Ritual Landscape

2009-06-15T12:36:00.002+01:00

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.

2009-06-12T11:34:00.001+01:00

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.

2009-05-28T11:47:00.001+01:00

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.

2009-05-15T11:06:00.000+01:00

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.

2009-05-12T12:14:00.001+01:00

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.

2009-05-12T12:13:00.001+01:00

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.

2009-05-11T14:24:00.001+01:00

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!

2009-05-11T12:32:00.000+01:00

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.

2009-05-06T10:19:00.003+01:00

2009-05-06T10:19:00.001+01:00

2009-05-06T10:16:00.000+01:00

2009-05-06T10:15:00.002+01:00

2009-05-06T10:15:00.001+01:00

2009-05-06T10:14:00.000+01:00

2009-05-06T10:13:00.000+01:00

2009-05-06T09:08:00.000+01:00

2009-05-01T16:08:00.000+01:00

Russian princess all in white (orange face, one artful rip in her jeans, tiny leather jacket), Radovan Karadzic no longer in disguise, a young man sporting a pointy beard and moustache combo (needs a shiny top hat and he could join the circus), student boy with his untidy hair - my hair's untidy but his looks great how come I'll tell you how come yours isn't untidy it's ruined thank you for clearing that up, pixie girl with an ash blonde crop and the gamine look, a lady who looks like she does a lot for charity, and me. White trainers are popular. So are portable scriptures and Stephen King. Pixie girl rolls a cigarette and recites something to herself. I can't hear what, obviously, I'm away in a world of my own.

2009-05-01T14:38:00.000+01:00

Everyone's in a lather about the swine flu. I think we're secretly very excited about the prospect of a pandemic. It's a lovely word, pandemic, and at least if it happens - which it won't - it'll bring us all together. Maybe there's some displaced masochism or frustration that the credit crunch and climate change haven't actually brought about the collapse of society. I haven't worked out how Susan Boyle fits into it all yet.

I was in Mexico recently but I don't think I'm a danger to the public. Still, I'd love an excuse to wear one of those masks. Wouldn't be so keen on the latex gloves but it's a sacrifice I'd be willing to make for the good of humanity.

2009-05-01T14:17:00.000+01:00

Do they still do that thing in the Olympics where the host country has a demonstration sport, something they're keen to show the rest of the world? I'm going to write to Lord Sebastian Coe suggesting we have a texting-while-walking-through-large-crowds event in 2012. The two key reasons are: every single person in Britain does it all day long, and no one is any good at it. So if we can start getting some proper training in now, we'll be world beaters in three years' time.

Flippant, fatuous nonsense you say. And you'd be right.

My point remains.

2009-04-23T11:46:00.001+01:00

2009-04-23T11:44:00.000+01:00

Are you demob happy, she asked? Yes I am briefly wallowing in the realm known as Beyond Caring. To celebrate, I turned off my alarm and just... got up when I felt like it. Crazy behaviour I know. Is there a National No Watch day, when you refuse to be ruled by the clock. Sensible people might have their objections but it'd be worth a try. Eat when you're hungry, sleep when you're tired, turn up to work when it suits you. Blog when you have something to say.

Come on, you must have seen something of note lately...

I saw Leigh Francis (Avid Merrion, Keith Lemon) talking on his phone near Charing Cross Road. I heard his voice first and thought hey that sounds like... and it was.

Last night I saw an urban fox, lit up in someone's headlights. It scampered towards some bins, and blended into the night.

A German approached me at Tower Hill. 'Did you find it?' he muttered. I was startled and guilty (pretty much my default state anyway) and expected him to follow up with 'Is it safe?' But he didn't.

2009-04-22T08:06:00.001+01:00

Every day in every way things are getting better and better.

2009-04-21T16:23:00.000+01:00

2009-04-21T11:39:00.000+01:00

They're all piling in late with delay rage. Oh people people, rage is so 2006. I'm all smug after taking an alternate route. Also, I had the last tea bag and I finished off the biscuits so fuck you jack. Now they're comparing details. I'm not interested in the details. I'm dreaming of escape. I'm being transferred next week - it'll be like going from Man Utd to Barnsley but hey, I haven't been relegated yet. I'm going to change my sig to Lester Freamon, Pawn Shop Unit.

2009-04-14T16:27:00.001+01:00

Venturing out upon the sun-dappled April morn with a song in his heart and a skip in his step, young Applenorth felt refreshed, relaxed and raring to go following his Easter break, eager to resume the nationally important work he was employed to perform. But before he could embark on the latest chapter in his glorious career, he had to navigate the vagaries of the London Underground transport system. Now read on dot dot dot.

2009-04-09T12:31:00.001+01:00

- Morning Helen, it's Mark here.
- Oh hello. Is there something wrong?
- Yes, I won't be coming in to work today.
- What's the matter?
- The sky's very grey. And it looks a bit windy.
- Right...
- And I just don't fancy it. I'm very sensitive to slight changes in the weather, as you know.
- Yes but you-
- See you next week then. Bye.

2009-04-07T22:28:00.000+01:00

"Western Lowland gorillas typically spend around 30% of the day eating, 40% resting, and 30% travelling."

Sounds about right.

2009-04-07T16:17:00.002+01:00

I had some kind of middle-aged body dysmorphia assault of the vapours this morning. All my clothes were wrong, but mostly it was my face. And all the various body parts. I spent ages getting ready, dressing and undressing, and staring in the mirror. I can't inflict this hideous vision on the world, I thought! Give me six months off work (preferably out of this country too) and I'll get back in shape, no problem. Not going to happen. Come on you old tart, it's getting late. Let's just... this'll do.

After I calmed down, I decided it was time for a haircut at least. Last time I had one, I recall sitting there - feeling like a five year-old, as we always do in the barber's chair - and examining the pictures of the establishment's celebrity clients. There was a signed postcard of Neil Sean, the nation's premier showbiz reporter. Jennifer and Posh and Madge are always calling him up with their secrets. He's on breakfast telly sometimes, looking orange and giving you the latest insider celebrity gossip. All of it complete bollocks.

Next to showbiz guru Neil Sean who the stars all talk to first was an actor who I didn't recognise. It was a publicity shot of him from Robin Hood or Merlin. One of those things. Why do they keep making new versions of those tedious old myths. We'll never be rid of them. Sherlock Holmes and James Bond as well. Version after version. They all say something about England perhaps. Not something I want to keep hearing about.

And then, high up above them, faded and framed, was a photo of Public Image Limited. I tried to see who'd signed it but couldn't make it out. Had John come in here for a short back and sides some time in 1984? Seemed unlikely. Perhaps Wobble had popped in or one of the others. Whoever it was, had the barbers recognised him and asked for a photo? How do these things work? In between taking calls on his mobile, my hairdresser kept pushing my head down - they don't like it when you don't keep still. Anyway, well done me on still needing haircuts.

2009-04-06T17:10:00.000+01:00

2009-04-06T12:37:00.000+01:00

The three Rs - ritual ritual ritual. Or underground, worklife and dreamland. I've said enough about the first. The middle one I steer away from on grounds of privacy. The last one is thorny territory. Nobody wants to hear about my dreams - not even me. But there is this thing that bugs me, man. There's no such thing as silence. There's always a hiss. Is it the inner ear, the pulse of your blood like the hum of a fridge, the accumulated acoustic minutiae of the city outside your window, or as I like to believe the echo of the big bang - the sound of the universe itself relentlessly expanding. The more you zone in on it, the more obvious it becomes. Especially at night, in the dark, when there's nothing else to get in the way. Since I first noticed it as a child, I'm ruling out music-related tinnitus. It's a thin static whine - your very own version of Metal Machine Music - which the brain usually stops you from noticing. It's like that subterranean, nagging voice you block out that asks when your life is going to begin, or when it ended, and when you're going to be the person you want to be, and why you never did - all at the same time. Which is easily be blotted out by the standard distractions.

