I stood in a queue at the express checkout of our local supermarket yesterday for over fifteen minutes trying to stay calm, whilst my fingers froze on a packet of mixed veg. A ragged couple in their seventies were responsible for the queue stalling, and why? They were buying nothing of nutritional or medicinal value, but were painstakingly cashing in what appeared to be a lifetime’s worth of lottery tickets. In total they must have pulled out over twenty screwed up tickets, each yielding precisely zilch. They looked disappointed, almost shocked and I felt that this deluded couple really did expect to win millions. The man appeared to age in seconds as if just having been diagnosed with terminal cancer and was somehow trying to apologise to his wife. The man then ripped open his wallet and looked up at the plastic scratch card dispenser baffled at the choice. His grubby finger hovered over the display as he selected several cards before parting with £20. He grabbed the cards like a junkie and disappeared from the queue like a frenzied fox that had just snared a rabbit. By the time I reached the counter my frozen mixed veg had begun to thaw. It then occurred to me that newsagents, supermarkets and petrol stations had turned into mini casinos, satisfying the addictions of desperate, financially unstable people. Camelot play their role in ensuring that the poor remain poor and the rich become ricer by enforcing an unfair tax collection system. We are misled into believing we play lotto games for their entertainment value, but that’s horse shit, we play because we are addicted, we have become desperate.
The old man’s haunted face stayed with me for the rest of the day, I felt I needed to apportion blame and I naturally thought of Camelot. Their national lottery business is doing roaring trade in today’s depressed climate, in face they appear to be doing a magnificent job as the government’s unofficial tax collector. Camelot uses state of the art marketing techniques to sell the idea of becoming rich beyond our wildest dreams using plenty of bright colours and flashy smiles on the TV, Internet and advertising boards, and it works because we have all fallen into their flytrap.
I’ve only just checked out Camelot’s national lottery website, it’s a gambling addict’s paradise. There’s such a selection of games to chose from, treasure & TV show games, board & dice games, arcade & word games, and they all promise you the chance of winning £100,000, and all with a £2 stake, and it got me thinking about the odds. I checked them out and they are frighteningly biased towards Camelot. The bigger lotto wins offer even more horrendous odds, but we step willingly into their flytrap.
Only a small percentage of Camelot takings go towards funding projects, but this is only tokenism on a large scale, the large percentage of takings go towards topping up government coffers to fund global policies and lining the pockets of all the senior administrators involved. It’s also alarming how this aspect of gambling has become normalised, expected, demanded. Placing a bet on a horse is still frowned upon as being the action of a despicable gambler who is probably an alcoholic and a wife beater. Sadly as a mass we are financially unprincipled and can’t resist the chance, regardless of whether the odds are stacked heavily against us, to win cash, I know that my will power has withered over the years.
I am even more convinced now that there are no lotto millions winners, the winning is a fabrication of the truth, a scam, a cover up, a conspiracy. I’ve never met anyone who’s won the jackpot neither do I know anyone who has every met anyone who has won millions either. It’s always the case of an apologetic ‘oh they are out there because I know someone who knows of a big winner’, which is hardly proof. Newspaper reports can also be discarded as evidence as well, because they can be easily fabricated. If Ridley Scott can digitally recreate the Colosseum in Rome then I’m sure Camelot could access the technical resources to create lotto millionnaires. The next time you stare at an image of a lotto millionaire, remember they are not real, they have been digitally created, they did it with Oliver Reed in Gladiator!
Treated myself to a low fat muffin and tea at Costa’s in Cambridge recently and sat back to flick through C J Sansom’s Heartstone, but only got as far as the dustcover when a couple approached and sat at the table to my left. The tall woman in jeans and cropped black hair was plainly anorexic, her friend reminded me of Fern Britton before the weight loss. The anorexic friend must have been a comic genius because with every deadpan whisper, I could barely make out her words, Fern Britton broke out into hysterical laughter. I slammed C J Sansom down, gripped my temples, and waited for the migraine, the cackle continued.
After a while Fern Britton stood, rubbed the crumbs off her blouse and announced to everyone in Costa’s that she was off for a pee. She returned several minutes later, flushed. Their subsequent exchange cauterised my migraine.
‘Cath, You OK? You’ve gone red.’
‘That’s nothing, it’s my period (Cath chuckled, at what I had no idea), I’m all mucky right now (I spat out a mouthful of muffin into my hand, I could eat no more for the rest of the day). I just keep on getting these hot flushes.’
‘You should go and see Dr Kumber, maybe he can give you something.’
‘Maybe a good seeing to (Cath found this hysterical and was reduced to tears, I felt like vomiting).’
‘You can forget that, Asian men tend to be pretty loyal.’
‘I could always use my charm (charm? Jesus you are gross, woman), anyway this place is goin’ down hill, they’ve even run out of soddin’ paper in the loo (I waited, gripped, for the punchline, because there had to be a punchline).’
‘Well?’
‘So I stood there like, looking around, saw my belly in the mirror and thought you have to shift some weight love then I looked in my purse (I was intrigued to say the least).’
‘What for?’
‘I pulled out a Tesco till receipt, did over £100 worth of shopping last week, so wiped myself with that, bloody handy I thought (and I thought ‘bloody’ being the operative word. I was thoroughly repulsed).’
‘God Cath, that’s gross!’
‘Maybe (fucking definitely I’d say), but I also came out with no pads so I had to whip the used one back on me under carriage (Cath chuckled, she found this last statement amusing, I shared her friend’s disgust).’
‘Anyway you know I’ve got an overactive bladder and I have to go whenever I get the urge (I had uncomfortable images of Cath pissing in the middle of supermarkets, in cinema foyers, up against a tree in parks and by shop windows on high streets), so I never chuck out till receipts, you never know when they’ll come in handy (Jesus, what a gross creature, couldn’t she just carry tissues around with her, like normal people?).’
‘Well you need to get yourself checked out (if I was Dr Kumber I would insist on Cath being hosed down after being defumigated first before any examination).’
There conversation drifted off into how best to cook a leek and potato soup and I just lost interest, to be honest I felt faint. I had also lost interest in eating the remainder of the muffin, and ate little for the next few days. I left as Cath asked her friend whether a leek could be eaten raw like a spring onion, says it all really.
