Feeling much more dynamic at work today - perhaps because it's cooler outside, perhaps because we're on the cusp of payday and everyone is feeling a little more positive. It's nice to cross things off the scrappy little post-it to-do list, but I'm aware that I'm getting the more enjoyable bits and pieces out of the way first and that there's plenty more crap to wade through this week before I can enjoy a bank holiday weekend properly. Either way, getting through the working day is about setting minor goals - even if they're just time-based ones like a cigarette at 11.30, lunch and a bit of football news at 1 and home at 5.30. Without things like this, I'm not sure how anyone could work full-time at all.
After work, I do another jacket potato and watch the latest South Park before K gets home. Faye and Kelli pop round for a while after dinner and I begin watching the final leaders' debate on BBC1 while they natter in the kitchen. It starts well - with Gordon Brown having to fight hard after his "bigoted woman" gaffe in Rochdale yesterday - and Clegg showed, again, that he's a great public speaker and a decent debater. No matter what Cameron says, however, I just can't even force myself to like him. I know he's the most likely candidate to be our next prime minister, but everything about him makes my flesh crawl. He's a cartoon Etonian squeezed into a Tony Blair costume circa 1997; only speaking in meaningless, point-scoring soundbites and shamelessly trying to piggy-back on Barack Obama's 'Change' platform. Next to Obama, Cameron looks like a snivelling schoolboy - and I think he'd be a genuine embarrassment for this country if we put him and the rest of the Bullingdon Club in charge. I'm with GB on this one I think.
Friday 30 April 2010
Wednesday
It's hot and stuffy in the office and therefore relatively tricky to stay focused on work - far too easy to drift off, staring into space for frighteningly long periods before snapping back into reality. This is how this office gets in the summer, with the sticky tedium broken only by the wailing of the theatre students across the road.
No stopping in Wetherspoon's after work today though - I head home and jump on the Wii Fit for a while (in no way related to some disappointingly chubby-looking wedding photos having been tagged on Facebook, obviously) and eat a jacket potato while fannying around on the computer for a while.
Later on, Barcelona v Inter - the second leg of the Champions League Semi-final (1-3) - comes on ITV and I settle in to an entertaining match, dominated by another exquisite defensive display from Jose's Inter Milan side. Having lost a man early on to a dubious red card, Mourinho's team did everything they could to frustrate Barca - and a large part of me was happy when they were denied a stoppage-time winner in the same fashion as they had beaten Chelsea at this exact stage last season. Watching Mourinho run onto the pitch at full-time to salute his players was great and it's very hard to begrudge Inter their first Champions League final for something like 36 years. I think they'll go on and win it now, too.
No stopping in Wetherspoon's after work today though - I head home and jump on the Wii Fit for a while (in no way related to some disappointingly chubby-looking wedding photos having been tagged on Facebook, obviously) and eat a jacket potato while fannying around on the computer for a while.
Later on, Barcelona v Inter - the second leg of the Champions League Semi-final (1-3) - comes on ITV and I settle in to an entertaining match, dominated by another exquisite defensive display from Jose's Inter Milan side. Having lost a man early on to a dubious red card, Mourinho's team did everything they could to frustrate Barca - and a large part of me was happy when they were denied a stoppage-time winner in the same fashion as they had beaten Chelsea at this exact stage last season. Watching Mourinho run onto the pitch at full-time to salute his players was great and it's very hard to begrudge Inter their first Champions League final for something like 36 years. I think they'll go on and win it now, too.
Thursday 29 April 2010
Tuesday
Back at work - and it's the usual post-holiday misery of trawling through the last few days of stacked-up emails and Things To Do helpfully flagged by my colleagues. There is also, even after such a short time, a necessary period where I have to remember what it is I actually do for a living - and then, ah yes, that's it. Back on the horse.
The day, in the event, passes fairly uneventfully and the weather is still nice enough to wear shorts to work - the first shorts day of 2010! Quite an occasion - last year I think I finally reluctantly put my jeans back on in the first week of October. I can't see this week starting an unbroken run, however; but we shall see. It certainly feels very summery even in Wood Green - trees that were bare when I left last week are now blossoming and even the nutters look slightly more peaceful.
After work I arrange to meet Alex to see how her weekend housemove went. It turns out that she is already in The Tollgate using their free wi-fi, so I stop off to see her and we order a drink. Sitting outside watching Turnpike Lane go by is an odd experience (and not often that pleasant, either) but I think a strangely defining part of my relationship with Alex is just this - sitting in unfashionable, unglamorous pubs (see Egham's Happy Man, Monkey's Forehead and Armstrong Gun as well as West Green Lane's The Goat, Finsbury Park's World's End and Hornsey's Hope & Anchor), surrounded by punters with whom we have very little in common - but having a great time chatting, smoking and putting away cheap lagers. It's how we became friends (we even both worked in one of those pubs at one point) and it's one of my favourite things to do.
After a couple of pints, K arrives home so we say our goodbyes and I join K for tea. We eat a delicious Bolognese dinner and finish off Mad Men series 2. It's definitely one of the most enjoyable TV series I've ever watched - and yet the reason it's so compelling is hard to put my finger on. Naturally, I started downloading series 3 as soon as it finished.
The day, in the event, passes fairly uneventfully and the weather is still nice enough to wear shorts to work - the first shorts day of 2010! Quite an occasion - last year I think I finally reluctantly put my jeans back on in the first week of October. I can't see this week starting an unbroken run, however; but we shall see. It certainly feels very summery even in Wood Green - trees that were bare when I left last week are now blossoming and even the nutters look slightly more peaceful.
After work I arrange to meet Alex to see how her weekend housemove went. It turns out that she is already in The Tollgate using their free wi-fi, so I stop off to see her and we order a drink. Sitting outside watching Turnpike Lane go by is an odd experience (and not often that pleasant, either) but I think a strangely defining part of my relationship with Alex is just this - sitting in unfashionable, unglamorous pubs (see Egham's Happy Man, Monkey's Forehead and Armstrong Gun as well as West Green Lane's The Goat, Finsbury Park's World's End and Hornsey's Hope & Anchor), surrounded by punters with whom we have very little in common - but having a great time chatting, smoking and putting away cheap lagers. It's how we became friends (we even both worked in one of those pubs at one point) and it's one of my favourite things to do.
After a couple of pints, K arrives home so we say our goodbyes and I join K for tea. We eat a delicious Bolognese dinner and finish off Mad Men series 2. It's definitely one of the most enjoyable TV series I've ever watched - and yet the reason it's so compelling is hard to put my finger on. Naturally, I started downloading series 3 as soon as it finished.
Monday
We aim to head back to London at 10.30 - but appear downstairs at just the wrong time and end up getting roped into helping the caterer back out with all his stuff. No matter, it's a small price to pay for what's been a brilliant few days, and it's nice to repay Ellie's dad for all the free booze and amazing food. We say our goodbyes and there's lots of hugging and even a little bit of drink to take home (not that either of us really fancy facing it for quite some time).
I get behind the wheel for the first part of the journey, which involves driving back to Bristol Parkway to drop K's sister off. On the way, Nick mentions a craving for McDonald's, which duly sets us all off and by the time I've navigated the Meriva around Bristol's uninviting ring road system to Filton we're all absolutely starving and a little delirious. Needless to say the Big Mac goes down a treat and we enjoy a little sun as the girls go for a nose around Matalan.
K takes over for the trip back to London and we have fun listening to the CDs full of old party tunes she brought down for the wedding. By the time we've slogged our way around the North Circular it's getting fairly late in the afternoon, so we take the car up to the rental place in Bounds Green. This is the nerve-racking part of hiring a car that I hate - I dread the possibility that we might rear-end someone or get a scratch on the way up Green Lanes, creeping through traffic and avoiding the assorted Wood Green nutters who all seem to love wandering out into the road. Happily, we manage to avoid any sort of incident and are soon able to hop on the 141 bus back south.
We head straight to Sainsbury's to fill the house back up with food - though we're both enormously tired and the sheer amount of information North London is feeding into my weary brain is a real shock to the system after the last 4 days at 0mph.
Eventually we get home and are finally able to collapse on the sofa in front of a bit of Mad Men (almost finishing the second series), and reflect on a great few days with a slightly surreal ending - breakfast in the country, lunch in a Bristol industrial estate, teatime battling through Harringay. It's part of why I love travelling around Britain - but, as the cliche goes, it's always nice to get home.
I get behind the wheel for the first part of the journey, which involves driving back to Bristol Parkway to drop K's sister off. On the way, Nick mentions a craving for McDonald's, which duly sets us all off and by the time I've navigated the Meriva around Bristol's uninviting ring road system to Filton we're all absolutely starving and a little delirious. Needless to say the Big Mac goes down a treat and we enjoy a little sun as the girls go for a nose around Matalan.
K takes over for the trip back to London and we have fun listening to the CDs full of old party tunes she brought down for the wedding. By the time we've slogged our way around the North Circular it's getting fairly late in the afternoon, so we take the car up to the rental place in Bounds Green. This is the nerve-racking part of hiring a car that I hate - I dread the possibility that we might rear-end someone or get a scratch on the way up Green Lanes, creeping through traffic and avoiding the assorted Wood Green nutters who all seem to love wandering out into the road. Happily, we manage to avoid any sort of incident and are soon able to hop on the 141 bus back south.
We head straight to Sainsbury's to fill the house back up with food - though we're both enormously tired and the sheer amount of information North London is feeding into my weary brain is a real shock to the system after the last 4 days at 0mph.
Eventually we get home and are finally able to collapse on the sofa in front of a bit of Mad Men (almost finishing the second series), and reflect on a great few days with a slightly surreal ending - breakfast in the country, lunch in a Bristol industrial estate, teatime battling through Harringay. It's part of why I love travelling around Britain - but, as the cliche goes, it's always nice to get home.
Sunday
The day starts predictably slowly as wedding guests crawl out of the woodwork, as well as a few tents in the garden. The usual rumours abound as to various people having spent the night together - K, gossip machine that she is, is right on the money with her guesses and spends the rest of the morning winding up the pair in question. Savage, sure, but really quite funny.
The weather is pretty dismal compared to the previous day, but K and I, determined to get some fresh air into our lungs, go for a walk down past the church and into the woodland. Neither of us feel particularly good so we soon turn back and take up residence in the false-panelled drawing room reading the paper and catching up with everyone else's tales of drunkenness. After a couple of trips up to the bedroom to truly mong out, we are informed that the father of the bride's massive Sunday barbecue is underway and that the meat is plentiful.
And it is - a few burgers and sausages later and we're both feeling a lot better, if still pretty wiped out from caning it three days and nights in a row. However, when it transpires that there's an awful lot of booze left and that Ellie's parents need it drinking, I'm back on the West Country cider from around 6 and sipping it lazily in the warmth of the drawing room. This weekend may take a wee bit of recovery time.
The weather is pretty dismal compared to the previous day, but K and I, determined to get some fresh air into our lungs, go for a walk down past the church and into the woodland. Neither of us feel particularly good so we soon turn back and take up residence in the false-panelled drawing room reading the paper and catching up with everyone else's tales of drunkenness. After a couple of trips up to the bedroom to truly mong out, we are informed that the father of the bride's massive Sunday barbecue is underway and that the meat is plentiful.
And it is - a few burgers and sausages later and we're both feeling a lot better, if still pretty wiped out from caning it three days and nights in a row. However, when it transpires that there's an awful lot of booze left and that Ellie's parents need it drinking, I'm back on the West Country cider from around 6 and sipping it lazily in the warmth of the drawing room. This weekend may take a wee bit of recovery time.
Wednesday 28 April 2010
Saturday
Today is the day of the wedding. K has to get up early to begin her bridesmaidly duties - which, as far as it affects me, involves using our room to prepare the bride in. Unceremoniously chucked out of bed, I wander downstairs and practice the time-honoured bloke-at-wedding art of "staying out of the way" - after having grabbed a bit of toast in one of the many dining rooms.
I sit outside with the groom and ushers and other assorted unnecessary males until it's time to get ready and the non-resident guests start to arrive. Having unwisely forgotten my smart shoes I sneak into a bathroom and stick on my Primark shirt-n-tie combination and the trousers I got last weekend for the London Book Fair, alongside my rather too casual Nike Air trainers. Hmm. Hopeful that I'll get away with it, I put on a brave face and head downstairs to find Nick, with whom I manage to dig up a couple of sneaky pre-wedding beers and hide in the table tennis room until we are required.
