-19

i remember the day i got my nipples pierced

the last tattoo i got done is a fantastic piece – it is a hopi indian symbol that mean cloud that walks alone. now i'd like to take credit for how it sometimes is an accurate portrait of how i see me and the world but in truth i just like the design.

a moment of synchronicity.

while process of getting the ink and looking after it was not one of the best experiences to go through -i love the result. to this day i have no idea why it was a nightmare – the best i can come up with is i just wasn't in the mood.

but once bitten by the body modification bug it is hard to completely walk away from it especially as where i was working it seemed like barely a week would go by without someone getting more ink or a piercing.

suffice to say it wasn't long before i wanted something else done. i still wasn't sure about another tattoo i couldn't find a design i really liked and i wasn't ready to relive the travails of the last one. so move into new ground and new experience – let's get the nipples pierced. as i couldn't remember and couldn't be asked to find out which nipple was the straight one and which the gay one (the body as a call card) i thought i'd go all in and get both pierced and that is exactly what i did.

i went to a painfully hip and trendy place in smithfield. i even got there on time.

i explained this was going to be my first piercing and i was somewhat nervous. no worries, they tell me, simple process you'll barely feel it. yeah right i thought.

the piercer cane to collect me and we descended to the bowels of the shop. dark gloomy and atmospheric, it could happily double for a set in a hammer horror movie or be used for a dominatrix's dungeon.

the young chap who is going to do the deed has a maori style arm tattoo – i never quite understood the attraction of such tats just a lot of black ink on skin, may as well just do a new design every week with a marker pen, but that dear reader is the joy and wonder of tattoos: they are such a personal expression of who we are.

we chat. i once again go over the fact i am a bit of a wus when it comes to pain. he tells me that don't worry it doesn't hurt, and that it is best not to have a numbing agent, just get it done and enjoy that endorphin kick when comes rushing through the body.

he directs me to the old leather dentists chair – the back of my mind is screaming out DON'T GO THERE but that is because i have seen too many horror films. i take my top off and he begins to work on the nipples.

first problem: sweating like a pig so he can't get the guide clamps to stick every time he gets them on they just slip off. takes some time but the first one is in place. he gets out the needle – fuck that looks big, he gets out the ring – fuck that looks big. i close my eyes and he does his thing. the sweat doesn't help him but i can feel the needle going in and in and in and in – suddenly my nipple seems to be the size of a redwood tree. he is muttering and in my experience that is never a good thing. and then the pop – imagine the sound of taking a bite out of a ripe apple or peach and that is the sort of sound you get when your nipple is punctured by a needle. ring inserted. first nipple done.

i had to get up and walk around take some deep breaths to prepare myself for the next one. he took the opportunity to wipe down the chair that looked as if it had been hosed down in fatman sweat.

let's do nipple do.

see above.

done.

pierced nipples.

lots of instructions of how to look after them.

happy.

not so happy a few months later when lying the bath the last ring finally floated out of the scabby nipple. no matter what i did to look after them the nipples became a magnet for everything to bang into them. carrying some boxes? the rings would catch. go to the gym, a weight would land on them. stumble into something and nipples would take the brunt of it.

those poor old nipples were not going to get any rest and the rings were destined to come out. shame really as they looked really neat.

what i did learn from it all is that generally when people tell you it isn't going to hurt they are lying. when they tell you the endorphin kick is going to be great they are lying, either that or i missed it because i ended up sleeping.

in the end the piercing turned out to be the last body modification i had. perhaps it is time to have some more?

-20

i remember the day i was told to fuck off by a celebrity. 

there was a time when wayne sleep was the shizzle, and the time he was hot stuff was also the time my old man was working at the wig and pen club on the strand. 

back then the wig and pen was the oldest club in london - the building had survived the great fire of london. it being an olde building it was a bit pokey - but i guess that was the charm of it. mostly it catered to judges, lawyers and journalists (see wig and pen - awesome, and of course its location is also a dead give away to rich and expense account types who wined and dined there. dad was in his element there handing out a line of patter to any tom dick and harry who came in mixing deference with sarcasm while drinking himself to an early grave. 

(a bit of a digression here - a while back i had this idea to do a piece about my dad and the clubs and hotels he worked at sort of this is the only way a bloke like him could get to a place like this thing. i thought i would start with the wig and pen. i rocked up there to see if i could talk to someone about my idea and bugger me senseless it had been turned into a thai fast food joint - i was gutted.)

back to the story. 

for a reason that escapes me wayne sleep had gone to the wig and pen club. a few days later this visit was immortalised in cartoon form in a national newspaper. the cartoon featured my old man very prominently.

needless to say he was made up.

at the time i was studying at the london school of economics. one of the things i used to do when i was studying was to wander around soho and the west end at night. 

one night i was walking down long acre in covent garden and walking close by me is wayne sleep. we are pacing each other. he is oblivious to me. i am staring at him like a loon. i want to say hey you appear in a cartoon with my dad, but i don't. instead i keep staring at him as we keep walking in the same direction. i still want to mention that he has appeared in a cartoon with my dad, but i don't i just keep staring. by this stage wayne has noticed me. he is looking at me in an odd worried way. but why i think, after all you have appeared in a cartoon in a national daily paper with my dad. i said nothing, i kept staring and had an inane grin on my face. quite what wayne sleep must have been thinking i have no idea but i very much doubt he was thinking - i bet i have appeared in a cartoon with his doubt. he was more than likely to be thing along the lines of: who is this weird fucker?

obviously i ignore this glare from wayne sleep.

unfortunately we are still walking in the same direction and we have matched pace. i am still giving him that look that clearly says you have appeared in a cartoon with my dad but wayne sleep is being a bit of an idiot and he is just not getting it. i mean come on – i am the son of the man he appeared in how can he not want to acknowledge that.

i can honestly say that no part of my rational or common sense brain was working – so i am not picking up the warning signs or realising just how stupid i am being.

we continue on this mad path for a bit longer me with the stare but never once articulating why i am staring. him thinking i am a mad arse stalker weirdo. finally he snaps 'why don't you fuck off you cunt?'

i am somewhat taken aback and stop in my tracks. wayne sleep disappears into a building, he had obviously timed his wildean barb at just the moment he was arriving at his destination.

i am left alone in the dark night time street – there is no one around. i am a tad upset not because wayne sleep had sworn at me but because he still didn't get it he appeared in a cartoon with my dad, how didn't he know? then there is a moment of worry, perhaps he did know and perhaps i've ended up getting my old man into trouble. that bothers me as i walk to the tube station.

somewhere in the middle of the tube ride i realise what a tit i have been and smile ruefully at the whole thing – i have been told to fuck off by a celebrity, and deservedly so.

that said i still wonder if wayne realises just how lucky he was to be in a cartoon with my dad? i doubt it: his loss.

