Such excitement at work yesterday. I had to scream STOP THE PRESS. Well, I didn't excatly have to run into the print room, nor bawl down the phone at my deputy, but it was close. In that I sent an e-mail to the man who facilitates these things, and the effect was the same.
It turns out that there is a big drama, with a falling out and people suing each other, with us in the middle as an innocent (and wholly ignorant) party. So we pulled the piece in question and make all the right noises, and I had a laugh at the stupidity of it all.
And just over a week to go...
Wednesday, June 29, 2005
Tuesday, June 28, 2005
Freak out in the pink room
Sunday morning. Hangover. No time for breakfast. Have to get The Girlfriend to Heathrow. M40. Fast. Too fast. Heathrow–North circular–home.
Then TheBoy comes round, bringing fungus. Columbian fungus. Not For Beginners. Well, at least one of us isn’t a beginner.
Even though it’s a psychedelic, you feel it first in your stomach. You know it’s coming. Impending doom. It rushes through your veins; a bolus in the blood of fear, anxiety, expectation, anticipation, excitement. Do the others feel it? Paranoia. Is it just me? Do they feel this? Are they playing with me? Laughing at me because I’m about to lose it?
And then the smiles start. Uncontrollable giggles. Laughter. It stops; you catch someone’s eye and start again. Nothing too hectic, just a relaxing feeling.
A music TV channel was on in the background. Things are becoming a little weird. Bros are more hilarious than usual. Is that video special effects, or is it me? My limbs are weak. My concentration is gone. TheBoy turns off the channel, puts on a film. The walls are vivid. More so than usual. Everything is breathing. In. Out. In. Out. Slowly. Metronomically. The film plays in the background, drawing me in. My attention wanders. I laugh at the film.
TheBoy is looking at the fan. He’s confused. It’s giving him the come-on. She’s a minx, he says. You’re ceiling has pretty colours and shapes on it, he says. So it does, I say. We laugh. Are they normally this strong, he says.
Change the film, he says, the man is staring at me. I change the film. I put a cartoon on. Futurama. It’s funny. Time is very slow. We laugh. TheBoy can’t stand up properly. He crawls around. He sits behind the sofa, laughing. My head is heavy. The TV is making me laugh, but I’m only half watching.
TheBoy turns Darth Tater around. He was staring at me, he says. I go to the bathroom. It’s pure white. It’s vast. I stand there for a minute. I realise that it’s my bathroom. I’m confused. I leave.
TheBoy goes outside for a cigarette. The nature is strange, he says, there’s lots of it. I was out there for a long time, he says. He might have been, I think, but it didn’t seem like long. We talk. We laugh. He tries to draw me. He tries to draw the puppy. He can’t tell which of us is which, he says. Pets are supposed to look like their owners, I say. Not stuffed toy pets, he says. We could take it for a walk, I say. I’m not having my mum read about me being kicked to death in east London because I took a stuffed toy for a walk, he says. We laugh.
He goes outside for another cigarette. I join him outside. Nature seems mild compared to the living room. It’s not pink enough, I say. There’s not enough going on, I say.
We go for a walk to the park. We get bored on the way. We walk through the estate and laugh at the architecture. We go back to the flat. It’s weaker now. We watch TV. It’s the Simpsons. It’s funnier than it should be. We laugh. We talk. It’s wearing off.
It’s about 7pm and we’re both shattered. We order a pizza and watch the Incredibles. It’s a draining feeling, but a pleasant one. He goes home. I go to bed.
Then TheBoy comes round, bringing fungus. Columbian fungus. Not For Beginners. Well, at least one of us isn’t a beginner.
Even though it’s a psychedelic, you feel it first in your stomach. You know it’s coming. Impending doom. It rushes through your veins; a bolus in the blood of fear, anxiety, expectation, anticipation, excitement. Do the others feel it? Paranoia. Is it just me? Do they feel this? Are they playing with me? Laughing at me because I’m about to lose it?
And then the smiles start. Uncontrollable giggles. Laughter. It stops; you catch someone’s eye and start again. Nothing too hectic, just a relaxing feeling.
A music TV channel was on in the background. Things are becoming a little weird. Bros are more hilarious than usual. Is that video special effects, or is it me? My limbs are weak. My concentration is gone. TheBoy turns off the channel, puts on a film. The walls are vivid. More so than usual. Everything is breathing. In. Out. In. Out. Slowly. Metronomically. The film plays in the background, drawing me in. My attention wanders. I laugh at the film.
TheBoy is looking at the fan. He’s confused. It’s giving him the come-on. She’s a minx, he says. You’re ceiling has pretty colours and shapes on it, he says. So it does, I say. We laugh. Are they normally this strong, he says.
Change the film, he says, the man is staring at me. I change the film. I put a cartoon on. Futurama. It’s funny. Time is very slow. We laugh. TheBoy can’t stand up properly. He crawls around. He sits behind the sofa, laughing. My head is heavy. The TV is making me laugh, but I’m only half watching.
TheBoy turns Darth Tater around. He was staring at me, he says. I go to the bathroom. It’s pure white. It’s vast. I stand there for a minute. I realise that it’s my bathroom. I’m confused. I leave.
TheBoy goes outside for a cigarette. The nature is strange, he says, there’s lots of it. I was out there for a long time, he says. He might have been, I think, but it didn’t seem like long. We talk. We laugh. He tries to draw me. He tries to draw the puppy. He can’t tell which of us is which, he says. Pets are supposed to look like their owners, I say. Not stuffed toy pets, he says. We could take it for a walk, I say. I’m not having my mum read about me being kicked to death in east London because I took a stuffed toy for a walk, he says. We laugh.
He goes outside for another cigarette. I join him outside. Nature seems mild compared to the living room. It’s not pink enough, I say. There’s not enough going on, I say.
We go for a walk to the park. We get bored on the way. We walk through the estate and laugh at the architecture. We go back to the flat. It’s weaker now. We watch TV. It’s the Simpsons. It’s funnier than it should be. We laugh. We talk. It’s wearing off.
