Thursday, December 15, 2005
Wednesday 14.12.05
Apart from having a shit bike, my life is actually enjoyable…for now. A week worthy of note: new characters and events which are to be included in the open book (more like flimsy magazine) that is my life. Just swatted a fly - which ought to be included in this week’s ever-growing list of achievements.
Friday. Around 9, Kingston student union.
“Niko, What would you do If you were the supreme ruler of the world (God forbid).” The on-the-spot, hypothetical quiz I like to engage Niko with – often yielding surprising results…“Everyone would get the same pay”Time to dissect.Me: “No-one would want to do the hard jobs”Prof Niko: “Make them swap after a while”Me: “So the bin man takes over from the brain surgeon does he? “ Excuse me…I haven’t done this before – but I’ll give it a bash””.Niko: “erm… swaps only should occur in the same industry”Niko looks unsteady in his conviction, time to attack from a different angle starting with an innocent change of subject.
“What’s your position on prostitution – do women (or men) have the right to do want they want with their bodies?”Niko “well… in a controlled environment – I don’t see why not”Me “is that part of the job swap?”
A good snippet, these hypothetical debates are good fodder when you try and look interesting to outsiders who sit in groups and can’t muster a sentence between them. Niko’s ex band were playing tonight. He was taking it well. This is a band comprising of his music tech peers, one which he was a member (vocal) and dismissed without the decency of being told, merely phased out of rehearsals. Probably didn’t have the heart to tell him, but still… It annoys me and it made me want them to fuck up. I decided not to fuck them up myself, but to call in some favours from god (maybe induce incontinence or if god asks want I want I’ll say “surprise me”). They even made Niko get up and dance – the ultimate humiliation. “that’s it, dance…” they were thinking as Niko did a turn of rhythmical stooping and pointing which all boys co-ersed on to the dance floor inevitably do. However, the evening was jovial, even more so as the remnants of wealth I possessed were spent on beer. Not enough to induce beer goggles, which would make my new female acquaintances attractive but enough to babble unintelligibly. I decided to do a good deed and offer my profound wisdom on the band. As I’d already announced myself as a composer, they lapped it up like cheap spunk. I told them mostly obvious stuff - like they need a vocalist, a good falsetto male (they were funk/disco). Hooked them up with a guy I work with in my new bar job – this gobby nineteen year old – total tit but good voice. Phew, that’s my good deed over for this year. Hopefully he’ll annoy the hell out of them and give Niko his job back (who didn’t look impressed when I told him). Meh… Still… they invited me back to their party. Where I argued passionately about miking guitar amps only with condensers with this fat bloke who thought he was the nuts. I didn’t really care how’d you’d mike an amp (stick it up your arse!)- but I thought I’d ruffle his feathers a bit for kicks. In fact I was the only interesting person at that party – which is against my golden rule so I left, promptly. Well, would have left promptly if it weren’t for the fact that someone had appeared to have nicked my fucking bag – even though it was surrounded by easily portable, expensive musical equipment. It contained my birth certificate, favourite jumper and a bow tie I had just bought for a whopping nine pounds (for a waitering job). I then spent a good 15 minutes ransacking their house and generally feeling annoyed. Niko had a gone because his girl friend had wanted him back my twelve (curfew); so I left. Cycling home dejected. Niko then rings telling me that he was still at the party and he’d found my bag. Yes! Although I was pissed that I’d spent 20 mins feeling pissed. Good old Niko, risked punishment from girlfriend to stay and find my bag. Plus he got me plasters when he saw me plummet down stairs on my bike (stupid bike!) – that was a few weeks ago. Some hot girl eyes me as talk on my mobile – yes I am cool enough to receive calls in the early hours of the morning.