-21

i remember the day i cried.

at heart i am a big old softie.

the weary sarcastic hard bitten cynic i often appear to be is just camouflage to hide my inner mancry. but the real me is so ready to weep that i might as well have been a luvvie – just a shame i can't act.

way back when, we used to go the cinema after work - sometimes a group of us, sometimes just a few. finish the job, rush to the west end, see a movie, home. a great way to relax.

titan was a place were lots of similarly minded people worked – most of us liked visual culture and most of us liked film – we may not have known much about the ins and out of cultural theory but to whip out an old saw 'we knew what we liked'.

me? i have always had a simple relationship with most of the things i go to see – i like a straightforward story,i am not someone who worries about subtext and complex hidden meanings. tell me that the killing of a character is representative of the end of patriarchy and i will probably snort like a pig while trying not to laugh.

start middle and end, stuff happening because well stuff happens and not because it is a metaphor or an allegory for something else.

never claimed to be an intellectual, shallow as the day is long. call me puddle.

this particular evening it was just my pal paul and i, not really sure how we choose the movie. it might have been that there was nothing else on, it might have been that we liked his previous movie for whatever reason we rocked up to see the latest kevin costner movie. little did i know it would change my life forever.

one of the things that myself and paul had in common was a capacity to eat a lot of sweet stuff. so before a movie there was determined walk to the concession stand to load up: chocolates, sucky sweets, ice cream, crisps all up for grabs. all topped off with a large helping of diet coke – this always got an amused grin from whoever was serving us and my protestation that i preferred the taste of diet coke fell on deaf ears – but it was true: honest.

laden with supplies we sit and watch 'field of dreams'. it is an amiable life affirming movie. it is sort of a baseball movie but it is also ...fuck i am doing subtext. anyway he builds it they come and everyone in the movie turns in pretty fantastic performances. then right at the end there is a scene (and i am not going to tell you what it is because i know some philistine out there hasn't watched it) and as this scene progress i get more emotional until such time as i am weeping, i casually lift my hand to wipe away the tears in an 'oh look i have something in my eye' type gesture. at this paul has looked around and asked in what can only be described as utter amazement 'are you crying?'

the concept of what happens in the cinema stays in the cinema never occurred to paul. so he blabbed, and by the time i had gotten to work pretty much everyone knew i was a blubberer, now there are several very valid reasons why this particular scene in 'field of dreams' hit me so hard, but to be honest they are almost beside the point at this stage.

i took a bit of ribbing about my blubbing.

forward a year or so and paul gets me a copy of the movie on video as a birthday present.

my mum was a big burt lancaster fan, he plays one of the main characters in the movie, a symbol of... (see look there i go again). one christmas it was on the tele and i told her she should watch it. in one of those familiar happy memories it was a chilly evening, fire on. light out, mum laid out on the couch, me in the comfy chair.'field of dreams' comes on we settle back to watch and enjoy. about 15 minutes in i can feel the first sniffle coming on. i am welling up. a casual wipe away. i needn't have bothered with the subterfuge mum had nodded off. as the film progressed she would go from gentle snores to gale force snores.

she didn’t get to see burt.

she didn't get to see me blub.

the video allowed me to watch field of dreams whenever i wanted. continued viewings just strengthened the mancry. it used to be that i just cried at the end of field of dreams. with each subsequent viewing there was another scene that touched an emotional trigger and off would go the waterworks. sometimes it was just a small welling up, others a full on niagara falls of tears just streaming down my cheeks. it got to the stage that just picking up the video or dvd case brought on tears. there was at least one viewing that i may as well have been watching from the bottom of a swimming pool.

the mancry wasn't just happy coming out for field of dreams. oh no. now it had tasted freedom there was no putting it back, no holding it in check.

i was a full on mancrier.

going to the cinema was now an emotional test. yes i teared up at marley and me – but damn it i was supposed to – its a dog dies in the end movie. but tears at a steven seagal movie? come on that is just not right. there are now a growing number of songs that are guaranteed to make me sniffle – and i have no reason why. there i am enjoying an episode of dr. who and bosh tears. there i am looking at the news in syria and nothing but the last episode of supergirl: call me weepy.

there is no rhyme or reason to what brings out the mancry – it lurks just waiting to break the surface and gush out.

a corollary of the impact of hat field of dreams had on me is no matter what kevin costner does he will always be a favourite of mine – up there with bruce and orson, and above steve and jean claude.

so there you have it. what started as a heartfelt weep in a cinema many years ago has now turned me into a blubberer of no distinction – anything is likely to set me off.

perhaps it is tourettes?

but do you know what? i have discovered something good and special – it is good to cry.

just not in front of anyone who will tell your mates.

-22

i remember the day of my first prostitute encounter

it didn't take long (no this isn't going there – get your minds out of the sewer and at least join me in the gutter) before my dad realised that i was safe to go to the west end on my own.

once allowed to travel freely the weekly pilgrimage to dark they were and golden eye in wardour street, and later st. anne's court, became the thing to do. every weekend was like all your christmases rolled into one. new comics every week – who would have thought it – i mean after years of searching for the odd comic here and there in the local newsagents or being lucky enough to find a second hand bookshop that dealt in back issues (always with some great big stamp on the front telling you it was from 'dave's books' or some such. instantly turning a pot of gold into a lump of lead – but i didn't care, partly because i didn't know and mostly because i just wanted to have the thing in my hand, ownership was key not resale value).(if you were really lucky the same second bookshop would have a supply of old paperbacks: nel, james bond, film/tv tie-ins all the goodness that would never ever be accepted by school – and if that was the case i was farting rays of sunshine all day long).

in fact places like dark they were (because as i would later discover there was more than just one shop doing this there was a whole industry) took the fun out of it, no longer did you have to hunt for these rare gems, now you were able to pig out each and every week. i had gone from little choice to too much choice.

all which is beside the point of this little remembrance.

the trips to west end and soho were mostly to do with comics, but soon stretched into buying records. true my local area had the most wonderful sellanby record store – a place where i started many long term love affairs – with musicians such as frank zappa and king crimson. like any young man i was happy to have dalliances with other record stores. and lo it came to pass we found one close to dark they were that specialised in cheap remainder records. sure there might be a bit of the corner missing to the cover, sure there might be a bit of a warp on the record – but they were cheap, and i liked cheap.

