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I don't know if the weather is a precursor to some kind of catastrophic shift in climate change, but i can tell you now that i'm enjoying the flexibility of the weather and what it allows me to do.
THE BARBECUE
Okay, so last Saturday it was Pablo's Annual Barbecue. Now, we learnt a lot of lessons from last year, not least that it's probably better to buy a keg with a tap on it, and also girls don't like sausages that contain more gristle than meat. Also, the event was to be hosted in Paul's spacious communal garden. Despite nearly slipping a disc trying to life 40 kilos of storage box whilst bent over my wardrobe (in a surprisingly successful attempt to locate a pair of amplified speakers), i made good on my promise to turn up at midday. I hopped on the overground to Acton Main Line and bought a couple of steaks before arriving at Chez Richardson's.
Ian and Paul were stretched out in the garden, along with Laura, Paul's sister. I jacked his podbox into the speakers, and soon Paul's playlist was booming out such hits as The Beatsteaks, Anti-Flag and Eminem. I was hungry, but everyone else voted to hold back on firing up the disposable until the others turned up, so we kicked back with beer and let the sun launched a full-frontal assault on our pasty forms. Paul got surprisingly offended at us using his roll-on sunblock (which cost NEARLY two quid). I lay back and listened to the tinny noises of record label approved anger.
Eventually, the others turned up. Hal came first, brandishing a watermelon the size of a brontosaurus' testicle. Paul immediately attacked it with a steak knife and carved out huge, ugly chunks of red for us to devour. Hal's a strange fucking character. He made a fortune out of co-authoring a book that's become a steady bestseller. He looks like a cross between Adam Sutler and Biggles. Hal hangs out with Ian, and a few moments later another one of Ian's friends turned up. Ken was a student at my old alma mater and arrived with his girlfriend. Paul's friends also started trickling in, including a friendly Italian girl and her boyfriend. Richie had made his way down from Leamington and immediately went to look for beer. Ursula and Babs were also invited, and they arrived brandishing kabobs and strawberry salad. There was a rumour that one of the girls was a stripper, but i'd had a beer and it was hot so i may have just imagined it.
The barbecue itself went brilliantly. The steaks were juicy (Paul opting to gobble his rare whereas i took mine well-done this time) and there was enough booze and soda to keep everyone happy. Ursula took out her poi and started doing her thing. I chatted to Babs about her job at Hasboro. Originally, i thought Babs had worked for Haribo, the sweet company, and she used to think i was funny because i kept asking her for free pink shrimps, but we've ironed things out since then.
As me and Paul were engaging in a game of "melon helmet meltdown", clouds started to take the edge of the blaze and the temperature dropped. Within minutes it started to rain the frenzied downpour of summer rain. We retired to Pablo's living room and played Guitar Hero.
At around 7pm, i was feeling a tad woozy from the topless sunbathing, three cans of beer and a steak sandwich. I was also wary of Gary's wedding the next day, and my responsibilities as Best Man, so i made my excuses and left with the majority of the other guests. I got back to my house feeling a bit regretful as i realised that a momentous barbecue organised by Paul and myself comes but once a year. It was only 9pm, should i have stayed a while longer?
At around 10pm i sat on the corner of my bed, wrapped in a towel after rinsing the sweat and motes of charcoal off my body. I was busy memorising my wedding speech for Gary when i got a phone call. It was Pablo. Apparently, the only people left at the party wee Ian's friends and their idea of an after-party was radically different from Paul's. So i invited him, Laura and Richie to hang out at mine, feeling better now that i could find time to work on my speech and still round off the evening with friends. I pre-empted their arrival at 11pm by popping to the nearby offie and securing a small stash of beer and cider. The original plan was to go find a late-night spot, but the heat had drained us so we sprawled out in my living room listening to music and exchanging anecdotes. In the end they crashed in my living room. Laura's just graduated as a graphic designer and is looking for work in London. So far she's been roughing it on an air mattress in Paul's living room, so my futon was a cakewalk for her.
THE WEDDING
I mentioned earlier that i was Best Man for Gary's Wedding. I wasn't kidding. Although not exactly aloof, Gary sticks to himself most of the time. We became friends during our mutual escapes from the office at lunchtime, both preferring to head down to the Lower Marsh to buy food than eating the grease they serve up at our canteen. Gary's a space shuttle buff, and he's got a knack for explaining things with surprising clarity, like why shuttles don't run on petrol and why they return to earth backwards, and upside down. About 18 months ago, he met a girl, promptly fell in love with her and got engaged. He also told me i was going to be his best man, not leaving much room for negotiation. Still, i've been Best Man before, and figured i could air out the old seersucker one more time.
