The whisky had been blessed with magical powers, this night. So I tend to shy away from it and instead stick to the three bottles of Stella Artois and two bottles of real ale that brought. I sipped at the whisky instead, and insisted the the Colonel drank the lion's share.
The theme for the omens of the night, was Turkey. No sooner had I finished murdering 'thank you' in Turkish to a girl downstairs, than I found myself repeating them to a different girl upstairs. As all Turks seem to, she looked non-impressed with my pronunciation, but begrudgingly allowed that it sounded almost correct.
I had arrived upstairs, hoping for the toilet, bursting with urgency that only beer can bring to a man.
'Oh god, why do people wait until the last minute, to when they really need to go desperately, when at a party?' I ask the Turkish girl I haven't met yet.
'I'm a pretty nasty person,' she says to me, 'I wouldn't speak to me if I were you.'
Which is certainly an interesting conversational gambit. However, I take the bait.
'Surely, that's for other people to decide, not you?'
The door opens, and she gestures for me to go in first.
'See?' I tell her, 'You're not nasty at all.'
She gives me an icy glare of the kind only ever seen in science fiction films where the fearsome queen of the desolate ice-barrens is about to stab the hero through the heart.
Downstairs and I'm talking too much, loving the sound of my own voice -- I get cocky with alcohol, filled with the mistaken imagination that I'm pretty goddamm cool. I have advice for everyone, if they want and / or need it or not.
I find myself saying to Delia, 'Look, if your hiccup cure doesn't work it's because you're not in control of your body. Not in complete control. But look, this is your body, you should be able to decide if you hiccup or not...'
I'm surprised that people take the time to listen to me at all sometimes.
And so it continues until only a few of us remain and I'm drinking half a glass of flat cider, which is all I can find left on the house.
So we leave, in the pouring rain, at 5am.
Monday, December 04, 2006
Wednesday, October 25, 2006
DIY - The Loft
I’d like to say that changing the loft insulation in a 100 year old house is fun, and full of amusing stories. But so far it isn’t, and there aren’t any. It’s simply dirty, nasty work in a loft full of cobwebs, dust and other unspeakable grime.
The loft was insulated, at some time in the past, with ‘Clinker’, which is defined as:
In other words, the Victorians and slightly later folk thought it a good idea to throw coal dust up there every now and then for good measure.
We filled 21 bin sacks full of the stuff. Never, ever been so filthy.
Now installing some kind of space-age (ha) insulation...
The loft was insulated, at some time in the past, with ‘Clinker’, which is defined as:
A local term used for remains of coal that have burned and the surrounding rock that has been transformed during the burning of the coal.
In other words, the Victorians and slightly later folk thought it a good idea to throw coal dust up there every now and then for good measure.
We filled 21 bin sacks full of the stuff. Never, ever been so filthy.
Now installing some kind of space-age (ha) insulation...
Tuesday, October 24, 2006
Saturday, October 21, 2006
Thursday, October 19, 2006
DIY - The back door
The back door is a little shoddy, truth be known. It looks like it’s been cobbled together from bits of old firewood and ikea furniture, and then added to over the years in an attempt to make it more secure / draught-free. It doesn’t open fully, grinding on the kitchen floor, yet when closed proudly boasts a one inch gap at its bottom, through which can been seen slugs and spiders, hastening inside out of the cold and wet weather.
There is also a large gap at the top of the door, which happily lets in rainwater, which has been soaking the wall above it.
Time for action. I choose 6pm as my start time, as it is just getting dark and threatening to rain. I open the door and the spiders and slugs hesitate, and then retreat to the walls to watch and wait.
First, apply insulating ‘tape’ around the door, in theory this provides a cushion when the door closes, and stops chill air whistling in as you try and cook lasagne, or something.
The instructions reckon that you should clean the area with white spirit and then dry thoroughly before application, but, I ask you, who’s likely to do that? So I wipe the area down with a damp sponge, then with a tea-towel (don’t tell the wife).
The tape goes on fine, this is pretty easy, I think.
Next is the bit of wood I bought to hammer on the top of the door. I measure the length and saw off an appropriate bit, sanding it some to remove the sharp edges.
Bang, bang, bang, bang, it’s going on well, bang bang, ah. As the door doesn’t open fully, there’s a part where I can’t access to hammer in a nail. I start to think that I should have used that wood glue I bought here. But I’ve hammered most of it on now, and it’s starting to rain, and getting dark, so there’s no way I’m taking it off now...
Ah, it’ll be fine, I think, and try to close the door.
It won’t close.
(With hindsight, I should perhaps have tried to close the door before putting the wood on...)
With some swearing and a bruised shoulder, I manage to close it just as the wife comes in.
‘Looks good,’ she comments.
‘Hmm,’ I say. ‘It’s a bit stiff.’
She tries it and is unable to close the door at all, bruised shoulders and all. She walks away with an air of ‘sort it out’.
I examine the door. The rain is getting harder now, and it is quite, quite dark outside. The wind picks up.
The wood seems to be sticking a little at the top, so I get out a rasper and start worrying away at the wood, taking all the edges off and rounding the bar. This generates a lot of wood shavings and eventually starts to ease the nails from their comfy positions so the whole thing rocks about. In frustration I rip it off, nails and all and retire to the cold, dark and wet garden to hammer all the nails back out of it and then swear at the wood as I rasp it to death.
All went well, and I was applying a bit of sandpaper to the diminished rod when the wife came out to ask how I was doing. Just as she does so there is an ominous crack from the stick, as it breaks internally and forever weakens.
‘Good,’ I lie.
The wood is soon nailed back onto the door, and is firm. It doesn’t rub anymore when the door closes. In fact, there are gaps all around. I suspect that it will still let in rainwater. Just a little.
The door still won’t close though. Well, not easily.
I notice that the door is sticking on the right hand side, next to the lock, where there is a bulge. I get out the rasper and take off a mm or so. It now sticks somewhere else, so I rasp that. Then it sticks somewhere else...
It’s a while before it dawns on me that as I remove the sticking bulges, the door is slipping on its hinges and so sticking somewhere new...
It’s positively cold now and the spiders want in. I shoulder the door into place with violence and lock up for the night. After all this, I realise, it’s actually just the tape that is making the door hard to close, and sigh as I sweep up the soggy wood chips.
There is also a large gap at the top of the door, which happily lets in rainwater, which has been soaking the wall above it.
Time for action. I choose 6pm as my start time, as it is just getting dark and threatening to rain. I open the door and the spiders and slugs hesitate, and then retreat to the walls to watch and wait.
First, apply insulating ‘tape’ around the door, in theory this provides a cushion when the door closes, and stops chill air whistling in as you try and cook lasagne, or something.
The instructions reckon that you should clean the area with white spirit and then dry thoroughly before application, but, I ask you, who’s likely to do that? So I wipe the area down with a damp sponge, then with a tea-towel (don’t tell the wife).
The tape goes on fine, this is pretty easy, I think.
Next is the bit of wood I bought to hammer on the top of the door. I measure the length and saw off an appropriate bit, sanding it some to remove the sharp edges.
Bang, bang, bang, bang, it’s going on well, bang bang, ah. As the door doesn’t open fully, there’s a part where I can’t access to hammer in a nail. I start to think that I should have used that wood glue I bought here. But I’ve hammered most of it on now, and it’s starting to rain, and getting dark, so there’s no way I’m taking it off now...
Ah, it’ll be fine, I think, and try to close the door.
