Ahoy! I'm back. Way too much has happened since I last updated (well over 2 years ago), so I'll just fill you in gradually and where necessary. But not now. It's just too much. Suffice to say, it's all change. Or mostly all change. With more to come...
Join me on my next (intermittently updated) journey.
x
Thursday, February 21, 2008
Thursday, October 12, 2006
No future...
Jesus. I don't think my liver can take much more of this. Although, having said that, I think my physical constitution is considerably stronger than my financial one. So, after a week and a half of schmoozing, catching up and generally drinking, I think I'll spend the rest of October sober and resolutely not in the pub.
A week ago on Thursday I was out with Miss Disco, during which time we discussed nothing much in particular, achieved nothing of substance and had a good time. Then on Friday, I went to Northern Mark's leaving do, for he is leaving the grown-up world of work and returning to university to study for a Master's. The last I saw of him, he was swaying unsteadily on his feet at 3am in Club NME in Koko (formerly, and forever in my mind, the Camden Palace). I knew I was old, but not recognising the songs and shaking my head at the badly dressed indie kids just showed me how far I've progressed into old age... Plus, yet another night bus home. Note to self: Get Rich Quick. On Saturday, I slept. On Sunday, I recovered further with red wine.
Then: Monday – consoling a friend, with gin; Tuesday – boozing with The Boy and JoJo (and The Girlfriend); Wednesday – night off; Thursday – took The Girlfriend for dinner to celebrate Five. Long. Years together; Friday – beers after work; Saturday – Mother down, England match viewed in pub. All too much...
By contrast, this week has been much quieter.
Thursday, September 28, 2006
No offence
It's all gone Fast Show. I've just been patronised to within an inch of my life by a South African sales assistant in Molton Brown. "No sir, you don't want to use that. What you need is this. No offence."
Needless to say, her slick sales patter worked perfectly on me. I left without spending anything, although I do now smell like an tart's party...
Needless to say, her slick sales patter worked perfectly on me. I left without spending anything, although I do now smell like an tart's party...
Monday, September 25, 2006
The Copenhagen Choir
So I've done my first work trip away. A lack of sleep and beer on the company expense account; all in all, quite a success and good fun. There wasn't a lot going on that I didn't expect: too many people fretting over minor points; I work well with late nights and very badly in the morning; beer tastes better after a long day's work; free minibars are brilliant; air conditioning leaves your eyes drier than a desert. The best night out – the last (obviously) – involved everyone in the team embarrassing themselves in the karaoke bar. Not that we all sung, just that some of us (clearly not me) revealed rather too much of their knowledge of Meat Loaf, Britney and Take That lyrics. Still, if you have no shame it doesn't really matter.
The week before that, I was embarrassing myself in Duckie thanks to The Boy. It's all well and good, but going south of the river, with its feral population and smell of decay, is always a worry. And almost two hours home on the night bus just spurs me on further to pay off my debts and be able to afford a cab. Having said that, it was a rare pleasure to have a long night out on less than £20 (expense accounts notwithstanding). I'll try and do the same this Friday when I have a considerably less camp night out at Northern Boy's leaving do in London's Drug (and Tourist)-Addled Camden (home, unsurprisingly, of The Boy).
The further emptiness of my life is shown by the fact that the only other thing I've done in the past couple of weeks is start another season of 11-a-side football, for which I am woefully underprepared and unfit. But we won, so I can get fit before the next match. Meh.
The week before that, I was embarrassing myself in Duckie thanks to The Boy. It's all well and good, but going south of the river, with its feral population and smell of decay, is always a worry. And almost two hours home on the night bus just spurs me on further to pay off my debts and be able to afford a cab. Having said that, it was a rare pleasure to have a long night out on less than £20 (expense accounts notwithstanding). I'll try and do the same this Friday when I have a considerably less camp night out at Northern Boy's leaving do in London's Drug (and Tourist)-Addled Camden (home, unsurprisingly, of The Boy).
The further emptiness of my life is shown by the fact that the only other thing I've done in the past couple of weeks is start another season of 11-a-side football, for which I am woefully underprepared and unfit. But we won, so I can get fit before the next match. Meh.
Tuesday, September 05, 2006
Sex and drugs and rock and roll (without the sex. And more 'pop' than rock and roll)
It's all so long ago now, but here is a little précis of what I can remember from the trip to Amsterdam. Which, admittedly, isn't much.
Morning, mushrooms and madness
In hindsight, catching a 7am plane wasn't wise. Sure, we had a whole day in Amsterdam, but we were knackered. Thanks to the terror overreaction, sorry – threat – we arrived suitable early and checked in with plenty of time to allow the halfwits to work out exactly what they could and couldn't take as hand luggage. I didn't realise that halfwit would, in fact, be The Boy. First, he pulled some lipsalve from his bag – when it was pointed out that this was covered in the verboten list. Quickly followed by the moisturiser. I'll allow him to pass it all off for being early, but I'm not entirely convinced.