once we had bought comics we would walk through soho going towards piccadilly to get to the record store. while this was not the hey day of soho – it was still pretty wild for boys who were still dealing with raging hormones and lived out in the sticks. you could give yourself a neck injury with all the head turning and you. looking at shops that sold all sorts of interesting material that you could not mention in polite society not even in a postmodern ironic sort of way. looking at all the door signs that advertised all sorts and sizes of women doing all manner of things – if only you wanted to walk up those stairs and ring that bell. all of this went on around a vibrant street market selling fruit, veg and fish.

it was a very busy place where the curious mixed with the local.

the journey to the record store would take you past numerous sex shops all with windows crammed with magazines and toys of every description – just from looking you could get an interesting education into the myriad possibilities that human sexuality offered.

on this particular occasion the route we were taking meant we went by a road where there were two casinos. the only interest to us in the casinos were the nifty frontage they both had. no way we could have gotten in to them and i have never been interested in gambling. the casinos meant it was a busy street, even though it was one of those streets that said there is nothing here for anyone other than gamblers. it was pretty much a through road – went through it to go somewhere else.

we were chatting about the comics we had just bought, we were thinking about the albums we might buy. the usual chit chat that kids who were still worried about their 'o' levels (it seems an appropriate reference given the circumstances) would chit chat about. the only care in the world we had then was did we have enough money for the comics and records we needed (listen i may never have done drugs but i was addicted to paper and vinyl).

key here is that i am yet to do my 'o' levels i am young dumb and full of not much of anything. i was also probably the last generation of kids who were still 'innocent' where sex and all that went with it was still a smutty joke rather than a life choice (not that we could have sexted back then but people did pass naughty notes in class, not me though i was still naïve). the closest i got to a meaningful relationship with a girl was with jean grey of the x-men.

bag of comics in hand, about to add an album or two to that stash and then head off home to read and listen.

just as we get to the record shop we have to cross the road the casinos are on.

right at the corner is a flash car – i am slightly impressed. i know fuck all about cars now, knew less then but i can appreciate a sleek line and a shiny (get your mind out of the gutter) hood. draped over the cars are several women, and when i say draped i pretty much mean draped. as we got closer one of them slinked off the car and stood to speak to us.

polite as ever we were ready to tell her the time or answer her question – because that's the sort of people we were.

'do you want to fuck?'

it wasn't the question we expected and it wasn't the sort of question we could answer, after all we had just bought comics and were about to buy albums. sex was the furtherest thing from our minds especially sex with attractive but forthright in your face ladies.

cue some blushing.

cue some shuffling of feet.

cue some speeding up.

cue some clutching dark they were bags as shields.

cue some spluttering.

we moved on double quick time.

i am not sure if the girls laughed or not, they must have known we were under age and just not ready for their assault on our sensibilities.

in the many years since then i have been approached by numerous prostitutes as i wandered around soho and the liverpool street/ commercial road area and quickly developed a 'no thank you – have a nice night' style response – sometimes it led to conversations mostly just a nod as they looked out for the next potential punter.

i can't remember what albums i bought that day – but i am pretty sure it was cheaper than sex with those ladies of the afternoon, and i know i have more pleasure from it than i would have had from a dirty fling.

-23

i remember the day i tried smoke

both my parents were heavy smokers – just about 5 cigarettes short of being chain smokers. they started when smoking was cool and a socially accepted thing to do (if only the anti-racist and anti-sexist groups could replicate the change in attitude smoking has gone through). my early life was filled with fogs of ciggie smoke as mum puffed on players and dad puffed on senior service, not that they really cared that much about brands – a smoke was a smoke was a smoke.

no matter where you went there were people smoking. pubs smoking. restaurants smoking. doctors smoking. cinema smoking. buses smoking.

for some reason i never took it up.

then one day i decided i would try.

i would be like those cool kids at school.

i would be like my mum and dad.

i would smoke.

it was half term.

parents were out working.

i was doing nothing so it was time to give it a go.

have a puff.

have a drag.

there was enough time before mum came home from work to make sure that any evidence of my indiscretion would have disappeared.

do a quick check. pack of fags available, big lighter? on the table. ashtray? on the table (it may seem incredible that smokers who could have competed in an olympic puffing team could misplace, lose or break as many lighters and ashtrays as they did but add in booze and well it is easier than you think.

right let's do this bad boy thing.

oh hold on.

let's draw the curtains. mum's flat (always thought of it as her place) was the middle one of a block of three. the living room window overlooked a large green space but was opposite an l-shaped block of houses, so there was a very faint possibility that someone might be looking in the window at me and realise what i was doing and might be concerned enough to speak to my parents about it (say the same chance i have to win the roll over lottery win – that wasn't available then). so i did the sensible thing. i drew the curtains, even though we had net curtains (net curtains i have recently learnt means you are middle class – this would have been news to both my parents who just considered them the done thing – i of course was quite happy curtain and net less),

right. no one can see in.

equipment ready.

do it.

i get a cigarette. i get the lighter. i take up position and psyche myself up.

a few strikes of the lighter to make sure it is working.

dangle the fag from my lips to get a feel for it.

check the look in the fake antique mirror (mum loved that mirror),

oh just spark it up.

flick the lighter,

put it to the ciggie.

huff or is it a puff?

crikey how long have i been watching mum and dad smoking?

why can't i get the darned thing to light.

try again.

nope.

not working,

just seem to be burning the end of the cigarette.

give it another go. third time is the charm.

oh no it isn't.

couldn't get the cigarette to light. tried my best. divine intervention meant that i never smoked.

my attempt at sparking up to become a cook kid failed.

have never smoked since or even thought about it.

have never managed to be a cool kid. ever.

-24

i remember the day of the bomb.

time tends to speed up or slow down at just the moments you don't want it to. the day at work had been a bit draggy, end of the week finishing off shit, the sort of things i couldn't just leave and come in at the weekend to do. all day it was bitty work. the gap between the tick and tock of the clock seemed to be minutes rather than seconds.

then, as ever, around 5 o'clock when all sensible people are leaving i get dragged into a phone call and dealing with a customer. yeah thanks. still no worries an hour before i have to worry about getting out of the warehouse so that i can get to the game on time.

just how long can this take?

now the gaps between the ticks and tocks are whizzing by and the clock is moving like the devil is on its tail.

a niggle, a worry that i am going to miss the game. can't miss the game it is an important one for the championship and it is our cross town rivals: leopards versus the london towers, and i have never missed a home game.

as the call continues more and more staff are leaving.

shit i am going to be left to close the warehouse up. piss on a stick.

finally get the call to end.

gone 6pm. don't have much time.

make sure everyone is out of the warehouse.

lock up downstairs.

check no one is left in the offices upstairs. chub the door. do my ablutions, get my bag ready. one more check that everything is locked and turned off.

