure it would have been nice to hear a little a progression. But in their defence, it was different time and their conclusion to the trilogy, “Fingering through the Trailers” probably wouldn’t have gone down very well in the 50’s. For this reason it’s probably for the best the demo remained unreleased.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying that The Drifters would be perfect for cinema advertising. It’s just that they’ve already been frequenting the movies for 50 years, so surely they seem more deserving to have such long-standing custom rewarded in some way. But if they have been cruelly overlooked, I suppose they have no-one to blame but themselves. Given a closer inspection of their lyrics, they freely admit, “Who cares what picture we see?” And whilst they are clearly helping keep the fledging cinema industry alive they obviously have no respect for the film as an art-form. In any case, to me it seems a bit reckless to have no regard for “what picture we see”. It would, for example, be very unwise to take their “baby” to go and see Antichrist. I couldn’t imagine scenes of explicit sexual imagery and harrowing sadistic genital mutilation being a particularly comfortable or appropriate context for “hugging with your baby on the last row of the balcony.” Even assuming this "baby" is of the required age of 18, surely the bit involving a clitoris and a rusty pair of scissors would kill the mood stone dead on any first date. It’s little wonder they never get further than a kiss and a cuddle.
That’s the problem with them Drifters. No forward planning.
Sun 6th Sept 2009
I’ve just been trying to write this entry and nearly broke my computer! I was lying in bed with my laptop on my lap when along came a spider, which didn’t quite so much as sit down beside me, as much as abseil from the ceiling towards my face. I didn’t notice him until he was about 30 centimetres away and such close perspective made him look like almost monstrous. The sudden shock meant that impulsively, I quite literally dived off the bed, flinging my laptop along the floor with terrific force. How my computer actually survived the impact I am unsure, but it’s a pretty good job. I don’t think arachnid attacks are covered in the insurance policy. I’d have broken my computer for no conceivable gain whatsoever. At least if you’d got to see my floundering idiocy it might have been a slightly humorous spectacle for you, but slap-stick doesn’t really work in print. It would have been a complete waste.
I am not usually the sort of person who is usually fearful of creepy crawlies (although I make up for this with a more than adequate share of other fears and foibles), but this is actually the second time in recent weeks I have been made to feel uneasy by the insect world. A couple of Sundays ago, I went for a walk over a place called the Edge, near Much Wenlock. It is nice to be amongst nature, and this particular walk was also the inspiration for A Shropshire Lad by A.E. Housman. I find the literary history of the place quite ironic considering the name Much Wenlock makes no grammatical sense whatsoever (surely Very Wenlock, or Quite Wenlock would have been more correct). On the way home we stopped off for a lamb shank at a pub called The Boycott Arms. If I had been in the mood to be around nature then this would be a most ideal stop-off. As soon as our food arrived, so many insects appeared the place practically turned into a frigging conservatory. Perhaps the squashed wasp on the menu we saw before ordering should have been a bit of a giveaway. By this I mean a literal squashed wasp. “Squashed Wasp” wasn’t the actual name of one of the dishes, obviously; although if it were, the raw ingredients would certainly have been in plentiful supply. Honestly, it was like a sodding Wasp Factory or something. So much so, I even felt inclined to check my genitals on the way out, in case I’d fallen foul to some bizarre gender swap*. There was also this really weird thing I’ve never seen before or since which looked like a beetle, only it had bright red legs, a pair of wings, and more disconcertingly, something at the tail end that looked suspiciously like a sting. But the most disconcerting thing of all was the way it had no fear of humans whatsoever; it kept pacing towards me until I felt it necessary to actually switch to the other side of the table. In retrospect I guess this seems a little unchivalrous of me, since it now made an unnoticed bee-line to my eating companion instead, who eventually got pounced upon by the creature and was forced to flick it off in a bit of a sudden panic. And although no real harm was done by this apocalyptic-esque attack of insects, it really did taint the whole eating experience. Consequently, I shall not be visiting The Boycott Arms again. At least there was one place we visited with a correct name.
Footnote
* With that literary allusion to The Wasp Factory I may have spoiled the ending of a popular novel for the sake of a reasonably weak joke, but to be fair if you haven’t read it by now, I doubt that you ever will.
I am not usually the sort of person who is usually fearful of creepy crawlies (although I make up for this with a more than adequate share of other fears and foibles), but this is actually the second time in recent weeks I have been made to feel uneasy by the insect world. A couple of Sundays ago, I went for a walk over a place called the Edge, near Much Wenlock. It is nice to be amongst nature, and this particular walk was also the inspiration for A Shropshire Lad by A.E. Housman. I find the literary history of the place quite ironic considering the name Much Wenlock makes no grammatical sense whatsoever (surely Very Wenlock, or Quite Wenlock would have been more correct). On the way home we stopped off for a lamb shank at a pub called The Boycott Arms. If I had been in the mood to be around nature then this would be a most ideal stop-off. As soon as our food arrived, so many insects appeared the place practically turned into a frigging conservatory. Perhaps the squashed wasp on the menu we saw before ordering should have been a bit of a giveaway. By this I mean a literal squashed wasp. “Squashed Wasp” wasn’t the actual name of one of the dishes, obviously; although if it were, the raw ingredients would certainly have been in plentiful supply. Honestly, it was like a sodding Wasp Factory or something. So much so, I even felt inclined to check my genitals on the way out, in case I’d fallen foul to some bizarre gender swap*. There was also this really weird thing I’ve never seen before or since which looked like a beetle, only it had bright red legs, a pair of wings, and more disconcertingly, something at the tail end that looked suspiciously like a sting. But the most disconcerting thing of all was the way it had no fear of humans whatsoever; it kept pacing towards me until I felt it necessary to actually switch to the other side of the table. In retrospect I guess this seems a little unchivalrous of me, since it now made an unnoticed bee-line to my eating companion instead, who eventually got pounced upon by the creature and was forced to flick it off in a bit of a sudden panic. And although no real harm was done by this apocalyptic-esque attack of insects, it really did taint the whole eating experience. Consequently, I shall not be visiting The Boycott Arms again. At least there was one place we visited with a correct name.
Footnote
* With that literary allusion to The Wasp Factory I may have spoiled the ending of a popular novel for the sake of a reasonably weak joke, but to be fair if you haven’t read it by now, I doubt that you ever will.
Sat 5th Sept 2009
Saturday nights can be a strange affair when you are a single thirty-one year old. Especially when your contemporaries are generally preoccupied doing adult stuff in couples. This might make me sound lonely but I always have the option to find younger friends to have a hedonistic time on the town with. But personally I never feel much inclined for big nights out in nightclubs and the lark. At my age, the financial and physical strains are simply too much to bear. It seems whichever way I turn, the Saturday night always promises so much, but delivers so little. So sometimes I end up spending the weekend feeling like an old bit of driftwood washed up on the shore of a wasteland, with no-where to go and no-one to be with.
I remember once at work, I obliged a hall viewing for an almost painfully pretty woman, the type so angelic that she almost makes one weep into your lonely pillow at night. Sadly (or happily) she was scheduled for an arranged marriage and wished to find a venue to hold the reception, hence the pretext of her visit. I always used to have an ideological discomfort with the concept of the arranged marriage. This wasn’t a specific cultural unease at the obligations of Hindu caste (it was also common practise in European aristocracy, whilst “shotgun” weddings are still commonplace in contemporary society), more that the fundamental principle of marital coercion seemed like an attack on liberty. As I’ve got older, I can't help but appreciate certain benefits to the arranged marriage. Especially on nights like tonight. In a few weeks time, some lucky bleeder will be spending every Saturday night with that angelic woman, and he won’t even have to go through all that kerfuffle woo-ing her with wit, charm and vast quantities of Blue WKD. They will just be together and he can take as lazy approach as he likes. And me, a criminally lazy woolly liberal, will most likely be sitting here alone, typing another slightly self-pitying blog entry before engaging in act of teary-eyed onanism.
So which of us seems the most liberated now?
I remember once at work, I obliged a hall viewing for an almost painfully pretty woman, the type so angelic that she almost makes one weep into your lonely pillow at night. Sadly (or happily) she was scheduled for an arranged marriage and wished to find a venue to hold the reception, hence the pretext of her visit. I always used to have an ideological discomfort with the concept of the arranged marriage. This wasn’t a specific cultural unease at the obligations of Hindu caste (it was also common practise in European aristocracy, whilst “shotgun” weddings are still commonplace in contemporary society), more that the fundamental principle of marital coercion seemed like an attack on liberty. As I’ve got older, I can't help but appreciate certain benefits to the arranged marriage. Especially on nights like tonight. In a few weeks time, some lucky bleeder will be spending every Saturday night with that angelic woman, and he won’t even have to go through all that kerfuffle woo-ing her with wit, charm and vast quantities of Blue WKD. They will just be together and he can take as lazy approach as he likes. And me, a criminally lazy woolly liberal, will most likely be sitting here alone, typing another slightly self-pitying blog entry before engaging in act of teary-eyed onanism.
So which of us seems the most liberated now?
Fri 4th Sept 2009
As I drove to work today Radio 4 seemed completely bereft of anything interesting to listen to. In an unprecedented shock decision, I ended up listening to Chris Moyles; who has apparently revived the “Golden Hour” feature. This is a segment which was started in the 70’s and popularised by Noel Edmonds and Simon Bates. The concept behind The Golden Hour is that Chris and his award-winning team of half-wits and morons all select a record each from one particular year. Meanwhile, listeners see if they can correctly guess the year in question by texting or emailing, adding who they are and what they’re currently doing. So you might hear a guess from Lisa who is looking forward to the weekend, whilst ironing towels in Chalfont, that sort of thing. Like an aural version of Twitter, but with mundane strangers and no opt-out clause. Occasionally, one of them will simply contact Chris to merely to say something like “Choon!”, which I believe is a ‘yoof-speak’ appreciation for having heard a song which is good. Presumably the usual playlist on Radio 1 now so god-damn awful, that the playing of a tolerable record deserves some kind of congratulatory message.
You’d have thought the revival of The Golden Hour wouldn’t be particularly amenable to the technological advancements thirty years on. Over the 70’s and 80’s people might call or fax their guesses. Nowadays it’s all texts and email. Surely the same mobile internet technology used to submit answers would also make it easy to research the year in which songs were released. Yet astonishingly, the Chris Moyles demographic still manage to email the wrong answers. At the end of the feature, he invites his team to see if they can guess the year. Worryingly, even some of them actually guess incorrectly, despite having only just picked a song each from that year.
