No broadband at the moment. No TV or landline either. BT have prioritised me and are "aware of my frustrastion" but cannot promise to have the fault fixed before Thursday! And I don't trust them to fix anything by then either. It's taken six calls and a visit from an engineer and as far as I can see they still don't actually know what the problem is.
So I'm getting diseases from an internet cafe keyboard. It's a good job I only type with one finger - though I may have to wrench it out by the root to halt the risk of contagion.
More on this, marbled with spite, when I have more time on the internet. Fucking imbeciles.
Monday, 14 February 2011
Thursday, 10 February 2011
Mr Higgins Changes Trains
A trip to Letchworth Garden City. Should be a pleasant day out but the pin-pricks of annoyance are constantly there - will I ever achieve the sainted state of "chillax-dom"?
Kelly has left some medicines in my sister's house and I am off to retrieve them. It's difficult to work out which train actually goes to Letchworth. There are no signs, the monitors are all blank and there is nothing on any of the platforms. Actually that's not true: there is plenty happening on the platforms; the station is busier than at rush hour. The traditional staples of delayed trains are all in place: milling throngs of slightly disappointed people in hats, foreigners waving their hands and shouting, appearing to be far more annoyed than they actually are. There are home counties biddies with quivering pink chins and jabbing fingers and bemused back-packers prepared to sit it out. The untroubled rail-staff are as relaxed and content as a fat Southern Sheriffs, rousing themselves from hammocks, mint juleps in their fat soft hands.
But there are no delays; the train, my train, arrives unnannounced but apparently on time. I tuck myself into a seat next to the toilet and waft my Earl Grey under my nose to disguise the whiff. All I have to do is look out of the window at some of the finest rolling green golf-courses this country has to offer. Alas no. It's TOO sunny. That harsh white blinding sun that makes motorists flip their flip-down shades and make me, like fully a quarter of the population*, sneeze continually. I stop at Stevanage, which isn't worth sneezing at, but I'm off again all the way to Letchworth, alarming the posh woman opposite me, with her fur hat and Liz Tremaine novel, to the extent that she flashes me (a weak smile) and pisses off down the carriage. Hey ho.
When I arrive at Letchworth my sister isn't in.
*Q.I. trufact.
Kelly has left some medicines in my sister's house and I am off to retrieve them. It's difficult to work out which train actually goes to Letchworth. There are no signs, the monitors are all blank and there is nothing on any of the platforms. Actually that's not true: there is plenty happening on the platforms; the station is busier than at rush hour. The traditional staples of delayed trains are all in place: milling throngs of slightly disappointed people in hats, foreigners waving their hands and shouting, appearing to be far more annoyed than they actually are. There are home counties biddies with quivering pink chins and jabbing fingers and bemused back-packers prepared to sit it out. The untroubled rail-staff are as relaxed and content as a fat Southern Sheriffs, rousing themselves from hammocks, mint juleps in their fat soft hands.
But there are no delays; the train, my train, arrives unnannounced but apparently on time. I tuck myself into a seat next to the toilet and waft my Earl Grey under my nose to disguise the whiff. All I have to do is look out of the window at some of the finest rolling green golf-courses this country has to offer. Alas no. It's TOO sunny. That harsh white blinding sun that makes motorists flip their flip-down shades and make me, like fully a quarter of the population*, sneeze continually. I stop at Stevanage, which isn't worth sneezing at, but I'm off again all the way to Letchworth, alarming the posh woman opposite me, with her fur hat and Liz Tremaine novel, to the extent that she flashes me (a weak smile) and pisses off down the carriage. Hey ho.
When I arrive at Letchworth my sister isn't in.
*Q.I. trufact.