To ensure that there were no last minute hiccups, i decided to crash at Gary's place the night before. He's got a nice little gaffe over in Maidstone right out in the suburbs. I must admit, i was a little envious at his basement, office room, two fireplaces and real furniture. But what is one to do? For Camden Town takes what it calls it's own. Gary took a spare mattress out of the attic and said i'd be sleeping in his "office", which was actually a room full of rackmount servers. Gary's a teetotaler (having gone off the sauce years earlier), so we had a somewhat more gentler stag than Mark's technicolor rural nightmare. We took dinner at the local Old Orleans, where a perky little vixen took our orders. She was bearing a brand-new tat on her forearm, still shiny and fresh with sub-dermal dye. Afterwards we watched "Year One", which was definitely a film. Afterwards, we headed back and got prepped for the big day. I fell asleep to the sound of a dozen computers breathing to keep cool.
The next morning i donned my suit, calmed Gary down and strolled to the Archibishops Palace, now a secular registry office. Gary and Krys share one thing in common with my brother and Elaine - they prefer style and substance over pomp and grandeur. The sun was blazing and i was glad to be in the air-conditioned catacombs awaiting the ceremony. I met Penny, Krys' sister who was bridesmaid. She looked beautiful in a blue satin dress. Eventually, we were called in and the marriage took place. Needless to say for someone whose wardrobe consists of freebie T-shirts from various computer seminars, Gary looked terrific in his freshly-laundered and spotlessly starched suit. And Krys was stunning. She had transformed herself into a curvy bombshell with a hair so full of carefully sculpted bangs and curls it looked like a blonde waterfall. They exhanged vows and i signed as witness. Afterwards we posed for photos for about an hour (the heat!!) and rounded the event of with both families at a local restaurant. I made my speech and it well down nicely and afterwards i retired to the train station to let the lucky couple proceed with their honeymoon. As i headed towards London Victoria, i wondered if i'd fine someone i wanted to spend the rest of my life with. For the first time ever, i honestly thought i would. Finding this person will be half the fun.
Tomorrow, i'm meeting up with Kirsi, a rather lovely Finnish girl i met on New Years. I'm hoping to dazzle her with my wit and sunny disposition. Failing that, i'm going to take her around some of the nicer parts of London and treat her gently as she'll be recovering from the Blur gig that's been on in Hyde Park.
And Sunday? Why, it's Mark's wedding of course :)
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The untimely demise of Michael Jackson has created shockwaves around the world as the raw power of the internet, digital media, the printed word and the time-honoured rumour mill combine into a global tsunami of fact and opinion. Even as i type this article from the comfort of the beanbag in my living room, news networks are hastily putting together badly assembled eulogies on the singer's remarkable career and troubled downfall.
My friends have all penned their views on the matter, and some of the more bovine entertainment sites have even got hold of the 911 call for fucks sake, but i can go one better. For you see, last night as the King of Pop was surrendering to the afterlife, i was on the phone with Joshua. Our usually intelligent dialogue was interrupted by what only be described as a "phenomenal" series of events.
Here is an excerpt from our conversation, recalled verbatim from memory.
JPH: "...speaking of which, i have to ask if you've seen my favourite comb. It's the bakelite one and it disappeared around the time you crashed in my living room that one time."
Josh: "Uhhh...."
JPH: "Also, i'm missing some cutlery, and some of the lead guttering appears to have vanished from outside the.... Josh.... Are you okay, sir?"
Josh: "Very much not so. I feel consumed as if my very spirit has been engulfed by St Elmo's fire. I'm also compelled to speak in tongues, why at this very moment i am restraining myself with the utmost effort."
JPH: "Good grief! You must hang up right now and call the doctor!"
Josh: "I will not, sir! Doctor Whigg is nought more than a drunken quack, having administered to me a large does of Spanish Codeine on numerous occasions regardless of the malady. And on each occasion, it has done little to settle me."
JPH: "Codeine is a panacea! This does not sound like affliction of the flesh, it sounds like you are in grip of nothing less than pure religious fervor. You should seek advice from a member of the clergy."