It won’t close.
(With hindsight, I should perhaps have tried to close the door before putting the wood on...)
With some swearing and a bruised shoulder, I manage to close it just as the wife comes in.
‘Looks good,’ she comments.
‘Hmm,’ I say. ‘It’s a bit stiff.’
She tries it and is unable to close the door at all, bruised shoulders and all. She walks away with an air of ‘sort it out’.
I examine the door. The rain is getting harder now, and it is quite, quite dark outside. The wind picks up.
The wood seems to be sticking a little at the top, so I get out a rasper and start worrying away at the wood, taking all the edges off and rounding the bar. This generates a lot of wood shavings and eventually starts to ease the nails from their comfy positions so the whole thing rocks about. In frustration I rip it off, nails and all and retire to the cold, dark and wet garden to hammer all the nails back out of it and then swear at the wood as I rasp it to death.
All went well, and I was applying a bit of sandpaper to the diminished rod when the wife came out to ask how I was doing. Just as she does so there is an ominous crack from the stick, as it breaks internally and forever weakens.
‘Good,’ I lie.
The wood is soon nailed back onto the door, and is firm. It doesn’t rub anymore when the door closes. In fact, there are gaps all around. I suspect that it will still let in rainwater. Just a little.
The door still won’t close though. Well, not easily.
I notice that the door is sticking on the right hand side, next to the lock, where there is a bulge. I get out the rasper and take off a mm or so. It now sticks somewhere else, so I rasp that. Then it sticks somewhere else...
It’s a while before it dawns on me that as I remove the sticking bulges, the door is slipping on its hinges and so sticking somewhere new...
It’s positively cold now and the spiders want in. I shoulder the door into place with violence and lock up for the night. After all this, I realise, it’s actually just the tape that is making the door hard to close, and sigh as I sweep up the soggy wood chips.
Thursday, October 12, 2006
Teabags
So my father is here, helping fix up the house, fitting new locks, pulling off my skirting boards etc. And he brings some tea, as I don't have any (bare cupboards). Yorkshire Tea. An acquired taste, he says, as I pull faces drinking it.
Mustard comes round later and I offer tea, which he pulls a face at when he sips it.
'It's an acquired taste,' I tell him.
It tastes a bit like off-milk, as an aftertaste. I'm not sure I'll ever acquire it. Nor is he. It makes my mouth go a little numb, in fact.
Knowing my father, a thought occurs. I say, 'So, how old is that tea then, Dad?'
'Not sure,' he says, 'I found it in the back of the cupboard.'
As I get up to examine the box he shouts after me, 'Tea doesn't go off!'
There isn't a date on the box I can see, but there is a special offer on the side, to send off for a nice, limited edition teddy bear, provided that your entry arrives before the closing date of 31st August..... 1999.
Mustard comes round later and I offer tea, which he pulls a face at when he sips it.
'It's an acquired taste,' I tell him.
It tastes a bit like off-milk, as an aftertaste. I'm not sure I'll ever acquire it. Nor is he. It makes my mouth go a little numb, in fact.
Knowing my father, a thought occurs. I say, 'So, how old is that tea then, Dad?'
'Not sure,' he says, 'I found it in the back of the cupboard.'
As I get up to examine the box he shouts after me, 'Tea doesn't go off!'
There isn't a date on the box I can see, but there is a special offer on the side, to send off for a nice, limited edition teddy bear, provided that your entry arrives before the closing date of 31st August..... 1999.
Sunday, September 24, 2006
Moving: The movers are called
Moving home is supposed to be a stressful business.
It is.
Last night I spent half an hour calling a dozen moving companies in
the local area and arranging visits for 'free quotes' – this despite
the fact that I know in exact cubic feet how much stuff we have (after
having it shipped from Canada to begin with), I get the impression
that the movers don't believe me.
'Oh, right, most people don't know that,' they say, and then add,
'I'll have to visit, just to check you understand?'
So the over-the-phone quotes so far are between £750 - £1,500...
So I'm looking forward to two days of continual muddy shoes wandering
though the flat, with burly men sucking in air between their teeth
when looking at the wardrobe, etc.
Update will follow.
Saturday, April 01, 2006
Attempted Burglary
It's 5:30am and I'm not really sleeping due to this awful bug that is making me cough, sniffle and ache all over my body. My brain makes whooshing, throbbing motions and I try to drift into uneasy slumber.I hear a kind of crashing noise in the kitchen. I suspect one of the many items of dangerously balanced, recently washed up items has thrown itself to the floor in an attempt at attention seeking. Curious, I get up and walk naked in the dark to the kitchen door and peek round it.
There is something at the window. My eyes adjust and I see a figure lurking there, with his hand through our cat flap, obviously trying to reach the window latch above.
My first thought is that it is my crazed neighbour from below, living out one of his psychotic fantasies, so I stride into the kitchen, and right up the window.
It isn't my neighbour.
He has withdrawn his hand and is squatting there in the about-to-break light on our balcony, a hundred feet up, on our fire escape.
'What the fuck are you doing!' I scream in a slightly hysterical manner.
He considers this for a moment then mumbles something like, 'I'm trying to get in, I'm staying here.'
'But this is my flat!' I scream.
He shows me his mobile phone. I stare at it. What the hell has this got to do with anything? I lock the cat flap, which he must have somehow opened from the other side.
'I must have the wrong flat,' he tells me, 'I must be below you.' And then gets up and walks casually down the fire escape. I watch him go and then stand there in the kitchen window for a minute or two longer looking out at the empty metal stairs.
After this I find it even harder to sleep.
In the morning I examine the cat flap and it falls to bits in my hands. He has pulled bits off and smashed it up. There is now a big hole in my kitchen window and no flap to cover it. I hastily make a repair with some duct tape and then put a big wooden board over the window before we go out to look at houses (which is another long story of disappointments, or, rather, broken appointments (as opposed to broken apartments)).
When we get back from hours of fruitless walking I bang on neighbours' doors in the building and ask if they have a guest who might have broken into my flat last night. They all seem a bit worried by the whole thing and no-one has a clue.
It all seems a bit fishy to me, so I go to the police.
Ah, the police, the stories I can tell of the police, but I won't right now. This time, it seems, the police are, wait for it, nice.
Of course, the police station closes at about 6pm. I have to use a yellow phone by the door which rings forever (so it seems). As I wait I'm happy that I didn't run here with a crazed axe murderer chasing me.
'Hello, Police.'
'Hi, I'd like to report an attempted break-in at my flat last night.'
'Please hold.'
Click, whirrrrr, ring ring [etc]...
[Automated voice] 'You are through to the non-urgent police reporting centre, please hold.'
When a voice finally does answer, I fully expect it to be an Indian call centre, but it isn't and the woman is jolly and sounds quite local.
I explain what happened.
'And why,' She asks, chidingly, 'didn't you call 999 last night?'
She takes it all very seriously despite my personal suspicions that the guy was perhaps just wasted and on a psychedelic adventure. She doesn't like the sound of it though and says they'll treat it as attempted burglary.
She laughs, 'I'm sorry,' she says, 'but the image of the man with his hand through the cat flap and you charging in there naked, oh, ha ha ha ha, ho ho!'
'Indeed.' I agree.
An hour later a policeman comes by the house and takes a statement, which then took an hour. My god, I think, how long does a serious crime report take?
He finished up by saying, 'Right, forensics will be round at some point, and then we'd like you to come down to the station to do some e-fits and line-up parades.'