Badvertising
A few words gillette have missed out of their recent advertising campaign:
sweep, clench, torque, abrasive, wet, smear, blast, tunnel, fury, grist, turbine, choke, freeze, brazier, propulsion, entry, gouge, vapour trail, red rocket's glare, agile, dermabrasion, blister, glut, shrapnel, razor-blade, penis-enhancement, 8 inches on the slack, fumbled pass, single bed, Corbey trouser press, lasagne-for-one.
sweep, clench, torque, abrasive, wet, smear, blast, tunnel, fury, grist, turbine, choke, freeze, brazier, propulsion, entry, gouge, vapour trail, red rocket's glare, agile, dermabrasion, blister, glut, shrapnel, razor-blade, penis-enhancement, 8 inches on the slack, fumbled pass, single bed, Corbey trouser press, lasagne-for-one.
Monday, 7 February 2011
Here comes the science party
When did businesses start issuing "challenges" to the public? "Will you accept the "bacon and star-anais pepsi-dux challenge"?" "Can I surprise you in a public toilet with an exposed razor blade?"
One company is asking women, or potentially Robert Plant, to film themselves "swishing" their hair and to then download it to their web-site as a "challenge".
What they are really saying is "please try our new product"; which is what proper advertising is supposed to do but with a bit of style and money actually earned. I don't want to be challenged by my groceries - I'm only interested in whether I can afford it, whether it smells nice and whether it has an active ingredient; a liposone, or a nanosphere or some L. casei immunitas. Now that's advertising: I didn't even have to spell-check L. casei immunitas.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
"Being Human" has just informed me that people no longer say "fancy". Is this true? Really? Christ!
One company is asking women, or potentially Robert Plant, to film themselves "swishing" their hair and to then download it to their web-site as a "challenge".
What they are really saying is "please try our new product"; which is what proper advertising is supposed to do but with a bit of style and money actually earned. I don't want to be challenged by my groceries - I'm only interested in whether I can afford it, whether it smells nice and whether it has an active ingredient; a liposone, or a nanosphere or some L. casei immunitas. Now that's advertising: I didn't even have to spell-check L. casei immunitas.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
"Being Human" has just informed me that people no longer say "fancy". Is this true? Really? Christ!
Kicking against the Brix
In the eighties Brix Smith was ray of golden sunshine in the slate grey firmament of English post-punk (it wasn't "Indie" then and it definately wasn't "alternative" (though the charts were, confusingly). She was, loosely, an ex-Bangle who moved to Manchester and married Mark E. Smith (can you imagine - worse than National Service! Like dodging the draft only to be caught by rising damp). She contributed massively to my favourite Fall era (This Nations Saving Grace, Bend Sinister, The Frenz Experiment) before leaving the band to form The Adult Net where she smiled her Californian Smile and tossed her Californian Hair behind a Rickenbacker as big as she was. And while Adult Net weren't very good they certainly looked nice with handsome Clem Burke from Blondie on drums and handsome Craig Gannon out of The Smiths on second Rickenbacker, so it was just good having them around. They were like a less good version of The Voice of the Beehive.
The other day, in the day, I turned on the television. This is not something I would ordinarily do, even in my depressive state, but the K twins were growing weary of my endless 70s
horror films and wanted to watch something involving makeovers or property.
The programme was a Gok Wan fashion roadshow. I like Gok Wan, even though in saying so I sound like a homosexual with a cold propositioning a Spaniard. I like his severe lesbian look, I like the way he feels he can do and say anything to anyone based solely on the fact that he used to be fat! (It doesnt work the other way: I cant get much leverage out of the fact that I used to be thin. Not even pity or free cakes.) And I like the way that he uses being gay to latch onto big wobbly tits. I see a lot of gay men do this and I wonder why. The only other time I've ever seen that greedy sexless need to press the flesh is a Granny presented with a chubby defenceless infant. Are women giant babies to gay men? Or is it, devoid of its sexual component, just a top laugh juggling the jugs?
So Gok is travelling the country looking to put together a catwalk collection from the high street while is rival designer must do so with posh label togs. The audience then decide, with "ready steady cook" style ping-pong paddles, which one is the winner.
His opponent was a small blonde American woman dressed head to toe in leopard skin print and carrying two of those slobbering sad-eyed dogs that designers in American family comedies about apes that live in hotels and dogs who are just dogs* always have to carry. Usually in a handbag. She was loud and vacuous and at the considerable sympathetic disadvantage of appearing on television enthusiastically buying a £9000 vintage (second hand!) dress. It was Brix E. Smith. Or rather it was somebody called Brix Smith-Start and she was playing a T.V. fashion diva, rather badly, on cable t.v.
