I've written enough London blogs to last a hamster’s lifetime so I’ve decided to experiment with this one – don’t worry, it’s still as desert dry and close-cutting, with all the wit of the Dead Sea Scrolls. I had read American Psycho earlier that week and thought I'd include a Batemanesque alter-ego - just for the Hell of it. Enjoy!
DAY 1
There are times when the universe throws everything it has at my depleted sanity. On a rain soaked Wednesday morning in the South Wales Valleys the universe exceeded expectation. The tone of the day was set with me being unable to find one of the several umbrellas that appear to have been sucked into the black hole called ‘a living room’, thus getting soaked to the skin en route to the bus stop.
Stood next to me at the bus shelter was a mother and daughter; separated by roughly sixteen years (they were of the run-down council estate heritage and both were attempting to disguise it with streaks gravy browning and copious amounts of pearl drops. They were dressed in matching Tesco twin-sets and New Look FMB’s. Their chaotic peroxide hair was making a bid for freedom from the Claire’s Accessories scrunchies).
During the agonising wait for the bus I was forced to passive smoke a clumsy roll-up that was being furiously drawn by a wilted teddy boy refugee - one who has lowered his standards of expressive anti-authoritarianism to such an extent that he has resorted to toking under ‘NO SMOKING’ signs in bus shelters. When the bus finally pulled up – 20 minutes late - a passenger decided to be sick on one of the seats (in hindsight, it was quite humorous the way he propelled his dentures across the first three rows).
The texture and colour of the vomit reminded me of a bowl of stew I was forced to hold down recently. A ‘cleaning crew’ was called and we had to sit and wait while the puke was mopped up (I wanted to rub the bastard’s nose in it for making me run so late).
Rain pelted the foul tin conservatory that was laughably called a ‘Stagecoach 2000’. The leaking hatch conveniently placed above my head dripped tortuous drops while a Troglodyte wearing a military jacket banged out text messages on a dinosaur bone that *beeped* at every keystroke causing the veins on my temples to spasm. ‘Time to drown out the world’ I thought, reaching for my Seinnheiser earphones.
‘Fucking shit!’ I muttered under an audible fire breath: my earphones were nowhere to be seen; nor was the carrying pouch they are usually kept in. Has the outside world always been this contemptible and infuriating? – I asked myself - Have I woken up inside some reality TV prank? Can it really get any worse?
I didn’t need the latter question answered by the approach of some guy who stank of rank poultry. Nor did I need to inhale the urine cologne fragrance of a tramp sat behind me to further regret asking myself the question - ‘Keep that cleaning crew on standby, drive!’ What usually takes a little under ninety minutes stretched to a tortuous two and a half hours as the driver expertly timed each red light to perfection.
My Megabus was due to leave Cardiff at 12:30; I arrived in Cardiff with just five minutes to spare. I had no food and no earphones (I did have the urge to cut off someone’s testicles, ram them down their throat and use their intestines to sew their lips closed).
Swimming around my head was the Huey Lewis and the News scene from American Psycho – where Patrick Bateman hacks a guy’s head off with an axe during 'It's Hip to be Square' - quite appropriate since I am the Patrick Bateman of mornings. American Psycho is one of my old favourites and I have been casually dipping in-and-out of it for the last few weeks; using the new eBook reader I purchased from Waterstones (the American Psycho eBook is formatted in the versatile iPod friendly 'epub' format; not the restricting and inferior Microsoft 'lit' format.
I had downloaded and transferred the book onto my new Sony eReader - with its battery life of 15000 page turns- using the Calibre ebook management software - which is far superior to the bundled Sony software that came with the device. The dual SD card slot allows a potential storage space of 70 GB - based on the current capacity of the latest FAT 32 formatted storage cards...)
I purchased the eReader because I always pack two books to take to London and then end up purchasing another book from Waterstones, Foyles, Forbidden Planet or the Muswell Hill Bookshop and reading that instead. Soaked and seething I decided to read a few chapters. There were no annoying twats in bubbles travelling this time - yapping on their iPhones with blatant disregard for the rest of the passengers.
(I can’t help feeling smug in front of iPhone users; knowing that my HTC Android device is far superior in every way to the iPhone). My lack of earphones was now less trivial and by the time I found myself nodding in agreement with Patrick's thoughts on Phil Collins success as a solo artist (and I stress the word ‘artist’) the familiar Audi show cars were greeting me from a glass tower on the North Circular.
The lack of ‘wait for next one’ mentality on London underground platforms always plays in my favour - which is why, unlike the rushing commuters that leapt like salmon on to the first approaching tube, I was sat in a partially empty carriage reading The Guardian on someone’s iPad (if you have a friend with an iPad, do them a kindness and tell them that they would look less of a smarmy, pompous arse without one. Though I do find them intriguing, the new Android Tablets will be far better).
It was a few minutes before I recognized the tall black guy sat next to me. He had a long goatee grown to form a point – and was wearing even pointier shoes. He was concentrating on the same Guardian article that I was reading - well, it was his iPad). The guy was known as ‘Doom’ from the latest batch of Gladiators - he looks shorter in real life (and I doubt that his abs are as chiselled and well defined as mine).
I spot celebrities - if that’s what you call them - quite often around North London. During my last visit I was on the same bus as one of the blokes from ‘Queer Eye for the Straight Guy’ – I can’t remember his name, but he was the straight one.