People we know start to arrive and everyone gathers in the back garden waiting to be called in for the ceremony. The ceremony itself is very nice and K looks great as a bridesmaid - thankfully, unlike church weddings, this one doesn't drag on too long either and soon we are back out on the lawn enjoying champagne and canapes while the bride throws her bouquet and, essentially, the partying part of the wedding begins. Dinner is served shortly after, which involves a Pie Minister pie pre-selected by each guest, along with copious amounts of red wine (especially for K and I, in that we are sat on the same table as the bride's father who calls over the catering staff for reserves every time the booze looks like running low).
Around this time (2pm or so) I become aware that my DJ set is not until 11.30 - leaving a full 9 hours or so to remain in more-or-less working order. This, unfortunately, doesn't really go to plan: by 8pm (when the cured ham and cheese comes out) I am so drunk I can barely stay awake, so K sends me upstairs for an hour's nap. I awake just as she is due to go on with her floorfillers set, incredibly groggy and confused, but sort my brain out with a can of Diet Coke - then get on the beers. I jump around like a twat to K's perfect choice of music and, amazingly, am operating at some sort of coherent level again by 10.30.
I get on the decks at 11.30 intent on having some fun playing dubstep and electronica stuff - even though it turns out that most of the guests have drunk themselves out of contention by this point and I am performing to precisely three (appreciative) people. Never mind - I have fun, and stumble up to bed the second my set finishes at 12.30.
It's been a great wedding, and both the bride and groom looked great and carried the whole thing off fantastically well. I could have done without the mid-evening wipeout, but then there's another full day of fun left in this crazy party house.
I sit outside with the groom and ushers and other assorted unnecessary males until it's time to get ready and the non-resident guests start to arrive. Having unwisely forgotten my smart shoes I sneak into a bathroom and stick on my Primark shirt-n-tie combination and the trousers I got last weekend for the London Book Fair, alongside my rather too casual Nike Air trainers. Hmm. Hopeful that I'll get away with it, I put on a brave face and head downstairs to find Nick, with whom I manage to dig up a couple of sneaky pre-wedding beers and hide in the table tennis room until we are required.
People we know start to arrive and everyone gathers in the back garden waiting to be called in for the ceremony. The ceremony itself is very nice and K looks great as a bridesmaid - thankfully, unlike church weddings, this one doesn't drag on too long either and soon we are back out on the lawn enjoying champagne and canapes while the bride throws her bouquet and, essentially, the partying part of the wedding begins. Dinner is served shortly after, which involves a Pie Minister pie pre-selected by each guest, along with copious amounts of red wine (especially for K and I, in that we are sat on the same table as the bride's father who calls over the catering staff for reserves every time the booze looks like running low).
Around this time (2pm or so) I become aware that my DJ set is not until 11.30 - leaving a full 9 hours or so to remain in more-or-less working order. This, unfortunately, doesn't really go to plan: by 8pm (when the cured ham and cheese comes out) I am so drunk I can barely stay awake, so K sends me upstairs for an hour's nap. I awake just as she is due to go on with her floorfillers set, incredibly groggy and confused, but sort my brain out with a can of Diet Coke - then get on the beers. I jump around like a twat to K's perfect choice of music and, amazingly, am operating at some sort of coherent level again by 10.30.
I get on the decks at 11.30 intent on having some fun playing dubstep and electronica stuff - even though it turns out that most of the guests have drunk themselves out of contention by this point and I am performing to precisely three (appreciative) people. Never mind - I have fun, and stumble up to bed the second my set finishes at 12.30.
It's been a great wedding, and both the bride and groom looked great and carried the whole thing off fantastically well. I could have done without the mid-evening wipeout, but then there's another full day of fun left in this crazy party house.
Friday
We left the curtains open last night - there barely seemed any need to close them - and so we are gently woken by the sun streaming in nice and early. After each taking a bath we pad downstairs to the kitchen to grab some breakfast and catch up with last night's survivors. We had celebrated our arrival with vigour - and as a result all the drink we had bought "to last the weekend" was predictably all gone.
After getting directions from one of the groom's ushers I jump in the car with a couple of others and head to a town called Holsworthy - which we are told has a big Waitrose. The roads in this direction are even more narrow and winding than on the way up, and at one point my nerve is tested by a lorry and a campervan coming down a single track hill towards us. I've been nervous about driving hire cars since my van crash a couple of years ago, but this Vauxhall is really easy to drive and I haven't had any problems yet.
We get back just as the caterer is delivering his equipment and tables and chairs for tomorrow's wedding, so after helping shift a few sofas into the billiard room we are able to settle back down into yesterday's familiar pattern of walking around the grounds, wandering from room-to-room in the enormous house and sitting out on the garden benches smoking, drinking and talking rubbish. We get a little tipsy again, naturally, and everyone picks up a little sun.
After getting directions from one of the groom's ushers I jump in the car with a couple of others and head to a town called Holsworthy - which we are told has a big Waitrose. The roads in this direction are even more narrow and winding than on the way up, and at one point my nerve is tested by a lorry and a campervan coming down a single track hill towards us. I've been nervous about driving hire cars since my van crash a couple of years ago, but this Vauxhall is really easy to drive and I haven't had any problems yet.
We get back just as the caterer is delivering his equipment and tables and chairs for tomorrow's wedding, so after helping shift a few sofas into the billiard room we are able to settle back down into yesterday's familiar pattern of walking around the grounds, wandering from room-to-room in the enormous house and sitting out on the garden benches smoking, drinking and talking rubbish. We get a little tipsy again, naturally, and everyone picks up a little sun.
Monday 26 April 2010
Thursday
We make a start at 8am, ready for the hire-car people to pick us up in our vehicle for the weekend. Last night's sleep was, thankfully, largely uninterrupted by my wheezing and hacking cough for a change so we are both relatively refreshed. The hire-car man arrives at 9am and takes us to Bounds Green where we complete the necessary paperwork and head off to pick Nick up in Crouch End. With K at the wheel and me in charge of CDs, we drive first to Bristol to pick up K's sisters, then on to Devon, following closely the detailed instructions emailed out by the conscientious groom.
Shortly after leaving the A30 somewhere near Tavistock, the landscape becomes very rural indeed and we start hitting single-track lanes at a village called Sheepwash. The sun is out and it's a very beautiful day by the time - 5 or so hours after leaving London - we pull up at the stunning Buckland House, an enormous Victorian mansion set in 250-odd acres of land with views across the county.
As K is a bridesmaid, we have been given a room in the house to ourselves. The place is a sprawling, as-it-was building complete with pantry, false-panelled drawing room, library containing anthologies of 1890s society magazines and a fairly brilliant '3D picture viewer'. There is also a huge croquet lawn, boating lake and an adjacent church and graveyard. It's a pretty spectacular place to move into for a few days, and after having caught up with the bride and groom and assorted relations of theirs, I get behind the wheel of the Meriva and head back to the nearest town to do a booze run.
The rest of the afternoon and evening is spent lazing around on the grass outside, drinking beer and nattering away, while I watch some of the others messing around on the boat and canoe down by the lake. When it gets a little chilly we head inside and watch the second pre-election leader's debate on the small TV in the living room.
Before heading off to a nicely booze-soaked cough-free sleep, I start to think that I could get used to this lifestyle rather quickly.
Shortly after leaving the A30 somewhere near Tavistock, the landscape becomes very rural indeed and we start hitting single-track lanes at a village called Sheepwash. The sun is out and it's a very beautiful day by the time - 5 or so hours after leaving London - we pull up at the stunning Buckland House, an enormous Victorian mansion set in 250-odd acres of land with views across the county.
As K is a bridesmaid, we have been given a room in the house to ourselves. The place is a sprawling, as-it-was building complete with pantry, false-panelled drawing room, library containing anthologies of 1890s society magazines and a fairly brilliant '3D picture viewer'. There is also a huge croquet lawn, boating lake and an adjacent church and graveyard. It's a pretty spectacular place to move into for a few days, and after having caught up with the bride and groom and assorted relations of theirs, I get behind the wheel of the Meriva and head back to the nearest town to do a booze run.
The rest of the afternoon and evening is spent lazing around on the grass outside, drinking beer and nattering away, while I watch some of the others messing around on the boat and canoe down by the lake. When it gets a little chilly we head inside and watch the second pre-election leader's debate on the small TV in the living room.
Before heading off to a nicely booze-soaked cough-free sleep, I start to think that I could get used to this lifestyle rather quickly.
Wednesday
Unsurprisingly, this morning is a little hazy - a sleepy fug brought on by staying out too late and failing to sleep at all properly. It is the last day of the London Book Fair, so while the office is quiet there is plenty to do. It is also my last day in the office until next Tuesday, as tomorrow K and I will head off to Devon for Matt and Ellie's countryside wedding.
Feeling sleepy all day is exacerbated by the fact that everyone else in the office who was at the party is also suffering - and concentrating on anything for any length of time is difficult. I do, however, manage to arrange a bike courier to send a copy of a book over to the Sunday Times Magazine, which all feels incredibly important and incredibly London - yes, it still excites me.
The evening is spent putting together my setlist for Saturday, having been asked to DJ the late-night 11.30-12.30 slot at the wedding, so I gather together my most party-friendly bits of beats and noise and hip-hop fun, while test-playing it and generally getting quite into the idea. I also waste a little time watching old videos of Peter Cook and Dudley Moore on YouTube until K returns from the gig she is at, also hopeful of a peaceful night's sleep before tomorrow's early rise.
Feeling sleepy all day is exacerbated by the fact that everyone else in the office who was at the party is also suffering - and concentrating on anything for any length of time is difficult. I do, however, manage to arrange a bike courier to send a copy of a book over to the Sunday Times Magazine, which all feels incredibly important and incredibly London - yes, it still excites me.
The evening is spent putting together my setlist for Saturday, having been asked to DJ the late-night 11.30-12.30 slot at the wedding, so I gather together my most party-friendly bits of beats and noise and hip-hop fun, while test-playing it and generally getting quite into the idea. I also waste a little time watching old videos of Peter Cook and Dudley Moore on YouTube until K returns from the gig she is at, also hopeful of a peaceful night's sleep before tomorrow's early rise.
Wednesday 21 April 2010
Tuesday
Though I'm aware this blog is in danger of becoming a graphic record of one man's struggle with a rather annoying cough, a new brand of cough medicine (to replace the placebo-like Benylin and the frankly fucking useless and unnecessarily massive Night Nurse tablets) called Covonia means the best night's sleep in ages - only waking up for a brief fit of rasping tedium at around 5am. I arrive at the office feeling fairly refreshed and report back to the others on the day they missed at the book fair, while attempting to chip away at the rather large pile of work I want to get cleared before I go away on Thursday.
In the afternoon Jess reports from her stint at the fair that she has managed to wangle us tickets to the Canongate Books party tonight, hosted by their publishing-celebrity owner, Jamie Byng. Last year's event was supposedly a pretty brilliant shindig, so we agreed at the time to ensure that we got invites for this year's one. There are a few concerns, however. First is that with the Book Fair such an obvious washout thanks to The Volcano, would anyone of any interest actually be there? Last year we heard reports of actors from The Wire among other 'celebs' - would anyone of that calibre make it out and make themselves available for 'spotting'? We also discover that the party is in Kensal Green, and doesn't start until 10pm. With nothing planned beforehand, it seems a little weird for us to head to West London so late, but resolve that since we've basically waited a year for the chance to go we should give it a try.
I meet Jess, Georgie and Susie at Euston just before 10 and we run to catch the overground to Kensal Green. Not a place I've ever been before, it seems a strangely distant and inaccesible place to have a party - but the pub, when we find it, is an interesting enough place. Huge and sprawling with a nice roof terrace, it seems to be somewhere between its once-unpretentious suburban roots and poncey gastro-pub present - and it's already pretty full. We discover, sadly, on reaching the bar that the free drinks have just run out. I question the barman and ask how the free drinks for a party that started at 10 have run out by 10.15. He laughs, and says "Ten? The free drinks started at 8, mate." Aha. It seems our tickets are good enough for the later part of the evening only - we're not important enough.
The place continues to fill up and gets very hot - and become very much the sort of place I hate drinking. I can't get to the bar and the area around is full of shrieking publishing girls called Felicity hugging and air-kissing. I suggest a move to the roof terrace, where I manage to have a nice chat with Georgie and her visiting friend, Lucy. At this point we realise that we're not at some mega-awesome super-exclusive publishing party - we're at a busy, quite expensive pub miles from home, on a school night. It's all bit, well, shit really.