set the alarm. slam the shutters and fit the locks.

done.

now get to the game.

walk run to the station, can still make the start, i can still do it. no i can. just a bit of huff and puff and i will be there.

mmm looks a bit overcast, hope i get there before it rains.

bit of luck there is a dlr coming in. phew caught it.

going to make it, going to make it.

bloody thing has stopped. why?

oh come on just a few more stops and we are there. come on. move you bastard.

this train is out of service please change at the next station, west india quay. sod it i can run from here (well maybe shuffle) i can still get there for the first quarter.

spits of rain in the air not much but i can feel it.

still a bit grey overhead – but be getting dark soon.

running down westferry road aiming to go down marsh wall road – i am sure there is a quicker way but i don't know my way around here that well and i really have to get there. flash of light, big bang. fuck me it is going to storm and i am going to get caught in it. shit.

oi you where do you think you are going?

it's a copper shouting at me, why?

off to the basketball match.

don't you know area has been cordoned off?

no?

didn't you hear it?

what?

the bomb?

what bomb?

(the copper is looking at me as if i am a total retard who is having a very bad day)

the one that just went off.

oh!

can i get around if i go the other way. i've got tickets (as if that explains and justifies everything).

he dismissively waves at me – an expression of well it's your funeral on his face.

i run off down westferry road.

run. walk. jog. walk. run. jog. gotta get to the game.

go past one of the tower blocks. glass from windows carpets the forecourts

get the arena. i am on time as the game as been delayed. of course it has.

then it struck me i have run towards an ira bomb.

i have continued running into a potential site for a second bomb.

i am in a packed arena in an area where there might be another bomb.

what

the

fuck

as i watch the game – a little less involved in the lacklustre action then normal – all i can think is i ran towards a bomb, i ran towards a bomb, i ran towards a bomb. a fucking big bomb. a big fucking bomb.

can't remember who won. didn't really care.

we had to walk back from the arena. a bit more caution, a bit more fear. area swamped with police and army doing checks and clear up. loads of ambulance and fire brigade on hand just in case. huge numbers of press – big outside broadcast vans, small outside broadcast vans, reporters with backpacks and microphones. all looking for the big story or anything they could fill the airwaves with .

as we walked you could see more of the damage done by the shock wave: broken windows, buckled doors, damaged cars. eerily quiet.

was glad to get home.

it wasn't to be my last run in with a bomb – i would be near by the 7/7 attack at floodgate. i would be close by the brick lane and wardour street bombings as well. for a bit there i was getting paranoid, but just my natural bad luck.

fingers crossed it will be a while before i get caught up in something like that again – much prefer dull to that sort of excitement.

-25

i remember the day of the puddle

this is probably my earliest memory. i am not like a lot of my friends who can remember what they had for breakfast the second sunday after their third birthday. frankly i have trouble remembering last week – mostly because like mr. kipling i live exceedingly – just not make cakes, keeping it dull. what that basically means is that while i should have lots of interesting memories of early 60s brick lane: i don't.

though very oddly many years back while visiting a friend who had moved into the street i used to live on i was looking out of his back window and said to him – see that bridge there? i used that to cross over the train tracks to get to school (not sure if i was right or wrong side of them), it was a bridge i had never seen from that angle and hadn't been near in 20 years or so. yet several years later when i had moved back to the area i spent many a happy hour in my favourite coffee shop oblivious to the fact that i was born there. go figure.

so back to this day in the early 60s.

it was winter – lots of leaves on the ground – big curly up ones. a nip in the air. soggy splashy park. i am all bundled up in a duffel coat and wellies, short hair and a cheeky grin (the sort of grin that just begs to be slapped). dad is in a suit, white shirt and tie – the proper gent, brylcreemed hair (when he still had some), fag in hand (days before health warnings-not that they had any effect when they came in he just kept puffing as if his previous life he was a chimney), our dog, black lab called sally, running back and forth not sure if she was keeping me safe or treating me as if i were an errant sheep.

dad has a ball at his feet, he kicks it. i run after it. kick it back. dog running back and forth. happy kiddy squeals of fun. two things that the neutral observer would spot straight away – that we were having fun. secondly that the amount of footballing skill on display was disappointingly close to zero, what did we care – i was still a kid who just wanted to play and he was a dad who just wanted his nipper to be knackered come bed time.

it is the nature of kick and run that you end up going all over the place, especially when one of the kickers was a child with no skill at all. it was all about fun, not about skill. dad would kick, puff and throw a stick for the dog.

we roamed the park.

then the fateful kick. it scooted away. i ran after it. dog yapping following, look a big pile of leaves to run through (c'mon who can resist a pile of leaves to mess up … oh you all can, well i couldn't. full speed ahead leaves to mess up.

and then i am in a very large deep puddle. a deep wet cold puddle.

laughter stops.

bawling starts.

stuck there for hours and close to death.

or 30 seconds and just up to my waist.

you take your pick.

i was a mess.

dog was a mess

mum not best pleased.

dad trying not to laugh too much.

strangely there are still days when i want to jump in puddles and splash about in them, and while that still happens i know i can still find a smidgen of happiness in the everyday and that is good to know.

-26

i remember bunking in

in far flung corners of the world the journey from child to adult is marked by life changing events such as vision quests and scarification, in 70s west london it was a bit easier: going to the pub and ordering a pint.

thanks to a childhood living in pubs the local hostelries held no magic for me and by the time my contemporaries were ready for the mystic pint i had already given up on drink.

no my rite of passage was a cultural one and took place at the grenada cinema in harrow.

i can't exactly remember when my love affair started with films but it was at an early age. i fell in love with doris day thanks to calamity jane (a not so secret love), i giggled along to carry on movies (oo'er missus), respected john wayne (get off your horse). there was james bond, disney, dodgy film adaptations of favourite tv shows. if it wasn't the cinema for the latest release or a double bill second run, it was weekends sat in front of the tele watching old movies.

the ritual of adverts and trailers of films that i might never see because they were aa or x

(oh yes dear reader old school classifications) was always a key part of the experience. it was many years after seeing the trailers for films such as conquest of the planet of the apes or population growth zero that i would finally see them.

then one day i decided i could no longer wait to see those forbidden movies - it was time to prove myself a man and go and see an x movie.

i dressed in my most adult clothes – a hideous plaid jacket that would not have looked out of place in a blaxploitation movie, a kipper tie, and my smartest jeans (which meant they were clean and didn't have a patch in the arse repairing a hole). it was a mid week day and i wasn't at school (can't remember why) and so off i went. 140 bus from the green gates and into harrow. a short walk to the cinema, a casual glance at the running times and a tentative step into the foyer. ask for the ticket, holding the worry and fear back – hoping i wouldn't be asked my age, remembering what my adjusted birthday would be so that i could pass their interrogation, should it come. pleased that there was no quiver in my voice and shake to my hand.

ticket asked for.

ticket received.

head to the cinema, up the grand stairs, truly a picture palace worthy of the name.

into the comforting darkness that is the auditorium.

find a seat – no problems i am pretty much the only person there.

a brief wait, lights go down, curtains open.

adverts, trailers.

movie.

sit back and watch.

happy that i passed my rite of passage.

what did i see?

a glorious double bill of 'death wish', charlie bronson does revenge, and 'mean machine' burt reynolds just being so cool.

cinemas may have changed. films may have changed but the love has never faded.

