The doorbell goes just after seven this morning and K runs to get it. Her twin sister has made it safely back from Hong Kong after an 18-hour delay, across London from Heathrow and to our door - all while we were happily sleeping. Even better, she has come armed with bacon for breakfast, so after we've all got up and caught up, we sit down for some pre-work bacon sarnies. K heads off for the half-day of work she's scheduled for before her Christmas party and the start of her Christmas break, while I head to the office as normal.
Later on, I come home to find K getting ready to leave, and I quickly dump my assorted work-related items before heading to the Hope and Anchor to meet Alex before the party. Just as K is leaving there's a power cut that seems to wipe out half our street, street lamps and all. This means that K has to head off into town and I to Crouch End, leaving our guest sitting in the dark with no entertainment at all. We both feel bad but we both have places to be - luckily I soon get a text to say that it's back on before long.
I meet Alex in the pub with Mushki - the puppy she's currently looking after for her housemate. I'm no dog fan, but Mushki is pretty well behaved and it's fun to watch the assorted Hope and Anchor locals coming over to say hello. I suppose as a dog owner you'd have to get used to interacting with people; they seem to take the animal you're dragging along on a string as an open invitation to chat.
We sit and natter for a while before I have to skid my way back home to collect K's sister and head into Covent Garden for the party. It's at a place called Circus - which doesn't prove too difficult to find, what with the large queue and woman on stilts at the door. We eventually get in to find the place busy already, locating K somewhere near the free bar. After a bit of shuffling around we nab some space around a table, where we feast on nibbles of various qualities and endless free beers. It's not long before I start to get a bit claustrophobic, though, and at about 11 I decide to leave while the tubes are still running - leaving K and her sister to party on and get a company-paid cab home.
Friday 31 December 2010
Thursday 30 December 2010
Tuesday 21st December
There's a weird kind of end-of-term atmosphere at work. Some people have left already for the Christmas break, others have returned unexpectedly from Heathrow having had their Christmas holidays cancelled by the weather - others, like me, are here until Christmas Eve and have tons of work left to do. There is a lot of chocolate about the place, and our Quality Street-wrapper ceiling decoration is still hanging "proudly" above the marketing department. One nice moment comes when our sales director announces that he'll be taking us out for dinner at Mosaica - the surprisingly posh restaurant hidden deep inside the converted Chocolate Factory across the road from the office.
In order that there are still some people in the office when we're eating, we have to head over at 12pm (a little early for my liking) and I order a bottle of Peroni to sip ahead of my gammon and eggs. This is, needless to say, already much more satisfying than the car crash of a Christmas party we had last Friday. We chat merrily for an hour and a half or so before heading back over to the office - pausing only for a brief snowball skirmish with the work party heading to replace us at Mosaica.
I spend the rest of the afternoon in something of a daze - full of food and with an oddly discombobulating single midday beer inside me my eyes feel heavy and entirely unwilling to focus on the acres of spreadsheets and emails on my screen. I do, however, find a way to survive the rest of the working day and head home.
Somehow I find room for dinner (much later) and K and I sit around catching up on some TV shows we've recorded. Just before bed we get the happy news that K's sister has managed to squeeze onto a flight from Hong Kong that leaves tonight (UK time) meaning that she should be here tomorrow morning, snow or not - an unexpectedly positive result.
In order that there are still some people in the office when we're eating, we have to head over at 12pm (a little early for my liking) and I order a bottle of Peroni to sip ahead of my gammon and eggs. This is, needless to say, already much more satisfying than the car crash of a Christmas party we had last Friday. We chat merrily for an hour and a half or so before heading back over to the office - pausing only for a brief snowball skirmish with the work party heading to replace us at Mosaica.
I spend the rest of the afternoon in something of a daze - full of food and with an oddly discombobulating single midday beer inside me my eyes feel heavy and entirely unwilling to focus on the acres of spreadsheets and emails on my screen. I do, however, find a way to survive the rest of the working day and head home.
Somehow I find room for dinner (much later) and K and I sit around catching up on some TV shows we've recorded. Just before bed we get the happy news that K's sister has managed to squeeze onto a flight from Hong Kong that leaves tonight (UK time) meaning that she should be here tomorrow morning, snow or not - an unexpectedly positive result.
Monday 20th December
The 'Big Freeze' is virtually all that's in the news today. Heathrow Airport is clogged up and with only one runway functioning they're even telling people not to bother turning up for their flights at Terminals 1 and 3. Eurostar have people queuing out of the door of St. Pancras Station and all the way up almost to the British Library - which is bizarre to see considering how quiet it was when we got in from Kent yesterday morning. It is improbably cold outside, and while it's a dicey affair skating across the pavements and walking up the middle of the road to get to work, a big part of me is glad that I don't have any more travelling to do until Friday (when hopefully things will be more or less back to normal).
While the snow at Heathrow doesn't affect me directly, there is one problem: K's twin sister is on her way back to the UK for a surprise homecoming visit. This is a special early Christmas present for K that I've known about for a few weeks (though she has no idea) and today it's in severe danger of turning into a complete disaster. She is currently in Hong Kong - and tonight the flight she's booked onto has been cancelled.
After dinner K and I sit and watch Scrooged (a great Bill Murray Christmas film we picked up at HMV for a fiver yesterday) and afterwards I break the news to her that not only was she supposed to be getting a surprise homecoming visit from her sister, but that the visit was in danger of not happening at all now. She is understandably concerned and it's a shame that the potentially brilliant surprise is ruined - but after a few emails have been exchanged there is still hope that her sister won't spend Christmas trapped in Hong Kong airport.
While the snow at Heathrow doesn't affect me directly, there is one problem: K's twin sister is on her way back to the UK for a surprise homecoming visit. This is a special early Christmas present for K that I've known about for a few weeks (though she has no idea) and today it's in severe danger of turning into a complete disaster. She is currently in Hong Kong - and tonight the flight she's booked onto has been cancelled.
After dinner K and I sit and watch Scrooged (a great Bill Murray Christmas film we picked up at HMV for a fiver yesterday) and afterwards I break the news to her that not only was she supposed to be getting a surprise homecoming visit from her sister, but that the visit was in danger of not happening at all now. She is understandably concerned and it's a shame that the potentially brilliant surprise is ruined - but after a few emails have been exchanged there is still hope that her sister won't spend Christmas trapped in Hong Kong airport.
Sunday 26 December 2010
Sunday 19th December
We get up early and prepare to jump in Mum's car. They need to try and drive up to Scotland today (where even more snow is forecast) so every minute counts. We are informed by Network Rail that the high-speed line is back up and running, with a train departing at 9.25. After Alistair has dug the car out (which is, fortunately, four-wheel drive) we drive as quickly and safely as possible to Canterbury West station, where we see a train pull in as we arrive. Concerned that we might miss it, K and I leap out of the car and run through the small station to squeeze on. It's not too busy and we manage to find a seat - but mostly I'm just relieved to be on our way back. While the weekend has been far from a disaster, it's nice to be heading back for a shower and a change of clothes at least.
The train is incredibly quick and in less than an hour we're back in St. Pancras - with North London virtually unrecognisable compared to when we left less than 24 hours before. The thick blanket of snow has been obliterated into slush in true London style, at least on the roads, but it's pretty amazing to see what fell in just a couple of Saturday afternoon hours. The remainder of our journey isn't too difficult - though the Piccadilly line is severely delayed thanks to staff being unable to get into work. Though this means us running for the 29 through Finsbury Park, we're stunned to find ourselves safely home less than two hours after we left Aylesham - and all before midday.
The weather makes me want to stay in for the rest of the day, but we need to do food shopping at least so we head up to Sainsbury's in Wood Green and do a little circuit of Shopping City. After finally getting a shower and lolling around for the rest of the afternoon, we decide to brave the elements and wander up to Crouch End for a drink before dinner. Mike joins us after a while, and predictably one drink turns into several. Our delicious curry we had planned gets postponed to tomorrow - and we stoop to a greasy takeaway on the way home. Well, we reason, it has been something of a traumatic weekend.