It's been twenty years : we've all changed.I've gone from being a thin and handsome man who thought he was clever to a fat, ugly man who still thinks he's clever against all evidence. But at least I've stayed true to myself. I'm still someone that the twenty year old, poverty stricken, smart-arse, under-achiever would recognise. I spent much of the nineties dressed as a sort of mod warehouseman and much of the two thousands dressed as a television comedian. I'm now back in straight legged jeans, doc martens and an overcoat. My makeovers have failed: I'm back where I started. This is no defeat; this is astonishing self justification!
Brix may be on the telly, she may be a successful designer, she may have an unusually affirmative surname, but is she happy?
My advice to her would be ditch it all. Pick up a Rickenbacker, head back to the States and start writing songs with Sussanah Hoffs. By candle-light. In your underwear. Especially you, Sussanah. Which in my mind is where you started. You can have it all and you can have it all back again.
*The Beethoven series of films. Beethoven is just a dog isn't he? He has no powers at all. The film is just Charles Grodin being embarassed by his dog. In fact Beethoven may merely represent Charles Grodin's film career.
The other day, in the day, I turned on the television. This is not something I would ordinarily do, even in my depressive state, but the K twins were growing weary of my endless 70s
horror films and wanted to watch something involving makeovers or property.
The programme was a Gok Wan fashion roadshow. I like Gok Wan, even though in saying so I sound like a homosexual with a cold propositioning a Spaniard. I like his severe lesbian look, I like the way he feels he can do and say anything to anyone based solely on the fact that he used to be fat! (It doesnt work the other way: I cant get much leverage out of the fact that I used to be thin. Not even pity or free cakes.) And I like the way that he uses being gay to latch onto big wobbly tits. I see a lot of gay men do this and I wonder why. The only other time I've ever seen that greedy sexless need to press the flesh is a Granny presented with a chubby defenceless infant. Are women giant babies to gay men? Or is it, devoid of its sexual component, just a top laugh juggling the jugs?
So Gok is travelling the country looking to put together a catwalk collection from the high street while is rival designer must do so with posh label togs. The audience then decide, with "ready steady cook" style ping-pong paddles, which one is the winner.
His opponent was a small blonde American woman dressed head to toe in leopard skin print and carrying two of those slobbering sad-eyed dogs that designers in American family comedies about apes that live in hotels and dogs who are just dogs* always have to carry. Usually in a handbag. She was loud and vacuous and at the considerable sympathetic disadvantage of appearing on television enthusiastically buying a £9000 vintage (second hand!) dress. It was Brix E. Smith. Or rather it was somebody called Brix Smith-Start and she was playing a T.V. fashion diva, rather badly, on cable t.v.
It's been twenty years : we've all changed.I've gone from being a thin and handsome man who thought he was clever to a fat, ugly man who still thinks he's clever against all evidence. But at least I've stayed true to myself. I'm still someone that the twenty year old, poverty stricken, smart-arse, under-achiever would recognise. I spent much of the nineties dressed as a sort of mod warehouseman and much of the two thousands dressed as a television comedian. I'm now back in straight legged jeans, doc martens and an overcoat. My makeovers have failed: I'm back where I started. This is no defeat; this is astonishing self justification!
Brix may be on the telly, she may be a successful designer, she may have an unusually affirmative surname, but is she happy?
My advice to her would be ditch it all. Pick up a Rickenbacker, head back to the States and start writing songs with Sussanah Hoffs. By candle-light. In your underwear. Especially you, Sussanah. Which in my mind is where you started. You can have it all and you can have it all back again.
*The Beethoven series of films. Beethoven is just a dog isn't he? He has no powers at all. The film is just Charles Grodin being embarassed by his dog. In fact Beethoven may merely represent Charles Grodin's film career.