It’s about 7pm and we’re both shattered. We order a pizza and watch the Incredibles. It’s a draining feeling, but a pleasant one. He goes home. I go to bed.
Monday, June 27, 2005
One wedding and no news
Weddings, eh? A big piss up, a massive opportunity for family rifts to surface and fights to take place. But mostly, tedium in the church, a meal and lots of booze and embarrassing behaviour.
Well, The Girlfriend and I were looking dapper – like a gangster and his moll, as we were described, which pleased The Girlfriend no end – our close friends were looking fine and people we vaguely knew were looking cheap and gave us something to be bitchy about. And lots of men in kilts. Lots. Still, although it was in Warwickshire, it was two Scottish families.
The service itself was as tedious as ever. I had the magnificent view of a pillar, which didn’t spoil much. The church, like the hotel, didn’t have air-conditioning. Then again, it wasn’t built in the past ten years, so I’ll let them off. The vicar, or whatever he was, failed to convince me that I should go there every Sunday. The bride, who conspicuously failed to smile throughout the whole day, had a dress that was the wrong colour, the wrong style and was covered in some drab-looking lace, which I am reliably informed cost a lot of money.
We were on the Lager and Curry table, which was a step up from the Cheap Plonk and Dairylea. The celidh that followed the food was good fun, and bloody exhausting, but rather poorly subscribed by the other miserable guests. Unfortunately, nothing particularly interesting happened during the evening. Still, I looked good, The Girlfriend looked good and we had fun. Balls to everyone else.
Well, The Girlfriend and I were looking dapper – like a gangster and his moll, as we were described, which pleased The Girlfriend no end – our close friends were looking fine and people we vaguely knew were looking cheap and gave us something to be bitchy about. And lots of men in kilts. Lots. Still, although it was in Warwickshire, it was two Scottish families.
The service itself was as tedious as ever. I had the magnificent view of a pillar, which didn’t spoil much. The church, like the hotel, didn’t have air-conditioning. Then again, it wasn’t built in the past ten years, so I’ll let them off. The vicar, or whatever he was, failed to convince me that I should go there every Sunday. The bride, who conspicuously failed to smile throughout the whole day, had a dress that was the wrong colour, the wrong style and was covered in some drab-looking lace, which I am reliably informed cost a lot of money.
We were on the Lager and Curry table, which was a step up from the Cheap Plonk and Dairylea. The celidh that followed the food was good fun, and bloody exhausting, but rather poorly subscribed by the other miserable guests. Unfortunately, nothing particularly interesting happened during the evening. Still, I looked good, The Girlfriend looked good and we had fun. Balls to everyone else.
Fawlty Towers
Damn, what a weekend. So much that I’ll have to split it into three parts. Starting here, with a hotel review.
I had the misfortune to stay in the Warwick Hilton this weekend. Frankly, given what I now know and my feelings for the girl in question, I’d rather enter Paris Hilton. And I’d rather stick my dick in a blender than in that air-headed tit-stand.
I’d like to find something good about the hotel, but really I can’t. The bar was uninviting and outrageously expensive; the gym and pool was closed over the weekend; the breakfast was appalling (how difficult is it to heat up some beans) and necessitated a long queue; the lift took longer to go from floor to floor than Concorde did to cross the Atlantic; the shower was louder than Concorde; the ‘luxury robe’ was thinner than a condom and rougher than a mail sack; and the carpets, as in all hotels, offended my eyes.
But the most annoying thing, and something completely unforgivable in this day and age – especially when you are paying £120 a night – was the lack of air conditioning in the room. Unbelievable. True, they had provided a fan, which was the only thing in the county louder than the shower, to circulate the hot air around. Quite where people get the idea that we don’t need it in this country, I don’t know. It may not be as hot as other places, but it’s hot enough during the summer, and it’s sticky and humid and sweaty. And everywhere else in the developed world, air-con would come as standard. Frankly, they are taking the piss.
So, I urge you never to stay in a Hilton hotel. Their service is shit and they charge you a fortune for it. And if you are desperate to stay just off junction 15 of the M40, stay at the Holiday Inn instead.
I had the misfortune to stay in the Warwick Hilton this weekend. Frankly, given what I now know and my feelings for the girl in question, I’d rather enter Paris Hilton. And I’d rather stick my dick in a blender than in that air-headed tit-stand.
I’d like to find something good about the hotel, but really I can’t. The bar was uninviting and outrageously expensive; the gym and pool was closed over the weekend; the breakfast was appalling (how difficult is it to heat up some beans) and necessitated a long queue; the lift took longer to go from floor to floor than Concorde did to cross the Atlantic; the shower was louder than Concorde; the ‘luxury robe’ was thinner than a condom and rougher than a mail sack; and the carpets, as in all hotels, offended my eyes.
But the most annoying thing, and something completely unforgivable in this day and age – especially when you are paying £120 a night – was the lack of air conditioning in the room. Unbelievable. True, they had provided a fan, which was the only thing in the county louder than the shower, to circulate the hot air around. Quite where people get the idea that we don’t need it in this country, I don’t know. It may not be as hot as other places, but it’s hot enough during the summer, and it’s sticky and humid and sweaty. And everywhere else in the developed world, air-con would come as standard. Frankly, they are taking the piss.
So, I urge you never to stay in a Hilton hotel. Their service is shit and they charge you a fortune for it. And if you are desperate to stay just off junction 15 of the M40, stay at the Holiday Inn instead.
Wednesday, June 22, 2005
Can't you help me, Dr Beat?
I’ve finally got around to registering for a new doctor, having lived in the area for a mere two years. Which, for me, isn’t too bad. I lived in Muswell Hill for three years without bothering to sign up. And I only had to fill in two forms, one of which was mostly concerned with determining whether I was an asylum seeker.
What can I say? I’m a man, and visiting the doctor is not a popular way of dealing with health issues. It’s rather ironic, of course. As all men know, they have very sensitive pain receptors: for example, waxing hurts a man far more than a woman. (Notably, there is a limit to this sensitivity; a punch directly to the face does not hurt, nor does an injury caused by negligence/incompetency at DIY or the like. Despite the swearing.) But the moment a serious health issue is encountered, men are particularly stoic.