The train is incredibly quick and in less than an hour we're back in St. Pancras - with North London virtually unrecognisable compared to when we left less than 24 hours before. The thick blanket of snow has been obliterated into slush in true London style, at least on the roads, but it's pretty amazing to see what fell in just a couple of Saturday afternoon hours. The remainder of our journey isn't too difficult - though the Piccadilly line is severely delayed thanks to staff being unable to get into work. Though this means us running for the 29 through Finsbury Park, we're stunned to find ourselves safely home less than two hours after we left Aylesham - and all before midday.
The weather makes me want to stay in for the rest of the day, but we need to do food shopping at least so we head up to Sainsbury's in Wood Green and do a little circuit of Shopping City. After finally getting a shower and lolling around for the rest of the afternoon, we decide to brave the elements and wander up to Crouch End for a drink before dinner. Mike joins us after a while, and predictably one drink turns into several. Our delicious curry we had planned gets postponed to tomorrow - and we stoop to a greasy takeaway on the way home. Well, we reason, it has been something of a traumatic weekend.
Saturday 18th December
This morning K and I are off to see some of my Stepdad's family in Kent, as well as to conduct the long-delayed present exhange with my mum and Stepdad. This involves getting the high-speed train from St. Pancras and changing at Faversham - and while we're skating across the ice towards the tube station with the forecast of heavy snow in the back of our minds, we briefly wonder whether this is a particularly good idea.
We arrive at St. Pancras where there are no timetables to speak of - just signs that "all trains are subject to delays and cancellations". Hmm. We head up to the platform from which the high-speed train departs and get on the first one we can see, which happens to be heading to Faversham and also happens to be running on time. So far so good - but the snow starts coming down on London just as the train pulls out of the station, and gets progressively heavier as we head south.
We reach Faversham in under an hour to find that the train we had supposed to be catching has been cancelled - and that all trains are now leaving from a single platform. This means a 20 minute wait, but now we're worrying even more about getting home later this afternoon. We may have to cut short our visit to a simple exchange of presents - but I figure that as long as we're going again by four then we should be OK.
The train pulls into the little village of Aylesham at around two, where Mum, Alistair and Alice are waiting to meet us. We say hello and skate up towards Alistair's mum's house - at which point the snow really, really starts coming down. We sit in the living room and gaze out at the whiteout - at which point all hopes of getting back to London today vanish steadily. The family have fun poking fun at me for worrying and feeling a bit trapped and agitated; and while there couldn't be a nicer place to be stuck (there's plenty of food and drink in the house and it's nice to catch up with Alice especially, whom I haven't seen for a over a year) I can't deny that the hot bungalow and the snowy little village leave me feeling a bit claustrophobic.
The Network Rail phone line confirms that the trains are all cancelled until tomorrow morning, and one glance at the news suggests that the whole of the south of England has ground to a halt. No flights out of Heathrow, all Premier League games cancelled and lots of weekends ruined. Too bad - but when the snow stops K, Alice and I head out into the unbelievably deep snow to the shop for provisions while Alistair sorts out a tasty dinner of duck and pork belly. The rest of the family watch Strictly Come Dancing while I - in order to to avoid it - offer to do all the washing up (which at least spares me 35 minutes of Bruce Forsyth's chin and Gavin Henson's pectorals).
After a cosy evening of telly, K and I grab some sheets and I make myself fairly comfy on the floor - hoping for a way home in the morning.
We arrive at St. Pancras where there are no timetables to speak of - just signs that "all trains are subject to delays and cancellations". Hmm. We head up to the platform from which the high-speed train departs and get on the first one we can see, which happens to be heading to Faversham and also happens to be running on time. So far so good - but the snow starts coming down on London just as the train pulls out of the station, and gets progressively heavier as we head south.
We reach Faversham in under an hour to find that the train we had supposed to be catching has been cancelled - and that all trains are now leaving from a single platform. This means a 20 minute wait, but now we're worrying even more about getting home later this afternoon. We may have to cut short our visit to a simple exchange of presents - but I figure that as long as we're going again by four then we should be OK.
The train pulls into the little village of Aylesham at around two, where Mum, Alistair and Alice are waiting to meet us. We say hello and skate up towards Alistair's mum's house - at which point the snow really, really starts coming down. We sit in the living room and gaze out at the whiteout - at which point all hopes of getting back to London today vanish steadily. The family have fun poking fun at me for worrying and feeling a bit trapped and agitated; and while there couldn't be a nicer place to be stuck (there's plenty of food and drink in the house and it's nice to catch up with Alice especially, whom I haven't seen for a over a year) I can't deny that the hot bungalow and the snowy little village leave me feeling a bit claustrophobic.
The Network Rail phone line confirms that the trains are all cancelled until tomorrow morning, and one glance at the news suggests that the whole of the south of England has ground to a halt. No flights out of Heathrow, all Premier League games cancelled and lots of weekends ruined. Too bad - but when the snow stops K, Alice and I head out into the unbelievably deep snow to the shop for provisions while Alistair sorts out a tasty dinner of duck and pork belly. The rest of the family watch Strictly Come Dancing while I - in order to to avoid it - offer to do all the washing up (which at least spares me 35 minutes of Bruce Forsyth's chin and Gavin Henson's pectorals).
After a cosy evening of telly, K and I grab some sheets and I make myself fairly comfy on the floor - hoping for a way home in the morning.
Friday 17th December
Tonight is our work Christmas do, which is being held conveniently close to my house/the office this year. In order, therefore, to avoid being stuck in the office for two hours after work finishes, Georgie, Susie and I head back to our flat for some pre-party drinks. There's been a couple of bottles of wine sat behind my desk for quite a while (courtesy of an unknown benefactor - but we're hardly going to share them out at work are we?) so I sneak them into my backpack before we leave, meaning that we have plenty to be going on with back home.
After some customary work-bitching and a galvanising shot of whisky, we head out into the light snow and up towards the restaurant where the work meal is to be held. On walking up to the door I'm immediately accosted by a burly security guard, who patiently explains the dress code to me (of which we'd had no prior knowledge). I inform him that I'm here for a pre-booked party and that I have no intention of going home to change out of my usual trainers/jeans ensemble just to get into his dodgy venue. He concedes - but points out that "when I've had my dinner" the dress code will be brought back into force. Not the nicest welcome I've ever had.
The restaurant itself seems to have a sort of nightclub upstairs - the sort of tacky, gaudily decorated place that lower-league footballers are usually caught in; along with a separate VIP area and even more burly security guards. The bar upstairs is cocktails only, so when I want a pint to drink while we wait for our tables to become free (the place having screwed up the booking) I have to order it downstairs and have a member of staff carry it up. Already, I can't be bothered with this place.
We finally get our table - but the food takes another hour or so and when it arrives it is singularly underwhelming. By this point, though, almost everyone in our 40-strong party is getting drunk and irritable and completely not in the mood. The guy who organised the party is shouting at the manager and one of the directors spends the rest of the evening negotiating the bill. In short it's an unedifying display and a complete car crash of a Christmas party.
I last until midnight, and trudge the short distance home in the snow and the ice, briefly swearing not to bother with one of these next year.
After some customary work-bitching and a galvanising shot of whisky, we head out into the light snow and up towards the restaurant where the work meal is to be held. On walking up to the door I'm immediately accosted by a burly security guard, who patiently explains the dress code to me (of which we'd had no prior knowledge). I inform him that I'm here for a pre-booked party and that I have no intention of going home to change out of my usual trainers/jeans ensemble just to get into his dodgy venue. He concedes - but points out that "when I've had my dinner" the dress code will be brought back into force. Not the nicest welcome I've ever had.
The restaurant itself seems to have a sort of nightclub upstairs - the sort of tacky, gaudily decorated place that lower-league footballers are usually caught in; along with a separate VIP area and even more burly security guards. The bar upstairs is cocktails only, so when I want a pint to drink while we wait for our tables to become free (the place having screwed up the booking) I have to order it downstairs and have a member of staff carry it up. Already, I can't be bothered with this place.
We finally get our table - but the food takes another hour or so and when it arrives it is singularly underwhelming. By this point, though, almost everyone in our 40-strong party is getting drunk and irritable and completely not in the mood. The guy who organised the party is shouting at the manager and one of the directors spends the rest of the evening negotiating the bill. In short it's an unedifying display and a complete car crash of a Christmas party.
I last until midnight, and trudge the short distance home in the snow and the ice, briefly swearing not to bother with one of these next year.
