The Chronicles of the Average Mind

Shame and Shamelessness

2012-01-31T04:05:00.001-08:00

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single woman in possession of a good Grove of Eglantine, must be in want of a wax. However little known the feelings or views of such a woman may be on her first entering a beauty salon, this truth is so well fixed in the minds of the neighbourhood, that whatever pain and shame lay before her, there is none more great to a lady than that bestowed upon her by an overgrown garden. It is in a single lady’s best interests to look as handsome as she can at all times, since gentlemen callers can arrive most unexpectedly.

“Good morning.”

“Oh, good morning Miss Bennet. Would you like to come through?”

Elizabeth replied that she would.

“Please, replace your undergarments with these muslin ones here, lie down on the bed, and I’ll be with you in a few minutes.”

Elizabeth had been here many times before, yet nothing ever prepared her for the awkwardness of this moment; she found the stiffness of the occasion rather disconcerting and at times such as this, she wished she had more of a lighthearted manner. Yet when the beauty nurse returned, there was such an expression of goodness in her countenance that Elizabeth began to relax in spite of the situation.

A few minutes later, she recognized that she had regarded her condition rather rashly, as now the pain was so forceful she found it necessary to bite her lower lip. At first there was too much to be felt for attention to any other objects, but after the pain had subsided a little she became terribly aware of the beauty nurse and the heavy silence between them. It would look odd to be entirely silent for half an hour together and because it was the least agreeable circumstance Elizabeth took it upon herself to begin conversing.

“The weather has been highly changeable of late, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Oh indeed Miss Bennet.”

“Please, call me Elizabeth.”

“As you wish. And you can call me Darcey.”

The increasing civilities continued and Elizabeth noticed that when Darcey spoke, it seemed the effect of necessity rather than of choice: a sacrifice to propriety, not a pleasure to herself. It made Elizabeth feel even more uncomfortable and so presently, she fell silent. Darcey, however, sensed her client’s disquiet and because she regarded her as a kind-hearted girl with an agreeable disposition, she endeavoured to use all her arts and allurements to make her feel contented.

“Pray tell me, Elizabeth, are you single?”

Under normal circumstances, Elizabeth would have been shocked by the impropriety of such a direct question, but there on the beauty bed it all seemed so natural; this was compounded by Elizabeth’s desire to mediate any other imagining besides that which was going on right there and then out of her view. There then began an exchange so agreeable that Elizabeth could not remember when she had spent more delightful a morning. Darcey’s powers of conversation were considerable. She could describe an entertainment with accuracy, relate an anecdote with humour and listen to her acquaintance with spirit. When the wax was over, Elizabeth almost dared not admit to herself that she was a little disappointed and loathe to leave her new confidante; but such was the conventional conduct of the occasion that as soon as Elizabeth had replaced the muslin undergarments with her own, the conversation ended and the heartfelt passion was replaced by civil leave-takings.

Over the next few weeks Elizabeth busied herself by taking long walks through parks, to farmer’s markets and public houses. Suddenly she had the desire to be by herself, felt no need for company and resolved to walk as many miles as it would take to clear her head of the perplexing thoughts which had come to possess it. It was while she was on one of these lengthy walks that she developed quite a thirst and so stopped off at The Prince Regent public house. She passed over the threshold and was waiting at the bar, when suddenly she saw her. They were within ten yards of each other, and so abrupt was her appearance, that it was impossible to avoid her sight. Their eyes instantly met, and the cheeks of each were overspread with the deepest blush. Darcey absolutely started, and for a moment seemed immoveable from surprise; but shortly recovering herself, advanced towards Elizabeth, and spoke to her, if not in terms of perfect composure, at least of perfect civility. Elizabeth instinctively turned away; but, looking up on her approach, received her salutations with an embarrassment impossible to overcome.

Darcey seemed astonished at finding her alone in the public house, and apologized for her intrusion whilst Elizabeth blushed again and again over the perverseness of the meeting. Darcey stood for a few moments without saying a word, while Elizabeth wondered if the correct conduct for such occasions was to make a few formal enquiries, suffer the awkward pause and then just walk away; and yet there was something of dignity in Darcey’s countenance which kept Elizabeth stood where she was. She was so overcome by a mixture of shame and affection that she had not happened to see another person by Darcey’s side, who now had the advantage of seeing Elizabeth unguarded and without her usual outward composure. She looked over and met a woman’s eyes shining with impudence.

“Oh excuse me, but I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure. I’m Darcey’s companion, Miss Witless. Pleased to meet you, I’m sure.”

“Likewise,” Elizabeth softly replied, the greater the impropriety of the situation now that someone else was present occurring to her mind, making those few moments the most uncomfortable of her life.

“And, pray, how do you two know each other?” she asked them both, fixing her eyes on one and then the other. Elizabeth blushed at her gaze and then again upon seeing Darcey’s vexed and embarrassed looks.

“We read together at the book association,” Darcey said at last, an air of confidence surrounding her quick-witted lie.

“Oh, and which book are you reading at present?”

“Tipping The Velvet,” Elizabeth blurted out, keen to come to the aid of Darcey; yet as soon as the name of the novel she had recently had the delight in reading left her lips, she realized at once the misapprehension that would now come forth and her heart filled with bitter regret.

“Oh, how marvellous!” Miss Witless exclaimed, her eyes sparkling with the richness of loose chatter at this discovery. “Well, do get yourself a drink and then please come and join us. We’re seated over there.”

After Elizabeth had bowed her head in acknowledgement and turned to the waiting barmaid to request a half of pale ale, Miss Witless began abusing her to Darcey before they had returned to their seats. Miss Witless found it almost incredible that she should have walked miles so early in the day, and by herself, to a public house, where she was intending to sit on her own at the bar. She went on to critique her clothing rather harshly and even the way she presented her hair. Miss Witless was a woman of mean understanding, little information, and uncertain temper. The business of her life was to follow Darcey and her brother’s fortune everywhere she could; its solace was guarding this money from anyone else, by whatever means was at her disposal. On Elizabeth’s return to their company, she overheard the spiteful remarks and was perfectly sensible that they were about her but she vowed to not allow any such acknowledgement from being detected in her behaviour.

Elizabeth was occupying herself intently with this vow, when a familiar voice thrust its way into her thoughts. It made the ceremonious salutations and pompous apologies for its absence before stopping abruptly in the presence of a motionless Elizabeth.

“Oh, Elizabeth, this is a most unexpected surprise. What an honour to meet you here. I see you’ve met my lovely fiancé, Darcey. We got engaged a couple of weeks ago. At last I’ve found a woman who contributes much to my felicity. Our situation is indeed the sort of extraordinary blessing, which few can boast. There is in everything a most remarkable resemblance of character and ideas between us. We seem to have been designed for each other.” This gentleman, one Mr William Bungle, had the remarkable ability to never tire of the sound of his own voice. He had not seen Elizabeth for a twelvemonth, not since their parting, and he addressed himself particularly to her, as if wishing to make her feel what she had lost in rejecting him; he thought too well of himself and was too lacking in the virtue of shame to comprehend on what motive she had refused him all those months ago.

On his address, Elizabeth’s colour increased. She wondered whether this perverseness would ever end and was bewildered at the cornucopia of mischances that had happened to her that very day; yet she received his silly remarks with a forbearance and a propriety of behaviour free from any symptom of resentment or any unnecessary complaisance.

“Yes, they are violently in love,” cried Miss Witless.

“Many congratulations, I’m sure. I saw it on the world wide web.”

“Oh, but you didn’t make a comment, dear Elizabeth.”

“I shall be sure to make one when I’m next in the domain.”

“I’ll look forward to it. So, come, tell us all about your boyfriend.”

“Oh no Will, she likes Tipping The Velvet!” Miss Witless cried with mirth.

Both Elizabeth and Darcey blushed at this.

“Pardon? No, you must be mistaken. This is my ex-lover,” he said with monotonous solemnity, his eyes watching Elizabeth closely.

“Oh!” cried Miss Witless, while Darcey expressed her surprise a little more quietly, with a widening of her eyes.

“Pray, how are you two acquainted with one another?” Mr Bungle asked Elizabeth and Darcey in an ill-natured tone.

“She’s one of my clients,” Darcey explained brusquely.

“Oh! How simply marvellous. And just how intimately do you know each other, my ex and my fiancé? Just what sort of treatment are you having dearest Elizabeth?” As he spoke, Elizabeth noted that his eyes shone with a familiar lust. She looked expressively at Darcey.

“Will, you know I can’t discuss that with you.”

“Aye, that is just like your impeccable propriety and discretion darling Darcey. But your avoidance of the answer tells us a great deal.”

At this remark of Mr Bungle’s, Miss Witless squealed with delight, encouraging him to continue his impolitic monologue.

“I expect dear Elizabeth, you’d rather be dead right now than standing here with us, all these wild imaginings in our heads. I always remember there seemed to be a prettyish kind of little wilderness on the sides of your lawn, yet now I shall think of it with very different landscaping indeed.” Mr Bungle made no attempt to hide the pleasure he obtained from his humiliating of poor Elizabeth, although she saw the suspicions of Darcey were awakened against him as he revealed his true disposition, and in her countenance Elizabeth detected anger and repulsion. This gave her the courage to express her true feelings.

“Dearest Will. I do know Darcey intimately, yes. As intimately as any woman could dare to know another and I can honestly say that I have never had the pleasure of being in the company of such a generous and kind-hearted soul who has more wit and charm in her graceful fingers, than you possess in the whole of your awkward, cold and unforgiving body. And, dare I say it, hairy! If she becomes wedded to you, it’ll be a crime against the institute of marriage and God will punish you greatly for such insolence in his presence. Well, if you will kindly excuse me, I have things to be getting on with; like washing my hair and undergarments.”

As she quitted the table, Elizabeth caught Darcey’s eye and discovered an expression of awe, while Mr. Bungle and Miss Witless had silently formed their mouths into the shape of an ‘O’. She felt how improbable it was that she should ever see Darcey again on such terms of cordiality. So she phoned up the next day to form an engagement with her for the following week.

Rites

2011-12-28T07:45:00.000-08:00

So I walked in on my Mom and Dad having sex to let them know that I was moving out. They stopped and looked at me, my Mom from the wrong way up, and she spoke to me in a weird upside-down voice.

Oh honey, do you want me to make you up a cooler?

In an emergency, her first thought was always food.

Nah, that’s ok. I don’t know which day yet, so I don’t need it now.

Ok sweetie, well let me know when you know.

Sure. Just going out for a bit.

Ok. Oh honey, we’re outta weed. Can you pick some up while you’re out? There are some necklaces on the table.

Yep.

I untangled my bike from Rex’s and Mom’s and headed off to 5.30 and C. The streets were fairly clear, as it was just after dawn, so I could ride as fast as I could pedal. Noodle and Firebird were still dancing hard at the Pink Mammoth, and hollered at me as I went past.

Hey Cands, come round to mine later!

I’m going to Galore’s.

Ok, I’ll see you there.

Noodle and I are good friends. I wouldn’t say best friends, because I considered my best friend to be Galore, but she’d say hers was Noodle. He’d say his was me. It was kind of a bizarre best friend triangle that we’d gotten trapped in. Like the Bermuda Triangle, but maybe more dangerous. I think it was because we all liked to be awkward, as my Mom said. The other thing was that Galore had given Noodle a blowjob, which he’d later told me had really hurt his penis, but as he was a polite and considerate person, he’d suffered it the whole way. Yet it had put him off Galore not only as a blowjob giver, or a girlfriend, but as a friend. Weird how sex can affect people like that. It’s why I haven’t bothered with it. Stuff’s complicated enough as it is, without bringing blowjobs into it.

I cycled across the playa, kicking up dust in my wake, letting all the prehistoric sea creatures swim again, but this time in the air. My Uncle Flash once told me that the desert used to be the bottom of an ancient lake. Nowadays, it’s only a lake during the winter when the rains come and wash away our city till the next summer, so it can be born again anew. I felt like going faster than I ever had before. For some reason I was in a hurry, but I didn’t know why. I stopped off at Malmart to pick up some chocolate for Galore. After deliberating for far longer than anyone should choosing candy, I went for Harley’s Kisses. Yeah, it was kinda weird for me too. But that was the decision I’d made, and I felt strangely calm and a little euphoric as I took the packet over to Naked Lunch at the counter.

So what’cha got for those then Miss Bomb?

Depends what you’re after. I’ve got some of my Mom’s necklaces. Or I could show you my new dance routine?

Hmm. How’s about reading me this in your soft little voice?

He slid a well-used book with yellow pages that smelt real musty over the counter. It was a Bukowski short story where the woman he stays with has sex with her pet tiger. I got quite into it as I was reading, and barely noticed Naked Lunch’s moan and before I knew it he was telling me to stop reading.

But I haven’t got to the end of the story.

Yeah, that one’s pretty long. You can borrow the book some time ok?

Ok. See ya later.

I headed towards my bike and looked again at the packet of Harley’s Kisses in my hand. Why did they make my heart beat faster? Something was happening to me. It had been happening gradually for a while, and now it couldn’t wait to have happened, to become a moment, possibly the biggest of my life so far. I guess the whole moving out thing was connected in some way that I’d vaguely known about in the back of my mind, but didn’t have the courage to see clearly. Until now, as I looked at this packet of Harley’s Kisses.

The closer I got to Galore’s, the faster my heart was beating. Mongoose was sat outside his trailer, and it sounded like he was trying to beat his guitar to death, but it matched the rhythm of the beat inside me, the rhythm of my future. That scared the shit out of me, so I took a detour to the Yum Bar to find out exactly what the future tasted like. I hoped it’d be sweet like Harley’s Kisses. As I cycled up, I saw that Angel Fish was behind the bar, staring up at the sky.

What’s up Angel?

Huh, oh hey Candy. Jus’ looking at the stars.

The stars? Can you see them at this time of day?

Yeah sure. You just have to know where to look. See, Cancer’s over there, near Orion.

Angel Fish could always see things other people couldn’t. Like the future. I was glad it was her behind the bar, and not Anti-matter. He was the dark to her light, and he always left a bad taste in my mouth.

So what’s your flavor today?

The future.

Oooh, good choice.

She rummaged behind the bar, and pulled out different bottles of liquids and syrups. She then got out a spoon and a shaker.

Ok, close your eyes and put out your tongue.

I felt solid raindrops fall on my tongue and then quickly dissolve. They tasted kind of sour.

To really appreciate what tomorrow will bring, you have to acknowledge the silent sadness of today.

Like I said before, Angel Fish could see things others couldn’t. I mean to everyone else, I was happy and upbeat. Even to myself I felt happy for the most part, but somewhere deep down, I do have a sad place. I just try to avoid going there, unless it’s Monday morning and someone’s playing Neil Young. And still then I don’t venture too far. But Angel Fish could see it was part of me all the time, even if I didn’t want to go there.

A weird gloop then hit the roof of my mouth. As I swallowed it, I tasted watermelon.

The future will be surprising and energizing. The best way to greet it is to close your eyes and let go.

She then put a spoon of a creamy mixture into my mouth, flavored with all the best sweets I’ve ever had in my life.

This is what you want your future to taste like. But this is what it will taste like.

A jelly-like substance landed on my tongue. At first it was sweet, but then a kick of hot bitterness invaded my mouth, and I had to spit it out.

Urrgh…yuck!

Hey, don’t worry Candy. When you’re ready for it, it’ll taste like the most awesome thing in the world. Trust me. Just never be scared, tis all.

Her soft voice floated in the still air, wrapping round me like a cozy old blanket. So even though she’d told me my future tasted like crap, I felt pretty hopeful.

Sure, ok Angel. Well, catch you later.

I’ll be there.

It felt good to get on my bike and ride off again. What would happen if I just rode and rode and rode? Rex once said that there wasn’t a motherfuckin’ thing out there for miles, so if I really wanted to be a stupid damn bitch, then I should go ahead and do just that. Rex is only my Dad, he’s not my Father. I don’t have a Father, just a few Dads. I think Mom still feels guilty about it, but I’m ok with it really. I kind of used to pretend that Uncle Flash was my Father when I was a kid. I mean, he’s not actually my Uncle, so it’s not that weird. He’s like everyone’s Uncle, but to nature, he’s no one’s. Nature does get it so wrong sometimes.

I got to Galore’s place and her Mom was in a hammock out front, sinking Tecates. She looked at me, gulped down the last bit in her can then crushed it in one hand, while with the other, she pointed in the direction of Centre Camp. Galore’s Mom didn’t like to talk too much. Not since Galore’s Dad had come back and started living with them again. That had messed the family right up. Galore reckoned he came back and claimed he was the biggest loser ever, but had a massive grin on his face that hasn’t left it since, not even while he’s sleeping.

She’s at Centre Camp?

Galore’s Mom nodded slowly then waved her hand to move me on, as if I was blocking her view. I turned towards the direction she was staring in and saw the beautiful pink and brown mountains looking back. I bowed my head in silent recognition as I moved on. She bowed hers back.

When I got to Centre Camp, Galore was in the middle. She was practicing her Tamhulatha yoga, and there was a bit of a crowd around her. It’s a form of yoga that goes back decades here and is based round a trampoline and hula-hoops. I thought that yoga was a humble discipline that involved an inner journey between body and mind to reach enlightenment. But Tamhulatha yoga is kinda showy. It seemed that the more people who watched, the better the person performed. Plus the fact that you were supposed to do it naked, covered from head to toe in body glitter.

I made my way to the front, trying to catch her eye. But it was a little tricky, seeing as she kept bouncing up ‘n’ down and was concentrating hard on the five hoops spinning on her left thigh.

Hey Galore, have you got a sec?

Huh? Cand, I’m in the middle of something here.

Her voice sounded worn out. But not the sort of physical, out-of-breath worn out that you’d expect what with spinning all those hoops on her thigh. No, it was a kind of deeper, desperate, emotional worn out. As soon as I heard it, I recognized it.

It’s important.

No Candy, this is important.

I remained there, staring, glaring, trying to make eye contact, my head nodding up and down as if I was watching a vertical game of ping pong. I realized I was the only one there who was trying to look into her eyes. Maybe the only one ever. I tried to look at her through their eyes, to see what they were seeing, but she just became someone I didn’t care about, an annoying attention-seeker wearing way too much body glitter. In a blink I looked back at her through my eyes and felt a fire in my throat. I thought my future might be repeating on me, but then remembered I’d spat it out. A hot sting burned the back of my eyes, making them water.

Look, I’ll see you back at mine soon ok?

Ok.

My voice sounded so pathetic and useless, if the struggling of a beetle stuck on its back made a noise, that’d be it. I high-tailed it over to Uncle Flash’s. I needed to get the weed and I needed to get high, and only he had the means. No one could lift my spirits like him. I passed Quirk and Sheepman cutting the cheese at the guillotine and dancing to Chromeo, but not even they could crack a smile in my dry face. Maybe it was because it was soaking underneath. When I got to Uncle Flash’s, all the crew were there stretched out in hammocks with either balloons or guitars in their hands, having a deep old discussion. I gathered it was their monthly book club meet. Others were a little way off by the temple, enjoying a moment to themselves. It was Sunday after all.

Welcome home!

This made me smile.

So how’s my beautiful princess of the sea monkeys?

That’s what everyone joked the desert dust was made from; petrified prehistoric sea monkeys. Grateful got up from the seat next to Uncle Flash, who patted it, beckoning me to sit there.

I’m ok I guess.

My Uncle Flash then communicated with me via a series of different subtle looks. We did this when we were in company, as he got that I didn’t want the whole city to know about my problems. It didn’t take any talking for him to understand that I was a bit down and didn’t really want to talk. Unlike the guys, who were in the middle of a heated debate about this month’s book.

But Whale, the issue I have with ‘On The Road’ conceptually is that although it’s all about spontaneity, freedom and improvisation, Sal and Dean would have experienced jack of that if someone hadn’t planned and built that goddamn road in the first place.

Grateful completed his critique with a long hard drag of his balloon, then sat back, swinging in his hammock, his eyes closed and a huge smile on his face.

Yeah, I guess in that way it’s ironically a love letter to Uncle Sam, as it glorifies America’s roads, made possible by the puritan work ethic and capitalism.

I’d rather look at it as sabotaging the original purpose of the road, you know, to transport workers and goods from one place to another for our god-blessed economy to make rich people richer, but instead pissing all over that and actually using it to escape from the shitty 9-5 lifestyle. If it wasn’t for Kerouac, we probably wouldn’t freakin’ be here right now.

I just hated that Dean for the shitty way he treated his girlfriends.

All the guys turned to look at me, as if I’d mentioned the unmentionable. Even Mongoose stopped beating his guitar. I’d gone and brought relationships and all the emotional stuff into the guy talk. Uncle Flash laughed, breaking the tension.

Aah, sweet princess. You’ve got a lot to experience. For me, the book’s about letting go of stuff. Having no possessions, and I mean people, not just fancy cars and clothes. That’s the only way you can be truly free. It’s what the poet Elisabeth Bishop called, ‘The Art Of Losing’, and if you can master that, then you’ll have no fear of anything. All we can do is try it bit by bit, and sometimes life pushes us into trying more than we’d like in one go. But in the end, that can get us closer to becoming its masters.

So you mean Dean’s excuse for treating his girlfriends badly is that he didn’t want them to think they owned him?

That’s part of it. But it’s a bit more complicated than that. Like for instance, contrary to what you’ve been told, love on the playa does exist. But in different ways to anywhere else. In better ways. It’s not possessive, it’s free, and there’s more giving than taking. You just have to get yourself ready for it.

You know what? Talking about roads, I’ve always thought that the ring road round Centre Camp should be based on a 24-hour clock. It’d just be less confusing that way.

And haven’t you noticed that the traffic’s always bad at the intersection of 6.30 and F? What about creating a roundabout to free up the flow of traffic?

Roundabouts? Wow, that’s a bit rad Grateful.

The guys were back to talking about stuff that was comfortable for them, and it was time for me to move on.

Well, I’ve gotta go. Have you got that weed for Mom?

Of course princess. It’s right here, close to my heart as always.

He looked at me and smiled as he pulled a brown paper packet from the top pocket in his shirt and handed it to me. I gave him the necklaces in return. He twisted them about with his fingers, staring at them for a while before putting them in the same pocket. They seemed to mean something to him, but I didn’t ask. I felt I didn’t need to. I guess he hadn’t mastered the art of losing yet. I got up off the seat and walked towards my bike, waving goodbye to the guys. Uncle Flash followed after me.

Why the hurry anyway Candy?

There’s just something I gotta do.

Ok but remember, here, time is a place. So you don’t have to hurry to get there, as it’ll always be there, waiting. Sometimes it’s good to take the detour.

Yeah but also, as there’s no time, there’s only places to go, so I have to keep on moving.

That’s my girl.

He grinned and watched as I cycled off to the place I had to go.

When I got back to Galore’s, her Mom was still in the hammock staring at the mountains, but this time Noodle was there too, sat on an upturned crate next to her. They were both in the middle of a deep wordless discussion. As I approached, without looking in my direction, Galore’s Mom pointed over at me, across Noodle’s eye line. This made him look up.

Oh, hey Candy, I’ve been waiting for you.

Where’s Galore?

She’s got a shift at the Kissing Booth.

Oh right. Well she told me to meet her here.

I think she’d forgotten about her shift. We can go over there if you want. Then maybe catch a ride on Toad’s art car, just, you know, you and me.

Then I saw it. On the back of his hand painted on very carefully, thoughtfully, was an artwork of a bird flying with huge graceful wings, and in a delicate script underneath, the words, ‘Love like the wind. Galore xx’. I had no idea what it meant and it was a little too schmaltzy for my taste, but the words ‘love’ and ‘Galore’ were in it and that was enough. It felt like Noodle had punched me in the heart and I suddenly wished they hadn’t banned guns on the playa.

What’s that?

I pointed at this doodle on Noodle at the same time as Galore’s Mom. It was as if she was supporting my feelings, backing me up, making me realize that I wasn’t going crazy. Although she did it without looking, still staring at those mountains with vacant eyes.

Huh? Oh, just one of Galore’s dumb ass doodles, you know.

No I don’t know. She’s never doodled on me before.

Well I’m sure she will if you ask.

He laughed, and this made me mad.

How can you be so goddamn casual about it?

About what?

The fact that she doodled you.

For some reason, the doodle hurt more than the blowjob. But probably not to Noodle.

Have you guys had a fight or something?

Not yet.

I swallowed hard and stalked off to my bike. Noodle came running behind, but I didn’t want him to follow me. I needed to deal with this by myself. Then suddenly a key flew past me and instinctively, I caught it. I looked at it in my hand and realised it was the key to the ‘Thrust’, Galore’s Dad’s bike, which was the fastest, greatest bike ever seen on the playa. It’d broken man-powered land-speed records, or so Uncle Flash had said. I looked in the direction the key had come from and saw Galore’s Mom staring at the mountains. I silently thanked her as I rushed to unlock the bike and sped off, leaving Noodle to eat my sea monkey dust.

With the Thrust between my thighs I could really ride like the wind. I did have such a long way to go, but luckily not as far as the border of Mexico. It had been locked up since Galore’s Dad’s return and seemed to want to make up for it. I flew past Firebird and Quirk dancing like maniacs on top of the scaffold at District 9. They saluted as I glided by, in awe of the supreme machine.

Everyone at The Kissing Booth stopped snogging to get a proper look at the Thrust as I cycled up. Galore was the last (but not least) at the end of the line-up as usual. I did my best not to catch her eye as I locked the Thrust to Milky Way’s bike, before attempting my blasé and slightly bored swagger over to the queue. In my head she was staring at me in wonderment, which made me perform my swagger a lot better than I’d hoped.

Naked Lunch was there as always, repeatedly clearing his throat. I had no idea why he had this habit, and of course, had never cared to ask. He nudged me as I stood behind him and whispered in my ear.

Have I got anything between my teeth girl?

He then pulled slightly back to reveal his perfect, white teeth right in front of my face. That was the amazing thing about Naked Lunch, he had the most beautiful teeth, if nothing else.

Not that I can see.

Fortunately this satisfied him and he waited quietly until it was his turn. It was comforting to see Naked Lunch’s vulnerable side. If he had one, everyone did. When it was his go, I found myself watching him kissing first little Widget, then Buffalo, Milky Way and finally Galore. I guess it was kind of a morbid fascination, like when people can’t help but stare at a car crash. When he kissed Galore, I was happy to see she didn’t kiss him back. Otherwise it would have become an issue, brought up again and again in many an argument that we’d never be able to resolve without the cunning intervention of one of those terrible tabloid talk shows. Instead, she looked over in my direction and my hands started to go clammy.

I had only visited the Kissing Booth a few times in my life, and those had really just been out of curiosity or for fun. I had never taken kissing seriously. It seemed like a strange thing to get all heavy over, as it can be pretty enjoyable - if the guy or girl hasn’t drunk friggin’ root beer before of course. I can’t stand that stuff. But this time, I didn’t want to fool around. So I walked straight past Widget, Buffalo and Milky Way, and right up to Galore. Her eyes were fixed on me, watching my every move, which made me feel self-conscious about my silly swagger, so I dropped it. Yeah ok, I said with my eyes, this is me now, and I want to tell you something.