“No, this lump on my testicle is not serious. No need to bother the doctor with it.”
“I’m sure this pox will clear up by itself very soon.”
Whether it is fear of being told something bad or because it’s seen as a weakness I don’t know. Unless it’s a sporting injury or something involving a scar – which has bragging rights in the pub – then there is a tendency to ignore it.
Personally, I’d go to the doctor if I needed to, but never as a prospective thing. I haven’t had a GP for years because if it’s serious I’ll go to A&E; if it’s not, I’ll self medicate; and if I get a chronic problem, then I can sign up and see the quack.
Now, however, I’m getting old and my body is slowly falling apart. And I’ll not want to be waiting too long when my health collapses under the massive weight of this hypochondria.
What can I say? I’m a man, and visiting the doctor is not a popular way of dealing with health issues. It’s rather ironic, of course. As all men know, they have very sensitive pain receptors: for example, waxing hurts a man far more than a woman. (Notably, there is a limit to this sensitivity; a punch directly to the face does not hurt, nor does an injury caused by negligence/incompetency at DIY or the like. Despite the swearing.) But the moment a serious health issue is encountered, men are particularly stoic.
“No, this lump on my testicle is not serious. No need to bother the doctor with it.”
“I’m sure this pox will clear up by itself very soon.”
Whether it is fear of being told something bad or because it’s seen as a weakness I don’t know. Unless it’s a sporting injury or something involving a scar – which has bragging rights in the pub – then there is a tendency to ignore it.
Personally, I’d go to the doctor if I needed to, but never as a prospective thing. I haven’t had a GP for years because if it’s serious I’ll go to A&E; if it’s not, I’ll self medicate; and if I get a chronic problem, then I can sign up and see the quack.
Now, however, I’m getting old and my body is slowly falling apart. And I’ll not want to be waiting too long when my health collapses under the massive weight of this hypochondria.
Tuesday, June 21, 2005
Community Service
I had a proper bit of Eastenders drama on the way home this evening. In fact, it contained all the necessary components for a proper TV row: a domestic (in public); a shouting man; an alcoholic; a wife-beater; a former (double) psychiatric patient; previous police involvement; finger pointing; and a dog. And there were only two people involved!
The row was audible quite a distance away, but until I turned the corner into the road, I couldn't be too sure what was going on. When I did turn the corner, I had that sickening feeling that I was going to have to Do Something. I stood nearby for a second or two, having removed my headphones, to see what was going on (before I walked away from a possible murder or waded into a harmless tiff).
Sitting on the floor, leaning against a short wall - the sort that separates a small patio from the pavement - was a woman, with a small(ish) dog on a lead in one hand and a black holdall on the pavement next to her. Standing over her was a man, screaming at her nose to nose and shaking his hand inches in front of her face.
Her age was difficult to make out. I'd guess that she was in her late 30s, but could have been any age between 25 and 40. She was thin-faced and sallow, with deep sunken eyes resigned to whatever life was going to throw at her next. She had the kind of weariness about her that heroin addicts or prostitutes have, and it wouldn't surprise me if she had been one, or both, at some time in her life. He was older, greying and receding: probably in his 40s.
I was still stuck in limbo; I wasn't going to wade in and risk a beating over someone I don't know. But I wasn't about to walk away and do nothing when this shouting match was going on (I say match, but that implies that both were shouting. He was shouting and threatening. She was being studiously meek, but clearly used to this). So far, I had established that they were married, she was (he claimed) drunk and an alcoholic, this had happened before (frequently) and that she was adept at ‘playing the victim’.
I was not alone in my viewing. A couple of neighbours were standing at their front doors, and some passers-by had also stopped. I guess (as all men in these situations do) that nobody wanted to go in alone. I clearly looked like a good option, because a man from one of the nearby buildings walked up to me and said, "we can't let this go on like this." Agreeing, he, his friend and I walked over and attempted to separate him from her.
To be fair, he was amenable to stepping back; then again, most people probably would be wary of three twenty-something men. It became clear that this was a familiar scene, well practised and oft repeated. She was an alcoholic who caused him trouble, although quite what she did to annoy him such was never made clear. He was a wife-beater with a penchant for strangling her. The police had been involved in their domestics 47 times. She had twice been a psychiatric in-patient. They both wanted the police to come so that they could sort this out. She, apparently, made everyone feel sorry for her by acting weak (but, with a brute threatening you, you can’t really blame her). And all this was established through the medium of shout.
Unlike Eastenders, both were very good at their roles. He was clearly a nasty piece of work, but he knew how far he could push it in public. He did not touch her once, but every jab of his finger or face was dripping with menace. She played meek and mild, but there was something underneath to indicate that she was probably just as unpleasant as him, albeit without the physical threat. Neither of them pushed it too far. Had he touched her, four of us (another having arrived as we moved in) would have flattened him and clobbered him. She kept her mouth shut and didn't retaliate, giving him no reason to attack nor us to stop defending her.
The police arrived within about five minutes; the officers probably knew the couple, and both were well versed in the routine. The police were happy that we were no longer needed, and we all went our separate ways, leaving him on one side of the road with one policeman and her still sitting on the floor with the other.
I bet they'll be at it again before the week is out.
The row was audible quite a distance away, but until I turned the corner into the road, I couldn't be too sure what was going on. When I did turn the corner, I had that sickening feeling that I was going to have to Do Something. I stood nearby for a second or two, having removed my headphones, to see what was going on (before I walked away from a possible murder or waded into a harmless tiff).
Sitting on the floor, leaning against a short wall - the sort that separates a small patio from the pavement - was a woman, with a small(ish) dog on a lead in one hand and a black holdall on the pavement next to her. Standing over her was a man, screaming at her nose to nose and shaking his hand inches in front of her face.