Is the feature so flawed, it collapses under the weight of its own paradoxes? Or is it a disturbing barometer of our nation’s increasing idiocy? I honestly don’t know. Nevertheless, as a simple concept “The Golden Hour” still kinda works for me. But then hearing records from a past time when one was full of hopes and dreams is probably ideal listening for someone who is so clearly approaching a midlife crisis.
You’d have thought the revival of The Golden Hour wouldn’t be particularly amenable to the technological advancements thirty years on. Over the 70’s and 80’s people might call or fax their guesses. Nowadays it’s all texts and email. Surely the same mobile internet technology used to submit answers would also make it easy to research the year in which songs were released. Yet astonishingly, the Chris Moyles demographic still manage to email the wrong answers. At the end of the feature, he invites his team to see if they can guess the year. Worryingly, even some of them actually guess incorrectly, despite having only just picked a song each from that year.
Is the feature so flawed, it collapses under the weight of its own paradoxes? Or is it a disturbing barometer of our nation’s increasing idiocy? I honestly don’t know. Nevertheless, as a simple concept “The Golden Hour” still kinda works for me. But then hearing records from a past time when one was full of hopes and dreams is probably ideal listening for someone who is so clearly approaching a midlife crisis.
Thu 3rd Sept 2009
The landlady of our pub was selling raffle tickets this evening, but it was a raffle with a twist. The tickets were numbered one to 300 and you had to pick a ticket from a bag. You would then pay an amount of money which corresponded with the number on the ticket. For example, if you picked ticket no.147, you’d pay £1.47. If you picked ticket no.80, you’d pay 80p, and so on.
The prize was a 14 inch television. I did not want a 14” television, but I also did not want to look mean by abstaining from a charitable cause. So I offered to throw £1.50 into the jar just to forfeit my turn, which I thought was a fair amount, being exactly average. I pride myself being exactly average, and thought the whole ‘donation without any motives of personal gain’ thing made me look quite generous. But the landlady was having none of this, she would take it is a flat donation, but insisted that I should pull out a ticket anyway. If I wanted to forfeit my prize, I could simply donate it back to charity. Her logic was too tricky for me to argue against so I succumbed to her ugly, bedraggled charms, thrusting my hand into her sack of paper numbers.
I pulled out ticket 299.
Under normal circumstances, this would have been a spectacularly unlucky draw, being the second most expensive ticket in the whole bag. But I had made a standard flat donation of £1.50 donation in advance. I looked helplessly at the landlady, wondering what this would mean. “That’s ok”, she said as she scrawled the word “charity” on the back, “lots of people who didn’t have change had to round their contribution up, so there’s enough it cover the shortfall.”
So there you have it. In a tiny way, I briefly experienced what it must be like to have won a game of “Deal or No Deal” by playing safe and wisely accepting the banker’s offer at a timely occasion (albeit a game of “Deal or No Deal” where you have to pay money rather than accrue it). Whoever says fortune favours the brave? Technically, I had actually made a profit of £1.49! HA HA In your face, cancer charity!
Of course, some perfectionists could argue I would have made a higher profit had I drawn ticket 300. But I am quite please I only got ticket 299. I would not like to be the BEST at something. I fully intend to stay in the realms of anonymous mediocrity of any field. I’ve no desire to be a local celebrity. I wouldn’t enjoy the notoriety of having everyone pointing and whispering whenever I walk in the pub, being henceforth known as the man who pulled out most expensive ticket. I was on this occasion, by all accounts a winner.
The prize was a 14 inch television. I did not want a 14” television, but I also did not want to look mean by abstaining from a charitable cause. So I offered to throw £1.50 into the jar just to forfeit my turn, which I thought was a fair amount, being exactly average. I pride myself being exactly average, and thought the whole ‘donation without any motives of personal gain’ thing made me look quite generous. But the landlady was having none of this, she would take it is a flat donation, but insisted that I should pull out a ticket anyway. If I wanted to forfeit my prize, I could simply donate it back to charity. Her logic was too tricky for me to argue against so I succumbed to her ugly, bedraggled charms, thrusting my hand into her sack of paper numbers.
I pulled out ticket 299.
Under normal circumstances, this would have been a spectacularly unlucky draw, being the second most expensive ticket in the whole bag. But I had made a standard flat donation of £1.50 donation in advance. I looked helplessly at the landlady, wondering what this would mean. “That’s ok”, she said as she scrawled the word “charity” on the back, “lots of people who didn’t have change had to round their contribution up, so there’s enough it cover the shortfall.”
So there you have it. In a tiny way, I briefly experienced what it must be like to have won a game of “Deal or No Deal” by playing safe and wisely accepting the banker’s offer at a timely occasion (albeit a game of “Deal or No Deal” where you have to pay money rather than accrue it). Whoever says fortune favours the brave? Technically, I had actually made a profit of £1.49! HA HA In your face, cancer charity!
Of course, some perfectionists could argue I would have made a higher profit had I drawn ticket 300. But I am quite please I only got ticket 299. I would not like to be the BEST at something. I fully intend to stay in the realms of anonymous mediocrity of any field. I’ve no desire to be a local celebrity. I wouldn’t enjoy the notoriety of having everyone pointing and whispering whenever I walk in the pub, being henceforth known as the man who pulled out most expensive ticket. I was on this occasion, by all accounts a winner.
Wed 2nd Sept 2009
Today I found myself in the House of Frasier; the department store for all the unnecessary things that affluent people buy. Since I work in the town-centre I’d agreed to buy some Clarins hand-cream on behalf of a friend (apparently Boots hand-cream is not good enough). As I headed to the House of Frasier cream counter (if that’s what it’s called), the lady eyed me suspiciously and immediately asked if I needed any help. I was, after all, an unkempt bearded male, wearing the same Adidas tracksuit top that actually pre-dated the mid-nineties Oasis popularisation of the sportswear, with a pair of hole-ridden trousers from TJ Hughes and a band logo t-shirt adorned with a small circular stain from last night’s lasagne. There I was standing at a counter of hand cream, looking all Cigarettes and Alcohol in a world of Cigars and Actimel. Her question seemed a fair one.
In case you’re wondering, a tube of Clarins hand cream cost £16.50 for 100ml. Shocking really. Never mind the preservation youth, for that kind of money you’d expect to be able to cure stigmata or even resurrect the dead. Though I did notice it had extracts of Myrrh in the ingredients, so maybe the cream does have some divine and holy powers. But still - £16.50 – that seems an awful lot just for some cream. Personally I’d expect to be rubbing the ejaculation of Christ himself into my hands for that kind of money. In fact, even that wouldn’t be particularly great value when you consider the average ejaculation is only 10ml. That’s one tenth of an average tube. I would willingly come and personally masturbate into your hands for £1.65 a time. But then I am fairly desperate for money at the moment. I started my career as a booker in the entertainment industry ten years ago because I wanted to work with, and bring, hip and cool artists to the local area. And I don’t mean those acts reforming with session musicians for cynical money motivated reasons. I wanted the chance to be a part of something new, promoting acts that have something to say, and who can tear honesty and emotion from the pits of their soul and potentially use their art to reflect or even influence the world on some sociological or artistic level. But nowadays what with the credit-crunch and all, I can no longer afford to be picky. Today, I definitely reached a new low. I realised this the very moment I sent an email to confirm an appearance from The Chippendales.
What would my 20-old-self say if he could see what I had become, reduced to booking an oily, aged male strip troupe? It is the final humiliation of a frankly already chequered career. The only defensible thing I can say is that at least it’s all the original line-up of The Chippendales, so maybe it’s not quite as cynical as it could be. It’s nice they still get on.
Lord knows what they must look like nowadays. I just hope they’ve been plastering themselves with loads of that Clarins cream over the years. For everyone’s sake.
In case you’re wondering, a tube of Clarins hand cream cost £16.50 for 100ml. Shocking really. Never mind the preservation youth, for that kind of money you’d expect to be able to cure stigmata or even resurrect the dead. Though I did notice it had extracts of Myrrh in the ingredients, so maybe the cream does have some divine and holy powers. But still - £16.50 – that seems an awful lot just for some cream. Personally I’d expect to be rubbing the ejaculation of Christ himself into my hands for that kind of money. In fact, even that wouldn’t be particularly great value when you consider the average ejaculation is only 10ml. That’s one tenth of an average tube. I would willingly come and personally masturbate into your hands for £1.65 a time. But then I am fairly desperate for money at the moment. I started my career as a booker in the entertainment industry ten years ago because I wanted to work with, and bring, hip and cool artists to the local area. And I don’t mean those acts reforming with session musicians for cynical money motivated reasons. I wanted the chance to be a part of something new, promoting acts that have something to say, and who can tear honesty and emotion from the pits of their soul and potentially use their art to reflect or even influence the world on some sociological or artistic level. But nowadays what with the credit-crunch and all, I can no longer afford to be picky. Today, I definitely reached a new low. I realised this the very moment I sent an email to confirm an appearance from The Chippendales.
What would my 20-old-self say if he could see what I had become, reduced to booking an oily, aged male strip troupe? It is the final humiliation of a frankly already chequered career. The only defensible thing I can say is that at least it’s all the original line-up of The Chippendales, so maybe it’s not quite as cynical as it could be. It’s nice they still get on.
Lord knows what they must look like nowadays. I just hope they’ve been plastering themselves with loads of that Clarins cream over the years. For everyone’s sake.
Tue 1st Sept 2009
So the last bank holiday of the summer is over. Believe it or not, this time round I feel a strange sense of relief to get back to the mundane normality of work, especially after this particular weekend.