2009-04-06T12:36:00.000+01:00

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that every single neighbourhood in London, must sooner or later be in want of a good digging up.

2009-03-31T12:40:00.002+01:00

I am officially Britain's oldest man and, as such, it's rather dangerous to subject me to a sudden shock twice in one morning. First off, I was heading towards the Purple Beacon of Hope when it was time to cross the road. I checked behind, to my right, and as nothing was coming I stepped out when WHOOOOSHHHHHHH some raging maniac was overtaking at about 60 on the wrong side of the road. Of course I was in a world of my own (no change there) and had the music on loud (or there) so it gave me a minor palpitation. Also I missed a perfect opportunity to give him 'the finger' not that he'd have been looking in his rear-view mirror anyway.

Later on I was sitting peacefully on the tube, when a young man - a standee if you will - lost his balance and ended up elbowing me in the head. He apologised (not profusely) and I gave him a look. Oh he got a look all right. 'Young man', I said, like the ghost of Brian Clough, 'Young man. If you really must use two hands to text and you don't hold on to something what do you expect when the train takes a sudden turn -' but he'd gone by then.

Anyway, even though I am officially Britain's oldest man, last week I scored four goals in four minutes. Four nil it was, after four minutes. I could draw you a picture of each goal if you'd like. No one had ever seen anything like it, not even the ghost of Brian Clough, or poor lost Michael Owen. I was rather overcome by it all and had to go in goal to recover.

2009-03-24T14:42:00.000Z

On the way to the tube, I walk down a long and grim road where the sun never shines. Wrong aspect + tall buildings. Recently, 'they' must have erected a roadsign at the junction with the road that the station's on. A road with the correct aspect for the sun to blaze down upon in the morning because it catches the roadsign and sends a strange purple beam up the grim road. It's like a beacon of hope in monochrome world. Drawing me in, a moth to the flame.

Walking down that road yesterday, I passed Uncle Fester (semi-recurring character) for the first time in many months. He's a very grey fellow, and gave no indication that he recognised me. No reason why he should, it was 13 years ago since we worked in the same office. Not even on the same project. I was introduced to a mildly well-known person last week. We'd met before but he gave no indication that he remembered. Again, there's no reason why he should, he probably meets 10 new people every day. You can't keep all of them in your mind and I do my best not to make any impression on people. It's the least I can do.

In summary, shiny totem pole + approach of BST = spring in the step.

2009-03-24T12:14:00.000Z

A crowd of about 20 stood in front of the lift which, I could see through the small window, was present and waiting at the top of the station. A leader of men, I strode to the front of the unmoving group and pressed the button. The doors opened and we all filed in.

At the bottom, I saw that the next train was due in six minutes. A perky announcer informed us that 'a good service was running and no delays were being reported.' I wondered if, as a leader of men (and women), this was my cue to press that big blue HELP button or whatever the thing's called, and report a delay. Perhaps using a sarcastic tone. Six minutes! Do you have any idea how long that is in the morning? Instead, I went to the other platform and caught a train going in the opposite, 'wrong' direction. I mean it's not entirely wrong, but it's too tedious to explain.

And you'd know all about tedium wouldn't you.

2009-02-18T15:52:00.000Z

I'm a bit backed up with the random observations.

1. Monday morning there were two women curled up on the platform being attended to by station staff. Had they both fainted independently?

2. The fantastic goth-punk couple, all purple mohicans and multiple piercings, shredded clothes, huge boots and both at least 50.

3: Celebrity passengers (brief return): Donald Sutherland, Andie MacDowell, Jude Law.

4. Has a scientific study been made into the curious psychological effect that occurs when using a stationary escalator. You know it's not moving but you can't help experience a little lurch when you step on or off, as if your escalator memory expects a readjustment that doesn't happen.

5. You wore an 'I love Hackney' badge and were reading a discarded New York Times.

6. The limoncello girl. I'm not going to go into that. That really is the oldest of old news by now. She dropped something. I handed it back to her. Our eyes met. Move on. Get a life. Just do it. Do the math. Talk to the hand. Enjoy your life.

7. Is it too late to weigh in with an opinion about the Atheist Bus?
Yes.
I know, but let me just say, for the record, that I think it's silly and it doesn't work on any level. And I can prove it.
Thank you, that has been entered on your record.

8 Brazil v Italy day. The tubes were clogged. And rammed. I let about six go past then decided to leave the station and get a bus or two before travel rage destroyed me. All the way home I saw groups of Italians (boys mainly) and Brazilians (girls mainly) running in the vague direction of the stadium having given up on public transport.

9. We had some snow didn't we. I enjoyed that. I made it into work like an obedient little slave. Unlike some!

10. I'm falling into deeper and deeper sleeps on the way home and have missed my stop three times this year. Compare that with an estimate of three times in the last five years. Do that math!
You need a holiday.
I know. I'm going!
When?
Very soon!
Go on then.

2009-02-18T14:25:00.001Z

The heating engineer comes in and waves his digital thermometer round the new office. It's 30 degrees. Have you tried opening the windows? They don't open. Have you tried playing with the thermostats? We have. He shrugs and says he'll have a think.

2009-02-18T14:24:00.000Z

Hello, Renee Zellweger here. I'm new in town. I was held up due to the service being regulated. They're doing that on the buses these days. I spluttered when it was announced. Since when do buses just sit waiting at a stop to regulate the service. Perhaps I should get out more.

Also, where have those buses gone with the video screen on the top deck? It showed an entertainment video package, perhaps to pacify its 'customers', mainly consisting of an endless loop of the chandelier scene from Only Foold and Horses. 'Brace yourself Rodney.' Hysterical laughter. 'Brace yourself Rodney.' Hysterical laughter. 'Brace yourself Rodney.' Hysterical laughter...

2009-02-18T14:22:00.000Z

Idea for new blog: "You're getting really old and you're still not a famous pop star." Subtitle: "The catastrophe of my personality."

2009-01-07T10:24:00.000Z

Prepare to shed a tear... This time last week, as I sat wrapped in a sleeping bag in front of the telly, there was a knock at my door. I opened it to see four revellers, young ladies draped in tinsel and armed with bottles of booze. Thank you little lord Jesus, I thought, for answering my prayers. But then they realised they had the wrong address and shuffled back towards the gate. 'Please don't go,' I croaked, 'I have sherry and mince pies.' But they left rapidly, without so much as an apology or an explanation. 'I've got some crackers as well. Not biscuit crackers, but... oh. Goodbye ladies, goodbye.' By which time they'd well and truly fucked off and I'd missed the end of The Weakest Link's West End Musicals Special.

2009-01-06T16:34:00.003Z

Seasonal song for Bjork to sing

Bitterly cold bitterly cold
Throw all your windows open!
Bitterly cold bitterly cold
Take all your clothes off!

2009-01-06T16:34:00.001Z

Part 2.

Do you know what's up with my phone - other than it's s**** and needs replacing? Every time I turn it off it turns itself on again and pretends to be charging even though it's not plugged in?

Morris dancing in decline, trumpets round the clock news. I think this is one of the key things Nostradamus predicted would herald the final chapter in humanity's inglorious reign.

I can't do "joined up thinking" at the moment - my pretty little head's all of a flutter.

Where's the Ayatollah Khomeini now we need him?

2009-01-06T10:18:00.000Z

Part 1.

Some people walk past you with a slouch and a muffled thud a sigh and a purse at the ready. If their sleeve touches the back of my chair again...

'She's the most annoying person in the world, you should f****** sack her. Everyone thinks she's a c***. Tell her to f*** off back to C*****. I'll support you if she goes to HR.'

'Why do all your sporty mates have such w**** names? Wiggsy, Biggsy, Churchy, Wurchy, they sound like the f****** Teletubbies.'

I am experimenting with non-explicit language, in the tabloid way whereby you still know exactly what I'm saying. Don't ask me why. It's early and the spleen needs warming up.