Her age was difficult to make out. I'd guess that she was in her late 30s, but could have been any age between 25 and 40. She was thin-faced and sallow, with deep sunken eyes resigned to whatever life was going to throw at her next. She had the kind of weariness about her that heroin addicts or prostitutes have, and it wouldn't surprise me if she had been one, or both, at some time in her life. He was older, greying and receding: probably in his 40s.
I was still stuck in limbo; I wasn't going to wade in and risk a beating over someone I don't know. But I wasn't about to walk away and do nothing when this shouting match was going on (I say match, but that implies that both were shouting. He was shouting and threatening. She was being studiously meek, but clearly used to this). So far, I had established that they were married, she was (he claimed) drunk and an alcoholic, this had happened before (frequently) and that she was adept at ‘playing the victim’.
I was not alone in my viewing. A couple of neighbours were standing at their front doors, and some passers-by had also stopped. I guess (as all men in these situations do) that nobody wanted to go in alone. I clearly looked like a good option, because a man from one of the nearby buildings walked up to me and said, "we can't let this go on like this." Agreeing, he, his friend and I walked over and attempted to separate him from her.
To be fair, he was amenable to stepping back; then again, most people probably would be wary of three twenty-something men. It became clear that this was a familiar scene, well practised and oft repeated. She was an alcoholic who caused him trouble, although quite what she did to annoy him such was never made clear. He was a wife-beater with a penchant for strangling her. The police had been involved in their domestics 47 times. She had twice been a psychiatric in-patient. They both wanted the police to come so that they could sort this out. She, apparently, made everyone feel sorry for her by acting weak (but, with a brute threatening you, you can’t really blame her). And all this was established through the medium of shout.
Unlike Eastenders, both were very good at their roles. He was clearly a nasty piece of work, but he knew how far he could push it in public. He did not touch her once, but every jab of his finger or face was dripping with menace. She played meek and mild, but there was something underneath to indicate that she was probably just as unpleasant as him, albeit without the physical threat. Neither of them pushed it too far. Had he touched her, four of us (another having arrived as we moved in) would have flattened him and clobbered him. She kept her mouth shut and didn't retaliate, giving him no reason to attack nor us to stop defending her.
The police arrived within about five minutes; the officers probably knew the couple, and both were well versed in the routine. The police were happy that we were no longer needed, and we all went our separate ways, leaving him on one side of the road with one policeman and her still sitting on the floor with the other.
I bet they'll be at it again before the week is out.
Hot town, summer in the city
On Sunday, The Girlfriend and I went to meet TheBoy in London's exclusive Hampstead, to celebrate the temperatures of over 30°C and to make our contribution to the presence of Beautiful People. Disappointingly, Parliament Hill was not full of Beautiful People, but drunk people (I was only jealous because I had no beer), so there was little eye-candy (ourselves excluded, of course). Bizarrely, despite being one of the largest sections of greenery in London, most people decided they wanted to be crammed together in a single part of the heath. Maybe they were practising for their beach holiday in Benidorm.
Apart from the silly proles, Hampstead was as fine as ever. As soon as The Girlfriend earns enough, I shall let her buy me a house there. We had a pleasant couple of pints in the Freemason's Arms before retiring to the Holly Bush for dinner (or a pint of prawns) - officially the darkest place in the universe. There is nothing quite like a lazy Sunday afternoon with friends, so I am going to start making a habit of it. At least while it is sunny (or until my cashflow runs out).
Vive l'été.
Apart from the silly proles, Hampstead was as fine as ever. As soon as The Girlfriend earns enough, I shall let her buy me a house there. We had a pleasant couple of pints in the Freemason's Arms before retiring to the Holly Bush for dinner (or a pint of prawns) - officially the darkest place in the universe. There is nothing quite like a lazy Sunday afternoon with friends, so I am going to start making a habit of it. At least while it is sunny (or until my cashflow runs out).
Vive l'été.
Monday, June 20, 2005
Ban this sick filth. Oh, they are. Shame
On Friday night I spent another corrupting evening in the presence of RealSister, continuing my investigation into brain-cell death and distortion. Also experimenting were DrummerBoy (the boyfriend of RealSister), a schoolfriend of RealSister called Wolfman and Wolfman's sister, whose name I didn't get all evening (or when I did, I promptly forgot it).
Overall, it was quite a success, once everybody had got over the unfortunate mental block of actually eating the foul things. And we convinced RealSister that she was unlikely to believe she was an orange and try and peel herself, or scoop her eyes out with a spoon or think she could fly and jump out of a window, and all the other scare stories from yesteryear.
I guess that the dose was lower than my previous attempt, because I was not quite as monged, although I still had some nice visuals. Generally, it was all a bit of a giggle. Only WolfmanSister and I were seeing lines and colours early on, although the others starting seeing them towards the end of the night. Mostly it was laughing like loons, standing under a tree in tranquility or trying to buy beer with great difficulty. And Wolfman claiming each successive thing we encountered was the Best Thing Ever.
It was, therefore, a little depressing to find out the next day that the government were being busybodies and making the whole thing illegal on the pointless premise that it can induce psychosis. Aside from the fact that it will only induce it in people who already have it, and many other things could trigger it (such as alcohol), it got me thinking about alternatives. If mushrooms are no longer available on street stalls, and are as illegal as LSD, cocaine or ecstasy, then people who want a trip are more likely to try one of those. Notably acid, which is far stronger and far more likely to have adverse psychological results than mushrooms, and can be easily concealed (i.e. it's a small tab of paper, not 15-odd grams of fungus). Of course, it's less likely to attract the casual user, but is it the casual user who is the most likely to have mental problems in the first place? I couldn't tell you for sure, but I'd doubt that a propensity for hard drugs (or, in more extreme cases, addiction) is entirely separate from the likelihood of being unbalanced. And these are the people who are going to be driven to harder drugs.
I still believe that the decriminalisation of all 'recreational' drugs - along with strict controls on quality, access and aftercare - is the most sensible option, but I doubt it'll happen. Not when we have hysterical interest groups, misinformation and little sensible discussion of the issues in an empirical and scientific manner (rather than just scare tactics and fear).