It all started on Saturday. I was woken with a slightly hung-over fug, by a text message which would change the intended course of my bank holiday weekend to an unprecedented degree. The message was from a colleague who said he was at Reading Festival and had a spare guest pass if I would like to use it. All I had to do was arrive and say I was his plus one and I’d have a free weekend of festival frollocks. I know this sounds ungrateful and a bit miserable, but it was actually the last thing I wanted to do given the fragile state of my head and my first reaction was to quickly scan my mind for a viable excuse to decline this kind offer. It was not the thought of being at the festival that I objected to, but more the effort which it entails – the packing, the long drive, the walking about with sacks of heavy gear, the waiting in queues etc. Going to a festival is one of those things that sounds nice in principle (and sometime I even genuinely look forward to it), but it all seemed quite a bit of effort for what was essentially half a festival, since it was now Saturday morning and the festival had started Friday and ended Sunday. I would also have to go alone, which made motivation seem even more difficult to muster. However, I somehow managed to talk myself into going (Sorry – there I go again. I know I sound terribly miserable making it seem like such a big effort). I had no pressing plans to attend to (I can lol around in my pants any weekend) and I’d never been to Reading Festival before. I didn’t want to waste my time on a tenuous whim, so I sent my colleague a text to ensure that I would actually get in ok. The reply came back –
“Your on my guestlist. Say my name at guestlist box office. Then your in. Upto chap. Its on a plate if you want vip”
Reasoning that surely it is better to seize the opportunity of life experiences, this message had seemed to swing it. Better to regret the things you’ve done rather than not done, and all that. I could overlook the grammatical errors, the missing apostrophes and repeated misuse of the word “your” instead of “you’re” in the message. And when I started bundling my camping gear together it all seemed a rather spontaneous and exciting. Maybe even a little dangerous, like being overcome by some sort of compulsive madness. I even dug out my old combat trousers, which I have not worn for at least 4 years. But I should not have bothered rushing. An accident on the motorway would ensure my journey would be sufficiently delayed enough to eat another couple of hours into my already-scant festival time.
I got into Reading some 4 hours later, following signs to the guest parking area. I felt a little bit nervous because I did not have a ticket or indeed any kind of physical confirmation that I’d be on any guest list, so I was anticipating that I would be prohibited to park because all the other cars had car stickers. I wound my window down and asked the parking attendant where “Guest List Box Office” was. She had no idea but the question seemed to clinch some sort of assurance that I was not some sort of blagger looking for free, irrelevant non-festival parking. This all seemed too easy. Although maybe there was a good reason for any lack of parking vigilance, as I discovered when I ambled off to find the box office. If you are familiar with the Reading festival, you will know that it also has a sister festival in Leeds. And to be honest, I think the walking distance from the car park to either of the sites may well have been equidistant. Honestly, I had to traipse for about a mile and a half before I even reached the festival gates. I was certainly not looking forward to having to cart all my tent and luggage over such a distance. It was also during this walk I had time to recall why I no longer wore my old trusty combat trousers. The fly on them had broke and was no longer able to lock, so the zip kept slipping down. I had to keep stopping every dozen yards or so to hoist myself back up, which did not aid my already lengthy journey time very much at all.
Eventually I arrived at the box office to obtain my guest-list entry wristband. After about 15 minutes queuing, I found myself at the window, announcing my colleague’s name as planned. I am not a big fan of the guest list procedure at the best of times. I like the free entry bit, but the actual act of announcing “I’m on the guest list” always makes me feel like a self-important ponce. But what I fear more is the chance that someone will have forgotten to put me on the list at all. Apparently this was a fear I would be learning to face today. The girl looked on her computer. Then she looked down a printed list on a clipboard. Then she looked in a cardboard concertina folder. All in punishing detail. Whilst everyone else in the queue stood looking, in anticipation of my fate. Eventually she returned to the window.
“Sorry, you don’t appear to be on the list.” She announced apologetically. “Who was supposed to have put you on?”
I wasn’t actually sure because my colleague had not told me who had put his name on. I admitted this to the woman, and to save any more inconvenience to the other people waiting, I announced I would return once I’d made a phone call. “Ok, yes. Find out a bit more information and come back” she agreed. I took a walk of shame back down the queue, wristband-less and looking like a failed chancer who was merely delaying other’s entrance to the festival. I texted my friend to find out who’s guestlist he was supposed to be on, then I joined the queue again, waiting for what would effectively be my second humiliation.
“Oh, so you’re someone ELSE’S plus one are you?” she asked this time (even though I had announced this on my last visit). “Yes” I said.
“Well I couldn’t let you in any way I’m afraid. Not without the person whose name it’s under. They need to be with you. Otherwise, how would I know you are really his plus one?”. Once again, I would shrink back down the queue, avoiding eye contact, looking once more like a foiled imposter.
I phoned my colleague and explained the situation, telling him he would need to be at the box office to get me in. He agreed to meet me at the gates. But not yet. Dave Grohl was in the middle of a surprise set. I waited at the entrance next to the security man who had now witnessed me fail to obtain entry twice. We did not talk though. I guess we were both a bit embarrassed for me. And this was likely to be the only thing we’d have in common.
At last! Third time lucky. When my colleague arrived I finally got my wristband. Incidentally, they had not found his name on the list, but were willing to give the benefit of the doubt, conceding that they may have made an error because we had arrived separately and this had confused them (?). It was hardly a “VIP pass on a plate” as promised, but at least I could now finally get in. There was just the small matter of the one and a half mile walk back to my car to get my camping stuff and the one and a half mile traipse back to the festival carrying it.
“Incidentally,” I asked my colleague, “I’ve never been here before. Where exactly is the camping area?”
“I dunno.” He replied. “I’m not sure whether you can camp with that. I think you might need a camping wristband.”
“What?” I asked incredulously. “Well where are you camping?”
“Oh, I don’t bother with all that camping lark. I’ve got a hotel.”
And so came the next bombshell of this ill-fated trip. Apparently I was going to have to sleep in the car. A car that would be parked a mile and a half away. Either I was going to have to get completely legless in order to sleep in such an uncomfortable cradle, or I’d have to stay stone-cold sober and just drive home after the first day (of which there was already little left of). But either way, I would need to return to the carpark anyway. Since I had not been anticipating such a long walk when I’d set off, I’d left all my provisions in the boot. At the very least I would need my rucksack with my coat in it. I did not want to enter the festival arena just to have to head back at dusk when it started to get chilly. I’d rather get things sorted out now and get them out of the way. Off I trekked.
Fast forward thirty minutes and a mile and half later, I am back sitting in my car. I need a rest. It is now nearly half six. At this point I am seriously considering just starting the engine and writing the whole trip off as a bad idea. I even have the keys in the ignition. But something stops me. I think it is the sense of guilt I’d feel after dragging my colleague out of the festival to get me in, only to just disrespectfully sod off after he’s done me a favour by offering me his spare pass in the first place. The least I can do is spend a bit of time with him in the arena. Eventually I jump out my car, stuff my rucksack with the required provisions and resolve to head back off to the festival site. As I am getting out of the car, two men walking a pitbull approach me.
“You going to the festival? Do you wanna buy any weed?” one of them asks.
“No thanks, I’m paranoid enough”, I reply, and continue walking. One of them laughs. The other looks slightly pissed off.
I’m sure they do not mean me any harm, but they seem to want to walk on the same river-side path as me and it makes me feel a bit uncomfortable, so I seek an alternative route. I get briefly lost, adding another 20 minutes on the already epic journey.
I arrive at the festival gates. At last. It has only taken seven hours to get here. As I walk through the barriers, a man checks my wristband and points me through the entry. I walk round the corner expecting to be in the arena with bands playing and stuff, but actually find myself it a big field of tents. How did I manage to get in here? This can only mean one thing. I approach one of the stewards.
“Excuse me mate, am I allowed to camp in here?” I ask.
He checks my wristband. “Of course you can,” he replies, “you’re a guest. You can camp where you like!”
“It’s just... I thought I had to sleep in the car...”
He shakes his head, “No mate. Go get your stuff. Camp where you like.” he repeats.
By now I’m getting quite tired and emotional. I could hug him. I could also punch him because I’ve now yet another three mile walk ahead of me, and yet another hour of the festival lost. That’s not even counting the time it will take me to erect my tent. But at least I can now apparently sleep in a tent...
Carrying my luggage from the car back to the festival site was not easy. I had a rucksack, a big holdall bag, a sleeping bag and a tent. I should be able to sleep well tonight because by now I am totally knackered. After the first half a mile my arms feel like they are being physically garrotted by the luggage. My feet and legs are aching more than they usually do at the end of a festival weekend, yet I’ve not seen a single band yet. And worse still, the fly-hole on my combat trousers is down and I have no free hands to zip it back up again, so whenever anyone approaches me, I feel like a sex-pest who is surreptitiously, yet very deliberately trying to expose his underwear.
It is dusk by the time I arrive back at the site with my luggage. Setting a tent up in the dark is quite a challenge and seems to take a lot longer than usual. When I actually get into the festival arena The Prodigy are smacking their bitches up, or whatever it is they do. And they were the penultimate band. In fact my arrival is so late, that when I text my colleague to announce my arrival and try and meet up with him, he replies that he’s been on the ale since 11am and is intending to head back to his hotel very shortly. The whole thing has been farcical. I spend the rest of the evening wondering round the festival site on my own, learning to get my bearings. As the Arctic Monkeys take to the stage, a young girl approaches me and asks if she can have a gobble on the end of my frankfurter. Absolutely true. Sadly, this is not a euphemism. Otherwise, it might have provided a happy ending to an otherwise fairly shitty day. But as it turned out, I was basically giving a stranger a quid’s worth of my over-priced food.
I guzzled a few pints of over-priced lager and stumbled back to my tent, hoping to get a good night’s sleep ready for a full (and hopefully much more successful) day of festival tomorrow. Any initial worries I had about finding my temporary canvas home were ill-founded. I found my tent straight away, because it was the only one earmarked by a big sack of rubbish that had blown against the side of it. I fought through the litter, unzipped the door, dived in and lay down. My legs had a funny (but not entirely unpleasant) buzzy feeling.
I did not quite get the great night’s sleep I had been hoping for. Sadly there were a bunch of mates who intended to stay up chatting. One of them was particularly talkative, but annoyingly loud with it too. He just went on and on about drugs and girls for hours and hours. It was like having an acapella version of The Streets outside your tent all night. And as I the temperature dropped, I lay fully clothed in my sleeping bag, wide awake and shivering, promising myself that I will never ever do anything spontaneous again.