At around 12.45 we wander outside the front and jump in a minicab which takes Jess, Susie and I back to North London. Arriving home at 1.30 and making sure to fill up on Covonia, I sneak into bed next to K. No more than an hour later I'm coughing my guts up again - and am forced out of bed at around 3.30 by a need to throw up. This cough continues to suck, and I spend the rest of the night on the sofa again. Hmmph.
In the afternoon Jess reports from her stint at the fair that she has managed to wangle us tickets to the Canongate Books party tonight, hosted by their publishing-celebrity owner, Jamie Byng. Last year's event was supposedly a pretty brilliant shindig, so we agreed at the time to ensure that we got invites for this year's one. There are a few concerns, however. First is that with the Book Fair such an obvious washout thanks to The Volcano, would anyone of any interest actually be there? Last year we heard reports of actors from The Wire among other 'celebs' - would anyone of that calibre make it out and make themselves available for 'spotting'? We also discover that the party is in Kensal Green, and doesn't start until 10pm. With nothing planned beforehand, it seems a little weird for us to head to West London so late, but resolve that since we've basically waited a year for the chance to go we should give it a try.
I meet Jess, Georgie and Susie at Euston just before 10 and we run to catch the overground to Kensal Green. Not a place I've ever been before, it seems a strangely distant and inaccesible place to have a party - but the pub, when we find it, is an interesting enough place. Huge and sprawling with a nice roof terrace, it seems to be somewhere between its once-unpretentious suburban roots and poncey gastro-pub present - and it's already pretty full. We discover, sadly, on reaching the bar that the free drinks have just run out. I question the barman and ask how the free drinks for a party that started at 10 have run out by 10.15. He laughs, and says "Ten? The free drinks started at 8, mate." Aha. It seems our tickets are good enough for the later part of the evening only - we're not important enough.
The place continues to fill up and gets very hot - and become very much the sort of place I hate drinking. I can't get to the bar and the area around is full of shrieking publishing girls called Felicity hugging and air-kissing. I suggest a move to the roof terrace, where I manage to have a nice chat with Georgie and her visiting friend, Lucy. At this point we realise that we're not at some mega-awesome super-exclusive publishing party - we're at a busy, quite expensive pub miles from home, on a school night. It's all bit, well, shit really.
At around 12.45 we wander outside the front and jump in a minicab which takes Jess, Susie and I back to North London. Arriving home at 1.30 and making sure to fill up on Covonia, I sneak into bed next to K. No more than an hour later I'm coughing my guts up again - and am forced out of bed at around 3.30 by a need to throw up. This cough continues to suck, and I spend the rest of the night on the sofa again. Hmmph.
Tuesday 20 April 2010
Monday
Off the sofa (again) super-early to get to Earl's Court for 8.30. Not being a regular commuter I'm not good at the scrap for space on early-morning tube trains, but at Finsbury Park I throw my weight around a little and get a seat. Far too sleepy to read or play games on the iPhone I stare into space for the forty minutes and seventeen stops it takes to get from almost one end of the Piccadilly Line to almost the other end.
I'm first on our stand and start setting a few things up before the bosses and publishers arrive. The conversations that are bound to be repeated begin in earnest: how quiet the fair is, how many appointments everyone has lost, whether its worth being here at all. It's true that the place is eerily quiet - the raucous buzz of the two previous shows I've worked at is definitely absent and parts of the exhibition hall are completely deserted. Nevertheless, I start manning the stand anyway - which mostly involves fobbing off deluded self-published authors and photographers while guarding the books and preventing the fancy bookmarks from being stolen, occasionally interspersed with coffee runs and the chance to nip out for the odd cigarette. The place is hot and stuffy, and I hate wearing a shirt and tie - but overall things aren't too bad, it's just odd to hear everyone talking about the volcano. London Book Fair ruined by Volcano? It still sounds mad.
At 2pm I nip off for my big book pitch meeting with The Publisher. We grab a table and have a very nice chat - he is a retired sports journalist with loads of stories to tell - and run through my pitch. He gives me some encouraging words and suggests that he likes the idea, and asks me to submit some sample pages. All very exciting!
The afternoon drags and eventually I'm able to get out at 6.30, having spent 10 hours on my feet. Alex suggests a quick couple of pints at the Tollgate, the dubious-looking local Wetherspoon's I have until now avoided, so I agree and we sit and chat out the front for a while. It's nice hearing more stories about her time in France this past year and we have our usual surreal chuckles over language games and football-related nonsense. After a couple of pints I head home for an early-ish night and to try the third new cough-medicine brand so far.
I'm first on our stand and start setting a few things up before the bosses and publishers arrive. The conversations that are bound to be repeated begin in earnest: how quiet the fair is, how many appointments everyone has lost, whether its worth being here at all. It's true that the place is eerily quiet - the raucous buzz of the two previous shows I've worked at is definitely absent and parts of the exhibition hall are completely deserted. Nevertheless, I start manning the stand anyway - which mostly involves fobbing off deluded self-published authors and photographers while guarding the books and preventing the fancy bookmarks from being stolen, occasionally interspersed with coffee runs and the chance to nip out for the odd cigarette. The place is hot and stuffy, and I hate wearing a shirt and tie - but overall things aren't too bad, it's just odd to hear everyone talking about the volcano. London Book Fair ruined by Volcano? It still sounds mad.
At 2pm I nip off for my big book pitch meeting with The Publisher. We grab a table and have a very nice chat - he is a retired sports journalist with loads of stories to tell - and run through my pitch. He gives me some encouraging words and suggests that he likes the idea, and asks me to submit some sample pages. All very exciting!
The afternoon drags and eventually I'm able to get out at 6.30, having spent 10 hours on my feet. Alex suggests a quick couple of pints at the Tollgate, the dubious-looking local Wetherspoon's I have until now avoided, so I agree and we sit and chat out the front for a while. It's nice hearing more stories about her time in France this past year and we have our usual surreal chuckles over language games and football-related nonsense. After a couple of pints I head home for an early-ish night and to try the third new cough-medicine brand so far.
Monday 19 April 2010
Sunday
Up super early to get to Earl's Court to set up our stand for the London Book Fair. During set-up is always a bit of a crazy time - forklift trucks career around the place, burly men screw things into place and more poofy types from marketing (i.e. me) untape boxes and try to build shelves. The place is vast: divided into two enormous buildings, it can feel like an age to walk between stands on opposite sides of the Fair. And we do - we have publishers spread all over this year and they all need their stock delivering and arranging neatly. Susie and I deftly erect five massive posters promoting Marvel comics and we all make a concerted effort not to look out of the big doors as the sun streams in. It must be around 20C today (my first shorts-day of 2010, in fact) and we're all clearly yearning to be in the park.
We eventually have the stand ready by 2pm and go our separate ways. K has, rather wonderfully, prepared the picnic we went shopping for yesterday and we arrange to meet midway between home and Earls Court, at Green Park. The park is busy but, happily, there's still plenty of space to sit and eat our picnic - which is also the perfect way to recover from a sweaty morning of manual work. It becomes a little too hot to sit in the sun for very long so we go for a walk, heading down towards Buckingham Palace where we look at the statue of Victoria before wandering around the lake in St. James' Park. It's the sort of day that has me excited about it being summer again - and only the leafless trees give any clue that this is April 18th rather than some time in August.
We take a seat in the shade for a while before, at around 5, my early start and continued lack of sleep due to coughing fits catches up with me and I feel utterly drained. We hop on the tube and make our way back home for pork chops, Mad Men and the hope of a comfortable night's sleep.
We eventually have the stand ready by 2pm and go our separate ways. K has, rather wonderfully, prepared the picnic we went shopping for yesterday and we arrange to meet midway between home and Earls Court, at Green Park. The park is busy but, happily, there's still plenty of space to sit and eat our picnic - which is also the perfect way to recover from a sweaty morning of manual work. It becomes a little too hot to sit in the sun for very long so we go for a walk, heading down towards Buckingham Palace where we look at the statue of Victoria before wandering around the lake in St. James' Park. It's the sort of day that has me excited about it being summer again - and only the leafless trees give any clue that this is April 18th rather than some time in August.
We take a seat in the shade for a while before, at around 5, my early start and continued lack of sleep due to coughing fits catches up with me and I feel utterly drained. We hop on the tube and make our way back home for pork chops, Mad Men and the hope of a comfortable night's sleep.
Sunday 18 April 2010
Saturday
Another bad night health-wise is, at least, followed by a decent lie-in this morning as I eventually emerge from bed at 10.30. Some may consider this a fairly unspectacular lie-in; but it's definitely the latest I've stayed in bed for months. It's looking like being a scorcher today and my bushy beard and longish (for me) hair are starting to feel inappropriate, so when K heads into Wood Green to buy some fabric I get the clippers out and lay my head and face to waste, like Pedro from Napoleon Dynamite.
When she returns we head off to Sainsbury's for the big shop and I pick up some new smart trousers to wear at the Book Fair on Monday and for the wedding in the week. On trying them at home, however, I find that they don't fit, confirming once and for all that I have indeed put on a wee bit of weight since Christmas. The main reason I can think of for this - since I haven't changed my eating or drinking habits - is that since we've moved my walk to and from work has dropped from a bracing hour-or-so up and down hills to a paltry 10-minutes-each-way shuffle. I'm fully aware that I need to make up the shortfall - K insists that I get more involved with the Wii Fit. I'm not wholly convinced.
After I've been out to Wood Green myself and finally found some trousers that fit, we head over to Ant's for pre-barbecue drinks in his rather lovely garden. Later we head over to the house K lived in when we met for a busy barbecue birthday party, where, thanks to the host's subscription to ESPN I am able to anti-socially watch the Tottenham v Chelsea game which kicks off at 5.30. With Man United having scraped a win against City in the lunchtime kick-off, a win here is vital for Chelsea to keep clear at the top - although as Arsenal found on Wednesday, winning at White Hart Lane is not so easy these days. In the event Chelsea lose 2-1; a dubious early penalty for Defoe, an inexplicable solo effort from Gareth Bale and a consolation goal for Frank Lampard accounting for the goals. The gap between the top two is now a single agonising point, with Chelsea still having to visit Anfield. Eek.
In much better footballing news, Rochdale secured promotion to League One with a 1-0 victory over Northampton. This is astonishing in that the Dale have been in the bottom division since 1974 - longer than any other club. I'm sure many thought it would never happen, but Keith Hill has finally assembled a team up to the job. Well done, boys.
When she returns we head off to Sainsbury's for the big shop and I pick up some new smart trousers to wear at the Book Fair on Monday and for the wedding in the week. On trying them at home, however, I find that they don't fit, confirming once and for all that I have indeed put on a wee bit of weight since Christmas. The main reason I can think of for this - since I haven't changed my eating or drinking habits - is that since we've moved my walk to and from work has dropped from a bracing hour-or-so up and down hills to a paltry 10-minutes-each-way shuffle. I'm fully aware that I need to make up the shortfall - K insists that I get more involved with the Wii Fit. I'm not wholly convinced.
After I've been out to Wood Green myself and finally found some trousers that fit, we head over to Ant's for pre-barbecue drinks in his rather lovely garden. Later we head over to the house K lived in when we met for a busy barbecue birthday party, where, thanks to the host's subscription to ESPN I am able to anti-socially watch the Tottenham v Chelsea game which kicks off at 5.30. With Man United having scraped a win against City in the lunchtime kick-off, a win here is vital for Chelsea to keep clear at the top - although as Arsenal found on Wednesday, winning at White Hart Lane is not so easy these days. In the event Chelsea lose 2-1; a dubious early penalty for Defoe, an inexplicable solo effort from Gareth Bale and a consolation goal for Frank Lampard accounting for the goals. The gap between the top two is now a single agonising point, with Chelsea still having to visit Anfield. Eek.
In much better footballing news, Rochdale secured promotion to League One with a 1-0 victory over Northampton. This is astonishing in that the Dale have been in the bottom division since 1974 - longer than any other club. I'm sure many thought it would never happen, but Keith Hill has finally assembled a team up to the job. Well done, boys.
Friday
The volcano ash misery continues for lots of people across Europe. Everyone now seems to know someone affected by it; brothers, sisters, boyfriends, girlfriends - it really surprises me how much people actually fly. Alice is over from her Eurocamp work in France for a training weekend in Liverpool - she's now ended up having to get an overnight coach from Manchester to Paris and then get a train onwards.
In terms of work, with London Book Fair starting on Monday, this couldn't have really happened at a worse time. Most of today in the office sees the bosses taking phone calls and cancelling meetings with clients travelling from the US, Canada, Italy and Asia. The fair looks in danger of being almost totally deserted - a Bookseller email alerts informs us that 54% of the exhibitors at Earls Court next week are from companies based outside the UK. With this little island rendered virtually inaccessible to the rest of the world, we could be looking at a very quiet few days rattling around the exhibition centre.