Josh: "I shall do no such thing! As Recording Secretary for the Hatfield Humanist Study, you know that i think all organised religion is a sham concoction of savage lore and faerytale. And yet.... yet.... i am gripped by visions innumerable. Surely this is sickness of the flesh has been brought on by one of my numerous dalliances with low women? ARGHH! AIEE!!! HLUGHLUGHLUGLULHHGHH..."
** HERE FOLLOWS SEVERAL MINUTES OF JOSH MOANING AND WAILING **
JPH: "Josh! Tell me of these visions pass before your eyes.."
Josh: "I SEE A WHEEL WITHIN A WHEEL, A FABULOUS GUILDED CARRIAGE DRIVEN BY TWISTED SERPENTS WHILST THE CHOIR INFINITE SINGS TRACKS FROM THRILLER. AND LO, I ALSO SEE A THOUSAND CRACKS FORMING IN THE TARMACADAM THAT CHOKES THE HEATHEN STREETS OF LOS ANGELES. WOE UNTO YOU LOS ANGELES! THOU HAST BASTARDISED THE NAME OF OUR LORD'S MOST CHERISHED FOR THE LAST TIME!"
JPH: "...Thriller?..."
Josh: "INSIDE THE CARRIAGE SITS A MAN WHO'S SKIN COLOUR TRANSCENDS THE VERY GAMUT OF HUMANITY. THE LOWER PART OF HIS FACE IS SHROUDED IN SOME KIND OF MYSTERIOUS BLACK CLOTH WHILST HIS BODY IS DECKED IN A BLACK SUIT TRIMMED WITH A THOUSAND SILVER THREADS. UP, UP RIDES THE CARRIAGE! SO IT SHALL COME TO PASS THAT AN OCEAN OF TEARS WILL POURETH FROM THE EYES OF THOSE FILLED WITH ADORATION, TEARS SO NUMEROUS THEY COULD DROWN A CITY WITH ITS IMPOTENT SORROW"
JPH: "...Go on..."
Josh: "Actually, that's pretty much it. I feel alright now. You were saying something about a comb?"
I consulted the Wikipedia entry on Jackson's death and it coincided with Josh's brief religious mania right down to the second. I'm not saying that we should start a new religion with Josh as our messiah, but it may be our only way at finding redemption now that the king of pop has passed away.
Rest in Peace Mr Jackson, your work here is done.
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I was wandering through Covent Garden, and it occured to me that i haven't treated myself to any consumer goods recently. I keep squirreling away money and spending the remainder on routine consumables like food, alcohol and entrance fees. So the other day I decided to go on a shopping spree and purchased the following things:
- A copy of Shepherd Fairey's "Obey" biography. - This excellent tome comprises the history of the OBEY GIANT phenomena, including many photostats of Fairey's fantastic bolshevik-style consumer propaganda.
- A bottle of "Perfect Man" cologne. - A signature fragrance by Bella Bellisma, this bold yet daring aftershave is 100% guaranteed to make women more than 60% "playfully curious" within a 10 meter radiance of my person. Purchased at a dry goods emporium down Great Portland Street.
- A red t-shirt with field/rainbow motif by Tuning - Paul says it makes me look like a "metro heemasex", but what the hell does he know? He's trying to buy a tweed jacket with elbow patches for fucks sake. I'll be damned if i take satorial advice from a comprehensive school teacher.
- A copy of O'Reillys Flex 3 Guide - If i can learn Flex to a decent level, i could make around £500 a day as a Flex developer. Then i could stop eating spaghetti for every meal and start to enjoy how life's supposed to treat you.
- A pull-up bar - I've been wanting one of these for years now. It installs in a doorway and provides a way to do pull-ups without breaking the fixtures. You can also do press-ups on them without knackering the tendons in your wrists.
I also embarked upon a change in my diet. I've started to cut out starchy foods in the afternoon. No more chips for dinner. Instead i'm trying to eat rice or wholegrain pasta. I'm not trying to lose weight (far from it), but i found that eating less "heavy" foods in the evenings means i'm less likely to feel sleepy or bloated. So far it's worked a treat, i don't nap as much and i feel more motivated to exercise. They've also installed some really boss new showers at work just downstairs from where i'm sitting, so i can sneak in a quick shower and change of clothes at the end of the day and go out again in the capital without having to go home and run a bath. I don't knwo what the psychology behind this is, but i feel ready for part two of the day everytime i leave work now.