I brushed her lips gently with mine, and her mouth opened. But the only thing I ever wanted her to say with her tongue, she just wouldn’t. She only skirted around the edges, avoiding my subtle hints. I opened my eyes, and I was surprised to see hers staring back with an angry look of something like vengeance. Then I realized we were in a battle; we were deer locking antlers, but instead of antlers we had our tongues. We were rucking with our tongues. She got firm and fast, but I wanted sweet and gentle. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. I heard her let out a grunt like a tennis player and I managed to pull away. I looked at her, and didn’t feel anything. It was as if she’d sucked all the feelings out of me. Like when Superman kisses Lois Lane at the end of Superman 2. I was left with a bad taste in my mouth, and wondering if it was a taste of my future, or my past. Galore was breathing heavily and staring at me intently, a wild look in her eyes.

Shit sorry. I blame that night we had with Courtney Love.

We had a sleepover once involving lots of chocolate, listening to Hole and having a heart-to-heart about our parents. We sung every word of ‘Live Through This’ through sobs, streaming mascara and a sugar rush. I had the time of my life. Now Galore just carried on staring and I detected tears forming at the corners of her eyes.

I gotta go.

She nodded. I turned and walked away. Everyone was still looking at our little sideshow, but I didn’t care. In the distance, I saw Noodle approaching on his bike. At times like this, you don’t know who your friends are, but you know your lovers. I was so glad he hadn’t seen any of that, and said, ‘Thank you Thrust’ repeatedly in my mind, as if it was some sort of mantra.

I didn’t stop to explain myself to anyone and it felt like the farther away I walked, the closer I got to the point of no return. But I kept on walking towards the Thrust, in a strange mechanical way, knowing I was leaving everything behind. But it was cathartic. Now I understood what that word meant.

I cycled and cycled, or rather, the Thrust cycled and cycled, like a big dog that takes its owner for a walk. I was going so fast and the wind was so strong, I thought that if I just carried on cycling, the wind would wear me down to nothing; I’d become a flake of dust. A dust storm was blowing in, and I was ready for it. I felt the Thrust cycle faster than any man, woman or child right into the whiteout. I closed my eyes and embraced each and every particle. Until I lost everything.

Whose Tears?

2011-10-16T05:18:00.000-07:00

“Why are you crying?” the little girl asked innocently. The large door shut in her tiny face, although she didn’t even flinch and carried on as if the door wasn’t there. “But I want to know. Why are you crying?”

Someone touched her hair and made her look up to see who it was. It was a woman she didn’t know, with large arms. For some reason, women little girls don’t know always feel like they can just touch their hair, as if they’re little dogs. The girl ignored the look in the woman’s eyes that promised the world of sweets, and looked back at the closed door. After all, she knew she wouldn’t ever get those sweets.

“Why are you crying?” she now asked loudly, into the wooden silence.

“Hey, sweetie?” she heard the woman with the large arms ironically say behind her back. She didn’t understand irony yet, but thought it was funny that the woman didn’t realise just how diabolical she could be, and that she knew she wouldn’t get those sweets.

“You have to go find your Mom now,” her thick voice said. Still staring at the door, the girl imagined the woman talking through her plump arms, both stretched out, one on top of the other, so they looked like the chunky jaws of a crocodile. “No!” she snapped. And stamped her foot hard against the door.

“Now that…” the thick-voiced crocodile began behind her, but shut up when the door opened. A voice from within demanded, “Ask the child what she wants.” The little girl couldn’t see the person the voice belonged to, as another crocodile with big arms folded into a barrier, blocked the doorway. The voice was very familiar, so she didn’t have to see the face to know who was speaking. But she really, really wanted to. She peered round the silent croc’s ill-fitting trousers, and stared into the room.

Not sure what she was expecting to find in there, perhaps a baby unicorn, a rainbow or a bit of glitter at least, whatever she thought it might be, it definitely wasn’t simply an ordinary room. It didn’t even have any slides, beanbags or a fountain of 7-UP, as far as she could tell, and they’d be the first things she thought anyone would demand.

“I want to know why you’re crying,” she insisted with a wicked stamp of her grown-up sole.

“Come here sweetness,” the fluffy pink voice purred. The barrier immediately unfolded its arms and let her through. The room didn’t get any less disappointing the more she saw of it. It just looked like the room of a hotel she once stayed in with her Mum, except there wasn’t even a bed. Although there she was, sat at the vanity table, wearing a different dress to the one she’d had on before. A woman with very small arms was playing about with her hair. She nodded in approval at the woman through the vanity mirror’s reflection, before turning towards the girl.

“What’s wrong honey?”

“Why are you crying?”

“Crying?” At that moment the girl realised she wasn’t crying, and not only that, it looked like she’d never been crying. Her eyes were as bright as Bambi’s, and her cheeks were sherbet dry.

“Before, with that girl in the pink dress.”

“Oh, she just touched me baby. She connected with something deep inside me, and it made me cry.”

“But you don’t even know her.”

“That doesn’t matter honey, people you don’t know can still make you cry.” The girl thought about this for little while, still keeping a vigilant watch on those Bambi eyes.

“Can you cry now, for me?”

“I can’t just do it like that sweetie.”

‘My brother burps when I ask.”

“Yeah? But, hey, this is different. It comes from the heart, you know, it’s my feelings and emotions. I can’t just switch them on and off when I want.”

“My granddad died last month and I didn’t cry.”

“Oh my goodness! Honey, that’s so sad. Do you miss him?”

“Yeah. And it was my birthday last week.”

The girl watched in delight as she noticed her nostrils twitch slightly, along with her eyes. Then slowly, a glossy substance gathered at their corners, until it spilled over and teardrops as pure and sparkling as crystal fell down her berry blushed cheeks. But after they had fallen, the girl noticed with wonder, they didn’t leave any traces. These tears aren’t crocodile tears, well they weren’t crying were they. No, they’re something quite different. They’re Kelly Rowland tears. The girl picked them up carefully from the floor, and put them into the little pockets of her dress. They were hers now, she thought to herself.

Robert De Niro's Waiting

2011-07-29T12:46:00.000-07:00

Robert De Niro’s waiting, at a bus stop in Brixton. He looks around 10 years older than he does in those films of his. It must be because there’s none of that moody lighting in the broad daylight and I don’t remember him wearing high waisted slacks on the silver screen. Here in south London he’s worn them every time I’ve seen him, so I guess they’re more comfortable due to that forgiving elastic waistband. Although the creases down the front of each leg are unforgivable. If you want to know the truth, he’s let himself go a bit but that’s probably because he’s out of the limelight here and there’s no one to notice him. Except me. Don’t think that means he's no longer handsome though. He still carries himself with a gentleman’s dignity and the lines on his face communicate every human expression of warmth, even when he’s staring vacantly into the distance.

I see him waiting at the bus stop at least once a week, when I’m on my way here and there. Not sure where he goes; one day it’s the council estate, next the fried chicken shop. He’s not a taxi driver now but a bus rider, an OAP with the freedom to hop on and off whenever he likes. He never talks to anyone or asks if they’re talking to him anymore, as he wants to remain incognito, you know. The 432 bus to West Norwood is the last place people would be looking for Oscar winning actor Robert De Niro, which is obviously the point for nowadays he prefers to be the spectator, watching out the window on the lower deck (as he can’t get up the stairs anymore), focusing on the blur of human tragedy and comedy through the murky glass.

He’s probably getting inspiration for his next role, studying the South London Street Gangs - I saw a programme about them once on TV. Yet instead of looking mean and moody he glances timidly at the teenagers when they get on the bus, not wanting to look them in the eye and if he’s standing, he shifts nervously along to get out of their way. Maybe he’s worried they might recognize him and then confuse fantasy with reality, thinking he’s the leader of the Mob, when in fact, he’s just an old man. But they’re harmless teenagers anyway, as far as I can see. Well, they’ve never given me any trouble and I often travel home, alone.

I used to wonder if he was really lonely, playing this new part of his. I couldn’t imagine many of his Hollywood friends coming over to join him, or that wife of his. And you can feel quite alone in London when your friends aren’t around. I often thought I should go up and talk to him, you know, for a bit of company. I mean it’s nice to have a little chat every now and again isn’t it? But he always gave me the impression that he didn’t want any attention. Funny how he's travelled thousands of miles so everyone doesn't notice him while I wait for thousands of days for anyone of the opposite sex to notice me. If the truth be known, a cheery 'hello', little wave or perhaps one of those friendly winks would have satisfied me.

I respected his privacy and kept my distance, sitting a couple of seats away. On the odd occasion I sat directly behind him, I tried to communicate with him telepathically. I didn't think that was such an invasion of his privacy, as I'd do away with all that tedious small talk by reading his inner thoughts and reassure him with words sent by my mind, such as, 'No Bob, Meet The Fockers was not your fault. You made it bearable. I promise.'

Then one day, this olive-skinned, good-looking kid of about 12 came clattering onto the bus with all his young friends, cutting through the silence (I’m so used to the sound of that bus’s engine, I don’t hear it anymore!). His friends all clambered up the stairs, but this one kid who stood out from the rest went right up to Mr. De Niro and started talking to him in Italian. At least I think it was Italian, yet some of it sounded a bit Spanish. I’m no good with languages without subtitles, so I assumed it was Italian since it was De Niro. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. There was Robert De Niro chatting and laughing away with this young boy, his face and body all animated, which was strange to me considering I’d never seen him talk or even smile in real life.

This boy was obviously pretending to be his grandchild to try and not blow his cover. Obvious only to me of course, no one else was paying any attention. To be honest the way De Niro interacted with this young kid was some of his finest acting, and I was deeply affected by the fake intimacy between them. I couldn’t stop staring and wished that other people could see what I was seeing, so if nothing else, I could talk about it with someone over a coffee afterwards. Then they both got off the bus together. Just like that. It made me feel so happy to realise he wasn’t lonely after all that I went back to my flat and put on one of his films. The Deer Hunter, my favourite movie. Even though I was happy, I cried and cried. I ran out of tissues and had to start using toilet paper.

That was the last time I saw him. I really wish I’d had the courage to go up and talk to him, but I was too late. Robert De Niro isn’t waiting for my bus anymore. He must be back in New York, hailing a cab instead.

Sunday, 30th January, 2011

2011-01-30T06:12:00.000-08:00

Al began his day with the intricate task of placing a cocktail of drugs into the fillings of various Costcutter sandwiches. Of course, as always, he had to make sure that the lids were replaced perfectly and the labels smoothed with the tears hidden, to give the impression that they had never been opened. He picked up some clothes from the floor, the bottom of the wardrobe and the washing basket, then stuffed them into his rucksack along with 10 metres of LED lights, enough EL wire to light up a black hole, his ipod nano and huge subwoofer speakers. He delicately placed the sandwiches down the side of the bag, protecting them from every angle with packets of Mentos, and finally the ‘piece de resistance’ of these weapons of mass distraction, his half-cyborg, half-badger costume with the big, furry mechanical paws and PVC claws.

As he sat down on the bus, he took out his iPhone and logged in to foursquare to check whether any dealers were out and about so he could top-up on some extras. Junglejim was at The Den, while Cat Stevens69 was in The Cock, although neither was worth going out of his way for, so he decided to just head for the station. He quickly FB’d the RHG gang to let them know his ETA, then simultaneously updated his status while tweeting, adopting a witty and upbeat tone that was discordant with the monotonous hangover buzzing inside his head, getting last night’s story about asking the tattooed stripper for a second-hand discount down to only 145 characters.

He then cleared the camera of the stripper photos, uploading them onto flickr while the videos of everyone but him went straight on his youtube channel. He was far more organised and tidy in the virtual world than the real one. It seemed to be more important to him. The next few minutes were spent adding ridiculously esoteric captions to the photos that only the RHG gang would understand, but before he was finished, Tag had SMS’d him to let him know that the sniffer dogs looked pretty vicious.

When he arrived and saw these notorious dogs he sent Tag an emoticon giving him the finger. The reply was swift and consisted of an emoticon making an ‘O’ shape with its fingers that were dripping with white goo. These springer spaniels were more interested in guys’ arses and women’s crotches than drugs. And he doubted that anyone had gone that far in concealing their stash. The sandwiches, Mentos and badger costume appeared to have been the killer weapons of mass distraction, as the spaniels and pitbull security guards paid him little attention, although he got a flirtatious smile from the girl giving out the wristbands. She must have had a badger costume fetish. He quickly went on the ‘Xray SexSpecs’ app and held his iPhone up to her. She smiled innocently and ignorantly, thinking he was taking her photo, while his screen revealed a pair of tits around her size and shape. He then clicked on FestX GPS to help him find his mates’ campsite, who’d plotted their trail on the map via the readers in their iPhones and the chips in their trainers.

“Hey look, Titmash finally made it,” MGM remarked as Al approached the gang.

“With all the gear I hope,” sniffed Tag quietly.

“Yeah but you’ll have to wait till I need a shit. What? It was the only way to get past those sniffer dogs Tag.”

‘Ha bloody ha. What did you get anyway? Please don’t say it’s that NRG 11 shite.”

“Nope, the latest designer drug actually, my dopey friends.”

“What?” Glycerine snorted toxically.

“These glow in the dark suppositories full of MDMA, LSD, DKNY and Special K.”

“Nice one!” MGM drooled, grinning inanely.

“Well it’s a good job you didn’t smuggle those in up your arsehole,” quipped Tag.

“Ha, yeah. Plus I’ve got enough mephedrone to kill a hundred teenagers.”

“Whack it out then. I’m beginning to be able to taste my own tongue.”

Al craved for the lollipop in the elf’s mouth and began to stop caring about what would happen to him if he simply stole it. Being polite to her - or for all he knew, it might have been a ‘him’ - had been of no use, so he was going to take a more direct course of action. He reached for the stick and snatched hold of it, attempting to yank it out. But elves are known for their strong mouths. In fact, they use them rather than their hands to hold the ropes when they’re helping young fairies to practice flying: one end of the rope is tied to the fairy, while the other they hold in their mouths, then they run faster than any other land magical creature can, making the fairy take-off. And in reality, some fairies are really quite heavy, even the young ones.

Therefore, instead of just grabbing the lollipop, Al got the elf as well and she-he flew forwards on top of him while he fell down with a wallop on the grass. The elf’s penetrating blue eyes stared down into his fiery red ones, the lollipop still in his-her mouth, and it was while they were both in this somewhat awkward position that he heard a familiar voice.

‘Ere Titmash, wot yeh doin’ down there for fawkes’ sake,’ it said with glee. He looked up and saw a half-giant, half-rabid goblin staring down at him with a mental smile that had the power to summon pig dogs with just one flash. It was his mate, Mad-Grin Molester.

‘Haw, haw, looks like someone’s in need of a quick four-four to the floor,’ he bellowed while the elf threw him a dark look, twisting the lollipop round expertly in her mouth. It was hypnotising Mad-Grin and he stood leaning unsteadily towards the elf whilst gawping at the spiralling sweet, which seemed to change colour with every turn, making his eyes swivel about so quickly that they almost popped out of their sockets. Luckily Titmash knew the command, and he got up, raised his arms in the air and shouted, “Tuuuuuuuuuune!!!!!!” before speeding off in the direction of the dance floor.

He pushed past crazy creatures waving neon wands in the air, and got to the middle just as the tune ended. He turned to see whether Mad-Grin had followed, like a giant rat after the pied piper, and there he was, right next to him, attempting to steal the elf’s lollipop with his tongue. Suddenly, Al felt a fierce burning sensation in his forehead; a vision of a badger appeared in his mind beckoning him over.

Feeling more than a little nauseous, he battled his way back through the manic wands and balloons. When he broke free from the crowd, he looked down at the mechanical badger paws on his hands. They suddenly seemed real, somehow. He realised then how much he was sweating, no he wasn’t sweating, he was raining from the inside out; typical that when there’s not a cloud in the sky, he still got soaked. He fell on the grass, face-up, exhausted, the sound of music and laughter now muffled in the distance. The piercing pain came back to his forehead, as the ground seemed to shift, now feeling cool and smelling earthy. He saw worms emerging from behind the sky, wriggling out of tiny holes in the blue, and he had the strange urge to eat them.

Then a silver-white substance appeared before him in the air, neither gas nor liquid. It drifted forwards, dissolving the worms as it floated past them before hovering over his head. It sparkled in the sunlight, and he thought he could make out the shape of a dove. He watched it intently as it glided away from him and stopped still in a spot before vanishing into the ether. It wasn’t for a few more moments until he noticed the door. There were no walls, just a door, as if it was the entrance to the sky. Steps led up to it, and he was unsure whether he should discover what was behind this door. It could be his greatest fear: or his happiest moment. Then he noticed some more of the white substance, floating around the door from the other side: he took a deep breath, went up the steps and opened it.

‘Oi Titmash, where’ve you been?’ he heard a voice call from behind the pervasive silvery-whiteness. He stepped through the haze and saw his mate Tag sat in a circle of gnarled beings who looked like they’d been there for so long, they’d grown roots under the ground and bark over their skin. They were all holding magic wands. He then realised that the white essence was emanating from these wands that glowed at their tips.

‘Ere, what’s up, you’re looking a bit mental. This’ll sort you out,’ and Tag passed his magic wand over. Al held it delicately between his badger claws, staring at it until he heard a whistle, and looked up to see Tag raising his eyebrows at him and making the motion of putting his fingers to his mouth. But before he could do anything, a hideous shape came rushing towards them from beyond the pale. It was only when it was right in front of his nose that he could see its full gruesomeness. A scarred lizard’s face looked fixedly back at him, covered in piercings and foaming at the mouth. It was making a low, menacing sound.

‘Shit, crap, he needs another suppository!’ yelled Tag. Al had no idea what that meant and didn’t have the time to ask, even if he had been able to speak. He just pointed the wand at the lizard, and mumbled something under his breath. In an instant, the lizard calmed down and looked almost human as he grabbed the magic wand and put its tip to his lips. But the wand was disappearing fast, and was already half the size it had been a few moments ago. Al wasn’t going to hang around to see what would happen when it had vanished completely, so he jumped up and started running for his life.

He ran and ran, not daring to look behind him, not knowing what was in front of him. Everything now looked unfamiliar. He stumbled as his forehead throbbed with pain, felt the ground give way beneath his feet, his stomach lurching like on a rollercoaster, and he was falling, falling through the air. But it smelt so earthy, and he found it hard to breathe, as if he was being buried deep in the ground. He tried to focus his eyes on something but everything was a blur: with a jolt, he felt the ground again, his legs and arms reaching it with a thud. The pain in his forehead was now so intense that it obliterated any aches caused by his collision with the mud.

His face was interred in dirt and his mouth opened and closed automatically; he had no control over it. He was eating earth, or was it earthworms? There was a fight going on near him, he could feel the violent vibrations all over his body. He wondered whether his limbs were fighting of their own accord because his mind was too weak to help them, and lifted his head to find out. This is when he heard the sound. A low, howling growl that roused the fear that his eyes made clear as they stared with horror at two giant paws with gigantic claws; then slowly up to the burning, milky-white eyes that looked like they’d been ravaged by the darkness. But they could still see him.

What was this monster? Had he fallen into the set of the King of the Badgers? These thoughts raced through his mind while his body decided to make the decision to flee. But all around him were walls of earth, caging him in. He looked down at his hands that were still wearing the mechanical paws with plastic claws. Desperately he tried to dig himself out, before he was buried alive: then he was plunged into darkness.

Once upon a time and a very good time it was there was a mr badger living in the ground and this mr. badger met a nice little boy named ally wally who came to visit him in his house underground. Ally wally was scaredy at first coz mr badger is very very big but he gave ally wally a cup of tea and a biscuit and a little chair to sit down on.

He had heard this story before: he liked it so much that he kept on wanting it: he cried for it when it ended.

He was ally wally. Mr Badger knew the way back to his friends: he pointed to the path.

Tralala lala,

Tralala tralala,

Tralala lala,

Tralala lala.

His friends were all in a circle, dancing and singing. His friend Stephen Taggart looked at him through a dark glass: he had a funny face.

When you wet yourself first it is warm then it gets cold. Stephen gave him a funny look and said:

O, his nappy needs changing.

Saturday, 25th September, 2010

2010-09-25T08:33:00.001-07:00

Recently my life lost all meaning. I woke up one day and couldn’t string a thought together with the noodles of my brain. I felt it was time to soak them in something with values, beliefs and ancient knowledge. The Chinese Year of the Tiger was on the prowl, the astrological symbol I was born under, so it made absolute sense for me to try and live my life by the rules and principles of Chinese philosophy.

Once the decision was made and I’d found my new path, it was like a huge profound weight had been lifted from my shoulders. Immediately at once I felt like losing myself to wild abandon. This was a very fortuitous state for me to be in, seeing as I was destined to go to a party that very night.

My heart was full of joy with the promise of the enchanted evening only about five miles away south on my new path. The darkness was winning the battle against the light, quickly seeping into the colourless sky, like black ink in water. I breathed in its intoxicating fumes, happy for it to pollute my mind once again with unreachable fancies that forever twinkled at me, enticing me farther and farther into its unfathomable dimensions. Because now I had my new path and it would guide me through the tricky temptress that was the darkness.

Birds sang at the streetlamps as they industriously radiated a yellow glow of light, an attempt by man to defy the natural order of things and to make sure money could be made and spent eternally, without rest. An instinctive desire to visit the cash machine one more time pulsed through my veins, and the feeling of the fresh, crisp notes in my hand comforted me ineffably and beyond my mortal comprehension.

As I approached my enchanting evening, I was shocked by its unnatural appearance and extraordinary proportions. It was as if the fabric of spacetime had been stretched and then a rather crude and somewhat delusional attempt had been made to gather it back to its original state, the result of which was a crumpled heap in the middle of nothingness. My unfaltering belief in my new path meant that I didn’t stop myself from entering this enchanted evening, but instead let every atom of my body and soul become absorbed in it absolutely, until I didn’t know where the evening stopped and I began.

After what could have been years, minutes or mere nano-seconds (much later when such things could be understood, I discovered that it was in fact 25 hours) I found myself staring into an abyss, the most tangible part of which was made of stained porcelain. I was retching like a cat with a fur ball, the strangest sensation of this experience being that my cognisance of it was only through my reflection in the water below my head. This water continued down into an ominous black hole.

I was shaken and confused, but then heartened at the realisation that the water wasn’t yellow. One of the teachings of my new philosophy was “Not having arrived at the Yellow River, the heart is not dead.” So I knew that hope and life was still with me. And my body certainly followed this doctrine literally as although my bladder felt like it was fit to burst, not even a yellow trickle, let alone a yellow river, could be tempted to flow out. I finally managed to crawl away from the abyss and into sublime oblivion, thanks to the trusty transporter of incomparable softness and comfort; my own bed.

For the following 5 days I undertook the necessary work needed to rebalance my accounts and play my part in ensuring that the readings on the machines that run the world are kept in the safe zone. And then like a dancer with strong thighs and an invigorating rhythm, the weekend was upon me once more. I embraced it and rode it along my path, which took me to club after club after club. These became so infinitesimally small and dense that in the last one I entered (and I don’t for the life of me remember how I physically got into such a tiny, packed place) I closed my eyes and waited for the resulting implosion of matter.

It didn’t seem as if it was going to happen anytime soon though, and eventually, I was brave enough to re-open my eyes. And when I did, there in front of me was such a strange-looking fellow that I couldn’t help but stare. His head was the shape and texture of a peanut husk, one that has been left out in the sun for too long and has become withered and paper-thin. So much so, it gave me the impression that if anyone was to touch him, he’d immediately crumble and turn to dust. At first I couldn’t see his eyes, as I mistook them for being more blemishes in his skin. But then a coloured light flashed over them, briefly revealing their greedy intentions.

I suddenly realised that I was regarding him through the thick bottom of my empty pint glass. I steadily lowered it, yet noticed that it had provided no visual trickery and that he was exactly the same abomination he had been behind it. He ran a dry tortoise head across the crevices and protrusions below his broad, flat nose, and only by their position could I conclude that they constituted his tongue and lips. He then cracked a smile and inside his mouth, I discovered gold in the form of teeth.

I knew I should have just turned away, but my morbid fascination got the better of me. He appeared to be beckoning me over the few feet to where he was leaning against the bar. I took comfort in the idea that he possibly couldn’t make his way over to me without the aid of a walking stick, so I had the gazelle’s agile advantage, should it be required.

I waited apprehensively for his next move. He wrote something on a piece of paper and gave it to the glass collector, who came over and passed it to me, a look of bored bewilderment on his face. I unfolded the paper, and saw a series of numbers on it, followed by the moniker, Alfonso. I looked back up at the old peanut husk and he was making the sign of a telephone with his hand, holding it against his ear. I didn’t need him to be any clearer, and stumbling slightly in my haste, I made my way to the dancefloor to look for anyone I could still recognise. I cursed myself for not remembering sooner one of the key teachings of my new philosophy. “ The old horse in the stable still yearns to run 1000 Li 1.”

The disc jockey was pumping out a short anthology of the history of dance music, in no particular order, and I paused in nineteen hundred and ninety-five to dance next to a fellow with invisible maracas and another who looked like he was attempting to take off. Then totally unexpectedly, a shaft of the brightest, whitest light my eyes had ever looked upon, cut through the dancefloor. Those split in half by it shrieked, while everyone else cowered in the shadows. I looked in the direction it had come from and saw that the door to the club had been opened, letting in the midday sun.

I recalled the doctrine that “All crows in the world are black” and understood that my new beliefs were telling me that you can’t turn day into night, no matter how hard you might try. So with a keen determination and resolute march, I left the club and my path took me home to where I found a basket of laundry that desperately needed attention.

Another 5 days passed where I was forced to work to prevent the machine’s readings from becoming dangerously low. It was the next weekend that I came across a teaching in my philosophy I hadn’t noticed before. “I dreamed a thousand new paths. I woke up and walked my old one.” After reading it for the tenth time, a change came upon me, one which was almost undetectable to my human mind. It was unimaginably subtle and incredibly meaningful. In one moment, the air and everything within it was clear. I tried to put it into words in my head, but the more attempts I made, the less sure I was that I had had anything meaningful to express in the first place, until I knew that it had just been my imagination playing tricks on my rational brain.

And the only thing that dawned on me was the sad fact that my life had lost all meaning. I decided that maybe Buddhism was the answer to where my ‘true path’ lay. I cracked open a beer and looked it up on wikipedia.

From The Recesses Of The Mind This Month

2010-09-25T08:32:00.001-07:00

Friday, September 4th, 2009

Yet I’m not the only one. Everywhere I look as I walk down the street are dour expressions. There’s a woman whose face is so screwed up and sour looking, it resembles the bottom of a lemon where all the creases are, with the facial features drawn on. And a man who has let those invisible strings cause permanent damage, pulling all his features down from his eyelids to his bottom lip, which hangs off his face like a full-up leech that’s waiting to fall off.

The other day, I walked through this never-ending misery to the market, where the atmosphere darkened even more, as the cloying stench of dead flesh filled my nostrils and the eerie sound of bones being chopped hit my eardrums. Bang, bang, bang. I looked at the freshly plucked chickens hanging upside down and the pig’s head displayed on its tray, their expressions of boredom and emptiness reflecting mine. Pathetic fallacy, really.