It all started on Saturday. I was woken with a slightly hung-over fug, by a text message which would change the intended course of my bank holiday weekend to an unprecedented degree. The message was from a colleague who said he was at Reading Festival and had a spare guest pass if I would like to use it. All I had to do was arrive and say I was his plus one and I’d have a free weekend of festival frollocks. I know this sounds ungrateful and a bit miserable, but it was actually the last thing I wanted to do given the fragile state of my head and my first reaction was to quickly scan my mind for a viable excuse to decline this kind offer. It was not the thought of being at the festival that I objected to, but more the effort which it entails – the packing, the long drive, the walking about with sacks of heavy gear, the waiting in queues etc. Going to a festival is one of those things that sounds nice in principle (and sometime I even genuinely look forward to it), but it all seemed quite a bit of effort for what was essentially half a festival, since it was now Saturday morning and the festival had started Friday and ended Sunday. I would also have to go alone, which made motivation seem even more difficult to muster. However, I somehow managed to talk myself into going (Sorry – there I go again. I know I sound terribly miserable making it seem like such a big effort). I had no pressing plans to attend to (I can lol around in my pants any weekend) and I’d never been to Reading Festival before. I didn’t want to waste my time on a tenuous whim, so I sent my colleague a text to ensure that I would actually get in ok. The reply came back –
“Your on my guestlist. Say my name at guestlist box office. Then your in. Upto chap. Its on a plate if you want vip”
Reasoning that surely it is better to seize the opportunity of life experiences, this message had seemed to swing it. Better to regret the things you’ve done rather than not done, and all that. I could overlook the grammatical errors, the missing apostrophes and repeated misuse of the word “your” instead of “you’re” in the message. And when I started bundling my camping gear together it all seemed a rather spontaneous and exciting. Maybe even a little dangerous, like being overcome by some sort of compulsive madness. I even dug out my old combat trousers, which I have not worn for at least 4 years. But I should not have bothered rushing. An accident on the motorway would ensure my journey would be sufficiently delayed enough to eat another couple of hours into my already-scant festival time.
I got into Reading some 4 hours later, following signs to the guest parking area. I felt a little bit nervous because I did not have a ticket or indeed any kind of physical confirmation that I’d be on any guest list, so I was anticipating that I would be prohibited to park because all the other cars had car stickers. I wound my window down and asked the parking attendant where “Guest List Box Office” was. She had no idea but the question seemed to clinch some sort of assurance that I was not some sort of blagger looking for free, irrelevant non-festival parking. This all seemed too easy. Although maybe there was a good reason for any lack of parking vigilance, as I discovered when I ambled off to find the box office. If you are familiar with the Reading festival, you will know that it also has a sister festival in Leeds. And to be honest, I think the walking distance from the car park to either of the sites may well have been equidistant. Honestly, I had to traipse for about a mile and a half before I even reached the festival gates. I was certainly not looking forward to having to cart all my tent and luggage over such a distance. It was also during this walk I had time to recall why I no longer wore my old trusty combat trousers. The fly on them had broke and was no longer able to lock, so the zip kept slipping down. I had to keep stopping every dozen yards or so to hoist myself back up, which did not aid my already lengthy journey time very much at all.
Eventually I arrived at the box office to obtain my guest-list entry wristband. After about 15 minutes queuing, I found myself at the window, announcing my colleague’s name as planned. I am not a big fan of the guest list procedure at the best of times. I like the free entry bit, but the actual act of announcing “I’m on the guest list” always makes me feel like a self-important ponce. But what I fear more is the chance that someone will have forgotten to put me on the list at all. Apparently this was a fear I would be learning to face today. The girl looked on her computer. Then she looked down a printed list on a clipboard. Then she looked in a cardboard concertina folder. All in punishing detail. Whilst everyone else in the queue stood looking, in anticipation of my fate. Eventually she returned to the window.
“Sorry, you don’t appear to be on the list.” She announced apologetically. “Who was supposed to have put you on?”
I wasn’t actually sure because my colleague had not told me who had put his name on. I admitted this to the woman, and to save any more inconvenience to the other people waiting, I announced I would return once I’d made a phone call. “Ok, yes. Find out a bit more information and come back” she agreed. I took a walk of shame back down the queue, wristband-less and looking like a failed chancer who was merely delaying other’s entrance to the festival. I texted my friend to find out who’s guestlist he was supposed to be on, then I joined the queue again, waiting for what would effectively be my second humiliation.
“Oh, so you’re someone ELSE’S plus one are you?” she asked this time (even though I had announced this on my last visit). “Yes” I said.
“Well I couldn’t let you in any way I’m afraid. Not without the person whose name it’s under. They need to be with you. Otherwise, how would I know you are really his plus one?”. Once again, I would shrink back down the queue, avoiding eye contact, looking once more like a foiled imposter.
I phoned my colleague and explained the situation, telling him he would need to be at the box office to get me in. He agreed to meet me at the gates. But not yet. Dave Grohl was in the middle of a surprise set. I waited at the entrance next to the security man who had now witnessed me fail to obtain entry twice. We did not talk though. I guess we were both a bit embarrassed for me. And this was likely to be the only thing we’d have in common.
At last! Third time lucky. When my colleague arrived I finally got my wristband. Incidentally, they had not found his name on the list, but were willing to give the benefit of the doubt, conceding that they may have made an error because we had arrived separately and this had confused them (?). It was hardly a “VIP pass on a plate” as promised, but at least I could now finally get in. There was just the small matter of the one and a half mile walk back to my car to get my camping stuff and the one and a half mile traipse back to the festival carrying it.
“Incidentally,” I asked my colleague, “I’ve never been here before. Where exactly is the camping area?”
“I dunno.” He replied. “I’m not sure whether you can camp with that. I think you might need a camping wristband.”
“What?” I asked incredulously. “Well where are you camping?”
“Oh, I don’t bother with all that camping lark. I’ve got a hotel.”
And so came the next bombshell of this ill-fated trip. Apparently I was going to have to sleep in the car. A car that would be parked a mile and a half away. Either I was going to have to get completely legless in order to sleep in such an uncomfortable cradle, or I’d have to stay stone-cold sober and just drive home after the first day (of which there was already little left of). But either way, I would need to return to the carpark anyway. Since I had not been anticipating such a long walk when I’d set off, I’d left all my provisions in the boot. At the very least I would need my rucksack with my coat in it. I did not want to enter the festival arena just to have to head back at dusk when it started to get chilly. I’d rather get things sorted out now and get them out of the way. Off I trekked.
Fast forward thirty minutes and a mile and half later, I am back sitting in my car. I need a rest. It is now nearly half six. At this point I am seriously considering just starting the engine and writing the whole trip off as a bad idea. I even have the keys in the ignition. But something stops me. I think it is the sense of guilt I’d feel after dragging my colleague out of the festival to get me in, only to just disrespectfully sod off after he’s done me a favour by offering me his spare pass in the first place. The least I can do is spend a bit of time with him in the arena. Eventually I jump out my car, stuff my rucksack with the required provisions and resolve to head back off to the festival site. As I am getting out of the car, two men walking a pitbull approach me.
“You going to the festival? Do you wanna buy any weed?” one of them asks.
“No thanks, I’m paranoid enough”, I reply, and continue walking. One of them laughs. The other looks slightly pissed off.
I’m sure they do not mean me any harm, but they seem to want to walk on the same river-side path as me and it makes me feel a bit uncomfortable, so I seek an alternative route. I get briefly lost, adding another 20 minutes on the already epic journey.
I arrive at the festival gates. At last. It has only taken seven hours to get here. As I walk through the barriers, a man checks my wristband and points me through the entry. I walk round the corner expecting to be in the arena with bands playing and stuff, but actually find myself it a big field of tents. How did I manage to get in here? This can only mean one thing. I approach one of the stewards.
“Excuse me mate, am I allowed to camp in here?” I ask.
He checks my wristband. “Of course you can,” he replies, “you’re a guest. You can camp where you like!”
“It’s just... I thought I had to sleep in the car...”
He shakes his head, “No mate. Go get your stuff. Camp where you like.” he repeats.
By now I’m getting quite tired and emotional. I could hug him. I could also punch him because I’ve now yet another three mile walk ahead of me, and yet another hour of the festival lost. That’s not even counting the time it will take me to erect my tent. But at least I can now apparently sleep in a tent...
Carrying my luggage from the car back to the festival site was not easy. I had a rucksack, a big holdall bag, a sleeping bag and a tent. I should be able to sleep well tonight because by now I am totally knackered. After the first half a mile my arms feel like they are being physically garrotted by the luggage. My feet and legs are aching more than they usually do at the end of a festival weekend, yet I’ve not seen a single band yet. And worse still, the fly-hole on my combat trousers is down and I have no free hands to zip it back up again, so whenever anyone approaches me, I feel like a sex-pest who is surreptitiously, yet very deliberately trying to expose his underwear.
It is dusk by the time I arrive back at the site with my luggage. Setting a tent up in the dark is quite a challenge and seems to take a lot longer than usual. When I actually get into the festival arena The Prodigy are smacking their bitches up, or whatever it is they do. And they were the penultimate band. In fact my arrival is so late, that when I text my colleague to announce my arrival and try and meet up with him, he replies that he’s been on the ale since 11am and is intending to head back to his hotel very shortly. The whole thing has been farcical. I spend the rest of the evening wondering round the festival site on my own, learning to get my bearings. As the Arctic Monkeys take to the stage, a young girl approaches me and asks if she can have a gobble on the end of my frankfurter. Absolutely true. Sadly, this is not a euphemism. Otherwise, it might have provided a happy ending to an otherwise fairly shitty day. But as it turned out, I was basically giving a stranger a quid’s worth of my over-priced food.
I guzzled a few pints of over-priced lager and stumbled back to my tent, hoping to get a good night’s sleep ready for a full (and hopefully much more successful) day of festival tomorrow. Any initial worries I had about finding my temporary canvas home were ill-founded. I found my tent straight away, because it was the only one earmarked by a big sack of rubbish that had blown against the side of it. I fought through the litter, unzipped the door, dived in and lay down. My legs had a funny (but not entirely unpleasant) buzzy feeling.
I did not quite get the great night’s sleep I had been hoping for. Sadly there were a bunch of mates who intended to stay up chatting. One of them was particularly talkative, but annoyingly loud with it too. He just went on and on about drugs and girls for hours and hours. It was like having an acapella version of The Streets outside your tent all night. And as I the temperature dropped, I lay fully clothed in my sleeping bag, wide awake and shivering, promising myself that I will never ever do anything spontaneous again.