Not that I'm cold - what happened to minus ten? I was all prepared for the post-apocalyptic conditions, but it's rather pleasant out there. Maybe it's the London micro-climate.

Everyone's finally back from their Christmas breaks and asking each other how they are, what they did and where they went. Like, dude, don't speak to me about that. New Year's was like, weeks ago and some of us have been here all along. I haven't even been coughing my guts up like everyone else. Listen to them. It's like a b******* hospital in here.

2009-01-05T17:28:00.001Z

2008-12-15T15:06:00.011Z

I took some pictures while I was waiting. If you asked me what qualities I look for in a partner, I'd keep the list nice and simple. 'Just be on time.'

2008-11-27T23:26:00.004Z

'Bright lights' was written on her handbag 12 times, exciting old 'Bright lights' yeah! Although sometimes it was 'Brig Lihgts'. Plus, there was the word 'phospheoresceunt'.

Yeah and SO WHAT? Pointing this out IN THE CURRENT CLIMATE makes me the XXXXXXXX XXXX.

Sometimes you have to ask myself... are you the solution or are you the problem?

I know what I am!

2008-11-27T12:15:00.001Z

'You XXXXXXX! You XXXXXXX!'
Oh here we go.
'Don't you XXXXXXX come near me you XXXX. You XXXX!'
I bet it's the party girl flat.
'You're a XXXXXXX wrong 'un, you are! You're a XXXXXXX wrong 'un, you are!'
She's one of those people who say everything twice, a repeat talker.
'You're not XXXXXXX coming in! XXXX off!'
Everyone must be awake now, it really echoes down there.
'Don't you ever XXXXXXX come round here again!'
Oh she's really laying into him, he's not even defending himself.
'Come here now you little XXXX!'
Now the older woman's getting involved.
'XXXXXXX get away from her! Don't you XXXXXXX go near her!'
Four more of them along the walkway, all yelling their heads off.
'You're a XXXX d'you hear! A XXXXXXX XXXX!'
Why doesn't he just go away, he's not coming in.
'Shut up you XXXX! I'm not listening to you, you total XXXXXXX XXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX piece of XXXXXXX XXXX!'
Where's my gun? this really is when you need to -
'You're a XXXXXXX dirty, lying XXXX!'
It's three o'clock. Don't you people have any concept -
'You're a XXXXXXX XXXXX runt! You ain't a real man!'
I bet Annie's called the police already.
'Don't walk away from me now. XXXXXXX get inside!'
Make your mind up.
Oh, they've all gone inside.
They've all come out again.
'Mum! Mum! Mum! Mum! No Mum! No Mum, XXXXXXX get indoors now, it's not your XXXXXXX problem!'
Now everyone's running up and down the stairwell, all getting involved.
All of them texting continually. That's the modern way of course.
'I won't tell you again, I will not XXXXXXX tell you again...'
Oh you will, you'll tell everyone everything again and again and again and no one will pay any attention to a single word of it.
'XXXX! XXXX! XXXX! That's all you are - a XXXX!'
This is the sort of thing that gives alcohol a bad name.
'Open the XXXXXXX door! Open the XXXXXXX door! Open the XXXXXXX door! XXXXXXX let me in! Open the XXXXXXX door!'

It went on forever. The police came twice. They were very calm and reasonable (rather too reasonable for my liking). I thought about sending a strongly-worded letter to the party girl flat, suggesting that they owe every local resident a sincere apology for this outrageous disturbance in the middle of the night but I did no such thing. I just stewed a bit and wrote this, like a XXXXXXX XXXX.

2008-11-23T17:38:00.001Z

2008-11-19T11:45:00.001Z

I can feel you all undressing me with your eyes. Yes, I do exude a powerful aura of sexual energy this morning. But you can't all have me! You'll just have to wait your turn! If only you could see beyond my spellbinding good looks and realise than I have possess brain powder as well. Will you stop looking down my shirt? I insist you take me seriously! Go on. Take me. Seriously.

I'm looking at you, blinding light - the low sun in the sky whacking its vitamins straight into my third eye, stimulating the old glands into a frenzy. Oh grant me one last hurrah before darkness falls forever. And let it be disgraceful.

Meanwhile:
coughing fits
unattended mobiles
stompy boots
walking too close behind me
humming
conference calls

Surveillance:
The Three Old Heavies: sitting in a row, suited and booted, cracking their knuckles and fiddling with their collars. They all looked like Joe Kinnear.

Sharp featured dude reads his paper over a big yellow bucket resting on a briefcase. Will he be shaking it later?

Guy next to me reading a paperback. A fellow named Tank was covered in blood and refusing to talk. There was a lot of bad language. Any ideas?

Salt and vinegar crisp man next to me chomping his way through TWO PACKETS spreading his acrid smell right up my nose, perhaps unaware of the please consider your fellow passenger campaign.

Consider: a trail of After Eight Mint wrappers stuck to the pavement on a grim local street... a sign that the neighbourhood is taking an upward turn? Long overdue a spot of urban gentrification. Retail premises undergo refurbishment and I think oh let it be an organic poetry cafe, or an elegant boutique selling one jaw-droppingly expensive scarf, but no it's another fucking fried chicken outlet. And I like fried chicken A LOT.

See also:
clampdown
windpipe
pirates
watchdog
vilification
pledge

2008-11-15T10:45:00.002Z

2008-11-10T14:26:00.002Z

He appears at the end of the carriage and holds up a stencilled piece of card over his chest, upon which has been written in a strange stencil script: "I suffered 80 per cent burns after being doused in petrol and set on fire." He holds out a cup, rattle it and repeats the words on the card in a robotic voice. No one responds. "You can say No. It's nicer you say No to me than say nothing."

2008-11-10T14:19:00.001Z

Monday morning tube traipse:

A football sticker of Danny Shittu rain plastered to the pavement.

A huge truck with wooden panelling pulling an emormous trailer. It reads 'Der grosse Irrgarten'.

An old gent with a small yellow ponytail carrying an Unlock Democracy (Charter 88) shoulder bag.

2008-11-06T12:34:00.002Z

Welcome to the cynical, nihilistic pyjama wearing game of blogging. Its key aims are 1. letting off steam
2. shooting the shit
3. talking to yourself and
4. being an epic fail lolcats talklikeapirate hipster doofus.

I really want to have a little nap right now.

Just. Put my head down. For a long long rest.

2008-11-06T11:37:00.001Z

Two things I'd write letters of complaint about if I was a green penned cheese and whine monkey. 1) The style of captions in Short List magazine. Not clever, not funny. 2) Roadworks. Where do I begin? When will they ever end more like! I mean have you seen them! Of course you have! Name me one road in the whole of London that isn't being permanently dug up! My point exactly. Someone should write a frothing single-issue obsessive blog about roadworks. I wouldn't read it, but I'd feel mildly reassured to know it was out there.

YES WHY NOT TALK REALLY LOUDLY ON THE PHONE ALL DAY REPEATING THE SAME PHRASES OVER AND OVER AGAIN.

A heady cocktail of smells from my fellow inmates. Coconut hair gunk mingles with curry inspired flatulence. Are either of them emanating from me you ask? How dare you!

PICK IT UP PICK IT UP NOW TAKE IT WITH YOU AND GET OUT OF MY SIGHT DON'T DROP IT AGAIN WHAT IS THE MATTER WITH YOU.

Triggering/ the unconscious power-er-errrrr

'Oh my journey home last was an absolute nightmare.'
'Nightmare nightmare!'
'The Victoria Line was down, it was an total shambles.'
'Shambles shambles!'
'Are you all right?'
'I'm all right son, the question is are you all right?'
' ? '

Vaseline applying women weave all over the pavement in the same manner as out of control texters.

Please don't let me become this fellow I saw the other night. He was a ranting hobbit in the mid 40s - so far so guilty - with long hair and a smashed in shovel face - jury's out - who was banging on the windows and screaming at the passengers on a packed train. 'Why don't you ----- move down inside! There's plenty of room. Look at you! You make me sick. You ----! You bunch of selfish ----!'