So, before the end of July, I will try and get a big group of people together for a big blowout, possibly an afternoon in the park with an ‘alternative’ picnic.
Overall, it was quite a success, once everybody had got over the unfortunate mental block of actually eating the foul things. And we convinced RealSister that she was unlikely to believe she was an orange and try and peel herself, or scoop her eyes out with a spoon or think she could fly and jump out of a window, and all the other scare stories from yesteryear.
I guess that the dose was lower than my previous attempt, because I was not quite as monged, although I still had some nice visuals. Generally, it was all a bit of a giggle. Only WolfmanSister and I were seeing lines and colours early on, although the others starting seeing them towards the end of the night. Mostly it was laughing like loons, standing under a tree in tranquility or trying to buy beer with great difficulty. And Wolfman claiming each successive thing we encountered was the Best Thing Ever.
It was, therefore, a little depressing to find out the next day that the government were being busybodies and making the whole thing illegal on the pointless premise that it can induce psychosis. Aside from the fact that it will only induce it in people who already have it, and many other things could trigger it (such as alcohol), it got me thinking about alternatives. If mushrooms are no longer available on street stalls, and are as illegal as LSD, cocaine or ecstasy, then people who want a trip are more likely to try one of those. Notably acid, which is far stronger and far more likely to have adverse psychological results than mushrooms, and can be easily concealed (i.e. it's a small tab of paper, not 15-odd grams of fungus). Of course, it's less likely to attract the casual user, but is it the casual user who is the most likely to have mental problems in the first place? I couldn't tell you for sure, but I'd doubt that a propensity for hard drugs (or, in more extreme cases, addiction) is entirely separate from the likelihood of being unbalanced. And these are the people who are going to be driven to harder drugs.
I still believe that the decriminalisation of all 'recreational' drugs - along with strict controls on quality, access and aftercare - is the most sensible option, but I doubt it'll happen. Not when we have hysterical interest groups, misinformation and little sensible discussion of the issues in an empirical and scientific manner (rather than just scare tactics and fear).
So, before the end of July, I will try and get a big group of people together for a big blowout, possibly an afternoon in the park with an ‘alternative’ picnic.
Thursday, June 16, 2005
Pots, kettles and colour schemes
So the Archbishop of Canterbury has said that blogs indulge in 'paranoid fantasy, self-indulgent nonsense and dangerous bigotry'. As the head of a major religion, I hope that he is aware of the concept of irony...
Monday, June 13, 2005
A little piece of Switzerland
Just around the corner from where I live, and something that cheers me on my morning walk to work, is a porch in the style of an alpine chalet entrance. If, that is, you could buy alpine chalets in Argos.
What pleases me the most is the incongruity of the structure. I live in the netherworld between the urban and the suburban in London's trendy East End™. This particular appendage is unapologetically stuck on a early 20th century terraced house among a row of unassuming brick- or pebbledash-fronted family homes.
To add to my general pleasure, the front door is frequently open. Behind the Beware of the Dog signs (probably an aging pit-bull named Tyson) is an avocado shagpile carpet and an approximation of ostentatious furniture, clearly obtained within a budget of £20 per item. Including porcelain figurines.
I don't intend to mock it, despite what I say. I love that someone has thought hard enough about their house to want to decorate it in such a way; that they want to give the impression of garvitas and class with their teak-effect cupboards and exquisite mass-produced ornaments. But most of all I love it because they have added the porch they wanted, in the style they like, and to hell with the surrounding environment.
Am I being patronising? Hell yes, but I can't help smiling every time I see it. And, although I wouldn't want to live in something like that, I'm glad that someone does.
What pleases me the most is the incongruity of the structure. I live in the netherworld between the urban and the suburban in London's trendy East End™. This particular appendage is unapologetically stuck on a early 20th century terraced house among a row of unassuming brick- or pebbledash-fronted family homes.
To add to my general pleasure, the front door is frequently open. Behind the Beware of the Dog signs (probably an aging pit-bull named Tyson) is an avocado shagpile carpet and an approximation of ostentatious furniture, clearly obtained within a budget of £20 per item. Including porcelain figurines.
I don't intend to mock it, despite what I say. I love that someone has thought hard enough about their house to want to decorate it in such a way; that they want to give the impression of garvitas and class with their teak-effect cupboards and exquisite mass-produced ornaments. But most of all I love it because they have added the porch they wanted, in the style they like, and to hell with the surrounding environment.
Am I being patronising? Hell yes, but I can't help smiling every time I see it. And, although I wouldn't want to live in something like that, I'm glad that someone does.
We dream the same dream?
For some terrible reason, I was afflicted with the brain-bug on my Internal Jukebox of Belinda Carlisle's We Want The Same Thing. And it got me thinking. Do we? Do we really?
To wit: on one hand, I envisage a benign dictatorship, led by me, in which the ne'er do wells are cajoled and humanely treated into becoming responsible members of society; benefits and the welfare state are available to all those who need it and are a stepping stone back into contributing to society. Punishment for those who refuse to abide by these rules will be tempered by effective rehabilitation, and only persistent miscreants will be treated harshly. Everyone will realise that they have to put something into society to get something out of it. The Girlfriend, on the other hand, would like a malevolent dictatorship, led by her and enforced by crack military police units in black leather, in which all low-life fuckers were mercilessly executed.
Of course, this is not going to happen, but there are more realistic differences. I like to snowboard down pistes at great speed, and through dangerous tree-lined off-piste routes, in search of thrills, whereas she - inexplicably - likes to get to the bottom in one piece. I think a good evening in front of the television involves the unpredictable and magnificent drama of 22 men and a synthetic-leather pig's bladder substitute; she like car-crash TV in which fat and ugly Americans have plastic surgery to make them look like less-fat, ugly and facially stretched perma-smiling retards. I like computer games in which I can pretend to do someone else's job; she likes helping fluffy animals with their chores and to make a nice town. And so on...