-27

i remember the days of stories

my parents were tellers of tall tales. yarn spinners. a generous person would say they were fibbers, a truthful person might call them liars.

they both had their 'party' story of me as a young baby or child. both are probably fictions, but both are part of my childhood - real or imagined.

the first, normally told by mum, concerned the first word i ever said. you have to remember i grew up in an east end pub, while i may have had adoring parents they also dealt with 'characters'. being the baby of two important locals (they decided if you drank in the pub or not, they decided if you were staying for the late night lock-in) meant i got a fair share of attention. most of this would be the usual baby talk followed by a chin tickle and a smile as i cooed and giggled. some of it was encouragement to say my first word. it would nice to say that i was surrounded by political, social or visionaries and so the first word i said was 'liberty' or 'fraternity' something meaningful that point toward a wonderful future.
alas it was not.
the story goes that my first words to my astonished (yet happy) parents, my first words to them was not ma, pa, mama, papa, feed me, hello. no my first word was fuck.
yes gentle reader even before i knew the joy and power of swearing i had uttered my first cuss word.
i was a potty mouth to start and i remain a potty mouth today.

dad's story was of a night i was asleep in my cot.
my parents were in a room below smoking and drinking too much while they watched black and white tele, hey simple pleasures for a simple time. the pub below them locked up for the night. just another simple night where nothing special happened and nothing special was going to happen. (just for some variety there would be tellings of this tale where one or the other of them was doing ironing).
at some point of the night they were visited by the often talked about but rarely seen ghost. (look it was an east end pub in the early sixties - of course it had a ghost). while none of the tellings of this tale have then being much more than surprised - i can imagine that it would have been a little more than that but whatever all i can think of is my old man's mouth hanging wide open in an exaggerated oh my what on earth is going on here, but with the important detail of a senior service cigarette lit and dangling from a quivering lower lip.
the ghost was a friendly and helpful ghost.
he'd popped by to tell them to move the baby.
at which point they both rushed up the stairs to find me standing in the cot waving (i'd like to think in a graceful and regal manner, but probably more a simpleton trying for a high five). they picked me up and took me downstairs.
a few minutes later and almighty crash and the ceiling had fallen in on the cot. ghost getting lots of silent thanks ad my parents had a few more drinks to calm their nerves. me? i went back to sleep.

both parents stood by those stories - so what am i going to do? tell you they are lies? they are made up? fabricated?
of course not.
they are as true as the day is long, and i can still see them telling those stories now.
(cue mancry)

-28

i remember the day my mum bought the lottery

on the phone to my mum.

the usual you alright, i'm alright back and forth.

the lottery had been launched the week before. i hadn't bought a ticket. there was no moral angst about this was going to encourage gambling from me, more a case of i am not lucky, therefore i won't win, keep my money and spend it on something else (true the something else i would spend it on would be frivolous and wasteful but that is besides the point).

mum on the other hand was quite happy to get a ticket.

come the moment of the numbers being announced mum had discovered that she hadn't won anything no surprises there.

so she was telling me this and then she said, i am sure the ticket will win next week.

no mum, i patiently explained, you have to buy a new ticket next week.

what? another ticket?

yes a new ticket.

every week?

yes every week.

are you sure?

yes i am pretty sure you have to get a new ticket each week.

after that she was less thrilled with the lottery than she was before.

it didn't stop her dreaming about winning.

over the next many years conversations about anything would be interrupted by a well worn progression.

we might be talking about the weather – ah but wouldn't it be nice to win a £100 on the lottery?

we'd then talk about a problem with a neighbour – ah but i don't want much £500 win would be enough.

then we'd be talking about her bunions playing up – ah if only i could win £1000, that'd be good.

oh i heard from uncle paddy, he's doing fine – musha but £5000 on the lottery is all i need,

did you get caught in the rain yesterday? - mm what would i do with £10, 000 from the lottery?

can you get me some more books when you come over next? £25,000 would be a real nice amount to win.

was a bit nippy last night are you keeping yourself warm? £50,000 isn't too much to ask for is it?

my electricity bill was a bit much this time, i tell you i wouldn't sniff at a £100,000.

i see that nice bruce forsythe is in the news again, i'd settle for a quarter of a million pound, wouldn't you?

off to the doctor's tomorrow have you had a check up recently. half a million sounds nice doesn't .

sainsbury's didn't have what i wanted. i could do with a millions pound win.

did you hear from that nice girl? fancy winning five million.

as the lottery wins got higher so did her eventual end amount grow.

sadly for both of us she never won.

still every time i remember to do the lottery i can't help but think it would be nice to win a fiver.

a tenner,

fifty quid.

a ton.

a thousand pound.

half a million.

five million.

the 3 week roll-over jackpot.

unfortunately you can't spend wishes.

vote

democracy is a funny old thing.

for most of the western world it is a simple thing. every so often the public gets a chance to elect representatives to govern and lead us. in the uk, for better or worse, we live in a first past the post majority system: get more votes than the other people and you are in. bish bosh bang. job done.

simple.

easy.

understandable.

most importantly it works.

but a bit like freedom of speech or human rights there are those occasions when because people don't like the result they moan and complain but that isn't what was supposed to happen, this isn't the result we wanted can we change it?

for a time we could be smug about the whingey scots – the nationalists promised their independence vote would be a once in a generation vote. they lost. they waited a few days and then showed they were liars by demanding a second referendum.

but then we decided to call the european union referendum. david cameron's decision to fight off the encroaching power of ukip (which was only in the minds of nigel farage and the editors of a few newspapers) and the usual gang of eurosceptic nutters in the tory party called for the vote and the brexit debate was started.

sensible money said stay.

sensible isn't always sexy.

farage had begun to make noises that if the vote was close,say 51/52% stay 48/49% leave there should be a second referendum. essentially saying if we don't get the result we want we might want to do it again. (needless to say farage quietly dropped this 'too close' argument toot sweet.)