Then a young halal butcher cut my morbid mood dead, with a chirpy, ‘Hi, beautiful day isn’t it?’ I looked at him, trying to hide my amazement at this outrageous show of cheerfulness on such a gloomy day in the middle of one heck of a miserable year. Not only that, but he was also in the middle of toes, tails and tripe. He smiled at me warmly, a little flirtatiously and with such ease that I couldn’t help but be slightly envious. I attempted to smile back but the strings were conspiring against me once more so I ended up just pouting, now looking more like the fish in the next shop. Although being the consummate professional he evidently was, he pretended not to notice and cheekily asked me if I fancied one of his hearts, obviously not really his, but some poor cow’s.

And that’s when I caught it. The strings appeared to break, as I felt a broad smile smoothly spread across my face. It got so wide that it went from my lips to my throat to my chest and into my belly, where it produced a little giggle. This then jumped out of my mouth up my nose and into my eyes. Now a giggle trapped in the eyes is an interesting phenomenon. It makes you see things differently, in a way that’s maybe similar to what the Rastas who sit by the mobile African food stall constantly smoking spliffs experience. It made me see that all the butchers in his shop were laughing and joking as they worked amongst the carcasses.

Well, I thought, if they could laugh with all that death around, then maybe I could amidst these shop carcasses and living corpses. The eerie chopping began to merge into the sunny and relaxed beat of the reggae blaring out from the stall selling Lee Perry and Jimmy Cliff CDs. I walked towards it and one by one like damaged dominoes, the scruffy Jamaican guys who were hanging out there turned and flashed a smile at me.

So, like a social disease destroying the angst and animosity that keeps people apart from each other and society’s barriers in their place, the smile ravaged through the streets of this London suburb, taking people by surprise and invading their eyes. Now I noticed the elegant symmetry of the buildings that sit above the modern shop fronts, and the gentle curve of the market’s road, mimicking the smooth, slight arc of the plantain. Or, could it really be? A smile.Then through the bus window I saw the council estate. But with these eyes, the colourful washing hung out on a few of the balconies gave the front of the block of flats the look of a Mondrian. Aesthetic, horizontal and vertical lines constructed and brought to harmony and rhythm by intuition and the weekend laundry. Ha! I laughed to myself and the effect became stronger.

And then I saw him. Sat in the corner at the back of the bus. An old man, ancient even, was laughing silently to himself. His face now a collection of laughter upon laughter line, spreading from the corners of his eyes, nose and mouth to the edge of his receding hairline, as the smile had slowly taken over it. A bright twinkle had permanently infected his eyes, and as I watched him they creased up easily while his mouth freely dropped open to reveal just a few remaining teeth, which smiled back too through the curve of decay. When he spotted me looking at him and smiling, he laughed even harder, throwing his head back. He then put his hand to his eyes as they wept from all that laughter, before checking to see whether I was still smiling. Then he cracked up again. This carried on for at least 4 stops.

I appeared to be the only one who could see him, as everyone else was just staring forward with stony expressions, apparently uninfected. I began to wonder whether he was really there or just some hallucination of this disease. But as I watched him laughing and really cracking up, nothing else mattered anymore but giggling freely back, not caring what anyone thought and this vaguely familiar, exhilarating buzz that it was giving me.

And in that moment I got the joke. And it’s so simple, but for one reason or another, these days it’s become hard to do and we leave it for so long that we actually forget how to do it. But the joke is all you have to do is laugh, the most natural thing in the world, because when you do problems are attacked and ugliness is mutated into something beautiful. It would be easier if the world laughed with you, but if it doesn’t want to or can’t, then, like the old man, just laugh at it. You see, the more you laugh at it, the sooner it’ll become infected too. And unlike Swine Flu, TB or Fear, this is one contagion humanity really needs to catch.

Thursday, 29th July, 2010

2010-07-29T01:18:00.001-07:00

Rajgir, the Indian town that time, tourists and terrorists forgot.

The district of Nalanda may contain one of Buddha’s Holy sites, but it’s also where you’ll find Rajgir, an Indian town that’s a bit of a hell hole. You know, the kind that’s a nuclear bomb short of perfect. In fact, it’s as if an atomic explosion has gone off and the town is the apocalyptic aftermath. Everything in Rajgir seems to suffer from the nuclear fall-out of its past glories. For once it was the capital of the first Indian Empire, had a mention in the Buddhist and Jain scriptures, as well as the epic Mahabarata (the Indian version of the Illiad), yet now it’s just a diversion on the Barauni and Patna highway.

The hotel we were staying in hadn’t escaped the nuclear fall-out either. When the taxi pulled up outside it, we nearly locked the doors and refused to get out. Yet curiosity, or whatever it is in horror films that makes the victims wander off on their own down dark alleys in the direction of a funereal wailing sound, got the better of us, and zombie-like, we dragged ourselves towards the empty shell of what might have once been a luxury hotel, well, by Indian standards at least.

It was clean, but very, very basic. There was 1 bed, 1 sofa and 1 hole in the ground, or ‘squat and drop’ as we fondly nicknamed the Indian toilet. And 1 old television set, although as soon as our backs were turned, this was almost nicked by the guy who’d shown us to our room. Although we took comfort from the fact that he was stealing the hotel’s belongings, and not ours. Fortunate, because there weren’t many comforts to find here.

When we took part in the Indian hotel ritual of signing the visitor's book for their record of who’s stayed, which is usually full of names, we saw that the last people to stay in this hotel had stayed there over a month before. We wondered if Steve McKenzie and his fellow travellers’ jaws had dropped too when they’d entered their hotel room. Not because of the Eastern European prison-style hard bed, floor and naked light bulb, but the yellowing Winnie The Pooh and his Friends curtains. Pooh, Tigger, Piglet and Eeyore were all there, with fixed, stunned smiles on their faces, as if aware of their fate of being left hanging there until the building falls down.

So we were in a bit of a lime pickle. We had a whole afternoon, night and day here. But the hotel room hadn’t been the nuclear bunker that we’d hoped for. Now we knew that a little adventure outside might cost us our lives, but staying in, staring at the lizards dart between the cracks in the ceiling and watching countless programmes in Hindi became so tedious that we all decided to venture forth into the abyss.

And what did we see? Well, let’s just say that terrorists probably wouldn’t bother to attack Rajgir. There aren’t any 5 star hotels, and any plans to cause damage to buildings with grenades and bombs would be scuppered, because no-one would notice the difference.

So what do you do when you’re stuck in an Indian town that Shiva destroyed, but which creation itself couldn’t be bothered with? Well, drink. And conveniently, Rajgir is in Bihar, the poorest state in India, yet also the one with the strongest beer. For reasons that become apparent the more time you spend there, Kingfisher brew a special beer that’s only available in Bihar, with an alcohol content of between 5% and 8%, as it says on the label. It’s a lottery, as you may get the one with only 5%.

We found this nectar of the gods in the first bar we could see, past all the empty bicycle rickshaws, disturbing lack of beggars and tumbleweed. The barman hastily ushered us away from the 3 local men sat inside by the bar with their vacant zombie-like eyes glued to an Indian soap opera and their mouths stuck on their beers, and into our own private booth complete with shabby curtain. In most places in India you don’t really see people boozing, and in some cities you can’t even buy alcohol, such as Pushkar and Varanasi. There are no such problems in Rajgir. And our fear for our lives was justified, as after just two of those large beers with an alcohol content of 8% (or maybe even 11 or 14, I mean who’s counting?), we were annihilated. And what didn’t help our survival was our beer-soaked desire to befriend the local policeman who’d popped his head in to check on the bar. Yet after a few mug shots and countless questioning along the lines of ‘where are you from?’ and ‘what is that you’re drinking?’ he finally let us go, but not before he’d dutifully escorted us safely back to our ravaged hotel.

So after our first 12 hours in Rajgir, we’d just managed to cheat death by intoxication and policeman’s lathi. Yet who knew what was going to happen in the next 7 hours? If you’re a Buddhist, Jain or Hindu, Rajgir is jam-packed full of fascinating sites and must-see attractions. If you’re not, then you’re left with just the Vishwa Shanti Stupa, a beautiful peace pagoda made of white marble that was built by the Japanese. It sits on top of the Gridhakuta Hill, where Buddha spent months meditating and preaching. And the only way to get to this top attraction is by, well how else in Rajgir, a life-threatening chairlift. Or chair drop, as I liked to call it, seeing as it consisted of a thin piece of rope from which fragile metal chairs were hung, with only a feeble, barely attached bar to hold the passenger in place.

To add to this living on the edge experience, we thought we’d fill our empty bowels first, and handily, right there at the base of the chair drop was a café in the style of those dirty stalls you get by the side of the Indian road. It sold pakoras and vegetable curry made by a cook with an interesting technique, which may be particular to the cuisine of Rajgir. Always follow every other stir with the pick of the nose, and finish off the dish with a sprinkle of coriander then a scratch of dandruff. Well if we were going to die anyway, what were a few contaminated pakoras to us? And in any case, they tasted great.

Unfortunately we had a long queue of almost an hour to regret this decision ten-fold, as we waited for our turn in the chairlift. The gaps between each bowel movement became shorter and shorter while we got closer and closer to the front of the queue. Overhead, legs dangled and we heard the sound of metal screaming as the chairs bumped over the pulleys. And then the screaming stopped, and it all went deadly silent. An electricity failure. The chairlift was left stationary for a few minutes. A different sort of screaming started, a child’s. Fortunately the chairlift started up again, and the metal screams drowned out the child’s. And our own.

Then before we had time to reconsider for the fiftieth time, it was our turn. The secret is to never, ever look down. Just keep your head up and admire the beautiful scenery. You see, one of the best reasons for visiting the Stupa is that it gets you out of the town and into Rajgir’s verdant green hills. Yes you really feel close to nature on the chairlift, perhaps because you’re so near to death and of becoming one with the trees and flowers. It’s a different way of understanding Aum. It’s a lot quicker than years of meditation. The fear makes you believe in the oneness instantly, and clears your mind of everything, except that one thing.

What really gives you confidence though, are the infinite smiles of the constant stream of people coming back the other way. Their friendly faces and greetings of ‘Namaste!’ take your mind off your impending doom, and compel you to smile back, muttering a feeble, ‘Hi’. Children, Mums, Dads, Grans, Grandads and teenage boys’ faces all break out into huge grins as they pass you, giving you the assurance that people do actually make it to the top and back again in one piece. And when you reach the summit, one of the first things you hear is a deep, mellow reassuring drum coming from the temple – the sound of Aum. It’s the sound that signals the end of your journey from the hell of the modern town into the heaven of Rajgir’s serene countryside. And on top of the Stupa you feel so peaceful and calm, that you could just stay there forever.

You see, in the end, everyone comes up smiling in Rajgir. Even us. Because not only had we cheated death, but we’d also successfully killed time.

Wednesday, 30th June, 2010

2010-06-30T11:17:00.002-07:00

http://matadornetwork.com/nights/londons-best-pubs-for-a-sunday-roast/

From The Recesses Of The Mind This Month

2010-06-30T11:17:00.001-07:00

Sunday, March 15th, 2009

So what’s South Park got to do with all this, I hear you ask? Well, let’s start by comparing its stories to those of the Old Testament. Both use over-the-top, dramatic narratives that are crude and surreal to capture the audience’s attention and to get their point across. They both criticize society. Yet South Park does it through satire, ridiculing the vices and follies of the whole of humankind. Whereas the Old Testament slanders and maligns to bring certain groups into disrepute, those which don’t tow the Christian line. Although isn’t history about learning from all our mistakes, not just a chosen few?

The Old Testament has its tale of the Whore of Babylon, a figure who’s unmistakably cast as the evil bitch of the earth. She’s described as having a golden cup in her hand that’s full of abominations and the filthiness of her fornication. Well I never. And on her forehead is written, ‘Babylon the Great, the Mother of Harlots and Abominations of the Earth.’ She also gets drunk on the blood of saints. Meanwhile, South Park has the ‘Stupid Spoiled Whore Video Playset’ episode, where Paris Hilton represents the overt sexualisation of society. Her cartoon character wears lewd clothing and constantly coughs up semen, while her new shop, ‘Stupid Spoiled Whore’ encourages the young girls of South Park to emulate their role model, by wearing skimpy outfits and throwing sex parties.

The Whore of Babylon never existed, and is just a Christian allegory of evil, representing the sins of the world. The Stupid Spoiled Whore of South Park on the other hand, although exaggerated for comic effect, it can be argued that she does actually exist.

Then there’s the Old Testament’s story of one of its most hated figures, King Neduchadnezzar, the geezer who captured Jerusalem and deported its elite to Babylon. This conqueror of Jerusalem, according to the religious prophets, got his comeuppance by going mad, becoming a crazed and terrified man, who spent his last days crawling on all fours like an animal and eating grass. In the South Park episode ‘Trapped in the Closet’, the former King of Hollywood Blockbusters, Tom Cruise, is depicted as a fanatical follower of the Church of Scientology and is seen exhibiting insane behaviour, for instance, he locks himself in the toilet when Stan (who he considers to be the reincarnation of L. Ron Hubbard) says his acting’s not really that great.

The Old Testament created a slanderous myth against the reputation of King Neduchadnezzar, as archaeologists have found that it wasn’t him who went mad at all, but the more insignificant King Nabonidus. But again, it can’t be said that South Park’s portrayal of the erstwhile King of Hollywood and Paramount Pictures is entirely inaccurate.

Of course, it’s not just the Old Testament that has attempted to create myths of the past for its own ends. Many leaders have too. Take Saddam Hussein in our recent history. The British Museum’s exhibition shows how he attempted to create an image of himself as the modern day successor to the Babylon Kings, as Babylon was where Iraq is today. He had a painting commissioned in which he’s illustrated as this huge Colossus of Rhodes, standing tall above Babylon’s famous Ishtar Gate. In another, he’s transformed into a heroic warrior, riding a chariot into battle.

In contrast, South Park portrayed him as a whiny-voiced homosexual, who had a love relationship with Satan. Again, you can decide for yourself whether you think that South Park’s interpretation of events is a great deal closer to the truth than Saddam Hussein’s.

The point is (and there is one), that these days it’s harder to tell myth from reality, what with all the media spin, conspiracy theories and political propaganda. We don’t know the truth now about certain events in our recent history, let alone in over two thousand years. So why not have the noughties’ history represented by South Park? Every episode is based on the truth, albeit occasionally a small grain, and its creators Matt Stone and Trey Parker are ‘equal opportunity offenders’. This means they don’t just represent one view, but lampoon all sides of a contentious issue, so in that way it’s pretty objective as far as historical accounts go, and it doesn’t preach. And yes it illustrates the sins of humanity, but also its virtues, as every episode ends with the identification of one of society’s morals in the form of an important lesson from which the young of South Park, that is Stan, Kyle and Butters, are seen to have learnt from.

The reality might never be separated from the myths of our times, but I for one would much rather have South Park as our historical document than, say, Sky News reports or any religion’s interpretation. For one, it’s likely to be more honest, and most importantly, a hell of a lot funnier.

Friday, 28th May, 2010

2010-05-28T09:46:00.000-07:00

A tourist’s guide to the Indian jungle.

Some say that Indian society has turned into a jungle since the British left in 1947. It’s a monkey eat monkey world. Well most tourists who stay briefly might not get enough of an insight to find out whether that is true or not, but they shouldn’t be disappointed, as there is a jungle in India that every visitor will discover immediately on arrival. The Indian road. Now there are 5 main species of animal in this jungle – the big 5 - that every traveller should be aware of before coming to India.

Let’s start with the langur monkeys. These are the taxi drivers who work for hotels and are the creatures that most tourists are likely to come across first. They’re the weary traveller’s ‘free transfer’ to and from the airport, and so have to work at all times of the day and night. The problem there is that they aren’t nocturnal and don’t appreciate being woken up in the middle of the night. So be warned if you’ve got an early morning flight to catch. They’re liable to arrive late for a job that’s before 7am, if at all, as they appear to do as they please and all this seems even less acceptable when they turn up looking like they’ve slept in the car anyway. And if the car is their bed, then it’s a logical progression to have the side of the road as the bathroom. Therefore when nature calls, this species of taxi driver will just stop, get out and relieve themselves. They won’t even walk out of view or into the bushes. They’ll just do it right there, in front of you.

The langur monkey driver likes a drink, and has been known to turn up drunk if he’s picking you up after 10pm. At these times, when questioned on whether he’s fit to drive or not, he’ll put a hand on your shoulder, possibly to steady himself, look into one of your four eyes - usually the one in the middle of your nose - and tell you through breath that makes your head spin, that he’s only had a couple, my friend. He gets away with this behaviour because after 10pm, a remote small Indian town, with its dirty handed beggars crowding round you pulling at your t-shirt while dogs on heat encircle you, can be slightly daunting.

Consequently, unless your taxi driver’s lying in the middle of the street, chanting some Hindi song extremely loudly with a bottle of strong homemade Mahua in one hand, and a wine soaked piece of paper with your name scrawled on it in the other, then you’re very likely to get into his car with no complaints just to hightail it out of there as quickly as possible.

What’s characteristic about this type of monkey is that it has big balls. So even after he’s turned up drunk to pick you up, don’t be surprised if he tries to get you to hire him for the day with the promise of taking you round all the sights at a very cheap price.

The taxi drivers that swing from street to street waiting for tourists to hire them are the macaques of the road jungle. Be careful around these mammals because they’re known for their nasty bite. This can come in the form of an extortionate price that you need to haggle down to an eighth of the one they’re suggesting. Or fleas. These fleas jump out from the clothes of the gentleman sleeping in the back of their cab, who they shoo out when they get a job. Another reason to be wary around the macaque taxi driver is that he isn’t afraid to f*** you up the ass. Be prepared to resist his price of 5,000 rupees for taking you 5 minutes down the road.

What’s particular to this species is that they’ve learnt English, and use their bilingual skills to emotionally blackmail you into giving them a big tip. They’ll look at you sadly with their big brown eyes and tell you how little money they receive as a macaque taxi driver, yet need to feed their family of 6 children, 1 wife and 2 mothers. Their rehearsed conversation usually starts with a ‘So which country are you from?’ knowing full well that you’re, English, American or Australian. When you answer, ‘England, London’, they pounce on you and chatter excitedly about how rich a ‘country’ London is.

Higher up the food chain are the drivers of the air-conditioned people carriers that you can book through the many local and independent Indian travel agents online. They’re the ones who take you miles and miles across the Indian highways, up-down-and-almost-sideways, and no-ways, to reach remote places that haven’t been made part of the railway network yet. These are the tigers. Majestic at the wheel and unfazed by anything, the tiger makes light work of the harshest terrain on the planet, that is, the Indian road. He’s the king of it, devouring anything that gets in his way and deftly avoiding danger such as potholes, sliding into ditches and unexplained traffic jams.

He’s quietly aggressive when the road becomes menacing, never emitting as much as a low growl when faced with a fallen down bridge or an oncoming lorry on a single lane of tarmac, tyre puncturing rocks and stones on either side. He remains totally focused on the road ahead, his eyes fixed, shining in the dark. This means he never speaks or makes conversation, but doesn’t mind listening to a bit of music - as long as it’s Hindi. In fact, this species of driver doesn’t speak much English at all, yet curiously, when driving through the bandit country of Bihar, he’ll surprise you with the well-spoken command of ‘Lock your doors.’ So although in the wussy-powered people-carrier there may be no tiger in the tank, there’s definitely one behind the wheel.

Now we come to the most infamous inhabitant of the Indian road jungle. The tuk tuk driver. He’s the hyena, hanging out in a pack, scavenging for tourists around every station, sight and ‘5 star’ hotel. Or simply curb crawling down the street after you. He has no shame, and uses this to his advantage when telling you his price to take you to B, which is in fact, only a few metres away. But because he drives around the block a couple of times before dropping you off, you’re none the wiser and pay him his laughable price. Therefore before taking a ride with one of these hyenas, make sure you’ve got a map with you indicating how far away B actually is. Although on the positive side, he’s a bit of a coward, and when challenged he’ll completely back down and take you where you want to go for practically nothing.

He loves to talk about himself and emits a high-pitched laugh at most things he says, if only to ingratiate himself to you. Always foraging for a tip, he’ll almost kill himself and you to get a good one. So never say you’re in a hurry to get to the station, because he really will put his foot down on that accelerator with a haunting laugh that you’ll never forget, if you get to live to remember it.

Then, at the bottom of the food chain and budget scale is the bicycle rickshaw driver. He’s the buffalo of the road jungle, but doesn’t look like one at first glance. No, his appearance is more of a scrawny, fragile gazelle. This means when he tries to undercut the tuk tuk guy with his, ‘I’ll take you all for 3 rupees!’ you look at his staring, vacant eyes with pity and politely decline. Yet when you see one pulling three obese Americans and all their oversized luggage up the hill without breaking a sweat, you gain a great deal of respect for this humble creature.

So remember to have your wits about you as soon as you leave the airport, as the Indian road jungle is awaiting you, with all its weird and wonderful creatures, who’ll try and tear as much flesh off you as possible, so they gain enough energy to get the hell out of there themselves.

From The Recesses Of The Mind This Month

2010-05-25T11:57:00.001-07:00

Sunday, June 7th, 2009

I found myself drifting down the street at two in the afternoon on a weekday. It felt weird to be wandering, wondering, at that time of the day. And the streets seemed unfamiliar. The people were strange, alien even. Who were all these old folk anyway and where had they come from? They took over the buses, pavements, benches and supermarkets. It looked like an invasion by old-age vampires, who only come out in the day, with hospital bed-sheet white skin that’s so worn it’s become thread bare, semi-translucent. They hang upright from bus stop benches, glaring in the June sunshine and baring their badly fitted teeth at dogs, cats, pigeons and children passing by.

The species that shares this 9-5 territory with the vampire OAPs, is the yummy mummy. I see one drearily pushing a buggy containing her little monster wielding a dripping ice-cream. I float past two more, invisible, as they speak to each other in an unfamiliar language. 60 Minute Makeover, Trisha, Jeremy Kyle and Lie Detector Tests.

Then through the hazy sunshine, familiar faces appear. Those I usually only see swimming against the tide of the commuters. The bloke in the pork pie hat, strumming his guitar with an irregular rhythm, as if he’s trying to find the right chord. At low tide, I can see him more clearly. The bright yellow flower in the lapel of his jacket. The perpetual smile dancing on the corners of his mouth. The intense concentration, which appears to come so easily. Like he’s a Zen Master of meditation.

Then there’s the old black guy, who’s always dressed smartly in an unknown army’s uniform, sitting outside his favourite Costcutter franchise. Guarding it, so it’s protected from an unknown enemy. He watches time slip casually by in the reflection of his shiny boots. But at least time is his to lose. In the office, you’re not the boss of your time. It’s work’s possession and it devours it, until there’s nothing left but just the skeleton of the day. The scraps are all we have to remind us of who we are. Even in holidayland we’re too occupied with must-seeing things, being with friends and family, or catching up on sleep, to have much time for ourselves. Although in this state of limbo I got to snatch back some time for me. As if this limbo was a cool lake, refracting time on its surface, bending it in my direction. All I had to do was reach out and grab it.

I ended up in the park by my flat. The grass was verdant, luminous. Shiny crows glittered from within it, like black diamonds. A guy lounging on a bench sucked on his cigarette, fashioning a piece of amber to add to the setting, with just his lips and lungs. The creases in his face had turned him into a permanent smoker, even when he didn’t have a cigarette in his mouth. Time takes a cigarette, to escape its timelessness. These outsiders, who’d escaped from 9-5 jobs, did everything slowly. Because they had all the time in the world. Time gives them bonus points. The counting crows make a mental note of them. Pointless points for the idlers. When you slow down, your thoughts become clear. They crystallise. Becoming rare gems. Epiphanies.

From an open window, a flute unfurled its music. Then from another, I could hear the calling of the violin. They flowed together, creating celestial music. Separated in body, but not in spirit. In that moment, I felt elated. Everything made sense. My mind and body were connected. Then suddenly, a man in a dark suit emerged from the verdant green. He didn’t glitter, he absorbed all the light. A long shadow in the sun. He was the grim reaper, telling me my time was up. I was forced to return to the world of emails, briefs and Blackberrys. The crows were startled and took flight. Time had flown, out of my grasp. It obviously wasn’t my time. Yet.

Saturday, 24th April, 2010

2010-04-29T04:17:00.002-07:00

Religion, like the circle of life and the Ganges itself, floods the very being of the Old City of Varanasi. Without it, it’d just be a dirty, decaying muddle of buildings. Religion and the practice of meditation brings a sense of calm to the hullabaloo of India, and makes it bearable to live with regular power cuts, few public services and a sewerage system that’s so bad, people are reduced to defecating on the streets and ghats. Another reason Indians stand it of course, is that most of them don’t know any other way of life. Yet nevertheless, being in the intense hustle and bustle of the Old City gives you an insight into how meditation has survived through the centuries. It could almost be seen as the opiate of the people, the only means by which the average Indian can escape.

So in Varanasi, if people aren’t praying, they’re meditating. And they believe in its benefits so much, that they want to share them with you. Introducing The Guru TM. He appeared out of the mass of people at the morning puja, dressed in a simple dhoti, smiling at me through his small round glasses. A cross between Gandhi and Bill Gates, as instead of holding his hands in prayer or a blessing, he was rubbing them together with rupees in his eyes, grinning like the Cheshire Cat. He offered me a lesson in meditation at his house, exclaiming how perfect a time it was to do it. Although weary from my travels, I took him up on his offer, as I always had enough energy for the search for the authentic Indian experience.

The Guru lived just 5 minutes from the ghat where the main puja is performed. It was easy to find because the turning off the main street was signposted by a large Coca-Cola placard. Above his door was a little scarlet statue of Ganesh, the god of transitions, who keeps out the unworthy. Or, perhaps in this case, the ‘un-wealthy’. We bowed in front of Ganesh on entry, mainly because the doorway was low. When I got inside I was surprised to see that his house was a tip. I only hoped that it didn’t reflect the state of his mind. There was a young guy already there, sat down within the muddle of objects and I realised that this wasn’t going to be a private lesson.

I once read that in Indian culture, a person without a guru or a teacher was considered an orphan or an unfortunate one. These days in the culture of travelling, a western person without a guru is an unfortunate tourist, missing out on one of the ‘unmissable’ Indian experiences. Therefore, I politely sat on the floor and waited patiently for The Guru’s life-altering words. He rooted through a cluttered drawer for something and then pulled out a little black book. He beamed at me though those round, simple Gandhian spectacles, making up for the dim light in the room. “Have a look, have a look,” he goaded me, slightly impatiently.