There is nothing more irritating, and I find this happens a lot at Starbucks, when you order a grande tea, for anyone living in the North this is the medium 16oz mug and pronounced ‘grawn-day’, the tea bag string is strapped tightly around the handle of the mug. By the time you’ve reached ‘help yourself’ counter you have wasted the best part of your drink trying to rip the bag off the handle and in the process scolding your hand. I’m too much of a coward to complain especially when the Latvian barista offers you the drink as if it was a trophy, presents a strained grin and implores you to ‘enjoy’.
Nursing several burnt fingers earlier this morning I was intrigued by this smartly dressed man in his fifties, who almost certainly held down a junior management job for one of the local banks, I think it must have been the company aftershave. I was intrigued by his mutterings as he fiddled with his Blackberry. With considerable eye straining I gleamed that he had just set up a Twitter account. His first tweet was ‘hey Bruno, I’ve just signed up to Twitter’. I know this because this fifty year old dick called Bruno moments later and spoke to Bruno and informed him that the tweet had been sent, in a state of euphoria this dick implored Bruno to watch out for this and ‘future tweets but not for a few hours because he had some work to do (thank fuck for that), and for the record, fifty year old men should not begin any sentences with the word ‘hey’, its on a par with necrophilia.
The Twitter dick got me thinking, I know that Twitter gets on my tits, but I needed to work out why, and with a mug of lukewarm tea for company I spent ten minutes internalising a rant. Everyone seems to be blabbering on about Twitter these days, it’s so irritating, tweeting (I cringe just typing out the word, in fact I feel aggression festering) is on a par with standing on a rooftop screaming out nonsensical one-liners that no one has any interest in, put simply no one gives a chicken shit. It’s designed for self-important nonentities and celebrities (such as Richard Madeley, why?). You also have to learn stupid codes to use Twitter, even to do simple things like ‘reply’ and ‘quote’, why not programme in buttons, so much easier.
I’m pretty sure Twitter is bandied about as a social networking site but little conversation takes place because the character limit discourages any creativity. Essentially Twitter is a soapbox where the author attempts to promote an image of monumental coolness and fails miserably.
What truly makes Twitter shit is the people that use it. Tweeting mundane stuff like describing the food you have just eaten or that you plan to fart shortly is painful and should be replaced with more useful pastimes like placing the nozzle of a handgun into your mouth and counting slowly to ten, anything but posting tweets. The thought that there are people out there that genuinely believe that we are interested in their mundane lives is shocking, however we continue to accept this constant vomit of pointless useless information.
Twitter shields a darker side, it harbours the disintegration of privacy. It encourages the need to expose everything to the public on a daily basis. People have become extensions of today’s technology, inextricably drawn to its machinations. We’ve lost the ability to communicate normally with living people.
I have to continue with the rant. There is a technological dependence. People Facebooking (you see it’s become a verb in the Present Continuous tense) on laptops and Iphones in coffee shops, checking their email on Blackberrys as they walk through shopping centres and when travelling, either standing, walking or sitting, wired up to iPods, and of course there’s the constant texting. Yes, privacy has disintegrated, and I haven’t even got into the political implications.
And there is a big point here isn’t there? It’s just that we don’t give a shit, we just carry on churning out the bilious inanities regardless, and maybe I don’t give a shit either because I stress more about a tangled stringed teabag.
Was enjoying a healthy experience in Starbucks a few days ago, the type involving a camomile blend of which the contents of the bag would not have been out of place in a Rizzla, and a low fat yogurt, the type where you are invited to share the thrill in peeling back a strip of foil and then watch helplessly as granola cereal freefalls on to your lap.
My meditation was then rudely interrupted by Pamela and Ruby; the latter being a suffering mother-in-law who was constantly reminded of her name, the former, a gross creature. Pamela bundled in to Starbucks with seven Sainsbury’s bags of food shopping; I counted them as they thudded onto a sofa. Pamela huffed and puffed as sweat dripped from her blubber. She then roared out at Ruby to ‘park her arse’, (Harlow I thought straightaway), onto the seat next to ‘that man in black’.
Ruby, a slim, demure woman, probably in her sixties, obeyed with little resistance whilst Pamela stood close by scratching her considerable belly. She wore one of those elasticised skirts designed for obese women, the type to fit all sizes above a certain level on the BMI. Pamela continued to roar to my alarm: ‘I’ve been eating like a horse all day but I’m still starving Ruby, I dunno what’s wrong with me (you are a pig Pamela that’s what’s wrong, it’s not complicated), what about you love? Oh I know what to get you, my god it’s so boiling hot in here, it must be my hoemones’, at this point I stopped enjoying my healthy experience.
With Pamela jockeying for position at the counter, and attracting considerable attention, Ruby looked at me and smiled, I looked away confused and quickly responded to an imaginary text message on my Iphone. Distracted now by the gross Pamela I couldn’t help but notice the lifestyle hiding in the tops of her shopping bags: unbranded ice-cream, lots of, chocolate, frozen dinners, pizzas, cakes, frozen chips and more chocolate. Looking up I caught Ruby fiddling with her dentures, and then Pamela returned.
‘Ruby, a treat, look,’ Ruby could have been a cocker spaniel. ‘It’s a chocolate cookie and some tea’. The tray trembled in her hands; it was the weight of the cakes. She bent forward to reveal a ghastly cleavage, it reminded me oddly of several scenes from Saw. Pamela then dropped onto her seat, wiped her dripping face with her forearm, scratched her belly once again, the thought of her rash sent bile shooting to the roof of my mouth, then blew in my direction before staring at her breakfast.
The wedge of carrot cake was disposed of with very little effort, I counted three bites although I’m not sure whether her teeth made any contact with the cake, it was as if the carrot cake was simply absorbed. ‘God that was moist belched Ruby. You know love, I’m so fat now, one more cake won’t matter’. Sweat continued to dribble into her cleavage as she slurped back her chocolate milkshake, Ruby nibbled at her cookie.
I was late for work so had to leave before my breakfast company could depart but as I hovered over Pamela I noticed she had started to tease the edge of her cinnamon danish swirl, she had reached a feverish state and was not about to resist.
Six nights in the Holiday Inn on Victor Hugo Boulevard in Nice just before Christmas was perfect, arranging it so that the last two nights were spent alone was not only selfish, but a plan that was to backfire on me.