In the evening Alex and I head into town to meet K, Ant, Belinda, Ellie and some others at the Princess Louise near Holborn. Absolutely rammed as it usually is on a Friday, the situation is exacerbated by the fact that it's a beautiful evening and everyone wants to stand outside the pub with their pint in that peculiarly London way. No matter - we squeeze inside and I get on the Alpines while K and Alex stick to summery cider. At one point a man approaches Alex and I and asks, quite simply, whether we are members of the intelligence services. A slightly shambolic older guy, we decide to have a bit of fun with him - answering that yes, we are in fact spies and I mime some finger-to-the-ear receiving messages stuff, expecting him to chuckle along with us. Instead he launches into an instantly-tedious tirade about conspiracies and whatnot - and shortly Alex and I realise that he might in fact be the bad kind of unstable.
We take the decision to ignore him and rejoin the group, but he hovers around for a while whispering numbers and showing Alex photos of obscure graffiti on his phone. Realising that we're not playing along any more, he announces that he is leaving and rushes out of the door. Part of this is fun - but there's always that nagging thought that he might come back in with a gun or a bomb strapped to his chest or something. It's nice to be reminded, though, that London is still full of absolute nutters.
In terms of work, with London Book Fair starting on Monday, this couldn't have really happened at a worse time. Most of today in the office sees the bosses taking phone calls and cancelling meetings with clients travelling from the US, Canada, Italy and Asia. The fair looks in danger of being almost totally deserted - a Bookseller email alerts informs us that 54% of the exhibitors at Earls Court next week are from companies based outside the UK. With this little island rendered virtually inaccessible to the rest of the world, we could be looking at a very quiet few days rattling around the exhibition centre.
In the evening Alex and I head into town to meet K, Ant, Belinda, Ellie and some others at the Princess Louise near Holborn. Absolutely rammed as it usually is on a Friday, the situation is exacerbated by the fact that it's a beautiful evening and everyone wants to stand outside the pub with their pint in that peculiarly London way. No matter - we squeeze inside and I get on the Alpines while K and Alex stick to summery cider. At one point a man approaches Alex and I and asks, quite simply, whether we are members of the intelligence services. A slightly shambolic older guy, we decide to have a bit of fun with him - answering that yes, we are in fact spies and I mime some finger-to-the-ear receiving messages stuff, expecting him to chuckle along with us. Instead he launches into an instantly-tedious tirade about conspiracies and whatnot - and shortly Alex and I realise that he might in fact be the bad kind of unstable.
We take the decision to ignore him and rejoin the group, but he hovers around for a while whispering numbers and showing Alex photos of obscure graffiti on his phone. Realising that we're not playing along any more, he announces that he is leaving and rushes out of the door. Part of this is fun - but there's always that nagging thought that he might come back in with a gun or a bomb strapped to his chest or something. It's nice to be reminded, though, that London is still full of absolute nutters.
Friday 16 April 2010
Thursday
Another night of coughing and discomfort. It feels like I've only had around 6 hours sleep in the last two nights combined, even though that's probably untrue. At lunch I venture into Wood Green to visit Boots and buy some Night Nurse capsules. The woman behind the counter takes care to mention that I should only take them at bedtime - as though I was clearly tempted to pop a couple straightaway and snooze my way through the afternoon. Though the idea was not without its appeal, I manage to resist the temptation.
The news today is full of the story that a volcano which erupted in Iceland on Tuesday is now spreading ash across the entirety of the UK and large chunks of Northern Europe. As a result, UK airspace has been completely closed - no flights are taking off or landing on the whole island. It's a strange thing to imagine that there is not a single plane in the sky today, nor, by the sounds of things, will there be any until the weekend. What is infuriating, however, is the parade of idiots on TV news moaning about their flights being cancelled like it's somebody's fault. Like they'd prefer it if their flights took off after all and the engines got jammed up with rock and glass and they plummeted back to the ground. These things, even unusual things like this, happen, people.
In the evening K, Alex and I enjoy fish fingers and potato wedges before Ant and Belinda come over to hang out for a while - and so K can sew up Ant's jeans pocket, naturally. We end up with a lot of wine on the table and a home-made rhubarb crumble courtesy of Belinda. We sit in the dining room drinking and sharing stories until gone-midnight, which is a lot of fun - and we all end up a little drunk. Before bed I bang a couple of Night Nurse capsules and hope for the best. This cough really is proving unshiftable, and I'm slightly concerned that K might murder me if I keep her up all night again.
The news today is full of the story that a volcano which erupted in Iceland on Tuesday is now spreading ash across the entirety of the UK and large chunks of Northern Europe. As a result, UK airspace has been completely closed - no flights are taking off or landing on the whole island. It's a strange thing to imagine that there is not a single plane in the sky today, nor, by the sounds of things, will there be any until the weekend. What is infuriating, however, is the parade of idiots on TV news moaning about their flights being cancelled like it's somebody's fault. Like they'd prefer it if their flights took off after all and the engines got jammed up with rock and glass and they plummeted back to the ground. These things, even unusual things like this, happen, people.
In the evening K, Alex and I enjoy fish fingers and potato wedges before Ant and Belinda come over to hang out for a while - and so K can sew up Ant's jeans pocket, naturally. We end up with a lot of wine on the table and a home-made rhubarb crumble courtesy of Belinda. We sit in the dining room drinking and sharing stories until gone-midnight, which is a lot of fun - and we all end up a little drunk. Before bed I bang a couple of Night Nurse capsules and hope for the best. This cough really is proving unshiftable, and I'm slightly concerned that K might murder me if I keep her up all night again.
Thursday 15 April 2010
Wednesday
Ugh. Feeling like I've had no more than two hours sleep thanks to this endless cough, I head to work in a fog, washed out and drained of colour like that scene in Fight Club. Mostly I feel bad for keeping K up and giving her such a bad headache - especially when it's not something I can just stop.
I start to feel slightly better after an hour or so at work and a bottle of Diet Coke. Today marks my two-year anniversary at this job - and thus two years and one week of living in London - which is something of a strange feeling. It's gone incredibly quickly and while my life's changed a lot outside of work (meeting and moving in with K, for example) I've basically been doing the same thing every day for these two years. Other than my degree, this is the longest I've ever done anything - and that was nowhere near a five-days-a-week situation.
I discuss this later with Alex - who has returned from Shrewsbury with a ton of bags as she prepares to move into her new house round the corner from us. She's not moving for a week or so, so she's leaving a few things here and staying with us until the weekend. She also comes bearing beer so that's a bonus too.
Having chatted a little and cooked some dinner, Alex and I head to the Hope & Anchor to watch Tottenham v Arsenal. Alex, a Gooner, has been missing the English pub-football experience during her few months in France so I figure this would be a good place to get suitably reacquainted. In the event it is full of lairy, thick-headed Spurs fans (and, to be honest, I've yet to meet any other kind in this sort of situation) yelling at the TV and dishing out the most banal of 'banter' to the surrounding Arsenal fans. There's nothing wrong with shouting at the TV and creating a bit of atmosphere when you're watching football, of course - it's just aggressive idiots like this screaming "you fucking cunt" at footballers doing no more than taking a throw in feels completely unnecessary and is a big part of why football has such a bad name in certain circles. The irony is the more they react to every tiny event with either whooping joy or screaming rage only shows that they know precisely fuck all about football.
After the game we have a swift half in the beer garden and wander back towards TPL, picking up some Malteasers for K on the way. At home we catch the end of the much-recommended documentary Cat Dancers, which follows the odd three-way relationship of a troupe of Siegfried & Roy style performers, two of which end up being mauled to death by the same tiger within a matter of weeks. While it's tempting to laugh at the silly choice of lifestyle and the slightly camp fantasy world the surviving member lives in, it's actually an incredibly sad and well-told story.
I start to feel slightly better after an hour or so at work and a bottle of Diet Coke. Today marks my two-year anniversary at this job - and thus two years and one week of living in London - which is something of a strange feeling. It's gone incredibly quickly and while my life's changed a lot outside of work (meeting and moving in with K, for example) I've basically been doing the same thing every day for these two years. Other than my degree, this is the longest I've ever done anything - and that was nowhere near a five-days-a-week situation.
I discuss this later with Alex - who has returned from Shrewsbury with a ton of bags as she prepares to move into her new house round the corner from us. She's not moving for a week or so, so she's leaving a few things here and staying with us until the weekend. She also comes bearing beer so that's a bonus too.
Having chatted a little and cooked some dinner, Alex and I head to the Hope & Anchor to watch Tottenham v Arsenal. Alex, a Gooner, has been missing the English pub-football experience during her few months in France so I figure this would be a good place to get suitably reacquainted. In the event it is full of lairy, thick-headed Spurs fans (and, to be honest, I've yet to meet any other kind in this sort of situation) yelling at the TV and dishing out the most banal of 'banter' to the surrounding Arsenal fans. There's nothing wrong with shouting at the TV and creating a bit of atmosphere when you're watching football, of course - it's just aggressive idiots like this screaming "you fucking cunt" at footballers doing no more than taking a throw in feels completely unnecessary and is a big part of why football has such a bad name in certain circles. The irony is the more they react to every tiny event with either whooping joy or screaming rage only shows that they know precisely fuck all about football.
After the game we have a swift half in the beer garden and wander back towards TPL, picking up some Malteasers for K on the way. At home we catch the end of the much-recommended documentary Cat Dancers, which follows the odd three-way relationship of a troupe of Siegfried & Roy style performers, two of which end up being mauled to death by the same tiger within a matter of weeks. While it's tempting to laugh at the silly choice of lifestyle and the slightly camp fantasy world the surviving member lives in, it's actually an incredibly sad and well-told story.
Wednesday 14 April 2010
Tuesday
The coughing fits are much better during the working day - I actually manage to get a lot of work done and apart from a nasty half hour at the end of the day, settled by my handy bottle of Benylin, all goes well.
At home I get straight onto finishing the Football Basement edit as Alex arrives tomorrow for a few days and so if I don't finish it now I never will. It turns out to be a very quick process compared with the earlier podcasts we did and it ends up as a (hopefully) quite tight 51 minutes. Amazingly it's within 2 seconds of being exactly the same length as the last one so it seems we're getting a sense of how long to talk for and I'm getting a feel for how much should stay in.
Ant pops round when I'm midway through to swap Generation Kill video files for our Mad Men Season One and helps me tweak the sound on the podcast a little to make it a bit louder. Nice to get a little professional advice on this decidedly amateur project. I upload the podcast and put the word out on Facebook and Twitter. Hopefully people haven't forgotten about us completely.
K gets home later and we watch a few episodes of Mad Men season two which is starting to get very intriguing indeed and hard to turn off, but eventually tiredness must win. Annoyingly as soon as we get to bed I start to have more coughing fits, resulting in myself not being able to get to sleep and, of course, keeping K up. At around four we both get so frustrated that I grab the spare duvet and go try and sleep in the living room. Bastard cough.
At home I get straight onto finishing the Football Basement edit as Alex arrives tomorrow for a few days and so if I don't finish it now I never will. It turns out to be a very quick process compared with the earlier podcasts we did and it ends up as a (hopefully) quite tight 51 minutes. Amazingly it's within 2 seconds of being exactly the same length as the last one so it seems we're getting a sense of how long to talk for and I'm getting a feel for how much should stay in.
Ant pops round when I'm midway through to swap Generation Kill video files for our Mad Men Season One and helps me tweak the sound on the podcast a little to make it a bit louder. Nice to get a little professional advice on this decidedly amateur project. I upload the podcast and put the word out on Facebook and Twitter. Hopefully people haven't forgotten about us completely.
K gets home later and we watch a few episodes of Mad Men season two which is starting to get very intriguing indeed and hard to turn off, but eventually tiredness must win. Annoyingly as soon as we get to bed I start to have more coughing fits, resulting in myself not being able to get to sleep and, of course, keeping K up. At around four we both get so frustrated that I grab the spare duvet and go try and sleep in the living room. Bastard cough.
Tuesday 13 April 2010
Monday
The cough and cold that's been hovering around me for a week or so now finally seems to take hold today as I spend the majority of the day coughing in small, dry, annoying fits. There's no pain but it annoys the piss out of me, made worse by the feeling that I'm annoying and distracting everyone in the silent office by going off like an old man every two minutes. They're mostly just sympathetic, however, which just makes the whole thing embarrassing. It's hard to focus on any work when whatever I start concentrating on will be interrupted by a coughing fit before I can even get started - as a result I don't get nearly as much done as 'd hoped, in what is a busy week. I'll be taking my Benylin Dry Cough with me to work tomorrow.