I treated myself to a slap-up meal at Monkey Nuts on Crouch End Broadway – I don’t know whether to be proud or ashamed of how much I put away. Everybody who entered Monkey Nuts was complaining that it was too cold outside (it was so cold that I nearly fastened the buttons on my black Moss double-lined cashmere greatcoat).
‘At least it’s dry here,’ I said in brief conversation with a ‘Movember’ moustache and the guy attached to it - who had just presented me with a cracking set of beef ribs. It’s funny how contradictory things happen at the precise moment you blurt something out; I got fucking soaked on the way home.
Once dried and changed into a pair of Nike track bottoms (washed using Comfort Fresh fabric softener so not to chafe my moisturised and well defined calves) and settled down with my netbook (a Samsung NC10 with the 9 cell battery, giving 8 hours of use on a full charge). I finally shook off a bout of writers block, thumping out 900 words – some of which you’re reading – while the family Von Trapp marched in and out of the front door with military precision.
My Stepmother taking my sister, Sinead, to ballet and returning fifteen minutes later for my youngest brother, Rhys, who is taking Break Dancing classes. Ieuan, the eldest of the three siblings but 18 years younger than me, has entered his terrible teens and is slowly becoming Kevin the Teenager. My Father is in Washington on business, so there is no snoring to give the Dolby Digital sub woofer a run for its money.
DAY 2
Adamant not to endure a repeat performance of my less-than-charming escapade to London I headed to Tottenham Court Road in search of new headphones - and a furry Wookee. I had grown weary of my previous earphones; ear buds that looked far from appealing when removed after five hours use. I decided on the award winning Seinnheiser MM450 headphones with Bluetooth and talk-back function - they would also protect my ears from the cold climate (and would complement my already handsome, rugged features). I successfully managed to haggle £60 off the asking price - tidy bargain, like!
After failing to track down a furry Wookie or a particular book that I was looking for in a reputable Charing Cross Road bookshop, I stopped at a cafe for an Americano coffee (with full-cream milk, two sweeteners and a Chocolate Digestive biscuit from the black leather man-bag I had purchased from Next).
Moved by the soothing silkiness that is Jazz I spent a few minutes skimming through interesting Tweets and pretentious feeds on Facebook before posting a few myself (I find that the more shallow and mundane you are the more people will interact with you – it’s a social experiment that I have been conducting for my own amusement).
The number 29 bus to Finsbury Park was quieter now that I could drown out the sounds of life. (I felt smug; knowing that the headphones resting on my head were better than everybody else’s on the bus. That was until a guy with Bose headphones boarded at Camden Road. The cunt! I nearly got off at the next stop until I caught sight of the Orange branded Nokia N65 that he was clearly over-compensating for).
At Muswell Hill I dined at my favourite pub. Dining on the next table across from me was an old couple (middle class baby boomers judging by her £500 Harrods leather overcoat and his £10 Marks & Spencer day-socks). The woman was gently stroking the back of the guy’s neck (the shows of affection were genuine, leading me to believe that they weren’t married, didn’t go to church and fucked more that once a week).
I pictured them as me and my girlfriend in thirty years’ time (though my girlfriend will have a far better taste in coats and I won’t need socks to tell me what day it is). On the table behind was a builder (a complete self-parody: a fat, red, skin-head reading the Daily Star). Words spilled out of his mouth like rusty nails on rotten timber – he was spoiling the general mood of the place (he even said ‘geeza’ for fucks sake).
The evening was pretty much the same as the last: I sat somewhere quiet, writing (though I have yet to believe in my own abilities as a writer, other people seem to get off on my writing style; some are even jealous of the way I can string words together with such linguistic simplicity). While writing I listened to an eclectic playlist I compiled on Spotify (I couldn’t help congratulating myself for the fluidity of the composition. Since the days of C90 cassette tapes I have been a master at compiling and arranging music to create the desired mood and ambience).
Military precision continued as Sinead was whisked to an audition - which she is sure to get because she is so talented - and Rhys was dropped off at his ballet class. Ieuan watched District Nine in horror while I passed the 2000 word mark (which you are currently getting off on while conjuring up images of me in a yellow Henleys sweater and glass-diamond studs from the Argus Autumn/Winter catalogue).
THE NEXT FEW DAYS...
The next few days would be spent writing poorly while enjoying quality time with my family and friends (I have a modest, but well-rounded social circle; they are all sophisticated raconteurs, naturally. Some of them are more intelligent than me, but I like them anyway and have decided to let them keep their spleen. They are, of course, marginally less attractive than me, slightly shorter, and don’t own an iPod or a 3G enabled smartphone or a decent mobile tariff.
Each acquaintance possesses a warm and endearing characteristic that makes up for their shortfalls. Being discerning high-flyers – respected and envied by our peers - time is far too precious to engage in messy social interactions – even with well endowed Welshmen with noise-cancelling headphones. Anyway, I wouldn’t want my circle to envy me too much, or to lust after something that is obviously way out of their league – I know they desire my buns of steel, and having just seen my reflection in the mirror, I know how they feel).
Tomorrow I am going to re-visit the Hyde Park Christmas market and laugh at people injuring themselves on the ice skating rink while sipping mulled wine (mulled wine? You fucking sick twisted bastard!). Irrespective of whether my plans come to fruition, or my plan is to have no plan at all, I will leave London with fond memories. The city of London is my adventure playground; a continuum of chaotic anonymity that brings out the very best in me (and the devil in me).
0 comments:
Post a Comment