I discovered a trendy little café in the old town were I could drink perfectly mixed Black Russian cocktails whilst propping up the bar. I also looked splendid in skinny jeans, cowboy boots, a dark shirt and a chain linking my new French leather wallet to my jeans. I had no intention of getting drunk and neither was I keen on company for the night.
A Scouser in his fifties soon started chatting to me, curious as to what was in my cocktail. The alarm bells should have, but weren’t raised when he asked to have a taste. It’s not in my character to have said ‘no, piss off’, so I allowed him a taste. As I was about to leave, David, I discovered his name two and a half hours later, insisted very persuasively, on buying me a drink. David was a Nautical Interior Designer, and apparently worked on several of the billion dollar yachts in the harbour, I was impressed by his grandeur. He was spending a few days taking in the sights with a friend and was pleasant enough and I vaguely remember talking about Francis Bacon. Several Black Russians later we were joined by Eugene, David’s friend, the name should have been enough to sound another alarm bell, but it didn’t, and when it did it was too late. Eugene was probably twenty years younger than David, estranged from his family in Florida, very hyper, and from the state of his flaring nostrils, most definitely high on cocaine.
Another Black Russian and several beers later David announced that Eugene had been his lover for the past six months, and was the best fuck he had ever had. It had taken me over two hours to realise that they were gay, not a problem in itself, but as I looked around a still quite busy café, I realised that I wasn’t alone in being stunned by the announcement, my worry was that they too were concluding that I was willing to be picked up by a couple of guys. I instinctively felt for my chain and instantly regretted fiddling around with it in the hotel lobby trying to hook it onto my jeans.
David was getting camper by the minute, Eugene, still stoned, kept fiddling with his groin, he was pleased that he had my attention. As midnight struck they invited me back to their yacht, a series of lame excuses then followed including something about being tired and that I needed to get back to the Holiday Inn. I realised this boast was a massive mistake but the words just fell out and by then they had both grabbed my elbows and insisted on partying back at my hotel. Disturbing images of being in bed with two naked men rampaged through my very bleary head.
By the time we reached the front door we had compromised by going to another bar in the old town, one populated by locals who were not particularly welcoming. When I returned from the toilet, where I spent some time composing myself and planning an exit strategy, David and Eugene were arguing, Jeremy Kyle style. David accused Eugene of being a bitch slut then suggested we all go back to the yacht, I could only think about sprinting back to the Holiday Inn and risking a heart attack. Eugene then insisted that I try on his cap, it was then that I realised he was completely bald but to humour him I obliged. He then complimented me by saying I looked cute, I pathetically tried to catch my reflection in the enormous mirror opposite but was then stunned when he asked how big my cock was. It was too late for alarm bells, what could I say? The truth? Exaggerate? I settled for something ridiculous like ‘big enough!’
Another argument followed, David insisting that Eugene had been screwing around with a Filipino boy. I had to get away. What happened next was spectacular. David picked up a full pint of Stella and poured it slowly over Eugene’s cap, the cap was no longer on my head, but on Eugene’s, I sat back and waited for the inevitable brawl to commence. Eugene however threw his chair back, squared up to David, called him a ‘camel’s cunt’, slapped him hard against the cheek and then charged out of a stunned bar.
It was now 2am, I also left the bar minutes later, with a dazed David ignoring my puny farewells, but I only had one thing on my mind, the Holiday Inn, and they both knew where I was staying. It was then that I realised I hadn’t eaten since lunchtime and I was hungry. To kill time I bought a greasy pizza and shiftily made my way back along a deserted Victor Hugo Boulevard, the pizza lasting only one bite. I half expected David and Eugene to pounce on me in the hotel’s lobby but was relieved to find only a dozing night porter. Back in the hotel bedroom I managed to bring my breathing back to normal and soon fell asleep watching a dubbed version of Clint Eastwood’s Magnum Force.
Growing up in the 70s with punk, new wave & ska I jostled with many skinheads in various pubs and clubs, many are now looking forward to retirement after lucrative careers in commercial banking and global marketing. The rest remain, and will always remain skinheads and will often be found in Wetherspoons, heads glistening, flexing withered tattoos, still looking hard and to be honest, succeeding.
The two I watched, from a very safe distance, were clearly psychopathic. The Bright Helm Wetherspoons in Brighton was the perfect setting for a pair of shaven headed thugs who oddly resembled the Kray twins without the suits and hair; instead they both sported Dr Martens, Harrington jackets and Sta-Prest trousers. It’s possible they were gay, but they were clearly having an argument over a portion of ‘fucking chips’ that was surplus to requirements. ‘I’m not gonna touch those fuckin’ chips, coz I didn’t order them, you did, so eat them, or else.’ This was menacing, throbbing vein in temple neck straining venomous stuff. They settled after a while then to demonstrate impeccable manners they grabbed at their cutlery and with hunched shoulders they attacked their all day breakfast, and extra portion of chips. I’ve seen Scum, and these thugs could have been extras in the prison canteen scene, for certain though they would have done time in Wormwood Scrubs. It was the Union Jack tattooed on one of the Kray twins, just below the ear, that scared me the most. This was slightly less alarming than the Maltese Cross tattooed on the nape of the neck of the other Kray.
I’m still trying to come to terms with an all day breakfast washed down with a couple of pints of Stella, but with all food safely disposed of, including the surplus bowl of chips, they started to play fight, this included the slapping of faces, grabbing at shoulders and naturally, passing wind. They should have been stockbrokers, emigrated to Surbiton and travelled to foreign countries, but, they remained skinheads, in Brighton, suspended in time.
There was a time when I religiously went for a swim most lunch times, then again I was healthier then, less blubber around the midriff. There was the occasional thrill of catching a glimpse of someone under 30 and remotely attractive, someone perfecting the breaststroke, a metre ahead of me. Instead, I had to be content with a herd of seventy year olds furiously working towards extending their shelf life and putting me to shame. In time I began to recognise the faces, there was an occasional nod of acknowledgement, responding sometimes to banal chat like ‘oh, the water’s really cold today, you don’t know what’s gonna freeze off next’, I would always respond with ‘yep’, weary about getting into anything more complicated though would hold back from quipping ‘well its cold every fucking day’.