Sat 22nd Aug 2009
I went to a surprise 60th birthday party for one of my ex girlfriend’s fathers. I have been toying with that first sentence for quite a while, because I find it a rather jarring phrase. I’m not quite sure why. Maybe it is the use of the word “girlfriend”, which feels simultaneously insipid, childish and patronising all at once, but is a word which I am bereft of any better alternatives for. Or maybe it is because it grammatically implies my ex-girlfriend actually has numerous fathers. Either way, it will have to stay as it is. You’ll just have to use both your own language preferences and common sense.
The birthday boy had been led under the premise that the family would be going for a quiet meal. But they would actually end up arriving at the darkened venue, where the assembled guests would suddenly yell “surprise” at the bewildered recipient (as is the usual protocol with surprise birthdays). The subterfuge worked like a dream. Personally, I’d have been disappointed were this party being held for me because I would have probably been looking forward to my dinner, and more pressingly, do prefer meals much more than large groups of other human beings congregated in a ‘party formation’. But he seemed genuinely appreciative of his family’s efforts in putting together such a fantastic do. I am glad of this. As far as girlfriend’s parents go, you couldn’t wish to meet warmer human beings. They are a big family with a big home, who welcomed me to co-habit with my girlfriend for a number of years. I have always felt respect for them and although I do not see them as much nowadays they are always willing to extend their warmth. A few Christmases ago, I was left alone after yet another of my relationships had collapsed. My own parents (the inevitable fallback position) were out of the country that year, so they insisted I came to their house to enjoy Christmas dinner with them. Which ironically I suppose is exactly the sort of human spirit one might witness in a Christmas film (albeit not the most riveting Christmas film - sadly I had not been considering suicide, or met with spirits from different places in a time continuum so the interest factor would have been limited). And talking of food - which I have just noticed seems to be a common theme running through these blogs (if you have never met me you may be surprised to learn that, believe it or not, I am not actually excessively overweight) –I tried, In my slightly inebriated state, to make my own contribution to this feast by offering to help lay the buffet out. My ex-girlfriend asked if I’d mind taking the wrappers of stuff. I dutifully went round taking foil and clingfilm from around the containers. And I must say, the buffet was a cut above. Maybe this was to compensate the father’s disappointment of a meal that had previously been promised then snatched away. But gone was the usual fodder of curled up cheese sandwiches, and in came piping hot pizza. The sausage rolls were replaced by samosas. And instead of mini quiches, there were these other things which I’d never seen before, but were a bit like mini-quiches that someone had taken the effort to peel all the outer pastry off and left the filling; a considerate act which made it somehow feel a bit more middle class. There were even a big range of cheeses to be enjoyed with a selection of biscuits. Although when I opened the biscuit assortment box, the top couple of layers seemed all mixed up and broken. This made me a bit paranoid that everyone would think I was responsible for their battered state. After all, I had been the last person spotted with them and it is not difficult to see how a slightly inebriated man wrestling with a box of biscuits might be incriminating, but this time it genuinely wasn’t anything to do with me.
When I left the party I felt very happy but I also felt a strange sense of melancholy. I’m not quite sure what had aroused this small fuzz of sadness. Maybe I felt nostalgia for the time I spent with living this generous family. Maybe it was the fact that ten years have passed since the parties’ guests and hosts had been a regular part of my life. Perhaps having seen how other people are getting on with their lives through all this time had given me fearful twinge that maybe good chunks of my own time has been spent inadequately. Maybe I was worried that everyone would go home and say how much they enjoyed the evening, and how it would have been perfect, were it not for the box of broken cheese biscuits that I had been co-incidentally spotted with. Maybe it bought back memories of myself from ten years ago (where like most people, I naturally presume I was a bit of a wazzock, and wish I could have behaved with the benefit of the experience I have acquired since). But let me assure you it was only a tiny fraction of my overall emotional state. First and foremost, I was happy and honoured to have been invited to these birthday celebrations. I’d had a good time, and this is a spectacularly rare occurrence as far as me and parties are concerned. And in any case, why should I feel even the slightest hint of melancholy about the past? The past, after all, is a foreign country; they do things differently there.
Do you know who said those wise words? It was Les Dennis.
Thanks for that Les.
The birthday boy had been led under the premise that the family would be going for a quiet meal. But they would actually end up arriving at the darkened venue, where the assembled guests would suddenly yell “surprise” at the bewildered recipient (as is the usual protocol with surprise birthdays). The subterfuge worked like a dream. Personally, I’d have been disappointed were this party being held for me because I would have probably been looking forward to my dinner, and more pressingly, do prefer meals much more than large groups of other human beings congregated in a ‘party formation’. But he seemed genuinely appreciative of his family’s efforts in putting together such a fantastic do. I am glad of this. As far as girlfriend’s parents go, you couldn’t wish to meet warmer human beings. They are a big family with a big home, who welcomed me to co-habit with my girlfriend for a number of years. I have always felt respect for them and although I do not see them as much nowadays they are always willing to extend their warmth. A few Christmases ago, I was left alone after yet another of my relationships had collapsed. My own parents (the inevitable fallback position) were out of the country that year, so they insisted I came to their house to enjoy Christmas dinner with them. Which ironically I suppose is exactly the sort of human spirit one might witness in a Christmas film (albeit not the most riveting Christmas film - sadly I had not been considering suicide, or met with spirits from different places in a time continuum so the interest factor would have been limited). And talking of food - which I have just noticed seems to be a common theme running through these blogs (if you have never met me you may be surprised to learn that, believe it or not, I am not actually excessively overweight) –I tried, In my slightly inebriated state, to make my own contribution to this feast by offering to help lay the buffet out. My ex-girlfriend asked if I’d mind taking the wrappers of stuff. I dutifully went round taking foil and clingfilm from around the containers. And I must say, the buffet was a cut above. Maybe this was to compensate the father’s disappointment of a meal that had previously been promised then snatched away. But gone was the usual fodder of curled up cheese sandwiches, and in came piping hot pizza. The sausage rolls were replaced by samosas. And instead of mini quiches, there were these other things which I’d never seen before, but were a bit like mini-quiches that someone had taken the effort to peel all the outer pastry off and left the filling; a considerate act which made it somehow feel a bit more middle class. There were even a big range of cheeses to be enjoyed with a selection of biscuits. Although when I opened the biscuit assortment box, the top couple of layers seemed all mixed up and broken. This made me a bit paranoid that everyone would think I was responsible for their battered state. After all, I had been the last person spotted with them and it is not difficult to see how a slightly inebriated man wrestling with a box of biscuits might be incriminating, but this time it genuinely wasn’t anything to do with me.
When I left the party I felt very happy but I also felt a strange sense of melancholy. I’m not quite sure what had aroused this small fuzz of sadness. Maybe I felt nostalgia for the time I spent with living this generous family. Maybe it was the fact that ten years have passed since the parties’ guests and hosts had been a regular part of my life. Perhaps having seen how other people are getting on with their lives through all this time had given me fearful twinge that maybe good chunks of my own time has been spent inadequately. Maybe I was worried that everyone would go home and say how much they enjoyed the evening, and how it would have been perfect, were it not for the box of broken cheese biscuits that I had been co-incidentally spotted with. Maybe it bought back memories of myself from ten years ago (where like most people, I naturally presume I was a bit of a wazzock, and wish I could have behaved with the benefit of the experience I have acquired since). But let me assure you it was only a tiny fraction of my overall emotional state. First and foremost, I was happy and honoured to have been invited to these birthday celebrations. I’d had a good time, and this is a spectacularly rare occurrence as far as me and parties are concerned. And in any case, why should I feel even the slightest hint of melancholy about the past? The past, after all, is a foreign country; they do things differently there.
Do you know who said those wise words? It was Les Dennis.
Thanks for that Les.
Sun 16th Aug 2009
I went for a meal at the Buckatree Hotel. It is quite a posh dining place. I can tell this because the food I ordered was a “Seafood-something-or-other”. I had to say, “I’ll have the seafood dish please and point in the general area of the menu where it was located, because I’d not heard the other word used in the dishes’ name before so I was paranoid about making an incorrect pronunciation that the waiter would go back into the kitchen and laugh with the other staff about. I consider myself to have a reasonable grasp of vocabulary so my ignorance seemed rather tragic. Not tragic for me, but for the restaurant itself, because as far as I can tell, a menu’s primary function is to describe the food an establishment sells, so this menu had failed its very purpose of being. The dish itself was a pot of seafood in some sort of white sauce, with two discs of pastry sitting on top. In other words, it was like a seafood pie.
So as you can see, it was all rather grandiose. The waiters did that thing where they pour a little bit of the drink in the glass for my convenience even though it was only a little bottle of Tonic Water. They draped one of those folded up tablecloths across my lap (presumably in case I become inconvenienced by a sudden erection when I saw the beautiful majesty of the food). You have to understand I am used to Sunday dinners where you have to order at the bar and go and collect your own condiments. I am used to napkins that are small squares of tissue, which if draped over your lap area, would actually draw rather than detract attention to any stirrings of the groin. Oh - and the other reason I knew this restaurant was posh was due to the weighty price of the food. Maybe that should have been the main clue.
I cannot deny, the scram was lovely. But it seems no matter how grandiose you might try to be, there are always people who want to act more grandiose than you. Take the husband and wife on the next table for instance. They were eating a traditional Sunday lunch, but they were unhappy. The roast potatoes were not to their liking. And the perceived failings of these roast potatoes was simply unacceptable, and they would call the waiter over to tell him as much.
“They’re just too soft. And potatoes shouldn’t be this sweet.” The husband snottily declared, “What sort of potato is this supposed to be anyway?”
The bewildered waiter had not expected this potato chagrin and scrambled back to the kitchen to humour the man’s carbohydrate query, returning to apologetically inform his critic, “All we know is that they’re from our supplier, ’Swallow’”
But the customer was not appeased by this in the slightest. In fact, it had enraged him into a declaration of starch warfare.
“I’d like to speak to the manager”, he demanded.
Now admittedly, I am a big fan of the roast potato, but I could not understand the level of hullaballoo. Maybe my standards are too low, but I kind of come to expect that maybe one part of an overall meal might not be prepared in a manner which suits my taste, and provided I am not poisoned or nauseated, or that loads of other stuff on my plate is also not to my satisfaction, I will generally just leave the offensive item to one side and move on. Probably to carrots or something, or maybe head straight to the meat if I really felt the need to compensate my potato disappointment. At most, I would expel any petty annoyances via a diary entry, and then just get on with my life. It is reasonable to assume I will consume plenty more roast potatoes in the future, unless my life comes to some sort of abrupt ending. But then, I imagine my last thoughts will probably be too occupied by the cause of my impending demise to lend too much concern to potatoes. Yet to his credit, the manager came down to indulge the snotty couple’s potato slating.