Tuesday 21 December 2010
Thursday 16th December
K isn't feeling very well this morning, so I leave her in bed and reluctantly craft some disappointing sandwiches to take to work with me (they never taste as good when I know how little of my own effort went into their construction). I also have one last go at resetting the new Virgin box - sure that it might just work eventually. Well, it might. It's also slightly annoying in that I have to leave poor ill K in the house with no TV to watch, but then there are plenty of DVDs around.
Things take a turn for the better, though, when I call K later - as she's apparently brightened up enough to get on the blower to Virgin and, in her inimitable ball-busting style, managed to force them up off their arses long enough to send the correct bunch of signals "down the box" and that we now have a fully-working V+ HD box. This is great news, and I resolve never to turn it off again.
I get home later and K is snuggled up under a duvet on the sofa. Not keen to get too close to her germs (though, if I'm honest, I probably already have them) I snuggle up with her and we have fun learning how to program TV shows and films to record. When I'm done radiating joy over the idea that I've series-linked Match of the Day and what remains of Peep Show (I would never in a million years have been allowed to do so on my parents' Sky+ box back when I lived at home), we stick last night's penultimate Apprentice on. This is the always-entertaining interviews episode, which recalls every horrible interview anyone's ever had while allowing the viewer the delightful opportunity to watch previously-swaggering business-cocks squirm under intense pressure. It's a good one - and it sets up an intriguing final between Chris and Stella for Sunday night (which, yes, we have now set to record).
Things take a turn for the better, though, when I call K later - as she's apparently brightened up enough to get on the blower to Virgin and, in her inimitable ball-busting style, managed to force them up off their arses long enough to send the correct bunch of signals "down the box" and that we now have a fully-working V+ HD box. This is great news, and I resolve never to turn it off again.
I get home later and K is snuggled up under a duvet on the sofa. Not keen to get too close to her germs (though, if I'm honest, I probably already have them) I snuggle up with her and we have fun learning how to program TV shows and films to record. When I'm done radiating joy over the idea that I've series-linked Match of the Day and what remains of Peep Show (I would never in a million years have been allowed to do so on my parents' Sky+ box back when I lived at home), we stick last night's penultimate Apprentice on. This is the always-entertaining interviews episode, which recalls every horrible interview anyone's ever had while allowing the viewer the delightful opportunity to watch previously-swaggering business-cocks squirm under intense pressure. It's a good one - and it sets up an intriguing final between Chris and Stella for Sunday night (which, yes, we have now set to record).
Wednesday 15th December
Annoyingly, after all the plugging-in thrills of last night, the V+ box doesn't seem to be responding. K resolves to call them this morning, and their helpful staff assure us they'll "send some signals down the box" which all sounds terribly technical to my layperson's ears, but sure enough after a reboot it starts receiving channels. When K goes to work I poke about with the box a bit but can't seem to get the actual V+ recording bits to work. No problem, I reason, this probably takes a while to load up. I leave it on and head off to the office.
Getting home later, it has become clear that the V+ stuff isn't working - so I reset the unit. Ah. Now it doesn't work at all. Slightly furious with myself for resetting what was, I suppose, a working box but also with the box itself for taking so long to get to the error message each time (AP:43, for the record), I call Virgin. After chatting to one of their friendly UK-based staff I'm soon forwarded to a crackly line to India, where a nice but uncomprehending lady assures me she's booked an engineer (not, of course, actually trying to fix anything). Fine, I say, and grumpily retire to the sofa to look at the blank screen projected by my crocked birthday present.
This gets boring, of course, so I decide to get myself in a more festive mood by watching Die Hard. It seems to work, too. Good old reliable Die Hard.
Getting home later, it has become clear that the V+ stuff isn't working - so I reset the unit. Ah. Now it doesn't work at all. Slightly furious with myself for resetting what was, I suppose, a working box but also with the box itself for taking so long to get to the error message each time (AP:43, for the record), I call Virgin. After chatting to one of their friendly UK-based staff I'm soon forwarded to a crackly line to India, where a nice but uncomprehending lady assures me she's booked an engineer (not, of course, actually trying to fix anything). Fine, I say, and grumpily retire to the sofa to look at the blank screen projected by my crocked birthday present.
This gets boring, of course, so I decide to get myself in a more festive mood by watching Die Hard. It seems to work, too. Good old reliable Die Hard.
Tuesday 14th December
Tonight my fine colleagues and I are off for a pre-Christmas meal to celebrate a year in which we've all worked hard - and to have a bit of festive fun before the proper work Christmas do. First, though, I need to pop home as (excitingly) my early birthday present from K has been delivered to the office in the form of a Virgin V+ HD box. That's right, we're upgrading - and I'm excited enough about being able to finally go out on a Saturday night AND manage to see Match of the Day that I head home before the meal to plug it all in.
With unending faith in my own plugging-in-TV-equipment skills, I use the 20 minutes I have to clear out the old box, fanny around with some stupid wires that are wound around plastic Guitar Hero peripherals and get the new thing all plugged in. I don't, however, have time to see if it works - so I leave it switched on and head out of the door towards Crouch End.
I'm a bit worried that I've spent too long at home so I get a bit of sweat on motoring up to the restaurant. Inevitably I get there far too early - so sit alone watching the people go by and having a quick pint while the girls from my department wander up from work.
We all order slightly fancier drinks (I opt for the Don Draper-esque whisky and ginger) and chat merrily, being careful not to bitch too much about work. After dinner - I have the spectacular jerk chicken burger - we move up the road to the King's Head for another drink, after which we all say goodnight. It's nice to spend a bit more time with work folks, and in a setting away from the insanity of the bosses - that particular joy awaits on Friday night.
With unending faith in my own plugging-in-TV-equipment skills, I use the 20 minutes I have to clear out the old box, fanny around with some stupid wires that are wound around plastic Guitar Hero peripherals and get the new thing all plugged in. I don't, however, have time to see if it works - so I leave it switched on and head out of the door towards Crouch End.
I'm a bit worried that I've spent too long at home so I get a bit of sweat on motoring up to the restaurant. Inevitably I get there far too early - so sit alone watching the people go by and having a quick pint while the girls from my department wander up from work.
We all order slightly fancier drinks (I opt for the Don Draper-esque whisky and ginger) and chat merrily, being careful not to bitch too much about work. After dinner - I have the spectacular jerk chicken burger - we move up the road to the King's Head for another drink, after which we all say goodnight. It's nice to spend a bit more time with work folks, and in a setting away from the insanity of the bosses - that particular joy awaits on Friday night.
Sunday 19 December 2010
Monday 13th December
Our train back to London isn't until 1pm, so we head into Bristol for breakfast. It takes a little while to find a decent-looking cafe but eventually we have a seat and a decent fry-up in front of us. Properly fed (and finally having recovered from Saturday night) we stroll through the Galleries in search of some vaguely last-minute Christmas presents while K hunts for a new dress for her work Christmas party next week. No luck, though - and by the time we decide to make our way to the station I'm thoroughly sick of shopping and actually looking forward to getting on the train.
The journey is as quick and smooth as it was on the way down and I manage to get a little bit of writing done on the way (in between episodes of Community and Louie). K is due to go the doctor's on the way home, so we go our separate ways at King's Cross and I head home with the bags. By the time I'm there I'm totally shattered and not exactly looking forward to heading back out to go grocery shopping - but after a shower and a change of clothes I'm relatively rejuvenated and ready to do some shopping. Amazingly, having managed to avoid finding a dress she likes in the whole of Bristol, I find K happily paying for a dress in Harringay on the way to Sainsbury's. We needn't have bothered going at all!
The journey is as quick and smooth as it was on the way down and I manage to get a little bit of writing done on the way (in between episodes of Community and Louie). K is due to go the doctor's on the way home, so we go our separate ways at King's Cross and I head home with the bags. By the time I'm there I'm totally shattered and not exactly looking forward to heading back out to go grocery shopping - but after a shower and a change of clothes I'm relatively rejuvenated and ready to do some shopping. Amazingly, having managed to avoid finding a dress she likes in the whole of Bristol, I find K happily paying for a dress in Harringay on the way to Sainsbury's. We needn't have bothered going at all!