Few days earlier…
“hello Joseph” “hi”“I’m going to an art exhibition, Kate C----s displaying her work near Sloane square”“Great, can I come?”“yes dear, it’s called g--- ---- on king’s road, so just arrive at six and as I said just walk up kings road from Sloane square underground”
Right then,I had a total of one pound twenty – that’s my entire fortune. I see it as a challenge – like grand theft auto (except without the killing people – well … mostly). Getting into central is easy – no barriers between Hampton court and Waterloo, and never any ticket inspectors. One day I’m going to shout “tickets please” and make everyone shit themselves. From Waterloo to Sloane square slightly more troublesome, but thanks to a stunning girl who gave me 80 pence near the machines – I made it. Feeling Shane's business card in pocket, I resented not having one of my own in such a circumstance. Although, what would it say Joe C--- professional scrounger and pickerup-er? What ever it is – it can’t be as pretentious as Shane’s: “media designer, Audio technician, and composer” he forgot to mention TWAT. It’s in grained gold, plastic –like a bank card (I wouldn’t be surprised to find that it comes with its own fucking account). Fucker. Right just up Sloane square. Okay, walk for ten minutes… no. Mum rings and inform me its number 574, I look at the number of the nearest shop: 56. FUCK. Why did I put dead man shoes on? (charity shop shoes I needed to break in for work). They dug in as I stormed up kings hill and twenty five minutes later - am confronted with a somewhere which is obviously not a fucking art exhibition. 5 mins of wandering and asking strangers for directions and trying a wrong door – a cross-looking Joe enters the building. The pain is soothed by champagne and a kiss from the artist exhibited (“I wouldn’t say no” I thought, as she stroked my cheek and muttered “handsome boy”) A good spread too, only slightly hampered by the presence of both parents thankfully mediated my some women who was talking about stuff. Allowing an off-the-cuff Joe to waltz in and out the conversation as he inspected and sampled the various pate. Then something happened – Alex ----- walked in looking extremely hot. I knocked a plate over and started choking on my pate for ten minutes. Last time I saw Alex, she introduced Biceps or Abs whatever (from five) as her boyfriend. Previously gracing the front of just seventeen a few years back gives you an idea of the hotness of this girl. This reduces me to an incoherent, blushing fool. I always do that. E.g. Once I took a large gulp of boiling coffee right before the first time Mina spoke to me – she spoke, I mostly tried to speak and motioned to my mouth and coffee as tears streamed down my face.
I semi- recovered enough to engage her for the evening. My dad trying to show off - handed me sixty quid in twenties. She left to go on date with new bf (dam) I then met some whippersnappers, who go to Kingston, exchanged numbers and then I buggered off. Went to Garage for change for the bus back (buggered if I’m walking). This big cunt walks in door at the same time. I look up…
“Hello Sol” “After you” Sol Campbell - graceful off the pitch as on it. I fumbled, starstruck, for something to acquire change with. Lion bar? Chewing gum? Yes; wafer strips? No; don’t want to seem totally mental in front of Sol- so I stick with orbit icy white peppermint. The man at the counter obviously doesn’t have a fucking clue makes a joke about charging me extra for being so extravagant; paying for chewing gum with a twenty. Now instead of explaining the principles of consumer economics – I decide to turn a blind eye and said “ Right well if your basing prices on wealth – he’s buggered then!” pointing at the twenty seven million worth of footballer behind me. He laughed. Ha! here’s me hobnobbing with England Internationals- I should made him cross the road into the exhibition and make him pretend he was my friend. No, he would have probably thought I was trying to rape him.
Day after Band party
Another free train ride and trip to Shepard’s bush, to grace Ben M----at his party.