Intrigued with what I’d find inside this precious tome, I carefully opened the well-worn cover, and found hundreds of yellowing pages, heavy with the ink of many pens. Every kind of handwriting you could imagine was in there, covering all the space available. I squinted to try and read the words in the half-light, my mind alight with fanciful thoughts of the ancient wisdom they might impart. I focused on the fancy writing, full of serifs and swirls, and managed to read: ‘He is a great teacher. His lessons have been invaluable, thoroughly enriching my stay here. I only wish I could take him home with me. Catherine Prentice, Sevenoaks, Kent, England.’ If feelings made a noise, you would’ve been able to hear the sound of a whoopee cushion being emptied. “Most of my students have written something in there”, said The Guru gleefully, his head a huge, great helium filled balloon with a grinning SpongeBob SquarePants printed on it, bobbing up and down beside my deflated whoopee cushion self.

Middle-class tourists from Germany, France, the USA and even Wales had taken lessons from The Guru, and the whole experience started to appear like an attraction at Disney World. A plastic, melted down version of the real thing, with a hollow centre. But what did we really expect? Varanasi was in the Lonely Planet’s top 10 places to go in India, not a little village in the middle of nowhere. I felt a little dirty when The Guru abruptly charged myself and the other disciple (who was interestingly an Israeli) the 200 rupee per hour fee for the session. Now The Guru was going to have to pull something really special out of his beard to win-over this cynical westerner.

And sceptical I was. But you had to give The Guru credit, he had done his research. His product was honed within an inch of Hinduism and Buddhism, so it appealed to the typical western traveller who’d visit Varanasi. That is, either a hippy student or someone who didn’t follow one single religion, but was interested in all of them in their personal quest for alternative ways of living. He had tapped into the middle-class, western market where the search for the meaning of life was now a hobby, and who answered the question, ‘Do you believe in God?’ with the glib, ‘Well I believe in spirituality, but not in any religion or one god.’ The Guru got straight down to business as soon as we were all cross-legged on the floor sat around the imaginary meeting table in his paperless and furniture-less office with that very question. ‘Do you believe in God?’ After we answered it predictably as above, he explained that none of that mattered anyway, as what he taught had nothing to do with religion. It didn’t even have anything to do with spirituality. Because his product came with a different teaching method to the traditional Hindu, Buddhist, Sikh or Jain ones. After all, why make your product too exclusive? Always aim to appeal to as many tourists as possible.

So it had nothing to do with religion, or spirituality. It was a philosophy. Philosophy. One word that western people understood. It had the gravitas of a systematic approach and reasoned argument behind it. More about science than faith. Already it was turning into less of an authentic Indian experience than a visit to Delhi’s McDonald’s. From the 1960s onwards, it has become popular for westerners to seek those big ‘meaning of life’ questions from Indian gurus, rather than from western philosophy, as they’re after a more direct experience that’s free from intellectualism. The advertising for our Guru’s ‘new’ and ‘improved’ product would proudly boast about its RM ingredients – religiously modified.

The Israeli guy told me that this wasn’t his first time with The Guru. He then explained that he was a bit of a hippy kid, and had decided to see The Guru as he was looking outside his religion for the answers to his many questions. Due to all the troubles in Israel, he’d become disillusioned with Judaism and the other Abrahamic religions, and thought there must be another way. I then realised that The Guru had cleverly employed another tried and tested marketing technique, that of the testimonial. Like with his little black book of recommendations, the Israeli’s enthusiasm and belief in The Guru rubbed off quickly on me, like the red chalk of a Brahmin’s blessing. And the fact that he was an Israeli made it all the more impressive. A clever twist on the marketing strategy. You could just see the line on The Guru’s business card. ‘My teaching methods work for every tourist, no matter what your beliefs or religion. Atheist, agnostic or Jew.’

The Guru spoke about ‘the creator’, not putting any particular name to it, and told us that the creator was inside us. We are all the same, and everything we need is inside, not outside. We don’t need drugs or drink to transcend and become enlightened. It reminded me of that scene in the British film Human Traffic, where after a drug-fuelled clubbing night, two friends high on cannabis believe they’ve found the answer to the universe’s mysteries when they realise that in Star Wars, the main difference between Darth Vader and Yoda, or evil and good, is that Darth Vader wants to conquer outer space, whereas Yoda teaches how to have power over your inner space. And the more I looked at The Guru, the more I had flashbacks of the pointy-eared, grammatically creative, 1970s alien glove puppet, with someone’s hand up its backside. I wondered if ‘the creator’ had its hand up The Guru, up all of us.

A guru is a teacher, or Spiritual Master, and as an adjective, it means ‘weighty’ or ‘heavy’ with knowledge and wisdom. Yet our guru was more concerned with light entertainment. For one, he took great pleasure in laughing at people, especially when they slipped up. Like when I mistook a bull for a buffalo. It’s an easy mistake to make as they do look pretty similar, yet hearing The Guru’s incredulous laughter, you would have thought I’d called it a tiger instead. ‘A buffalo? A buffalo!! She thinks it’s a buffalo!’ he boomed loudly to everyone in the street before almost crying with laughter. I don’t remember Yoda laughing at Luke Skywalker.

Later, I learnt that to gain authority and to attract and maintain followers, gurus usually present themselves as purer than and superior to ordinary people and other gurus. So that partly explained his condescending manner. And if it was necessary for me to achieve enlightenment, then I guess I could forgive it. Yet he appeared to enjoy his superiority a little too much and as he asked us a series of deceptively difficult questions, he would wait for our useless replies grinning and foaming at the mouth like a bull on heat. ‘What is yoga?’ he asked first, letting the question hang in the air, like a noose ready and waiting. I swallowed hard, my throat feeling tight all of a sudden. Yet bravely, or perhaps foolhardily, I stepped up to the gallows. ‘It’s a relaxation technique and also good exercise for flexibility.’ It had been the answer he’d been waiting for and with a mischievous glint in his eye, he launched into his old speech through yellowing teeth about yoga being a philosophy, not just a form of exercise.

He continued with his artful probing, ‘What is meditation?’ ‘What is war really about?’ and it was like each time he was putting his sandal-clad foot out, waiting for us to trip over it before roaring with laughter. You see, with all our answers we were letting our illusions and preconceptions get in the way, therefore we weren’t speaking the truth. And so everything we thought, according to The Guru, was wrong. Now appearing as an incarnation of the Cheshire Cat, he continued to amuse, vex and baffle us until we wondered if we actually knew anything at all. Then at the precise moment he asked, ‘Who are you?’ I really didn’t have a clue. In 20 short minutes I’d been cleansed of my illusions and preconceptions, which meant I now knew nothing. I suddenly felt hopelessly lost and was tripping up over every question, like a silly blonde, middle-class Alice who’d followed a guru and had fallen down his dark, dank warren by mistake. And now she didn’t know where she was.

But it was ok, as The Guru was there to find us again. And we weren’t too far away, because apparently we’re inside ourselves, and all we have to do is reach in and there we are. ‘Do you understand?’ he asked, his eyes staring into me, searching for my answer, giving me the feeling that he’d find it even if I resisted. All gurus ask for unquestioning obedience, and I realised that ridiculing us and holding our answers in contempt was The Guru’s way of getting through to cynical westerners. After all the interrogating questions and derided answers, you were lost, worn out and ready to listen. So when we got onto the meditation and yoga, he had our complete attention. In that way, at least, he was a good teacher. It was as if instead of ‘Eat Me’ or ‘Drink Me’ he had ‘Listen To Me’ engraved on his forehead. Right in front of his Chakra.

I had chanted ‘Aum’ many a time at the end of a Yoga session back in London, but had never known what it meant, and had always felt a little stupid doing it. The Guru would have choked on all 7 Chakras if he’d have known. Because Aum is actually pretty important. Something to be revered, not sniggered at in the back row of a community centre in Brixton. Aum is the 3 letters that the universe is made from, The Guru continued with wide eyes, his arms making a big circular motion to indicate ‘everything’. When his arms moved, a trail of light and glittering dust followed, as if he was making Aum appear visually right before our eyes. But I could have been seeing things in my state of delirium, brought about thanks to my rude awakening at 4 am by the chanting Hare Krishnas next door to my guesthouse.

The universe (Brahman) can be divided into these 3 letters, or sounds, and they form the basis of all languages. The Guru explained that Sanskrit, Hebrew and English alphabets all begin with the letter A, the sound of nature. Apparently you can hear it in a waterfall. I was thinking this over when suddenly a cow next door gave a loud ‘mooooo’, which now when I really listened actually sounded more like an ‘Aaaaaauuuuuummm’. But then again, it was a holy cow, so it was obviously more enlightened than most. And that turned out to be our cue to chant ‘Aum’ ourselves. Perhaps the cow was the MD of the guru’s entrepreneurial enterprise, concerned about the finances, prompting The Guru to move on with his lesson so it didn’t run over the allocated time. Well time costs money, even for The Guru. In my mind’s eye I could see the cow raising its eyebrows in exasperation.

The Guru then told us to follow him before closing his eyes and launching straight into an Aum.

Aaaaaaaaauuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuummmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm….

Now as I wasn’t sure of ‘Aum politics’, the Brahmin version of ‘spliff politics’ (which is explained very clearly by Mr Nice in the film Human Traffic), I stopped my aum here. I could have gone for longer, I had enough breath left in me, yet then it’d look like I was trying to outdo the guru, and I didn’t fancy the consequences of that little charade. We all appeared to have the same idea, as the Israeli stopped just after, while The Guru carried on.

…mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm...

Then the cow mooed again and The Guru’s voice immediately faded out until it became part of the humming of the distant noises. A smirk of superiority danced across The Guru’s lips before he launched into another Aum. Now being a westerner, competitiveness has been bred into me, and so The Guru’s smirk had an effect on me. It riled me, and so this time, in spite of myself, I decided to give The Guru a run for his money. Through the wall I could sense the cow’s nervousness.

….mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm………..

I was still with him here. Just me and The Guru, neck and neck. Breath against breath.

…mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm…

I could feel my voice begin to weaken, and my lungs seriously wanted me to take another breath, but I carried on, willing The Guru to stop before me. Then something made me break out of this competitive trance, and I opened my eyes and saw The Guru eyeballing me, his face holding an expression that said, “I’ll go on forever you know. Easily for the whole lesson if that’s what you want.” The intensity I’d created in the room suddenly seeped into me, and I felt the awkwardness of the waiting Israeli. I quickly saw the error of my ways and stopped abruptly, leaving The Guru to finish last. In meditation and yoga the ‘winner’, or Zen Master, is always the last to finish.

He then moved on to the Sanskrit prayers. With his eyes gently closed, his whole being was absorbed in the incantation. His voice quivered up and down, as though he was channelling the vibrations of Brahman through his throat. The sounds and alien language seemed to just come to him, flow. As instinctive as breathing.

The cow then signalled that it was time for the meditation. The Guru explained that the reason for meditation was to reach enlightenment. The physical exercise, the yoga that followed, was used to gain an awareness of nature. So the practice of both was about the body and mind working as one. To him it didn’t make sense to have one without the other. Like curry without the spices.

So gaining enlightenment meant switching off everything we’d learnt to switch on. And meditation was the only way to get there, as it stopped you thinking and let you hear yourself for a change. The Guru could sense that we were a little apprehensive about the not-thinking thing, but he told us not to worry. We were in his company, and had his energy and powers around us, so we’d actually find it much easier than usual. And, of course, we had his copyrighted technique to help us.* He gave us two chakra options of where to focus our minds. The spot in the centre of the forehead, above the eyebrows, or the bellybutton. So if one wasn’t working, we could move to the other, and then back again. Jump between the two, until we were settled.

We were sat on the hard floor facing The Guru with our eyes closed. For the first few minutes it seemed easy, just peacefully sitting there, focusing on the chakra in the centre of my forehead. It was a relief to be left alone and escape from the intensity of the conversation. All the tension was lifted from my neck and shoulders in what I imagined to be huge helium balloons adorned with SpongeBob SquarePant’s inanely grinning face. The image instantly calmed me more as I pictured them floating above us, beckoning us to join them up there. In fact, I was so relaxed that it felt like a good time to snatch a quick nap. Or at least to be brain dead for a while, and have a break from all the observing the general traveller will make every second of the day in a country like India. It was a first hand experience of how Indians manage to escape from the overcrowding, the defecation on the street and general suppression of the hardness of everyday existence, in order to still survive like human beings.

Yet then, after I got accustomed to the relief, I started thinking. Not deep thoughts, just things like, how long is this going to go on for? How long has it been already? As soon as I thought this, the room started to seem really close and it felt like the walls were bending inwards towards us. Like tripping with your eyes closed. The air became thick, as if suddenly because I knew about it, the energy from the chakras was so tangible to me, I could now feel it. I found it harder to breathe, which made the atmosphere intimidating, along with the overwhelming sensation that someone was watching over us. Not just watching, but observing.

I discovered that when your eyes are closed, your ears take over, and everything sounds ten times louder then it normally does. So the next thing to take over my thoughts were images my mind painted to the sounds I was hearing. The tinny sound of a bucket being put on the floor. Flip flops scraping the dirty ground. Women chatting, cows mooing. As I focused on these, I began to relax again and let them wash over me. This was at last, possibly the right state to begin meditation, one that The Guru’s had probably been in all the time. And that’s when The Guru asked us to open our eyes. It had taken me 10 minutes to get there. I felt like I hadn’t even tried to meditate, but I suppose that was the first step towards it at least. It proved just how hard it is for a westerner to not look at, say or think anything for even only 10 minutes.

Aaaaaauuuuuuummmm. It was time for the yoga. I have been used to slow movements in yoga, but the Guru’s product incorporated energetic ones. It was more of a high-energy workout. Running on the spot, raising your hands above your head, waggling your arms by your side, star jumps and general moves to loosen up the body. After the calm of the meditation, it felt good to be energised. I realised how well the two went together. The Guru set a frantic pace, and challenged us to keep up with him, reminding us of how much older he was. He was only in his late fifties though. It’s not like he was 86. Or 900, like Yoda. This provoking spurred us on, and I star-jumped until I was so exhausted that I was about to give up when I was encouraged to keep going by the beads of perspiration that I saw forming all around The Guru’s fading hairline. Like glistening sequins on the headdress of a white sari. I realised that we weren’t going to have to keep it up for much longer. We didn’t even have to wait for the holy cow MD to moo before we got on to the stretching.

And it was while we were stretching that I discovered that there is actually a similarity between The Guru’s yoga product and the more basic versions you find across the UK in community centres and gyms. Farting. In most of the yoga sessions I’ve been to, at least one person has ‘let one off’ during the more rigorous stretching moves. Yet it was a surprise that in this one it was to be The Guru himself. Although he didn’t bat an eyelid as the air was released from his backside, producing the satisfying noise of a whoopee cushion that’s just been sat on hard by an inanely grinning SpongeBob SquarePants. It was hardly the much talked about ‘body and mind working together’ technique. But instead of going as red as a talik mark, the superior Guru simply ignored his body protesting about too much dhal for breakfast, and boldly carried on with more stretching, boasting about how much more flexible his body was then ours.

At the end of The Guru’s ride, I did feel energised and generally more positive, so when he asked, ‘Do you feel good?’ as he grinned from ear to ear, I honestly answered yes. It might not have been the authentic Indian experience I’d been looking for but I had been given more of an insight into the Indian’s mindset. For a change, I wasn’t just a tourist observing, I was participating, and that’s how you can start to understand a culture.

And I had to admire The Guru. He’s an entrepreneur, adapting to the change that’s happening in India as it embraces capitalism. Although unlike Bangalore, Varanasi hasn’t reincarnated. It’s crumbling, dying a slow death like Calcutta, being kept alive by travellers and tourists’ cash. So India (and Varanasi especially), is full of con artists trying to get as much of this money as possible. But even though he kept grinning from ear to ear like the tricky Cheshire Cat, I don’t believe The Guru was one of these tricksters. He was simply trying to earn a living with the knowledge and the skills he had. It’s not like he had a huge Rolex dangling from his wrist and his home was very humble.

Gurus are self-realised masters, and my one had taken this further and had become a ‘self-made man’, breaking out of Indian poverty, a rags to rich-ish story. He’s honed his ‘product’, has a ‘unique selling point’ and has turned himself into an accessible and marketable character to westerners. Part vexing Cheshire Cat, loony SpongeBob SquarePants and Alan Sugar perhaps, but also Yoda. And in a world that’s so mixed up that no one knows where to turn anymore, he provides the Dummy’s Guide to Enlightenment, the first step towards reaching the way out of all the madness and hullabaloo of modern society.

*Proven to be successful for over 30 years.

From The Recesses Of The Mind This Month

2010-04-29T04:17:00.001-07:00

Friday, May 22nd, 2009

They come dressed in their casual finery. Dresses and neatly stitched cardigans for the ladies. Striped shirts, panama hats and jumpers draped over shoulders for the gents. A Sea of Sartorial Politeness. Everyone waits patiently to be shown to their seats, and those already in their places delicately eat exotic nuts and sophisticated sandwiches from silver foil.

The etiquette here is one of respect for your neighbour. Make sure they have enough elbowroom, no big fat heads are blocking the view, and that generally all the spectators are comfortable and happy. The gentleman next to me lit up a cigarette before quickly turning to me and asking if I minded him smoking. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been among such a civilised audience.

And then the bull came charging into the arena. All the courteous chitchat that had been gracing the bullring’s refined architecture, stopped. In its place were the more primitive, ‘Oooohs and Aaaahhhs!’ I felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. A nauseous excitement made my stomach lurch. Suddenly I realised that those sophisticated snacks were going to look a lot less refined the second time round.

Meanwhile, the bull was being taunted by the shocking-pink capes of the matador’s little helpers (or banderilleros), which curiously left most of the audience looking a little bored, as if it was the bit in the film where you usually nip to the loo. But there’s no way of escaping to the toilet during a bullfight, because you’re hemmed in on all sides by the Sea of Sartorial Politeness. To flee would require at least 46 ‘perdons’, and it wouldn’t exactly be in keeping with the required manners of the bullfight audience, one of which is to make sure your neighbours have a good view at all times. I suddenly realised that this courtesy, worn on the sleeve of the spectators, had lulled me into a false sense of security. I was going to be forced to stay until the death.

I hoped it would come quickly, as the bull was speared and stabbed repeatedly, first by a man in the advantageous position of being atop a horse heavily padded for protection, and then by the matador’s little helpers. Dasher, Dancer and Prancer skipped up to the bull before deftly planting brightly coloured barbed sticks into its back, which looked like Christmas candy canes. Sickly sweet. They darted off when the bull had time to react, aiming its horns in their direction. Ripples of enjoyment spread through the Sea of Sartorial Politeness, as the bull’s diverging Stream of Brave Blood began bleeding. The lady next to me in the red cardigan with the gold buttons and frill trim jumped up quickly to clap violently.

Now, finally, it was time for the one-on-one. Man adorned with elegant embroidery, beast with the crude cowardice of the candy canes. The matador used the red cape to control the unsuspecting bull gracefully and masterfully, making it look as easy as fooling a kitten. He boldly moved closer and closer to the raging horns. But he’s done this hundreds of times. The same routine, the similar strategy, the inevitable end. It’s an established ritual. Yet the bull gets to do it just the once, so it can only go by its natural instincts. This practised mastery is what the aficionados call ‘art’. Hemingway romantically described it as a ‘wonderful nightmare’.

The Sea of Sartorial Politeness became wild as it gazed at this art. A storm of screams and yobbish yells turned the arena’s architecture ugly. Pulsing veins popped up on necks and temples. I half expected the stripy shirts to rip open causing gold buttons to fly off all around the arena. Beast against beast. But decorum held firm and buttons were kept in place. The matador had the sword in his hand, poised for what is called the ‘moment of truth’, when he plunges the sword into the bull’s neck and cuts the aorta. It does take courage to do, because it’s when he’s head on to the bull, and the bull is at its most wary. But he’s been highly trained, like a slaughterer who knows exactly where to put his knife.

This time though, the matador’s aim is off. It’s not the promised quick, clean kill. So it’s more a ‘moment of half-truths’. A River of Brave Blood gushed from the bull’s head and a wave of delightedness passed over the Sea of Sartorial Politeness. The bull turned away from the matador, its head bowed, and walked into the wall that surrounds the ring. It stayed in the quiet corner for a few minutes, its back to the waiting matador. Apparently its last wish was to die in peace. It then collapsed hard onto the River of Brave Blood’s sandy bed. The audience erupted into aggressive applause, giving the matador a standing ovation. The gentleman next to me turned quickly and asked if I’d enjoyed it. His eyes were consumed by the thrill, mesmerised, as if he was in a trance. He didn’t even wait for my answer, and just assumed that I was as enthralled as him. I realised then that while the bulls are bred to fight, the spectators are bred to cheer the kill. Neither bull nor man can help themselves. Generations of careful breeding has made sure of that.

The same time as the matador had his ‘moment of truth’, I had mine. The reason I was there in the first place was because I wanted to see for myself what some call a ‘barbaric sport’ and others call ‘art’. The fact that a civilised country like Spain still condones bullfighting intrigued me. And you can’t just dismiss hundreds of years of a country’s cultural institution without trying to understand it first. A ritual that’s captivated many writers and artists over the years, from Hemingway to Picasso and more recently the director Almodovar. So in the end, did I understand it, did I connect with it, was I part of this barbaric civility?

Absolutamente no. I just wanted to be sick. My moment of truth was realising that I’ve been bred to abhor killing. Although I did put my feet on the seats in front of me. And I didn’t give a damn if my head was blocking anyone’s view. But I’m proud of that. And I’m proud of my shabby t-shirt and jeans.

Saturday, January 23rd, 2010

2010-01-23T09:19:00.000-08:00

London has been taken over by vampires. Trendy clubs and bars are full of the flawless faces, perfect white teeth and super smooth skin of these creatures who're perpetually 17 years old. It’s like being in a Rihanna cum Pixie Lott cum The Saturdays music video. You see, thanks to this latest onslaught of films and TV shows about vampires, people don’t care anymore that these monsters can actually kill them. Because they’re just so damn sexy. Nobody even cares that they look too underage to drink. So they’re all safe to come out of hiding and mix with us, while humans over 25 get plastic surgery and teeth whitening, as they’re worried about looking too old in comparison. Now whenever I go out, everyone looks scarily like a 17 year-old. I just can’t tell anyone apart anymore.

I didn’t want to be sucked in by all this vampiric lust, so I headed for one of the few remaining old man’s pubs in London. They’re the only places you can be sure that no vampire would want to be seen alive in, since they smell of old people, pork scratchings and piss. It was refreshing to see so many old faces and none of the expressionless and characterless ones that I’d become so used to. The old bloke opposite started talking to me about getting away from it all. That’s what old people do; they talk to strangers. I wasn’t used to it and was surprised and uncomfortable at first, but then found him strangely alluring as he told me tales of a place where you can find sun, sea and seniors all year round. He had a glint in his eye and a faraway look as he spoke of this magic rock in the ocean and when I asked its name, he whispered it softly through his Guinness-soaked whiskers. Madeira.

As soon as I could be, I was away from the land of youth, plastic beauty and vampires, and arrived on the magic rock under the warm smile of the winter sun. And oh, what a sight for sore eyes! It was teaming with hundreds and hundreds of OAPs. The locals’ skin has been stained brown by the sun and their faces given character and warmth by deeper wrinkles than Gordon Ramsey’s grandad’s. Then there were all those toothless grins, or just one front tooth that danced to the rhythm of Madeirense. Or even the silver, eroding teeth with as many smooth undulating curves and monochrome tones as the cliff face in the bay at Camara dos Lobos.

On a visit to that little fishing village, I stopped off at one of the fisherman’s bars on the right hand side of the bay. One old sea dog there emptied pint glass after pint glass while filling my head with fantastical stories about the island. According to him, there are very short, ancient-looking creatures living here that are not actually human. They’re nicknamed os pequeninos (the little ones) by the Madeirans, and were native to the island when Zarco colonized it in 1425. This is contrary to what the guide and history books say, which is that there was no indigenous population when Zarco discovered Madeira.

He described them to me, pointing out their short height (about 4 ft 9 on average) and leather skin that has been dyed a deep, attractive tan colour and upon which a fancy swirling pattern of wrinkles has been gently carved. Far softer, he said, then the famous Madeiran leather, with an exquisite natural patina, grown more beautiful with age and the habits their character has etched onto it. He told me how their skin subtly changes colour throughout the day, as the sun’s light shines strongly and slowly fades. I guessed this tough old fisherman had once been in love with one of these os pequeninos. Then he explained the most interesting thing. Os pequeninos are perpetually 71, and have inspired the human locals to celebrate and embrace their age and maturity.

I wanted to find out more about these magical beings, so the old fisherman pointed me in the direction of Santana in northern Central Madeira. The town’s brightly coloured, tiny triangular houses with thatched roofs (palheiros), which you see all over postcards and fridge magnets of the municipality, were apparently the homes of os pequeninos, or so the old sea dog said. Although the guide books talk about them being the traditional homes of the humble farmers in the area, which have now either been knocked down, preserved for tourism or just used as storage places by today’s farmers.

I headed to Santana along, around, up and down the steep, windy roads that seemed only big enough for small people, I noted. When I arrived, I was disappointed by the lack of these palheiros. There were only a few left and the ones you can see on all the postcards were in a sort of small-scale Disneyland that cost 10 euros to get into. Although it’s still worth taking the trip to Santana, as the journey there and back from Funchal is so picturesque, especially looking down the cliff onto the seaside town of Ponta Delgada.

I bought a postcard from one of the palheiros that’d been turned into a gift shop and stopped off at a local café for something to drink. An albino dog eyed me curiously as I thought about where I could find these os pequeninos. He seemed to respond to my thoughts with the prick of an ear or the raise of an eyebrow and I began to think he could read my mind. That’s when he put his head on his paws and closed his eyes.

The owner of the café came out to give me my coffee. She caught sight of my postcard of the palheiros and enthusiastically began to tell me in pretty good English, the story about how one day, they were all abandoned at once. Os pequeninos suddenly uprooted and moved on out of Santana to go and live in other parts of the island. No one knows why, but they left all their little houses to the farmers. If you look carefully, she went on, you can find them in little communities around Madeira. I asked her if she knew of any particular places they might be, and she mentioned the look-out point at Balcoes by the Ribeira Frio.

The best way to get to this look-out point is to walk along by the levada. These levadas criss-cross Madeira, creating an irrigation system of concrete mini-canals cut into the rock that distribute water from the wet regions in the north to the drier ones in the south. Now though, they’re used just as much by tourists for hiking trails as they are by farmers. The levada walk to Balcoes, inaccessible to cars, is a relatively short and tame one, as it only takes an hour or so. And you have a beautiful view to keep you company of green, verdant mountains that turn to blue in the distance, framed by the branches of trees that form a canopy above the levada. Slow and still up above, with the river rushing wildly below.

Eventually, I came across a little café overlooking the valley. Inside, a woman was cooking sardines. I held up my postcard of the palheiros, as she didn’t speak much English. She smiled her one-toothed grin and inexplicably pointed at the sardines and then down into the valley where there was a cluster of houses. I made my way down into it, not really knowing where I was going and became aware of an eerie wailing sound. It scared me at first, but as the sun continued as brightly and warmly as ever, the sound seemed to turn into more of a soothing singing voice.