I also met up with Cian last week in what had to be the briefest drink i've ever had with anyone. She made the trip from High Street Ken to Embankement (a good 20 minutes on the districk), shared a bottle of chablis and chatted for like forty minutes and then had to head back. I left her at Westminster grateful for having seen her (and at least she made the effort to come down) but also wondered if she was doing okay. Whenever i hang out with Neil or Ursula or (to a lesser extent) Pablo, we end up getting up to all sorts of shenanigans; going to strange night spots, lazing in a hazy park and drinking or being entertained by some kind of theatrics. I'm hoping to get Cian to properly unwind the next time we meet. It'd be good to see her with her defences down very slightly.
Gary's wedding is on Monday. He's a mate of mine from work and he's chosen me to be his best man (he told me i'm the only person he'd kill quickly and painlessly should he go beserk one day and bring an SA80 in work - i think this is some kind of compliment). Anyway, i've written my "best man's speech" and am in the process of memorising it and i really hope i don't get tongue-tied. Gary's whole family are from Essex so i'm expecting nothing less than a decent knees-up afterwards.
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Life was made temporarily fun two days ago by means of an impromptu hailstorm.
I was meandering through the streets of the West End en-route home, when suddenly the temperature dropped and the sky was buried with piles of gunmental cloud. By the time i hit Goodge Street i began to wonder why i was walking when it was so damn muggy, so i jumped on the 29, nabbed a seat and pulled out my current bookclub novel, "Daphne". As i was making a spirited attempt to decipher the contents therein, i became aware of the rain sliding down the window next to me. At first it was little more than drizzle, but by the time we hit Morning Crescent it was pouring with surprising force. Luckily i had my waterproof jacket on me. I figured i could survive the 50 metres or so to my house.
But as soon as i got off the bus, all hell broke loose from the heavens.
First off, a clap of thunder rolled across the markers of Camden Town that was so loud, it set off most of the car alarms, as well as some of the more timid shop security systems. Tramps shook their tins of Brasso at the pregnant sky. The underaged droogs loitering under the entrance to the World's End stared up at the sky as if a new religion was about to unleash itself on the populace of north west London. I ducked into a residential entrance and buttoned up before proceeding through the downpour. There was a newsagent nearby that sold Jones Sodas. I fucking love Jones Sodas, they're better than crystal meth. I was on a mission.
I ran down Camden High Street - a task made easy due to most of the pedestrians cowering in various passages and shopfronts - and as i approached Kingsway, it started hailing. Real hail. Not the generic 2-second slush that sometimes makes its way down during November. This hail was the size of tic-tacs - not exactly the stuff you get in Texas - but still pretty hardcore. And they came down everywhere. By the time i crossed to Inverness Street, the sheer volume of hailstones were blinding and the streets were starting to flood.
WFT? i thought. it's june, for fuck's sake!. A few days ago, i had been wandering the idyllic streets of Notting Hill with Ursula. We had taken in the sun whilst walking through streets of honeysuckle and conifers. We'd even snuck in some additional sunbathing courtesy of a rendezvous with Paul and Louise. And now it was hailing. Hailstones are the lesbian sister of snowflakes, and it was practically summer.
I managed to make it to the newsagents, a small unassuming outfit down where the markets are. It stays in business thanks to it's broad selection of stoner's periodicals and cheap pornography that's sleeved in semi-opaque covers in a last-ditch attempt to promote some kind of social responsibility. I located the Jones drinks and pulled out a cream soda one. They used to sell them in CyberCandy but for some reason the cream soda is always out of stock. I fell in love with Jones' brand of soft drinks back at university when the Chicago Blues cafe was still in business and life was somewhat less complicated. Each drink is like making out with a girl who has vanilla ice-cream for a tongue. Not the best visual metaphor maybe, but a workable one.
I exited the shop and ran through the hail back to my place. By the time I hit the start of my street, the hail had stopped but i was completely soaked. My feet squelched inside bloated trainers (bought less than a month ago). My knuckles were bleached yellow from the melted ice. When i got home i shed the wetness and kicked back, watching the angry-looking clouds slowly lose the fight against an orange sunset.
I put the soft drink in the fridge to chill properly, and wondered what had just happened.
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Okay, i'm back. On-line that is.
i didn't make it to Chicago. Long story short: I got sick before the trip and traveling wasn't going to be an option. I managed to limp to the doctor and was diagnosed with having low blood pressure. She said it wasn't serious, but told me to get some rest. So i've spent the last seven days either in bed, or lounging around with occasional trips into the West End for supplies and cultural sustenance. I haven't lost money over Chicago as the trip was purchased on with my bro's air-miles, but this also meant that the flights couldn't be put back. My brother and Elaine have gone to the States and are having a great time. Although i'm rueful over not having joined them on the trip, the absence of having to do anything of any marginal significance has been a welcome break. You wouldn't believe it, but over the last week i've borne witness to various events that range from unnerving to all-out harrowing.