“This potato isn’t right” he went on again. “It’s too soft and sweet.” The manager said something quietly which I didn’t quite catch, but which had once again failed to appease the man.
“I know my potatoes!” he barked.
His wife suddenly chirped up in support of her husband: “Yes, he does know his potatoes. He’s potato mad!”
Those last three words were the most sensible thing that had been said so far. But this was sanity by luck not judgment. The wife would also prove herself unbalanced. She started wading in, trying to offer the potatoes to the manager, and even more bizarrely, when he declined, she started inviting him to their house so she could show him what a roast potato actually was. Then her husband raised the lunacy another level, by starting to question whether what they had been served was actually a potato at all! The debate was getting more and more surreal the further it went, and there was nothing the manager could do but sit their patiently and allow them to air their ridiculous proclamations. In the end, the wife requested a doggy bag, so they could take the ‘so-called potato’ home. Why they would want a momento from a meal which they hated is anyone’s guess.
Don’t get me wrong, I can understand why people might draw attention to their dissatisfaction when the waiter comes over and asks how the food is. Maybe a passing comment might even be constructive to the establishment in the long run. Personally, I’d tell the waiting staff it’s great, even if I’d previously whispered to everyone else on the table about how it tasted like gravel. But that’s just me. It is not necessarily the correct approach and maybe so much suppression is unnatural, and will eventually lead to my inevitable breakdown. But comparatively speaking, couldn’t taking a potato home in a paper bag to see whether it is actually a potato or evidence of some sort of bizarre ”potato matrix”, be seen as a bit of breakdown in itself?
Surely there’s got to be a happy medium.
So as you can see, it was all rather grandiose. The waiters did that thing where they pour a little bit of the drink in the glass for my convenience even though it was only a little bottle of Tonic Water. They draped one of those folded up tablecloths across my lap (presumably in case I become inconvenienced by a sudden erection when I saw the beautiful majesty of the food). You have to understand I am used to Sunday dinners where you have to order at the bar and go and collect your own condiments. I am used to napkins that are small squares of tissue, which if draped over your lap area, would actually draw rather than detract attention to any stirrings of the groin. Oh - and the other reason I knew this restaurant was posh was due to the weighty price of the food. Maybe that should have been the main clue.
I cannot deny, the scram was lovely. But it seems no matter how grandiose you might try to be, there are always people who want to act more grandiose than you. Take the husband and wife on the next table for instance. They were eating a traditional Sunday lunch, but they were unhappy. The roast potatoes were not to their liking. And the perceived failings of these roast potatoes was simply unacceptable, and they would call the waiter over to tell him as much.
“They’re just too soft. And potatoes shouldn’t be this sweet.” The husband snottily declared, “What sort of potato is this supposed to be anyway?”
The bewildered waiter had not expected this potato chagrin and scrambled back to the kitchen to humour the man’s carbohydrate query, returning to apologetically inform his critic, “All we know is that they’re from our supplier, ’Swallow’”
But the customer was not appeased by this in the slightest. In fact, it had enraged him into a declaration of starch warfare.
“I’d like to speak to the manager”, he demanded.
Now admittedly, I am a big fan of the roast potato, but I could not understand the level of hullaballoo. Maybe my standards are too low, but I kind of come to expect that maybe one part of an overall meal might not be prepared in a manner which suits my taste, and provided I am not poisoned or nauseated, or that loads of other stuff on my plate is also not to my satisfaction, I will generally just leave the offensive item to one side and move on. Probably to carrots or something, or maybe head straight to the meat if I really felt the need to compensate my potato disappointment. At most, I would expel any petty annoyances via a diary entry, and then just get on with my life. It is reasonable to assume I will consume plenty more roast potatoes in the future, unless my life comes to some sort of abrupt ending. But then, I imagine my last thoughts will probably be too occupied by the cause of my impending demise to lend too much concern to potatoes. Yet to his credit, the manager came down to indulge the snotty couple’s potato slating.
“This potato isn’t right” he went on again. “It’s too soft and sweet.” The manager said something quietly which I didn’t quite catch, but which had once again failed to appease the man.
“I know my potatoes!” he barked.
His wife suddenly chirped up in support of her husband: “Yes, he does know his potatoes. He’s potato mad!”
Those last three words were the most sensible thing that had been said so far. But this was sanity by luck not judgment. The wife would also prove herself unbalanced. She started wading in, trying to offer the potatoes to the manager, and even more bizarrely, when he declined, she started inviting him to their house so she could show him what a roast potato actually was. Then her husband raised the lunacy another level, by starting to question whether what they had been served was actually a potato at all! The debate was getting more and more surreal the further it went, and there was nothing the manager could do but sit their patiently and allow them to air their ridiculous proclamations. In the end, the wife requested a doggy bag, so they could take the ‘so-called potato’ home. Why they would want a momento from a meal which they hated is anyone’s guess.
Don’t get me wrong, I can understand why people might draw attention to their dissatisfaction when the waiter comes over and asks how the food is. Maybe a passing comment might even be constructive to the establishment in the long run. Personally, I’d tell the waiting staff it’s great, even if I’d previously whispered to everyone else on the table about how it tasted like gravel. But that’s just me. It is not necessarily the correct approach and maybe so much suppression is unnatural, and will eventually lead to my inevitable breakdown. But comparatively speaking, couldn’t taking a potato home in a paper bag to see whether it is actually a potato or evidence of some sort of bizarre ”potato matrix”, be seen as a bit of breakdown in itself?
Surely there’s got to be a happy medium.
Tue 4th Aug 2009
I walk past this sign everyday on the way to work and it never fails to arouse a childish snigger. The snigger is an internal one, obviously. If you have found this page by accident and do not know who I am, let me assure you I am not someone who stands in the middle of a City publically chortling at signage. If you ever see a person with such a trait and assume it is me, don’t go over and introduce yourself because you will end up looking like an idiot. And bear in mind you will be standing next to a man who laughs at informative boards, so to look comparatively idiotic would be quite an achievement.
But should the sign does catch me unawares one time and I do end up openly tittering in the street, then I should probably explain that it is the name “Top Nosh” which I find so amusing. Of course, here in Wolverhampton, it simply means food. But it is a word which seems to have a vast regional variation in its definition. Particularly Up North, where it is understood as a euphemism for phallic oral sex. Fertile ground for a terrible faux pas learned the hard way whilst working in Liverpool, after asking my hungry work colleagues if they were ready for their ‘nosh’. I still recall the whole office falling deathly silent as its Scouse inhabitants contemplated how without any prior warning, the new ‘brummie’ lad had seemingly tried to ingratiate himself to his colleagues by offering to suck them off. As you might imagine, this is not the kind of mistake you make twice, but it is one you frequently find yourself consequently being reminded of. It tends to leave a sour after-taste.
So if you are from the Midlands and are planning a trip up north, please do heed my warning and spare yourself the same humiliation that I suffered. Similarly, if you are from up north looking for a salacious thrill in the Midlands, do not go into the shop expecting any gratification beyond a fried breakfast. Don’t start thinking that Wolverhampton is the new Amsterdam. I can appreciate how seeing the words “Baps” and “Hot Pork” might appear to be further encouragement. But let me assure you that although “Jacke Pots” may involve a generous filling and a high constitution of starch, it is certainly not the name of a willing recipient for your grubby little Northern phalluses. For that sort of thing you’ll need to go to Greggs.
But should the sign does catch me unawares one time and I do end up openly tittering in the street, then I should probably explain that it is the name “Top Nosh” which I find so amusing. Of course, here in Wolverhampton, it simply means food. But it is a word which seems to have a vast regional variation in its definition. Particularly Up North, where it is understood as a euphemism for phallic oral sex. Fertile ground for a terrible faux pas learned the hard way whilst working in Liverpool, after asking my hungry work colleagues if they were ready for their ‘nosh’. I still recall the whole office falling deathly silent as its Scouse inhabitants contemplated how without any prior warning, the new ‘brummie’ lad had seemingly tried to ingratiate himself to his colleagues by offering to suck them off. As you might imagine, this is not the kind of mistake you make twice, but it is one you frequently find yourself consequently being reminded of. It tends to leave a sour after-taste.
So if you are from the Midlands and are planning a trip up north, please do heed my warning and spare yourself the same humiliation that I suffered. Similarly, if you are from up north looking for a salacious thrill in the Midlands, do not go into the shop expecting any gratification beyond a fried breakfast. Don’t start thinking that Wolverhampton is the new Amsterdam. I can appreciate how seeing the words “Baps” and “Hot Pork” might appear to be further encouragement. But let me assure you that although “Jacke Pots” may involve a generous filling and a high constitution of starch, it is certainly not the name of a willing recipient for your grubby little Northern phalluses. For that sort of thing you’ll need to go to Greggs.
Sat 1st Aug 2009
Been feeling a sorry for myself of late. I do not like myself very much for this because I generally appreciate being me, which contrary to popular belief, seems rather lucky when one considers how remote the evolutionary chances of life are in the first place. Sure – I may be spending my time precariously peering into the ever-threatening ravine of my impending midlife crisis, but at least it is a human life (who ‘d fancy being a shit-eating fly?). And secondly to be born human in a part of the world which is neither war-torn, famine-stricken or comparatively too oppressive to one’s civil liberties, is luckier still. I suppose the odd bit of melancholy is a naturally human trait but even so, how could someone in my fortunate position possibly have the audacity to grumble without feeling guilty?
It’s a funny thing when you hit that level of depression. Well.. maybe funny is the wrong word, but you get what I mean. It’s weird how you can knowingly realise how irrational and wasteful your mood might be in a greater context, and yet precious little can lift it. I did try. I went to the gym in an attempt to get active and feel better about myself. But even this didn’t work. I felt just as miserable. Only now I had added fatigue to the misery too. And this did not leave me well equipped to attend the party I had been invited to in the evening. I couldn’t have felt more party-phobic if I tried. I could not even use my usual tactic of burying melancholy under a river of alcohol because I was driving. And prior to my arrival there were many things about the party which I did not relish the thought of. The main ones being...