I passed a few houses with their doors shut, and then spotted a woman sitting in front of hers. She was knitting, even though the sun was shining in December and she was small and stout, yet had hands like shovels. They looked like they could dig deep down into the earth. But as she knitted, they moved nimbly and delicately. And she had the oldest but most beautiful skin I’d ever seen. But what struck me more were her warm, sparkling eyes set into her wrinkly leather skin like black diamonds. I thought she must be one of the os pequeninos. Her eyes greeted me as I approached, with a calmness that made me confident enough to say hello. She spoke back to me in perfect English, like the young Madeirans who learn it at school from an early age.

I asked her what she was knitting; it looked like a tiny colourful hat. She told me it was a tiny hat. Who was it for? I asked, interested, and she replied that it was for the Freira. On seeing my expression, she threw her head back and laughed before pointing at the birds circling above. I looked at them and realised that the strange wailing sound was coming from them. It gets cold in the mountains, she added, by way of explanation. And they’re also in return for the sardines, she continued, acknowledging my puzzled face. Apparently the Freira catch sardines and bring them to her. She then sells them to people in the village. She also sells them to the people who make Madeiran wine, as they place them on top of the bottles and then sell them onto tourists. She didn’t exactly know why. People do strange things, was all she said about that.

I asked her how she got the Freiras to catch her sardines. She simply replied that she asked them to. So os pequeninos could talk to animals? Not all, she said, only a few, and she listed which ones. The Madeiran Wall lizard, Madeira Pipistrelle, which is a bat, a scabbard fish (so os pequeninos never eat the tasty ubiquitous Madeiran fish), albino dogs (this made me wonder about the small café owner in Santana), goats and chickens, which they also share their houses with, so the chickens share their eggs. She went on to tell me about the island’s famous singing goat owned by one of the os pequeninos, the only animal she’s ever known that has been able to talk in a human’s language. It travels around and through the mountains of Curral des Freiras on its owner’s truck, its singing voice amplified through a massive loudspeaker strapped to the front. She told me to go up and see the view, and I’d probably be able to spot the truck winding its way around the mountain.

Later, I found out that Freiras are in fact, very rare birds, and you don’t often get to see them at all, let alone near Balcoes. They’re mostly seen in Pico do Ariero, a nearby mountain range. I also discovered that the reason these birds are called Freira (nun, in English) is because they emit calls that sound like ghostly wails, and for many years these sounds were interpreted by the inhabitants of Curral das Freiras (Nun's Valley) as being the calls of the suffering souls of the nuns who’d fled there to escape the spate of pirate attacks on Funchal in 1566.

There was another amazing view at Curral des Freiras, with luscious green mountains all around, stretching themselves out to sleep for as far as the eye could see, surrounding you in a stillness and quietness that you just wanted to breathe in so it’d become part of you. And then I heard it. A deep, low voice that rumbled up from the base of the valley, echoing off the sides of the mountains, as if they were throwing it back into the air. Then I saw the truck as it wound up the steep road. A small white one, with a large loudspeaker on the front above the windscreen. The voice was melancholy yet soothing. You couldn’t hear any words exactly, but you could tell there were some. It was so slow and deep, it sounded like a record being played at the wrong speed. It brought on a soft sadness at the same time as a bracing exhilaration.

In the evening on my last night, I decided to go for a drink in Funchal. I headed for Rua da Praia near the Old Town, the street the old fisherman had recommended, where all the bars were full of locals and, sometimes, os pequeninos. Places that felt comfortable with a slow pace of life and old age. I sat at a table outside with my pint of lager and free peanuts, and thought about Madeira’s history and its ability to adapt to survive. How its biggest export used to be sugar, but when the Caribbean started exporting it more cheaply, it had to change and became a successful wine producer instead. And then when the vineyards perished due to disease, it had to be resourceful again. This time it played on its climate of warm sunshine all year round and low humidity to sell itself as a recuperative destination for rich people getting over diseases like TB. Yet medicines have improved along with transport, and farther away places are now easier to reach for a bit of winter sun, and they're also cheaper as they don’t have the euro.

I wandered on to have something to eat at Jaquet down Rua de Santa Maria in Funchal’s Old Town. The old fisherman had told me it served the best scabbard fish in the area. After the jolly owner had taken my order, I began to think about how Madeira should sell itself now in order to survive. And to me, it’s simple. What sets it apart, is that it’s a place where you can escape the culture of youth. It's mostly older tourists who go there, and the island appears to have an aging population. I watched the crowd in the restaurant, a mixture of middle-aged, old and very old, chattering and joking with each other across the tables. The sizzling atmosphere wasn’t just from the fish frying in the pans. I felt like I was in a local’s home at Christmas, with their grans and grandads. Everyone here really does embrace their age and aren’t ashamed of it at all. Visit Madeira and for a week or two at least, you can have a holiday from feeling bad about growing old. And these days, that means anyone over 30. So even though you might not actually see any os pequeninos, you certainly won’t find any of those plastic vampires here.

Thursday, December 31st, 2009

2009-12-31T07:56:00.000-08:00

If you promise not to think I’m insane, I’ll let you in on something. Promise? Ok, good. Well, recently I’ve realised that there’s a spirit living inside of me. And I’m sure it’s female, as she’s so emotional. If these things have a gender that is. Hey, remember I made you promise not to think I’m mad? Actually, this spirit is what’s keeping me sane. I won’t say ghost or angel, as I don’t believe in things like that. I didn’t really accept the idea of spirits until this happened. Having one inside you kind of changes your mind about these things. Also calling it a ghost or an angel is too narrow a definition. I mean, I don’t think she’s a messenger from God or a dead person. But who knows if that’s really what ghosts and angels are anyway? That could just be the myth. Real angels possibly don’t have wings, look pretty and dress in white. And ghosts might not be milky apparitions that float about haunting people.

But I’m getting off the point. Let’s back to my spirit. How do you know she’s there, you crazy person? I guess that’s what you’re thinking now. The answer to that is quite simple really. I can feel her. Now that might not be enough for you, but hey, it’s plenty for me. On second thoughts, that’s possibly a little misleading. When I say I can feel her, I suppose that’s not strictly true, it’s more that I can sense her. It’s like something’s in me that’s not, well, me. And how I feel her is through me. She uses my body and its chemistry to communicate with me. She’s pretty clued up like that. The biggest issue with this whole thing is that she’s nocturnal, so lately I’ve had countless sleepless nights.

Here’s an average night for you. Ok, so I feel relaxed and ready for a night’s sleep. I put my book down and turn my bedside lamp off. I settle down under my duvet, put my head on my pillow and close my eyes waiting to drift into unconsciousness. When suddenly, out of nowhere, my heart starts beating so fast and hard that it’s like I’ve just finished the 100 metres, not the 4th chapter of my book. It’s so loud I don’t just feel it, I can hear it in my ears, and almost taste it for christ's sake. Really, it’s like there’s more than one heart beating. And it’s her, forcing me awake, as if she's got something really important to tell me. Or she just wants some company.

Before I knew it was her, this whole racing heartbeat thing used to freak me the hell out. I used to panic that there was something wrong with my body, that I was having a heart attack or something. Now I realise it’s her, it gives me comfort. I just wish she’d let me sleep more. I try and tell her this, reason with her, say that I’m tired and I have to get up for work in the morning. But like I said before, she’s emotional. She’s driven by emotions and doesn’t understand reason. I don’t think she understands words.

So instead of letting me sleep, she crawls up and down my chest, up and down, up and down, making me restless and uneasy as she produces these waves of anxiety. Usually I toss and turn, trying to distract myself. Then I think about stuff, try to solve the meaning of life or worry about losing my job and becoming a bum, anything big enough to take my mind off these intense feelings. Occasionally, sleep manages to pull me under, but then I wake up suddenly gasping for breath, as she drags me to the surface of consciousness with a surge of adrenaline.

I get bored of trying to sleep, of waiting till she’s finished telling me what she has to say. This is where my eyes spring open and soak up the darkness until I can make out the shapes of my bedroom. Except, have you noticed that your own wardrobe looks sinister in the dark? Mine takes on the appearance of an upright coffin, its door left slightly ajar, beckoning me in. Even though I’m sure it was closed when I went to bed. The darkness plays tricks on your mind, but they’re nothing compared to what she can do with your body.

At this point I’m beaten and resort to the only defence I have. I turn on the light. She hides almost immediately, or perhaps she rests when it’s light. Whatever happens to her, I’m in control of my body once more. I don’t think she leaves me altogether, as I can still feel the echoes of her presence. So I leave the light on, keeping her quiet. I read but I can’t concentrate, as my mind is still on her. So I end up reading reviews of trashy films I’ll never see, the horoscopes of everyone I know and what the latest fashion trends are. Like I give a shit.

If sleep still doesn’t take me away from her then, I get drunk. She doesn’t seem to like alcohol you see, or maybe she gets drunk too, I don’t know how it works with these supernatural beings. But she doesn’t bother me when my mind’s swimming with the blankness of booze. Look, I know this isn’t going to do me much good in the long run, but it’s the most pleasurable way of dealing with her at the time. I’m not a medium, psychic or psycho you know, so I’m a novice at this.

But the other night I tried something different. I decided that instead of fighting her, I should just attempt to listen. And yes, when I say listen, I mean hear. Like every couple who cohabits. As she communicates with emotions they're what I should be listening to, not ignoring them or blanking them out with booze. So that night, I went along with her. I lay there in the darkness as my heart pounded and the anxiety gripped my chest. It took all of my might to stay still and not turn away from her. But I kept motionless, staring up at the dark walls bending in over me, my ceiling light stretching out its black spider-like legs towards me and let the full force of her energy flow through me. I felt her rush into every gap, every hollow inside of me. Places I’d long forgotten. She filled me up and up with strong emotions until I thought I was going to explode.

And then they came, tumbling impatiently down my cheeks, hot, wet and furious. Mad at me for being kept in for so long. I hadn’t cried for years, not properly, not silently. The feelings got weaker as the tears flooded out, as if each one took a bit of them away. The next thing I knew it was morning, and I felt nothing. Well, not literally nothing, I guess I mean I didn’t feel tired or achy or dizzy or, or, or. Maybe this is how people feel when they say that cheesy line about feeling themselves again. The thing is, I’d had the best night’s sleep I’ve had in ages.

Since then she still bothers me at night, but not as much as she used to. And even now I don’t really know what she’s trying to say to me, but I'm more in control of her. In fact, she’s beginning to feel like part of me.

Monday, December 14th, 2009

2009-12-14T07:44:00.000-08:00

I had a fear of loneliness 9 days ago, but then something happened. It was during what they’re all calling ‘The Big Freeze’. When the temperature went as low as minus 17 degrees celsius even in London. So it snowed. And snowed. And when we thought it was all over and the authorities had enough grit to fight the freeze, it snowed again. Ducks mysteriously disappeared from frozen ponds, pigeons fought over frozen fried chicken, even bus and train timetables froze. Then they had to freeze their ridiculous demands, allowing people to work from home, as most of us were snowed in.

I stayed in my flat for days. I didn’t see anyone, didn’t speak to anyone, didn’t smell anyone, had no contact at all, except by email. At first it was refreshing, possibly how a model feels when the artist finally says relax after hours of obsessive scrutiny. But then the loneliness attached itself to me like an endless empty corridor in the Overlook Hotel. It’s a state where echoes are all you can hear, and even then, they’re inside your head.

I became restless and began to stalk up and down my flat, up and down. I stopped at the mirror in the bathroom and stood there, staring at myself, looking for answers. Should I attempt to go out? Or call someone? But I didn’t really have anything to say anymore. Words didn’t seem enough these days. A guttural roar or the longest sigh ever from the deepest, darkest places inside me would be the only honest expression, but I guessed that most people would prefer a polite ‘Hiya, how are you?’ and I just wasn’t ready for that yet. I traced the lines that fell from the corners of my eyes to across the top of my cheekbones, before laughing at my reflection. I attempted a different laugh, one that created new creases and wondered how long I’d have to laugh to make those lines permanent. I then did that thing where you stare so hard into your own eyes that they start to look like someone else’s, a stranger’s.

After a while I was peculiarly overcome with the need for fresh air, so I rushed to the lounge and threw open the window, despite the cold. I swallowed the cool breeze for a while before turning back towards my sofa, and sitting there, looking straight at me, was a black cat. I looked at it in surprise, then shock, and then with something entirely different. Because the most astounding eyes looked back at me. They appeared to be smiling, welcoming, as if this was the cat’s home and I was the guest.

Now it was my turn to be frozen, and I stood there totally still in the headlights of its bright green eyes. All of a sudden its pupils expanded, growing from slits to great big saucers. I felt oddly drawn towards them, a piece of pathetic matter entering a powerful black hole. My heart was beating fast and I looked away before I became overwhelmed by this strange feeling that was simultaneously happening inside and outside of me. I realised that I was now standing very close to the cat, yet I hadn’t been aware that I’d moved. I laughed to myself quickly. It’s a cat, only a cat. But where had it come from? A spine-tingling draught brushed against my skin and I turned back towards the window, ready to close it. But I was distracted by the snowflakes that had begun to fall. I gazed at them as each one created a unique path in the air, gliding soundlessly to the ground where they joined the powerful mass, capable of stopping trains, schools and economies.

The cat began to purr. It was gentle, comforting. A warm sound. I looked at it and saw that it was watching the snowflakes too, with wide eyes, pupils like slits in the bright light. And those eyes, they weren’t simply green after all. In the reflection of the light I could see that the iris was made from a palette of luminous colours. Lime green, moss green, emerald green, turquoise, topaz, indigo, violet and sunset pink were sparkling and shimmering in two crystal clear pools. At that moment, the cat turned its head to look at me. Its eyes appeared open and honest, and full of what looked like, longing. Whatever it was, its expression knocked the breath out of me. I gasped and its pupils expanded in a flash. I felt my eyes widen in response and I had the vague sensation that my legs were about to buckle under me. The cat blinked its eyes slowly and it was the first time I noticed the thick trim of long black eyelashes at the top of each eye. The blinking was hypnotic.

I opened my eyes and found myself sitting on the sofa. Hesitantly, I looked round at the cat and its iridescent eyes met mine. It stared into my eyes for a long time. Its pupils trembled as excitement seemed to pulse through them, causing them to glitter. It was searching for something in mine and finally seemed to find it as its eyes suddenly stopped glittering and became still. This had a calming effect on me. My mind released all its thoughts and I felt like I was floating. Then as I looked deeper into its eyes, new thoughts came to me like I was reading them from its irises. Pleasurable things, uplifting and euphoric. I felt my heart beat faster and a different expression flickered across its eyes, causing its pupils to tighten slightly. I tore my eyes away from its gaze. It was now dark outside, the only light that was coming in was from the streetlamps. How long had I been staring at this cat? And it was just a cat after all. The thing was, when I stared at it for a long time, I forgot it was a cat. You see I didn’t see the fur then, the tail or the whiskers. Only the eyes and the expressions deep within. But how could a cat know the first thing about feeling wistful? Or inadequate? Or lonely.

I switched on the TV to distract myself and tried not to look at the cat. Whatever it was, it wasn’t a normal cat, that was for sure, and I didn’t want to fall into its trap. I’d heard stories about cats, especially black ones, having supernatural powers. Changing into human form to spy for witches and demons. Or worse still, that they are actual witches themselves. Or was it just me going stir crazy with cabin fever? I was clearly losing it. Just as my thoughts were going to push me into a downward spiral of negative emotions, the cat began to purr. The vibration flowed through me, a positive charge absorbing all the negatives. The rhythm was regular and comforting, making me feel at home in this flat, my flat, at last. It was a familiar feeling from a long time ago and I realised I’d known him my whole life.

I switched off the TV and moved closer to him, listening to his purr get louder and louder, watching his tummy rise and fall. Instinctively I then curled up into a ball next to him, my face close to his belly. It felt like the most natural thing in the world. I lay there in the most comfortable silence. Talking, words, would have made it uncomfortable, or at least, not as pleasurable. I stared at the dark shadows seeping into the walls and indulged in the subtle concepts and figures only the darkness can convey. Soothing ambiguity, the sweetness of mystery. Tree branches in an embrace, shapes of fantastical beasts, unicorns, phoenixes and a stallion with a heroic rider.

The streetlamp soaked the room in a sepia tone, putting me in the centre of an old photograph. A perfect moment frozen in time. A family in a rose garden having tea. A porcelain-skinned dancer in the middle of a graceful move. Best friends smiling together before they go off to war. Two lovers on their first date. Oh how sentimental! What was I thinking? I was about to wrench myself up when he stirred and his fur surrounded my face, my eyes, my nose, my lips. It felt so cosy and smooth. A divine musk filled my head with hope and I breathed it in as deeply as I could. It seemed to break through a barrier in my mind, unblocking it. I inhaled deeper and deeper, thoughts becoming less and less, just concentrating on the sensation of breathing.

I lay there for I don’t know how long. Time didn’t matter anymore. It was like it was frozen. Maybe it didn’t really exist. He didn’t seem to think so. I was so relaxed and the feeling of things slipping away made me happy. My breathing and his fell into the same rhythm and it was the only sound. The only ‘thing’. Well, what else was there? I’d forgotten. I don’t want to say what I experienced exactly. It doesn’t have to be put into words. And what happened next doesn’t really matter. But I will tell you anyway, in case you’re interested. Or it happens to you one day and you need to know about ‘after’.

I heard what sounded like a flutter of wings and he sat up in a flash. It was even darker now because not even the streetlamp was on. I couldn’t see anything except his eyes and somehow they were glowing, his pupils large. I looked into them and they burned into me. His expression was so intense, as if he was concentrating on something deep inside me. He wasn’t reading anymore, he was writing. Inscribing something on my soul, I'd like to think. I heard the fluttering again and thought I caught a glimpse of white out of the corner of my eye, but I couldn’t be sure. His pupils contracted the tiniest bit and his eyes became green as the other colours disappeared. I sensed he was leaving me, but I knew it wasn’t his choice. That made it easier. His eyes came right up to mine as the last bit of turquoise changed to green. The edge of his eyelids drew inwards and down, making his eyes look sad. They then disappeared in a swish of his eyelashes, before he opened them again. He gave me one last look, and then he was gone. I realised that the window was still open.

I felt sad, but not alone as I lay there in the dark. I could still smell him on my cushions. I stayed in the same position for a long while, comfortable in my own home by myself for once. Then slowly, I began to move. I uncurled myself, unfolding my arms and wrists and sat upright again. I unwound my whole body, stretching out from my toes to my fingers and then took the crick out of my neck, regaining my human posture. I turned the TV on and the loud, raucous noises sounded unnatural at first. Then the phone rang and I realised it was now morning. My voice cracked when I answered it, like I hadn’t used it for years. My friend chattered away at me, telling me last night was the warmest night for ages and it was the end of The Big Freeze. I made plans to go out that night.

From The Recesses Of The Mind This Month

2009-11-17T04:02:00.001-08:00

Friday, July 3rd, 2009

another tale of ordinary madness…

you’d better come with me.

He flashed a portentous smile, and I wondered whether I should be worried or amazed.

I followed Him down the stairs and across the next floor. heads were out, eyes staring, as if everybody knew.

then the eternal colleague’s voice: oh thank fuck it’s not me.

He marched into His office, pointing at the hard, low chair opposite His high desk.

KEEP ONE HAND ON EACH KNEE AND DON’T MOVE YOUR HANDS!

He sat there staring down at me. I didn’t know what He expected me to say so I didn’t say anything. but I knew the war had begun. my eye began to itch and I reached up to rub it.

WATCH THAT HAND!!

He continued staring right through me until I had the weird sensation that I’d turned invisible. He then dialled a short number on his phone.

MARTA GET ME A DOUBLE ESPRESSO, A DARK BERRY MOCHA FRAPPUCCINO, A STEAK AND CHEESE PANINI, TOASTED, A BLT AND A MARSHMALLOW TWIZZLE.

He slammed the receiver down, then sat there staring again for a while. I heard the hydrochloric acid eating away at His stomach lining.

DO YOU KNOW WHY YOU’RE HERE?

yes and no.

DON’T GET SMART WITH ME. IT WON’T DO YOU ANY FAVOURS.

I know about the redundancies. but why am I up for it?

NEVER ASK THAT QUESTION.

why?

BECAUSE YOU’LL NEVER GET A SATISFACTORY ANSWER.

but why?

the door opened and the new girl behind the desk came in with legs. long legs. her face was covered up by the big Starbuck’s paper bag she was carrying on top of a tray of drinks.

WE’VE HAD TO CUT COSTS DUE TO THE ECONOMIC DOWNTURN.

the new girl behind the desk took half the Starbuck’s menu out of the bag, and arranged it neatly on His desk.

but why me exactly?

LOOK, JUST TAKE YOUR LETTER AND DO AS YOU’RE TOLD OK? THAT WAY, NO ONE GETS HURT.

as He shouted, a piece of fatty bacon from Starbuck’s BLT swung about on one of His canines. He continued staring at me while taking chunks out of His sandwich. I figured it was time to leave, before He did the same to me.

my part of the office turned into the grey cell it had always looked like. it was a Friday afternoon and across the room I could see colleagues gassing by the photocopier. others laughed as they stuck coins into the coke machine. how lucky they were! everything seemed so free and easy over there. the letter had already made its way to my desk. I sat there trying to figure out what I had done. I felt like crying but nothing came out. it was just a sort of sad sickness, sick sad. the kind that only sickos can cause.

Mad Watson, the IT guy, came over to speak to me. he was a freak. we were all freaks. he scratched the psoriasis on his elbows erratically as he spoke. flakes of shed, diseased skin floated in the air, waiting to be breathed in.

so are you going down then?

yeah.

no way.

how long they give you?

a month.

that’s harsh.

yeah.

you know, He terminated 10 guys last week and then right away terminated another. screwed them all right in the ass. two are now trying to claim incapacity benefit.

HEY, BREAK IT UP!

the lines had been drawn and the managers made sure that the two sides were kept apart. the managers were stupid and scared. I felt sorry for them. they really believed that I was the enemy. although there were benefits to being on the weaker side. my line manager stopped talking to me and left a room whenever I entered, as if I was full of pathogenic bacteria. I didn’t need a microscope to know what he was full of. honour among shareholders. keep the company strong so you can rob it.

I was allowed to talk to Bubba though, the big guy in accounts, as he was on the same side as me. he was always up for redundancy, but kept getting saved. he had his fingers in too many pies and bookkeeping pies are the sweetest ones to have your fingers in. that made him corporate enemy No. 1.

I caught up with him in the toilets. he was rocking back and forth on the pot laughing, with the door wide-open and his trousers round his ankles, saying, eat my shit, eat my shit, over and over. it was the best advice I’d had all day.

by the time the day of the final meeting came, I was almost beaten.

the putty-voiced woman from HR did most of the talking. He was busying himself with something on His computer. it appeared to be extremely fascinating, as His eyes were glued to the screen.

do you understand why you’ve been made redundant?

yeah.

and you agree that we’ve tried to find you other positions within the company, yet you turned down our proposals of relocating you to our growing offices in Minsk, Belarus, or moving you over to the successful incontinence pads account?

yeah.

HA, JUST LOOK AT THAT SCORE!

I figured He was busying himself with playing an important computer game.

ok well good luck, because it’s tough out there. but you know, the company will be hiring again in a few months, so you’re welcome to apply for your old job again then.

GOT YOU, YOU SON OF A BITCH!

I didn’t re-apply for my old job. I walked straight out of there and never looked back. that’s how I won the war.

Tuesday, November 17th, 2009

2009-11-17T03:49:00.000-08:00

It all starts when something inside my head explodes, a big bang, the effect of which wakes me up with a jolt. I’m in a strange place, in an unfamiliar bed with someone performing a lobotomy on my brain. What? Help! An abduction by aliens? The thoughts pass by in a nanosecond before I work out that I am actually in my mate’s bed, fully clothed, with a beer mat stuffed in my mouth and a headache that contains the power of a nuclear bomb. What’s a beer mat doing in my mouth? Oh it’s my tongue. But, more to the point, what am I doing here? The existential question. I look for evidence, and see a purse lying on the floor, my purse, thank you God, but nothing else. So where the fuck is my bag, my keys! I scan the room again and again, but they don’t materialise.

At that moment I realise that this isn’t actually where it all starts. Something definitely happened before to create all this…this mess. But at the moment, it’s all a mystery. My mate appears to fill in the holes. Shoreditch, wine, shots of sambuca, Red Church bar, leaving my bag in a corner so I could dance. Oh yes, the memory’s coming back to me very clearly now, God it’s almost like I’m there again. No more, please. So I’ve lost my keys, which means I can’t get into my flat as my flat mate’s away. And shit, the only people with spare keys are my parents.

Why does this keep happening to me? I mean, just recently I had my 35th birthday, so surely I should’ve stopped acting like a kid? I can’t believe I need my Mum to get me out of this one. The shame. So I work out that to get into my flat, which is geographically just down the road, I need to travel over 20 miles. Because it’s not simply geography that’s in the equation now. You have to factor in the effect of my childish behaviour and uselessness, which means I now need to travel to my parent’s house to pick up the spare keys and then come back again. I think it’s about time I grew up.

I’m punishing myself by embarking on this journey with no pleasures. No food or drink or music. I’m hoping it’ll cleanse my soul and somehow turn me into an adult. Well, age hasn’t done anything for me, so more drastic action is obviously necessary. I’ll be like a pilgrim on a pilgrimage to the shrine of adulthood and maturity, with nothing to distract me except my thoughts of how to become a grown up.

It’s hard to focus when you’re on the bus though. All around me people are giggling, chattering, eating, drinking or playing annoying games on their phones. There’s a row of people, adults, who’re sat there pressing buttons on their mobiles, their mouths hanging open. Then I spot this woman sat next to them as she strips the skin off a leg of ‘Kennedy Fried Chicken’, and lets the clear fat run down the sides of her mouth. She doesn’t even wipe it off with the handy wipe. Next to her is a guy gazing at a nubile teen posing topless in a national newspaper. Another woman stares into the magazine she’s holding up, captivated by the bright colours and pretty faces. The bloke nearest me then slurps hard through the straw in his carton of drink. To my hungover brain it’s worse than nails down a blackboard. My eyes start to water.

But it all gets me thinking. Maybe I shouldn’t be so hard on myself. I mean, by the look of it, it’s actually not just me who acts like a kid. If you think about it, people in general still behave like children. We’re not really that civilised. Look how here everyone’s still going by their basic instincts. Driven by food, drink and boobs. How easily they’re distracted, manipulated, dominated. It’s like everyone just got older but didn’t grow up. Fuck it, you may as well say the whole of freakin’ humanity acts like a kid.

Let’s list the behavioural similarities. I picture a Venn diagram in my head (as this is serious scientific stuff), with one circle containing the word ‘kid’ and the other ‘adult’. I fill the crossover bit with the shared behaviours. Possessiveness, naivety, impulsiveness, tantrums, reactive, self-centered, controlled by fear and pleasure. Ok, I know there are good versions of the similarities too. The desire to explore and inquisitiveness being the main ones.