An elegant woman actually placed her hands over her daughter's ears. She tutted quite forcefully in his general direction.

I mean, hey man, we've all got issues but come on buddy, this is no way to behave! On one hand, he was given a very wide berth. On the other, he still didn't get on. It was sardine city, as I overheard some tube-wit saying. Where:

A (the wit of the terraces) x B (the Blitz spirit) = C (a solid mass of spluttering tedious wankers among which, for the sake of democracy and full disclosure of one's assets, one must include oneself.)

Versions of this post were previously broadcast in October 2005, March 2006 and August 2007.

2008-10-24T16:14:00.001+01:00

2008-10-20T14:33:00.002+01:00

I am at my workstation. I am all present and correct. My irritability keeps me alive.
Tried a new route to work, the third way. Took 15 minutes longer but was less crowded. Further research is required before an official statement will be released to the press.

Whilst exploring this new option, received a free pack of Omega-3 capsules as recommended by David Beckham. 'Put goodness in to get a head start. GO FOR IT!' he advises me. But where is the goodness really David, where is the humanity. On a featureless mothball day like today.

A blank slate sky lends a corresponding absence of spirit. Must I be enslaved by the whims of climate? I must not. I must not permit a blanket of grey to snuff out all hopes of progress and/or whatever is the opposite of misery and decay.

Can any amount of fish oil heal my creaking joints (and increasingly demented hair)? Tell me David, tell me! Forty years as a professional sportsman is taking its toll.

2008-10-15T11:11:00.002+01:00

Top 50

1 Turn your shrill heart OFF and set it to vibrate
2 And the name of the band will be 'Black Market Bunny'
3 In which the patient believes he or she is dead
4 Erase your family history with new! ancestral wipes
5 His friends all called him Bog Brush
6 I'm going to bore you to death if it's the last thing I do
7 Laid low by a piercing temple sideswipe
8 Your flabby bombsite architecture
9 Retching on his laurels
10 Uncomfortable longueurs at the coffee machine
11 Poker is not a sport
12 The new name of the band is 'Cherished Illusions'
13 My boyfriend used to be a skiing instructor
14 Witless, inane, banal - who shall I be today?
15 Get a brain! morans - GO USA
16 A Voluptuary Under the Horrors of Digestion
17 Odyssey fruit
18 Polish girls applaud street jugglers
19 Keep you doped with TV and TV and TV
20 The band has renamed itself 'The World's Oldest Profession'
21 Marcel Proust wrote Blue Moon/ after he ate a macaroon
22 Always trust your oxytocin
23 Ye Olde Victorian Brothele Experynce with animatronic trollops
24 Rissoles. You don't get rissoles anymore
25 This whole dayspells d-e-a-t-h
26 The black swans that can destroy us or make us free
27 It's not Japanese water torture
28 The unyielding dreariness of the English summer
29 Just sit down and keep your mouth shut. We'll be back in 50 years
30 Roosting in the hedges
31 A verdict of earthenware
32 They were on the cover of the NME, when you were 23
33 The elves, be kind to the elves
34 Where are my liver salts?
35 The usual suspects circling the same lesser trod paths
36 The Drake Equation: N increasing daily
37 Your Worthless Existence: an Opera
38 The seamier side of me
39 Three lies are better than two
40 Lollipops are for children
41 Mosquitoes are messagers from another dimension not planet
42 There's a happiness tsar?
43 Nigel. With an N. For Nigel
44 Do not try to engage me in mortgage banter
45 Face painting + bouncy castle = FUN!!!!
46 Sky Plus it, Sky Plus it. But what if I've got a Humax?
47 My name is Milchard. I am king of towels
48 Métro, boulot, bistro, mégots, dodo, zéro
49 The blood on the chimneybreast wall
50 Waiting for God and a train to the astral plane

2008-10-13T12:46:00.001+01:00

With relation to the sliding scale of age and weight, how do we define the boundary between overcast and gloom?

All things being equal, what range of a standard issue bleak outlook can be attributed to climate and what proportion to biology? Show workings.

If a glass is half full, does it make good sense to refill it or to empty it? Define good sense in accordance with received opinion.

What are the constituent elements of confidence? Consider: can it be bought? Can it be faked? Give reasons.

2008-09-29T15:56:00.001+01:00

Adult content warning... Now, I am the last person on earth to be listening in to other people's conversations, gazing at them with lust and/or loathing, or trying to see what's on their iPods (Leona Lewis mainly) but I couldn't help but notice what this young man on the bus was texting. His phone was right in my eyeline, it was almost impossible not to read it! He was taking his time and had the predictive text on but it said "I wish I was with you right now, fucking you slow and hard." There was another line but I'm coming over all prudish. It was all about his 'shaft'.

I was trying so hard not to laugh I had to stare out the window. And then, just as his thumb was hovering over the send button, he had second thoughts. He deleted the message nearly all the way to the beginning and came up with a new version: "I wish I was with you right now, making love and being very affectionate." That's more like it, he was thinking, she'll appreciate the more romantic approach. Send.

2008-09-24T10:26:00.002+01:00

I head straight into the heart of the bottleneck, contribute to the benign crush. Traffic approaches from six directions. It's a new dance craze - the resigned shuffle. My advice to myself is to tune out, surf it, forget about time and comfort. If only we could all forget about time and comfort... An ageing casual, three sizes larger than he used to be, spots some staff at the top of the escalator and mouths off. They're doing nothing, people could get trampled, why is there no information, why are they smiling etc. He demands answers. He gets nothing, which winds him up even further and he rants all the way down. An orange woman tugs at his sleeve 'Stop causing a scene dad.' I'm always grateful that someone causes a scene. It's no good us all being dead.

2008-09-21T08:38:00.001+01:00

The kids have gone but they left some graffiti on the paving stones. All their street names plus a message - 'Fuck Da Fedz'.

My life is over but I've left some messages scrawled on the internet. My web names plus a message - 'Maybe next time'.

Bombadier transportation. Use all available space. Touch in and touch out.

If you survive till 2005, I hope you're exceedingly thin... I'm feeling younger, it's better than wiser... The centre of things from where everything stems, is not where I belong...

A man reads a glossy book featuring illustrations of footballers on a pitch. Lift it up so I can see... thank you... it's a referee's training manual. Mastering the finer points of the offside rule. Man gets on carrying a company law book in two hands. It's a monster. I'd like to learn something new, but whatever people suggest something I go 'yeah but not that' or 'it's too late for that.' I feel this impending shutting down. I need the old electrical shocker up the wazoo.

Mornings like food poisoning fever. Keep repeating phrases like 'the Eccles interchange' and 'Large Hadron Collider'. It's a jumble in there.

There was a teenage boy on the bus holding a snake. It was lovely, all brown and cream rings, about three feet long. I didn't notice at first; it was calmly wrapped around his neck and kind of camouflaged against his clothes, but then he let it unwind. A girl sat next him unaware and got a bit of a fright when she looked down to see its head approaching her leg. Tongue flickering. He pulled it back, but she sat there for a while longer until it didn't seem rude to stand up. A tattooed geezer - 'family man' on his wrist - got on and made a big fuss, talking about feeding it mice and wanting to hold it. Generally though, no one paid it much attention. The boy seemed shy, reluctant to show it off, but several girls smiled at him - or the snake. If you're too young to get a car, get a snake maybe.

2008-09-14T13:21:00.004+01:00

New character: a strapping young fellow in cheap grey verging on silver suit, bleached blond hair. Carries a sports bag which proclaims 'NEVER HIDE.' Call him Tony. He strides along purposefully, in stark opposition to some around here mentioning no names who slouch and stagger.

Knitting lady on the tube, must be past 60. Knitting something furiously complicated looking. Rings on every finger like Old Brown Shoe, and in some cases two. Make it 14 on ten. Her bob haircut a punky mix of white and orange. Her eccentric clothes more suited to a 20 year-old. Well done.