'Really?' I'm quite incredulous. 'If this is just a drunken idiot, I'm causing a lot of work, aren't I?' I say, feeling guilty.
He dismisses this and tells me, 'No, there's something not right about this case and we're taking it seriously.' He then calls his sarge and tells here, 'Hi Sarge, just finished taking the statement, bzzzt, yes the cat flap case, bzzzt, okay, back soon.'
And leaves.
Wednesday, March 15, 2006
Push my button
I don't know why, but two of the things that really get me worked up (and shouldn't) involve button pressing.
1. Pelican crossing.
For those of you not British, a pelican crossing is one where you push a button, wait a while, and then cross when the green man says it is okay (as opposed to a Zebra crossing where you can simply walk out into speeding traffic and demand that they stop).
Note the use of buttons. Now, granted, some busy junctions will automatically change and show a green man if you wait there for long enough, but on straight roads, away from junctions, you could wait until the end of time and the green man wouldn't appear.
Why then, do crowds of people stand at Peilcan crossings without pressing the button? Brighton train station is a classic example. It's often full of people standing there waiting, and no-one has pressed the button. I walk up and do so and instantly the lights change. The zombies standing around notice the effect, but not the cause.
2. Buses
On a bus, in England, if you wish to get off at the next stop, then you press a button and the driver is alerted to this fact. When you press the button a ding noise is heard quite clearly, and a sign very clearly seen througout the bus lights up, saying 'STOPPING'. In big letters like that.
Why, oh why, oh why then do people continue to press the button when it has already been done? When approaching a bus stop it can sound like a pinball machine, the amount of pinging that is going on.
Really, I think I'm upset that so many people don't seem to be aware of their surroundings. Going through life oblivious of the details.
1. Pelican crossing.
For those of you not British, a pelican crossing is one where you push a button, wait a while, and then cross when the green man says it is okay (as opposed to a Zebra crossing where you can simply walk out into speeding traffic and demand that they stop).
Note the use of buttons. Now, granted, some busy junctions will automatically change and show a green man if you wait there for long enough, but on straight roads, away from junctions, you could wait until the end of time and the green man wouldn't appear.
Why then, do crowds of people stand at Peilcan crossings without pressing the button? Brighton train station is a classic example. It's often full of people standing there waiting, and no-one has pressed the button. I walk up and do so and instantly the lights change. The zombies standing around notice the effect, but not the cause.
2. Buses
On a bus, in England, if you wish to get off at the next stop, then you press a button and the driver is alerted to this fact. When you press the button a ding noise is heard quite clearly, and a sign very clearly seen througout the bus lights up, saying 'STOPPING'. In big letters like that.
Why, oh why, oh why then do people continue to press the button when it has already been done? When approaching a bus stop it can sound like a pinball machine, the amount of pinging that is going on.
Really, I think I'm upset that so many people don't seem to be aware of their surroundings. Going through life oblivious of the details.
Friday, March 10, 2006
Badly-designed disabled toilets
The only seat left on the train was the one next to the badly-designed disabled toilets. Badly designed? Yes, very. The door opens and closes electronically at a pace that tears at the soul. So you step in side and press the close button. And wait, whilst people stare at you, as the door creaks and creeps shut. Most people at this point get frustrated and foolishly try to press the lock button before the door has fully closed. This is a mistake. If you do this then the door finally closes and then starts to open again. Then you must then wait for it to fully open, and press close again and repeat the process.
Damn thing.
Anyway, this particular toilet was obviously out of order (all too common, that) and had been flashing as occupied since I got on about 30 minutes ago.
Now arrives the tall, lanky drunken man. He jabs at the button several times. Nothing happens. He goes to the other button round the side and jabs that too. Nothing.
He starts to hop from foot to foot. 'Shit, shit shit.' He mutters, and jabs the button again.
'I think it's out of order,' I say, causing him to whirl around and stare at me madly, jiggling.
After staring at me for a while he starts to jab the button again. He is making sobbing noises now and holding his penis like a little boy. He stood in full view, cursing, sobbing, jiggling and massaging his packet for some minutes. The door didn't open.
Eventually, he limped off to the next carriage.
Damn thing.
Anyway, this particular toilet was obviously out of order (all too common, that) and had been flashing as occupied since I got on about 30 minutes ago.
Now arrives the tall, lanky drunken man. He jabs at the button several times. Nothing happens. He goes to the other button round the side and jabs that too. Nothing.
He starts to hop from foot to foot. 'Shit, shit shit.' He mutters, and jabs the button again.
'I think it's out of order,' I say, causing him to whirl around and stare at me madly, jiggling.
After staring at me for a while he starts to jab the button again. He is making sobbing noises now and holding his penis like a little boy. He stood in full view, cursing, sobbing, jiggling and massaging his packet for some minutes. The door didn't open.
Eventually, he limped off to the next carriage.
Croydon Knife Crimes?
On my way home last night I passed through Croydon train station where the police had blocked off all the platform exits and erected large scanning devices of the kind more normally (for now) seen in airports. A sign nearby proclaimed that they were making my journey safer by checking that people travelling on the train with me aren't carrying anything nasty. Like knives.
I passed by without being hassled, but on an impulse turned around and approached two police nearby.
'What's the law concerning carrying penknives then?' I ask.
They squint at me, obviously thinking, he's got a knife!
'Two point, what is it?' Says one.
'Two point seven, I think?' Says cop number two.
I assume they are talking size of blade, and inches. But they don't know for sure, which is worrying.
'Unless it locks.' Says cop 1.
'Yes, unless it locks.' Parrots cop 2.
'Ah, I say,' pulling out my small locking penknife. They stare at it, as if it is a bomb.
'This is small,' I continue, '...but locks. So I can't carry it then?'
'No.' Says cop 1.
'You shouldn't have it.' Says cop 2. Cop 2 looks like she wants to take my knife away.
'So,' I say, putting it back in my pocket, 'I'll just take it home and not carry it again, eh?'
They stare at me as I walk backwards and escape.
I passed by without being hassled, but on an impulse turned around and approached two police nearby.
'What's the law concerning carrying penknives then?' I ask.
They squint at me, obviously thinking, he's got a knife!
'Two point, what is it?' Says one.
'Two point seven, I think?' Says cop number two.
I assume they are talking size of blade, and inches. But they don't know for sure, which is worrying.
'Unless it locks.' Says cop 1.
'Yes, unless it locks.' Parrots cop 2.
'Ah, I say,' pulling out my small locking penknife. They stare at it, as if it is a bomb.
'This is small,' I continue, '...but locks. So I can't carry it then?'
'No.' Says cop 1.
'You shouldn't have it.' Says cop 2. Cop 2 looks like she wants to take my knife away.
'So,' I say, putting it back in my pocket, 'I'll just take it home and not carry it again, eh?'
They stare at me as I walk backwards and escape.
Sunday, June 26, 2005
The Joy of Power Tools
"Press the trigger switch, and your circular saw will start"User Manual
'Well,' says Dave, thoughtfully chewing his lip, 'if you're going to be cutting up roofing timber all day, then I'd go for the Bosch, but if you're just going to use it once or twice a year to cut up bits of pine, then you might as well go for the PB1200CS.'
He eyes me, waiting for me to admit that I wouldn't be cutting up acres of timber daily with my circular saw. What he is, in fact, saying is 'Are you sure you need a circular saw at all?'