the in campaign tended to argue the economic good of staying in, relying partly on common sense and economic stability to win the day. ooops.

the outers played to the hearts and made many promises that it would quickly turn out that they knew they were never going to keep, the biggest of these being the £350 million a week to the nhs – which is quickly turning out to be an extra £2.49 and a packet of crisps if the nurses behave themselves.

the referendum was always couched, well to the best of my recollection, as in or out. stay or go. leave or remain. it was never what do you think? if you had a choice what you like to do? give us a clue as to what you think we should do? there was never a oh by the way your vote is just an indicator as to what we should do, or your vote gives us the terms of the debate we'll have in parliament and we'll let you know the outcome later.

it was always. yes/no. it was always which side got the most won the day.

that is how our democracy works.

simple, easy, understandable.

arguments were made and we the people had to make a choice with our collective crosses.

when the result came in as 52% leave and 48% stay, it was a bit of a disaster.

but that is what the people voted for.

all of a sudden a whole group of people become agitated and start claiming there were lies and that this was just an advisory vote blah blah. they wouldn't have been saying either if the vote had gone their way (and we can rest assured that the brexiters would have used pretty much the same arguments if they had lost in order to get a second vote).

one of the outcomes of exit was the labour party went into full slow motion meltdown which managed to combine the longest election ever with the most obvious result ever. the reason for the vote was that some of the labour mps were not happy with the leadership of jeremy corbyn. true he had not covered himself with glory and at a time when the tories were at their least impressive and still fighting over exit, corbyn seemed to be doing the impossible and making the tories guaranteed winners of the next general election, and possibly the one after as well.

problem was jeremy corbyn had revitalised labour's membership – making it the biggest party in the country, and all those new voters wanted jeremy to be leader. they were the corbynistas.

the simple solution to it all would have been for moderate labour supporters to put their hands in their pockets and pay to become members in order to vote – they didn't. they lost because the committed and engaged did, and they are the people who are going to attended local party meetings and council gatherings. they are the people who will use the tools and mechanisms of democracy to turn the labour party into something that will not get elected because the vast amount of labour voters are not interested in something that looks and smells a little like revolutionary socialism -if they did they could have voted for anyone of a number of such parties in the past, and just because now some of the members of those small parties can now pretend to be potential labour politicians it isn't going to happen.

ironically jeremy and friends are going to benefit from a very specific election while it seems ignoring the wishes of a much broader and probably more representative vote. the behind the scenes movers and shakers in labour, momentum group, are keen to deselect members of parliament who do not agree with the new vision of labour (red labour? nu old labour? swp labour?) and put people that do agree in their place – of course this means going against the wishes of the voters.

see that is the problem with democracy it involves too many people who do not see the world in quite the same way you do, it is why it is representative – we elect people to make decisions on out part, and generally we choose them based on the fact that they are most likely to agree with my point of view.

corby and co will not do the brave thing and call lots of by-elections to see if their candidate will triumph against the incumbents, while the sitting mp will not trigger a by-election in order to prove they have the mandate in the local area.

effectively this is labour out of power for the next two elections, even if they do well in local council elections, at the next general elections they may just be spectators.

just at the time an effective opposition is needed is just the moment we get one that is fractured by internal division and is potentially prepared to piss on the votes of the wider community in order to keep sweet the new membership. odd way to go about things.

that simple, effective thing called democracy hasn't had the best time of it in the uk in these last few months.

trolley

if there is one thing commuting is sure to do it is guaranteed to warp your outlook on modern life. to be fair it doesn't take much to get me whining but the current daily commute does give me much ammunition to curse modern life. not quite in the first world problem category but not far short of it. (i hasten to add that i would ban any and all users of 'oh that is such a first world problem' as a sneery put down that implies that your worry is somehow unworthy of merit because there is a leper with no running water and an inability to tune into the latest justin bieber song living on an island off the east african coast and until we are all living in the world of milk and honey you have no right to complain. sorry but a problem is a problem and if it is your problem then it is more important to you than the condition of water rights in venezuela).

anyway back to the moan.

my current moan about modern life is, if you can believe it, luggage.

yes you read that correctly: luggage,

i know – seriously what harm is there in luggage? (i mean other than in smuggling drugs and hiding dead bodies).

all i can say is that whoever invented the trolley bag i hope they were vastly compensated for their nifty piece of ingenuity. if there is cosmic and divine justice out there then this inventor has a ring of hell all to themselves. if they can navigate their way around the circle then they can leave hell – they just have survive the hordes of demons with trolley bags.

i get that this putting wheels on luggage makes life easier, after all why carry it when you can pull or push it. no straining muscles just glide along without a care in the world. now bags can be of any size, unlike in the past where they could only be as big as you could carry – now you can have more bags than you can shake a fanny pack at.

commuting and holiday making so much easier now.

(and while at this point of the moan – what is the deal with laptop trolley bags? just how lazy do you have to be not to carry your fucking laptop?)

nor would it surprise me to discover that somewhere out there events featuring different sized trolley bags are appearing in x-games events.

hold on a cotton picking minute pat – you seem to be praising them. yes i suppose i am. i guess i am taking the nla – national luggage association - point of view: it isn't luggage that causes problem but that it is the users.

look i just want to walk in the station getting to or from the train or tube without having to spend time looking out for someone who had a trolley bag drifting 5 feet behind them, or decides to change directions at the drop of a hat – but they have a turning circle of twenty feet because of a long handled bag they have little control over. or they walk really slowly and the bag drifts from their control so instead of taking up the space of one person all of a sudden they are a moving but variable barrier in the packed hustle and bustle of the station. users walk with all the purpose and lack of care as mobile phone users – that certainty that it is not their responsibility to watch where they are going – but it is down to you to watch where they are going and to take the necessary action in order to move out of the way, any collision is your fault. or they have two bags which they have to constantly change the hand that is control them (why) or they suddenly stop as if they realise that they are in the wrong place at the wrong time.

yeah i guess it isn't the bags that i detest but the selfish wankers who use them with little regard for others.

i could suggest that people who use them have to get a license and training to use the bags. that there should be checks on people before they are issued with a bag – are they competent to use the bags they are using. that there should be limitations on the bags that people can get based on height and strength, or the number each person can be in charge of at any one time.

sadly these sensible precautions would be shouted down by the nla and so any old fuckwit can go out and with little or no training can purchase a big arsed trolley bag and cause havoc in a crowded space. i have to face it the imbecile with the trolley bag is here to stay and i just have to adjust my life around it – modernity not all it is cracked up to be.

the inventor still deserves to go to hell!

conspiracy

it was fate.

a chance meeting, a chance conversation and a life changes.

sometimes for the better and sometimes for the trivial.