The first thing that happened was that my job has been "changed". I found out in last week as i was starting to feel numb. Basically, i'm being upgraded to managing the User Experience of THE COMPANY's intranet and web-based applications. They told me all of this 30 minutes before it was due to be announced, citing that if i did not accept then my career would look "uncertain". I begged them to provide me with a brief e-mail containing details of my new role, but in the end i just begged them not to relocate me to an Industrial Estate in Helsinki and they agreed i could stay in London. All of this is happening because a: they can't find anyone else to do User Experience full-time, and b: my existing job as a glorified binary tinker is no longer relevant in this helter-skelter world of fast paced telecommunications. This means i have to do more work without a pay rise for the next few months. On the other hand, my job's now pretty safe and because i'm no longer in a team i can work remotely. I'm toying with the idea about spending the odd lazy afternoon in some backwater Holborn coffee shop, tapping into their courtesy wi-fi and scrutinizing important documentation while drinking steaming cups of civet. True, i'd look like a complete douche knocking back lunchtime latte's whilst tapping away on my laptop but at least i wouldn't be stuck in our office with its schizophrenic air-conditioner.
In other news, not one but TWO incidents happened within view of my apartment. The first was someone getting stabbed. The first i heard of this was the sirens waking me whilst in my "dinner recovery" position on the futon. I popped my head out the window and was horrified to see blood on the pavement and police cordoning off the road outside. Several vans had turned up just as the ambulance left and traffic was diverted. As the night sky was lit up with the cold blue light of a dozen high-intensity cop car bubbles, i wondered what it would be like if someone had told me before i was born that i would only live x amount of years before having my life ended by being knifed one evening. I stared at the sprinkles of people being frog-marched out of the local supermarket before it closed early and ducked back into my living room to find some iTunes to cheer me up.
A few days later i was hammering away at a new song i was composing on Renoise. Suddenly, the scream of locked tires combined with a smashing noise awoke me from my daydream of making it big and getting groupies to remove their bras (disturbingly, they started crying as they did so). I looked out the window and saw a motorcyclist attempting to get up from his wrecked motorcycle. He collapsed back onto ground, splayed out just meters from the previous stabbing incident. He was oblivious to the throngs of people trying to find ways to help him.
"Oh, come on!" i yelled, cursing the jinxed public space outside my apartment. I grabbed the phone and called an ambulance.
Again, within minutes, various emergency services trilled their way into position and began the process of stitching together the chaos outside. I tried to focus on my breakbeats and arpeggios (a lost fucking cause given my previous half-arsed attempts to expand my repertoire), but just knowing that there was a mangled human being within 20 meters of my living room was putting me off. God knows what the Met and the paramedics encounter on a daily basis.
But with the rough comes the smooth; there's been some good things happening in my life as well. Neil invited me for a barbecue at his place. His girlfriend Melissa had knocked up a bbq menu of amazing treats - marinated prawn skewers, feta-stuffed peppers and juicy quarter pounders. I remembered the comedy of errors that was Paul's barbecue and made a mental note to ask Neil if Melissa could pass on a few culinary tips, like how to cook sausages without setting fire to them. Neil's cookout was supposed to be vintage-dress, so i turned up in my white suit and was greeted by Neil who looked suspiciously like a "Jazz Queen". Cian was also there, sipping cider and sunning herself as she networked with Neil's friends from home. Good times.
I've also made a fair stab at getting rid of some of the crapola in my house. When i first moved in nearly five years ago, i went through a brief period of trying to transport as much stuff from my parent's house as possible without syphoning out the stuff i didn't need. Anyway, most of this consisted of electrical odds and sods - cables, mostly - and 99% of it ended up in the storage boxes under my bed. Yesterday i decided to rectify the situation and ended up throwing out nearly thirty kilograms of cables and plugs. Audio cables, USB cables, telecom lines, power transformers and various data leads lay curled up and twisted together like gnashing vipers and it took two bin-liners to shift them. And this is the tip of the iceberg - i need to psyche myself up before tackling the carnage inside the storage space in my bedroom.
I think i need a holiday.
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Vanilla Beach 2005 ::
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