Sunday 12th December
Feeling undeniably delicate, we wake up late and are treated to bacon and eggs courtesy of Matt's culinary skill. We watch last night's X Factor before grabbing our bags and heading back into town. The girls want to go to New Look and the like, so we go to the Apple Store and gaze lovingly at the iPads and giant-screened iMacs. What's funny is that the Apple Store mostly seems to be used as a free internet cafe for 12-year-olds to check their Facebook accounts.
When the girls return we head to Harvey Nicholls (which is a place that is firmly "not for the likes of me" but we have fun laughing at the ridiculous prices - £9 for mince pies? very reasonable) and when hunger sets in we seek out Bristol's very nice German Christmas market. It is here that I manage to source my first taste of currywurst since back in Berlin - which does the trick temporarily and takes me back to much warmer days.
A few shops later we say goodbye to Matt, Ellie, Sam and Heather and head towards the waterfront to find our hotel for tonight. The bags are heavy and I'm feeling rough after sleeping on the floor last night, so the first thing I do at the hotel room is have a refreshing shower and a lie-down before heading back out for tonight's gig. We have to get moving quickly though - we're both so tired that if we stay too long then we won't leave at all.
We walk up Park Street via Fopp and the Design Guild, scouting out somewhere to have a drink before going to the Anson Rooms. We end up in the Scream bar at the top of Park Street, where the Tottenham v Chelsea game is just finishing - managing to catch Didier Drogba's missed penalty that leaves the Blues fourth in the league. Gutting. Undeterred though, we have a pint and some dinner in an attempt to liven up before going to see Godspeed You! Black Emperor.
By 7pm we're on our way through the chilly night to a gig venue I have been to many times, but not for several years. We're also going to see a band I haven't really listened to for a few years but also one I never thought I'd get to see, since they first "broke up" some seven years ago. The place is packed with nerds and there's no lighting beyond that created by the four film projectors in the middle of the room. This makes for a kind of intimate atmosphere to go along with Godspeed's long, thoughtful and atmospheric music (they play six songs in a 2+ hour set) and the film loops they use are uniformly eerie and beautiful. The only problem is that K and I are so knackered that we're almost falling asleep on our feet - so by 10.45 we're totally done with the gig and we head back to the hotel for some much needed rest.
When the girls return we head to Harvey Nicholls (which is a place that is firmly "not for the likes of me" but we have fun laughing at the ridiculous prices - £9 for mince pies? very reasonable) and when hunger sets in we seek out Bristol's very nice German Christmas market. It is here that I manage to source my first taste of currywurst since back in Berlin - which does the trick temporarily and takes me back to much warmer days.
A few shops later we say goodbye to Matt, Ellie, Sam and Heather and head towards the waterfront to find our hotel for tonight. The bags are heavy and I'm feeling rough after sleeping on the floor last night, so the first thing I do at the hotel room is have a refreshing shower and a lie-down before heading back out for tonight's gig. We have to get moving quickly though - we're both so tired that if we stay too long then we won't leave at all.
We walk up Park Street via Fopp and the Design Guild, scouting out somewhere to have a drink before going to the Anson Rooms. We end up in the Scream bar at the top of Park Street, where the Tottenham v Chelsea game is just finishing - managing to catch Didier Drogba's missed penalty that leaves the Blues fourth in the league. Gutting. Undeterred though, we have a pint and some dinner in an attempt to liven up before going to see Godspeed You! Black Emperor.
By 7pm we're on our way through the chilly night to a gig venue I have been to many times, but not for several years. We're also going to see a band I haven't really listened to for a few years but also one I never thought I'd get to see, since they first "broke up" some seven years ago. The place is packed with nerds and there's no lighting beyond that created by the four film projectors in the middle of the room. This makes for a kind of intimate atmosphere to go along with Godspeed's long, thoughtful and atmospheric music (they play six songs in a 2+ hour set) and the film loops they use are uniformly eerie and beautiful. The only problem is that K and I are so knackered that we're almost falling asleep on our feet - so by 10.45 we're totally done with the gig and we head back to the hotel for some much needed rest.
Thursday 16 December 2010
Saturday 11th December
We're off to Bristol today for various reasons - partly as a little holiday surrounding the Godspeed You! Black Emperor gig we have tickets for tomorrow night, partly to visit Matt and Ellie and go to a house party with their friends Sam and Heather. The train leaves from Paddington at 11, so we get up fairly early and make our winding way through the tubes to the West London station, both feeling a little delicate and a bit snappy with each other.
We get some food for the train and find our seats quickly - and though I stick my laptop on (and have fun trying out using my phone as a portable wi-fi hotspot with the SSID name "train wifi is a rip-off" - you can't do that on iOS!) the journey is so quick and smooth that we're at Temple Meads before I quite know that we've left. It's immediately nice to be in Bristol, and it seems like a long time since I've visited. While we wait for Matt and Ellie to pick us up, we grab a little lunch and chill out in Wetherspoon's to use their wifi. The married couple soon arrive though and we head to Sam and Heather's house in St. Paul's.
The house party tonight has a "bad taste jumper" theme - and though I hate dressing up for parties K has at least managed to convince me to bring one of her more garish jumpers along to wear. The others are less prepared though, so we head towards Gloucester Road to do some charity shopping. The girls also want to go to Primark and New Look and the usual sort of the-same-clothes-shops-as-we-have-at-home-but-different-somehow shopping trip looks likely to ensue, but in a crushingly stereotypical Christmas shopping move, us boys get sent to the pub and out of the way. None of us are complaining of course, and we have a nice couple of jars while (shockingly) cooing over the new external hard drive that Sam has just bought from Maplins. I'm sure for some men this is done with cars or business cards or something.
After a couple of hours we head back to the house where the girls are waiting and Heather is getting some dinner sorted. We have a couple of bottles of beer and some tasty truffle-oil macaroni cheese (fancy) before heading out to a series of very nice, very well hidden local pubs.
Of course, by the time we actually arrive at the house party (probably somewhere around 9pm but who knows, really) I've had a fair few to drink and while I've made the sensible switch to wine, the majority of the event is something of a blur. I know I don't embarass myself too much (though I lose the silly jumper pretty quickly given the heat and business of the party) and we actually stay there til gone midnight, which never really looked on the cards. Eventually, K, Matt and I walk back to Sam and Heather's house, leaving Ellie and Sam partying on, and we roll out the futon in the living room to crash.
We get some food for the train and find our seats quickly - and though I stick my laptop on (and have fun trying out using my phone as a portable wi-fi hotspot with the SSID name "train wifi is a rip-off" - you can't do that on iOS!) the journey is so quick and smooth that we're at Temple Meads before I quite know that we've left. It's immediately nice to be in Bristol, and it seems like a long time since I've visited. While we wait for Matt and Ellie to pick us up, we grab a little lunch and chill out in Wetherspoon's to use their wifi. The married couple soon arrive though and we head to Sam and Heather's house in St. Paul's.
The house party tonight has a "bad taste jumper" theme - and though I hate dressing up for parties K has at least managed to convince me to bring one of her more garish jumpers along to wear. The others are less prepared though, so we head towards Gloucester Road to do some charity shopping. The girls also want to go to Primark and New Look and the usual sort of the-same-clothes-shops-as-we-have-at-home-but-different-somehow shopping trip looks likely to ensue, but in a crushingly stereotypical Christmas shopping move, us boys get sent to the pub and out of the way. None of us are complaining of course, and we have a nice couple of jars while (shockingly) cooing over the new external hard drive that Sam has just bought from Maplins. I'm sure for some men this is done with cars or business cards or something.
After a couple of hours we head back to the house where the girls are waiting and Heather is getting some dinner sorted. We have a couple of bottles of beer and some tasty truffle-oil macaroni cheese (fancy) before heading out to a series of very nice, very well hidden local pubs.
Of course, by the time we actually arrive at the house party (probably somewhere around 9pm but who knows, really) I've had a fair few to drink and while I've made the sensible switch to wine, the majority of the event is something of a blur. I know I don't embarass myself too much (though I lose the silly jumper pretty quickly given the heat and business of the party) and we actually stay there til gone midnight, which never really looked on the cards. Eventually, K, Matt and I walk back to Sam and Heather's house, leaving Ellie and Sam partying on, and we roll out the futon in the living room to crash.