It's a good question, and quite frankly, no, I don't. I'm building a spice rack from soft pine for the kitchen, not renovating a 17th century farmhouse.
But I've always wanted a circular saw, and this was my big excuse. Even the wife seemed keen, mistakenly believing that a circular saw was essential to the act of building a spice rack (even though just a few weeks before I built a seven foot bookshelf with a hand saw).
Back in HomeBase I stare at Dave's bloody and bandaged thumb. I wonder if he sustained the injury at work, or at home trying out a discounted circular saw.
'Well,' I say, 'I won't exactly be using it every day, so I suppose I'll take the PB1200CS.'
The name alone, full of letters and numbers, is exciting.
'But is it any good?' Asks the wife.
Dave sucks air in between his teeth. 'Well, it's a new line, you see, so we only know if they're good if they get returned.'
'And have many been returned?' She asks.
'No, and we've had them for eight months, so I reckon they're okay.' He tells us.
Good enough for me. But before we leave, we pick up a Bosch PEX220A 'Random Orbit Sander', reduced by £60 or something so outrageous that it would have been lunacy not to buy it. Oh, and a workbench. I blamed my dodgy angles on the bookshelf on the fact that I was sawing on two rickety old chairs.
Ker-ching! £60 please. Not bad for a hoard of powerful and dangerous machinery.I've never used a circular saw before, though I've used an angle grinder, and I figure that the operation will be similar. It's big, and heavy. It feels marvellously macho and ready to cause grievous injury at the slightest mistake, so, unlike me, I read the manual before plugging it in and merrily chopping off any fingers.
It's full of useful advice:
- Do not force the tool.
- Look after the tool.
- Protect the cable.
- Maintain with care.
Makes it sound like a pet. The bit of advice that caught my eye though was:
- Do not use tool when tired.
Ah. So I decide to start sawing on Sunday instead - the traditional day for making outrageous amounts of DIY noise.
So I read the rest of the manual. It's full of new words and I go to bed with riving knives, mitre cutting locks, tct blades and parallel fences churning round my mind.
The joy of power tools must be hard to understand, if you're not excited by them. Buying one is like Christmas day, using it makes your day vibrant and real. Sound sad, but it's true. When you can't hear and your arms throb into the evening, you know you've had a worthwhile afternoon.
Anyway, it is fun, and it is clever, let's just leave it at that.
I convert the spare room into a workshop - tarp, dust sheets, move the extra bedding and towels to another room (you know how picky wives can be), and set up the bench, which occupies a mildly frustrating half hour (self assembly, some blisters required).
Luckily though I now own a 'pistol driver' (a purchase made for the shelves a few weeks ago), which is just bloody marvellous.
It's a 'Pro4.8V' and I recommend everyone to go out an buy one now. Not only does it look like a gun, so you can do cowboy / gangster mime with it, it also pushes screws into things with a satisfying noise.
So, bench is up and a long plank of pine is secured in it, with a line drawn down the middle. The PB1200CS circular saw doesn't come with a laser sight (like the more expensive Black and Decker model), so I'm going to be doing it by eye.
Christ, the saw is heavy. I plug it in and gingerly press the trigger.
'Gggggggggggggggggggrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrryyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyaaaaaaaaaaawwwwww!' It screams.
It's deafeningly loud and I'm grinning as I plough forward across the plank. Masses of sawdust and wood-chips fly across the room. I supress 'woo-hoos' though.
Half way across I'm stuck. My bits of wood used to clamp the plank in place are catching on the base plate. There's a burning smell now. Ah, probably not good that, I think.
My solution is to angle the saw slightly to get around the obstacle, and plough onwards. I notice a slight wobble, gouge, and burn in the area that I just passed...
Stop again, another obstacle. More burning smells. Cursing I work my way backwards along the whole plank to get the saw out of the end, and then take my finger off the trigger, before realising that I could have just lifted it out of the wood instead. Doh.
As the saw slowly dies, with a high screaming noise, I realise that I can't hear much any more. There was part of the manual that recommended ear protectors, but I figured they were just for the all-day-sawing-roofing-timber types. Apparantly not.
Well, I've started, I reason, so turn the bench around and go for it from the other end. All goes well and my plank is now divided in two. It's a bit black and wobbly in places, but it's actually quite a nice cut. I measure the two and they're improbably accurate too.
The rest of the spice rack went without a hitch apart from a sketchy moment when I managed to assemble some of the shelves in such a way that they couldn't be removed from the workbench by mortal means. Some smart unscrewing was done whilst hoping that the wife didn't come in and see...
And, lo, and behold, the finished product:
(picture later)
As you can plainly see, something not possible without a circular saw.
Saturday, May 21, 2005
Descent of Man
Alone for the week, the wife in Canada, I do the first thing I can think of and find myself in the lounge drinking Stella Artois, naked, playing video games. Well, I am only human.
I enjoy this greatly.
Without the structure that a couple-life imposes upon you, my routine quickly reverts to bachelordom, illustrated well by a breakfast made from left over curry, chips, rice, chilli and egg, mashed up, fried and eaten with Brown Sauce (fairly stodgy and not to be repeated incidentally).
I spend the morning in Stereo, Games, computer shops and Matalan (which is a shop ever full of men without their girlfriends), take a pint and then head home for an oven-baked meal washed down with cans of lager whilst playing Playstation games.
Bored of my day now, I embark on a pub crawl (after a few glasses of wine and watching Dr Who).
On the street I find I'm already quite tipsy after all the lager and wine. My stomach grumbles portentously, offended by the new diet it has been given.
My pub-crawl plan is to drink in pubs that I've never been in before, and where I can get a seat. It is Saturday night, so this means that I end of walking a while before I find one, which sobers me up slightly.
First stop: The Prince of Wales, an unassuming, tiny pub. I order a pint of tasty Spitfire and sit alone, staring out of the window at girls dressed in mini-skirts and cleavage, laughing and staggering about in large groups.
Depression falls over me and I sit in quiet desperation, mulling over the nature of mankind, the ills of society, my own failings in life, the peeling paintwork of the skirting boards, the cobweb on the lamp.
Then a jolly red-faced man asks me for a light, which I supply, and he thanks me heartily and give me a big cheeky grin before returning to his table. I watch them for a while, he sits with two girls, both chubby and extremely happy. They talk about crap in an unintelligent manner, and laugh like hell. They seem very content.
All at once my spirits lift and I unaccountably decide that the world is, in fact, good.
My god, I think, the world is actually more good than bad! This seems like a revelation in a way that only drunks experience. (In fact, when I get home that night I make a point of writing it on the front page of Ralpharama - it is still there.)
As I look around I see furious life, laughing faces, emotional scenes, the vigour of it all fills me up and makes me gulp down my pint in happiness.
(I just re-read Candide, which I blame for all this up-and-down nonsense)
Feeling better I walk on to the next pub. I move through the throngs of summer-clad idiots with a grin on my face. They accept me as one of their own and smile and shout as I walk by.
I walk down streets, alleys, roads and lanes until I come across a pub I never before saw.
It seems to be full of terribly camp people, all mincing around and listening to the Eurovision Song Contest on the radio. Terry Wogan at full volume in a pub is somewhat unexpected.
I order a generic bitter and retire to a distant stool to scribble more thoughts of mankind in my black book in a doctor-like scrawl. As I write, and sip, I look around at the pictures of old film stars and Queen (not [i]the[/i] Queen mind). It's very quiet for a Saturday night.