The girl reading How to Win Friends and Influence People has a badge on her bag 'Lose Weight Now - Ask Me How.' I don't.

* * *

I'm just killing time while a rather attractive policewoman speaks to some kids outside. Why they've taken to hanging outside the front of my house I have no idea. It's far enough from where they live so they can smoke and shout and act like hyperactive little twats without their parents seeing them I suppose. My nosy neighbour, who has her uses, called the police cause they were running up people's corridors, ringing bells, peeking in windows. I'm all for misbehaviour - a little harmless letting off steam - but not in my front yard!

One of the girls - looks about 13 - wears a dummy in her mouth and takes it out only to snog some boy who looks about 10. She drapes her arms round him and drags him around like a doll. The oldest kid is a dead ringer for Jonah. 'All the police know me miss. Ask any of 'em. D'you know PC Steve? He's my mate. Here miss can I smoke, I am 16. D'you want one?'

When they've fucked off, I'll fuck off myself. If I'm lucky they'll call me Clean Shirt.

2008-08-31T15:29:00.002+01:00

2008-08-26T14:39:00.004+01:00

2008-08-12T20:16:00.002+01:00

Upon occasion, a reckless wind summoned up in opposition to the illusory nature of tranquillity conspires to set the hot air balloon free of its moorings. Contrary to popular sentimental belief, the balloon itself does not delight in the alleged freedom of flight. That has never been its nature. It prefers to be pegged in and deflated. It politely declines the gas and the flame, viewing their incendiary nature as somehow vulgar and inappropriate for one of its standing. And standing is where it is most comfortable. Unless you consider the stationary nature of the balloon at rest to be the equivalent of a sitting position. The balloon does not speak or pass judgement on such a distinction.

The balloon does not wish to hold you against your will and carry you across mountains and rivers. It assumes that you'd want to bale out at some inconvenient juncture. You shouldn't underestimate its stamina or its determination. You should realise that it's seen all there is to see and even if it hasn't, then it has no desire to flap about in a frenzy trying to visit every uncharted region. Strangely, the balloon does not understand the vagaries of the wind as others seem to. It prefers to rest tethered on the ground, untroubled by revellers and adventurers, where it can remain undisturbed. Where it can drift through the skies above other, unfamiliar landscapes.

2008-08-07T16:48:00.003+01:00

Today's programme looks at how every day in the morning you have to progress through so many doors
as in doors gates and portals
the front door with its numerous locks the gate which flaps like a rude metaphor in the wind if you don't close it behind you
the road to cross with its invisible but infinite choice of doorway
the tube entrance the ticket gate - move, open and close - the lift - wait, open and close - the train doors and so on
must I really list them all
doors which bite your arm off
gates which beep beep beep
not forgetting the workplace door and the office entry system - open and close - the work lift - open and close
the doors the doors the gates and the doors I'm not talking about stairs
finally the computer which requires a log-in and a password
the electronic gateway another barrier to be negotiated
no matter how routine
how swift and smooth and well equipped with magnetic chip cards
every day adds another 50 grains of sand in the great beach of resentment
caused by obstacle safety mistrust and security

Next up: Geoff Capes gets to show the gentler side to his personality by rummaging for antiques

2008-07-31T15:15:00.002+01:00

The lost pub then. 10 years ago (that haunting old phrase) before I lived here (where? where I live now) we travelled to my current neighbourhood to watch a colleague take part in a football tournament. About ten of us went, one summer evening, and after it was all over we set off in search of somewhere to drink. We rejected the first pub as too empty and old man and a doggish, so carried walking on down the road. When it became clear there was nothing of interest in the direction we'd taken, we crossed through an estate in search of a busier road. None of us lived round those parts, and we didn't know what we were looking for.

Finally, we arrived at an acceptable looking pub and began drinking. The sun was shining, there was music on the jukebox, free food on the bar, a group of friends... Oh we were so young and blessed! It was a small pub with an oval-shaped bar. I recall a nautical theme with the curious addition of a mural of Laurel and Hardy. Briefly, we stood outside and I remember we were at a junction. Was there a roundabout? I can't say for sure. A roundabout would be valuable evidence.

It took us a while to find our way back to the tube - the tube I now use on a daily basis. But which pub was it? I've had years to scour the area but I haven't found it. The most likely candidate based on the layout of the bar and some nautical paraphernalia seems to be in completely the wrong direction and the view from outside doesn't match up. There's another pub which faces a junction but it's miles from the tube. We'd never have walked that far. And there's no sign of Laurel and Hardy anywhere.

2008-07-31T11:32:00.004+01:00

Slow motion life.

2008-07-29T11:54:00.007+01:00

He gestures towards me. no, not me. Leave me alone. Ask someone else. He says something. I've got my headphones on, doesn't he know that's a sign. It means, don't talk to me. Oh, let's see what he wants.
- Knightsbridge.
He points at the map on the wall above the passengers' heads. We're both standing up obviously. Look, there are loads of other people he could have asked. Why me. Because you look institutionalised. You look like a local. Like you've been down here for the last 20 years. All right, you've made your point.
- Yes this train goes to Knightsbridge.
He points at the map, doesn't say anything. There are several people between me and the map. I'm nowhere near the map. I point vaguely towards where it says Knightsbridge.
- There, after Hyde Park Corner.
He traces his finger along the names of the stations in completely the wrong direction.
- No, the other way.
Of course everyone's listening in and pretending they don't exist.
- To the left, that way.
He looks at me accusingly, his finger heading towards Cockfosters.
- Knightsbridge?
- Yes, it's that way, keep going. There it is. No, go back. Go down.
It occurs to me that he's completely ignoring the station names written below the line. Because of space some of the names are written above the purple line, and some below. We stop and he stares out at the name of the station. He finds it on the map. now I think he's got it. He knows where we are and where we're going. As soon I put the headphones back in, he points at me.
- Knightsbridge?
- Not yet. It's another... eight stops.
He counts along the names on the map, ignoring any that fall below the line (including our elusive friend Knightsbridge). He looks puzzled when his finger stops at Gloucester Road.
Perhaps he has no idea how it's spelled. He pronounces it 'Nicebriz' after all. Even if he could see 'Knightsbridge' below the line, it begins with k and gets clogged up with all those vowels, so it might not connect with 'Nicebriz'. The train stops.
- I've got to get off now, sorry. sorry!
I feel like I have failed to communicate, failed to help. Perhaps some other fucker would like to try.

2008-07-29T11:08:00.003+01:00

Awake with a thud of the heart. It's happening, this is where it all ends. A noise from the back. The sound of the fence being scaled. What if they get in the back door, the kitchen knife's on the table. It'll be the first thing they see. I won't make it downstairs in time. Oh please no. There's a hammer in the drawer. What am I going to do with a hammer? Calm down a second. Let's have a peek through the curtains.
There's nothing there... oh it's a cat.
Hiss at it.
- You. Yes you, piss off out of it.
Is it doing a poo on the lawn? It's crouching in a very peculiar position. I whisper quite loudly and get its attention.
- I say, this isn't your house. This is private property do you understand (I think it does). Now be off with you!
It tilts its head in a gesture of compliance and scoots over to the bushes. Turns around and looks up at me.
- Go on then. You got in here, you can find your way out again.
I admire its agility as it performs a vertical leap of some seven feet. Send it to the Olympics, enter it in the high jump. I mean, where does it say that only human beings are allowed to compete. And then it teeters along the fence and disappears into the night.

2008-07-29T11:07:00.002+01:00

- Morning. You look wrecked.
- I am a wreck, I live at the bottom of the ocean.
- What? I just meant you look exhausted already.
- I've spent 45 minutes being subjected to inhumane conditions, hotter than a foundry, more crushed than a battery farm. I need to decompress.
- Well I'm making tea. Do you want one?

2008-07-23T22:18:00.001+01:00

2008-07-23T15:43:00.002+01:00

He said goodbye to his house.