in my case it was for the trivial.

she was a nervous skittish alabaster skinned woman with a cut glass accent. there was a vulnerability about her, and that always brings out the white knight in me (which isn't code for i was lusting after her). we chatted for a bit. i was left intrigued, a few weeks later we bumped into each other in a famous burger chain.

we chatted some more.

this time i discovered why she appeared to be constantly looking over her shoulder (literally and metaphorically). her tale involved a plot to incapacitate her with clothes or money that had been doused in neurotoxins, a certain amount of brainwashing, the murder of her husband (married in secret and a man who may have had a past that involved the british secret service), there were honourable mentions for the illuminati, the cia and the kgb, not to mention the obligatory mr. big who was behind all of it.

i confess dear reader that i was agog, as such i didn't ask the relevant question: why?why was all this happening to her? why was she targeted?

i just went with the flow and tried my best not to let my jaw hit the floor.

remember that scene in the matrix where morpheus is offering neo the red or the blue pill, well this was a little bit like that. the difference being that i have swallowed the stupid pill and i have become hooked on conspiracy theories.

hooked.

we all know that there is much that happens in the world that is the result of decisions made beyond our knowledge, that there are people who pull the strings behind the scenes.

the illuminati, the new world order, the vampire cabal. call them what you will it is very easy to believe that there are people out there who if they don't know the secret know people who know people who know the secret.

it is one of the reasons why dan brown has been such a publishing success – he has tapped into subconscious belief in the secret powers that be. we experience every day when someone we know taps their nose and winks their eye and tells us in strictest confidence that they have been told a secret.

that is pretty much the nub of conspiracy theories. advocates and followers of conspiracies see themselves as awake while the rest of us are still asleep (we the sheeple). they know the of the secret of the shadow powers, they also know that plans of the cabal are not for our benefit, the end game of these plans is to further enslave us while making the controllers more powerful.

but the awake are trying their best to alert the rest of us – to take us from sheeple to people.

your choice red pill, blue pill – just don't think you are going to become neo – because that role has already been taken by (fill in the name of the conspiracy theorist you like the most).

the truthers, the liberty movement, the alt right, real liberals or whatever they choose to call themselves are not an homogeneous group – like religion (and extreme politics) there are factions and these factions believe different things, and in some cases never the twain shall meet while in others there is a certain amount of crossover. that said they are all in the brotherhood of mistrusting government (it will be better when they are in charge – they will free us and lead us in the right way).

the constitutionalist (the spirit of 1776) see freedom as a strict adherence to the words of the constitution and its amendments (well mostly those that say carry lots of guns and free speech). there are the evangelical conspirators, they believe in the word of the bible – but are also happy to read between the lines of the word to get to the places they want to be. they see the new world order attack as being one that wants to wipe god out, replace christianity with a one world religion and mark us all with the number of the beast (chip and pin our arses to use the french). there are alienists who see us controlled by aliens, and that we are central to a cosmos spanning war that we know little about but we are crucial to. closely allied to this is the technologist branch of conspiracy – these are the people who see a world that is full of hidden technologies that are hidden from the rest of us because we are not worthy of them. it is why we don't have all the works of tesla making our lives wonderful. the numerologists and symbologists who see clues to the next events in everyday media.

these and other groupings are not exclusive and more often than not intersect and share issues and concerns.

the main concern for the alt right/ truther movement is that they are the target of a controlled government that wants to take away their guns to make the inevitable invasion/take over of the usa that much easier.

gun owners and truth tellers are on a list that either signs them up for re-education or a short stay at a fema death camp.

in countries where guns are not so important (pretty much the rest of the world) it is about the increasing amount of surveillance we face.

for all there is the constant refrain that our freedom of speech is under attack and curtailed.

this sense of oppression is exacerbated by the fervent belief that the media is against them, not just ignoring them but wilfully spreading the message of the new world order. the news outlets are in their pockets. the large social media companies are

little more than agents of the cabal. when sports, movies and music are not actively spreading the message of the powers that be through subliminals and in your face symbols they are there to distract you from the encroaching take over that is going on. mass entertainment is there to turn us into sheeple.

it is an odd world they live in. all around them they see the clues that pass the rest of us by. they see the underlying reality. they see the future – and the future is not good: unless we listen to them and join with them, only then do we have a chance, only then can we throw off the yoke of the illuminati oppression.

because they are sometimes right about the pitfalls of globalisation they expect the rest of their analysis to be accepted wholesale. where you and i see coincidence they see plans within plans.

they live in a world of signs and warnings that we don't notice. their lives are dedicated to getting us to see that ads, movies and videos are crammed full of illuminati symbols and clues

– and if you spent some time analysing them you would see that the end of the world is just around the corner. they are prepping for it, and they will be kings of the new world.

so that is me hooked on the wacky worlds and words of david icke, alex jones, ritchie allen, rich d. hall, kev baker, lisa haven and many others.

the girl?

what happened to her?

didn't see her for a long time, was always looking out for her wondering if they got her or has she escaped their clutches (more than likely she has gone back on her meds).

then one day she walked in told me she had found the grave of her murdered husband and so there was closure there.

fate?

coincidence?

part of the plan?

you decide dear reader, i know what i think.

that's way i am hooked on the conspiracies.

vaz

i never understand why the media get so shocked when they discover that some one famous is doing something naughty.

just because you are famous doesn't mean you are any better than the rest of us, it might make it easier for them, and it certainly adds to the risks.

the media's outrage is a nice performance designed to get us to buy their offerings. they and the accused do a well rehearsed dance of claim, counter claim, pr campaign, contrite apology and wronged partner agreeing to forgive.

the irony of the weekend's revelation was that it wasn't the one that was supposed to be making the headlines – that was going to be a high level clergy being in a long term gay partnership. instead of being outed he broke the story himself and ruined the best laid plans of mice and editors.

at least with the clergy there was at least an 'in the public interest' argument given the church's stance of homosexuality. it justifies the invasion of privacy.

unlike the recent case of famous gay couple who have an arrangement for one of them to have extra marital sex. grown up adults, making grown up decisions in a grown up way. a couple who don't really make political statements and most of their influence would come from their charity work. so none of my business. none of your business. except the news media thinks it is – so will cram it down our throat (you choose the visual you want for that – but i think i can guess what it might be).

the public interest argument is a funny one in that it is supposed to be a justification for telling tales about well known people in order to generate revenue for the news organisation. just because someone is in the public eye doesn't make it in the public interest if they indulge in a bit of hanky panky – unless of course they have been an advocate for chastity or monogamy. then hypocrisy has to be uncovered.

which brings us on to keith vaz.