Friday 10th December
After a couple of nights out in a row and with a busy trip to Bristol ahead for the weekend, tonight had been planned as a quiet Friday in. The best laid plans, however - as Mike calls me when I get home from work to let me know that he's in the area after a photoshoot and wondering whether I fancied a pint at the Tollgate. It turns out that, in fact, I do fancy a pint at the Tollgate, so I head over there with due haste.
The Tollgate, as I've often said before, has a bad reputation and doesn't offer much in way of a first impression (they can't help the alcoholics and assorted criminals that hang about the doorways) but I always find it a relaxing place for a quiet local pint. Me and Mike chatter about various nerdy topics over a drink until K turns up on her way back from work, soon to be joined by Big Nick. The boys are hungry - and since K and I have ostensibly got dinner waiting for us at home (leftover chilli), we refrain from ordering anything; but I watch Mike tuck into his £2.99 sausage, chips and beans with more than a hint of envy.
We ignore the hunger pangs though and enjoy another couple of drinks before all heading back to our flat in time to watch Peep Show. It's an absolutely brilliant one tonight and really shows series 7 getting into its stride - it's still easily the funniest sitcom on TV, and has been now for almost ten years (hard to believe). After Peep Show I stick on an episode of South Park that I wanted everyone to see (the excellent "Creme Fraiche" season 14 finale), at which point both of our guests fall asleep. Lightweights. K and I send them on their way back to Crouch End before heading to bed ourselves.
The Tollgate, as I've often said before, has a bad reputation and doesn't offer much in way of a first impression (they can't help the alcoholics and assorted criminals that hang about the doorways) but I always find it a relaxing place for a quiet local pint. Me and Mike chatter about various nerdy topics over a drink until K turns up on her way back from work, soon to be joined by Big Nick. The boys are hungry - and since K and I have ostensibly got dinner waiting for us at home (leftover chilli), we refrain from ordering anything; but I watch Mike tuck into his £2.99 sausage, chips and beans with more than a hint of envy.
We ignore the hunger pangs though and enjoy another couple of drinks before all heading back to our flat in time to watch Peep Show. It's an absolutely brilliant one tonight and really shows series 7 getting into its stride - it's still easily the funniest sitcom on TV, and has been now for almost ten years (hard to believe). After Peep Show I stick on an episode of South Park that I wanted everyone to see (the excellent "Creme Fraiche" season 14 finale), at which point both of our guests fall asleep. Lightweights. K and I send them on their way back to Crouch End before heading to bed ourselves.
Thursday 9th December
Tonight is the launch of Georgie's first solo photography exhibition in Battersea. She's been excited about it for a long time and having seen a few of the photos I thought it'd be fun to head down for the private view. Since it's not far from K's work we arrange to meet at Queenstown Road station, so after work I get on the trundling, delayed Victoria Line and change to the overground at Vauxhall.
We meet up and wander through the chilly night towards the gallery, Acquire Arts - oddly enough passing the pub that Andy worked in for a while when he was saving to go travelling (I had thought I'd never been down this way before). The gallery is a former shopfront which looks warm and inviting when we head in, and we quickly spot Georgie chatting to friends and family. We each pick up a glass of wine and check out the photos, which, spread across two floors, feature a selection of male nudes and abstract close-ups - all of which are impressively presented, especially when you know that the artist hasn't done anything like this before. One weird moment comes when I notice the male model standing right next to a naked photo of himself. I don't feel there's now any need to strike up conversation - what else could anyone find out?!
We only stick around for a short while and head back to the station in search of somewhere to have dinner. There's not really anywhere to eat around that part of town, so we get back on the train and head to Finsbury Park, aiming for an Italian restaurant we'd liked very much when we lived in the area - and hence haven't been to for well over a year. The staff there are as friendly as usual and there's a nice festive atmosphere to the place. We order a bottle of red and I have my customary calzone - which is devoured with predictable relish.
We meet up and wander through the chilly night towards the gallery, Acquire Arts - oddly enough passing the pub that Andy worked in for a while when he was saving to go travelling (I had thought I'd never been down this way before). The gallery is a former shopfront which looks warm and inviting when we head in, and we quickly spot Georgie chatting to friends and family. We each pick up a glass of wine and check out the photos, which, spread across two floors, feature a selection of male nudes and abstract close-ups - all of which are impressively presented, especially when you know that the artist hasn't done anything like this before. One weird moment comes when I notice the male model standing right next to a naked photo of himself. I don't feel there's now any need to strike up conversation - what else could anyone find out?!
We only stick around for a short while and head back to the station in search of somewhere to have dinner. There's not really anywhere to eat around that part of town, so we get back on the train and head to Finsbury Park, aiming for an Italian restaurant we'd liked very much when we lived in the area - and hence haven't been to for well over a year. The staff there are as friendly as usual and there's a nice festive atmosphere to the place. We order a bottle of red and I have my customary calzone - which is devoured with predictable relish.
Monday 13 December 2010
Wednesday 8th December
Tonight I'm off to the Emirates to see Arsenal's final Champions League group game against Partizan Belgrade with Alex and Will. When Alex had suggested the game a few weeks ago it seemed like it'd be a nice cheap(ish) way to see some live football – though as it was the last game of the group it seemed like the match itself would be unlikely to mean much. As it happens, Arsenal conspired to screw up the previous couple of matches, making the Partizan encounter a firm “must win” if they are to qualify for the knockout stages of the competition.
After work I grab a quick bite to eat and meet Alex at the tube, heading down to Finsbury Park. We wander up to the World's End to grab a quick pint before making our way to the stadium and meeting Will and his mate. The pub is busy and they're on the usual matchday plastic cups – though tonight it's slightly surreal to be among those actually heading out to the game rather than waiting for the ticketholders to leave to get a decent seat.
Will is running late so we walk down and meet him outside the club shop before heading to another pub near Gillespie Road. By the time we finally find our way to seats 958-961 in block 125, the game is a couple of minutes old – but we don't seem to have missed much action. The Emirates is a great place to watch football, and while Arsenal aren't my team it's always been a pleasure to watch them here. This is the first really meaningful game I've seen here though meaning there's that spark of Champions League fever in the air for the duration.
Arsenal win a first-half penalty at our end of the pitch, which is converted by Robin van Persie, then concede an equaliser before half time that makes things that bit edgier. Two later goals from Nasri and Walcott, however, see Arsenal safely through to the last sixteen, albeit in second place. It's an entertaining match with a fair bit of incident (four goals, a penalty and even a red card in stoppage time) but Arsenal never look especially troubled.
After the game we walk, with the usual thousands and police escorts, back to the Worlds End for a couple more drinks. Tired and utterly freezing cold (it's about -1 tonight and sitting outside for two hours is probably not the way to handle it), the pub is a great place to warm up before heading home.
After work I grab a quick bite to eat and meet Alex at the tube, heading down to Finsbury Park. We wander up to the World's End to grab a quick pint before making our way to the stadium and meeting Will and his mate. The pub is busy and they're on the usual matchday plastic cups – though tonight it's slightly surreal to be among those actually heading out to the game rather than waiting for the ticketholders to leave to get a decent seat.
Will is running late so we walk down and meet him outside the club shop before heading to another pub near Gillespie Road. By the time we finally find our way to seats 958-961 in block 125, the game is a couple of minutes old – but we don't seem to have missed much action. The Emirates is a great place to watch football, and while Arsenal aren't my team it's always been a pleasure to watch them here. This is the first really meaningful game I've seen here though meaning there's that spark of Champions League fever in the air for the duration.
Arsenal win a first-half penalty at our end of the pitch, which is converted by Robin van Persie, then concede an equaliser before half time that makes things that bit edgier. Two later goals from Nasri and Walcott, however, see Arsenal safely through to the last sixteen, albeit in second place. It's an entertaining match with a fair bit of incident (four goals, a penalty and even a red card in stoppage time) but Arsenal never look especially troubled.
After the game we walk, with the usual thousands and police escorts, back to the Worlds End for a couple more drinks. Tired and utterly freezing cold (it's about -1 tonight and sitting outside for two hours is probably not the way to handle it), the pub is a great place to warm up before heading home.