Back at home and with K and her sister out at a gig, I make some dinner, watch a little 30 Rock Season 4 and sit down to finish off the Book Pitch document. A lot of the blog posts I want to use are rather specific to when they were written and so wouldn't be able to go into a book as they are - as such I've included them in their (mostly) original form as example essays and have made explicitly clear that they were written for Who Are Ya?! during the 2009-10 season. I also spend a little time writing a small author bio - this is as much for The Publisher's reference as anything else; we know each other a little bit but it's best he knows something relevant about me.
I save the file and email it to myself at work so I can print it out to proof-read before Monday. I have an idea in my head for a Who Are Ya?! blog entry for this week (which has been missing for a couple of weeks now) centring on football and video games, but I decide to use the rest of the evening to start editing yesterday's Football Basement podcast. The first part of the editing process involves listening to the file all the way through and making notes of the bits I want to keep on a notepad, which eventually looks something like (1.22-1.39)(1.45-2.29)(2.32-3.30) until we reach the end. Depending on how many rubbish bits there are, this can take a long time - but tonight it's not too bad and apart from some mistakes at the beginning and some moments when we wander off-topic quite wildly, most of the recording can stay. The next part, which I'll hopefully do tomorrow, is to cut out those bracketed bits of time and stitch them back together.
By the time I'm finished with the first listen it is 10pm so I pour myself a glass of wine and a spoonful of cough medicine and stick on last week's Have I Got News For You which is very funny and follow it with an episode of the quintessential 'hit-and-miss' sketch show, That Mitchell and Webb Look on Dave.
Back at home and with K and her sister out at a gig, I make some dinner, watch a little 30 Rock Season 4 and sit down to finish off the Book Pitch document. A lot of the blog posts I want to use are rather specific to when they were written and so wouldn't be able to go into a book as they are - as such I've included them in their (mostly) original form as example essays and have made explicitly clear that they were written for Who Are Ya?! during the 2009-10 season. I also spend a little time writing a small author bio - this is as much for The Publisher's reference as anything else; we know each other a little bit but it's best he knows something relevant about me.
I save the file and email it to myself at work so I can print it out to proof-read before Monday. I have an idea in my head for a Who Are Ya?! blog entry for this week (which has been missing for a couple of weeks now) centring on football and video games, but I decide to use the rest of the evening to start editing yesterday's Football Basement podcast. The first part of the editing process involves listening to the file all the way through and making notes of the bits I want to keep on a notepad, which eventually looks something like (1.22-1.39)(1.45-2.29)(2.32-3.30) until we reach the end. Depending on how many rubbish bits there are, this can take a long time - but tonight it's not too bad and apart from some mistakes at the beginning and some moments when we wander off-topic quite wildly, most of the recording can stay. The next part, which I'll hopefully do tomorrow, is to cut out those bracketed bits of time and stitch them back together.
By the time I'm finished with the first listen it is 10pm so I pour myself a glass of wine and a spoonful of cough medicine and stick on last week's Have I Got News For You which is very funny and follow it with an episode of the quintessential 'hit-and-miss' sketch show, That Mitchell and Webb Look on Dave.
Monday 12 April 2010
Sunday
With another beautiful day on the cards, we decide not to waste as much of it as we did yesterday. So after a hearty breakfast we get the tube to the Barbican Centre in the City to see the popular new exhibition by Celeste Boursier-Mougenot in their 'Curve' space. There has been a lot of 'buzz' about the show, mostly from friends on Facebook and Twitter, mostly because of the weird nature of the art work - partly because it's free. The piece consists of a long dark tunnel - the walls of which are playing jagged, wailing videos of people playing guitar - which opens out into a bright room full of guitars and cymbals on stands, laid flat so the guitars' strings face the ceiling. The guitars are plugged in and turned on, the cymbals are upside-down - some filled with water, others with bird-seed. Also in the room are around 100 zebra finches; tiny, rather pretty birds who flutter around, landing on the guitars and creating their own strange little sounds. It's a nice place to be and it's fun to see the birds trying to build small nests in amongst the guitar strings while scratching the metal for our amusement. The birds are extremely au fait with humans being around - several of them were landing on people's coats and backpacks. It probably helped that only 25 people were allowed in at a time - we did well to arrive at 11am, shortly after the exhibition opened, as we had heard stories about people queuing for over an hour.
We leave the Barbican and walk via the strange, raised concrete walkways around this part of the City towards the Museum of London, in the hope that the renovation work in progress the last time K and I had been there would be completed. Unfortunately it turns out to still be going on, so we have a short wander around the semi-museum it remains and headed out again. The sun is blazing down by now and as we walk towards Liverpool Street Station the growing numbers of people around start to make things feel very much like summer. There are thousands of Tottenham fans being coralled by police at Liverpool Street ahead of their FA Cup semi-final match against Portsmouth at Wembley later - we skirt around them and make our way instead towards Brick Lane.
Not being the trendiest person or a big fan of marketplaces (in fact I generally hate the places), this isn't the sort of place I'd usually like to spend a hot Sunday afternoon - but K and her sister want to look around the markets and I've been lured in by the promise of some tasty market food for lunch. Sure enough, in amongst the hipsters, the Nathan Barleys, the 'bohemians' and the East London kids who've tried so hard it almost hurts to look at them, I manage to lay my hands on a chilli burrito, which we eat on the curb, and all is right with the world.
The Football Basement have plans to record a new podcast this evening - so while the girls head into central to do some Oxford Street shopping, I get the tube home to prepare, and hopefully do some more book pitch work. When I get to the front door, I turn my key to the right in the Yale lock, where it then jams and refuses to budge either way. Immediately terrified about calling out a locksmith on a Sunday and neither we nor our upstairs neighbours being able to get in or out, I desperately ring their doorbell and hope for the best. Eventually George, our very friendly neighbour, makes his way down the stairs to investigate. I am hugely grateful - especially when it turns out he has the necessary know-how to remove the lock from the door and repair it. What a result - I thank him profusely and go into the flat, totally relieved.
Later, in what is becoming a tube-travel-heavy Sunday, I make my way to Borough to meet the rest of the Football Basement lads for tonight's recording. Having done a bit of research I feel good about how the podcast will go, and after a quick pint in the Ship we head to Warren's house and get started. There are five of us today, which is a nice manageable number, and we record for around an hour and a half. We start with a quiz format that Warren has come up with, which is a good way to get the energy up early in the show, and move on to chatting about the Champions League, Premier League and a bit on the Europa League (Fulham in particular), then get onto the usual England selection argument. It's a lot of fun and it's nice to get one done after such a long break (our last one was at the beginning of March). At the end of the recording we copy the files to my hard drive to be edited and go our separate ways.
By the time I get home it's around 9pm and I'm totally shattered - I haven't had a Sunday this busy for ages, and the sun really takes its toll too. I sit with K and her sister, watch a bit of crap telly and get a much-needed early night.
We leave the Barbican and walk via the strange, raised concrete walkways around this part of the City towards the Museum of London, in the hope that the renovation work in progress the last time K and I had been there would be completed. Unfortunately it turns out to still be going on, so we have a short wander around the semi-museum it remains and headed out again. The sun is blazing down by now and as we walk towards Liverpool Street Station the growing numbers of people around start to make things feel very much like summer. There are thousands of Tottenham fans being coralled by police at Liverpool Street ahead of their FA Cup semi-final match against Portsmouth at Wembley later - we skirt around them and make our way instead towards Brick Lane.
Not being the trendiest person or a big fan of marketplaces (in fact I generally hate the places), this isn't the sort of place I'd usually like to spend a hot Sunday afternoon - but K and her sister want to look around the markets and I've been lured in by the promise of some tasty market food for lunch. Sure enough, in amongst the hipsters, the Nathan Barleys, the 'bohemians' and the East London kids who've tried so hard it almost hurts to look at them, I manage to lay my hands on a chilli burrito, which we eat on the curb, and all is right with the world.
The Football Basement have plans to record a new podcast this evening - so while the girls head into central to do some Oxford Street shopping, I get the tube home to prepare, and hopefully do some more book pitch work. When I get to the front door, I turn my key to the right in the Yale lock, where it then jams and refuses to budge either way. Immediately terrified about calling out a locksmith on a Sunday and neither we nor our upstairs neighbours being able to get in or out, I desperately ring their doorbell and hope for the best. Eventually George, our very friendly neighbour, makes his way down the stairs to investigate. I am hugely grateful - especially when it turns out he has the necessary know-how to remove the lock from the door and repair it. What a result - I thank him profusely and go into the flat, totally relieved.
Later, in what is becoming a tube-travel-heavy Sunday, I make my way to Borough to meet the rest of the Football Basement lads for tonight's recording. Having done a bit of research I feel good about how the podcast will go, and after a quick pint in the Ship we head to Warren's house and get started. There are five of us today, which is a nice manageable number, and we record for around an hour and a half. We start with a quiz format that Warren has come up with, which is a good way to get the energy up early in the show, and move on to chatting about the Champions League, Premier League and a bit on the Europa League (Fulham in particular), then get onto the usual England selection argument. It's a lot of fun and it's nice to get one done after such a long break (our last one was at the beginning of March). At the end of the recording we copy the files to my hard drive to be edited and go our separate ways.
By the time I get home it's around 9pm and I'm totally shattered - I haven't had a Sunday this busy for ages, and the sun really takes its toll too. I sit with K and her sister, watch a bit of crap telly and get a much-needed early night.
Sunday 11 April 2010
Saturday
Summer is here, it seems - and it's only April 10th. We get up early, refreshed by the fact we only took on a minimal amount of alcohol on a most atypical Friday night for a boozy couple like us. The weather is gorgeous outside, and I throw a little strop because I don't want to go and do the Big Shop on such a nice morning. As it happens we end up staying in until 11 or so playing video games - I download the demo of 2010 World Cup and play New Super Mario Bros Wii for a while - and making curtains in K's case and then head to Sainsbury's via Wood Green, baking in the sun.
We get back ready to start enjoying the lovely weather - but not before some lunch. We hear that others are planning to gather in the massive beer garden at the Edinboro Castle in Camden, so I get in touch with Will and invite him down too. K's twin sister is also on the way up from Cardiff so there should be a good party of people around.
We arrive in Camden at around 4, just as the sun is starting to fade, though it is still very much nice enough to sit outside. As expected, the garden at the Edinboro Castle is absolutely rammed, but we manage to squeeze onto a bench and even occupy some space for the later arrivals. The bar staff look like they're having a hellish time of it, but I suppose this is when they make all their money. As much as I sometimes miss the work and the camaraderie, I think working behind a busy bar again would probably kill me off.
At 5PM the FA Cup Semi-Final between Chelsea and Aston Villa is due to kick off, and in no mood to desert my friends or sit inside, I manage to load up ITV1 onto the iPhone and prop it up on the picnic bench. This is a great idea - all the fun of a beer garden, drinking and smoking with lovely people while still being able to enjoy the day's football! In the event Chelsea win 3-0 in a low quality match on Wembley's apparently-still-rubbish pitch. The goals are from Drogba, Malouda and Lampard, the last two of which coming in the last couple of minutes. The double is still on!
It starts to get nighttime-ish and people huddle around patio heaters, remembering that it is still only early April, and K and her sister leave quite early. Feeling a little bloated on Staropramen, I too make my excuses at around 10.30 and, feeling too chilly to be bothered waiting for the 29 back to TPL, hop on the tube.
We get back ready to start enjoying the lovely weather - but not before some lunch. We hear that others are planning to gather in the massive beer garden at the Edinboro Castle in Camden, so I get in touch with Will and invite him down too. K's twin sister is also on the way up from Cardiff so there should be a good party of people around.
We arrive in Camden at around 4, just as the sun is starting to fade, though it is still very much nice enough to sit outside. As expected, the garden at the Edinboro Castle is absolutely rammed, but we manage to squeeze onto a bench and even occupy some space for the later arrivals. The bar staff look like they're having a hellish time of it, but I suppose this is when they make all their money. As much as I sometimes miss the work and the camaraderie, I think working behind a busy bar again would probably kill me off.
At 5PM the FA Cup Semi-Final between Chelsea and Aston Villa is due to kick off, and in no mood to desert my friends or sit inside, I manage to load up ITV1 onto the iPhone and prop it up on the picnic bench. This is a great idea - all the fun of a beer garden, drinking and smoking with lovely people while still being able to enjoy the day's football! In the event Chelsea win 3-0 in a low quality match on Wembley's apparently-still-rubbish pitch. The goals are from Drogba, Malouda and Lampard, the last two of which coming in the last couple of minutes. The double is still on!