My Venn diagram is then erased from my mind by a poke in the ribs from the woman behind me. From that signal I gather that it’s time to get off the bus and head for the tube. I step into a carriage and onto the nearest seat, finding myself opposite a little girl playing with her Barbie. She’s really working that doll, making her perform all kinds of elaborate gymnastics. Then she uses the handrail as a prop for Barbie to dance around, and suddenly there’s Barbie pole dancing right before my eyes. Her younger brother sits and stares, transfixed by ‘Pole Dancer Barbie’, now holding his toy soldier limply in his hand. I stare at the lifeless, plastic soldier. If we go along with my theory that we’re all kids, it means that kids are in charge. And if you think about it, there’s a great deal of truth in that. From the Romans to George W Bush, those in power have acted like kids playing a game.

You know that kid’s game, ‘I’m the King of the Castle, and you’re the dirty rascals’, where a group of kids run to the top of a hill or climbing frame and the one who gets there first shouts out that little rhyme? Well, it’s like the people in power are the ones who got to the top first and then bagsied it. And you remember what it’s like to ‘bagsy’ something. It becomes your prized possession, and no bastard is going to take it away from you. Well, that’s what happened with the people in power. Or should I say kids? They created the hierarchical structure of power that still exists today and did anything to safeguard it. The territory of power. The bully’s territory. “Hey, get lost, this is my patch.” And they’ll go to war with anyone who tries to bagsie it off them.

It’s all in the game, as they say in the TV show The Wire. The system those in power created is basically a game. And of course it's a game. What else would kids do but play games? And, you know, we always want to change the rules and play it our way, because we complain that the game is rigged. But then we still want to win, and get our own way. And it’s our competitiveness that perpetuates the game. Either that or our childish desires and want, want, wants. Be it a chocolate bar or a Nintendo DS. We’ve gone and trapped ourselves in this darned game. And with each new kid in power (King of The Castle), the rules get interpreted slightly differently to suit themselves. “Ok, now we go anti-clockwise around the board, and a 6 is the lowest score on the dice.”

The little girl is now handing a plastic oven over to her brother. It looks like the soldier has been given orders to cook Pole Dancer Barbie dinner. Isn’t it only kids who cheat in games? ‘Adults’ teach them that cheating’s wrong, but then our whole system is based on cheating people. Hey, it relies on it for christ’s sake. Those who don’t know the rules properly are taken advantage of. And don’t you find that these rules aren’t really properly explained anyway? It’s like they’re made as complicated as possible, with all the jargon and gibberish, so only the gang in charge can understand them. Like those kids at school who created their own language by putting the last letter of every word at the front instead. Take the economy for instance. Yeah, there are basic rules. But then the latest gang in power adds their own secret stuff on top, rewriting the rules so they get most of the money. It’s like they’re holding all the Community Chest cards in Monopoly, right under our noses chanting, “Na-na-na-naaa-naaaaa!” Just kids messing around playing a game.

There are either delays or engineering works happening on almost every underground line, so my pilgrimage is taking twice as long. But I finally get to Waterloo, and head up to the overground trains. The stupid system doesn’t let me use the same ticket underground as overground, so I have to queue up for another ticket to take the train to my parent’s house. And there are only 2 ticket booths open, so the queue from where I’m standing appears to go into infinity. I mean, who’s running this transport system. You’d think a kid was in charge or something. Hmmm.

It’s unbelievable really, I think as I stand in the endless queue, watching train after train disappear off the information matrix, while I’m left here, stationary. So my mind starts wandering instead. At least a part of me feels like it's getting somewhere. Yeah, so humanity is just a load of overgrown kids playing an elaborate game. We created our Land Of Make Believe and filled it with nations, economies, religions, political systems, societies, etc. And you know, in the Land Of Make Believe, you have to believe for it to all work, for it all to exist. When people lose confidence in the economy say, when they don’t have faith in it anymore, that’s when it starts to weaken and collapse. I don’t have faith in the sodding transport system. Maybe that’s why it’s so crap.

And the thing is, we forget that we actually have the power – all of us, every single one. Because it’s our collective belief that matters. But guess what? We don’t really want to make our own decisions, we want someone else to make all the big choices for us. That’s because we’re still kids. It’s why we don’t mind having leaders telling us what to do, be it politicians, religious figures or scientists. And the funny thing is, they all have someone in charge of them. Why do you think God is called Father in Judaism and Christianity, or The Great Mother (The Tao) in Chinese philosophy? We even refer to nature as Mother, as we still need and want that guide, that leader, that comforter, that Daddy or Mummy.

I finally make it to the train and sit next to the window, and as the train pulls away, I watch the station get smaller and smaller, until it just disappears. Then I look down at people in the streets below the railway track, watching them zigzag here and there, going about their little lives like ants. We are so, so, so tiny in the universe, and from such a small perspective, we can only see a tiny fraction of what’s going on out there. We’ve got the child’s view, the kid under the table who can only see Mother Nature’s feet. We haven’t got anywhere near finding out what her face looks like. I read somewhere that, according to scientists, the universe is about 12 or 13 billion years old, and that it’s got another 200 billion years to go. So it’s a child itself really. Humanity’s similarly just a kid. Humans have only been around for 200,000 years, and if we live till the end of the earth, that’s another 7.5 million years. So we are almost babies, and it may take thousands or even millions of years for us to become true adults.

But then those calculations are just what the scientist’s say. And this is The Land Of Make Believe, so you can’t really believe anything one hundred percent. I mean none of the theories of life and existence have been proven (be it God, the Big Bang or even that our universe is carried on the back of huge turtles) any more than ghosts, fairies or the bogeyman have been disproved. No one knows for sure. Let’s take the Big Bang, the event that was apparently the beginning of everything, or at least, our universe. There are still so many unanswered questions. Like what created the energy that caused it?

Scientific theories keep changing, making it even harder for us kids to know what to believe in. Back in Newton’s day, people thought that the universe was deterministic, that every single action could be predicted. Cause and effect. In that way of looking at the world, there’s no free will, it’s like we’re all programmed to do all our actions. Mother Nature’s children being told what to do. Or little characters in a computer game.

Then quantum physics came along with all its unpredictability, randomness and lack of laws and rules, pissing on the idea of cause and effect and giving us all a freakin’ massive headache. It exploded the idea that all probabilities can happen at once, that the past can happen at the same time as the future and light is both waves and particles. There isn’t just one universe, oh no, there are multiverses and therefore infinite probability.

The train shudders to a halt in between stations and a man’s tired voice mumbles something over the intercom about signals and waits. I’m now only nearly halfway through my pilgrimage, and my hungover brain is going to crash. I imagine my thoughts as trains travelling around it that suddenly grind to a stop. I then think of nothing and just gaze out the window at a man and his son trying to eat fried egg sandwiches without spilling any of the yolk down their shirts. Neither is successful. The train squeaks as if in protest, but still lurches forward, and we're moving at last. The sudden movement also nudges my trains of thought around my brain again.

Yeah, so the Big Bang, God, multiverses or the universe sitting on top of huge turtles. They’re all unproven. Fairy stories for us kids to believe in, as it seems like we need something to believe in. Which brings us to humanity’s biggest game of all - The Meaning Of Life. Like the game ‘Animal, Vegetable, Mineral’ that kids play or the numerous riddles and puzzles, The Meaning of Life is a guessing game where only the big questions are asked, and we attempt to answer them. The scientists are in one set of teams, religious followers in another, and then there are the various philosophy teams.

A big part of this game is questioning reality. It can go a bit like this. “I believe in fairies.” “They don’t exist you dummy.” “How do you know?” “Well, I’ve never seen one.” “Well, I’ve never seen God or those strings in that string theory. Not even under a microscope. So ner ner na ner ner.” “Alright, well what about this. If a tree falls in a forest but there’s no one to hear it, did it make a noise?”

I laugh to myself as I wonder, if my keys got lost and no one was around to see it happen, then did it actually happen? Maybe they were already lost? Or, better still, always lost. In which case, it really isn’t my fault. I suddenly feel a lot better about myself.

So what’s real and what’s not? I watch a fly head butting the train window time and time again. To try to understand what reality is, a lot of people contrast it with illusion. Although I reckon Philip K Dick summed up reality well when he said, “Reality is that which, when you stop believing in it, doesn’t go away.” So it’s what’s consistent for everyone. What we see, hear, touch, smell and taste. And it’s the perceptions and interpretations of this reality that are different.

Whether you’re a scientist, a religious person or follower of a certain philosophy, you’re producing your own ‘reality’ by acting on a specific interpretation and your knowledge of it. That’s how we created our Land Of Make Believe. We’ve named everything in it and have given it all a meaning. Nothing had a meaning until we came along and gave it one. It’s not just nations and countries that we’ve made up. What about a week, a month, a year? The planets, the solar system, atoms, quarks, the past, the future? They only mean those things to us humans. They only are those things to us humans. That train window is real to the fly, but it doesn’t see it as a window. It could see it as the edge of its world, its enemy, a series of zeros and ones or it might not see it at all. It could simply ‘sense’ it as hard.

It’s why I kind of side with the philosophy of those weak social constructionalist guys, who think that we’ve socially constructed our ‘reality’ through social interactions, common perceptions of reality, common sense and common knowledge, all of which have been negotiated by people. We’ve been like kids fabricating a ‘reality’ in the corner of the playground, with dolls, teddies and trees with time machines on the top, monsters that live beyond the fence and people made from ice-cream. Baudrillard called it the ‘simulacrum’, where modern society has replaced all reality and meaning with symbols and signs, so that the human experience is of a simulation of reality rather than reality itself.

You know, when you get down to it, what are scientists, philosophers and religious-types but just a bunch of kids asking question after question, and then battling to answer them, trying to outdo one another, the winner being the team with the most followers? The Wire should have had a 6th season based around this biggest game of all. Forget the small-scale street, gangs and political stuff, what about the game the scientists, religious leaders and philosophers are playing, and the money, corruption and lies surrounding it? We’ve become so caught up in it that we don’t realise it is a game. Most of us think that the Land of Make Believe is real.

Why has this game taken over our lives? Is it because it distracts us from the only thing we can be sure of? That is, you know, we all die. I hate to be morbid, but that is one thing that has been proven time and again. So in this life at least, we’re all losers in the end and because we’re still children, we look for comfort when faced with this frightening fact. So we’ve created this illusion, this game to divert our attention away from our own mortality, and we’ve put into our heads the comforting possibility of life after death and immortality of the soul - the human race even. “Daddy, has Max died?” “No sweetheart, he’s gone to doggie heaven.”

We’re children who’re afraid of the dark and need to know all the answers, but as we’re still the kids under the table only able to see Mother Nature’s feet, it’s almost impossible to know it all, to know the truth. Rather than us inventing our reality, perhaps something else has? Our universe could be someone else’s game, like SimCity, where we’re the little kids being told what to eat, what to wear and what to say. Ha, what a turn up for the books that’d be. Our game is just a game within a game. But how do we find out what the truth is? Buddhists reckon that material reality, that is, our world, knowledge and time are all an illusion and we can only see past it to find the truth through meditation. Others believe drink or drugs work just the same.

So when I finally get back to my flat and my pilgrimage is over, I realise that, ironically, the most adult thing I can do in the here and now is to pour myself a glass of red wine. I sit on my sofa and take a sip, ready to escape from this ‘reality’ and find the ‘truth’. I smile as I hold my keys in my hand, their metallic coldness contrasting with the warm satisfying feeling of the wine in my belly. Hmmm, this is going to be fun, I think to myself. Just don’t go telling my Mum, ok?

From The Recesses Of The Mind This Month

2009-10-26T03:23:00.000-07:00

Sunday, February 8th, 2009

London’s on edge. There’s tension in the air. It’s as if a fight’s going to break out at any minute. It can be seen on the grim faces in the streets and heard in the aggressive tone of the conversations in pubs. You see, the economic downturn has exasperated the ‘us and them’ situation, us being the employees, and them, the big bosses. And the rumour among us workers is that our masters are taking advantage of this recession, making redundancies (the euphemism for being fired) under the guise of essential cost cutting, so they can get rid of the people they don’t like. The rebels, or clock-watchers as ‘they’ call them, you know, the ones who stand up for themselves and have a life.

The powers that be have also introduced the pay freeze, which is forecast to last for at least the next 6 months. And this, along with the firings, has meant that us workers have had to take on more work for the same money, without the hope of a bonus or pay rise. We can’t move jobs, as the big bosses have worked together to come up with a cunning plan in the form of the no hiring mandate, which orders that there can’t be any hirings after a firing for, yes you’ve guessed it, at least the next 6 months. So we’re trapped into doing more work for the same wage, and made to think that we’re just lucky to still have a job.

And through it all we’ve kept our heads down without saying a word like the good little workers we’re supposed to be, for fear of being put in the firing line ourselves and having a black mark against our names, turning us into ‘untouchables’ or outcasts, meaning it’d be hard to get another decent job. But now we’ve had enough, and last Monday signalled the beginning of the uprising. Yes, we’ve begun to play them at their own game. If they’ve been taking advantage of the worst recession in 30 years, then we were going to use the worst snowfall in London for 20 years as an excuse to have a day off work to spend with family and friends.

And what a great day it was. We all reverted back to being kids, naughtily skiving off school, while every street and park became a playground as communities made snowmen and threw snowballs at each other. One of the best things about it was that us workers did it together. There was solidarity. It was a day where we all stood up against ‘them’. Many of us stayed at home to have fun in the snow, even those who could have made it in, as their commute wasn’t really disrupted. And the strength in numbers weakened the big bosses’ power, as they couldn’t penalise scores of the workforce – apparently a fifth of Britain’s workers didn’t make it into the office.

Yes it’s the worst recession for 30 years and the worst snowfall in 20, but we’ve also just had the best Monday in living memory. So they can keep their Black Monday, because we’ll always have our white one.

Monday, October 26th, 2009

2009-10-26T03:14:00.000-07:00

Everyone looks past her as she struggles to get on the packed bus with her baby, buggy and bags full of shopping. We sit there, motionless. Something holds us back from helping her. A strange urban force that pins us down in our places, making us incapable of interacting with our neighbours.

It takes her at least 3 minutes too long to get on. The mob doesn’t appreciate the wait, so it starts firing the killer looks and sharp tuts. She doesn’t even flinch, and bulldozes past the glares with her thousand-yard stare, and parks the buggy in the pram space next to the swarm of fly-girls waiting to squat her. It’s like she can’t hear their sniggers and snide comments. Her face a gnarled prison wall, that’s being constantly chipped away at.

She sits and looks out the window at the continuous line of cement, pebbledash, fences, barbed wire, alarms, anti-climb paint, arguments, bums and drug deals. The kid now with a face like mashed banana and peach, screams blue murder. For the murder of her mother. You can see the evidence in Mum’s dead eyes, her glazed glass eyes that have been swallowed and then spat out. Piss holes in the dirt.

Even when her kid cries she doesn’t stir. She doesn’t even blink, just sits and stares out the window. Maybe that’s the best way to look after children. Ignore them. That way you can’t be blamed for how they turn out. Eventually she plugs the hole with a plastic nipple and the wailing stops immediately. From the dark shadows under her blood shot eyes, you can tell she lives for the bottle. It’s a great tranquilizer. Hers just contains warm milk.

Although from the way the kid’s dressed you know she’s loved. Matching pink shoes, coat and hair bands, then there are her bright eyes with a spark that sets off smiles all round the bus. Her soft, glowing, comfortable skin. All the care has been sucked out of the mother and into her, and I think about who’s there to take care of Mum. Some woman looks at the kid and starts to pull stupid faces. The kid giggles. It carries on for a while, but the mother barely acknowledges this tender interaction. For a good few minutes she has a respite from her persistent job and can relax and let people baby-sit for a change.

Harder than any knife-carrying gang member, the mother carries on relentlessly day after day with the odds stacked against her. I see her doing this journey everyday. Not for herself, but for her kid. It’s as if she’s not actually living in the present at all, but in the future. Maybe that’s why she can’t hear those snide comments. And I wonder what she actually sees out that bus window.

I watch her take great effort to get off at her stop, manoeuvring with difficulty past all the people standing in her way. But she makes it. I hope I see her again tomorrow. Somehow her presence is comforting.

Monday, October 19th, 2009

2009-10-19T03:04:00.000-07:00

Last week an unlikely relationship was discovered. You may think I’m talking about the one reported in the papers between the killer whale and the albatross, where the bird flies alongside the killer whale snatching scraps from its kills. But although similar in its unusualness, the one I’m referring to involves the big killer boxer and the little white bird. And, yeah you guessed it, I’m the little white bird.

The first sightings of this improbable relationship happened on Friday at the council gym in Brixton, or as it’s otherwise known, the sea of sweat. As usual, I was strutting around like a headless gull, going from one piece of equipment to the other. I had just finished flapping over having to adjust the seat on the seated leg press because one of the huge bull sperm whales had just been on it, when the killer boxer hunted me down. Now in the gym’s food chain, the little white bird is low, low down, basically in the anaerobic detritus, so I knew immediately that I had no chance as he propelled his heavy, stocky body over towards me, cutting through the sweat and testosterone with ease.

He got down to business straight away, by stunning me with his superior, tertiary consumer gym knowledge. “You know, you’re not getting the most out of that machine,” he said, loudly, with a hint of derision in his voice. Now in the sea of sweat what this really means is “You know, doing it that way means global warming is going to flood the earth before you get to shift that behind.” All the sperm whales turned around at once to watch this interesting spectacle. Even a couple of hammerheads put down their weights for a second and looked over. And the old turtle, upside down on the mat kicking his legs in the air, popped his head out and sat staring with his mouth open.

Now little white birds aren’t like puffins. We don’t preen ourselves before we go to the gym, put make-up on or wear the skimpiest outfits. We’re more like the penguins, who spend their time waddling along on a low setting on the treadmill, keeping their heads down, not wanting to be noticed. Us little white birds know our technique isn’t up to scratch and that the weights we struggle with, everyone else can move just by breathing on them. But we don’t appreciate this being pointed out to the whole gym. Yet at the same time, I did want to get the most out of the machine, otherwise I might as well be getting the most out of my sofa at home. So he’d successfully caught me.

And after killing me on that machine, he went on to kill me in lots of different ways. He was waiting on a client and had 20 minutes to spare, so he told me he could show me a few kickboxing and self-defence moves. I didn’t really have a choice as he summoned me over to the mats pointing out that it’s a dangerous world out there, and little white birds can’t be too prepared.

He passed me a pair of bulky great boxing gloves and stood directly in front of me. As I put them on, I caught a glimpse of us in the mirror. We looked like one of those diagrams at the Natural History Museum where the small human figure is about 100th of the size of the blue whale or Tyrannosaurus Rex. I reckoned I could fit into him at least 6 times. Underneath our diagram there’d be descriptors for both of us. His would read:

Height: 6.5 feet
Weight: 6 tonnes
Diet: On average 227 kg of food each day, including whole fish, sea lions, walruses and raw eggs

While mine would be:

Height: 5.2 feet
Weight: Lightweight
Diet: Tuna, chickpeas and rabbit food

He then looked me straight in the eye and asked me to punch him on the back, on the front, just not, you know, down there. He had good reason to be concerned about ‘down there’, seeing as because of the height difference, 'that' was almost directly in front of me. Now, I’ve never hit anyone in my life, let alone a huge great killer whale of a man. I stood there, finding it a bit of a struggle to just hold the heavy gloves up, when he bellowed the words “Come on, hit me!” from deep within, which came out with such force they created a tsunami of spit and sweat that swept across the room. The old turtle sat up startled, his mouth slowly opening and closing. I couldn’t work out whether he was out of breath or drowning. I hit the killer boxer as hard as I felt comfortable with, I mean I didn’t want to hurt the guy. Yet I soon realised that actually, that would’ve been physically impossible. Although my hand was hurting.

“Come on, harder!” he boomed again, and I swear a jet of steam shot out from the top of his head. This time I punched him with all my might, but I expect a gentle fart would’ve had more power behind it. “Look, think of someone you hate and pretend I’m them,” he said with a knowing twinkle in his eye. A series of people jumped into my mind; my ex boss, Boris Johnson, Paris Hilton, but I realised in that moment that I didn’t hate anyone enough, not really.

“Come on, hit me!” he shouted, goading me. To make him shut the hell up I punched him as hard as I could again and again. “Yes, good. That’s it!” he exclaimed, as if I was giving him a soothing massage.

It was my turn to drown and I stopped for a second to gasp for air. “Come on! You’re not even sweating!” he yelled. In that moment, I realised I actually did hate someone enough. Him. This time I punched him again and again and again and again, harder and harder and faster and faster. It must have been a funny sight to all the onlookers, watching a little white bird trying to knock if not seven bells out of a huge killer boxer, then at least the smile off his face.

Then when he’d got bored of killing me that way, he made me stand still while he pulled my leg up almost 180 degrees. He’d obviously mistaken me for a rubber chicken. “Aaargh!” I screamed, to which he replied that I had to get used to that pain as it was the biggest barrier to overcome. I was relieved when it was time to move on to the squats and kickboxing moves. By this time his client, a huge great beluga, had turned up and joined in with us. Despite his size, he was surprisingly fast. Every move I made, he’d made at least 5 minutes before. The killer boxer shouted “Come on!” all the way through and I did until I couldn’t take it anymore and thought I was going to create an ocean of puke in the sea of sweat.

While I lay gasping for air on the bed of mats, all washed up, not unlike a beached whale, his killer instincts quickly moved him onto the sale. I sat there, barely being able to breathe let alone talk as he went on about how he’d like to train me up and what programme he’d put me on. He told me he didn’t charge much as he does it to help people in the community rather than to make loads of money. He apparently teaches underprivileged kids mostly. And why? Well, it turns out that he was in prison for many years and since he’s been out, he’s turned his life around and is helping other people do the same. Like the killer whale itself, he’s been misunderstood and maligned in his past, but really he only attacks in self-defence and underneath all that tough, rubbery skin, he’s pretty soft and intelligent.

So stranger than the killer whale and the albatross’s or the rhino and the oxpecker’s, there began the symbiotic relationship between the big killer boxer and the little white bird. I punch his back, so no one’ll punch mine. He protects me from all the dangerous sharks out there and I help him to feel better about himself and his past (and give him £20 an hour). Although judging from what a challenge it’s going to be, I only hope I don’t turn out to be an albatross around his neck.

Friday, September 25th, 2009

2009-09-25T01:28:00.000-07:00

It’s surprising how going to a book club can really get you into drinking. The pub my book club meets in serves this strong, cloudy cider and whereas Stella Artois is nicknamed ‘wife beater’, this cider is known as the ‘opinion beater’ among my drinking buddies. The idea of having licence to drink it on a Wednesday evening and talk rubbish to total strangers really motivates me to read whatever book is chosen every month. Even if it’s so boring you can’t even be bothered to turn the page, or you have to reread the same sentence fifty times because you’ve been daydreaming about cauliflower cheese.

And last month’s book had been a real challenge, stretching my boredom to its absolute limit. The pages were like the nooks on the side of Everest, the words my depleting oxygen while my eyes searched desperately for the quickest way through without losing my grasp of the story. But at last I made it and was ecstatic with relief. And so it was in an exhausted but delirious frame of mind that I headed down to the pub last Wednesday, hilarious put-downs of the story and characters dancing manically on the tip of my tongue.

I quickly found the table on which were stacked 10 copies of the book in question, politely smiled at the small gathering before heading straight for the bar. One of the strangers who I knew a little better as I’d seen her at a few other meetings, approached me with an expression of terror on her face. My heart sank to my guts and I wished I hadn’t had that coffee before I came out. She came up close, as if the bar was crowded and she was trying to get in on my order.

“She’s here!” she hissed in my ear. “The author, she’s sitting with us at the table.” She didn’t even wait for my reaction and sank back towards the group like a dog that’s just been told off for shitting on the carpet. Oh total twattage. The sweet promise of a pleasant evening turned into a stinking mess in a nanosecond. You see the book was based in Brixton and so the author had probably thought how interesting it’d be to turn up at the Brixton Book Club when they were all going to be talking about it. Plus she probably had nothing better to do, and like us, was a borderline alcoholic.

I went over to the table and, suddenly, like an axe to the head I caught the big voice. It hit me over the head repeatedly giving me a hangover before I’d even had a sip of my cider. My eyes followed it to the big hair, vibrant ethnic top and strong New Zealand accent, bastardised by South London. There she was. Standing out as much from the people around that table as she had done among the insipid characters in her book.

As I sat down she said she was ‘nervous as hell’, before loudly introducing herself as a white middle-class lesbian woman who’d grown up on a council estate in an Afro-Caribbean community, is now married to a Jewish-Indian lady and practices Buddhism. Yeah, that’s what I call nervous. Glad she wasn’t feeling over-confident for Christ’s sake. I mean, someone get the poor woman a drink, it’s obvious her nerves are holding her back (not a pint of the opinion-beater though, obviously). She then talked in detail about her life for a long 10 minutes, justifying the indulgence with the comment that parts of the book were based on it. Had someone told her that this was the night for her one-woman show? I just thanked my lucky stars she hadn’t written the Vagina Monologues.

I started to wonder how she was managing to drain so many glasses of wine, seeing as there was a constant flow of shit coming out of her mouth and therefore surely no chance for any shit to go in. And in that moment with a head full of cloudy cider I had the clearly alarming thought that perhaps the world is made up from those who are writers and those who are readers; those who speak and those who listen. That you’re either a performer or a watcher. So was I destined to be just a reader and listener, was that my fate? I guess my stars weren’t so lucky after all. You see around this table the gap couldn’t have been more obvious. Talk about light years of difference, there was a freaking wormhole between her and us.

“Oh, please be honest when you talk about the book!” she exclaimed excitedly, gulping down her Chenin Blanc, the white wine that turned her face redder and redder with inebriation. I was then witness to perhaps the first silence ever in a pub. The clearing of throats slowly followed it and furtive glances that darted around the table like dispersed snooker balls. I bonded more with these strangers in that brief pause than colleagues I’ve sat next to at work for years. In the glaring eyes, the clasped lips and chomping of the insides of cheeks, we shared a moment, an understanding. We all thought the book was shit.

She’d bewailed that not getting the Orange Prize for Fiction had been so frustrating, but hey, maybe not as frustrating as being sat there unable to tell her what we really thought of her damned book, those hilarious put-downs still break-dancing manically on my tongue. Yet the silence was trounced by 50-odd year old Jan who revealed herself as the author’s greatest fan and a lesbian. She’d read 7 of her books. 7!!! The writer beamed at this news and I swear her head began to grow bigger, stretching her face and smile out until she looked like a deformed Buddha.

Serenity and peace didn’t follow though because after everyone had had a few more drinks the politeness eased and half-truths began to slip out, until a competitive game of ping-pong had begun, where opinions pinged and ponged back between writer and reader. ‘Urgh!’ went the author as she smashed someone’s point into the table. Again and again. The scoreboard wasn’t looking good for the readers and I realised that the cider had let me, no all of us down.