Tuesday 7th December
K and I thought this evening might be well-spent inside the house - we've got a very busy couple of weeks in the run-up to Christmas and every chance to save a bit of cash in the week needs to be taken. In this spirit, I cook up a tasty dinner of chilli con carne before K gets home and we tuck in heartily. Another idea for spending this evening wisely is also concocted, though somehow this involves watching Sylvester Stallone's 80s action-movie homage The Expendables.
Now I like a good action movie - but the key word there is "good"; the vast majority of them are trashy violence porn made for males with far more testosterone flying around their agitated bodies than I can ever really muster away from a football match. I have no patience for long gunfights, endless explosions and the crushing tedium of car chases. This is why I don't generally watch war movies ("oh look, another guy got shot. This is how many hours long?") and why I lose interest in FPS games very quickly. However, I do like GOOD action movies - I'll happily watch the entire Die Hard trilogy of a Christmas Eve and I'm adamant that The Rock is Sean Connery's best film.
So I suppose it's mainly novelty value that's led me to The Expendables - the USP seems to me to be the fact that it boasts a scene shared by Schwarzenegger, Stallone and Willis (I think) for the first ever time.
And the film's not too bad. The dialogue stinks and yes, yes, I know it's all homage and pastiche and so on and it's supposed to be a bit tongue-in-cheek and it's all about the EXPLOSIONS, man - but it's not too hard to find an actual screenwriter, is it? Most of the rest is tedious punching (Jason Statham is good at punching) and shooting and exploding and dying - broken up only by Mickey Rourke giving a performance that is far too accomplished for the general silliness around him. Good old Mickey.
Either way, I probably take the film too seriously and when it's over I'm glad - and, relieved, spend the rest of the night flicking through the telly.
Now I like a good action movie - but the key word there is "good"; the vast majority of them are trashy violence porn made for males with far more testosterone flying around their agitated bodies than I can ever really muster away from a football match. I have no patience for long gunfights, endless explosions and the crushing tedium of car chases. This is why I don't generally watch war movies ("oh look, another guy got shot. This is how many hours long?") and why I lose interest in FPS games very quickly. However, I do like GOOD action movies - I'll happily watch the entire Die Hard trilogy of a Christmas Eve and I'm adamant that The Rock is Sean Connery's best film.
So I suppose it's mainly novelty value that's led me to The Expendables - the USP seems to me to be the fact that it boasts a scene shared by Schwarzenegger, Stallone and Willis (I think) for the first ever time.
And the film's not too bad. The dialogue stinks and yes, yes, I know it's all homage and pastiche and so on and it's supposed to be a bit tongue-in-cheek and it's all about the EXPLOSIONS, man - but it's not too hard to find an actual screenwriter, is it? Most of the rest is tedious punching (Jason Statham is good at punching) and shooting and exploding and dying - broken up only by Mickey Rourke giving a performance that is far too accomplished for the general silliness around him. Good old Mickey.
Either way, I probably take the film too seriously and when it's over I'm glad - and, relieved, spend the rest of the night flicking through the telly.
Monday 6th December
Having missed last week's episode, I'm sure to catch tonight's University Challenge in my ongoing attempt to improve my personal weekly score. The last time I bothered to record the score I managed 13, a small improvement on the previous two week's back-to-back twelves. They're all above the acceptable level of ten, yet resolutely unspectacular. I suppose a good score is one made by grabbing correct answers in the gaps between the hardcore maths and science rounds (especially when Paxo starts offering up puzzles based on prime numbered prime ministers or chemical compound classical composers), usually made up of geography and basic history – but in my case it's normally educated guesswork based on an odd aptitude for etymology.
Tonight's quiz is another quarter final game between Downing College Cambridge and Magdalen College Oxford – and it starts off really tough. I struggle to get anything right in the first half of the programme, apart from a slightly fortunate answer about eels (bloody, bloody eels) and happening to know, from uni, that Walter Benjamin wrote the Arcades Project. Later a handy round on hip hop pops up and gifts me Grandmaster Flash and Beastie Boys, but I miss an open goal on De La Soul.
By the end I've managed a feeble eight points – below the golden point of ten and, I think, the lowest I've scored since I've been obsessively recording my University Challenge score. It's pretty gutting – but then maybe they make it harder when Oxbridge colleges are playing each other? They probably should – a UEFA-style seeding system based on past results and reputation seems fair to me.
Sunday 5th December
We had meant to be heading down to Kent to meet my mum today, but since the snow has scuppered these plans we decide to make the most of the day and head out early. K has some Christmas shopping to do, so we get the tube to Liverpool Street and walk through Spitalfields Market to Brick Lane. I don't really have any appreciation of markets – especially “posh” ones like Spitalfields, as I can't see anything but overpriced tat. Little ornaments, ashtrays and clocks made out of melted records, badly printed t-shirts and expensive jewellery handcrafted by art students are clearly not for me. It is nice to have a stroll around though, especially as the sun is out and it's not too chilly.
After walking through Brick Lane's big indoor markets (more paintings, old telephones and reggae CDs) we sit and eat a delicious cheeseburger with huge potato wedges. This is one thing Brick Lane is definitely good for – the food. We walk back up through Spitalfields Market which is now totally mobbed, and decide to head home empty handed.
We spend the rest of the day pottering around the flat – I do a little writing and K does some sewing – before watching the penultimate part of the brilliant Any Human Heart on Channel 4, which is turning into something of an epic and despite being 90 minutes long feels like it could happily rumble along for a lot longer. I might have to look into getting the book.
After walking through Brick Lane's big indoor markets (more paintings, old telephones and reggae CDs) we sit and eat a delicious cheeseburger with huge potato wedges. This is one thing Brick Lane is definitely good for – the food. We walk back up through Spitalfields Market which is now totally mobbed, and decide to head home empty handed.
We spend the rest of the day pottering around the flat – I do a little writing and K does some sewing – before watching the penultimate part of the brilliant Any Human Heart on Channel 4, which is turning into something of an epic and despite being 90 minutes long feels like it could happily rumble along for a lot longer. I might have to look into getting the book.
Saturday 4th December
Our plans for the weekend have fallen through, mostly because of what train companies call “adverse weather conditions”, meaning that K's brother can't make it up to London from Dorset, nor can my mum make it down from Scotland. Snow has a tendency to bring this country to a standstill – but typically if it hasn't affected London too badly it's easy to forget it's so bad elsewhere.
All this means is that K and I now have a free weekend when it had looked like being packed – which is actually quite nice. We wander down to Sainsbury's in the morning and manage to get back in good time, watching last night's brilliant Peep Show on 4OD before giving the flat a nice spring clean. After what feels like a productive Saturday, at least domestically, we decide to head out towards Crouch End. Along Hornsey Road we decide to treat ourselves to a takeaway from the chippy, so equipped with open bags of battered sausage and chips we make our way, greasily, up Middle Lane towards the Broadway.
Tim and Jenny have just finished eating at the Kings Head, so we join them and all four of us loll around on the comfy sofas, full to the brim on a Saturday evening. I have a pint of Old Rosie but quickly switch back to beer, fearing the devastation of an Old Rosie night – especially after last night had turned out to be such a late one. As it happens we don't stay out very late, making our way home well before closing time to get an early night.
All this means is that K and I now have a free weekend when it had looked like being packed – which is actually quite nice. We wander down to Sainsbury's in the morning and manage to get back in good time, watching last night's brilliant Peep Show on 4OD before giving the flat a nice spring clean. After what feels like a productive Saturday, at least domestically, we decide to head out towards Crouch End. Along Hornsey Road we decide to treat ourselves to a takeaway from the chippy, so equipped with open bags of battered sausage and chips we make our way, greasily, up Middle Lane towards the Broadway.
Tim and Jenny have just finished eating at the Kings Head, so we join them and all four of us loll around on the comfy sofas, full to the brim on a Saturday evening. I have a pint of Old Rosie but quickly switch back to beer, fearing the devastation of an Old Rosie night – especially after last night had turned out to be such a late one. As it happens we don't stay out very late, making our way home well before closing time to get an early night.
Tuesday 7 December 2010
Friday 3rd December
Tonight Alex and I decide to head into town to check out a comedy club run by a friend of her sister's. It's not an easy decision - it's absolutely freezing out and by the time work's done I'd be perfectly happy to spend an evening indoors. Alex convinces me to give it a shot though and we meet up for a quick drink in the Tollgate on the way to the tube.