Now this was a Party, everyone witty and beautiful and penguin bars in bountiful supply. Ben’s a lucky cunt; a massive house in Shepard’s bush, his dad’s fucked off to live in France. Here you go son and get all your mates to live there too. I thought yep... I’m living on a boat by myself –an aspiring composer and then meet Ben who puts me in my place by telling me he’s having an interview for a job (his first ever job mind) starting at a lowly 29 grand. Bastard. Nice house mates too. I’d been a fortnight ago for a small dinner party. “yeah all bond girls have a pun in their name…like pussy galore…erm octopussy”“octopussy doesn’t count”Joe interposes with a timely (and particularly loud) “MAYBE IT’S BECAUSE SHE HAD EIGHT CUNT’S?”Possibly my favourite comment of the night. Yes, play the nice boy routine and then drop the word ‘cunt’ in – get their attention. Posing the inevitable question of which one you’d go for.Back to the party – some guy looked really like the main character off of scrubs. Plus, this girl I was chatting up, looked exactly like the girl who played Marty McFlys mum (when he goes back in time- not the fat version). I told her so and she told me I looked like Stringray out of neighbours. Face drops. What? The little annoying guy who looks about twelve? There goes my chances (and self esteem). Ben informs me that I can sleep in his ensuite bath. Mrs Mcfly (Emily – I think) tells me someones been sick in it. Typical, I rant about it to rob (Ben’s house mate) who tells me it was him. Fucker. Nearly everyone came from Bristol – which is amazing as about forty people are there. I thought, shit – if I invited my uni mates to a party – how many would travel the distance? Probably one who was secretly in love with me (that would be awkward). Mcfly’s impressed with my boat living ways, starts winking and feeling me up. Her mate grabs here and says let’s find somewhere to sleep. I ask her if she’s going to bed - she beckons me with her finger. Oh yes… she goes up and then I attempt to go up before being pounced on by Ben (who reminds me of the tiger off of Calvin and Hobbes) Ben and his mates are drunkenly play fighting and have ambushed me. I fight them off, eventually. Then it dawns on me. Where is she? Each room full to the brim with bodies. God – it’s the holocaust all over again! I give up and retire to my lonely bath – least I’m the only person with his own room. Woken in the morning by the giggling of Ben as he walks in imagining me to be asleep. I see through the slits of my eyes as he sits on the toilet. GOD NO! for a good while I thought he was dropping bum spuds in my presence plus leaving without flushing. Thankfully proved wrong as it later turned out that he did it to make less noise and that if was the heater that makes weird shit noises ( I want to believe…). We depart in fine style after a slap up breakfast (which cost me a slap to face, if my face was my wallet). I had to get down to Hove, once again with fuckall money.
Skilfully avoid inspector by jumping into toilet and then pay for the shortest journey at the barrier. Journeys are so much shorter if you don’t have to pay. The family gathering went better than I expected. I was late but in time for the food, which thankfully was bought–in-curry instead of the home-made contrivance of a buffet. Filled my belly and lelt – in and out – you can’t fuck around in these family do’s. One slip and you’ll find yourself trapped in a conversation with Nana (there’s no escape). On the way back – I foolishly opted for the Brighton station. Dismayed – as I had to wait an hour for my train and I’d already told Niko I would be round later to get my bag (with essential bow tie). Someone tries to ask me for change for the ticket booth. Yeah right… I know your game you CUNT. Pay two pounds for the shortest journey and plonk next to toilet for an easy escape. This proved to be a bad move as both ticket collectors are alerted early on to someone smoking in there –they suspected me – I meanwhile pretend to be asleep. If only they could see the bead of sweat which teased across my forehead. I’d never anticipated two. These guys are use to the artful dodger types from Brighton. The woman comes back half an hour later and shouts TICKETS PLEASE practically in my ear. I act dazed and say I don’t have a ticket. She asks me where to. I clutch the seven pounds, in my pocket, I need to buy a waist jacket for this job I have the next day. Shit. I remember the last stop and state it (even though I know she saw me before) and said to Clapham (two stops away). She tells me that a gentleman will shortly come my way. Moments later he does- I let him walk passed before he is called back the woman. Stupid woman! He sits down wearily – we were alone and similar age. We look each other in the face – there’s something in my face which makes him say “I’m sorry – I haven’t got time” amazed I utter a thank you. I didn’t even need to say anything! He just let me off! Skipped successfully all the way back to Hampton court. Knackered, I cycled the seven, hilly miles to Nikos at midnight – with a heavy bag full of equipment he wants back.
After staying round at Nikos – tired from the 100 decibel snoring I managed to make it to my new job of waitering at surrey county council.
Apart from having a shit bike, my life is actually enjoyable…for now. A week worthy of note: new characters and events which are to be included in the open book (more like flimsy magazine) that is my life. Just swatted a fly - which ought to be included in this week’s ever-growing list of achievements.
