Monday, June 15, 2009

9:30-9:35. How was your weekend? It'll take me a weekend to recover! Laugh out loud, they all do. Someone got locked out, it was a nightmare. A crowbar came to the rescue. Cue assorted the-time-I-got-locked-out stories. What a nightmare they all were. She didn't go out cause there was too much hayfever in the air. Everyone knows hayfever's on the rise. We've all got it (I don't, I wouldn't give it the time of day). New haircut! No don't look, it was a nightmare. Everything's a nightmare with these people. No, it makes you look really chic. She looks just the same. I had a blinking illness. What, literally? Eh? Blinking. What? Like... give it a rest. That one in the lift spent Friday putting up a gazebo, as you do. People who say 'as you do'. Sometimes I feel like I've been alive, as in glass-half-dead, for way too long. I'll need a lifetime to recover. Here comes Manhattan Portage poster boy. I'm going to put a poster in the lift, entitled A Guide To Lift Etiquette. Basic stuff for fuckers who barge in, hold the doors open while they finish their phone conversation... oh have a cup of tea and get over yourself. She did what? She watched three Poirots and a Columbo. Even my weekend wasn't that bad.

Friday, June 12, 2009

I love a good tube strike, it's as much a part of summer as Wimbledon (meh) and big Brother (boo). You won't hear me complaining. Some of us can walk eight hours in the hot sun on an inexplicable existential quest, two in the morning murk ain't nothing. My advice (too late) is: don't even think of catching a bus. And don't even think of travelling through Clapham. Or living there.

I did catch a leisurely lunchtime bus recently. It was only a few stops so I sat downstairs at the back facing the rear seats. There were two women in the back row and another one soon sat next to me. After a few seconds she tapped me on the knee. Hello, I thought, hello this doesn't happen every day. Then she pointed at the window, gesturing for me to open it. She thanked me in what I imagined was a Polish accent and I saw the other two women - I'm wildly guessing Spanish and Lebanese - share a smile and a glance in the area behind me. Obviously, I assumed I was the butt of the joke, but it dawned on me that there was an aroma of bin juice wafting back from the trampy fellow in the middle of the bus. The one who looked like he'd spent the last year in a ditch. It was a nice little international moment we shared, though I felt bad for our smelly companion.

Thursday, May 28, 2009

Spotty herbert wears leather fingerless gloves with 'Bullet for my Valentine' metal tags on them. His long, teenage metaller hair sticks out at angles like it's been straightened - badly.

Rock chick's t-shirt says 'Don't hate me cos I'm pretty, hate me cos I've got attitude'. That's attitude with an anarchist A. I don't think pretty in the first place (ooh!). And isn't having 'attitude' merely an excuse for being jolly rude! I say! Young people!

Bloke next to me didn't need to choose that seat, there are plenty of free ones. Why not take a free one with space either side. Can't see what he's reading but he's highlighting phrases and sentences with a green marker pen. I disapprove of mutilating books like this.
Maybe he's a student.
It's no excuse.
You used to do it.
That doesn't make it right.

Lady opposite takes off her trainers and pulls out a pair of leather boots with huge heels from one of her many bags. She zips herself into them. I imagine she's getting into boss mode with her power boots on. I don't have a mode. I need a mode.

Friday, May 15, 2009

Every time I'm watching television with an American, which is virtually never but that's not the point, I say to them Look! Look at our British teeth there on TV! (Of course you have to pick your moment.) There's nothing wrong with them - they're just as good as your American teeth aren't they! Do you agree? DO YOU?! And they have to say yes. They have to agree with me. They will agree with me.

One must fight prejudice wherever one finds it.

Tuesday, May 12, 2009

The train stops. I'm restless. There's a paper on the other side of the woman sitting next to me. Shall I grab it before someone sits there? I might lose my seat. No you won't. Anyway, no one's choosing to sit there. She's bound to pick it up as soon as I stand up. Then I'll have to sit down again. Go on, get it now. Just a second. Oh now she's glancing down at it, not picking it up just glancing. Now she's stopped. Does the glance mean she's staked a claim to it. You could ask her. Don't be absurd. I didn't want to read it anyway. This is symptomatic of everything. Only in this city, at this time in history, in this... oh shut it.

Every morning two schoolgirls stop off for a crafty smoke on the bench of misery. After each drag they gob and hawk like emphysemic old men. I find it strangely delightful. Not so delightful was the face of a man walking towards me today. I caught his eye - at least I think I did - it was swollen and bruised. His skin was grey, except where it was yellow and I thought he was going to tell me to stop staring but he just looked terribly tired and sad. Yes, it was my reflection I saw in his eyes ha ha ha.

Monday, May 11, 2009

Thought for the day: How come, right, how come I really love salt and vinegar on my chips, yeah, like loads of it, the smell and everything, but I can't stand salt and vinegar flavoured crisps? And I love crisps as much as any ten-year-old i.e lots. Get Malcolm Gladwell on the case!

Here we go, day 5060 in the big brother house and I've yet to photocopy my arse or have sex in a stationery cupboard. Malcolm Gladwell, who some say is the world's second worst intellectual, calculates that you need to put in 10,000 hours work to become a world-class expert in something. At an average of travelling 50 minutes each way to work for those 5060 days then, I'm well on my way to racking up the hours and achieving expert status. The precise nature of my field of expertise, however, resists clear definition.

It's a mistake to think about time passed as time past. It's all an illusion baby. That's my contribution. You can join the dots yourself. You get your mind right, you only do two days.

Japanese girl has a tattoo on the side of her foot. There are four words, I can't quite make it out: is it "Shloom mae overkross rases"? Probably not.

A well-groomed, older Italian couple get on and eye me suspiciously. Me! I always imagine the Italians are casting a disparaging eye over the British dress sense. I've got a shirt on, for god's sake, what more do you want.

Look at that guy behind you. He's wearing white fingerless leather gloves, and there are little pointy studs all over the gloves. Otherwise perfectly normal. It gives him a sort of camp biker effect. Cast your eye over that, not me. I'm not going to pickpocket your wife, you don't have to hang on tight to her and stare in my face.

That young man (young man!) sporting his trousers around his knees (deliberately, not in a Nicklas Bentdner style) so he can share his pants with us and a hoodie pulled tight around his weasel face. Look at him! Not me.

Wednesday, May 06, 2009

Take a picture, what for, put it on your blog. About time you wrapped that up. You've got nothing new to say, finish the map and call it a day you sleepwalker you ghost, so tired so drunk so sober so old so hungry so long ladies so long.

What were you talking about with Kelly, the last half hour's a blur, you always say too much, nothing or too much that's why they think you're weird, you are weird, whatever. Don't go to sleep. Maybe the Chinese will still be open, don't go to sleep. Rattling along for once, be back soon.

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