Sadly I would recognise them by their boils, their burns and their moles and other degenerative growths. I’d recognise others by their scar tissue and others just from their repulsive body odour. Life really was that grim, sharing chlorine-tainted water with incontinent 70 year olds, fuck knows what I may have swallowed in that time when I was competing with senility in the pool.
I must also explain that my swimming technique was then quite hopeless as it is now. I push off spectacularly underwater and then launch into a breathtaking breaststroke that generates enough energy to power under soil heating for Wembley Stadium but still it takes me almost a minute to complete a 25 metre journey. By the time I’ve completed a length my then geriatric competitors would be on their next length and I would be playing catch up, and catch up would involve chasing unsightly cellulite and pubic hair that was last trimmed in 1962, still I would persevere.
It’s always a risk going to the Harlow Cineworld, particularly on a Saturday and especially in the evening. At best the film will be spoilt by incessant chattering, rattling popcorn, coke slurping and the stench of sneaked in hot takeaway food. At worse, full scale war.
I had a premonition of evil as soon as I pressed through the glass doors and fell into the foyer and it wasn’t because The Last Exorcism was being shown on Screen One. I was instantly dazzled by the brightness of gold chains resting on bare chests, with gelled back hair and testosterone dripping from the ceiling. There was plenty of bare nubile flesh on view as well, sprayed generously with fake tan, and wearing glittering skirts akin to belts and makeup trowelled on to excess. When one apprentice slut approached me and said ‘mate, me boyfriend wants to fight you’ I rapidly came to two conclusions, first, a contingent of travellers had invaded Harlow, and second, they were to join me in watching The Last Exorcism.
I escaped a fight with the Rambo-like monster by offering him a puny smile. With pride buried I sneaked into a brimming Screen One. The safe option was to sit near the back where I could observe the hostility as the travellers arrived in small groups, bouncing along the aisles with bling in full tow. They quickly took up several rows, chaos followed.
The play-fighting, mock arguing and cackling into mobiles spilled into the commercials and eventually into the start of the film. The inevitable complaints came and security guards were called in but they were hopeless. I spotted Rambo squaring up to one of the guards, if he missed out on his chance of murdering me then he would seek vengeance on this undernourished Somalia security guard. Rambo took the first step by nudging the guard’s shoulder, alarmed, he then snarled and responded by calling Rambo a ‘gypsy shit’. I heard it clearly, as did the couple in front and so did the 30-odd gypsy shits. Clearly panicked, the guard mumbled something into his shoulder before two further guards promptly arrived. The film had been running for 20 minutes but the live entertainment was more gripping. I was expecting a riot. Within minutes the lights were switched on and several police officers had stormed Screen One. Rambo was arrested, a popular decision greeted with plenty of applause. There was one further arrest, the fake tan confirmed it was Rambo’s girlfriend, and the rest of the travellers were given centre stage and a police escort away from the cinema.
The film was restarted, with no further incident, however I couldn’t help imagining Rambo, knife in mouth, flesh camouflaged, stalking my car and seeking revenge on an evening spoilt. I half-contemplated leaving the car behind and taking the train home, such was my paranoia.
Sneaking off early from work with the promise of finishing the writing that report at home, and then making a detour to the cinema will always be a treat. It wasn’t long before I settled in to one side of the front row, with a sack of economy chocolate covered peanuts. When I say front row I mean the row of seats in front of that wide gangway and beyond that the row of seats reserved for freaks with triple-jointed necks. However, Harry Brown beckoned and apart from a depressed sixty-year old sitting on the back row, I was alone.
The most incredible scene then happened. A barely-conscious man, I’d say in his 70s, was wheel-chaired into the auditorium. I say he was barely conscious because he was wearing an oxygen mask whilst clawing onto a gas cylinder. A complicated process then followed where, I presume his son, managed to excavate him out from the wheelchair before dropping him on a seat in the front row, with gas cylinder placed carefully on his lap. The wheelchair was then folded and tucked away out of reach. Now there were four of us, sitting comfortably, waiting for the commercials to begin.
With seconds to go in walked a chubby little man, sadly dressed like Vincent Vega from Pulp Fiction, greased back black hair, dark suit, black tie and white shirt. Walking by his side, a fairly attractive blonde–haired woman, they were probably both in their early thirties. Vincent Vega then stopped in front of the wheelchair man, squinted several times at his cinema tickets, then barked out: ‘these are my seats’. There were a further 230 odd seats in the auditorium for fuck’s sake! I couldn’t quite follow the son’s response but I clearly caught Vega’s reply: ‘I paid for these particular seats so I can sit in the middle of the front row so I can enjoy the film, so if you don’t mind’. Incredibly the girlfriend, who didn’t look anything like Uma Thurman, appeared not to be embarrassed, I could only assume she was familiar with the routine.
At the risk of being slashed across the face, I felt I had to intervene. I took a deep breath and approached Vega: ‘Man, you can’t expect this guy to shift, it’s just not fair’, I agree, pretty tame. Vega ignored me, the battle was between the son & Vega. The son looked at me with raised eyebrows, I backed off and prayed the son would produce a machete and lop off Vega’s shoulder. As I sat back the son started the complicated process of lifting his father back onto the wheelchair, with gas cylinder in tow before moving several seats along into the corner of the front row. Moments later Vega and girlfriend were sitting comfortably, in their purchased seats, slap bang in the middle of the front row, chomping on popcorn and slurping on coke. There were no further incidents, although I would have stabbed Vega.
Harry Brown was a top movie with Michael Caine in great form. Vega and girlfriend left first, followed by the old man with depression. As I left I approached the wheelchair man, shrugged my shoulders, wrinkled both eyebrows and lips and quickly disappeared.
Another trip to Brighton, another ride on National Express, an inability to resist a Funfare bargain, ok so I’m cheap! I’d earlier left London Victoria station and entered Buckingham Palace Road when it was pelting it down. Japanese tourists were being blasted against walls in their cagoules such was the ferocity of the gale force winds. Soaked and steaming I just about made it safely to the coach station to slid into a window seat midway along the coach. Estimated time of arrival in Brighton was just over 2 hours and 10 minutes, in this weather, realistically it was going to be nearer to 3 hours. I Prepared myself for a stiff arse and an uneasy sleep.