Sunday, 6 February 2011
The Leper of Limehouse
The doctor was bearded and sympathetic and where he said he would be.But for the second time today I'm looking into the eyes of a medical professional who clearly thinks there "is something wrong with me". And as usual there was the lingering expectancy hanging over the question of my smoking and drinking. There must be something about my flushed and grizzled appearance that suggests that my every leisure hour is spent scouring the gutters for dog-ends and discarded cans of tenants extra. It could be the jacket and boots of course. I may think that I look suave in my velvet collared, charcoal-grey Edwardian over-coat and keenly buffed ox-blood Dr. Martens but squint and it's a navvy in a donkey jacket about to artlessly resurface your patio. In the seventies.
Actually I caught a glimpse of myself in one of the billion or so shiny reflective surfaces that Canary wharf has to offer and realised that I looked like a leading expert in my field about to be interviewed on BBC 4. Though I have no field.
I'm writing this in "The Prospect of Whitby" pub looking out at the blue, white and brown of the Thames. As the tide swells each wave the flat plane of the water turns the exact shade of Kelly's eyes in sunlight. It may be my favourite colour.
Just as Limehouse revealed no Golems and Fu Manchu or "Brilliant" Chang were not hiding around each corner there are no vampires in "The Prospect of Whitby". There is a big picture of Arthur Daly and Terry McCann giving it the thumbs up however. There aren't even any goths just toothy cockneys eating fish and chips.
One of the cockneys gets a telephone call; his ring-tone is the "Benny Hill theme". He lets it ring for a good twenty seconds before answering and I tut loudly. He answers:
"Yeah, no, back from the hospital. Yeah, no, she has to have the leg off! Says she's still got the other one though..."
I feel like a heel!
Later the same man bounds up to me and asks for a light. When I tell him I have no light as I don't smoke, he nods and farts incredibly loudly before walking away. I don't have the social aptitude to deal with this sort of situation!
* * * * * * * * * * * *
On my way to the spa town of Basers Basers for "The Cure". The cure, if my mother has anything to do with it, will be two litres of French red and a cheese course the colour of a Swedish flag. My mother knows I like three things: red wine, blue cheese and fois gras. And regardless of my dietary needs these luxury essentials are always there.
In order to avoid this I have attempted surprise visits in the past. But this has invariably lead to a long cold wait outside the house (I have no key - my brother borrowed and lost them all), a bollocking for not telling her I'm coming and then a trip to Morrisons to stock up on lark's tongue and truffle wine and a wheel of veal cheese.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
Healine in today's Sun: "Return of the T.V. morons". It was actually announcing the return of Beavis and Butthead but could realistically apply to anything currently appearing on any channel at any time. Beavis and Butthead do at least have a clear and sustained critical voice, putting them head and shoulders above most modern television fodder. I expect to see them join BBC4's flagship Arts strand.
Actually I caught a glimpse of myself in one of the billion or so shiny reflective surfaces that Canary wharf has to offer and realised that I looked like a leading expert in my field about to be interviewed on BBC 4. Though I have no field.
I'm writing this in "The Prospect of Whitby" pub looking out at the blue, white and brown of the Thames. As the tide swells each wave the flat plane of the water turns the exact shade of Kelly's eyes in sunlight. It may be my favourite colour.
Just as Limehouse revealed no Golems and Fu Manchu or "Brilliant" Chang were not hiding around each corner there are no vampires in "The Prospect of Whitby". There is a big picture of Arthur Daly and Terry McCann giving it the thumbs up however. There aren't even any goths just toothy cockneys eating fish and chips.
One of the cockneys gets a telephone call; his ring-tone is the "Benny Hill theme". He lets it ring for a good twenty seconds before answering and I tut loudly. He answers:
"Yeah, no, back from the hospital. Yeah, no, she has to have the leg off! Says she's still got the other one though..."
I feel like a heel!
Later the same man bounds up to me and asks for a light. When I tell him I have no light as I don't smoke, he nods and farts incredibly loudly before walking away. I don't have the social aptitude to deal with this sort of situation!