It starts to get nighttime-ish and people huddle around patio heaters, remembering that it is still only early April, and K and her sister leave quite early. Feeling a little bloated on Staropramen, I too make my excuses at around 10.30 and, feeling too chilly to be bothered waiting for the 29 back to TPL, hop on the tube.
Friday
It's a really nice day today - far too nice to be in the office, of course. I'm not feeling too bad but have an awful cough when I wake up. I suppose I only have myself to blame for this one, however. There's still plenty to do on this sales kit and very little time left to do it - London Book Fair is only a week or so away now and there's a lot we have to get out of the way before it starts.
After work I make my way to Waterloo to meet K - she has a 2 for 1 voucher for the London Eye and so we're going to take a 'flight' as a nice Friday evening treat. The last time I went on the Eye was on 13th April 2004. The only reason I know this date is that it was the day the newly-decommission Concorde was taken up the Thames on a barge on its way to be installed in a museum in Scotland. I was with the family and we had no idea this was happening - it was only looking down from our Pod that we noticed a giant airliner travelling beneath us. I often like to point out to people that not many other people can say they've seen Concorde travelling below them.
We buy our tickets and are then funnelled into a large theatre-like room for what is called the London Eye 4D Experience. This seems to be a new thing and involves a five minute 3D film featuring adoring shots of London and celebrating Londoners, made '4D' by spraying water and fake snow in your face as the same things happen on the screen. I had seen it done before at Universal Studios in Florida a few years ago and while it's a fun effect it seems to be a fairly pointless add-on to the Eye. The most hilariously pointless bit is when they take a picture of you in front of a blue screen, then superimpose a picture that gives the appearance that your party are standing in a Pod on the London Eye. Given that you'll be doing exactly that in real life minutes later I can't understand why anyone would buy a photo pretending to do it.
We get on the Eye around half an hour later, just as the sun has gone down and as we rise and fall the sky gets darker and the lights of the city start coming on. Compared to the last time I was on the wheel six years ago, I can pick out a lot more things - obviously having now lived in London for two years it's to be expected, but I'm pleased to be able to identify Alexandra Palace in the North and to pick out the massive arch of Wembley as probably the most distant visible building.
The ride comes to an end and, now feeling in a touristy mood, walk across the bridge to Trafalgar Square and up the steps past the fountains to get the tube home from Leicester Square. Both now also starving hungry, we head to Jashan, the delightful little Indian restaurant on Turnpike Lane and get a takeaway. We eat Lamb Rogan Jhosh and Chicken Jalfrezi in front of the first couple of episodes of Mad Men season two and eventually retire to bed, stuffed.
After work I make my way to Waterloo to meet K - she has a 2 for 1 voucher for the London Eye and so we're going to take a 'flight' as a nice Friday evening treat. The last time I went on the Eye was on 13th April 2004. The only reason I know this date is that it was the day the newly-decommission Concorde was taken up the Thames on a barge on its way to be installed in a museum in Scotland. I was with the family and we had no idea this was happening - it was only looking down from our Pod that we noticed a giant airliner travelling beneath us. I often like to point out to people that not many other people can say they've seen Concorde travelling below them.
We buy our tickets and are then funnelled into a large theatre-like room for what is called the London Eye 4D Experience. This seems to be a new thing and involves a five minute 3D film featuring adoring shots of London and celebrating Londoners, made '4D' by spraying water and fake snow in your face as the same things happen on the screen. I had seen it done before at Universal Studios in Florida a few years ago and while it's a fun effect it seems to be a fairly pointless add-on to the Eye. The most hilariously pointless bit is when they take a picture of you in front of a blue screen, then superimpose a picture that gives the appearance that your party are standing in a Pod on the London Eye. Given that you'll be doing exactly that in real life minutes later I can't understand why anyone would buy a photo pretending to do it.
We get on the Eye around half an hour later, just as the sun has gone down and as we rise and fall the sky gets darker and the lights of the city start coming on. Compared to the last time I was on the wheel six years ago, I can pick out a lot more things - obviously having now lived in London for two years it's to be expected, but I'm pleased to be able to identify Alexandra Palace in the North and to pick out the massive arch of Wembley as probably the most distant visible building.
The ride comes to an end and, now feeling in a touristy mood, walk across the bridge to Trafalgar Square and up the steps past the fountains to get the tube home from Leicester Square. Both now also starving hungry, we head to Jashan, the delightful little Indian restaurant on Turnpike Lane and get a takeaway. We eat Lamb Rogan Jhosh and Chicken Jalfrezi in front of the first couple of episodes of Mad Men season two and eventually retire to bed, stuffed.
Friday 9 April 2010
Thursday
Wake up feeling less-than-peachy. There's a little bit of hangover in there, for sure, but there's also some genuine sickness, I think. I'm coughing up tons of mucus and sniffling and all sorts...and getting very little sympathy for all my moaning. This is the problem when you mix alcohol with slight illness - no one believes you when you say you're sick. K suggests that I can have 45% sympathy as I am at least 55% hangover. This seems fair, and I toughen up for the day ahead with a hot cross bun.
It's a beautiful day and seems to confirm that spring is definitely here. The office gets a little stuffy but then I wonder if I'm noticing the temperature change more, because later I feel decidedly colder while everyone else carries on regardless. I manage to get quite a lot of my to-do list done (not always the case) and end the day writing AIs for this month's sales kit.
At home I spend the evening alone as K is out at a music industry free-booze thing so I cook, watch the new South Park, wash up and potter around with little real purpose. A couple of Europa League matches are on TV so I watch the last 15 minutes of Wolfsburg v Fulham which, amazingly, Fulham win 1-0 and knock out the German champions. They play like a team possessed and in truth they could have had four or five in the short time I was watching.
After the football I start to feel a bit more shaky so decide that instead of sitting in the living room coughing and watching the news I should go to bed and carry on with my Dara O Briain book. K arrives home a little drunk shortly after so I chat (whinge) to her for a while then try to get some sleep.
It's a beautiful day and seems to confirm that spring is definitely here. The office gets a little stuffy but then I wonder if I'm noticing the temperature change more, because later I feel decidedly colder while everyone else carries on regardless. I manage to get quite a lot of my to-do list done (not always the case) and end the day writing AIs for this month's sales kit.
At home I spend the evening alone as K is out at a music industry free-booze thing so I cook, watch the new South Park, wash up and potter around with little real purpose. A couple of Europa League matches are on TV so I watch the last 15 minutes of Wolfsburg v Fulham which, amazingly, Fulham win 1-0 and knock out the German champions. They play like a team possessed and in truth they could have had four or five in the short time I was watching.
After the football I start to feel a bit more shaky so decide that instead of sitting in the living room coughing and watching the news I should go to bed and carry on with my Dara O Briain book. K arrives home a little drunk shortly after so I chat (whinge) to her for a while then try to get some sleep.
Thursday 8 April 2010
Wednesday
Today is the monthly Big Meeting which usually drags on for around 3 hours - and today doesn't disappoint coming in at a respectable, tedious 2 and a half. The rest of the day is spent scrabbling around trying to catch up and disappears very fast. The worst part of the working day is when I feel a twinge of the cold the girls have all had over the last few weeks - I'm coughing harder, feeling phlegmy, slight headache. This isn't good, but I'll no doubt soldier on and just use whinging as my coping mechanism.
After work Alex comes round, straight off the plane from France as she has to put her bags somewhere while she goes for a couple of house viewings in the local area. I pick up a couple of beers on my way home so we can relax for a few minutes before she shoots off. It is nice to catch up and though it's a ridiculously fleeting visit she will be back in London this time next week - maybe for good.
When Alex goes out I head to Waterloo for what is Andy's absolute final leaving do (he flies to Bangkok tomorrow). This one is the last football match with the boys so we squeeze round a table to watch Manchester United v Bayern Munich on the big screen. The game starts at lightning pace as United go 2-0 up in 7 minutes, putting them 3-2 up on aggregate. They go 3-0 up after a second goal from Nani before half time and the game looks, sadly, to have been killed off. However Bayern score only two minutes later and in the second half a wonder goal from Arjen Robben makes it 3-2 - and Bayern are through on away goals. Andy, a Man Utd fan, is briefly distraught, but philosophical (I don't think anything could really have ruined his mood tonight - the excitement is radiating off him).
When the game finishes we go to All Bar One near Waterloo station to see the girls (these are the kind of girls who can't go to just any old pub for a drink - it has to at least have All Bar One's sheen of false glamour) and I start to make plans to leave. Like LVPO on Saturday, this just isn't my sort of place. It does have a nice view of the Eye outside though.
I bid Andy a nice goodbye with lots of hugging and kissing as expected. It seems surreal that I won't see him for a year, but I'm sure it'll fly by and he'll be in touch. I get home surprisingly late and a little tipsy, about which K is less than impressed. I drunkenly chuckle my way through a random Sean Lock live show on Channel 4 and then follow her to bed.
After work Alex comes round, straight off the plane from France as she has to put her bags somewhere while she goes for a couple of house viewings in the local area. I pick up a couple of beers on my way home so we can relax for a few minutes before she shoots off. It is nice to catch up and though it's a ridiculously fleeting visit she will be back in London this time next week - maybe for good.
When Alex goes out I head to Waterloo for what is Andy's absolute final leaving do (he flies to Bangkok tomorrow). This one is the last football match with the boys so we squeeze round a table to watch Manchester United v Bayern Munich on the big screen. The game starts at lightning pace as United go 2-0 up in 7 minutes, putting them 3-2 up on aggregate. They go 3-0 up after a second goal from Nani before half time and the game looks, sadly, to have been killed off. However Bayern score only two minutes later and in the second half a wonder goal from Arjen Robben makes it 3-2 - and Bayern are through on away goals. Andy, a Man Utd fan, is briefly distraught, but philosophical (I don't think anything could really have ruined his mood tonight - the excitement is radiating off him).
When the game finishes we go to All Bar One near Waterloo station to see the girls (these are the kind of girls who can't go to just any old pub for a drink - it has to at least have All Bar One's sheen of false glamour) and I start to make plans to leave. Like LVPO on Saturday, this just isn't my sort of place. It does have a nice view of the Eye outside though.
I bid Andy a nice goodbye with lots of hugging and kissing as expected. It seems surreal that I won't see him for a year, but I'm sure it'll fly by and he'll be in touch. I get home surprisingly late and a little tipsy, about which K is less than impressed. I drunkenly chuckle my way through a random Sean Lock live show on Channel 4 and then follow her to bed.
Wednesday 7 April 2010
Tuesday
As expected, getting back to work after four days off means an absolute mountain of stuff to do and deadlines getting tighter. Thankfully we are back up to full-strength after two players return from spells on the sidelines, but I end up having to stay for an extra hour to get material organised for a big meeting tomorrow. This puts me in a less-than-brilliant mood, but getting home to a jacket potato smothered in last night's Chicken Tikka sorts me out a treat. I watch a couple of episodes of the latest series of 30 Rock which is always enjoyable, and download the latest South Park which is probably the best one of the series so far - in which medicinal marijuana is legalised in Colorado and Randy (by far my favourite character) deliberately gives himself testicular cancer in order to qualify.
Later on I stick Barcelona v Arsenal on the iPhone while doing some writing. Arsenal manage to take the lead after starting brightly, but it takes the irrepressible Lionel Messi just two minutes to equalise. 20 minutes later Messi has his hat-trick (his fourth of 2010, incredibly) and becomes Barcelona's all-time Champions League top scorer. At the age of 22. He adds a fourth in the dying minutes making it 4-1 to Barcelona, setting up a semi-final clash with Mourinho's Inter Milan. At this rate, I simply can't see Barca not winning this competition.
K gets home as the football ends and we sit down to watch Control, which is on Film4 - the film based on Deborah Curtis' Touching from a Distance, which I read a couple of weeks ago. It's a film I've seen before, but at the time I had no real idea who Ian Curtis was and had never really listened to Joy Division. Now that I've read the book and know Unknown Pleasures and Closer very well I got a lot more out of the film and, obviously, enjoyed the soundtrack much more. I was also more appreciative of Corbijn's beautiful and unsurprisingly photographic directing style than I had been before - it's amazing that someone who met Curtis and the band and photographed them actually went on to make the man's biopic some 30 years later.