luckily for the papers their weekend didn't go scoopless because they had keith in the background, very convenient. i am sure there was nothing cynical about the timing and they always intended to hang keith out to dry at some point or another.

keith was filmed with some male prostitutes. they decided to film and sell their story when they recognised that mr vaz wasn't the lowly washing machine salesman he claimed to be – but a recognisable high profile politician.

mr. vaz was in charge of a select committee that was looking into whether or not prostitution should be legalised and to his credit he doesn't seem to have used the pete townshend defence: 'it was research'. it was his position on the committee that turned his sexual adventures from something that was between him and his family (wife standing by him – probably nothing to do with the family property fortune at all) and squeaking into the public interest.

there are two reasons why i think it counts. firstly he hadn't declared to the committee that he was a user of prostitutes. it really is time that the oldest profession is decriminalised. making it legal means you take away one of the main reasons for human trafficking. if brothels and prostitutes are legalised then they can be monitored to ensure they are lawful, they can be taxed (there is a lot of money in it) sure there are a lot of 'not in my backyarders' out there who would scream blue murder in order to stop it happening in their neighbourhood – but why it is already happening, this just makes it legal. and while making it legal might increase the number of men who visit a prostitute i doubt very much it will be by huge numbers.

because mr vaz hadn't declared he was a partaker of paid for sexual adventures he left himself open to accusations of bias – you are hardly going to make one of your favourite pastimes illegal are you?

but a second more important reason is that by hiding that sort of thing he created the opportunity to become the victim of blackmail.

for me that was the main problem mr vaz believed he was above such concerns, that he wouldn't get caught and their wouldn't be consequences to his actions.

and here comes my third reason why i think it counts.

pretty much if this had happened to a majority of mps i would have thought nothing of it, but keith vaz just rubs me the wrong way (though perhaps not the best choice of words in the circumstances). every time mr vaz appears i am shocked he is a labour politician, as he has enough smugness to place him on the same level as david cameron and george osbourne and that really is saying something.

in fact i suspect there were few calls to defend his privacy simply because so few people like him.

all i think he did wrong was keep it secret and that isn't a reflection on him but more a comment on the puritanical state that certain news organisations think we should be. ironically while mr vaz was heading up a powerful select committee whatever they may have suggested would have had to make it past the judgement of the unelected editors and owners of our national news organisations.

they are the real opinion formers, they are the establishment and judging by the amount of press we see about them being naughty boys and girls (virtually zilch) they are above reproach but we know that is bollocks. that is why i always find 'in the public interest' line so hypocritical because it is not applied to them.

but on the other hand it is keith vaz we are talking about.

so well played mass media.

heat

summer is not my favourite time of year.

i dread it.

i don't like the bight sun.

i don't like the heat. don't care if it is dry heat or wet heat i don't like it.

i don't like that everyone else is telling me how nice and how wonderful it is.

i hate it.

i positively loathe it when it becomes heatwave city and we get those last few dying days of summer that appear when the nights are closing in and we should be enjoying the joys of autumn leading to the sharp bracing pleasure of winter.

guess who hasn't enjoyed the last few days of our indian summer heatwave.

oh that would be me.

it is true that part of the problem is that i am a fat bastard.

a fat bastard who sweats a lot.

so sweltering sizzling weather is my enemy.

i have felt faint. i have felt like a sausage in a microwave ready to pop as i overcook. i have felt drained and heavy limbed as the sun bleached out energy. every movement a conscious effort, lethargic, woozy and short tempered a new, even more, unlikeable version of me: short tempered misery guts.

let us not forget the watery eyes and sneezy nose as i spend a week or two as the victim of hay fever, the nights of not being able to sleep because i am unable to get comfortable in the stifling heat that turns a place into a cheap sauna, when i do sleep i wake to oppressive heat already half dead knowing that when i go out the heat will punch me in the face like a sledgehammer bouncing off an anvil.

days spent longing for a break in the weather. a downpour of rain to freshen and cool the air, when it does come it is over in a flash and before you know the street is as dry as a bone again. reading news rags and wishing that the horror weather stories of the daily mail and daily express just for once contained a modicum of truth (little chance – on anything they write to be honest). looking to the skies and hoping that a lone cloud is a precursor to a storm.

yes i fucking hate summer.

not even the joyous pleasure of pretty women in skimpy clothes can take away from the fact that it is summer. in fact it is a cruel game on behalf of the creator that at the time when ladies strut and preen their stuff i am at my least interested. come winter when covered in puffa jackets and woollen jackets i am ready – but nothing to see.

then just when you think that is it – all over autumn here we get blistering indian summer.

and i fucking hate indian summers even more than regular summers.

currently not a happy bunny.

bring on wind, bring on rain, bring on snow, bring on winds.

bring on winter.

journey

the decision had been made, leave work at a vaguely sensible time catch night buses and train to get back to where i am staying.

check the tfl site. enter options and see the results. enter different options get different results. repeat. choose best course of action.

chosen: night bus, night tube and night train. by jings a winning combination.

mmm if i lock up now i can catch the bus that takes me to where i want to go.

get to stop in time.

check with driver it is going to hyde park corner. it does.

approaching hyde park corner i ding the bell

i stand by the door, ding the bell again.

bus goes past hyde park corner.

i give the driver a snidey comment – but polite.

when i get off at the next stop i sarcastically thank him for nothing. i feel a little better for doing that. that's me big man in the hood.

hoof it back to hyde park corner – normally i wouldn't be too bothered but i am trying to catch a train, they (mostly) stick to timetables. notice that the park itself is open which is pretty impressive and deserves to be investigated but not right now, train to catch.

mm something not right. station is closed. that's fucking wrong. all night tube blah blah. bastardising bus driver and now tfl website giving wrong information. fuckity fuck. maybe they've closed one entrance just to control the flow of people. try other entrance. closed. cock.

check web for details.

shit the bed i got out at the wrong fucking bus stop. didn't need hyde park, needed green park. wanky wank.

try find bus stop i need. check destinations, no sign of green park. why not? look bus going to picadilly jump on that. blink of an eye at green park.

on tube.

at victoria

need the 5.23 train, platform 9. twenty minutes. time to get porridge from macd

onalds and coffee from cafe nero. done. walk platform. front of train. press door button. nothing. press button again. still nothing. something not right. walk down the platform. no longer the 5.23 just an empty train. onto forecourt check the main boards – now it is the 5.38 from platform 18, should just make it.

need the front carriage.

longest train in the fucking world.

get on.

porridge cold.

coffee cold.

on the move.

arrive.

lessons learnt – write down relevant information, review relevant information, act on relevant information.

oh and don''t trust anything that southern say about their trains.