With 5 minutes left to departure the coach was hijacked by a works outing. I discovered later, by carers and admin support staff from a residential care home in South London. I was honoured to have, wedged in behind me, Hettie who had a compulsive eating disorder, along with a talking disorder, and who hyperventilated for the entire journey to Brighton. Hettie’s best friend was called Marjorie who was equally as obese and was pressed in beside Hettie, she was also sitting immediately behind my rucksack. They had known each other since primary school, and last year Marjorie had a corn removed from her foot, which was painful, perhaps not painful enough. They proceeded to prattle on for the next 3 hours in a dialect reminiscent of West Indian cricket commentators from the 1970s.
The first startling revelation was that Marjorie’s husband was losing his sex drive, something to do with his “lavido” going down hill. Hettie suggested that he would benefit from eating spicy food, apparently that’s what her mum would have recommended. How would that conversation ever have come about? Would Hettie’s mum have confided in her about her own father or perhaps she had already spoken to her mother about her own husband?
Hettie then gave a monologue on the history of her menstrual cycles for the past 5 years. It was gruesome especially in the knowledge that Hettie was currently experiencing the back end of a typical period from hell and wondered whether she had brought enough pads for the journey and wouldn’t have been half surprised if she leaked onto the seat. I thought perhaps she could ask the coach driver for a fire blanket to double up for a pad, this would have seen her safely through to Brighton, she could then have freshened up in the sea.
I had little choice but to listen to these exchanges, which were indispersed with belly laughs, which in turn shook the rivets of my seat. My Iphone was down to its last 10% of battery life, so listening to AC/DC was not an option to drown out their interference. Collectively they soon tore apart Kelly, a work colleague, who was not only eating excessively at work, ha, that’s rich, she was also spending too much time on her mobile and, wore no “undies” to work! I cannot even begin to imagine how they worked this one out.
After what seemed like 3 days we eventually approached Gatwick Airport in a deluge. I anticipated an announcement condemning me to several more hours of misery in the coach due to the weather, however the coach driver took pity on me and decided to continue with his journey and even made an amusing reference to Noah and racing him to Brighton’s seafront. Soon Hettie and Marjorie couldn’t resist breaking into their lunch boxes, it was barely 11 in the morning. I could hear Hettie ripping into smoked chicken thighs whilst Marjorie slurped down a rice dish overdosed with garlic. They also shared an enormous loaf and a large bottle of Diet Coke. Although I couldn’t be certain, I suspected it was Marjorie who was belching the loudest. In my desperation I was the first to scramble out of the coach, I wanted to get as far away as possible from the fearsome Hettie and Marjorie.
There are times when I feel like escaping to Brighton for a night or two, The intention is never sexual, you must understand that, it’s more to do with escapism, to get away from the stress of work and the senseless mayhem of home life, and there’s plenty of that. I relish that moment when I’ve negotiated a decent B&B rate, climbed the creaking staircase before I can stretch out on a foreign mattress, breathing in the recent streak of cleanliness, adequately undertaken by an underpaid Armenian student. That’s when I drop into a catnap for an hour a so and wash away a layer of tiredness, yesterday (13 May) was no different.
Showered and refreshed I left Kemp Town and headed for the tidier part of Brighton, with the cooler bars and restaurants. I felt quite stylish for a change with a loose black shirt, tight skinny jeans, jacket and a new pair of leather boots that needed breaking in, I need to be careful not to kid myself too much, I mean about the attire.
The Cricketers beckoned, apparently the oldest public house in Brighton, they were serving Carlsberg so that was good enough for me. I stood at a wide bar with lots of brass and soon got chatting to a local psychopath, I did wonder if he had done time in my local library but this line of inquiry would have been lost on him. He was an ex-hippy sort with a grey ponytail and with the red-veined nose of a raging alcoholic. There was something alarming about him; I suppose it was the eyes, the way they stared through me, little like Anthony Hopkins’ Hannibal Lecter. He insisted on repeating the same story about having “done” the gardens for a local ex-MP who happened to be in the pub, drinking with his “bird”. Grinning, he would raise his thumbs up at an embarrassed looking guy called Tony. The psychopath later introduced himself as Dave and confided in me that Tony had fiddled his expenses and that there was always plenty of cash lying around. I do pick them I realise that. Dave was convinced that Tony was still in the illegal arms business, more realistically, Dave was on hallucinogenics. He kept threatening to leave and go back to his pad, but this never materialised, instead he made a beeline for the ex-MP, patted him on the head like a true psychopath and said “I know who you are Tony mate”, Tony choked on his red wine but Dave continued nevertheless, “I used to do your gardens, and I know all your little fucking secrets.” I doubted whether these two people had ever met, but this was gripping stuff. At this point Dave tapped his nose, turned and winked at me, leaving an embarrassed ex-MP cowering.
I’d finished my Carlsberg and had prepared my excuse, I had to leave this madman behind, but Dave had other ideas. He managed to scrounge half a Stella off me. He thought my black leather wallet which was hooked to my jeans with a chain was rather cool then asked if I was gay, I was mortified, it never occurred to me that Dave could be a psychopathic homosexual and this spectacular performance was simply foreplay designed to impress me. Fearful of being picked up I said something lame like “no way man.” He then moved too close, I could smell the stench on his breath, and then he looked down and said “nice boots man’. I acknowledged the compliment and then the conversation became really weird when a now perspiring Dave said “take them off mate, I wanna try them on.” What little moisture was left in my mouth and throat instantly evaporated, I whispered something ridiculous like “my feet stink man”, why I said that I’ve no idea, perhaps just a pathetic attempt to appear tough, macho or both. This seemed to encourage Dave, he shoved my shoulder before continuing with his foreplay “go on man, I wanna try on your fucking boots man.” I was now expecting the worst, the worst being the squealing pig scene in Deliverance but to my great surprise he turned his back to me, slurped back his Stella, and to my great relief called me a “fucking tosser” and speedily left the pub. I waited an agonizing five minutes, conscious that I was involved in a couple of scenes with a madman, albeit my association, and that people were watching me with caution, then, when normality resumed in the pub, I made my getaway into a darkening Brighton.