'I know you don't want me to leave you but daddy's got to go and earn some money. All those new appliances and that decorating doesn't just do itself does it. Now listen, you behave yourself while I'm away. Don't start leaking again. And don't open the door to any strangers. I'll be back at the usual time. If you're good I'll give you a good old vacuum, and we'll spend a lovely evening in. Just you and me.'

He tried to ignore the creak of the staircase and the shudder of the fridge as he gently closed the door behind him.

2008-07-23T13:46:00.002+01:00

'There are 24 sets of doors on this train. Please use the full length of the platform and use them all.' That's a new one.

What happens underground, stays underground.

Of late, I find myself overusing the phrase '10 years ago'. Everything happened 10 years ago. Sometimes 12, but you get the point.

There could be a market for having HUGE displays on mp3 players so you can proudly display what you're listening to, in an attempt to impress strangers or engage them in debate.

Otherwise, stick to the weather.

And at all costs, avoid mayonnaise.

2008-07-16T10:12:00.002+01:00

2008-07-09T11:51:00.002+01:00

2008-07-03T20:35:00.002+01:00

A: Hey you know where we are?
B: Sure. We're cool.
A: Yeah, so where are we?
B: Holborn Station.
A: Oh cool. How do you figure that?
B: It says on the wall there. In big letters.
A: Oh yeah! That's really neat.
B: You'd be lost without me.

2008-06-25T14:25:00.001+01:00

(A premonition of sorts.)

Myself, the office wife and 14 other assorted troublemakers were shackled and placed in a minibus. We were on our way to the Channel Tunnel to take part in the controversial Oscar Wilde Program, where the criminal or suspect is deported to France and invited to take part in a two-year plan of hard labour. You got a certificate at the end (if you made it to the end). Something to hang on the wall for friends and family to admire.

I asked my community support officer what would happen if I declined the invitation.
- Do you like deep fat fryers?
- Eh.
- Being in one. Would you like that?
- Not really.
- How about caves?
- Caves are all right.
- Would you like to spend the rest of your life walled up in one?
- When's this bus to France?

The early part of the journey was quite jolly, as we sang along to the radio and tried to remember a few words in French. It's fair to say we were in denial about the treatment we faced. The papers had been drooling at the thought of the enemy within getting their comeuppance. The phrase "sweating the traitor out of them" was quite popular. "Beasting the beasts" was another. I'd only added my name to a few internet petitions.

A whisper went around the minibus. The driver's one of us... what? The driver, he's one of us. He's got boltcutters and he's going to let us all go at the next junction.
I turned to the office wife.
- Did you hear that? Do you think it's true?
- It sounds like the last futile wish of the condemned.
She wasn't one for getting all excited over nothing. But it seemed to be true. We turned off into a B road and were soon heading up a country lane. The first prisoner at the front of the bus was cut loose and the driver - whose face was hidden beneath an orange hood - worked efficiently and quickly in cutting us all free. He urged everyone to be calm and silent.
- Now listen up. This is the only part of the route where I can let you go without being watched. Chances are, some of you will be recaptured. I advise you to split up and make yourselves scarce. Do any of you know who I am?
No one had a clue.
- Good, let's keep it that way.
A black car drew up by the side of the bus. The driver hopped into the back seat and it drove away.

My co-conspirator didn't seem too happy at this turn of events. She rubbed her wrists and peered through the window.
- It's a trick, I know it. They've set us free so they can hunt us down and kill us for sport.
- Why would 'they' do that?
- So they can appease the bloodlust of the brainwashed masses.
She may have had a point, but there was no point in staying put. The rest of the prisoners were busy legging it into the woods. I stood up:
- Well, I'm not staying here.
- Where are we going?
- We? You want to stick together?
- We're a team kiddo. You're not leaving me now. Anyway, you're no good on your own.

That was true. As we scrambled off the bus, I thought I could hear the sound of helicopters in the distance.

2008-06-24T14:31:00.001+01:00

Sit in the corner, put your tunes on. As the seats empty and we head out of central london, a booming yet hoarse voice keeps breaking through the music. SHE DROPPED HER PANTS AND DID A POO ON THE LAWN is the line that finally makes me look up.

A red-faced mammoth in brown leggings, Sunday morning can of cider in her hand. No one's going to say a thing about that. Is that her bloke opposite in his pink polo shirt and khaki shorts. They're both extraordinarily huge in both height and weight. A pretty girl stands up to get off at the next stop. 'Goodbye love, have a nice day, take care,' he says. She only just got on, they don't know her at all. SILLY BITCH says the mammoth once the doors close.

'All right there, how's it going?' he says to the next closest person within his radar. She looks confused. Am I at a safe enough distance? It's thinning out. Now he's standing up, why's he standing up? Don't come over here. BRIAN SIDDOWN YOU'LL FALL OVER FUCKIN SIDDOWN BRIAN I'M TELLIN YA! he protests that he's sticking to the seat and needs to stretch his legs. YOU'LL NEVER BE AS SWEATY AS ME! NEVER!

He mutters something to the new arrival, like they're old pals. She gets off at the next stop. 'Oh goodbye my dear, sorry we was never introduced.' FUCKIN SIDDAHN BRI! she yells. He stands over her and just bellows WAAAAAHHHHHH in her face, then sits down.

He stands up again. Looms over her. YOU. ARE. DEAD.
She's unmoved. Waits till he sits down. STOP ACTING THE CUNT BRI.

She takes a final swig, crushes the can and reaches into her bag for another one. Please don't notice me you scary people. I've only got two more stops, and then I'm getting off. There's really no need to say goodbye and wish me a lovely day.

2008-06-24T09:48:00.000+01:00

2008-06-23T14:44:00.001+01:00

A woman on the tube reads a newspaper with her house number and road written on it. It strikes me as quaint that people still have their papers delivered. She probably has milk delivered too. What kind of vacuum cleaner do I live in where I don't know any Londoners who have papers and milk delivered. The atomisation of society!

Boris only lives a mile or so from me. I'll bet he has 20 local, national and international newspapers, and gallons of milk, cream, yogurt and orange juice delivered daily.

2008-06-17T17:30:00.004+01:00

So crowded I have to go north, confound the system, arrive to see a train on the platform and find a space inside. Wait. Wait. People pile in, as they have every right to do. No, I'm not making any extra space for you. A woman yells 'can you move down inside please?' I have noticed, and you may do with this observation what you will, that the move down inside yellers are always middle-aged woman, and the worst offenders in the non moving down inside stakes are young women. Men will tend to just barge in anyway, and make a minor shuffling movement to suggest compliance. I'm like Raj Persaud I am, full of psychological cod.

A few weeks ago, there was that remarkable morning when I got a seat on the train from 'my' station. I'm saying it was the first time ever. Normal time of day. Should have commemorated it in some way. Sent up a prayer of thanks for very small mercies.

Wouldn't it be interesting to believe in something religious, to have some faith, some peculiar beliefs (er... no.) At the very least, I'd like to be more superstitious. The Turkey comeback seemed to demonstrate something important, but it evaporated overnight. Persistence times luck equals a slight chance of a last minute triumph, in life as it is in football. More cod.

The psychotherapy half hour, brought to you by homemade lemonade. Confess it all to the wall. Cheap at twice the price. This water's from Huddersfield. Paper says: think you're an individual, think again. You can't make me think.

Look at you with your silver shoes. The sparkly silver slipper mildly magical in this inferno. George would have draped himself in velvet if it was socially acceptable. I would wear nothing but silver shoes. Like John Cale at 60, looking tanned and sporting an expensive suit with silver trainers. This new shirt already clammy with sweat. Still, I do have delightful armpits though. No one could object to having them a few centimetres from their face. Do any of you people have armpits as majestic as mine. I should think not.

Japanese boy immersed in his handheld. Tapping away like nobody's business. Headphones in, unblinking, world of his own, he really is thumbing the shit out of that thing. I'm sure it's worthwhile, can't really see what's going on. Small girls turning into mushrooms, flying wolves chucking spears at each other, that sort of thing.