So we arrived in Amsterdam, went to the hotel, dropped our bags off and had a walk around, lunch and all that yadda yadda. We then bought some mushrooms (Philosopher's Stones, for the aficionados) and retired to the hotel for a shower and preparation for the afternoon/evening. I was mildly entertained by the shops on the way to the supermarket – Kwik Fit, Fitness First and Domino's, one after the other. What is this globalisation of which you speak?
And off to Vondel Park for some mind expansion. Of course, the trouble with psychedelics is that it doesn't translate afterwards to the written page (if you want that, try this or this). But, the first two hours were entertaining; the fountain and trees and clouds were diverting. I sat like a slack-jawed yokel staring at things. And then the trip went on. And on. And on. To be honest, I thoroughly enjoyed it – the hilarity of a young girl having a tantrum (a proper stamping feet, thcreaming until I'm thick one) was too much. But The Boy was having a less good time of it – not enjoying at all, to be fair. It's probably the first time I've been on the 'up' side of a bad trip. And there's not a lot you can do. So we went back to the hotel, and vegged in front of the TV (the BBC): Porridge, a good programme at the best of time, was possibly the funniest thing I'd ever seen. (It seems less so now.)
We didn't do any more hallucinogens for the rest of the trip.
I want to break free
Thursday was much more sedate. We got up at a sensible time. We wandered around town. We stopped for frequent coffees and beers. We smoked a fat one. Later we went out for the evening.
I'm not sure what I was expecting from a sex show. Ping Pong balls, I think. To be honest, I've never seen as bored a bunch of people as those on stage. In fact, the only person who seemed to be having fun was the male stripper, who seemed to be there as a sop to the females in the audience (about 30%, to be fair). As an anthropological study, it was entertaining; as erotica, it failed miserably. And no Ping Pong balls. So that's still on my to-do list.
And onwards to the funky new gay bar. I say funky, but I actually mean camp as you like. The fine selection of music ranged from Elton John and the Spice Girls to musicals to a fine Dutch Eurovision entry with moves that everybody in the bar danced along to. Except for us. Still, I proved I'm still a fine prick tease – almost scarily so. I went to the gents, as you do, and as I turned around afterwards, I found my way blocked by a young man with a glint in his eye. He was so disappointed – and disbelieving for a moment – when I told him he was talking to the only straight man in the place. So we both left the gents, but he held no grudge, and we danced and drunk until the early hours. Upon which he came back to our hotel with us and talked more bollocks. Then he and The Boy took a long time saying goodbye at the front door (and I went to sleep).
Dykes on bikes
And so we did what they do in Rome, or rather Amsterdam, and hired bikes. We took a marathon route (8km out – the same back) to go and see a windmill (we saw two) and have a meal in another village. And we saw a goat sitting on a stick. Oh yes.
He looks innocent, doesn't he. I don't trust him
And boy did my arse hurt after that. And we finished off by going to the Rijksmuseum (drastically reduced in size at present) and the van Gogh museum. What can I say about them? I don't know a lot about art, but both museums were badly lit, and van Gogh was crap at perspective and anything approaching realism. Nice colours, mind.
And so, we ended the evening knackered, and smoked until we slept.
Vice
Not much to say about Saturday. We went home, obviously. And did some proper shopping. And because the Dutch are so tall (and, by God, I felt 'average'), I bought trousers: ones that won't be too short.
All in all, good fun. And something to repeat next year. With more sleep beforehand, and more mushrooms. But without the tiredness beforehand.
Morning, mushrooms and madness
In hindsight, catching a 7am plane wasn't wise. Sure, we had a whole day in Amsterdam, but we were knackered. Thanks to the terror overreaction, sorry – threat – we arrived suitable early and checked in with plenty of time to allow the halfwits to work out exactly what they could and couldn't take as hand luggage. I didn't realise that halfwit would, in fact, be The Boy. First, he pulled some lipsalve from his bag – when it was pointed out that this was covered in the verboten list. Quickly followed by the moisturiser. I'll allow him to pass it all off for being early, but I'm not entirely convinced.
So we arrived in Amsterdam, went to the hotel, dropped our bags off and had a walk around, lunch and all that yadda yadda. We then bought some mushrooms (Philosopher's Stones, for the aficionados) and retired to the hotel for a shower and preparation for the afternoon/evening. I was mildly entertained by the shops on the way to the supermarket – Kwik Fit, Fitness First and Domino's, one after the other. What is this globalisation of which you speak?