I drink up and am heading out of the door when a strange urge pulls me to the bar and I find myself ordering another beer, and sitting on a stool there..
Czech singers yodel enthusiastically as I drink another pissy pint of Youngs bitter.
The barman does his best to cheer me up by flirting with me and rubbing my hand, but it can't be helped - I'm sliding back into a down.
'What the hell am I doing alone in this crap pub at 10pm on a Saturday?' I ask myself, and have no answers. I go to the bathroom and upon my return there's a man reading a soft-core gay porn mag at the bar. I feel sad and leave.
The pub? I asked before I left - The Aquarium.
I walk the streets, and actually enter, walk through, and leave a couple of pubs, which are both heaving with people in the later stages of drunkenness, which repels me now, as I myself stagger homewards.
I have a last pint in the Eddy, where I watch a barmaid do magic tricks for intoxicated young men. I have to seriously bite my tongue to stop myself becoming involved. I feel uncomfortable in the pub, though it's nice enough. I just want to get home I suppose.
The next morning I'm surprised to find the toasted sandwich maker all greasy (and thankfully turned off). Yet more evidence of my descent of man. The wife returns on Sunday, hopefully I won't be too ape-like by then.
I enjoy this greatly.
Without the structure that a couple-life imposes upon you, my routine quickly reverts to bachelordom, illustrated well by a breakfast made from left over curry, chips, rice, chilli and egg, mashed up, fried and eaten with Brown Sauce (fairly stodgy and not to be repeated incidentally).
I spend the morning in Stereo, Games, computer shops and Matalan (which is a shop ever full of men without their girlfriends), take a pint and then head home for an oven-baked meal washed down with cans of lager whilst playing Playstation games.
Bored of my day now, I embark on a pub crawl (after a few glasses of wine and watching Dr Who).
On the street I find I'm already quite tipsy after all the lager and wine. My stomach grumbles portentously, offended by the new diet it has been given.
My pub-crawl plan is to drink in pubs that I've never been in before, and where I can get a seat. It is Saturday night, so this means that I end of walking a while before I find one, which sobers me up slightly.
First stop: The Prince of Wales, an unassuming, tiny pub. I order a pint of tasty Spitfire and sit alone, staring out of the window at girls dressed in mini-skirts and cleavage, laughing and staggering about in large groups.
Depression falls over me and I sit in quiet desperation, mulling over the nature of mankind, the ills of society, my own failings in life, the peeling paintwork of the skirting boards, the cobweb on the lamp.
Then a jolly red-faced man asks me for a light, which I supply, and he thanks me heartily and give me a big cheeky grin before returning to his table. I watch them for a while, he sits with two girls, both chubby and extremely happy. They talk about crap in an unintelligent manner, and laugh like hell. They seem very content.
All at once my spirits lift and I unaccountably decide that the world is, in fact, good.
My god, I think, the world is actually more good than bad! This seems like a revelation in a way that only drunks experience. (In fact, when I get home that night I make a point of writing it on the front page of Ralpharama - it is still there.)
As I look around I see furious life, laughing faces, emotional scenes, the vigour of it all fills me up and makes me gulp down my pint in happiness.
(I just re-read Candide, which I blame for all this up-and-down nonsense)
Feeling better I walk on to the next pub. I move through the throngs of summer-clad idiots with a grin on my face. They accept me as one of their own and smile and shout as I walk by.
I walk down streets, alleys, roads and lanes until I come across a pub I never before saw.
It seems to be full of terribly camp people, all mincing around and listening to the Eurovision Song Contest on the radio. Terry Wogan at full volume in a pub is somewhat unexpected.
I order a generic bitter and retire to a distant stool to scribble more thoughts of mankind in my black book in a doctor-like scrawl. As I write, and sip, I look around at the pictures of old film stars and Queen (not [i]the[/i] Queen mind). It's very quiet for a Saturday night.
I drink up and am heading out of the door when a strange urge pulls me to the bar and I find myself ordering another beer, and sitting on a stool there..
Czech singers yodel enthusiastically as I drink another pissy pint of Youngs bitter.
The barman does his best to cheer me up by flirting with me and rubbing my hand, but it can't be helped - I'm sliding back into a down.
'What the hell am I doing alone in this crap pub at 10pm on a Saturday?' I ask myself, and have no answers. I go to the bathroom and upon my return there's a man reading a soft-core gay porn mag at the bar. I feel sad and leave.
The pub? I asked before I left - The Aquarium.
I walk the streets, and actually enter, walk through, and leave a couple of pubs, which are both heaving with people in the later stages of drunkenness, which repels me now, as I myself stagger homewards.
I have a last pint in the Eddy, where I watch a barmaid do magic tricks for intoxicated young men. I have to seriously bite my tongue to stop myself becoming involved. I feel uncomfortable in the pub, though it's nice enough. I just want to get home I suppose.
The next morning I'm surprised to find the toasted sandwich maker all greasy (and thankfully turned off). Yet more evidence of my descent of man. The wife returns on Sunday, hopefully I won't be too ape-like by then.
Alone for the week
Alone for the week, the wife in Canada, I do the first thing I can think of and find myself in the lounge drinking Stella Artois, naked, playing video games. Well, I am only human.
I enjoy this greatly.
Without the structure that a couple-life imposes upon you, my routine quickly reverts to bachelordom, illustrated well by a breakfast made from left over curry, chips, rice, chilli and egg, mashed up, fried and eaten with Brown Sauce (fairly stodgy and not to be repeated incidentally).
I spend the morning in Stereo, Games, computer shops and Matalan (which is a shop ever full of men without their girlfriends), take a pint and then head home for an oven-baked meal washed down with cans of lager whilst playing Playstation games.
Bored of my day now, I embark on a pub crawl (after a few glasses of wine and watching Dr Who).
+++
On the street I find I'm already quite tipsy after all the lager and wine. My stomach grumbles portentously, offended by the new diet it has been given.
My pub-crawl plan is to drink in pubs that I've never been in before, and where I can get a seat. It is Saturday night, so this means that I end of walking a while before I find one, which sobers me up slightly.
First stop: The Prince of Wales, an unassuming, tiny pub. I order a pint of tasty Spitfire and sit alone, staring out of the window at girls dressed in mini-skirts and cleavage, laughing and staggering about in large groups.
Depression falls over me and I sit in quiet desperation, mulling over the nature of mankind, the ills of society, my own failings in life, the peeling paintwork of the skirting boards, the cobweb on the lamp.
Then a jolly red-faced man asks me for a light, which I supply, and he thanks me heartily and give me a big cheeky grin before returning to his table. I watch them for a while, he sits with two girls, both chubby and extremely happy. They talk about crap in an unintelligent manner, and laugh like hell. They seem very content.
All at once my spirits lift and I unaccountably decide that the world is, in fact, good.
My god, I think, the world is actually more good than bad! This seems like a revelation in a way that only drunks experience. (In fact, when I get home that night I make a point of writing it on the front page of Ralpharama - it is still there.)
As I look around I see furious life, laughing faces, emotional scenes, the vigour of it all fills me up and makes me gulp down my pint in happiness.
([i]I just re-read Candide, which I blame for all this up-and-down nonsense[/i])
Feeling better I walk on the next pub. I move through the throngs of summer-clad idiots with a grin on my face. They accept me as one of their own and smile and shout as I walk by.
I walk down streets, alleys, roads and lanes until I come across a pub I never before saw.