The club itself is in Covent Garden, downstairs at a building called the African Centre. It's not the sort of place you'd wander to if you were looking for a comedy night - hence they have a guy outside yelling "comedy!" from seven o'clock onwards - and it's not exactly busy when we head in, but it all seems nice and the price on the door is right (with the appropriate "mates" discount). There are pillars all the way up the middle of the room so we take a seat on the front row with our bottle of wine - usually a big no-no for people at comedy clubs (and indeed plenty of the sparse audience decide to hang back in a rather ridiculous way) but it seems stupid to me to obstruct my view in fear of being spoken to by another human being.
There are three acts on tonight. The first, Carly Smallman, is very likeable and sings a few songs ranging from the quite cute to the really rather dirty, and while I initially worry that her stuff is a bit broad for my tastes she is in fact so likeable that it is very hard not to chuckle along with her. The second booked act fails to turn up, meaning that Pete Dobbing is drafted in from another club round the corner at the latest of notice - he's visibly out of breath when he takes the stage. He's very funny too.
Finally the headliner, Paul Foot, is introduced - and launches into an insane skit based on a murder mystery ("I intend to prove that everyone here had motive and means to murder this man" etc) involving berating members of the audience and muttering to himself. It's brilliant and goes on for a full half hour during which I don't think anyone completely stopped laughing. It seems completely improvised (even if it might not be) and the moments when he briefly breaks character are brilliant.
We leave at around 11pm having thoroughly enjoyed ourselves - and head back north looking for another drink or two. We stop in Camden Town but find nowhere open and get back on the bus again- this time getting off at the ever-reliable Big Red. There's a band on and the place is full, but we somehow find a perching space and chatter away until well after 1am.
The club itself is in Covent Garden, downstairs at a building called the African Centre. It's not the sort of place you'd wander to if you were looking for a comedy night - hence they have a guy outside yelling "comedy!" from seven o'clock onwards - and it's not exactly busy when we head in, but it all seems nice and the price on the door is right (with the appropriate "mates" discount). There are pillars all the way up the middle of the room so we take a seat on the front row with our bottle of wine - usually a big no-no for people at comedy clubs (and indeed plenty of the sparse audience decide to hang back in a rather ridiculous way) but it seems stupid to me to obstruct my view in fear of being spoken to by another human being.
There are three acts on tonight. The first, Carly Smallman, is very likeable and sings a few songs ranging from the quite cute to the really rather dirty, and while I initially worry that her stuff is a bit broad for my tastes she is in fact so likeable that it is very hard not to chuckle along with her. The second booked act fails to turn up, meaning that Pete Dobbing is drafted in from another club round the corner at the latest of notice - he's visibly out of breath when he takes the stage. He's very funny too.
Finally the headliner, Paul Foot, is introduced - and launches into an insane skit based on a murder mystery ("I intend to prove that everyone here had motive and means to murder this man" etc) involving berating members of the audience and muttering to himself. It's brilliant and goes on for a full half hour during which I don't think anyone completely stopped laughing. It seems completely improvised (even if it might not be) and the moments when he briefly breaks character are brilliant.
We leave at around 11pm having thoroughly enjoyed ourselves - and head back north looking for another drink or two. We stop in Camden Town but find nowhere open and get back on the bus again- this time getting off at the ever-reliable Big Red. There's a band on and the place is full, but we somehow find a perching space and chatter away until well after 1am.
Thursday 2nd December
Today is the day that FIFA will decide who is to host the 2018 and 2022 World Cups. With England in the running for 2018 - and seemingly with a very strong bid behind them - the excitement starts with the morning's coverage on Radio 5 Live. By the time I leave for work the final presentations by the prospective home nations are well underway. Before heading out of the door I check out a bit of the Spain/Portugal presentation which looks strong (in that they have things like the Nou Camp, Bernabeu and shots of Puyol et al lifting the World Cup in South Africa to slot into their video) but the presentation is drab, nervous. Surely it's an open goal for England at the presentation stage, with David Beckham, Prince William and David Cameron set to make impassioned speeches.
At lunch I watch the speeches themselves and the promotional video. Beckham pours his heart out about his grandfather's influence on his life in football and even Cameron comes across as passionate and convincing. He also makes the exciting argument that England, as a genuinely multicultural country, could offer a home crowd of sorts for every single game - and never worry about not selling out the matches. It all sounds very, very positive.
I can't get my hopes up too much though - since reading Andrew Jennings' brilliant book Foul! I have virtually no faith in the integrity of FIFA. Blatter, Valcke, Warner and the rest. I also can't shake the feeling that they all hate England - but that might just be a paranoid victim mentality.
By the time 3pm rolls round I'm literally twitching with anticipation. Blatter is on the podium and he's in no rush to get the first envelope out - but eventually he does. Looking almost through my fingers I see it: Russia. Russia will host the 2018 World Cup. Heartbreak - but it doesn't feel like robbery yet. That comes later; when it is revealed that England received only two votes, and were eliminated in the first round of voting.
The weirdest moment comes some minutes later when Blatter goes back to his envelope to announce that Qatar will host the 2022 World Cup. This one leaves me feeling a bit sick - sick at the obvious chasing of new money by FIFA, but sick at the thought of how boring that tournament could end up being. There's none of the romance of South Africa or even Russia - just the tedious inevitability of glittering, brand-new stadiums and everything going perfectly smoothly.
I get home itching to write something about it, and duly spend 20 minutes hammering out my first piece for twofootedtackle.com in a while, a piece I'm rather pleased with. It can be read here.
So not the happiest result to the day - but if nothing else I'm pleased that I actually got some writing done.
At lunch I watch the speeches themselves and the promotional video. Beckham pours his heart out about his grandfather's influence on his life in football and even Cameron comes across as passionate and convincing. He also makes the exciting argument that England, as a genuinely multicultural country, could offer a home crowd of sorts for every single game - and never worry about not selling out the matches. It all sounds very, very positive.
I can't get my hopes up too much though - since reading Andrew Jennings' brilliant book Foul! I have virtually no faith in the integrity of FIFA. Blatter, Valcke, Warner and the rest. I also can't shake the feeling that they all hate England - but that might just be a paranoid victim mentality.
By the time 3pm rolls round I'm literally twitching with anticipation. Blatter is on the podium and he's in no rush to get the first envelope out - but eventually he does. Looking almost through my fingers I see it: Russia. Russia will host the 2018 World Cup. Heartbreak - but it doesn't feel like robbery yet. That comes later; when it is revealed that England received only two votes, and were eliminated in the first round of voting.
The weirdest moment comes some minutes later when Blatter goes back to his envelope to announce that Qatar will host the 2022 World Cup. This one leaves me feeling a bit sick - sick at the obvious chasing of new money by FIFA, but sick at the thought of how boring that tournament could end up being. There's none of the romance of South Africa or even Russia - just the tedious inevitability of glittering, brand-new stadiums and everything going perfectly smoothly.
I get home itching to write something about it, and duly spend 20 minutes hammering out my first piece for twofootedtackle.com in a while, a piece I'm rather pleased with. It can be read here.
So not the happiest result to the day - but if nothing else I'm pleased that I actually got some writing done.
Monday 6 December 2010
Wednesday 1st December
Tonight we're off to see The National at Brixton Academy, marking the second time I've been to the venue in as many weeks - which is a pretty poor attempt at "never going there again" as I vowed back in October. We don't head straight there, however. There's snow and ice on the ground in Brixton when I turn up at the station to meet K and her colleague Emma and we brace ourselves to walk up the road to a pub Emma knows. It's absolutely freezing tonight - and while London has so far by far escaped the worst of the cold snap it's definitely feeling like winter.
We get to the pub and hover around until we get a table, meeting up with Smithy and a friend of his, chatting quite happily over beer and crisps until it's time to head to the Academy. We get the bus down the road despite it only being a couple of stops (it's really that cold) and gratefully head into the warmth of the venue. The National are just about to come on stage so we take our place at the back of the packed audience to see them arrive looking far more confident than they had back at the Royal Albert Hall on Election Day.