The point of which is (apart from pointing out how wrong Ms Carlisle is), surely you don't want your partner to be a clone of you. Obviously, you want the broad interests to be the same: The Girlfriend and I both want rid of social parasites and like snowboarding, watching TV and playing computer games, but if you were too similar, what would you talk about? "Ooh, isn't xxx good?" "Yes." "Ooh, I don't like that, do you?" "No."
Actually, I'm not sure what my point is. Nor do I care. Hell, I was only trying to justify having a bad pop song in my head. And to point out that there is no excuse for wearing matching fleeces or the like...
To wit: on one hand, I envisage a benign dictatorship, led by me, in which the ne'er do wells are cajoled and humanely treated into becoming responsible members of society; benefits and the welfare state are available to all those who need it and are a stepping stone back into contributing to society. Punishment for those who refuse to abide by these rules will be tempered by effective rehabilitation, and only persistent miscreants will be treated harshly. Everyone will realise that they have to put something into society to get something out of it. The Girlfriend, on the other hand, would like a malevolent dictatorship, led by her and enforced by crack military police units in black leather, in which all low-life fuckers were mercilessly executed.
Of course, this is not going to happen, but there are more realistic differences. I like to snowboard down pistes at great speed, and through dangerous tree-lined off-piste routes, in search of thrills, whereas she - inexplicably - likes to get to the bottom in one piece. I think a good evening in front of the television involves the unpredictable and magnificent drama of 22 men and a synthetic-leather pig's bladder substitute; she like car-crash TV in which fat and ugly Americans have plastic surgery to make them look like less-fat, ugly and facially stretched perma-smiling retards. I like computer games in which I can pretend to do someone else's job; she likes helping fluffy animals with their chores and to make a nice town. And so on...
The point of which is (apart from pointing out how wrong Ms Carlisle is), surely you don't want your partner to be a clone of you. Obviously, you want the broad interests to be the same: The Girlfriend and I both want rid of social parasites and like snowboarding, watching TV and playing computer games, but if you were too similar, what would you talk about? "Ooh, isn't xxx good?" "Yes." "Ooh, I don't like that, do you?" "No."
Actually, I'm not sure what my point is. Nor do I care. Hell, I was only trying to justify having a bad pop song in my head. And to point out that there is no excuse for wearing matching fleeces or the like...
Isn't it ironic (no, Alannis, it's not)
I know I said I was going to write a review of Sin City, but I've kind of gone off the idea now. Suffice to say that it looks exactly like a graphic novel made into a film and could just as easily have been a cartoon. It's very stylish (and stylised) but ultimately completely vacuous and hollow. It all depends on what you're expecting; much as a graphic novel is a simplified novel for people with no imagination - or maybe just a throwaway story for light entertainment - the film is unencumbered by plot or depth. Still, it's better than most other action films in that it's not completely mindless...
Instead, I'd like to bitch about other peoples' weddings. Having already purchased my 70s Porn Star suit, I spent another small fortune on shoes, a shirt and a tie yesterday. Add to that the present - when I know damn well that they have a house full of these kinds of things, but are unwilling to do something gracious and ask for charity donations instead - the travel and the hotel, it becomes an expensive business. Fortunately, I'll be well dressed (although I'll have to keep away from anyone drinking red wine) and I'm going to have to make amends by drinking as much as possible at the free bar.
I'm not really sure of the point of weddings these days. Yes, it's a big piss up, but I could organise a far better night out (or in a marquee) for that sort of money, and it won't involve tantrums or tedious elderly relatives. And considering that many of these marriages will end in divorce (possibly not a comment I will actually be making at the weddings), it's all a bit of a palaver over very little. Perhaps I'm just too pragmatic and unromantic. I'm convinced that most men only go through with it because (i) they're desperate and feel that it's their last chance (or they are worried about losing out), (ii) there are significant tax reasons, (iii) because one or other of the sets of parents demand it or (iv) to stop the incessant nagging from the girlfriend (I suppose (v) some men are hopeless romantics, but that's just weird).
As for the women, I fear that they are all prey to childhood dreams of looking like a princess and having a perfect day. To be fair, all the weddings I've been to were conducted with enough humour and a considerable lack of worry from the brides that this wasn't the case. This next one...well, if it rains I imagine there will be much gnashing of teeth and wailing, and raging against God for how unfair it is on her special day.
I hope it rains...
Instead, I'd like to bitch about other peoples' weddings. Having already purchased my 70s Porn Star suit, I spent another small fortune on shoes, a shirt and a tie yesterday. Add to that the present - when I know damn well that they have a house full of these kinds of things, but are unwilling to do something gracious and ask for charity donations instead - the travel and the hotel, it becomes an expensive business. Fortunately, I'll be well dressed (although I'll have to keep away from anyone drinking red wine) and I'm going to have to make amends by drinking as much as possible at the free bar.
I'm not really sure of the point of weddings these days. Yes, it's a big piss up, but I could organise a far better night out (or in a marquee) for that sort of money, and it won't involve tantrums or tedious elderly relatives. And considering that many of these marriages will end in divorce (possibly not a comment I will actually be making at the weddings), it's all a bit of a palaver over very little. Perhaps I'm just too pragmatic and unromantic. I'm convinced that most men only go through with it because (i) they're desperate and feel that it's their last chance (or they are worried about losing out), (ii) there are significant tax reasons, (iii) because one or other of the sets of parents demand it or (iv) to stop the incessant nagging from the girlfriend (I suppose (v) some men are hopeless romantics, but that's just weird).
As for the women, I fear that they are all prey to childhood dreams of looking like a princess and having a perfect day. To be fair, all the weddings I've been to were conducted with enough humour and a considerable lack of worry from the brides that this wasn't the case. This next one...well, if it rains I imagine there will be much gnashing of teeth and wailing, and raging against God for how unfair it is on her special day.
I hope it rains...
Friday, June 10, 2005
Summer sun, something's begun...