Roaming Brighton the other day (8 May) thought I would visit Harry Ramsden’s opposite the seafront, my grumbling stomach craved a meat pie and chips combo. It took so long for the food to arrive I wondered what sort of Fawlty Towers mayhem was taking place in the kitchen. I was left with little choice therefore to take in the ambience and eavesdrop on any interesting conversations. To my left sat a gay couple, sharing a plate of chips and I’m not kidding, a savaloy. There was plenty of knee slapping, head rocking back antics and hand clapping, attention seeking? Just a little.
An Australian couple in their 60s sat further to my right. With only three tables to serve it still astonished me that my meal was taking so long, it was now 25 minutes and counting, the ice cubes had already melted in my Diet Coke and I was beginning to palpitate. I was however intrigued by their conversation. The Aussie male was wearing khaki, matching tops & bottoms and had something ridiculous to say about nearly everything on the menu, the Aussie female would nod an occasional acknowledgement. The Polish waitress, exhausted, replied with a straight face every time.
Straining his eyes he began by questioning the pie section then looked at his partner and said “I dunno Carol, this steak & kidney pudding, is it a dessert? I just need to know.” His stupidity time warped me back to the 70s and a Dirty Harry scene, the well do you feel lucky punk scene, and as Callahan walks away, the shot black dude on the floor says “I gotsta know”, Harry obliges by firing on an empty chamber.
The Aussie male then went on to ask if the cutlery came warmed up! Astonishing remark, what a dick. Still waiting for my food I was reminded of Bernard Cribbins in the Fawlty Towers Spoon scene in “The Hotel Inspectors”. When The Aussie male’s dessert finally arrived, something and custard, he managed to hoof down the something pretty quickly. Bearing in mind that custard, once served in a bowl, tends to cool down after a while, and I’m sure this has been proven scientifically by greater minds than mine, but whilst still chewing the last of the something, he raised his hand and summoned the manager. As the Latvian manager stood over the Aussie male, beaming and waiting to please, he became aghast as the Aussie male stuck a finger in the custard and exclaimed it wasn’t warm enough. The manager, stunned I would have assumed, took the bowl of custard away, hopefully pissing in it before returning the microwaved dish (I heard the “ping” it was that quiet in Harry Ramsden’s) back to Aussie male.
He then proceeded to taste the custard like a wine connoisseur, nodding his approval before dismissing the Latvian with a wave of the hand, omitting any eye contact. Extraordinary! My food, when it finally arrived, was spectacularly delicious, but by then the gay couple and the Aussie pair had departed, leaving me alone in a great mausoleum.
A Japanese family appeared on the beach in Cannes today (14 May) and decided to join me. It was blisteringly hot and their two identical boys were not happy. They were stripped down to their trunks by their mother, who smothered them in a thick factor 400 cream then hurriedly covered them both up again in dressing gowns and sun hats. They sat on the sand, playing disinterestedly with some digger-type trucks and super hero figures. The father spent the next half an hour constructing an elaborate wind barrier, but there was no bloody wind, I just couldn’t see the point! He then sat down in jeans exhausted. The mother, quite attractive with a thin, gaunt face, fussed around bags of clothes and gallons of sun factor creams and oils. As a foursome they looked horrendously out of place, they were on the wrong holiday, and then there was the bombshell.
After a while the Japanese family settled and the father handed the mother a 20 euro note to go out and search for some food, she skipped away enthusiastically. Half an hour later she returned with a bag of food and the husband completely flipped. In these situations language barriers are not a problem, body language is all that counts. He ripped her apart because she returned with no change! Crime of the century, she had squandered 20 euros on food, I’m surprised she avoided what must have been a temptation to stab him, or at the very least lift the nearest rock and smash his skull. His rant lasted a full ten minutes before he quietened down, but the damage had been done. The mother remained calm throughout; she stiffened her lips, looked away and blanked him. He tried hard for the next hour to make up for his over reaction but she wasn’t interested in the least. He even offered her half of his sandwich. She did however take it off him, stared at it as if it was a bear turd before tossing it away into a rubbish bag. He later placed his hand on her shoulder but she shrugged it off as if was a tarantula. It wasn’t long before she packed her bag, ordered her boys to dress (they were very relieved to step out of their ridiculous dressing gowns), and headed off back to their hotel. The father grimaced at being left alone but soon he too packed up his considerable belongings and trudged off back to find his family, thinking along the way, I’m sure, that sex, of any sort, would be off the agenda for several months at the very least!
E
arlier today I took advantage of being single for the day and cut a return trip to Cannes, Cote D’Azur for the day (17 May). It was spectacularly hot and humid and the temperature on the train was stifling though I felt strangely exhilarated, perhaps it was the human closeness.
I found Cannes oddly lacking in soul and more bizarrely lacking in boulangeries. I marched for over an hour, getting my bearings, eventually returning to a small boulangerie right opposite the station; here I bought my petit dejeuner before heading to the beach.
The sea was calm and some sand was visible amongst the throngs that littered the beach. Soon found a reasonable spot, quickly made unreasonable by an invading extended Italian family dominated by a dark, hairy woman. She had amongst others, for company, 3 unruly children, ages ranged from 6 months to 3 years (one a year by my reckoning) and who typified everything I dislike about young children: loud, rude & spoilt. Her husband joined the outing then immediately complained about the lack of space. To my relief I spotted another gap on the beach and quickly moved in though I was still close enough to hear Gina (the man continually referred to her as “Gina”, unless Gina is Italian for dark and hairy, which I doubt) moan constantly for the next 3 hours, she barely paused for breath. She was getting more and more irate. Had she caught her husband with another woman? (She was so mad perhaps it was another man?). Several people close by started wrapping up their mats and moving away, eventually her defeated husband moved away, leaving a demented woman to continue yapping away at her deranged offspring.
The heat on the beach in Villefranche today (16 May) is stifling. I cool off by waddling into the sea, floating for a while then always returning to my space to dry off. Then there would be a sense of appreciation, when looking down at my legs, a little red but still toned, almost athletic; looking further up is always a mistake though. I must have some sort of bloating condition or terminal water retention illness because my gut is expanding at an alarming rate even though I’m hardly eating. I look around and marvel at all the many healthy bodies, slim and in proportion – all ages, little fat to be seen anywhere, Jesus I must be the fattest on the beach today. I breathe in and allow my blubber to drop into the cavity below the ribcage, and then I try to summon the fat to stay there when rolling over but it has a will of its own as it spills over onto the warm sand. Think I will treat myself to a couple of Cornettos to get over this eternal misery.