It seems to be full of terribly camp people, all mincing around and listening to the Eurovision Song Contest on the radio. Terry Wogan at full volume in a pub is somewhat unexpected.
I order a generic bitter and retire to a distant stool to scribble more thoughts of mankind in my black book in a doctor-like scrawl. As I write, and sip, I look around at the pictures of old film stars and Queen (not [i]the[/i] Queen mind). It's very quiet for a Saturday night.
I drink up and am heading out of the door when a strange urge pulls me to the bar and I find myself ordering another beer, and sitting on a stool there..
Czech singers yodel enthusiastically as I drink another pissy pint of Youngs bitter.
The barman does his best to cheer me up by flirting with me and rubbing my hand, but it can't be helped - I'm sliding back into a down.
'What the hell am I doing alone in this crap pub at 10pm on a Saturday?' I ask myself, and have no answers. I go to the bathroom and upon my return there's a man reading a soft-core gay porn mag at the bar. I feel sad and leave.
The pub? I asked before I left - The Aquarium.
I walk the streets, and actually enter, walk through, and leave a couple of pubs, which are both heaving with people in the later stages of drunkenness, which repels me now, as I myself stagger homewards.
I have a last pint in the Eddy, where I watch a barmaid do magic tricks for intoxicated young men. I have to seriously bite my tongue to stop myself becoming involved. I feel uncomfortable in the pub, though it's nice enough. I just want to get home I suppose.
+++
The next morning I'm surprised to find the toasted sandwich maker all greasy (and thankfully turned off). Yet more evidence of my descent of man. The wife returns on Sunday, hopefully I won't be too ape-like by then.
I enjoy this greatly.
Without the structure that a couple-life imposes upon you, my routine quickly reverts to bachelordom, illustrated well by a breakfast made from left over curry, chips, rice, chilli and egg, mashed up, fried and eaten with Brown Sauce (fairly stodgy and not to be repeated incidentally).
I spend the morning in Stereo, Games, computer shops and Matalan (which is a shop ever full of men without their girlfriends), take a pint and then head home for an oven-baked meal washed down with cans of lager whilst playing Playstation games.
Bored of my day now, I embark on a pub crawl (after a few glasses of wine and watching Dr Who).
+++
On the street I find I'm already quite tipsy after all the lager and wine. My stomach grumbles portentously, offended by the new diet it has been given.
My pub-crawl plan is to drink in pubs that I've never been in before, and where I can get a seat. It is Saturday night, so this means that I end of walking a while before I find one, which sobers me up slightly.
First stop: The Prince of Wales, an unassuming, tiny pub. I order a pint of tasty Spitfire and sit alone, staring out of the window at girls dressed in mini-skirts and cleavage, laughing and staggering about in large groups.
Depression falls over me and I sit in quiet desperation, mulling over the nature of mankind, the ills of society, my own failings in life, the peeling paintwork of the skirting boards, the cobweb on the lamp.
Then a jolly red-faced man asks me for a light, which I supply, and he thanks me heartily and give me a big cheeky grin before returning to his table. I watch them for a while, he sits with two girls, both chubby and extremely happy. They talk about crap in an unintelligent manner, and laugh like hell. They seem very content.
All at once my spirits lift and I unaccountably decide that the world is, in fact, good.
My god, I think, the world is actually more good than bad! This seems like a revelation in a way that only drunks experience. (In fact, when I get home that night I make a point of writing it on the front page of Ralpharama - it is still there.)
As I look around I see furious life, laughing faces, emotional scenes, the vigour of it all fills me up and makes me gulp down my pint in happiness.
([i]I just re-read Candide, which I blame for all this up-and-down nonsense[/i])
Feeling better I walk on the next pub. I move through the throngs of summer-clad idiots with a grin on my face. They accept me as one of their own and smile and shout as I walk by.
I walk down streets, alleys, roads and lanes until I come across a pub I never before saw.
It seems to be full of terribly camp people, all mincing around and listening to the Eurovision Song Contest on the radio. Terry Wogan at full volume in a pub is somewhat unexpected.
I order a generic bitter and retire to a distant stool to scribble more thoughts of mankind in my black book in a doctor-like scrawl. As I write, and sip, I look around at the pictures of old film stars and Queen (not [i]the[/i] Queen mind). It's very quiet for a Saturday night.
I drink up and am heading out of the door when a strange urge pulls me to the bar and I find myself ordering another beer, and sitting on a stool there..
Czech singers yodel enthusiastically as I drink another pissy pint of Youngs bitter.
The barman does his best to cheer me up by flirting with me and rubbing my hand, but it can't be helped - I'm sliding back into a down.
'What the hell am I doing alone in this crap pub at 10pm on a Saturday?' I ask myself, and have no answers. I go to the bathroom and upon my return there's a man reading a soft-core gay porn mag at the bar. I feel sad and leave.
The pub? I asked before I left - The Aquarium.
I walk the streets, and actually enter, walk through, and leave a couple of pubs, which are both heaving with people in the later stages of drunkenness, which repels me now, as I myself stagger homewards.
I have a last pint in the Eddy, where I watch a barmaid do magic tricks for intoxicated young men. I have to seriously bite my tongue to stop myself becoming involved. I feel uncomfortable in the pub, though it's nice enough. I just want to get home I suppose.
+++
The next morning I'm surprised to find the toasted sandwich maker all greasy (and thankfully turned off). Yet more evidence of my descent of man. The wife returns on Sunday, hopefully I won't be too ape-like by then.
Sunday, April 10, 2005
IKEA delivery
IKEA delivery: Any time between 8 and 8, we're told. But, they add, we'll call and give you half an hour notice.Pub then?
No, the wife has other ideas - let's move the lounge around, clean up, and hoover under every crevice in the flat. Then, after that, we'll go shopping. Hmm? Sound good?
So, I dream of the pub and angrily sort through sheets of paper and move boxes about with some violence. Still, they call at 10:30am, so I'm not put out for too long.
So, given the nature of the world, and how unreliable it is, I start to make a chilli for supper, slowly, and they arrive at 1pm and park outside the flat in a never-seen-before space which appeared as-if-by-magic as they rolled down the street.
It's a big truck.
I point out the luck of the space to the jovial Scot driver.
He frowns, 'But if you didn'ae have the space, we'd have not have delivered yer sofa.' (I'm bad with accents).
This gem of information wasn't imparted to us at the time of purchase. Lucky, really.
We take up (nobly) the shelves and poles and screws and things, and leave them the sofa. I run down the stairs and catch them coming in the doors, which I hold open and then buzz around them unhelpfully as they push and pull the damn creamy thing up the four flights of stairs.
I'm glad I'm not doing it, I ponder, as I hang around behind them on the stairs.
'Well, it's nae small,' says the Scot as he heaves it into the lounge. He had an idea that the top floor would be a kind of single-room bubble.
We thank the movers for a good job, and (to ensure a day of sorrow) head for Argos to inflict the 'Flat-Pack-Walk' upon ourselves.
Let me explain.
We buy an 'entertainment unit', which is much less fun that it sounds. It turns out that it's actually a lot of shoddy wooden planks and some screws in a large, heavy box. It's designed for you to put your TV and video, DVD etc on. So they say.
We haul the item out of the shop and head up the road. Ah, it seems easy at first, but then the shoulders start to hurt, followed by the hands, back, arms, legs, elbows, neck, and ankles. You start to break out in beads of sweat and puff and pant, swear and stagger like a drunk.