Then Jan her greatest fan performed an unsuspecting drop shot. In a quiet, gentle voice, she said that it had been strange reading a book describing the streets and the people she saw everyday of her life. And this made the book quite ordinary. And because nothing actually really happened and it just plodded along, it was a little, well, disappointing. She’d been waiting for something to happen, waiting for a shock. The author’s face went from looking like Buddha to like she was being buggered in a matter of seconds. At this point we all detected friction between Jan the greatest fan and the writer. So much resistance had developed in fact, that they’d both become stuck for words. They sat there staring at each other across the table. Jan the small, unassuming lesbian (ex greatest fan) on one side and the larger than life, (yet apparently not big enough for fiction judging from that elusive Orange prize), overconfident lesbian on the other. Reader against writer.

The author weakened first by saying that nothing really happened in the book because she had wanted it to be like a real-life documentary. And in reality, nothing so out of the ordinary does happen in Brixton. At least not often. The tension was eased by another round of drinks being delivered to the table, yet the author quickly necked hers while telling us that her wife had texted her to say she needed her at home (probably to open a jar of pickles or something). Her ability to down her drink and use the corner of her mouth to speak, looking not dissimilar to a Dover Sole, was possibly her greatest talent.

Now that she was gone, the conversation really started. Jan said into her pint glass that it’s a shame when you’ve liked a writer for years and finally meet her only to discover that you really don’t like her as a person. Ha! I’ll say that was worth 53 hundred points at least to the readers.

She went on to say in her soft and gentle voice that, personally, her novel about Brixton would be one based on rape and violence. Because Jan, who has lived here for over 25 years then told us that she’d been raped in her own flat 10 years ago. She had wanted a shock from the book, yet ended up giving all of us one instead. After it happened she went away for a while but came back to the same flat and still lives there now. That’s how much she loves Brixton, needs Brixton. We all had more drinks and each of us strangers shared our own stories about Brixton, none as shocking or upsetting as Jan’s, they were heart-warming, funny and touching. And there at last were the real stories, the real characters. It was a shame the writer had missed us. But that was because she’d been too busy talking about herself.

It was enough to put me off wanting to be a writer, but then through my cloudy cider-addled head the clearest thought of the evening emerged. I thought of Bukowski, DBC Pierre and Hunter S and remembered that the best writers are the readers, the watchers and the listeners because they can see that something out of the ordinary does happen everyday, especially somewhere like Brixton.

Friday, September 4th, 2009

2009-09-04T10:46:00.000-07:00

Sometimes it feels as if I can’t smile. Like there’s some strange power operating my facial muscles with strings that pull down the corners of my mouth to create a grim, unapproachable expression. I catch my face in the reflections of shop windows or mirrors in public toilets and the sight of it scares me. I try and smile, standing there, staring at myself. But instead, a sinister grimace forms, that’s even more horrific than the down-turned mouth.

Yet I’m not the only one. Everywhere I look as I walk down the street are dour expressions. There’s a woman whose face is so screwed up and sour looking, it resembles the bottom of a lemon where all the creases are, with the facial features drawn on. And a man who has let those invisible strings cause permanent damage, pulling all his features down from his eyelids to his bottom lip, which hangs off his face like a full-up leech that’s waiting to fall off.

The other day, I walked through this never-ending misery to the market, where the atmosphere darkened even more, as the cloying stench of dead flesh filled my nostrils and the eerie sound of bones being chopped hit my eardrums. Bang, bang, bang. I looked at the freshly plucked chickens hanging upside down and the pig’s head displayed on its tray, their expressions of boredom and emptiness reflecting mine. Pathetic fallacy, really.

Then a young halal butcher cut my morbid mood dead, with a chirpy, ‘Hi, beautiful day isn’t it?’ I looked at him, trying to hide my amazement at this outrageous show of cheerfulness on such a gloomy day in the middle of one heck of a miserable year. Not only that, but he was also in the middle of toes, tails and tripe. He smiled at me warmly, a little flirtatiously and with such ease that I couldn’t help but be slightly envious. I attempted to smile back but the strings were conspiring against me once more so I ended up just pouting, now looking more like the fish in the next shop. Although being the consummate professional he evidently was, he pretended not to notice and cheekily asked me if I fancied one of his hearts, obviously not really his, but some poor cow’s.

And that’s when I caught it. The strings appeared to break, as I felt a broad smile smoothly spread across my face. It got so wide that it went from my lips to my throat to my chest and into my belly, where it produced a little giggle. This then jumped out of my mouth up my nose and into my eyes. Now a giggle trapped in the eyes is an interesting phenomenon. It makes you see things differently, in a way that’s maybe similar to what the Rastas who sit by the mobile African food stall constantly smoking spliffs experience. It made me see that all the butchers in his shop were laughing and joking as they worked amongst the carcasses.

Well, I thought, if they could laugh with all that death around, then maybe I could amidst these shop carcasses and living corpses. The eerie chopping began to merge into the sunny and relaxed beat of the reggae blaring out from the stall selling Lee Perry and Jimmy Cliff CDs. I walked towards it and one by one like damaged dominoes, the scruffy Jamaican guys who were hanging out there turned and flashed a smile at me.

So, like a social disease destroying the angst and animosity that keeps people apart from each other and society’s barriers in their place, the smile ravaged through the streets of this London suburb, taking people by surprise and invading their eyes. Now I noticed the elegant symmetry of the buildings that sit above the modern shop fronts, and the gentle curve of the market’s road, mimicking the smooth, slight arc of the plantain. Or, could it really be? A smile.

Then through the bus window I saw the council estate. But with these eyes, the colourful washing hung out on a few of the balconies gave the front of the block of flats the look of a Mondrian. Aesthetic, horizontal and vertical lines constructed and brought to harmony and rhythm by intuition and the weekend laundry. Ha! I laughed to myself and the effect became stronger.

And then I saw him. Sat in the corner at the back of the bus.

An old man, ancient even, was laughing silently to himself. His face now a collection of laughter upon laughter line, spreading from the corners of his eyes, nose and mouth to the edge of his receding hairline, as the smile had slowly taken over it. A bright twinkle had permanently infected his eyes, and as I watched him they creased up easily while his mouth freely dropped open to reveal just a few remaining teeth, which smiled back too through the curve of decay. When he spotted me looking at him and smiling, he laughed even harder, throwing his head back. He then put his hand to his eyes as they wept from all that laughter, before checking to see whether I was still smiling. Then he cracked up again. This carried on for at least 4 stops.

I appeared to be the only one who could see him, as everyone else was just staring forward with stony expressions, apparently uninfected. I began to wonder whether he was really there or just some hallucination of this disease. But as I watched him laughing and really cracking up, nothing else mattered anymore but giggling freely back, not caring what anyone thought and this vaguely familiar, exhilarating buzz that it was giving me.

And in that moment I got the joke. And it’s so simple, but for one reason or another, these days it’s become hard to do and we leave it for so long that we actually forget how to do it. But the joke is all you have to do is laugh, the most natural thing in the world, because when you do problems are attacked and ugliness is mutated into something beautiful. It would be easier if the world laughed with you, but if it doesn’t want to or can’t, then, like the old man, just laugh at it. You see, the more you laugh at it, the sooner it’ll become infected too. And unlike Swine Flu, TB or Fear, this is one contagion humanity really needs to catch.

Wednesday, August 19th, 2009

2009-08-19T01:38:00.000-07:00

STREET CORNER/BRIXTON SOUTHSIDE, LONDON - NIGHT

Ghetto drug-dealing scene. A group of 3 guys, all of them black, are standing and leaning against the wall of Carpet Right. DEALER 2 is covering up part of the poster promoting the Carpet Madness sale, where there’s 70% off everything, so now it just reads, ‘Madness’. A dog trots by and stops to sniff at the dustbin in the foreground, then cocks his leg and pisses on it, marking his territory. They’re all listening intently to DEALER 1 who's in the middle. POV is head level, focusing on DEALER 1, moving from across the road, stopping in the middle for a car to go past, to closer in on their faces. All the while we are listening to DEALER 1.

DEALER 1

And he just shot Begsie. Put a cap right in his ass. I couldn’t believe it. He didn’t have to go and do that.

DEALER 2

No way man!

DEALER 3

(Tuts loudly) Not Begsie.

DEALER 1

So Begsie’s lying there in a pool of his own blood. His eyes wide open, staring, staring, his body full of holes. He wasn’t even making no trouble you know. I mean, sheeeet. Coulda jus' whipped his ass or something instead.

BUYER 1

Are you guys talking about The Wire?

All the guys immediately turn to face the camera. DEALER 1 pulls a scornful face.

DEALER 1

An’ what’s it to you motherfucker?

CAMERA MOVES ROUND 180 DEGREES to show the face of BUYER 1. We see he’s a spotty white kid with long, greasy hair, about 17. He’s wearing a Yeah Yeah Yeahs t-shirt and is shivering slightly in the cold night air. Next to him, looking a bit nervous is BUYER 1'S MATE, same age, same long, greasy hair, but he’s wearing a Ramones t-shirt.

BUYER 1

Nothing really. Just thought I'd seen that episode, that’s all.

DEALER 3

What you good for nothin’ punks doin’ in our territory anyway. This here the ‘states yo.

BUYER 1

What the council estate?

DEALER 1

(Cutting in) Need a fix?

DEALER 2

Skunk, hash, coke, ketamine.

BUYER 1

A quarter of skunk and 4 wraps of coke.

DEALER 3

(Tuts loudly)

BUYER 1

How come you guys aren’t by the station anymore?

DEALER 1

Got CCTV and all dat shit up there. Cops wanna look like they’re doin’ somethin’, you know. Cleanin’ up the place. But we jus’ become someone else’s problem.

They all laugh.

DEALER 3

You right.

DEALER 1

O-Tyme, sort this shit out yo.

DEALER 1 deftly passes something to DEALER 2, who takes it smoothly.

DEALER 2

Aight. Coke’s £10 a wrap and the skunk's £30. You got the cheese?

There’s a long pause as DEALER 2 stares hard at BUYER 1, while BUYER 1 is looking confused. Then the penny drops.

BUYER 1

Money, oh yes.

DEALER 2

Follow me y’all.

DEALER 2 takes BUYER 1 and BUYER 1'S MATE off to do the deal down a more secluded alley. DEALER 1 and DEALER 3 watch them go till they’re out of earshot.

DEALER 3

So what shit we givin’ those 2 bitches?

DEALER 1

'Special Reserve' man, you know, what we cut the base with. Dat motherfuckin’ shit they use to numb baby’s gums.

DEALER 3 cracks up laughing.

DEALER 3

Dat right there is tight man. It’s all in the game yo.

DEALER 1

Yeah well get the burner out man, we gotta re-up fast, you feel me?

DEALER 3

Hang on a minute, don't talk so fast man, I'm not gettin' it. And what's a burner? Remember, I've only just started Season 3.

On DEALER 1 looking pissed.

CUT TO:

The lounge of a Georgian conversion flat. A group of 3 guys are sitting on 2 shabby-looking sofas. The room needs a lick of paint and is replete with Tupac and Metropolis posters, Mr Nice books, a copy of Evelyn Waugh’s Vile Bodies, Bill Hicks and The Wire DVDs, a lava lamp and a table covered with smoking ephemera, including pipes and a bong. BUYER 2, black, early twenties, and BUYER 2'S MATE, white, same age, are perched on the edge of the sofa, looking a little uncomfortable, clutching champagne flutes and listening intently to DEALER 4, white, mid-twenties, who’s reclining on the other sofa.

DEALER 4

Yes my father’s a Major…ex-Baron Harrold, Lord of Lambeth or something like that. Or perhaps he was a Viscount? Some sort of old school nonsense. Speaking of old skool, there’s this happy hardcore party on tomorrow after the 414. Should be absolutely repulsive. Do you want to come?

BUYER 2

Umm…

DEALER 4

Lottie will be there. And Adam, Miles and Nina. You know, same old set as usual. Have you two topping fellows met them before? Thinking of dabbling in a bit of acid beforehand. You know, shake the party up a bit. Awfully rather good stuff actually. Last time I took it happened to be the first time I met my new flat mate. Couldn’t understand a word she was saying. Bloody marvellous. Although I did have such a pain the next day. So what are you after?

BUYER 2

A bit of hash if you’ve got it?

DEALER 4

Oh yes, I’ve got some rather divine hash from the Netherlands. Forget Afghan and Nepalese. This stuff’s the devil. Rapture! Makes you feel so very queer. But in the best possible way you understand. Beats that rotten skunk those cads sell on the streets. Far too bogus. So would you like some?

BUYER 2

Yeah, sounds good.

DEALER 4

I deal in 10s. Think it’s easier that way. Metric, you know, none of this Imperial nonsense. All those Henry the Eighths and such. I mean to say, we’re not living in the Victorian age now are we? Or are we?

DEALER 4 chortles, while BUYER 2 and BUYER 2'S MATE laugh along politely, looking slightly bored.

DEALER 4

You know, I’ve got a free house in Stockwell Gardens this weekend. Father’s away on business or something, he's abroad rather a lot since mother passed away, in Thailand or somewhere over there. Can’t remember where exactly but I do know he’s back on Tuesday, so if you two stout chaps want to come over? It’s a divine place actually rather good for parties, got a huge glass window in the lounge that opens onto the garden. Can be a bit of a hazard though as sometimes you forget it’s there…more prosecco? Come on, don’t be a bore now, I'm not even tight yet.

PULL BACK through the window to the street outside, where we see BUYER 1 AND BUYER 1'S MATE talking with TWO OTHER SPOTTY WHITE KIDS, who're about 15. They swap something in return for a stack of notes. A police car with its lights on and sirens blaring rushes past heading north. We hear a dog barking.

FADE TO BLACK

THE END

Friday, July 31st, 2009

2009-07-31T02:00:00.000-07:00

Before entering the 13th Gate of the Latitude Festival (it’s more than just a music festival), our group had the usual debate on whether we should take the red pill or the blue pill. We all plumped for the red one, and prepared ourselves for an obscene, mind-blowing, dimension-changing ride.

We sat at one of the picnic tables, studying the guide in a foolish attempt to plan the day. Suddenly I realised we were surrounded by strange, garish signs covered in warped writing that I could only just make out. “Does that say vegan burgers?” I asked our Driver. “Don’t tell me that! I don’t want to know about these things,” he replied in a panic-stricken voice. But I couldn’t help but stare. Call it morbid fascination, like when cars slow down on the motorway to check out a car crash.

The area was teeming with bright pink people holding the hands of dwarves who kept trying to break free of their grasp. They were obviously holding these dwarves against their will, but no one seemed to care. I was about to shout out “KIDNAP!” when the patchy-pink faces distracted me by starting to swell and pulsate. Perhaps they knew I was on to them. But they didn’t come over; instead they just kept on chewing and shoving this crazy stuff into their mouths. What looked like a pizza with spinach and chorizo, and…and, what was that? Was it really an oyster? One almost smothered itself with a 4-foot long baguette filled with grilled diplodocus, which had been smothered itself, in mint sauce.

We eventually managed to peel ourselves off the picnic table, leaving the map and the guide behind, as we realised it was designed to confuse and get you lost anyway, so why bother to carry it around all day? After all, getting lost is the prime objective for going to a festival in the first place, surely?

Just then a gang of geriatric fluorescent fairies flew straight into our group, as they marched forcefully towards the stage, leaving behind a broken pair of glittery deely boppers. Our Driver excitedly fished them out of the grass. “Yeah, I’ll be able to hear the music better now. At the moment it’s like I’m listening to it through a bog roll!” He then plonked them on his head and immediately began to dance with the energy of 10,000 Bombay Bad Boy Pot Noodles, while his hands created shapes, swirls and hypotrochoids. It was like he was a human spirograph. The band hadn’t even started yet.

So as not to attract too much unwanted attention, we decided it would be safer to venture further into the crowd. We passed 7 feet tall children, their faces covered in camouflage, which made them really stand out. We needed to get as far away from them as possible. Our group’s Tracker discovered a good spot deep into the throng. We stood there waiting, staring at the back of the heads in front of the stage, while the human spirograph made friends with an etch-a-sketch.

The Pet Shop Boys came on and started to perform on the tops of the people’s heads in front. Then suddenly the sight of a man’s naked arse flashed into view. Naked except for a fluorescent thong. A thong in the throng. The cheeks appeared to have a life of their own, as they wobbled, clenched and wiggled. At one point I could’ve sworn they were trying to communicate something to me, something that seemed important, perhaps the meaning of it all. Who are we? Why are we here? What does Pet Shop Boys actually mean? And I almost bent over to get a closer look.

But luckily the Jibber-jabberer of the group stopped me just in time to point out the amazing dancers to the right of the stage. They turned out to be the flags that indicate where the toilets are, fluttering in the breeze. But who’s to say they weren’t dancers? And are we human, or are we flags? I thought about that for a long while as I gazed at the human dancing flags, and then when I turned back to look at the stage, it hit me that the whole crowd was wearing tutus.

“’Ere guys, I can’t wait anymore for West End Girls, les go to the forest,” whined the human spirograph, who was now down to just his vest, even though it was spitting with rain. Then I realised that it wasn’t rain, it was his sweat. Acid sweat.

The human spirograph turned us into a human chain, so we at least had a chance of getting out of there. We stumbled, bounced and fell our way out of the pack of rodents, who were now foaming at the mouth at the thought of East End Boys. We’d got out just in time. They were about to go mad.

The forest was friendlier and calmer with just the distant sound of a DJ messing up a mix from Abba to Jay-Z. It was quieter as there was far less movement. I began to feel a lot more relaxed, when I noticed that the forest floor across from the path we were walking on was swarming with little furry animals. Mice, hamsters, ferrets, I couldn’t quite tell. I squinted further into the darkness of the trees, and saw silhouettes of people sitting and standing and bending over amongst the hamsters. One of these silhouettes, yet another fairy, beckoned us over.

But by that time our Driver had put his mac on and was ready to go back to the tent. We decided that the pills hadn’t worked, as we weren’t getting any effect from them. I mean, it was just your average festival experience. We realised that we should’ve taken the blue pill. Tomorrow, we decided, yawning, tomorrow we’ll take the blue one.

Friday, July 3rd, 2009

2009-07-03T06:52:00.000-07:00

another tale of ordinary madness…

you’d better come with me.

He flashed a portentous smile, and I wondered whether I should be worried or amazed.

I followed Him down the stairs and across the next floor. heads were out, eyes staring, as if everybody knew.

then the eternal colleague’s voice: oh thank fuck it’s not me.

He marched into His office, pointing at the hard, low chair opposite His high desk.

KEEP ONE HAND ON EACH KNEE AND DON’T MOVE YOUR HANDS!

He sat there staring down at me. I didn’t know what He expected me to say so I didn’t say anything. but I knew the war had begun. my eye began to itch and I reached up to rub it.

WATCH THAT HAND!!

He continued staring right through me until I had the weird sensation that I’d turned invisible. He then dialled a short number on his phone.

MARTA GET ME A DOUBLE ESPRESSO, A DARK BERRY MOCHA FRAPPUCCINO, A STEAK AND CHEESE PANINI, TOASTED, A BLT AND A MARSHMALLOW TWIZZLE.

He slammed the receiver down, then sat there staring again for a while. I heard the hydrochloric acid eating away at His stomach lining.

DO YOU KNOW WHY YOU’RE HERE?

yes and no.

DON’T GET SMART WITH ME. IT WON’T DO YOU ANY FAVOURS.

I know about the redundancies. but why am I up for it?

NEVER ASK THAT QUESTION.

why?

BECAUSE YOU’LL NEVER GET A SATISFACTORY ANSWER.

but why?

the door opened and the new girl behind the desk came in with legs. long legs. her face was covered up by the big Starbuck’s paper bag she was carrying on top of a tray of drinks.

WE’VE HAD TO CUT COSTS DUE TO THE ECONOMIC DOWNTURN.

the new girl behind the desk took half the Starbuck’s menu out of the bag, and arranged it neatly on His desk.

but why me exactly?

LOOK, JUST TAKE YOUR LETTER AND DO AS YOU’RE TOLD OK? THAT WAY, NO ONE GETS HURT.

as He shouted, a piece of fatty bacon from Starbuck’s BLT swung about on one of His canines. He continued staring at me while taking chunks out of His sandwich. I figured it was time to leave, before He did the same to me.

my part of the office turned into the grey cell it had always looked like. it was a Friday afternoon and across the room I could see colleagues gassing by the photocopier. others laughed as they stuck coins into the coke machine. how lucky they were! everything seemed so free and easy over there. the letter had already made its way to my desk. I sat there trying to figure out what I had done. I felt like crying but nothing came out. it was just a sort of sad sickness, sick sad. the kind that only sickos can cause.

Mad Watson, the IT guy, came over to speak to me. he was a freak. we were all freaks. he scratched the psoriasis on his elbows erratically as he spoke. flakes of shed, diseased skin floated in the air, waiting to be breathed in.

so are you going down then?

yeah.

no way.

how long they give you?

a month.

that’s harsh.

yeah.

you know, He terminated 10 guys last week and then right away terminated another. screwed them all right in the ass. two are now trying to claim incapacity benefit.

HEY, BREAK IT UP!

the lines had been drawn and the managers made sure that the two sides were kept apart. the managers were stupid and scared. I felt sorry for them. they really believed that I was the enemy. although there were benefits to being on the weaker side. my line manager stopped talking to me and left a room whenever I entered, as if I was full of pathogenic bacteria. I didn’t need a microscope to know what he was full of. honour among shareholders. keep the company strong so you can rob it.

I was allowed to talk to Bubba though, the big guy in accounts, as he was on the same side as me. he was always up for redundancy, but kept getting saved. he had his fingers in too many pies and bookkeeping pies are the sweetest ones to have your fingers in. that made him corporate enemy No. 1.

I caught up with him in the toilets. he was rocking back and forth on the pot laughing, with the door wide-open and his trousers round his ankles, saying, eat my shit, eat my shit, over and over. it was the best advice I’d had all day.

by the time the day of the final meeting came, I was almost beaten.

the putty-voiced woman from HR did most of the talking. He was busying himself with something on His computer. it appeared to be extremely fascinating, as His eyes were glued to the screen.

do you understand why you’ve been made redundant?

yeah.

and you agree that we’ve tried to find you other positions within the company, yet you turned down our proposals of relocating you to our growing offices in Minsk, Belarus, or moving you over to the successful incontinence pads account?

yeah.

HA, JUST LOOK AT THAT SCORE!

I figured He was busying himself with playing an important computer game.

ok well good luck, because it’s tough out there. but you know, the company will be hiring again in a few months, so you’re welcome to apply for your old job again then.

GOT YOU, YOU SON OF A BITCH!

I didn’t re-apply for my old job. I walked straight out of there and never looked back. that’s how I won the war.

Thursday, June 18th, 2009

2009-06-27T11:30:00.000-07:00

And here at last I find myself in the land of the monsters (of rock). The land that social convention forgot. It’s a weird world full of ‘fucking people’ who are constantly ordered to raise their ‘fucking hands’. Everything here can be described aptly with the ‘fucking’ adjective. And it is. Fucking tents, fucking mosh pit, fucking costumes and fucking weather. Even the police and security are fucking.

The monsters ceremoniously dress themselves everyday before ritually leaving their canvas huts around two to stomp down to the large communal area, known as the main arena. Here they worship before a stage by ‘showing their horns’. The males jump and bump into each other until their noses bleed, while the females bare their breasts to please the male monsters amid primal screeches and howls.

There appears to be every kind of dress you can possibly imagine, including the monster with a rubber snake around his neck, a trio of mankinis, and one monster in a scary SpongeBob SquarePants costume. Yes you think you’ve come across every species, until a monster dressed as a fairy walks by. Here, blue and black dreadlocks and painted skeleton faces aren’t out of place, in fact, they’re part of the establishment and the strange looks are redirected my way, at my conventional mousy-blonde hair, natural-looking mascara and t-shirt and jeans.

You have to be careful, because surprises jump up and poke your eyes everywhere you look. This land is strange and surreal. A man in a chicken near the stage takes his own chicken head off and then waves it manically around in time to the music. It bobs about above the crowd, back and forth, frantically, until it’s finally launched onto the stage. The man in the headless chicken quickly joins it, before the security show him where the exit is.

I try to avoid ‘partying while I poo’, as instructed by the signs inside the toilets, by eating only dry carbohydrates such as potato and pasta, even though I’m cruelly tempted every step of the way by mouth-watering curries, yard-long hot dogs and onions or satan’s smoothies. Dominoes Pizza has a stall this year, and I see a Dominoes Soldier, in the heart of the land of milk, soft dough and pepperoni, guarding it from the onslaught of marching fiends armed with toilet rolls.

Much of my time is spent reading skin. Monsters' stories of dragons and mermaids, plus invitations to suck my cock. Also listening to the strange chants, such as the esoteric, “ostriches!” It’s shouted out into the darkness and straight away, from all sides, a rousing “ostriches!” is shouted back, as if it’s a familiar mantra.

Then there are the obscure games. Football’s far too bland for the monsters. Here, new games are invented, this one for example. A ball is tightly wrapped in a piece of cloth (or it could be bat’s gut) and is thrown into the air with the inexplicable cry of “Val Kilmer!” The monster who’s aiming to catch it shouts out “Saucy baguette!” and is awarded a “Yeah, Roy,” from the others if he manages to get it before it lands on the ground.

Meanwhile, the monkeys in the towers on the perimeter watch the monsters’ mayhem unfold, with each of their hands poised ready either side of their holsters. One to grab the walkie-talkie, the other, a banana. Because you never know when trouble or hunger’s going to strike. They’re the dullest monkeys I’ve ever seen, and possibly only a struggling zoo in Tajikistan would bother to house them permanently. They just stand still, hoping for some action in their fluorescent jackets, each with a number emblazoned across it. 901, 867, 432, 949. Like lottery balls waiting to be released, so they can bounce about and crash into each other too. Monkeys watching over monsters, but at least the monsters have names.

And I’ve since discovered that although the monsters are hard on the outside, they’re actually soft in the middle. Hard, hairy coconuts, who easily crack a smile and can’t wait to share a joke, game or an arm around you.

“ I lost the mask near the loos,” I hear someone say as they walk past my canvas hut, which neatly sums up my experience in the land of monsters. You see, I began to let go of all the social conventions. My mask was slipping. The hair styling went first, then the teeth brushing and finally I was free of all my inhibitions, and found myself sleeping buck naked in my canvas hut with the zip open. I’m now getting the urge to paint my face and show my horns. Finally, I truly have arrived in the land of the monsters (of rock).

Sunday, June 7th, 2009

2009-06-27T11:27:00.000-07:00

When I worked from home on Tuesday, I entered an altered state. I was half in the world of work, and half in holidayland. But actually in neither. I was in limbo. A place where my mind could float. Like a ghost that belongs nowhere, so can just drift aimlessly as it waits to be summoned to God’s office for its appraisal. Here in this limbo, I was susceptible to idle thoughts, ones out of the office and which no one could catch on my mobile or Blackberry.

I found myself drifting down the street at two in the afternoon on a weekday. It felt weird to be wandering, wondering, at that time of the day. And the streets seemed unfamiliar. The people were strange, alien even. Who were all these old folk anyway and where had they come from? They took over the buses, pavements, benches and supermarkets. It looked like an invasion by old-age vampires, who only come out in the day, with hospital bed-sheet white skin that’s so worn it’s become thread bare, semi-translucent. They hang upright from bus stop benches, glaring in the June sunshine and baring their badly fitted teeth at dogs, cats, pigeons and children passing by.