There are better beaches in the world than those found in Nice on the Cote D’Azur, but it’s just not the quality of the sea, make no mistake though, the sea in Nice is perfectly fine, just not crystal clear. What Nice does provide though is a multitude of comical characters waiting to be observed from a distance, and yes, to be spied on.
Today (15 July) was my last day of being single but I did little to celebrate, I simply decided to hop from one beach to the next, starting at the Plage Publique de Beau Rivage and ending back at the same stretch, each beach becoming an adventure in itself and in doing so becoming my way of fighting monotony and boredom.
It was no surprise to find the beach overcrowded by midday and the heat was fierce and populated mainly by Italians, to be more precise, Italian families overeating, smoking to excess, singing entire operas and cheering their gymnastic bambinos. There was however one particular scene that stood out. From the corner of a sweat-drenched eye I caught sight of Alexei Sayle. He was incarnated into the body of a short, fat Italian man, wearing shrunken black Lycra swimming trunks with a belly that was a little more gross than mine. Fatness aside he stood proudly in front of his audience impersonating well-known Italian celebrities, at times I even detected a slight Scouse accent. He must have been pretty good because every impression was greeted with rip-roaring belly laughs. The fact that he was the dead ringer for Alexei Sayle (Alexei Sayle, circa, The Young Ones) was good enough for me. The fact that I was comforted by the thought that I was no longer the fattest bastard on the beach was also good enough for me.
One of the pleasures of spending two weeks in Nice, on the French Riviera, in August, is that I get to spend the first week on my own. I can relax, pick and choose where and what to eat and drink without having a debate and without having to wait for an eternity (I can hear someone whispering in the background that a permanent arrangement can easily be made).
On my first night in Nice (18 May) I ambled over to Moris’s Bar on Rue De France and waited for my overpriced beer with two inches of head. Having relieved my thirst I was drawn to a one-sided conversation between a couple in their 50s. The wife, I assume the wife, spent the next 20 minutes updating her husband on a mutual friend’s recent bowel cancer treatment including a gruesome operation. The detail was horrific. At first I thought that maybe she could even be the surgeon, but she looked too dense. There were references to part of the bowel being removed, obviously the bit containing the tumour, then, joining the two ends back together again. The husband continued to nod for 20 minutes whilst simultaneously flicking complimentary nuts into his mouth, before washing down with Perrier. He was beginning to look quite pissed off and decidedly sick, especially when she started to poke his stomach, then stated with little discretion that he should go for tests due to his alternating bowel habits. He continued to nod, dreaming about porn and a different solitary life. This is not what holidays should be about!
Was having a quiet tea in Starbucks in the Kemp Town area of Brighton today (7 July), just people watching through the window and generally trying to relax, but soon this menial task became impossible. A beaded leather-faced American with red socks, white trousers and pale-green jacket appeared and quickly sat in a corner screeching into his mobile. The drawl was Southern and quite irritating. He continued to bark into his mobile (cell phone), explaining that he was a fantastic salesman. In 5 minutes I counted 6 “I can sell real well” statements, I’m already tempted to shove a couple of wooden stirrers deep into his nostrils, deep enough to penetrate the membrane to his dormant brain. Jesus, he’s just informed “Barrrrrb” that he is so good that he can sell coffee beans to the Colombians. I still haven’t worked out what he sells, if he sells anything it all, in fact “Barrrrrb” could be a hallucination, but he’s probably into processed foods, it was just something he said earlier.
After a while he loses connection to the delight of everyone in the coffee shop, but his persistence in ringing back “Barrrrrb” pays off. Oh great, he’s now attached some sort of Bluetooth gadget to his ear to make him hands free, now he can gesticulate, making his performance even more spectacular. As he stands to search for something in his pocket he begins to resemble a Borg from Star Trek: The Next Generation, most bizarre. I leave before any eye contact can be made.
It’s around 7.30am on a drizzling Monday (5 July) in the heart of Brighton; its restaurants are clearing up from American Independence Day celebrations, and setting up for the day in a mock-European way. I’m trundling through, aiming to catch the express train to London Victoria. I also happen to be trailing, unintentionally, an obese couple in their 50s wearing matching khaki suits, plastic cagoules and hoods pulled tightly around their fat faces. They suddenly stop and plant themselves up against the window of a restaurant. Bearing in mind its just gone 7.30am they begin to salivate over a 2 for 1 spicy chicken fajita meal deal. They agree, with some enthusiasm, to come back later and buy a “deal” each, in other words pulverise 2 fajitas each. On closer examination they both have pastry crumbs sprinkled over their cagoules and lips. I suppose obese people plan their day’s binges like a junkie plans their day’s fixes. Feeling relatively healthy in front of these behemoths I squeeze my way through them and continue my march to the train station.
Back in days when I used to frequent Caffe Nero (4 July) I can recall a really weird incident. I remember it was lashing it down outside and I had almost finished my tasteless latte. The 2 Portuguese baristas were slumped either end of the counter looking glum. As I began to get my rucksack together the front door imploded, at first I imagined the gale had ripped the door out, but I was wrong. In the entrance stood 22 stone of pure lard. This sloth wobbled forward and dropped onto the nearest 2-seater sofa. Even more alarmingly, she (being a female was my best guest) started to sup a Starbucks hot drink then soon started chomping on a Starbucks Panini. It wasn’t long before she stood, with a struggle before reaching out for a Caffe Nero’s newspaper! The 2 baristas stood, open-mouthed, shocked, and unable to cope with this invasion. It was tempting to stay, but I needed to escape this insanity.
Noticed lots of bald people on the platform on the way home tonight (18 June 11) – quite weird really – It was like some kind of gathering – a convention really – but it hadn’t got started yet so I suppose they were getting ready to go to the bald convention because no one was actually talking to anybody which is kind of normal when people wait for a train on a platform – It’s also weird because when you’re in this kind of situation and you outnumber hairy heads, being bald begins to feel a normal which of course it isn’t because when you stand in front of the mirror and see light reflecting off your head you begin to accept that you would slaughter your own grandparents (because they were responsible for passing the defective gene) just to have hair back again and growing – in all the right places that is and I don’t even wanna get started on back hair – I’ll save that for when I next walk onto a train platform and get outnumbered by Eastern European women with hairy backs – but getting back to my point – and there is a point – the surrealism bit – when you’re standing on the platform you do actually start to compare styles of grooming – you begin to pick up techniques for hair strand placement and then you begin to wonder if there ever was a difference between almost bald and nearly bald and why you can always feel more hair on your head than there actually is – but enough I say because I’m beginning to think of the time I got entangled with the cable of a beard trimmer and nearly fell into the bath, and then there was the time I inhaled trimmed chest hair (accidently), and the time I rearranged trimmed buttock hair on my head just because I was bored, please don’t tell anyone!..................