Friday. Around 9, Kingston student union.
“Niko, What would you do If you were the supreme ruler of the world (God forbid).” The on-the-spot, hypothetical quiz I like to engage Niko with – often yielding surprising results…“Everyone would get the same pay”Time to dissect.Me: “No-one would want to do the hard jobs”Prof Niko: “Make them swap after a while”Me: “So the bin man takes over from the brain surgeon does he? “ Excuse me…I haven’t done this before – but I’ll give it a bash””.Niko: “erm… swaps only should occur in the same industry”Niko looks unsteady in his conviction, time to attack from a different angle starting with an innocent change of subject.
“What’s your position on prostitution – do women (or men) have the right to do want they want with their bodies?”Niko “well… in a controlled environment – I don’t see why not”Me “is that part of the job swap?”
A good snippet, these hypothetical debates are good fodder when you try and look interesting to outsiders who sit in groups and can’t muster a sentence between them. Niko’s ex band were playing tonight. He was taking it well. This is a band comprising of his music tech peers, one which he was a member (vocal) and dismissed without the decency of being told, merely phased out of rehearsals. Probably didn’t have the heart to tell him, but still… It annoys me and it made me want them to fuck up. I decided not to fuck them up myself, but to call in some favours from god (maybe induce incontinence or if god asks want I want I’ll say “surprise me”). They even made Niko get up and dance – the ultimate humiliation. “that’s it, dance…” they were thinking as Niko did a turn of rhythmical stooping and pointing which all boys co-ersed on to the dance floor inevitably do. However, the evening was jovial, even more so as the remnants of wealth I possessed were spent on beer. Not enough to induce beer goggles, which would make my new female acquaintances attractive but enough to babble unintelligibly. I decided to do a good deed and offer my profound wisdom on the band. As I’d already announced myself as a composer, they lapped it up like cheap spunk. I told them mostly obvious stuff - like they need a vocalist, a good falsetto male (they were funk/disco). Hooked them up with a guy I work with in my new bar job – this gobby nineteen year old – total tit but good voice. Phew, that’s my good deed over for this year. Hopefully he’ll annoy the hell out of them and give Niko his job back (who didn’t look impressed when I told him). Meh… Still… they invited me back to their party. Where I argued passionately about miking guitar amps only with condensers with this fat bloke who thought he was the nuts. I didn’t really care how’d you’d mike an amp (stick it up your arse!)- but I thought I’d ruffle his feathers a bit for kicks. In fact I was the only interesting person at that party – which is against my golden rule so I left, promptly. Well, would have left promptly if it weren’t for the fact that someone had appeared to have nicked my fucking bag – even though it was surrounded by easily portable, expensive musical equipment. It contained my birth certificate, favourite jumper and a bow tie I had just bought for a whopping nine pounds (for a waitering job). I then spent a good 15 minutes ransacking their house and generally feeling annoyed. Niko had a gone because his girl friend had wanted him back my twelve (curfew); so I left. Cycling home dejected. Niko then rings telling me that he was still at the party and he’d found my bag. Yes! Although I was pissed that I’d spent 20 mins feeling pissed. Good old Niko, risked punishment from girlfriend to stay and find my bag. Plus he got me plasters when he saw me plummet down stairs on my bike (stupid bike!) – that was a few weeks ago. Some hot girl eyes me as talk on my mobile – yes I am cool enough to receive calls in the early hours of the morning.