Later on I stick Barcelona v Arsenal on the iPhone while doing some writing. Arsenal manage to take the lead after starting brightly, but it takes the irrepressible Lionel Messi just two minutes to equalise. 20 minutes later Messi has his hat-trick (his fourth of 2010, incredibly) and becomes Barcelona's all-time Champions League top scorer. At the age of 22. He adds a fourth in the dying minutes making it 4-1 to Barcelona, setting up a semi-final clash with Mourinho's Inter Milan. At this rate, I simply can't see Barca not winning this competition.
K gets home as the football ends and we sit down to watch Control, which is on Film4 - the film based on Deborah Curtis' Touching from a Distance, which I read a couple of weeks ago. It's a film I've seen before, but at the time I had no real idea who Ian Curtis was and had never really listened to Joy Division. Now that I've read the book and know Unknown Pleasures and Closer very well I got a lot more out of the film and, obviously, enjoyed the soundtrack much more. I was also more appreciative of Corbijn's beautiful and unsurprisingly photographic directing style than I had been before - it's amazing that someone who met Curtis and the band and photographed them actually went on to make the man's biopic some 30 years later.
Tuesday 6 April 2010
Monday
Getting up to an alarm after yesterday's 8-hour sunshine-and-shandy session would have been unpleasant whenever it went off, but this morning it goes at 7.30 as we have to be at Paddington Station for the train to Worcester at 9.20. K rouses me by promising to buy breakfast when we get to the West London station, but I am sure to get a hot cross bun in before we head out of the door.
I feel, perhaps unsurprisingly considering the fact that I spent yesterday pushing that boozy Easter weekend idea one full day too far, fucking horrible. The tube to Paddington is pleasantly fast, however, and soon I am tucking into an as-promised sausage and egg bagel. Just the job. We get onto the train early and bag a table for the two of us - which is handy as the train is small and this happens to be the train that feeds the tourist economies of both Windsor and Oxford on Bank Holiday Mondays. It does, however, completely empty at Oxford leaving us with a very nice 90-or-so minutes completely alone in the carriage - time which I use to get stuck into Dara O Briain's Tickling the English. Not being a commuter (my office is a 10-minute walk from home) I often feel I miss out on this reading time, and generally find myself jealous that K ploughs through books in her 2-hours-a-day of travelling.
The book is highly enjoyable in that it is partly a tour diary, a travelogue and an extremely perceptive and funny analysis of English culture. As with other good comedian/writers, such as David Mitchell or Charlie Brooker, I simply find myself agreeing with almost everything he says - and mostly wishing I could express what they're saying, or that they could express themselves to a wider audience than simply their fans.
We arrive in Worcester at around lunchtime and head to K's brother's house, where most of her family will be arriving to celebrate her nephew's third birthday. Having such a huge family (K is one of six siblings) he is of course showered with presents and has the sort of toys at three that I could only have dreamed of (a post office! a Black & Decker workbench!) or could even dream of now. One such present is a Playmobil fire engine which requires such intricate assembly as to completely swallow my afternoon (I offered after tutting at K's younger brother's cack-handed attempts to build the thing one too many times). I then find myself involved in something of a parody of a "Christmas Dad" situation where I spend a long time building a complex plastic fire engine while absently watching Bank Holiday League One football on Sky Sports (Yeovil Town 1 Leeds United 2). I swear, this thing had so many parts that needed to be attached that it surely cost the company more to design the instruction booklet than to sell the fucking thing complete.
My toils aside, the little one loves his fire engine when it is done - for around two minutes until cake turns up or he starts smashing something with a plastic fire axe or something. Little treasures, aren't they?
Actually this one is - very sweet and chatty and with that fun three-year-old thing where he attempts to repeat things said to him even when they include words he can't possibly pronounce.
We start to walk back into the centre of Worcester for our train which is at 4.02 - and followed by none for another hour. Having slightly misjudged the walk we end up power walking the last 10 minutes of the journey in what is another very hot day. By 4.01 we are at the station, feet burning and sweat pouring - but we are on the (very busy) train, at least. Thanks to debris on the line and various other "hilarious" Bank Holiday-style travel problems, the train takes 3-and-a-bit hours on the way home, but again it gives me plenty of time to read more of my book.
We eventually get home, shattered and a little spaced-out from having spent over five hours travelling to and from the West Midlands for an afternoon of party food and cake, and decide to watch Children of Men - a DVD rip passed to us by a friend some time ago. The film is very good and paints a very believable picture of a near-future dystopia in Britain via some very clever effects and some surprisingly decent performances. It does shake us up a little, though, so we wind down for bedtime by watching a bit of the enjoyable by-numbers-Will-Ferrell-sports-vehicle Blades of Glory on BBC Three. It's been a long day (and now a long blog post) and a long Long Weekend. But a fun one.
I feel, perhaps unsurprisingly considering the fact that I spent yesterday pushing that boozy Easter weekend idea one full day too far, fucking horrible. The tube to Paddington is pleasantly fast, however, and soon I am tucking into an as-promised sausage and egg bagel. Just the job. We get onto the train early and bag a table for the two of us - which is handy as the train is small and this happens to be the train that feeds the tourist economies of both Windsor and Oxford on Bank Holiday Mondays. It does, however, completely empty at Oxford leaving us with a very nice 90-or-so minutes completely alone in the carriage - time which I use to get stuck into Dara O Briain's Tickling the English. Not being a commuter (my office is a 10-minute walk from home) I often feel I miss out on this reading time, and generally find myself jealous that K ploughs through books in her 2-hours-a-day of travelling.
The book is highly enjoyable in that it is partly a tour diary, a travelogue and an extremely perceptive and funny analysis of English culture. As with other good comedian/writers, such as David Mitchell or Charlie Brooker, I simply find myself agreeing with almost everything he says - and mostly wishing I could express what they're saying, or that they could express themselves to a wider audience than simply their fans.
We arrive in Worcester at around lunchtime and head to K's brother's house, where most of her family will be arriving to celebrate her nephew's third birthday. Having such a huge family (K is one of six siblings) he is of course showered with presents and has the sort of toys at three that I could only have dreamed of (a post office! a Black & Decker workbench!) or could even dream of now. One such present is a Playmobil fire engine which requires such intricate assembly as to completely swallow my afternoon (I offered after tutting at K's younger brother's cack-handed attempts to build the thing one too many times). I then find myself involved in something of a parody of a "Christmas Dad" situation where I spend a long time building a complex plastic fire engine while absently watching Bank Holiday League One football on Sky Sports (Yeovil Town 1 Leeds United 2). I swear, this thing had so many parts that needed to be attached that it surely cost the company more to design the instruction booklet than to sell the fucking thing complete.
My toils aside, the little one loves his fire engine when it is done - for around two minutes until cake turns up or he starts smashing something with a plastic fire axe or something. Little treasures, aren't they?
Actually this one is - very sweet and chatty and with that fun three-year-old thing where he attempts to repeat things said to him even when they include words he can't possibly pronounce.
We start to walk back into the centre of Worcester for our train which is at 4.02 - and followed by none for another hour. Having slightly misjudged the walk we end up power walking the last 10 minutes of the journey in what is another very hot day. By 4.01 we are at the station, feet burning and sweat pouring - but we are on the (very busy) train, at least. Thanks to debris on the line and various other "hilarious" Bank Holiday-style travel problems, the train takes 3-and-a-bit hours on the way home, but again it gives me plenty of time to read more of my book.
We eventually get home, shattered and a little spaced-out from having spent over five hours travelling to and from the West Midlands for an afternoon of party food and cake, and decide to watch Children of Men - a DVD rip passed to us by a friend some time ago. The film is very good and paints a very believable picture of a near-future dystopia in Britain via some very clever effects and some surprisingly decent performances. It does shake us up a little, though, so we wind down for bedtime by watching a bit of the enjoyable by-numbers-Will-Ferrell-sports-vehicle Blades of Glory on BBC Three. It's been a long day (and now a long blog post) and a long Long Weekend. But a fun one.
Sunday
Debate sleeping in late this morning, especially after K gets up early and leaves me to it, but remember that the Malaysian Grand Prix starts at 9am so I shamble into the living room to catch the start. More and more it seems that the first corner is really the only part of most Grands Prix anyone needs to watch - especially now that refuelling has been outlawed and pit stops are shorter - so I only watch the first few laps before I get bored and start the day properly.
Today Ant is hosting the first barbecue of the year, regardless of the weather. Luckily it looks like being a fairly decent day and Sam is also down from Manchester so I invite him and his girlfriend (who I have yet to meet) along to the BBQ when they're done wandering around some galleries in town. We head over to Ant's house in Crouch End, armed with posh sausages (poshages?) and a handful of beers for about 2pm and commence making complex kebabs. I've never been much of a barbecue kebab man - hot dogs and burgers cooked outside are as complicated as I could ever need - but I get stuck in once they're done, particularly enjoying those chicken ones marinated overnight by Rick.
A few beers are downed, and when they need replenishing we go out to get more. Sam and his girlfriend (Laura: small, vegetarian, lovely) arrive on the bus from Turnpike Lane in beautiful sunshine and we spend the next few hours chatting nonsense about films and games and the many ludicrous things dad does as we usually do. Meanwhile I attempt to feed the vegetarian crowd some of Mike's morally reprehensible super-hot-chilli-peppers-stuffed-with-cheese-and-Christ-knows-what, which he finds hilarious.
It gets late and smoky and there's some dubious sweet whisky going around - then K reminds me that we have to get up early tomorrow morning to get the train to Worcester for her nephew's third birthday. We head home having succesfully celebrated the first appreciable sunny Sunday of the season, both looking forward to lots more in what will hopefully be a sweet Summer.
Today Ant is hosting the first barbecue of the year, regardless of the weather. Luckily it looks like being a fairly decent day and Sam is also down from Manchester so I invite him and his girlfriend (who I have yet to meet) along to the BBQ when they're done wandering around some galleries in town. We head over to Ant's house in Crouch End, armed with posh sausages (poshages?) and a handful of beers for about 2pm and commence making complex kebabs. I've never been much of a barbecue kebab man - hot dogs and burgers cooked outside are as complicated as I could ever need - but I get stuck in once they're done, particularly enjoying those chicken ones marinated overnight by Rick.
A few beers are downed, and when they need replenishing we go out to get more. Sam and his girlfriend (Laura: small, vegetarian, lovely) arrive on the bus from Turnpike Lane in beautiful sunshine and we spend the next few hours chatting nonsense about films and games and the many ludicrous things dad does as we usually do. Meanwhile I attempt to feed the vegetarian crowd some of Mike's morally reprehensible super-hot-chilli-peppers-stuffed-with-cheese-and-Christ-knows-what, which he finds hilarious.
It gets late and smoky and there's some dubious sweet whisky going around - then K reminds me that we have to get up early tomorrow morning to get the train to Worcester for her nephew's third birthday. We head home having succesfully celebrated the first appreciable sunny Sunday of the season, both looking forward to lots more in what will hopefully be a sweet Summer.
Saturday
Saturday starts at a relaxed pace with a sensible breakfast and some light pottering. There are vague plans to tidy the house but neither of us can really be bothered so we head out to Sainsbury's to do the big shop, making sure to get back for 12.45, whereupon I crouch in front of my iPhone and watch Manchester Utd v Chelsea on Sky Sports 1. Since signing up for Sky Mobile TV a few weeks ago I have yet to see Chelsea win on this tiny screen (including the second leg of the tie against Inter Milan and the horrendous 4-2 home defeat by Manchester City) so hopes are not high. However, Chelsea manage a first half performance that involves completely outplaying United at Old Trafford, punctuated by a lovely little backheeled goal from Joe Cole. The second half is more tense and United grow in influence - but after goals from Drogba and Macheda the game finishes 2-1 to Chelsea; the curse of the iPhone broken and the Blues on top of the league, with the prospect of winning the title firmly in their hands.
As punishment for watching the football, however, the hoover comes out and we make a good go of cleaning the house up. It's rather satisfying to get it done, in the end, and always nicer to spend time in.
As the evening rolls round, K and I finish watching season one of Mad Men and I have a couple of lagers - in preparation for Andy and his girlfriend's 'proper' leaving do tonight. I head into Soho for 7 o'clock and am pleased to find Andy and various other people arriving at exactly the same time - accompanied by my old friend Tim, who I haven't seen for months since he's been travelling around the globe. The bar (the same Andy and I ended up at on Thursday night) is a weird place to be at 7pm - it's dark, loud and serves only cocktails and expensive bottled beers. I don't have a lot of money and after a couple of bottles it's 8.30 and I already feel like going home. However, given that Tim and I have plenty of catching up to do and the fact that he has a bottle of Bell's whisky in his pocket, we take the decision to head outside for a proper chat, during which we stand sipping whisky on Old Compton Street watching Saturday night go by. It's not the classiest bit of drinking I've ever done, but it does the job and it's nice to catch up with the old boy.