And off to Vondel Park for some mind expansion. Of course, the trouble with psychedelics is that it doesn't translate afterwards to the written page (if you want that, try this or this). But, the first two hours were entertaining; the fountain and trees and clouds were diverting. I sat like a slack-jawed yokel staring at things. And then the trip went on. And on. And on. To be honest, I thoroughly enjoyed it – the hilarity of a young girl having a tantrum (a proper stamping feet, thcreaming until I'm thick one) was too much. But The Boy was having a less good time of it – not enjoying at all, to be fair. It's probably the first time I've been on the 'up' side of a bad trip. And there's not a lot you can do. So we went back to the hotel, and vegged in front of the TV (the BBC): Porridge, a good programme at the best of time, was possibly the funniest thing I'd ever seen. (It seems less so now.)
We didn't do any more hallucinogens for the rest of the trip.
I want to break free
Thursday was much more sedate. We got up at a sensible time. We wandered around town. We stopped for frequent coffees and beers. We smoked a fat one. Later we went out for the evening.
I'm not sure what I was expecting from a sex show. Ping Pong balls, I think. To be honest, I've never seen as bored a bunch of people as those on stage. In fact, the only person who seemed to be having fun was the male stripper, who seemed to be there as a sop to the females in the audience (about 30%, to be fair). As an anthropological study, it was entertaining; as erotica, it failed miserably. And no Ping Pong balls. So that's still on my to-do list.
And onwards to the funky new gay bar. I say funky, but I actually mean camp as you like. The fine selection of music ranged from Elton John and the Spice Girls to musicals to a fine Dutch Eurovision entry with moves that everybody in the bar danced along to. Except for us. Still, I proved I'm still a fine prick tease – almost scarily so. I went to the gents, as you do, and as I turned around afterwards, I found my way blocked by a young man with a glint in his eye. He was so disappointed – and disbelieving for a moment – when I told him he was talking to the only straight man in the place. So we both left the gents, but he held no grudge, and we danced and drunk until the early hours. Upon which he came back to our hotel with us and talked more bollocks. Then he and The Boy took a long time saying goodbye at the front door (and I went to sleep).
Dykes on bikes
And so we did what they do in Rome, or rather Amsterdam, and hired bikes. We took a marathon route (8km out – the same back) to go and see a windmill (we saw two) and have a meal in another village. And we saw a goat sitting on a stick. Oh yes.
He looks innocent, doesn't he. I don't trust him
And boy did my arse hurt after that. And we finished off by going to the Rijksmuseum (drastically reduced in size at present) and the van Gogh museum. What can I say about them? I don't know a lot about art, but both museums were badly lit, and van Gogh was crap at perspective and anything approaching realism. Nice colours, mind.
And so, we ended the evening knackered, and smoked until we slept.
Vice
Not much to say about Saturday. We went home, obviously. And did some proper shopping. And because the Dutch are so tall (and, by God, I felt 'average'), I bought trousers: ones that won't be too short.
All in all, good fun. And something to repeat next year. With more sleep beforehand, and more mushrooms. But without the tiredness beforehand.
Sunday, August 13, 2006
Shouting at pies
So I've been to the first match for my adopted team, the mighty Orient. It was all meticulously planned and carried out, bar the crucial detail regarding pubs in Leyton to go to before and after the match. Still, we found a particularly unpleasant place for two swift ones, sat in the cheap seats, had a half-time pie and retired afterwards for another couple of looseners. The highlight was, having abused TV unfunny-man Bob Mills while looking at his column in the programme, realising he was sitting behind us. Next time we'll talk louder so that he hears.
Anyway, we won, and I'll be going back next time.
In worse news, The Boy and my trip to Amsterdam is looking rather shaky, thanks to the massive overreaction to the terrorist plot. Not that I want to be blown up, and I'm sure there is good reason, but do we really need this amount of hysteria? I doubt it. I don't have a problem with the hand luggage rules; I do have a problem with the extent of searching - I think Ryanair are on the money when they say checking a random 25% of passengers would work. Anyway, carry on like this and we can enjoy the collapse of the economy and no more cheap flights - that'll show the terrorists how we'll carry on as normal. Plus, the government - not the most open of organisations at the best of times - are sounding more and more like a fascist junta everyday, ruling by fear...
I just hope our flight isn't cancelled. The equivalent tomorrow is, and it's not looking good.
Anyway, we won, and I'll be going back next time.
In worse news, The Boy and my trip to Amsterdam is looking rather shaky, thanks to the massive overreaction to the terrorist plot. Not that I want to be blown up, and I'm sure there is good reason, but do we really need this amount of hysteria? I doubt it. I don't have a problem with the hand luggage rules; I do have a problem with the extent of searching - I think Ryanair are on the money when they say checking a random 25% of passengers would work. Anyway, carry on like this and we can enjoy the collapse of the economy and no more cheap flights - that'll show the terrorists how we'll carry on as normal. Plus, the government - not the most open of organisations at the best of times - are sounding more and more like a fascist junta everyday, ruling by fear...
I just hope our flight isn't cancelled. The equivalent tomorrow is, and it's not looking good.
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