Pregnant woman reading Salinger, fanning herself with an Oyster, 'Baby on Board' badge. Why aren't artichokes more popular? I do appreciate the artichoke. I'd like to tuck into a huge tub of those marinated artichokes right now, that would help. It's so so hot. I say, I'm sweltering here and we're not moving. It's positively airless and I might weep a little. How long can you be on the verge of a panic attack - 80 years.

Outside the station the paper wavers. All day long thrusting freebies in your face, looking affronted when you don't take one or offer a polite 'no thanks.' I have left politeness back in my bed today. If it ain't them, someone else is flapping a leaflet or some sort of phone card under your nose. Others with clipboards and buckets. The clamour, oh the clamour.

There's a page of Dora the Explorer stickers lying behind some builders' barriers, on the churned up earth where they're widening the pavement. There are too many people watching for me to climb under and retrieve it. Like any normal eight-year-old, I think stickers are great. And I know a four-year-old who'd like those Dora ones. She probably has them anyway. I'd get a look of disdain, like come on buddy those are at least two months old. I'd be laughed out of pre-school. Plus they're covered in a thin film of cement dust you weirdo. Four-year-olds can always spot an oddball.

I like her, up ahead, strolling along, sits down on a bench and lights up, yeah you enjoy it, while everyone else is rushing in late.

This one walking alongside me bellowing into her phone as we walk up the road towards the office. 'Yeah yeah I had a nightmare journey... yeah yeah I can still make the ten o'clock... no worries... not a problem...' Polluting my earspace. And this tree... did I ever tell you about the tree that smells of antiseptic (almost certainly, you have a very limited repertoire)? The TCP tree. I may be the only one who can smell it.

'And I never do this right but there were these pictures of cats in the paper, right, and they were all wet - bedraggled - and like I don't even like cats right, but something came over me and I burst out laughing and I couldn't stop, I felt like such a tit.'

Please don't speak to me the second I get in. And under no circumstances ask me about my weekend. Why are people always so bloody interested in your weekend. They're only being polite. They're only making conversation. What is the matter with you today. I got out of the wrong side of the universe. I celebrated Sunday like it was Saturday. Those Turks and their symbolic comeback. Let's see where it gets them.

2008-06-12T14:52:00.006+01:00

Art on the underground

About
50 minutes
of medium
discomfort.

Looking
forward
to curry
and beers.

Here we
are. 8.30,
looking
like a tramp.

Oh man,
what a
dismal
set of commuters.

On way
to
annual
appraisal.

- After Diamond Geezer

2008-06-12T14:31:00.001+01:00

Buttered eyebrown bald coots respond 2 shad homsec resig. We must debate we must debate/ the increasingly intrusive state. What is diff flashing light vs blinking light. You take my chair again > cube rage. Officeworker stabbed w plasticated fork. Stompy Magee never fails to clip the back of the chair. 'Bubbly personality' in mystery plunge. Boot camp = all the rage. Have some art with yr salad. No thank you I do not want art. Have a satsuma. No thank you stuff it up your exhaust pipe. Sprouting horny candelabras in the steamy kitchen of one's mind. Report all self critical thoughts to committee. Purple marigolds indicate the highest security. Have 5 mins to fill out survey. Ox wrestling a thing of the past. Chattering heads of TV opinion chimps. There are no bodies in the streets. You were a dream, I dreamed. There is no wake up switch. What would William Blake do. Scattelled showels. 16 15 17 19. Seasick and windswept, he was ready to submitzzzzzzzzzz.

2008-06-09T15:35:00.001+01:00

Hey kids. Ex-Supertramp frontman Roger Hodgson here. I just fell down from heaven. I was born yesterday. I'm the most beautiful girl in the world. How am I driving? Where did you sleep last night?

DONT TELL ME TO CHILLAX!!! I'd pay good money for a stalker. Pavement's too narrow, cars always win. Congestion my arse. By Ricky Tomlinson.

Woooo, the looming stink along this road. I'd pay good money to move into one of those 'desirable and affordable' new residences and wake up to that cabbage cloud every day.

Everyone's in denial.

Stop reading newspapers.

I'm down with the kids, no longer a stuffed shirt. I was only trying to dress appropriately for my age.

I rock you rock we all rock. It's crunch time. Crunchy apple, crunchy celery, crunchy carrots. No substitute for chewy and crispy meat lovely meat.

Hey Jim, Hey Jim! Weird flashback to a car park in spain about 12 years ago. Why would that appear in my mind. Get a lot of these random flashbacks when under stress or concentrating hard on work (not very often then). Brain wire up wrong.

Revolutions in cold climates - discuss. The worst thing you can do is. You must stop -

Could wheat cause this sore throat. Or milk or coffee. Bread's the hot fave.
Impulse ebuys. Partner shame.

Prince Tubby's Gastric Band, that'll be my new group. A gang of fatties playing dub versions of songs made famous by other fatties.

The first rule is: no more reading other people's opinions on forums and message boards. It just gets your knickers in a twist. YouTube commenters are the lowest form of life. Them and clampers. What if you fall into both categories. What rough beast. Have your say. Tell us what you think. Got a comment? Keep it to yourself.
familiar territory. Performing the empty ritual. Protection spells. Paths of control. You're symbolic of nothing mate. Just get it all over with. Serve your time, keep your nose clean. Forget about digging that tunnel.

"I'm not on the list, I'm not on the list!"

Oats seem to be all right. Where is the lost pub? Don't forget to remember that.
Jose Mourinho on the poster bragging that his country has 220 days of sunshine a year. Next to it, an aerial shot of Sydney Harbour laughs in your grey underground face.

I need an expensive holiday at my own misery. Six months hard labour, do you the world of good. Rid yourself of 42 days without trial, busty babes waiting up all night for you to text them, the 21st century British stag and hen weekend, knife crime knife crime knife crime Cheryl Cole and talent shows. I'll breakdance you in a moment, young man.

But that was all last week. Start afresh in the furnace. Bake a new loaf. Put the past behind you. Easier said than done. Suspect package + delays in both directions = equanimity.

If the 'mind the door' sign flashes up then I do not expect them to remain open for another minute, encouraging the world and his wife to hurl themselves on board.
Dads in salmon pink rugby shirts. Modern dads in general, singing nursery rhymes to their offspring in public. Can't be good for the brain. What would you know.
The two excitable boys who pinched each other's midriffs while shouting 'secret squirrel'. No way to behave in public.

I must start my memoirs soon. Everyone who's anyone writes a memoir. Focus on the school years. Lots of crispy meat there, and what isn't crispy or you can't remember just make up. In fact, make it all up. That's the modern way. No one wants to hear your dismal stories.

The piped classical music > cuckoo's nest > mind control! Must write letter of complaint to Boris.

Furthermore, must start BLAME BORIS blog. Then start BLAME FACEBOOK blog. Finally, set up BLAME ALCOHOL blog. Subtitle: 'for all society's woes'. What about a BLAME BLOGS blog. Don't be ridiculous.

"How dare she assume, how dare she!"

Are you watching Big Brother this year? Do I look like a cunt? Yes. Fair point - but no I'm not watching it.

Cup of tea?

2008-06-09T14:48:00.004+01:00

Interesting clobber: sensible black shoes with no socks and rolled up to the knee black trousers. Tatty old fleece to top it off. Otherwise, perfectly sane looking chap. Maybe he had an accident.

This one looks like he sleeps in a skip. Everything's torn, frayed and stained. He's reading a yellowing paperback. Can't see what it is. Give him this: he doesn't smell.

Young mother with earphones, screaming toddler in a buggy. She shoves crisps in his hands. His earrings are bigger than hers.

A lot of unbuttoning going on. A gentleman remains dressed at all times. We do not go topless and only wear shorts in the comfort of our own homes.