1) Dancing. Being invited to dance was the last thing I wanted to happen to me. I mean, when have you ever seen anything as absurd as a depressed man with the sudden urge to burst into dance (Robbie Williams aside, obviously).
2) Other people having a bloody good time - which just makes you feel more incongruous in your environment, continually emphasising just how out of place you feel, like a kindly village Vicar stumbling in to a particularly racy Ann Summers party.
3) Getting your ears assaulted by ‘cheery’ party music so horribly idioglossic it almost makes you temporarily jealous of the shit-eating fly, because at least the shit-eating fly can simply sneak out the window unnoticed and escape this aural hell.
4) Being obliged into small talk, where the simple question “How are you?” becomes a moral scruple, as you deny your unfettered misery just to keep the cheery atmosphere flowing, whilst another little piece inside of your soul dies, ebbed away by the lies that your mouth is forced to tell to people you like and who don’t deserve to be lied to because they are nice enough to bother enquiring about your welfare in the first place.
In fact I could only think of one thing about the party that seemed remotely compatible with my gloomy mindset, and that was the inevitable big plate of sausage rolls on the buffet table. The little mashed pig-deaths wrapped in coats of pastry seemed poetically resonant to my dour mood and equally as attractive to my mouth and belly. But the short, mild thrill of sausage rolls seemed of inconsequential compensational value when compared to the hours ahead spent trying to force a demeanour of polite bonhomie through a heavy-hearted mood of self-loathing.
But of course, as is so often the case with these things, the party was absolutely fine. Sure, I spent the first obligatory hour hanging round looking a bit awkward, but this is pretty much par for the course and overall I am glad I made the effort to oblige the invitation I was honoured to have received. Everyone was really nice. And possibly as a result of my mental fragility, I even experienced strange new emotional responses to things. For instance, buying people drinks became a genuine pleasure rather than a polite gesture done with a hidden and repressed chagrin.
It’s a funny thing when you hit that level of depression. Well.. maybe funny is the wrong word, but you get what I mean. It’s weird how you can knowingly realise how irrational and wasteful your mood might be in a greater context, and yet precious little can lift it. I did try. I went to the gym in an attempt to get active and feel better about myself. But even this didn’t work. I felt just as miserable. Only now I had added fatigue to the misery too. And this did not leave me well equipped to attend the party I had been invited to in the evening. I couldn’t have felt more party-phobic if I tried. I could not even use my usual tactic of burying melancholy under a river of alcohol because I was driving. And prior to my arrival there were many things about the party which I did not relish the thought of. The main ones being...
1) Dancing. Being invited to dance was the last thing I wanted to happen to me. I mean, when have you ever seen anything as absurd as a depressed man with the sudden urge to burst into dance (Robbie Williams aside, obviously).
2) Other people having a bloody good time - which just makes you feel more incongruous in your environment, continually emphasising just how out of place you feel, like a kindly village Vicar stumbling in to a particularly racy Ann Summers party.
3) Getting your ears assaulted by ‘cheery’ party music so horribly idioglossic it almost makes you temporarily jealous of the shit-eating fly, because at least the shit-eating fly can simply sneak out the window unnoticed and escape this aural hell.
4) Being obliged into small talk, where the simple question “How are you?” becomes a moral scruple, as you deny your unfettered misery just to keep the cheery atmosphere flowing, whilst another little piece inside of your soul dies, ebbed away by the lies that your mouth is forced to tell to people you like and who don’t deserve to be lied to because they are nice enough to bother enquiring about your welfare in the first place.
In fact I could only think of one thing about the party that seemed remotely compatible with my gloomy mindset, and that was the inevitable big plate of sausage rolls on the buffet table. The little mashed pig-deaths wrapped in coats of pastry seemed poetically resonant to my dour mood and equally as attractive to my mouth and belly. But the short, mild thrill of sausage rolls seemed of inconsequential compensational value when compared to the hours ahead spent trying to force a demeanour of polite bonhomie through a heavy-hearted mood of self-loathing.
But of course, as is so often the case with these things, the party was absolutely fine. Sure, I spent the first obligatory hour hanging round looking a bit awkward, but this is pretty much par for the course and overall I am glad I made the effort to oblige the invitation I was honoured to have received. Everyone was really nice. And possibly as a result of my mental fragility, I even experienced strange new emotional responses to things. For instance, buying people drinks became a genuine pleasure rather than a polite gesture done with a hidden and repressed chagrin.
Mon 27th July 2009
I was at a wedding in Lancashire yesterday, so I visited my Mother today instead. She had other visitors; a mother and her 7 year old son. I was introduced to the young boy, who just sat staring at me with a particularly disconcerting grin. In the absence of any conceivable response to his silently amused gaze, I rather uncomfortably proffered my hand to him in a formal but rather awkward looking manner of introduction. He responded by raising his own tiny palm, completely bypassing my handshake, shoving it toward my chin, before devilishly tugging at my beard hair. I laughed politely pretending to be amused, whilst inside feeling completely out of my depth, not really knowing what to do or how to respond. I was drowning in a sea bereft of appropriate polite social conventions. “How old are you?” his half-angelic-half-demonic little gob enquired. “31” I replied. He informed me that only people over 40 grow beards and this seemed to amuse him even further. Why does my beard seem to be suddenly getting so much slack lately? Like I said yesterday, I don’t object to a jibe or two, but it was almost like he was aware not only of his insult, but the fact he could manipulate an alibi of childish innocence to merit immunity from retribution. I would like to say that the next words I spoke cut the cheeky whippersnapper down to size in a manner as wittily akin to anything Oscar Wilde’s finest canon. But I can’t. Because all I did was continue to stand with a gormless grin of paralysis. In real terms, I was being psychologically hoisted by a 7 year old.
When I sat down, his mother managed to discourage him from jumping upon me long enough to have an interesting conversation and to even order a Chinese meal. I did not partake in this feast as I had only recently eaten. The boy soon devoured his meal and then opened his fortune cookie, which informed him he would be a flourishing businessman. I bet he will be too. I can just imagine his maverick and acerbically brutal negotiating techniques once they have been honed, like a nightmarish cross between Vinnie Jones and Malcolm Tucker. Personally I would have settled for such a successful and optimistic premonition without the slightest temptation to take any further gambles with the God of fortune. But the boy was not satisfied by this, and was soon snapping open everybody else’s cookie; which either made him appear a greedy selfish little sod, or a genius little satirist of the novelty biscuit premonition system.
In fairness, he had been pretty restrained for quite a while, and I could even go as far as to say quite fun. But it was when his mother left the room to nip to the toilet that all hell really broke loose. The young man suddenly launched a frenzied attack firing fists at me from all angles, laughing like a maniac. Once again, the paralysis of uselessness struck me, as I stood rooted to the spot. I hadn’t a clue how to counteract this unruliness. Giving the lad a good knee in the face would have probably been considered inappropriate. It didn’t even really seem like my place to shout at him. All I could do was stand uselessly swinging from left to right trying to shield my genitalia from his barrage of waist-level punches. My own mother stood beside this spectacle of demonic outburst, assessing its psychological implications. “He’s testing you to see what he can get away with”, she concluded. After sating herself with her academic hypotheses, and watching me receive a couple more swings, she eventually addressed the boy. “Stop that now,” she sternly ordered, “This behaviour is not acceptable.” And as if by magic the lad simply turned around and sat back down on the settee. Peace was restored as quickly as the chaos had erupted. But there is no getting away from one depressing fact: I had needed my Mother to protect me from getting beaten by a 7 year boy. This was a new low.
When I sat down, his mother managed to discourage him from jumping upon me long enough to have an interesting conversation and to even order a Chinese meal. I did not partake in this feast as I had only recently eaten. The boy soon devoured his meal and then opened his fortune cookie, which informed him he would be a flourishing businessman. I bet he will be too. I can just imagine his maverick and acerbically brutal negotiating techniques once they have been honed, like a nightmarish cross between Vinnie Jones and Malcolm Tucker. Personally I would have settled for such a successful and optimistic premonition without the slightest temptation to take any further gambles with the God of fortune. But the boy was not satisfied by this, and was soon snapping open everybody else’s cookie; which either made him appear a greedy selfish little sod, or a genius little satirist of the novelty biscuit premonition system.
In fairness, he had been pretty restrained for quite a while, and I could even go as far as to say quite fun. But it was when his mother left the room to nip to the toilet that all hell really broke loose. The young man suddenly launched a frenzied attack firing fists at me from all angles, laughing like a maniac. Once again, the paralysis of uselessness struck me, as I stood rooted to the spot. I hadn’t a clue how to counteract this unruliness. Giving the lad a good knee in the face would have probably been considered inappropriate. It didn’t even really seem like my place to shout at him. All I could do was stand uselessly swinging from left to right trying to shield my genitalia from his barrage of waist-level punches. My own mother stood beside this spectacle of demonic outburst, assessing its psychological implications. “He’s testing you to see what he can get away with”, she concluded. After sating herself with her academic hypotheses, and watching me receive a couple more swings, she eventually addressed the boy. “Stop that now,” she sternly ordered, “This behaviour is not acceptable.” And as if by magic the lad simply turned around and sat back down on the settee. Peace was restored as quickly as the chaos had erupted. But there is no getting away from one depressing fact: I had needed my Mother to protect me from getting beaten by a 7 year boy. This was a new low.
Sat 25th July 2009
I walked into the pub tonight an acquaintence who I had not seen for some time. He came up to me and asked if I had joined the Taliban. I was a little fazed by this. What possible rumours could have circled the village during my holiday to have bought upon this surreal chain of events? To my knowledge, I have not crashed into the side of any buildings using any planes. I did once crash into the side of a bus in my Nissan Micra, but that was years ago when I lived in Liverpool, and seems a tenuous connection to say the least. There was certainly no malicious or disruptive motive to the crash, and even if there were I would have been a pretty sorry terrorist. At the point of impact I had barely got into first gear so was only travelling about 2 miles an hour. There wasn’t even as much as a dent on the bus. The only damage was a scratch on my wing and the bus driver only took my insurance details for what he called “precautionary administrational procedure”. According to the letter I received a few days later I learned, “precautionary administrational procedure” actually meant “free pay-out opportunity for a bogus whiplash claim”. A further 24 letters followed suit, from each of the passengers who had seemingly sustained a similar injury. It was quite a surprise that the same 2 mile per hour collision had not given me the slightest bruise or scratch yet had caused 24 cases of whiplash. Especially since there were only about a dozen people on the bus in the first place. Like I say, it was just too hapless to be considered anywhere in the league of a Taliban atrocity. Unless helping Scousers to pilfer free-loaded money constitutes as an act of national terrorism. But even if it were, it would not be for me to perpetuate crass implications about regional stereotypes. That is for other people to do.