Few days earlier…
“hello Joseph” “hi”“I’m going to an art exhibition, Kate C----s displaying her work near Sloane square”“Great, can I come?”“yes dear, it’s called g--- ---- on king’s road, so just arrive at six and as I said just walk up kings road from Sloane square underground”
Right then,I had a total of one pound twenty – that’s my entire fortune. I see it as a challenge – like grand theft auto (except without the killing people – well … mostly). Getting into central is easy – no barriers between Hampton court and Waterloo, and never any ticket inspectors. One day I’m going to shout “tickets please” and make everyone shit themselves. From Waterloo to Sloane square slightly more troublesome, but thanks to a stunning girl who gave me 80 pence near the machines – I made it. Feeling Shane's business card in pocket, I resented not having one of my own in such a circumstance. Although, what would it say Joe C--- professional scrounger and pickerup-er? What ever it is – it can’t be as pretentious as Shane’s: “media designer, Audio technician, and composer” he forgot to mention TWAT. It’s in grained gold, plastic –like a bank card (I wouldn’t be surprised to find that it comes with its own fucking account). Fucker. Right just up Sloane square. Okay, walk for ten minutes… no. Mum rings and inform me its number 574, I look at the number of the nearest shop: 56. FUCK. Why did I put dead man shoes on? (charity shop shoes I needed to break in for work). They dug in as I stormed up kings hill and twenty five minutes later - am confronted with a somewhere which is obviously not a fucking art exhibition. 5 mins of wandering and asking strangers for directions and trying a wrong door – a cross-looking Joe enters the building. The pain is soothed by champagne and a kiss from the artist exhibited (“I wouldn’t say no” I thought, as she stroked my cheek and muttered “handsome boy”) A good spread too, only slightly hampered by the presence of both parents thankfully mediated my some women who was talking about stuff. Allowing an off-the-cuff Joe to waltz in and out the conversation as he inspected and sampled the various pate. Then something happened – Alex ----- walked in looking extremely hot. I knocked a plate over and started choking on my pate for ten minutes. Last time I saw Alex, she introduced Biceps or Abs whatever (from five) as her boyfriend. Previously gracing the front of just seventeen a few years back gives you an idea of the hotness of this girl. This reduces me to an incoherent, blushing fool. I always do that. E.g. Once I took a large gulp of boiling coffee right before the first time Mina spoke to me – she spoke, I mostly tried to speak and motioned to my mouth and coffee as tears streamed down my face.
I semi- recovered enough to engage her for the evening. My dad trying to show off - handed me sixty quid in twenties. She left to go on date with new bf (dam) I then met some whippersnappers, who go to Kingston, exchanged numbers and then I buggered off. Went to Garage for change for the bus back (buggered if I’m walking). This big cunt walks in door at the same time. I look up…
“Hello Sol” “After you” Sol Campbell - graceful off the pitch as on it. I fumbled, starstruck, for something to acquire change with. Lion bar? Chewing gum? Yes; wafer strips? No; don’t want to seem totally mental in front of Sol- so I stick with orbit icy white peppermint. The man at the counter obviously doesn’t have a fucking clue makes a joke about charging me extra for being so extravagant; paying for chewing gum with a twenty. Now instead of explaining the principles of consumer economics – I decide to turn a blind eye and said “ Right well if your basing prices on wealth – he’s buggered then!” pointing at the twenty seven million worth of footballer behind me. He laughed. Ha! here’s me hobnobbing with England Internationals- I should made him cross the road into the exhibition and make him pretend he was my friend. No, he would have probably thought I was trying to rape him.
Day after Band party
Another free train ride and trip to Shepard’s bush, to grace Ben M----at his party.
