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...

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...

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...

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...

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...

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…