Well, it might not be sunny but it was warm enough to have lunch outside for the second day in a row. Today was with The Girlfriend and yesterday with the Decent People I work with, and both were far better than reading the Guardian online at my desk. And it had the upshot of leaving me awake during the afternoon, which is a rare occurrence. Usually, I am ready for a quick kip by 2.30, but yesterday I was wide awake and able to work (I'm not saying that I actually did, but I could have). The coffee probably helped, too.
A review of Sin City, the film that occupied my evening yesterday, will follow later...
A review of Sin City, the film that occupied my evening yesterday, will follow later...
Monday, June 06, 2005
I admit it
Well, I'm man enough to admit it. The weekend wasn't as bad as I thought it would be. OK, it was actually enjoyable. GobShite sister was absent for most of it, and generous with presents when she returned (although I have my doubts as to how they were procured - she either gets too much poket money or she is an adept shoplifter). VeganZealot sister was good company, far more mature and less willing to try and start an argument with me. In fact, she even took it with good humour when I ordered venison and pigeon breast for dinner (and I was sitting next to her).
Hell, we even went to see art. Proper art.
Art? Or a sheep's toilet?
Real sister provided the entertainment, by appearing as shorn as a 1970s feminist (or Julia Roberts), much to everyone else's disgust, claiming that it was going to be waxed 'later'. In fact, the only real downer was the nagging guilt that I was a bit harsh on the Father, whose birthday it was, concerning his terrible memory and seeming obliviousness of the world around him. Not a nice feeling, but I hope he realises that there was no malice.
Still, I can't see the guilt lasting. Must be something I ate...
Hell, we even went to see art. Proper art.
Art? Or a sheep's toilet?
Real sister provided the entertainment, by appearing as shorn as a 1970s feminist (or Julia Roberts), much to everyone else's disgust, claiming that it was going to be waxed 'later'. In fact, the only real downer was the nagging guilt that I was a bit harsh on the Father, whose birthday it was, concerning his terrible memory and seeming obliviousness of the world around him. Not a nice feeling, but I hope he realises that there was no malice.
Still, I can't see the guilt lasting. Must be something I ate...
Friday, June 03, 2005
Arghhh! And Arghhh!
Lunchtime on Oxford Street is no place for a person like me. The tourists are out, hunting in packs of 20, stopping abruptly and meandering slowly in front of me. The schoolkids are on half-term and are cluttering up the place with their orange-glow Kilroy-Silk tans and cheap-looking jewellery.
I was there buying a birthday present for the Father, to whose house I will be going this weekend. Which will be yet more 'entertainment'. Still, at least I'll have the opportunity to bait VeganZealot sister about her soya-consumption-based destruction of the rainforests. That and try and fob off GobShite sister on Real sister (who will be trying to do just the same to me). I can hardly wait...
I was there buying a birthday present for the Father, to whose house I will be going this weekend. Which will be yet more 'entertainment'. Still, at least I'll have the opportunity to bait VeganZealot sister about her soya-consumption-based destruction of the rainforests. That and try and fob off GobShite sister on Real sister (who will be trying to do just the same to me). I can hardly wait...
Thursday, June 02, 2005
The toys are alive!
Being the intelligent, well-educated person that I am, I decided to spend Bank Holiday Monday in quiet reflection. By frying my brains with magic mushrooms. The Girlfriend had jetted off to the US that morning, for a two-hour work meeting, and I was bored at home. So, thanks to the ideas given to me by some of the finest minds of 20th Century literature, I conducted a little experiment. Or at least, I tried. My intention was to write - I don't know what exactly, but probably something that would appear on this blog - while Under The Influence.
However, ten minutes after taking the bloody things, before I'd had the chance to prepare my 'work space' and get some music and colourful things ready, I was lolling about on the floor tripping my tits off. I wasn't expecting this: I'd bought enough 'to be giggly' according to the saleswoman and I was counting on at least another ten minutes to prepare. Oh well. To ensure that I was in the right frame of mind, I was forced to watch Toy Story 2, which is genius at the best of times.
My recollections during the two or so hours:
THEY'RE FUCKING TOYS! TRYING TO CROSS A ROAD!
The pig is a comedy genius. Especially when he is reading the car manual.
My white ceiling has lots of pretty colours on it.
Thanks to the green clothes that were hanging up in the bathroom, my toilet bowl looked like Yoda's head.
Football is many things, but it is not funny on mushrooms.
The Simpsons is.
Invite someone around to laugh at next time.
The bonus was that it was all over by 6pm, although I felt wrecked for the next couple of hours...
However, ten minutes after taking the bloody things, before I'd had the chance to prepare my 'work space' and get some music and colourful things ready, I was lolling about on the floor tripping my tits off. I wasn't expecting this: I'd bought enough 'to be giggly' according to the saleswoman and I was counting on at least another ten minutes to prepare. Oh well. To ensure that I was in the right frame of mind, I was forced to watch Toy Story 2, which is genius at the best of times.
My recollections during the two or so hours:
THEY'RE FUCKING TOYS! TRYING TO CROSS A ROAD!
The pig is a comedy genius. Especially when he is reading the car manual.
My white ceiling has lots of pretty colours on it.
Thanks to the green clothes that were hanging up in the bathroom, my toilet bowl looked like Yoda's head.
Football is many things, but it is not funny on mushrooms.
The Simpsons is.
Invite someone around to laugh at next time.
The bonus was that it was all over by 6pm, although I felt wrecked for the next couple of hours...
Stayin' Alive
Being a man, shopping for clothes is rarely a happy experience. The majority of the time, I wear the same sort of clothes that I have worn for years (jeans/trousers and a shirt or T-shirt. Simple and effective). Often, I have them for years. They are thrown out when they wear out. I wouldn't want to give the impression that I wear dull unfashionable clothes, but jeans and a white T-shirt are going to look as good today as they did on James Dean in the 1950s and Nick Kamen in the 1980s (well, they might not look that good on me, but you get the point). I also have smart wear (1 suit, for weddings, interviews and funerals: now ten-years old), smart-ish wear (decent shirts & trousers), going out wear and an excessive collection of loud summer shirts.