By 10.30, however, the bar is rammed, I'm out of money and I'm getting unpleasant flashbacks to unhappy nights out at university (mainly because most of the same people who were there are also here) so I say a few select goodbyes and meander home to catch the end of Match of the Day.
As punishment for watching the football, however, the hoover comes out and we make a good go of cleaning the house up. It's rather satisfying to get it done, in the end, and always nicer to spend time in.
As the evening rolls round, K and I finish watching season one of Mad Men and I have a couple of lagers - in preparation for Andy and his girlfriend's 'proper' leaving do tonight. I head into Soho for 7 o'clock and am pleased to find Andy and various other people arriving at exactly the same time - accompanied by my old friend Tim, who I haven't seen for months since he's been travelling around the globe. The bar (the same Andy and I ended up at on Thursday night) is a weird place to be at 7pm - it's dark, loud and serves only cocktails and expensive bottled beers. I don't have a lot of money and after a couple of bottles it's 8.30 and I already feel like going home. However, given that Tim and I have plenty of catching up to do and the fact that he has a bottle of Bell's whisky in his pocket, we take the decision to head outside for a proper chat, during which we stand sipping whisky on Old Compton Street watching Saturday night go by. It's not the classiest bit of drinking I've ever done, but it does the job and it's nice to catch up with the old boy.
By 10.30, however, the bar is rammed, I'm out of money and I'm getting unpleasant flashbacks to unhappy nights out at university (mainly because most of the same people who were there are also here) so I say a few select goodbyes and meander home to catch the end of Match of the Day.
Saturday 3 April 2010
Friday
Wake up feeling unsurprisingly a little woozy, but rather more tired than hungover. This feels like it'll be a slow-acting punishment, but with a less-than-taxing day off ahead all seems manageable. I mooch over to Tesco to grab some bacon for breakfast and wake Andy up as K earns her Girlfriend of the Year award by sorting us out fried eggs, beans and toast to get the day started properly.
After a couple of hours of Sky Sports News and World's Strongest Man on Bravo, Andy heads off to meet a friend for lunch and K and I make plans to go to Angel. Through the magic of Twitter she has managed to wrangle a free burrito from Mexican takeaway Chilango, so we get the bus as far as Highbury and walk through the park to Upper Street. The heavens open almost as soon as we get off the bus so the walk isn't perfect but the fresh air still feels good.
We stop at Waterstone's where I pick up Dara O'Briain's book Tickling the English which came out in paperback yesterday. I'm sure it'll be a fun read - his sport columns in the Observer are always very funny and clever, and I feel an affinity with the man ever since he once read my football blog and commented "some good ideas in there". I think that might have to be a cover quote on The Book, should it ever happen.
As the rain subsides we get our burritos which are very tasty - but now the hangover has really kicked in and I just fancy heading to bed. As it happens I had planned to get some new trainers today, and as the holes in my trainers soaking my feet are constantly reminding me, they have now become nothing short of necessary. We get the tube from Angel to Oxford Circus and I grab the Nike Air Mogens I had had my eye on from the nearest shoe shop to the tube - and head straight home again.
Back at home I spend some time working on my pitch for The Book and writing what I think is a decent synopsis, market and unique selling points. It's quite tricky putting on paper something I feel I can better describe vocally - as I will in the meeting with The Publisher in two weeks' time - but this is how it must work and I feel instantly more excited about the project in general.
Later on we head over to Crouch End for a couple of drinks with the boys, starting in the Queens and the King's Head but eventually moving the party to Mike's house. We sink cans of Kronenbourg and noisily watch The 40 Year Old Virgin, which is always immensely enjoyable, then shamble home shortly after midnight. It's a strange way to spend a Friday night but then after last night it feels more like a Saturday or Sunday - though I fear that with Andy's big leaving do and Tim arriving from Brighton tomorrow it could end up being a rather boozy, expensive weekend. We shall see.
After a couple of hours of Sky Sports News and World's Strongest Man on Bravo, Andy heads off to meet a friend for lunch and K and I make plans to go to Angel. Through the magic of Twitter she has managed to wrangle a free burrito from Mexican takeaway Chilango, so we get the bus as far as Highbury and walk through the park to Upper Street. The heavens open almost as soon as we get off the bus so the walk isn't perfect but the fresh air still feels good.
We stop at Waterstone's where I pick up Dara O'Briain's book Tickling the English which came out in paperback yesterday. I'm sure it'll be a fun read - his sport columns in the Observer are always very funny and clever, and I feel an affinity with the man ever since he once read my football blog and commented "some good ideas in there". I think that might have to be a cover quote on The Book, should it ever happen.
As the rain subsides we get our burritos which are very tasty - but now the hangover has really kicked in and I just fancy heading to bed. As it happens I had planned to get some new trainers today, and as the holes in my trainers soaking my feet are constantly reminding me, they have now become nothing short of necessary. We get the tube from Angel to Oxford Circus and I grab the Nike Air Mogens I had had my eye on from the nearest shoe shop to the tube - and head straight home again.
Back at home I spend some time working on my pitch for The Book and writing what I think is a decent synopsis, market and unique selling points. It's quite tricky putting on paper something I feel I can better describe vocally - as I will in the meeting with The Publisher in two weeks' time - but this is how it must work and I feel instantly more excited about the project in general.
Later on we head over to Crouch End for a couple of drinks with the boys, starting in the Queens and the King's Head but eventually moving the party to Mike's house. We sink cans of Kronenbourg and noisily watch The 40 Year Old Virgin, which is always immensely enjoyable, then shamble home shortly after midnight. It's a strange way to spend a Friday night but then after last night it feels more like a Saturday or Sunday - though I fear that with Andy's big leaving do and Tim arriving from Brighton tomorrow it could end up being a rather boozy, expensive weekend. We shall see.
Thursday
The team at work is still down to two as illness keeps two of the ladies at home. It is the last day of a four-day week thanks to it being Easter weekend, but rather than being completely pleased at getting four days off, we have so much to do in the office that another day would probably be welcome.
This feeling quickly fades when I leave work and head into town to meet Andy. I arrive at the pub early and get two pints in in anticipation of him arriving - only to then glance at my phone and find out that he is in fact in the pub already and upstairs waiting for me. We eventually find each other and spend a while chatting before various others turn up - and before long we are four or five Alpines gone and locked into a serious football discussion. This is important stuff, including naming our fantasy Match of the Day line-up, (one presenter, two pundits, one commentator and one analyst - from memory I think we ended up with Gary Lineker, Alan Hansen, Martin O'Neill, Barry Davies and Andy Gray) and the usual All-Time Premiership XI conversation. This is fun and noisy and eventually we leave The Cock at kicking-out time.
We stumble through Soho trying unsuccessfully to find a bar that will let in five drunk blokes with no women. We end up at Lupo - the same place we will be for Andy's proper leaving do on Saturday night - and pay a fiver to squeeze in. We're not there for too long (one Jager-bomb, one extortionate bottle of Tiger) before Andy and I head back towards my house, stopping for a seemingly-necessary Burger King on Tottenham Court Road. We get a taxi and wearily discuss the relative merits of Lady GaGa and the Kings of Leon (I, predictably, argue that there are none; Andy is as ever more diplomatic) and get home around 2am.
After a couple of episodes of South Park on Comedy Central and Andy inexplicably eating a bowl of cold soup, we're both ready to pass out - so I grab the lad a sleeping bag and sneak into my own room, anxious not to wake the snoozing K.
This feeling quickly fades when I leave work and head into town to meet Andy. I arrive at the pub early and get two pints in in anticipation of him arriving - only to then glance at my phone and find out that he is in fact in the pub already and upstairs waiting for me. We eventually find each other and spend a while chatting before various others turn up - and before long we are four or five Alpines gone and locked into a serious football discussion. This is important stuff, including naming our fantasy Match of the Day line-up, (one presenter, two pundits, one commentator and one analyst - from memory I think we ended up with Gary Lineker, Alan Hansen, Martin O'Neill, Barry Davies and Andy Gray) and the usual All-Time Premiership XI conversation. This is fun and noisy and eventually we leave The Cock at kicking-out time.
We stumble through Soho trying unsuccessfully to find a bar that will let in five drunk blokes with no women. We end up at Lupo - the same place we will be for Andy's proper leaving do on Saturday night - and pay a fiver to squeeze in. We're not there for too long (one Jager-bomb, one extortionate bottle of Tiger) before Andy and I head back towards my house, stopping for a seemingly-necessary Burger King on Tottenham Court Road. We get a taxi and wearily discuss the relative merits of Lady GaGa and the Kings of Leon (I, predictably, argue that there are none; Andy is as ever more diplomatic) and get home around 2am.
After a couple of episodes of South Park on Comedy Central and Andy inexplicably eating a bowl of cold soup, we're both ready to pass out - so I grab the lad a sleeping bag and sneak into my own room, anxious not to wake the snoozing K.
Thursday 1 April 2010
Wednesday
There seems to be a dreaded lurgee going around at work as only two of us in the department manage to make it through the day. As it stands I am the only one of five that hasn't been sick-day-takingly unwell in the last two weeks, so things don't bode too well for the upcoming weekend and my future health. I should remember, however, that I am an absolute bear of a man who has only taken something like two days of sick leave in as many years with this company - not like the fragile hypochondriacs I work with! I'm sure I'll be fine.
I get a call from Andy making sure we're still on for a drink tomorrow, and then another call minutes later asking if it'd be OK for him to crash at ours afterwards and that that was the real reason he had called. I laugh and tell him it's fine - he clearly forgot to ask the first time but I like the idea that he felt he had to put in a groundwork call first, then wait two minutes before asking the favour. Andy is off travelling for a year or so from next week so tomorrow night will be the first of a few different farewell parties over the weekend and early next week. I'm looking forward to giving him a decent send-off.
I get home later and start cooking dinner while watching the new South Park and the latest Wonders of the Solar System on iPlayer, after which I had intended to crack on with book pitch work - until I realised that Arsenal v Barcelona would be on ITV.
The game turned out to be a brilliant one: Barcelona were almost sarcastically dominant for the first 20 minutes, albeit without scoring and forcing some career-best saves from the much-maligned Manuel Almunia. The visitors were 1-0 up shortly after half time through the much-doubted Zlatan Ibrahimovic, who added a second shortly after. It seemed that Arsenal were all but out of the tie already - until substitute Theo Walcott burst down the right hand side with his usual ludicrous pace and slid the ball past Valdes to get his team back in the game. Then finally, in the 85th minute, Arsenal won an extremely fortunate penalty as Carles Puyol was judged to have fouled Cesc Fabregas (I think they just crashed into each other, really), who converted to make it 2-2 - injuring himself in the process and rather heroically carrying on to the end of the game. It was a great game for the neutral - one of those properly exciting Champions League Wednesdays when anything can seemingly happen and European footballing history is being etched on the screen in front of you.
I get a call from Andy making sure we're still on for a drink tomorrow, and then another call minutes later asking if it'd be OK for him to crash at ours afterwards and that that was the real reason he had called. I laugh and tell him it's fine - he clearly forgot to ask the first time but I like the idea that he felt he had to put in a groundwork call first, then wait two minutes before asking the favour. Andy is off travelling for a year or so from next week so tomorrow night will be the first of a few different farewell parties over the weekend and early next week. I'm looking forward to giving him a decent send-off.
I get home later and start cooking dinner while watching the new South Park and the latest Wonders of the Solar System on iPlayer, after which I had intended to crack on with book pitch work - until I realised that Arsenal v Barcelona would be on ITV.
The game turned out to be a brilliant one: Barcelona were almost sarcastically dominant for the first 20 minutes, albeit without scoring and forcing some career-best saves from the much-maligned Manuel Almunia. The visitors were 1-0 up shortly after half time through the much-doubted Zlatan Ibrahimovic, who added a second shortly after. It seemed that Arsenal were all but out of the tie already - until substitute Theo Walcott burst down the right hand side with his usual ludicrous pace and slid the ball past Valdes to get his team back in the game. Then finally, in the 85th minute, Arsenal won an extremely fortunate penalty as Carles Puyol was judged to have fouled Cesc Fabregas (I think they just crashed into each other, really), who converted to make it 2-2 - injuring himself in the process and rather heroically carrying on to the end of the game. It was a great game for the neutral - one of those properly exciting Champions League Wednesdays when anything can seemingly happen and European footballing history is being etched on the screen in front of you.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