2008-06-09T14:46:00.001+01:00

Memory recall, an outline

Act one: the garden zoo - bouncing the chimp, the elasticated years
No one will pay you any attention until 2038

Act two: from lawns - setting the picnic, waiting for the arrival of the guests, initiating the screens
Key colours: purples greens and whites, floral patterns
Behaviour: flouncy, aghast

Act three: windswept pebble beach
Two groups of enemies, armed with swords and scythes, peacock helmeted
You are now fully integrated into the game - your role has been assigned

2008-06-08T19:41:00.000+01:00

2008-05-28T12:16:00.001+01:00

There was some survey (I prefer to call them made up PR garbage, LOL :-) recently which claimed that the Northern Line was the best line for meeting people and that one in two passengers had dated someone they met on the train. I'd be surprised if it was even one in 1000, but what do I know? Next to nothing as has been proved on countless occasions. Only two strangers have even talked to me in 20 years, and one of them was dead.

But I did witness a remarkable exchange a while back between an old gent and a young Ethiopian woman which ended with him getting her phone number so they could continue their discussion about Ethiopia's history and culture. He made an impression by speaking in her language, and talking about the time he spent in her wonderful country. They both seemed genuinely delighted by their conversation. It was like a movie encounter.

More recently, a man with no teeth held out a map of the underground and asked me how he could get to Cragtod Glub. Sorry, what station's that? Klesfo Stub. Come again? RAUUGTO MUUH! I'm sorry, I'm not sure what... at which he flapped the map in my face in disgust and went off to ask someone else. That was like a real life encounter.

2008-05-28T12:15:00.002+01:00

Yesterday was lethargy Tuesday. The day before that was downpour Monday. Today's theme is a toss up between sluggish and dismal.

And yet it began so promisingly with a breakthrough in the field of sleep research. Drifting in the hypnagogic state (not spongecake, thanks Blogger spellchecker), there was a rare shift in the curtains that separate the multiple worlds. This made it briefly possible to listen in to one of my parallel lives, from outside the cubicle as it were.

How is this different from dreaming, you ask. Because it was, just trust me.

I was having quite a time over there, with the nurses and the stuffed toys. But I had to discreetly remove myself from the accidental spying lest I influence events or meet my double, which as anyone knows, brings down the cataclysmic retribution.

2008-05-22T14:43:00.001+01:00

'Like modern society itself, the spectacle is at once united and divided.' This is exactly what I had in mind when I staged a protest against the Champions League final by not watching it for the first time since records began and ended up in a gay bar instead, due to a series of accidents.

Couldn't avoid it entirely because some bloke - yeah, some bloke - insisted on telling me what I'd missed when I was staggering around in a Chinese takeaway much later on. At the end of the day I said, football is the loser. And no I don't need a plastic fork.

2008-05-19T07:45:00.000+01:00

2008-05-18T23:17:00.004+01:00

3 starring Ben Stiller and Jennifer Aniston

'Crimes that shook the world'. Every morning, seeing that poster of Fred West as a curly headed supposedly cherubic child although he looks like a crazed little demon even then if you ask me, and having flashbacks to that book you had to read for the serial killer project. Is mildly aggravating.

If I had to choose a favourite serial killer it would be Jeffrey Dahmer.

2008-05-18T22:30:00.003+01:00

2 a handsome but ill-tempered pilot

Riley: I pass him about once a month. I'm sure it's him. We worked at the same place but not together about 12 years ago. Spoke once at a party about old punk records. He's the same age as me, though he looks it (and I'm catching up fast). They used to call him Uncle Fester cos he was bald even back then. A chubby and morose demeanour. Now he's heading towards the college as I head towards the tube. I don't think he'd remember me.

2008-05-18T22:12:00.004+01:00

1 help! there's gum in my hair

Woken at 5 by a trio of screechers. It's light outside and they're heading up the middle staircase. Well dressed, maybe moonwalking. Next, singing along to 'Moving On Up', gyrating in a window opposite. But it's a short lived euphoria and we're all soon back in bed.

2008-05-16T12:06:00.001+01:00

Now I enjoy sinking a couple of cans of high strength lager on my way to work as much as the next man... perhaps more... but thanks to the property owning middle classes and the pampered students raised on a diet of Heat magazine and Little Britain JOHNSON is clamping down and saying no, you can't do it (although no one's going to stop you really). See what you done! Do you see now! I suppose we'll all be forced to wear helmets next. Oh it's the end for London, I'm so disillusioned in my fellow citizens etc.

Anyway last night on the tube home a young fellow who looked only one level above the gutter but may have been in a band, was trying to open a bottle of cider. (Obviously an amateur drinker. Get a can or a plastic bottle you fool.) He rooted around in his bag for a bottle opener to no effect. He tried to use his hands, but you need the knack to pry open a certain a sort of bottle top. Or the right type of surface for the leverage, which a crowded tube train does not provide. He looked really keen to get stuck into the drink, and started asking around for a bottle opener. Maybe he was German, or Scottish, I couldn't hear him. No one was willing to help - being a bunch of JOHNSON lovers - so he was reduced to staring at his bottle with a downcast, yearning look in his eye. You wait till I get you home, then we'll be all right, you and me.

2008-05-13T16:51:00.002+01:00

Being beeped at the first crossing and nearly giving up
A tweed coated toff atop a horse
Only reaching escape velocity by the zoo
An imperious wave to the canal
Muttering oaths at motorists
Cheerfully cursing roadworks
A cloud of hideous stench from the portable toilet being emptied
The capital's finest selection of fruit n veg
Setting a new world record of 1 hr 38 min
They have different water on the other side of town

2008-05-08T08:39:00.002+01:00

Under the radar: We negotiated the docks and the tower - I lost coins and dignity, but gained a tin of soup - and now all that was left was to climb the 7000ft hill. No one fancied it, I mean they didn't fancy it, who would fancy it. But it had to be done otherwise how could we get to the other side, how will we get home my children?

Fast forward: a lot of sullen silences and solid trudging. We had lost sight of the sky and our spirits were sunken. Around the corner, I promised, it'll become flatter and brighter.

My companion scuttled ahead and, once out of my sight, let out a thrilling and terrified shriek.

'The bats! the bats!'

Sure there were some bats. Thousands of the fuckers by the sound of it. You're always going to get bats. A swoopin and a peepin.

On the other side: it's four forty and the dawn chorus is in full flight. It's like being in the Amazon. Myriad birdsong in surroundsound. My bionic ears detect four and twenty different variety of song. And there isn't a tree for miles around. What are they up to, what the hell do they think they're playing at!

Pull back the curtains.

'I say, you chaps. Can you keep it down!'

2008-04-29T17:09:00.002+01:00

I had one foot on the platform/ one foot on the train.
I'm going to bunk off work today/ walk around in the rain.

(To the tune of 'House of the Rising Sun'. Needs some work)

2008-04-29T13:57:00.001+01:00

- This is today's hot philosophical debate: how old do you feel within? Within your insides. Like if you had a soul, or a platonic ideal self what would ascend to heaven to represent you for all eternity.

- Well, some days it's 15 but lately it's more like 65.

- Shall we split the difference and say 40?

- No, let's not. Let's accept that we are in a constant state of flux and that both options are permissible. In fact, let's do the math and break it down like this:
Feeling 5 - wing wang woo
Feeling 15 - two hours a day
Feeling 25 - last Tuesday
Feeling 35 - only because I have to act it
Feeling 45 - goodnight
Feeling 55 - no thanks
Feeling 65 - quite often
Feeling 75 - weekends
Feeling 85 - ging gang squish

- Shall we stick it in a graph?

- No we shan't. Graphs are old hats baby. Today's new hat is recreating childhood photos and sticking the two together in a mildly depressing comparison. Young me now me. God, I'm so tired I can barely type.

- You shouldn't have had a great big starchy lunch. I did warn you.

- Yeah, you were right, as always.

- Fresh fruit. Pasta. A brisk walk in the unceasing rain.

2008-04-29T13:24:00.004+01:00