The species that shares this 9-5 territory with the vampire OAPs, is the yummy mummy. I see one drearily pushing a buggy containing her little monster wielding a dripping ice-cream. I float past two more, invisible, as they speak to each other in an unfamiliar language. 60 Minute Makeover, Trisha, Jeremy Kyle and Lie Detector Tests.

Then through the hazy sunshine, familiar faces appear. Those I usually only see swimming against the tide of the commuters. The bloke in the pork pie hat, strumming his guitar with an irregular rhythm, as if he’s trying to find the right chord. At low tide, I can see him more clearly. The bright yellow flower in the lapel of his jacket. The perpetual smile dancing on the corners of his mouth. The intense concentration, which appears to come so easily. Like he’s a Zen Master of meditation.

Then there’s the old black guy, who’s always dressed smartly in an unknown army’s uniform, sitting outside his favourite Costcutter franchise. Guarding it, so it’s protected from an unknown enemy. He watches time slip casually by in the reflection of his shiny boots. But at least time is his to lose. In the office, you’re not the boss of your time. It’s work’s possession and it devours it, until there’s nothing left but just the skeleton of the day. The scraps are all we have to remind us of who we are. Even in holidayland we’re too occupied with must-seeing things, being with friends and family, or catching up on sleep, to have much time for ourselves. Although in this state of limbo I got to snatch back some time for me. As if this limbo was a cool lake, refracting time on its surface, bending it in my direction. All I had to do was reach out and grab it.

I ended up in the park by my flat. The grass was verdant, luminous. Shiny crows glittered from within it, like black diamonds. A guy lounging on a bench sucked on his cigarette, fashioning a piece of amber to add to the setting, with just his lips and lungs. The creases in his face had turned him into a permanent smoker, even when he didn’t have a cigarette in his mouth. Time takes a cigarette, to escape its timelessness. These outsiders, who’d escaped from 9-5 jobs, did everything slowly. Because they had all the time in the world. Time gives them bonus points. The counting crows make a mental note of them. Pointless points for the idlers. When you slow down, your thoughts become clear. They crystallise. Becoming rare gems. Epiphanies.

From an open window, a flute unfurled its music. Then from another, I could hear the calling of the violin. They flowed together, creating celestial music. Separated in body, but not in spirit. In that moment, I felt elated. Everything made sense. My mind and body were connected. Then suddenly, a man in a dark suit emerged from the verdant green. He didn’t glitter, he absorbed all the light. A long shadow in the sun. He was the grim reaper, telling me my time was up. I was forced to return to the world of emails, briefs and Blackberrys. The crows were startled and took flight. Time had flown, out of my grasp. It obviously wasn’t my time. Yet.

Friday, May 22nd, 2009

2009-06-27T11:26:00.000-07:00

Saturday, April 11th, 2009

2009-06-27T11:16:00.000-07:00

Experiment: Can a Londoner give up the booze but still keep up their primary existence in the economic system of burning the candle from both ends?

Intro:

When Londoners abstain from alcohol, a strange reaction occurs. They listen more, say ‘fuck’ and ‘I love you’ less and stay in to watch Simon Schama’s Power of Art on BBC4. They’re diurnal, so they’re active in the day, even at the weekend and sleep during the best clubbing nights of the week. The point of going out in the cold, dark and rain is lost on them. However, paying extortionate prices to visit overcrowded galleries is not. Everything is done earlier, from getting up to going to bed via the washing up. They never go to the toilet in the street or in their pants, but they do go to the gym more than 4 times in a year for the first time in their membership.

Method:

I didn’t drink for three months, but still attempted to go to the planned nights out that I would have gone to if I’d been drinking. Obviously, the impulsive, ‘alright, I’ll go for just the one’ nights are irrelevant, as you never want to go for even just one diet coke if you can help it.

Results:

Attended:

2 binge drinking friends' birthdays

Mum’s 60th birthday weekend with plenty of champagne bought by parents.

2 work colleagues' birthdays with a tab behind the bar

1 x clubbing night

2 x gigs

Livery Company dinner in the city with 5 courses of alcohol.

Production company screening of Free Agents, with free wine.

1 x comedy night

1 x dinner and a show

3 x nights out with the girls

3 x pub lunches

1 x speed flat mate finding night with free glass of wine

Conclusion:

I managed to drag myself to all the nights out that I was asked to, but didn’t plan any myself or invite anyone out. I did in fact turn into my Mum, being more than happy to just stay in and watch Jonathan Ross on a Friday.

The hardest part was the thought of a night ahead in a bar with sweaty people, where the horrendous house music is so loud that the only things you can do is dance, make faces at people, stick your tongue down someone’s throat. Or drink. Those nights involved so much diet cola that I would lay awake in bed until the early hours chewing the insides of my mouth.

The worst bits were before everyone was drunk, because contrary to popular belief, people who are out of their boxes are generally a lot more fun to be with, even when you’re sober. This is especially true when it comes to work colleagues, because before they get tipsy, you might as well be in the office sharing a bit of banter over a desk top lunch. Also, if someone is going to corner you and talk at you for hours on end, it’s a lot more interesting when they’re smashed, as then they’ll divulge more secrets and say increasingly outlandish statements, with your encouragement of course.

The bonus is that you make sure you avoid the night bus of hell when you can. This means that if you find yourself in a crap bar, you know it’s rubbish, and no amount of diet coke will stop it from being so. Therefore you don’t waste your night and the next day trying to make it good, and call it a night before the last tube has gone.

Yet when the music, company and atmosphere are good, you enjoy the night far more than if you were drunk. For one, you can dance around like a maniac to The Prodigy’s 'Out Of Space' without a care, because people are drunk and won’t notice plus you’re able to keep your balance, therefore don’t end up flat on the floor, unlike them. Also, your senses are still with you, so you can see and hear everything around you, picking up the subtleties in the DJ’s mixing while keeping up with the intricacies of the five different conversations and situations that are going on in your group alone.

So you can burn the candle at both ends when you’re sober, but it needs to be a decent candle, that doesn’t get on your wick. And as there aren’t enough decent candles available, a life of sobriety does mean that a Londoner looses their identity, becoming more like someone from the suburbs, happy to spend nights in with thoughts of allotments and craft markets taking the place of the latest hip hop, fidget prog, freakbeat, janglecore, electro-sleaze, breaking, crumpin’ ‘n’ crimpin’ meltdown.

Sunday, April 5th, 2009

2009-06-27T11:14:00.000-07:00

Workers and skinheads unite.
Profit, profit, profit! The enemy is profit!
Bankers. Not real people, but real wankers.
Whose streets? Our streets!
Bring Brown down!
This is what democracy looks like. This is what democracy feels like.

Actually, that is what 35,000 middle-class Londoners sound like when they all forgo their weekend morning watching Saturday Kitchen on the tele or reading the Guardian Guide in a suburban café over brunch, to protest. People who usually keep their heads down and just get on with it, albeit with a slight tut, and would rather have a quiet life.

But this time was different. They weren’t going to be appeased by interest rate cuts or a new series of The Apprentice. This time even they’d been affected, and were moved enough to get out there and stand up for themselves under the guise of ‘putting people first’, humanity before profit. Against the unfair economy where bankers are allowed to gamble with their money, the rich can evade paying taxes, while poor people and workers across the world are exploited.

This was the march on Saturday to coincide with the G20 summit, not the later marches on Wednesday and Thursday which were more hardcore and involved anarchist groups and a heavy-handed police approach, with snipers and machine guns. On Saturday, all that was needed from the police was an authoritative look, or a firm hand on the arm. No this march on the Saturday was for the less die-hard, the more soft-core, the people who hadn’t yet lost their jobs due to the economic crisis, so they had to go to work during the other marches in the week. And they didn’t want to use any days off to protest. They cared, but they wouldn’t go as far as losing their holiday for the cause.

Of course there were the more passionate of the soft-core, who came out in their groups, waving their flags, banging their drums and chanting through megaphones. Religious groups, environmentalists and trade unions, including the RMT and the Militant Workers Bloc, who were slightly scary, yet you were glad they were on your side, as they shouted out powerfully against redundancies and repossessions. Then there were the Socialists, holding up their ‘We won’t pay for their crisis’ banners, who ranged from the fiery Europeans chanting, ‘Viva Palestina!’ to the quieter, more civilised ladies-who-lunch-types, reading passages softly, yet fervently from their Socialist handbooks.

Also the anti-capitalists, with the best banner of the day, ‘Capitalism isn’t working. Another world is possible’, an ironic twist on the Conservatives’ election winning poster campaign in 1979, ‘Labour isn’t working’. Another group out in force were the Goth and Vampire Kids, with their ‘rent-a-placards’ emblazoned with generic anti-war messages, mumbling indecipherable mantras, blowing their hair out of their eyes every few seconds, and their minds with soft-core weed.

Scattered amongst these were the individual characters, protesting in their own unique way. The ones the media and bankers would refer to as the ‘nutters’, but who actually brought theatre and laughter to the proceedings. One looked the spitting image of the British serial killer Charles Bronson. All bald-head, moustache and violent moves. Luckily they were just dance moves to the beat of the drums up ahead. He made it clear to everyone around him that he was a vegetarian, and then let out a blood-curdling cry. Yaaaarrrrrrrrhoooooooooooaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhheeeeeeeeeoooo!

An English Che complete with beret, tweed jacket and umbrella-cum-walking-stick kept bellowing to the fluorescent yellow lines of police, ‘Don’t police us, police them!’ waving aforementioned umbrella in the direction of the Houses of Parliament. Here, here! Then a guy cycled past on his bike with a carrot on a stick dangling from the handlebars, shouting ‘I need it, I need it!’

But the ones who made up the numbers, made the difference. The unexpected mass of the middle-classes, mixing in with the organised groups and strolling along with flasks of tea or cans of beer. Having more of a meander than a march, chatting about what they got up to last night, bouncing up and down to the drumbeats, blowing whistles and holding up their handcrafted placards.

Forget the worthy cause for one minute, it was worth going on the march just to see these placards. Stationer Ryman’s profits must have taken a leap this week due to the sales of fat, black marker pens alone. Countless pieces of cardboard had been scrawled on with ingenious statements. ‘Asbos 4 Bankers’ got second place, with first place going to ‘What is going on?’. This homemade gem held aloft above a sea of middle-class protestors including a vegetarian Charles Bronson, jumping up and down and blowing whistles in the middle of Piccadilly Circus, should have been the march’s overall slogan.

You see, some of the marchers making up the numbers didn’t really know the full story. They weren’t socialists or against capitalism, for a start a few opted for Selfridges over the rally when the march was over. Yet that’s what made Saturday’s march interesting, meaningful and matter more. Today most people haven’t got a clear idea about what they believe in, but a mixture of contradictory opinions that don’t lead them in any obvious direction. Nothing’s black and white, it’s all grey, and that’s why we’re all unsure as to which way to go now. But Saturday’s march proved that a great number of people with differing viewpoints are united about something. We’ve had enough of wanker bankers and an unjust, unregulated economy.

So although some didn’t understand the full story, it didn’t matter, as they were there to represent their own particular chapter. Be it the threat of redundancy at their workplace, their pay-freeze or the loss of their pension. And it gave you a buzz to chat, laugh and share disgruntlement with a cross-section of the middle-classes, who you wouldn’t usually talk to.

This is what democracy looks like. This is what democracy feels like.

If this is what it feels like, then we need a whole lot more of it, because it feels pretty good. Much better than anything you can buy.

Sunday, March 29th, 2009

2009-06-27T11:13:00.000-07:00

It is thought that the first chain coffee shops arrived in London about 11 years ago. Some were native, yet others invaded from the USA and conquered. Now ubiquitous on London’s streets (there’s approximately one every five shops), they’ve taken over from the ancient ‘greasy spoon cafes’, infamous for their builder’s tea and bacon butties.

And although they’re not bad for people watching, there’s no better place for eavesdropping than in these chain coffee shops. Such a cross-section of Londoners frequent them that if you visit at the right time, you can get a real insight into London life. So they’re a must-listen for all English-speaking tourists, unlike the archaic greasy spoons, which possess a unique atmosphere of gritty authenticity, yet no one talks and generally you just see old people nursing cups of tea and staring into space or The Sun. The coffee shop though, is all about chatting incessantly while wired on caffeine and you can hear Londoners talking about anything from business deals to favourite sexual positions.

The best spots to experience eavesdropping are Starbucks, Café Nero or Coffee Republic in and around Oxford Street and Tottenham Court Road, and the best time is early to mid-morning during the week. Because they’re big franchise coffee shops, you can buy just one coffee, then sit and listen for hours at a time, without feeling the guilt you would in an independent one. So make sure you set enough time aside to spend at least a morning in one. After all, no trip to London is complete without a visit.

Itinerary

Estimated Time – one morning.

6.45am. Rise with the sun and the commuters’ alarms, then head down to one of the main chain coffee shops and catch the spectacle that is the morning takeout rush. Here you get to experience an intense shot of the London business world. Business people tend to have loud voices and are more than happy for others to overhear their conversations, especially if they’re on mobile phones discussing very, very important, highly confidential deals. They usually shout out a load of bollocks into the steamed milk atmosphere. If you’re at the Starbucks on Tottenham Court Road, you might be lucky and get syphilis, AIDS and gonorrhoea added to the bollocks. Because then you’ll be enjoying Alan, the legendary field manager from a biotechnology company that’s bringing out a new Rapid AIDS and STD test in May 2009, apparently. Just what Londoners need?

Arriving this early also means you have the choice of all the tables, so you can find the prime position for eavesdropping. These are generally the sofas near to other tables, where you can lean your head back naturally at lots of different angles and listen in without attracting any attention.

10.03am. Take a trip into the world of the archetypal Londoner. Although genuine east enders such as builders and market stall holders hardly ever go into coffee shops, preferring the under-priced PG Tips in an authentically chipped mug from a greasy spoon to the rip-off price of an Americano. Yet as this is central London, you get the stereotypical Londoners in the form of actresses from the BBC soap EastEnders who are ‘inbetween jobs’, such as Natalie Cassady who played Sonia. Now tourists won’t know who they are, but that doesn’t matter, because most of them are exactly the same off-screen as on, meaning that they really do have those cockney accents and Sonia, for example, talks about clubbin’, Ibiza and goin’ daan the ‘airdresser in real-life too. Basically they play themselves, so for the tourist, they provide a thick, tasty slice of London life with all its kitchen sink dramas.

10.17am. Not usually a favourite with the tourists, yet not to be overlooked, are the tramps. Don’t let their poor appearance put you off, for as a source of true London life, you can’t get richer than someone who lives on its streets. Just after 10.15 on a weekday is the perfect time to catch them. They usually have a break at the weekend, but during the week, they can be seen in Starbucks, spending most of the morning drinking the leftover coffee out of cups on the tables, until the pubs open. To guarantee an encounter with them, gather up cups with a little coffee leftover in the bottom from other tables, and place them on yours (making sure you don’t then mistake them for your own). The tramp will make a wonky beeline for your table.

Here’s where the itinerary splits as you have two options:

(a) This is the more adventurous route and takes a day and a half instead of just the one morning. If you’re exploring it, you need to look the tramp directly in the eye when he approaches your table and starts chatting to you. He’ll then settle down quite happily, describing the beautiful sunrise over Waterloo Bridge and how the dew sparkles like tinsel on the grass in Victoria Embankment Gardens, but some of it can be hard to decipher through all the spit and phlegm. From here, you can follow him to the traditional London pubs when they open, and spend the whole day with him as your guide through the story of his life via England’s ales. Be warned that it’ll be at your expense, although it’s a journey you’ll never forget, full of plenty of stories to go back home with. You then have the choice of returning to the coffee shop the next day to continue the itinerary from route (b). You could bump into the same tramp, but it doesn’t matter, as he won’t remember you from Adam.

(b) This option suits the tourist who’s less well-travelled. Don’t look in the direction of the tramp as he approaches, then he won’t ever talk directly to you, but will just mutter loudly to himself about the sunrise and dew, staring into the middle distance, until he’s finished all the leftover dregs of coffee. From here you continue with the rest of the itinerary.

10.56 am. Time to head on over to adland. You haven’t really visited London until you’ve had a taste of the media world. And mid-morning is the time you’ll find advertising creatives with hangovers attempting to ‘brainstorm’ with the aid of a caffeine drip. They go everywhere in pairs, and will probably give you a dirty look on entering, as you’ll be sitting on ‘their’ sofa. They’ll try and get a seat next to you because they’ll be waiting for you to leave so they can have the sofa for themselves.

Don’t be intimidated though as they’ll soon forget you when they remember they’ve got a deadline in an hour. As they try and come up with their wacky ideas, they occasionally divulge interesting insights about British life. For instance, Britain’s eating habits. According to two creatives overheard recently, Colman’s English Mustard has a recommended age of enjoyment of around 22.5 years. If you eat it before then, you are in danger of growing a huge fat tongue or having hair that permanently stands on end.

Creatives also provide a huge dollop of creamy London office gossip. Media companies throw the most outrageous parties, and by listening to their anecdotes, you’ll have the opportunity to get the inside track on just how loose Londoners’ morals can be, when they go off on caffeine-induced tangents about which married person slept with the receptionist and newly engaged account executive. (After hearing all this, legendary field manager Alan’s new Rapid AIDS and STD test product becomes highly relevant.)

With your head full of a fascinating brew of real insights into London life, you’re now free to go to the nearest shop selling tourist tat and buy as many postcards of the Queen and punks plus those little Beefeater dolls in plastic boxes as you can.

Sunday, March 15th, 2009

2009-06-27T07:40:00.000-07:00

If I was going to tell the story of the first decade of the 21st Century (aka the noughties) to a distant future generation, I’d use South Park. It’s a neat, concise DVD collection of our recent history, perfectly packaged to fit into any time capsule. Hang on, you say, it’s not history it’s a cartoon! Well, consider this. Politicians, dictators, historians, religious prophets and the media have always tried to skew history in their favour or rewrite it, and a recent trip to see the British Museum’s Babylon: Myth and Reality exhibition proved that they’ve been doing this for centuries.

Most of us think of Babylon as this evil place or a ‘city of sin’, which eventually suffered an apocalyptic downfall, as portrayed in fantastic stories and awe-inspiring images in paintings, such as those of the Tower of Babel. We’ve got most of these porkie pies about Babylon from the Old Testament, which was humankind’s history book up until fairly recently. The main reason for all the lies is because the Jews were pretty ticked off with the Babylonians and particularly King Neduchadnezzar, because he captured Jerusalem, destroyed it and deported its elite to Babylon. So the religious prophets had an axe to grind, and painted the city as this evil, downright dirty place, representing the antichrist and despicable side of all humanity. And this we accepted as the truth until archaeologists dug up the reality and discovered that Babylon was a centre of learning from which we inherited the division of time into minutes and hours, the zodiac and useful knowledge of constellations. But a large percentage of people still believe the myths of the Old Testament.

So what’s South Park got to do with all this, I hear you ask? Well, let’s start by comparing its stories to those of the Old Testament. Both use over-the-top, dramatic narratives that are crude and surreal to capture the audience’s attention and to get their point across. They both criticize society. Yet South Park does it through satire, ridiculing the vices and follies of the whole of humankind. Whereas the Old Testament slanders and maligns to bring certain groups into disrepute, those which don’t tow the Christian line. Although isn’t history about learning from all our mistakes, not just a chosen few?

The Old Testament has its tale of the Whore of Babylon, a figure who’s unmistakably cast as the evil bitch of the earth. She’s described as having a golden cup in her hand that’s full of abominations and the filthiness of her fornication. Well I never. And on her forehead is written, ‘Babylon the Great, the Mother of Harlots and Abominations of the Earth.’ She also gets drunk on the blood of saints. Meanwhile, South Park has the ‘Stupid Spoiled Whore Video Playset’ episode, where Paris Hilton represents the overt sexualisation of society. Her cartoon character wears lewd clothing and constantly coughs up semen, while her new shop, ‘Stupid Spoiled Whore’ encourages the young girls of South Park to emulate their role model, by wearing skimpy outfits and throwing sex parties.

The Whore of Babylon never existed, and is just a Christian allegory of evil, representing the sins of the world. The Stupid Spoiled Whore of South Park on the other hand, although exaggerated for comic effect, it can be argued that she does actually exist.

Then there’s the Old Testament’s story of one of its most hated figures, King Neduchadnezzar, the geezer who captured Jerusalem and deported its elite to Babylon. This conqueror of Jerusalem, according to the religious prophets, got his comeuppance by going mad, becoming a crazed and terrified man, who spent his last days crawling on all fours like an animal and eating grass. In the South Park episode ‘Trapped in the Closet’, the former King of Hollywood Blockbusters, Tom Cruise, is depicted as a fanatical follower of the Church of Scientology and is seen exhibiting insane behaviour, for instance, he locks himself in the toilet when Stan (who he considers to be the reincarnation of L. Ron Hubbard) says his acting’s not really that great.

The Old Testament created a slanderous myth against the reputation of King Neduchadnezzar, as archaeologists have found that it wasn’t him who went mad at all, but the more insignificant King Nabonidus. But again, it can’t be said that South Park’s portrayal of the erstwhile King of Hollywood and Paramount Pictures is entirely inaccurate.

Of course, it’s not just the Old Testament that has attempted to create myths of the past for its own ends. Many leaders have too. Take Saddam Hussein in our recent history. The British Museum’s exhibition shows how he attempted to create an image of himself as the modern day successor to the Babylon Kings, as Babylon was where Iraq is today. He had a painting commissioned in which he’s illustrated as this huge Colossus of Rhodes, standing tall above Babylon’s famous Ishtar Gate. In another, he’s transformed into a heroic warrior, riding a chariot into battle.

In contrast, South Park portrayed him as a whiny-voiced homosexual, who had a love relationship with Satan. Again, you can decide for yourself whether you think that South Park’s interpretation of events is a great deal closer to the truth than Saddam Hussein’s.

The point is (and there is one), that these days it’s harder to tell myth from reality, what with all the media spin, conspiracy theories and political propaganda. We don’t know the truth now about certain events in our recent history, let alone in over two thousand years. So why not have the noughties’ history represented by South Park? Every episode is based on the truth, albeit occasionally a small grain, and its creators Matt Stone and Trey Parker are ‘equal opportunity offenders’. This means they don’t just represent one view, but lampoon all sides of a contentious issue, so in that way it’s pretty objective as far as historical accounts go, and it doesn’t preach. And yes it illustrates the sins of humanity, but also its virtues, as every episode ends with the identification of one of society’s morals in the form of an important lesson from which the young of South Park, that is Stan, Kyle and Butters, are seen to have learnt from.

The reality might never be separated from the myths of our times, but I for one would much rather have South Park as our historical document than, say, Sky News reports or any religion’s interpretation. For one, it’s likely to be more honest, and most importantly, a hell of a lot funnier.

Saturday, March 7th, 2009

2009-06-27T07:38:00.001-07:00

There is a place in London for overweight smokers. The new denizens of our society, who are cast out from pubs and forced to stand outside. Some clubs have even tried to ban these plump puffers altogether. That place is the opera. On stage in the Albert Hall last Thursday during a performance of Carmen, a mass of overweight smokers chuffed away like chimneys to rapturous applause. Here, they went from being the underdogs to the lead part. For 3 hours they were adored. Of course, a lot was down to the fact that they could sing too, dance a bit, and also eat a lot of bread in between arias. A multitude of superior dramatic skills, you must agree. So the stars of opera at least, are chosen for their talents rather than their looks.

Although while Carmen hadn’t exactly hit all the branches in a fall from the ugly tree, she was more ‘voluptuous’ than the average singer-cum-actress-cum-model-cum-presenter-who-cums-on-the-producer of today. Yet all the male characters fall in love with Carmen. Her, the one with the big bum and wobbly bits, not the other super skinny, size 6 gypsies. And the guy she chooses to fall in love with out of all the men on offer to her is the hapless soldier Don Jose, who looked just like any other fat guy from the office who Ricky Gervais would tell to ‘go for a fucking run and stop eating burgers.’ (Actually, comedy seems to be the only other performing art that welcomes the overweight smoker with such open arms.)

On that operatic stage, the ones who ate all the pies were captivating heroes, transporting you effortlessly to 19th century Spain, pulling you into the intense turmoil of their lives with a vice-like grip on your throat, leaving you choking back emotions with embarrassment when the lights come up at the end.

Apparently Carmen was the first Realistic opera, what the Italians refer to as Verismo, meaning the truth. Instead of taking its characters from the aristocracy, they came from proletarian life. Contemporary, everyday life was depicted, which would have been a bit of a shock to audiences back in late 19th century Europe. Today, although it’s not exactly shocking, Carmen can still surprise its 21st century audience for different reasons. These days, due to our unhealthy obsession with health and weight, we’re not used to seeing larger people in sexy and beguiling roles. They’re almost regarded as a turn-off. But in Carmen, the large leads are very sexual, with much seduction and many throes of passion being played out on the stage floor.

So Carmen is as refreshing as it ever was, staying true to its original Verismo style. Yet now it’s not a question of representing the proletariat but the inferior class of today, that is, the fat person. And the truth is, by 2012, 1 in 3 Londoners will be obese. Therefore we can’t go on hiding fat people from the limelight and constantly vilifying them. They are a part of our society, and have the right to be celebrated too. I mean, who put stick-thin, talentless air-heads such as Paris Hilton and Lindsay Lohan in charge anyway? It’s time they were overthrown. I know who’d win in a fight between them and Carmen. And actually, I mean because of her ‘interior security, strength of temperament and personality’, not just the fact that all she has to do is sit on them till they cry like babies for mercy.

Sunday, March 1st, 2009

2009-06-27T07:37:00.000-07:00

Dusk falls but all the lights hold it up. A siren screams in the distance when the flock is shepherded out of the station by a ‘Keep to the left hand side please.’ Heads are down and eyes stare blankly at feet in front, as they stay in line at the correct distance apart from those ahead. A silent command is given, and the rows turn ninety degrees to the right. Heads turn ninety degrees to the right again, and they all stand still.

Five minutes pass and the flock becomes restless. One falls out of line to move closer to the front. Others follow. Most remain in their positions, heads still turned to the right, eyes transfixed. Then suddenly they see a flash of red up ahead. Feet stamp, and hot breath streams fiercely from nostrils. Fire fills vacant eyes. They come alive. The vision of red is now upon them and they charge forward. Old, young, barely born are pushed, knocked, crushed in the stampede. A youngster’s pitiful wail can be heard through the clip clopping of feet, forsaken by its mother for the thrill of the fight. The broken tension is intoxicating.

They’re now a mass of irrepressible bodies all battling to get to the front. Heads on heads, feet on toes, forearms on backs, pushing and shoving. Whites of eyes and teeth are on show when the dark side takes over. A foot kicks a leg in front, tempers flare and one rears up in anger. The downtrodden are now treading on. They barge their way into the red and it consumes them one by one. No one listens to the ‘No standing on the stairs please.’ The transformation is complete as the No. 2 heaves its way up the hill, home.