Astonishingly, the reason for his questioning of such dramatic ideological shifts transpired to be even more tenuous: it was because I have recently grown a goatee beard. Bin Laden has a goatee beard. Ergo, I must be a member of the Taliban. Don’t get me wrong, I do not have a problem with having my beard derided (being boorishly heckled is all part of the charm when entering an English drinking establishment, and if my beard makes me look like a twat then fair enough - it is the closest my mouth has come to one of those in quite some time). But Bin Laden also had a walking stick. Yet did the old man who hobbled with a walking stick across the very same bar on the very same night get likened to the 21st Century’s biggest perpetrator of genocide? Oh no – HE didn’t. He was somehow immune.
It is the complete lack of consistency which got on my goatee.
Astonishingly, the reason for his questioning of such dramatic ideological shifts transpired to be even more tenuous: it was because I have recently grown a goatee beard. Bin Laden has a goatee beard. Ergo, I must be a member of the Taliban. Don’t get me wrong, I do not have a problem with having my beard derided (being boorishly heckled is all part of the charm when entering an English drinking establishment, and if my beard makes me look like a twat then fair enough - it is the closest my mouth has come to one of those in quite some time). But Bin Laden also had a walking stick. Yet did the old man who hobbled with a walking stick across the very same bar on the very same night get likened to the 21st Century’s biggest perpetrator of genocide? Oh no – HE didn’t. He was somehow immune.It is the complete lack of consistency which got on my goatee.
Fri 24th July 2009
I have just returned from my holidays, which started last week at Latitude. In case you are unfamiliar, it is an arts festival in Suffolk organised by Festival Republic, who also look after the Reading & Leeds festival. It is of smaller profile to those other events though, basically being the ideal festival for people who can’t be bothered with humongous crowds of people (many of which are in a lower social strata and can’t help but get loutishly drunk, steal blackberrys from tents and publically urinate up fencing), watching superstar performers, or having big corporate logos burned into their retinas every five minutes – but still enjoy the experience of standing in the rain being overcharged for rudimentary necessities such as food and liquid.
One of the less typical but gratefully received plus points of Latitude is that, for a small extra charge, we were able to take a fully equipped caravan; meaning that although some of the accustomed comforts of civilised society were still compromised, the festival could largely be lived with human dignity intact. I say largely, because there is still the thorny issue of defecation. Don’t get me wrong, our caravan had a functioning toilet, but as any seasoned caravanner will tell you, the caravan toilet is NOT to be used for solids. Not terrible news if you are in the “guest area” where you sit on a golden seat and a young virgin plays a harp and squeezes grapes into your mouth whilst you defecate, before cleaning off your arse with a towel of silk and bidet fountain of champagne-spray (for those of you who have never been in the guest area I can assure this to be absolutely what happens because I was once in said area myself. I remember those heady days well. My virgin was called Craig). But this was not the guest area. These were the disgusting festival ‘long drop’ toilets; those roofless, stable-door stalls positioned above a huge pit; that the disgusting general public used. In fact the nicest thing I can find to say about these particular loos, is that they’ve an aroma a bit like Saint Agur (a nice little reference there for connoisseurs of the supermarket cheese). But generally speaking, it doesn’t matter which festival you’re at, the sense of dread is exactly the same when one feels the inner-anvil ready to drop.
I headed to the toilet roll dispenser located in front of the cubicle blocks (these festival animals can’t be trusted to have their own roll inside each of the cubicles), plucked myself a dozen sheets, trudged up the platform steps, slid the bendy lock on the door of one of the metal cupboards and sat down to attend to my business. Well, not ‘sit down’ exactly - it may only have been rainwater that had drizzled the seat I peered at, but I wasn’t really willing to take any chances. So instead, I kind of hovered over the bowl with my knees half-bent holding my hand against the wall to assist with balance. And waited for emancipation.
The first tip anyone will give you about these types of shared ‘pit’ toilets is to never look down. It is unsavoury to think that so many people’s omissions collected in one shared ditch, but at least you can retain ignorance if you are sparing with your sense of sight. Unfortunately, you cannot retain such ignorance to the sensation of touch, specifically the touching of a warm liquid spraying across your buttock. Especially when it seems to be coming from the direction of a very audible urinating sound from the cubicle behind. In any other circumstance, I would consider this quite a feat. Surely it is a scientific impossibility for someone to urinate in a near horizontal direction? The only other explanation is that the person behind was weeing with such vigour, it was causing a splash-back effect from the swamp below. And perhaps understandably I’d rather believe it was the former. Philosophically-speaking, it is surely better to be pissed on by one man than be pissed on by a whole festival audience. And more pressingly, since I had refused to look down beforehand, if that level of splash-back could be achieved by single stream of liquid, what sort of monsoon could erupt as a consequence to the thud of my own solids? It was a treat gruesome enough to close my bowel for good. And at that moment, coincidentally my bowel did freeze up; leaving nothing but a kind of small cigar butt of faecal matter wedged between my buttocks.
I waited and waited, trying to muster the sufficient additional weight to cause a droppage but
nothing came. At one point I attempted a little Chubby Checker Twisting dance to free the small trapped slug in my buttocks, but it just wouldn’t budge. I think I even tried a more abrupt pelvic thrusting action, but still I couldn’t manage shake it out. And after a while, my hand, which had been supporting the weight of my weird half-crouching position, was getting tired and beginning to buckle and give way.
The only remaining option was to abort the mission and commence with my wipe, trying to mop up the sandwiched messy carnage as best I could. But it wasn’t really ‘mopping’ as much as ‘smearing’. In hindsight, twelve sheets of paper weren’t quite enough because I found myself laying the last two sheets in my pants, doing up my trousers and waddling off back to the toilet roll dispenser to equip myself with more provisions. As I swung the metal door of the toilet open, I caught the glance of a young lady who had been waiting outside for her turn to use the cubicle. And as she entered, I felt paranoid that she would automatically assume I had been the typically selfish and clumsy male who had been responsible for the drizzle on the seat. All in all it was a most vile experience, on so many levels. Next time I will remember to pack some Immodium.
One of the less typical but gratefully received plus points of Latitude is that, for a small extra charge, we were able to take a fully equipped caravan; meaning that although some of the accustomed comforts of civilised society were still compromised, the festival could largely be lived with human dignity intact. I say largely, because there is still the thorny issue of defecation. Don’t get me wrong, our caravan had a functioning toilet, but as any seasoned caravanner will tell you, the caravan toilet is NOT to be used for solids. Not terrible news if you are in the “guest area” where you sit on a golden seat and a young virgin plays a harp and squeezes grapes into your mouth whilst you defecate, before cleaning off your arse with a towel of silk and bidet fountain of champagne-spray (for those of you who have never been in the guest area I can assure this to be absolutely what happens because I was once in said area myself. I remember those heady days well. My virgin was called Craig). But this was not the guest area. These were the disgusting festival ‘long drop’ toilets; those roofless, stable-door stalls positioned above a huge pit; that the disgusting general public used. In fact the nicest thing I can find to say about these particular loos, is that they’ve an aroma a bit like Saint Agur (a nice little reference there for connoisseurs of the supermarket cheese). But generally speaking, it doesn’t matter which festival you’re at, the sense of dread is exactly the same when one feels the inner-anvil ready to drop.
I headed to the toilet roll dispenser located in front of the cubicle blocks (these festival animals can’t be trusted to have their own roll inside each of the cubicles), plucked myself a dozen sheets, trudged up the platform steps, slid the bendy lock on the door of one of the metal cupboards and sat down to attend to my business. Well, not ‘sit down’ exactly - it may only have been rainwater that had drizzled the seat I peered at, but I wasn’t really willing to take any chances. So instead, I kind of hovered over the bowl with my knees half-bent holding my hand against the wall to assist with balance. And waited for emancipation.The first tip anyone will give you about these types of shared ‘pit’ toilets is to never look down. It is unsavoury to think that so many people’s omissions collected in one shared ditch, but at least you can retain ignorance if you are sparing with your sense of sight. Unfortunately, you cannot retain such ignorance to the sensation of touch, specifically the touching of a warm liquid spraying across your buttock. Especially when it seems to be coming from the direction of a very audible urinating sound from the cubicle behind. In any other circumstance, I would consider this quite a feat. Surely it is a scientific impossibility for someone to urinate in a near horizontal direction? The only other explanation is that the person behind was weeing with such vigour, it was causing a splash-back effect from the swamp below. And perhaps understandably I’d rather believe it was the former. Philosophically-speaking, it is surely better to be pissed on by one man than be pissed on by a whole festival audience. And more pressingly, since I had refused to look down beforehand, if that level of splash-back could be achieved by single stream of liquid, what sort of monsoon could erupt as a consequence to the thud of my own solids? It was a treat gruesome enough to close my bowel for good. And at that moment, coincidentally my bowel did freeze up; leaving nothing but a kind of small cigar butt of faecal matter wedged between my buttocks.
I waited and waited, trying to muster the sufficient additional weight to cause a droppage but
nothing came. At one point I attempted a little Chubby Checker Twisting dance to free the small trapped slug in my buttocks, but it just wouldn’t budge. I think I even tried a more abrupt pelvic thrusting action, but still I couldn’t manage shake it out. And after a while, my hand, which had been supporting the weight of my weird half-crouching position, was getting tired and beginning to buckle and give way.The only remaining option was to abort the mission and commence with my wipe, trying to mop up the sandwiched messy carnage as best I could. But it wasn’t really ‘mopping’ as much as ‘smearing’. In hindsight, twelve sheets of paper weren’t quite enough because I found myself laying the last two sheets in my pants, doing up my trousers and waddling off back to the toilet roll dispenser to equip myself with more provisions. As I swung the metal door of the toilet open, I caught the glance of a young lady who had been waiting outside for her turn to use the cubicle. And as she entered, I felt paranoid that she would automatically assume I had been the typically selfish and clumsy male who had been responsible for the drizzle on the seat. All in all it was a most vile experience, on so many levels. Next time I will remember to pack some Immodium.
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