Jesus what was in that ice cream from Brighton Pier today? (22 June 2011) Probably 20% seagull shit, I feel quite disorientated, and maybe 9am is too early for such a treat. I find the nearest bench on the Pier facing the beach and instantly squirm as cracked wooden bench slats pinch my buttock flesh, I feel its not going to be my day. I’m soon treated to the sight of Metal Detector Man being half chased, half mauled by a rabid dog, what the fuck are they expected to find anyway?
But I’m soon distracted by the shock sighting of Edward G Robinson – 1920s, 1930s Hollywood actor (smoked a lot of cigars and played lots of gangster-type roles), but surely he should be quite dead otherwise he would be on the wrong side of 122? Or perhaps he’s just the local retired gangster-type person wearing a fedora and a double-breasted jacket (pin-striped) and black & white spats. Then, as he closes in on me, Edward G jumps forward, spreads out his arms, drops his saggy jaw and blurts out: “tahwahoo!” to an extremely startled seagull (if it was wearing pants then the seagull would certainly have shit them). The site of Edward G having a freak out settled my stomach as I contemplated a march to the train station and a return to London Victoria.
Rucksack weighs a ton today (23 June 2011); apples, towel, trunk and deodorant, I can’t remember what else but having reached 52 I’m beginning to forget lots of stuff. I’m also beginning to get more intolerant especially with queues and in particular queues in chain coffee shops like Starbucks.
The whole process of making a drink can be so complex and confusing adding to the frustration of waiting in the queue. Often the baristas (stupid word, blatantly pretentious) play a game of trying to guess your order, when they do eventually get it right, hilarity ensues which leads to more time-wasting, banal conversations. As a point of principle I vary my order at the last minute to confuse the barista and always refuse to accept a correctly guessed order, childish I know. And when did this whole “skinny” thing creep into coffee shop vocabulary? Skinny latte and skinny caramelocinno sound ridiculous. Throw “skimmed” into your order and it always throws the trainee baristas. Several weeks ago I exchanged the following words with a Costa acne-infested barista:
Obsequious grin (barista)
Medium tea with skimmed milk please (me)
Skimmed? (barista)
Yeah skimmed, is that ok? (me)
Grande? (barista)
Well I suppose, I want a medium cup of tea – on the board there are 3 sizes, I want the one in between the small cup and the large cup, please (me)
Jez, the guy wants skinny milk with his drink (barista)
And then there’s the over the top obsession with hygiene. I’ve developed a taste for camomile tea lately and its quite comical seeing a new barista lifting out a camomile tea bag with a pair of tongs! And as you leave there’s always the desperate squeal, pleading with you to have a “nice day” and “too come back soon.”
Then again everybody knows it’s a branded scam. A conspiracy if you like. Package a simple process into a complex procedure then you’re more likely to pay more for the end product, and the waiting, the queue is part of the scam, part of the conspiracy and that’s why I’m pissed off right now.
Jesus I felt good today (30 June 2011) after 12 lengths and was looking forward to a lukewarm shower and a seed yogurt. First I had to negotiate a slippery journey from the pool to the changing room. Not long ago I landed on my arse not once but twice and it was not pleasant so my steps were an odd cross between tiptoeing and nervously gripping the tiles, in other words perfect for landing on my arse again. In the shower I began to work up a good lather quickly covering my body and just started rinsing off when I picked up on a familiar tune, it was a whistled tune but couldn’t quite place it at first. After washing away the soap from my eyes a crooked figure stood uncomfortably close to me. It was a decrepit and tanned old man with lots of loose skin, baggy blue trunks containing heavy testicles, scrotum and probably a penis, that had dropped at least 15 centimetres from his pelvis. This observation lasted for seconds as I was quickly brought back to the familiar tune. This burnt geriatric was frantically whistling the theme tune to Spiderman – the cartoon version – the one that goes something like:
“Spiderman, Spiderman, does whatever a spider can, spins a web, any size,
Catches thieves just like flies, look out! Here comes the Spiderman.”
And don’t ask how I remember the lyrics. The whistling on its own would have been fine but I was being treated to a private performance that included tap-dancing, mime, finger-clicking and to be honest I was half expecting him to break into a double summersault! I watched this performance in utter shock, whilst standing under the shower and still rinsing off. Spiderman took his position under the shower and thankfully kept his trunks on.
Later, whilst drying off, I could still hear the whistling. As I struggled into my damp socks and tight boots, Spiderman appeared, high on LSD and orgasmic after his virtuoso performance!
In a mad rush today, (28 June 2011) one of those insane 5 minute lunch breaks where you skate into the local supermarket, grab a low fat sandwich, diet Coke and a large bar of chocolate then dash back to the office but it wasn’t going to happen to me. I was third in the queue. The obese sloth with shoulder and chest acne officially approved by the Black Death of 1348 was lazily checking lottery tickets from around the same century whilst Garlic Man behind me wheezed “Jesus” onto the nape of my neck. Convinced there was a fault with the lottery machine the sloth eventually gave up just before slithering off towards the exit. The sloth gave way to an 82 year old man with an equally old blue pin-stripped double-breasted jacket, lime-coloured jogging bottoms and a pair of tatty trainers. Make no mistake this old git did not hang around and I could fully appreciate why. He paid cash for 3 items: 1 Mars Bar, fair enough, a pair of “reduced” courgettes, and ……… a box of ribbed condoms (12), what the fuck!!!!!! I’m not kidding, this skeleton was well over 80 and struggled to lift the box of condoms onto the counter! And yes the mind will always boggle when this situation occurs – combine the items in the old git’s shopping basket and you get one sick mess and one massive lunch time appetite suppressant!