Anyway, I digress. I have two weddings and a christening to attend in the next month or so, one being in the south of France. Not wanting to wear my rather tired old suit, I decided to buy a new one. Unfortunately, this involves going to The Shops. Now, I could easily attire myself quickly, happily and stylishly if it wasn't for the money. I often see clothes that I'd love to buy, only to be put off by the fact that without fail I have chosen the most expensive item in the store. Well, shopping in a state of poverty is difficult, because everything I like is out of my price range and everything I can afford is badly cut and cheap looking. Now, The Girlfriend had already decreed that I would be purchasing a light suit, to be summery and stylish, so I couldn't argue. I was also told that Zara had a fine example. An easy plan formed: into town; into Zara; purchase suit (and possibly shoes); escape. Simple.
Or not. You see, the jacket was fine, but did not come with matching trousers. Fine for a sports jacket n' jeans look (by which I mean not at all fine), but not a wedding or two. Fortunately, The Girlfriend had also seen one in Woodhouse. Unfortunately, it wasn't at Zara prices.
The upshot of which is: I now own a white linen suit that I can barely afford. I will have to buy a shirt and tie and shoe combo that doesn't make me look like Disco Stu. And I have to have the bollocks to wear it. Thank God I wear enough clothes normally in the summer that lead to my being called The Man from Del Monte anyway. I just have to make sure I match my other clothes in the style of Tom Wolfe rather than Tony Manero. Hell, if I get it right, I will look good. If I don't...
Anyway, I digress. I have two weddings and a christening to attend in the next month or so, one being in the south of France. Not wanting to wear my rather tired old suit, I decided to buy a new one. Unfortunately, this involves going to The Shops. Now, I could easily attire myself quickly, happily and stylishly if it wasn't for the money. I often see clothes that I'd love to buy, only to be put off by the fact that without fail I have chosen the most expensive item in the store. Well, shopping in a state of poverty is difficult, because everything I like is out of my price range and everything I can afford is badly cut and cheap looking. Now, The Girlfriend had already decreed that I would be purchasing a light suit, to be summery and stylish, so I couldn't argue. I was also told that Zara had a fine example. An easy plan formed: into town; into Zara; purchase suit (and possibly shoes); escape. Simple.
Or not. You see, the jacket was fine, but did not come with matching trousers. Fine for a sports jacket n' jeans look (by which I mean not at all fine), but not a wedding or two. Fortunately, The Girlfriend had also seen one in Woodhouse. Unfortunately, it wasn't at Zara prices.
The upshot of which is: I now own a white linen suit that I can barely afford. I will have to buy a shirt and tie and shoe combo that doesn't make me look like Disco Stu. And I have to have the bollocks to wear it. Thank God I wear enough clothes normally in the summer that lead to my being called The Man from Del Monte anyway. I just have to make sure I match my other clothes in the style of Tom Wolfe rather than Tony Manero. Hell, if I get it right, I will look good. If I don't...
Watching Dogs Die...
Here comes a big catch-up, considering that I haven’t added anything for a while. Being a new month, I’ll start a new colour, and tell you about my escapades in three sections, starting with a pop concert, followed by a potential fashion disaster and ending with a mind-expanding (hah) way of ending a bank holiday.
So back to last Thursday, when I ventured to Koko in Camden (or the Camden Palace as it will always be in my mind). This fine venue recently closed and reopened, and I am at a loss to see exactly what is different. The confusing maze of walkways, mezzanines and sublevels remains to help drunk patrons to get lost. The original old theatre styling hasn’t changed, and the mixing desk still juts bizarrely out of the balcony. Fortunately, the best thing about it – the fantastic sound system – is also just the same as ever. In fact, even the clientele was the same: not the specific people, of course, but the fact that absolutely everyone else in there was younger than me. By some considerable distance. As it was last time I was there. Ten years ago…
Anyway, I’d gone to watch Dogs Dies In Hot Cars, who sound like they should be a Norwegian black metal band but are actually a jaunty Gang of Four/1980s copyists, as is the current vogue. I don’t quite know what I was expecting: they’re hardly one of the leading lights of the new wave of new wave of … new wave scene; however, they were absolutely storming. I can’t recall going to a gig when the band sounded as accomplished as this. No doubt helped by the acoustics of the place, they were note perfect, without being sterile. After the disappointment of the diabolical Do Me Bad Things last month, this was a return to form for my gig going. Surely, if your full-time job is playing in a band, then getting it right shouldn’t be beyond you. And DDIHC gave a masterclass in Doing It Right.
Frankly, all I can do is suggest that you go and purchase the album. Well, go on then…
So back to last Thursday, when I ventured to Koko in Camden (or the Camden Palace as it will always be in my mind). This fine venue recently closed and reopened, and I am at a loss to see exactly what is different. The confusing maze of walkways, mezzanines and sublevels remains to help drunk patrons to get lost. The original old theatre styling hasn’t changed, and the mixing desk still juts bizarrely out of the balcony. Fortunately, the best thing about it – the fantastic sound system – is also just the same as ever. In fact, even the clientele was the same: not the specific people, of course, but the fact that absolutely everyone else in there was younger than me. By some considerable distance. As it was last time I was there. Ten years ago…
Anyway, I’d gone to watch Dogs Dies In Hot Cars, who sound like they should be a Norwegian black metal band but are actually a jaunty Gang of Four/1980s copyists, as is the current vogue. I don’t quite know what I was expecting: they’re hardly one of the leading lights of the new wave of new wave of … new wave scene; however, they were absolutely storming. I can’t recall going to a gig when the band sounded as accomplished as this. No doubt helped by the acoustics of the place, they were note perfect, without being sterile. After the disappointment of the diabolical Do Me Bad Things last month, this was a return to form for my gig going. Surely, if your full-time job is playing in a band, then getting it right shouldn’t be beyond you. And DDIHC gave a masterclass in Doing It Right.
Frankly, all I can do is suggest that you go and purchase the album. Well, go on then…
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