* * * * * * * * * * * *
On my way to the spa town of Basers Basers for "The Cure". The cure, if my mother has anything to do with it, will be two litres of French red and a cheese course the colour of a Swedish flag. My mother knows I like three things: red wine, blue cheese and fois gras. And regardless of my dietary needs these luxury essentials are always there.
In order to avoid this I have attempted surprise visits in the past. But this has invariably lead to a long cold wait outside the house (I have no key - my brother borrowed and lost them all), a bollocking for not telling her I'm coming and then a trip to Morrisons to stock up on lark's tongue and truffle wine and a wheel of veal cheese.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
Healine in today's Sun: "Return of the T.V. morons". It was actually announcing the return of Beavis and Butthead but could realistically apply to anything currently appearing on any channel at any time. Beavis and Butthead do at least have a clear and sustained critical voice, putting them head and shoulders above most modern television fodder. I expect to see them join BBC4's flagship Arts strand.
Thursday, 3 February 2011
The Madness of King John
Back in Canary Wharf waiting on a mysterious doctor's appointment: a doctor Philips potentially on the 9th floor of my least favourite building in London. I'm early and enjoying my first Earl Grey of the day outside Canary Wharf people watching: if these are people.
Everybody is in business or in the business of selling food to people in business so everybody is corporated to the max. The only dash of colour is from Cleo Rocos' hair as she strolls past, arm in arm with an elderly woman whom I took to be a relative or possibly just somebody who got caught up in her personal gravity, stately as she sweeps past the charcoal drones. Suits are worn like armour here, with only silly old fallible human heads sticking out the top giving the game away. Men's shoes are positively medieval; great long black swords of shoes, conical and curling. Nobody looks comfortable, nobody can walk properly, shoe-horned into this hostile environment. Only the shoe-shine guy looks content, reading to himself as nobody bothers him; these people don't need a once over with a chamois, they need a hammer and a forge.
Had my first psychologist's appointment at Hell House. My brain had tricked me into believing that it was at 9.30 instead of nine, so I was late out of the door and no bus came. A good start; I barely had time to fill in the "Are You Going To Commit Suicide in the Foyer" pamphlet before the psychologist was on me. Her name is Alice, she had big sad Greek eyes and she barely said a word for the next hour as I took her on a whistle-stop tour of my life over the last couple of years. At the end she commended me for my "calmness" and recommended that I see her a lot more often than she had originally planned so either she is hot for my sad wisdom or she thinks I'm about to cut loose with a high-powered rifle from the roof of the Finsbury Park Mosque.
Doctor number two coming up now so lets see how that pans out...there is a history of this being pointlessly stress filled so we'll see what happens.
Everybody is in business or in the business of selling food to people in business so everybody is corporated to the max. The only dash of colour is from Cleo Rocos' hair as she strolls past, arm in arm with an elderly woman whom I took to be a relative or possibly just somebody who got caught up in her personal gravity, stately as she sweeps past the charcoal drones. Suits are worn like armour here, with only silly old fallible human heads sticking out the top giving the game away. Men's shoes are positively medieval; great long black swords of shoes, conical and curling. Nobody looks comfortable, nobody can walk properly, shoe-horned into this hostile environment. Only the shoe-shine guy looks content, reading to himself as nobody bothers him; these people don't need a once over with a chamois, they need a hammer and a forge.
Had my first psychologist's appointment at Hell House. My brain had tricked me into believing that it was at 9.30 instead of nine, so I was late out of the door and no bus came. A good start; I barely had time to fill in the "Are You Going To Commit Suicide in the Foyer" pamphlet before the psychologist was on me. Her name is Alice, she had big sad Greek eyes and she barely said a word for the next hour as I took her on a whistle-stop tour of my life over the last couple of years. At the end she commended me for my "calmness" and recommended that I see her a lot more often than she had originally planned so either she is hot for my sad wisdom or she thinks I'm about to cut loose with a high-powered rifle from the roof of the Finsbury Park Mosque.
Doctor number two coming up now so lets see how that pans out...there is a history of this being pointlessly stress filled so we'll see what happens.
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