Now this was a Party, everyone witty and beautiful and penguin bars in bountiful supply. Ben’s a lucky cunt; a massive house in Shepard’s bush, his dad’s fucked off to live in France. Here you go son and get all your mates to live there too. I thought yep... I’m living on a boat by myself –an aspiring composer and then meet Ben who puts me in my place by telling me he’s having an interview for a job (his first ever job mind) starting at a lowly 29 grand. Bastard. Nice house mates too. I’d been a fortnight ago for a small dinner party. “yeah all bond girls have a pun in their name…like pussy galore…erm octopussy”“octopussy doesn’t count”Joe interposes with a timely (and particularly loud) “MAYBE IT’S BECAUSE SHE HAD EIGHT CUNT’S?”Possibly my favourite comment of the night. Yes, play the nice boy routine and then drop the word ‘cunt’ in – get their attention. Posing the inevitable question of which one you’d go for.Back to the party – some guy looked really like the main character off of scrubs. Plus, this girl I was chatting up, looked exactly like the girl who played Marty McFlys mum (when he goes back in time- not the fat version). I told her so and she told me I looked like Stringray out of neighbours. Face drops. What? The little annoying guy who looks about twelve? There goes my chances (and self esteem). Ben informs me that I can sleep in his ensuite bath. Mrs Mcfly (Emily – I think) tells me someones been sick in it. Typical, I rant about it to rob (Ben’s house mate) who tells me it was him. Fucker. Nearly everyone came from Bristol – which is amazing as about forty people are there. I thought, shit – if I invited my uni mates to a party – how many would travel the distance? Probably one who was secretly in love with me (that would be awkward). Mcfly’s impressed with my boat living ways, starts winking and feeling me up. Her mate grabs here and says let’s find somewhere to sleep. I ask her if she’s going to bed - she beckons me with her finger. Oh yes… she goes up and then I attempt to go up before being pounced on by Ben (who reminds me of the tiger off of Calvin and Hobbes) Ben and his mates are drunkenly play fighting and have ambushed me. I fight them off, eventually. Then it dawns on me. Where is she? Each room full to the brim with bodies. God – it’s the holocaust all over again! I give up and retire to my lonely bath – least I’m the only person with his own room. Woken in the morning by the giggling of Ben as he walks in imagining me to be asleep. I see through the slits of my eyes as he sits on the toilet. GOD NO! for a good while I thought he was dropping bum spuds in my presence plus leaving without flushing. Thankfully proved wrong as it later turned out that he did it to make less noise and that if was the heater that makes weird shit noises ( I want to believe…). We depart in fine style after a slap up breakfast (which cost me a slap to face, if my face was my wallet). I had to get down to Hove, once again with fuckall money.
Skilfully avoid inspector by jumping into toilet and then pay for the shortest journey at the barrier. Journeys are so much shorter if you don’t have to pay. The family gathering went better than I expected. I was late but in time for the food, which thankfully was bought–in-curry instead of the home-made contrivance of a buffet. Filled my belly and lelt – in and out – you can’t fuck around in these family do’s. One slip and you’ll find yourself trapped in a conversation with Nana (there’s no escape). On the way back – I foolishly opted for the Brighton station. Dismayed – as I had to wait an hour for my train and I’d already told Niko I would be round later to get my bag (with essential bow tie). Someone tries to ask me for change for the ticket booth. Yeah right… I know your game you CUNT. Pay two pounds for the shortest journey and plonk next to toilet for an easy escape. This proved to be a bad move as both ticket collectors are alerted early on to someone smoking in there –they suspected me – I meanwhile pretend to be asleep. If only they could see the bead of sweat which teased across my forehead. I’d never anticipated two. These guys are use to the artful dodger types from Brighton. The woman comes back half an hour later and shouts TICKETS PLEASE practically in my ear. I act dazed and say I don’t have a ticket. She asks me where to. I clutch the seven pounds, in my pocket, I need to buy a waist jacket for this job I have the next day. Shit. I remember the last stop and state it (even though I know she saw me before) and said to Clapham (two stops away). She tells me that a gentleman will shortly come my way. Moments later he does- I let him walk passed before he is called back the woman. Stupid woman! He sits down wearily – we were alone and similar age. We look each other in the face – there’s something in my face which makes him say “I’m sorry – I haven’t got time” amazed I utter a thank you. I didn’t even need to say anything! He just let me off! Skipped successfully all the way back to Hampton court. Knackered, I cycled the seven, hilly miles to Nikos at midnight – with a heavy bag full of equipment he wants back.
After staying round at Nikos – tired from the 100 decibel snoring I managed to make it to my new job of waitering at surrey county council.
# posted by Some Cleverly Ironic Name : 1:29 PM
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Sweet Chickencrap, you're back!!!!!!! Long time, no don't see you anyway because it's the Internet. How's the crack market? Seriously though, is everything alright. You want me to send you a Doctor Phil talking action figure? His action is talking.
Hey no, thats ok - I'm not into that voodoo stuff. (let nature take it's course)
When i get internet on my boat i'll get back to old blog-crazy routine
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When i get internet on my boat i'll get back to old blog-crazy routine
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