'Just to the next lamp-post, eh?' You grunt, and totter towards it.
With the box on the floor you then stand around, flexing hands and looking nonchalant as passerbys eye you suspiciously. Blood slowly throbs into hands and arms.
Then it's another session to the post box, then the street corner, then the shop, then the next post box, the doorstep, each floor in turn, until finally, after half an hour of sweaty nightmare, the flat-pack-walk ends and you can start to enjoy the real fun of assembling the bloody thing.
The Argos design invokes in me furious swearing and blisters. This is, admittedly, partially the fault of the 1-pound-for-five screwdriver set that I bought in poundstretcher, but, also, the consequence of thinking it wise to design one leaflet without words than can be (supposedly) read by the entire world, independent of language.
Bollocks, I say.
The Entertainment Unit is a seriously bad design which simply involves powering lots of long screws into wooden planks without any nice starter holes. In the end I have to wear a glove as my blisters start to bleed.
Two hours. Two bloody hours it took. Two hours of pain, misery, red-faced-ness, cursing, and Stella Artois.
'I've finished with screwing for a year!' Shouts the wife (one her more memorable utterances), as she nurses her blisters.
Saturday, March 12, 2005
A string of disappointments
A string of disappointments plunge me into a low mood: BT bill for £87 for just six weeks (don't know why yet); a stereo we found after the street market doesn't work any longer (after one hour of good performance) and we went out to buy speakers for it too; the Brighton and Hove beer festival finished yesterday, and not today as I thought, so I missed it.
So I lay on the floor and worried about money, and how we'll live next month for a while, then played playstation followed by three pints in the Cricketers reading the Sunday Times.
Relaxing.
So I lay on the floor and worried about money, and how we'll live next month for a while, then played playstation followed by three pints in the Cricketers reading the Sunday Times.
Relaxing.
Monday, March 07, 2005
Tzar Bar
Plastic glasses start my spider-sense tingling, so I look around suspiciously as I sip my pint of Kronenbourg at the back bar of the Tzar Bar. The wife has moved on to Rum and Coke after the last pint took a long time to go down. Price, £5.60.
It's busy already and we're incredibly lucky to grab a seat near the front bar with a view of the dancefloor, table, and everything. We settle back and watch the young and the beautiful enter.
We take another pint.
'Dark rum?' The barmaid asks.
'Um, okay.' I say.
'That's £6.20.' She smiles sweetly.
I figure that dark rum is more expensive than what we had the first time (I wasn't asked).
Back at the table a crazy-eyed, multi-tattooed man comes over to our table and does a rap in my face. I don't remember the whole thing, but it went along the lines of,
'Fat women, thin women, blonde women, tall women, short women, brown women and white, I want to f4ck them all.'
This rap was positively shouted into my face as the man made all the correct rap-esque gestures. It is difficult to know what to do, exactly, when someone raps in your, in a pub, face out of the blue.
He finishes and I say, 'Great rap man.'
He looks at me suspiciously, 'Really?'
'Yeah, really good.'
He turns to his friends and tells them, excitedly, 'He thinks my rap is really good, he told me, eh, eh?'
I gesture yes and his friends nod indulgently. I bang fists with the rapper as he mutters, 'I used to be a rapper you know.'
'No,' I say, holding his eye, 'you still are a rapper... You still are.'
He brightens up and wanders off.
Third pint.
'Dark rum?' The barmaid asks.
'Um, no, white.' The wife says.
'That'll be £6.90 please.'
I go and find the manager, who listens to my rum-price story and asks me pertinent questions about white vs dark rum, barstaff and times, then punches up the drink on nearby till. He frowns, looks at me, and gives me two pounds.
'Thanks,' I say, staring at the coins.
'I know what's it's like,' he tells me, patting me on the back.
I don't know what he's talking about. Perhaps he thinks I'm really poor. He's right of course, but that wasn't the point.
Back at the seat the wife goes to the bathroom and a young, tough-looking guy wanders over to me.
'You, out of that seat, now.' He says.
'Sorry?' I say.
'You, out of that seat, now.' He says.
I stare at him for a moment and say, simply, 'No.'
He stares back.
'[mumble] ... from the Manor?'
'What?' I say. What is he talking about?
'Are you from the Manor?'
I think about this, and say, finally, 'I have no idea where the Manor is, so, no, probably not.'
He frowns. 'No, no, the Manor, you know, it means like this area - are you from around here?'
'Oh, I say,' feeling like a loser, 'ah, yes, I live just up the road.'
'Oh.' He says, shakes hands with me, then leaves.
The wife returns and it's time for pint four.
'Dark rum?' The barmaid asks.
'The cheapest, please.' I say.
'That'll be six pounds please...'
Before we leave a man that looks like Rocky out of the Rocky Horror Picture Show movie appears. He is sporting meal wrist bands like you would expect gladiators to wear. He fiddles with them self-consciously. Maybe he just bought them.
'You should go to the gym,' my wife tells me as she stares at his huge biceps.
'Hmm.' I mumble.
On the way home I get progressively drunker until I can hardly stand by the time we get to our street. This is confusing, like I'd been slipped a mickey in the bar. By the time we get upstairs I've blacked out and remember nothing until the next morning.
Odd.
It's busy already and we're incredibly lucky to grab a seat near the front bar with a view of the dancefloor, table, and everything. We settle back and watch the young and the beautiful enter.
We take another pint.
'Dark rum?' The barmaid asks.
'Um, okay.' I say.
'That's £6.20.' She smiles sweetly.
I figure that dark rum is more expensive than what we had the first time (I wasn't asked).
Back at the table a crazy-eyed, multi-tattooed man comes over to our table and does a rap in my face. I don't remember the whole thing, but it went along the lines of,
'Fat women, thin women, blonde women, tall women, short women, brown women and white, I want to f4ck them all.'
This rap was positively shouted into my face as the man made all the correct rap-esque gestures. It is difficult to know what to do, exactly, when someone raps in your, in a pub, face out of the blue.
He finishes and I say, 'Great rap man.'
He looks at me suspiciously, 'Really?'
'Yeah, really good.'
He turns to his friends and tells them, excitedly, 'He thinks my rap is really good, he told me, eh, eh?'
I gesture yes and his friends nod indulgently. I bang fists with the rapper as he mutters, 'I used to be a rapper you know.'
'No,' I say, holding his eye, 'you still are a rapper... You still are.'
He brightens up and wanders off.
Third pint.
'Dark rum?' The barmaid asks.
'Um, no, white.' The wife says.
'That'll be £6.90 please.'
I go and find the manager, who listens to my rum-price story and asks me pertinent questions about white vs dark rum, barstaff and times, then punches up the drink on nearby till. He frowns, looks at me, and gives me two pounds.
'Thanks,' I say, staring at the coins.
'I know what's it's like,' he tells me, patting me on the back.
I don't know what he's talking about. Perhaps he thinks I'm really poor. He's right of course, but that wasn't the point.
Back at the seat the wife goes to the bathroom and a young, tough-looking guy wanders over to me.
'You, out of that seat, now.' He says.
'Sorry?' I say.
'You, out of that seat, now.' He says.
I stare at him for a moment and say, simply, 'No.'
He stares back.
'[mumble] ... from the Manor?'
'What?' I say. What is he talking about?
'Are you from the Manor?'
I think about this, and say, finally, 'I have no idea where the Manor is, so, no, probably not.'
He frowns. 'No, no, the Manor, you know, it means like this area - are you from around here?'
'Oh, I say,' feeling like a loser, 'ah, yes, I live just up the road.'
'Oh.' He says, shakes hands with me, then leaves.
The wife returns and it's time for pint four.
'Dark rum?' The barmaid asks.
'The cheapest, please.' I say.
'That'll be six pounds please...'
Before we leave a man that looks like Rocky out of the Rocky Horror Picture Show movie appears. He is sporting meal wrist bands like you would expect gladiators to wear. He fiddles with them self-consciously. Maybe he just bought them.
'You should go to the gym,' my wife tells me as she stares at his huge biceps.
'Hmm.' I mumble.
On the way home I get progressively drunker until I can hardly stand by the time we get to our street. This is confusing, like I'd been slipped a mickey in the bar. By the time we get upstairs I've blacked out and remember nothing until the next morning.
Odd.
Tuesday, February 22, 2005
Violence on the Bus
The bus to work from the station is normally quite a sedate experience. We trundle through suburban sprawl, see the odd patch of woodland, a few tower-blocks, some shops. People get on and off, the windows are steamed up so you wipe a small hole and peer through it. It normally rains.
There are a lot of rowdy school kids that get on the bus en route, and if you catch the right bus then you'll be crammed in with them. You can listen to the latest gossip about that cow Sheila and catch up on tinny, bass-free r & b and rap tracks that leak from iPods and cheap MP3 players. The boys look moody, and remain silent, usually with hoods pulled right up, hiding their faces.
Today there's a small scuffle at the front of the bus. This is normal - often some kid will be feigning amazement that his bus pass is mysteriously out of date. And then outraged that he has to pay.
'I've only got a fiver.' [surly youth]
'That's okay, I've got lots of change.' [smiling driver]
Surly youth slams five pounds down on counter and looks like he's being robbed as he rolls his eyes.
But today the drama is more dramatic. There's a lot of movement, and from the back we see a ball of fight appear and then make its way through the bus. There's one white kid flailing around and three black kids kicking him and punching him in the head. One of the attackers grasps two posts with his hands and proceeds to kick violently with both feet.
This goes on for some time. One man next to me starts to shout things like,
'Leave it!' and 'Get off the bus!' But it has no effect.
No one offers to help.
Occasionally snowballs fly in through the open door to hit the victim's head, perhaps thrown by a slightly less aggressive member of the attackers. This seems poignant at the time.
Eventually it all stops and the three punchers go upstairs whilst the bleeding recipient looks a bit haggard and sorry for himself, but just takes a seat and says nothing.
I imagine that the bus driver will call the police, but no, the doors close and we carry on as usual. I peer out of the window and feel unbearably sad.
There are a lot of rowdy school kids that get on the bus en route, and if you catch the right bus then you'll be crammed in with them. You can listen to the latest gossip about that cow Sheila and catch up on tinny, bass-free r & b and rap tracks that leak from iPods and cheap MP3 players. The boys look moody, and remain silent, usually with hoods pulled right up, hiding their faces.Today there's a small scuffle at the front of the bus. This is normal - often some kid will be feigning amazement that his bus pass is mysteriously out of date. And then outraged that he has to pay.
'I've only got a fiver.' [surly youth]
'That's okay, I've got lots of change.' [smiling driver]
Surly youth slams five pounds down on counter and looks like he's being robbed as he rolls his eyes.
But today the drama is more dramatic. There's a lot of movement, and from the back we see a ball of fight appear and then make its way through the bus. There's one white kid flailing around and three black kids kicking him and punching him in the head. One of the attackers grasps two posts with his hands and proceeds to kick violently with both feet.
This goes on for some time. One man next to me starts to shout things like,
'Leave it!' and 'Get off the bus!' But it has no effect.
No one offers to help.
Occasionally snowballs fly in through the open door to hit the victim's head, perhaps thrown by a slightly less aggressive member of the attackers. This seems poignant at the time.
Eventually it all stops and the three punchers go upstairs whilst the bleeding recipient looks a bit haggard and sorry for himself, but just takes a seat and says nothing.
I imagine that the bus driver will call the police, but no, the doors close and we carry on as usual. I peer out of the window and feel unbearably sad.
Saturday, February 12, 2005
Cheese and Onion man
On the train I have my eyes closed. A state close to sleep, but not quite. I hear the noises of the train and am conscious of not having enough knee room. I would like to sleep, but find the worry of sleeping past my stop always prevents me. I have woken up in railway sidings before - an odd experience as you have to wait, alone, for the train to sneak back into the station before you can disembark. The train is cold, silent, dark, spooky even.So, in near-sleep I hear the doors open and a terrible smell enters. Jesus, I think to myself, what a terrible smell. The smell gets stronger and I calculate that the person responsible for the smell is getting closer. Closer. Closer. Closer, and, yes, it sits down next to me.
I pull a long face, keeping my eyes closed, designed to make my nostrils into vertical slits, but it doesn't work and the smell is relentless in its assault.
I try and place the odour. The best I can come up with is bad teeth, cheese and onion, and farts.
How can this man not know that he smells this bad? Does he not have eyes to see the reaction that must come over people as he talks to them? Does he think everyone reacts that way to everybody else? Does he not observe?
I'm always disturbed by people's lack of observation. How oblivious to the world many of us seem. Perhaps I'm too conscious - I'm forever moving out of people's way, stopping making irritating noises, holding open doors, catching bags knocked off tables, ducking under street gossipers' wildly used hands, and so forth. So, to not be able to notice the fact that you stink, to me, is, frankly, a poor show.
I wake myself up and read my book, perhaps visual sensory input will help distract from the olfactory? The first line I read is a man saying the words, 'Ah, perfidious Albion'.
Perfidious is a word that likely to get you into fights in certain pubs in the country. What the hell does it mean anyway? I know it means nasty, somehow, but the exact definition escapes me, I promise to myself to look it up later (disloyal, deceitful, base, low...)
Thinking of rough pubs brings to mind a pub in Carlisle I was once passing through on some long forgotten journey: I was in the bathroom of the pub, washing my hands (some of us do), when a terrier-looking, thin psychopath walked in and stared at me in the mirror. My heart skipped a few times, not for joy, and I ignored him.
He is eyeing up my jewellery it seems, as he turns to me and says,
'Put this in for us.'
And hands me a gold earring hoop with a Christian cross dangling from it.
I stare at him and he turns his head to one side and sticks an ear in my direction. It has a silver stud in the lobe.
Now, intimacy in the bathroom may be something that women are comfortable with, but your average man doesn't generally do anything more personal than stand next to other men with his penis in his hand. Hmm, well, I suppose that does seem quite intimate.
Anyway, with my shaking hands, and eyeing the prison-esque neck tattoos, I manage to pry out the stud. My fingers are waxy. I resist the urge to sniff them.
The hoop is hard to get in and I twist his ear quite hard, reddening it severely. He doesn't seem to notice.
Finally it's in and I tell him.
He merely nods and walks out of the bathroom...
All this thoughtfulness has allowed me ten minutes respite from stink-man, but I'm brought back to reality by another smell. Ah, oh my god it's beautiful. It's the smell of heaven after an eternity in the dunghills if hell.
The stink-man has opened an orange and the smell has flooded the whole train cabin. I sniff it in, greedily.
It doesn't last though, and a few minutes later I'm back in farty cheese and onion land.
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