They sound great again tonight, and the whole event is only marred by some idiot aggressively shoving his way through the crowd, almost sending a woman next to me flying. Not one to stand for unnecessary rudeness, I shove the guy in the back (without really thinking) who wheels round for an explanation. I tell him to calm down and to be a bit more considerate, to which he replies "are you fucking mad?", and walks off. Charming man.
We get to the pub and hover around until we get a table, meeting up with Smithy and a friend of his, chatting quite happily over beer and crisps until it's time to head to the Academy. We get the bus down the road despite it only being a couple of stops (it's really that cold) and gratefully head into the warmth of the venue. The National are just about to come on stage so we take our place at the back of the packed audience to see them arrive looking far more confident than they had back at the Royal Albert Hall on Election Day.
They sound great again tonight, and the whole event is only marred by some idiot aggressively shoving his way through the crowd, almost sending a woman next to me flying. Not one to stand for unnecessary rudeness, I shove the guy in the back (without really thinking) who wheels round for an explanation. I tell him to calm down and to be a bit more considerate, to which he replies "are you fucking mad?", and walks off. Charming man.
Sunday 5 December 2010
Tuesday 30th November
Today is the FutureBook conference in central London, at the Congress Centre - an event run by The Bookseller at which a host of speakers discuss the state of the industry as far as the rise of eBooks, DRM and eReaders continues. It's something I'm professionally interested in so I had asked to come along - despite the fact that it means battling my way onto the tube earlier than I'm usually awake. I arrive at around 9 relatively unmolested, however, and take a seat while waiting for the bosses to turn up.
There are some interesting speakers from places like Google, Lovefilm and Oxford University Press and the venue is well-filled - mostly by people with iPads. I've never seen such a concentrataion of them in one place. I amuse myself by tweeting my observations on the attendees (using the official hashtag) meaning that lots of other people in the room get to join in.
At the lunchbreak I grab one of the tiny bowls of complimentary food but decide to brave the snow anyway and go for a walk in search of some more susbtantial food.
The speakers get no less interesting but some of them do drag on a bit towards the end of the day - so I'm quite ready to go when the boss decides to make a move during the Q&A section. We head to Green Park to make the beginning of the launch of filmmaker John Waters' autobiography, which is being held at a swankier-than-swanky mens' clothes shop called Comme Des Garcons in Mayfair. This place is decidedly not for the likes of me - stocking things like £600 jackets, for example, which I and my glass of wine are allowed to get far too close to - and, funniest of all, a 10" PVC disc attached to a keyring which is apparently an Oyster card holder. It cost 30 quid. Fashion is completely alien to me.
There are some interesting speakers from places like Google, Lovefilm and Oxford University Press and the venue is well-filled - mostly by people with iPads. I've never seen such a concentrataion of them in one place. I amuse myself by tweeting my observations on the attendees (using the official hashtag) meaning that lots of other people in the room get to join in.
At the lunchbreak I grab one of the tiny bowls of complimentary food but decide to brave the snow anyway and go for a walk in search of some more susbtantial food.
The speakers get no less interesting but some of them do drag on a bit towards the end of the day - so I'm quite ready to go when the boss decides to make a move during the Q&A section. We head to Green Park to make the beginning of the launch of filmmaker John Waters' autobiography, which is being held at a swankier-than-swanky mens' clothes shop called Comme Des Garcons in Mayfair. This place is decidedly not for the likes of me - stocking things like £600 jackets, for example, which I and my glass of wine are allowed to get far too close to - and, funniest of all, a 10" PVC disc attached to a keyring which is apparently an Oyster card holder. It cost 30 quid. Fashion is completely alien to me.
Monday 29th November
Having been impressed with the prices and so on at Swindon's massive Asda/Wal-Mart megastore, we decide to get our week's shopping delivered from Asda for a change. Their delivery charge is certainly cheaper than Sainsbury's - but the fact that we've never shopped there before hampers our decision-making and we take a lot of gambles on a lot of products. It does give the weekly grocery delivery that extra touch of surprise though, and so tonight I sit at home waiting for it to turn up while K gets on with her dressmaking course.
They're supposed to be here between 7 and 9, which is a bit annoying as I need them to get here so I can make dinner - and I'm already hungry when I get in from work. I try and get on with a little writing, but needless to say the van finally turns up just as I sit down to watch University Challenge, meaning that I not only miss the show and miss recording my score, but also that I miss the Panorama show on FIFA corruption that I'd been looking forward to as I'm now cooking curry.
No matter, I watch a couple of episodes of South Park instead (not quite as serious or thought-provoking perhaps) while chopping onions and peppers and getting my head round the strange new Asda products. Everything seems to have turned up OK - apart from the fact that we seem to have accidentally ordered a tiny loaf of bread. The website, I'm sure, should display items at actual size to avoid any such mishaps in the future.
They're supposed to be here between 7 and 9, which is a bit annoying as I need them to get here so I can make dinner - and I'm already hungry when I get in from work. I try and get on with a little writing, but needless to say the van finally turns up just as I sit down to watch University Challenge, meaning that I not only miss the show and miss recording my score, but also that I miss the Panorama show on FIFA corruption that I'd been looking forward to as I'm now cooking curry.
No matter, I watch a couple of episodes of South Park instead (not quite as serious or thought-provoking perhaps) while chopping onions and peppers and getting my head round the strange new Asda products. Everything seems to have turned up OK - apart from the fact that we seem to have accidentally ordered a tiny loaf of bread. The website, I'm sure, should display items at actual size to avoid any such mishaps in the future.
Sunday 28th November
Having been in no way disturbed by the baby in the night (the same is not quite true for the parents, alas) K and I sleep well and wake up at a leisurely hour - playing Angry Birds in bed for a while before getting up and joining everyone else for breakfast.
Later on we grab all our stuff and head out in two cars to a fancy hotel nearby which happens to contain (oddly) a Japanese restaruant which serves a well-regarded buffet on a Sunday lunchtime. We take our seats and plates and then head up to grab miso soup, tempura vegetables, cod cakes, chicken and noodles. It tastes great and I go back a couple of times - and follow it all with two bowls of creme brulee. The second is, at best, ill-advised and I end up feeling a little full and sick for much of the rest of the afternoon.
After lunch Nick drives us back to Reading (the trains still being down), a journey made lots of fun by scrolling through the dreadful one-hit rock wonders of the late 90s and early 2000s stored on Nick's iPod. What is less fun, though, is that the train back to London is a mere three carriages long and completely rammed full of people. The rail companies really put a lot of thought into this stuff don't they? We manage to squeeze on after a bit of a ruck as the disappointing train arrives, and stand for the whole of the thankfully short journey back to Paddington.
The tubes aren't running much better but eventually we're at home - where K cooks up an amazing cottage pie (something I'm only just ready for after the Japanese/creme brulee binging has been processed) while I get a bit of writing done. Later on we watch the next part of the very good Any Human Heart on Channel 4 before exhaustedly heading to bed.
Later on we grab all our stuff and head out in two cars to a fancy hotel nearby which happens to contain (oddly) a Japanese restaruant which serves a well-regarded buffet on a Sunday lunchtime. We take our seats and plates and then head up to grab miso soup, tempura vegetables, cod cakes, chicken and noodles. It tastes great and I go back a couple of times - and follow it all with two bowls of creme brulee. The second is, at best, ill-advised and I end up feeling a little full and sick for much of the rest of the afternoon.
After lunch Nick drives us back to Reading (the trains still being down), a journey made lots of fun by scrolling through the dreadful one-hit rock wonders of the late 90s and early 2000s stored on Nick's iPod. What is less fun, though, is that the train back to London is a mere three carriages long and completely rammed full of people. The rail companies really put a lot of thought into this stuff don't they? We manage to squeeze on after a bit of a ruck as the disappointing train arrives, and stand for the whole of the thankfully short journey back to Paddington.
The tubes aren't running much better but eventually we're at home - where K cooks up an amazing cottage pie (something I'm only just ready for after the Japanese/creme brulee binging has been processed) while I get a bit of writing done. Later on we watch the next part of the very good Any Human Heart on Channel 4 before exhaustedly heading to bed.
Saturday 27th November
Today we're off to Swindon to visit Nick and Lucy and their new baby, Mollie - who will forever have the awesome accolade of having been born on the 10th October 2010 (10/10/10). We head straight to Paddington station where I renew my Young Persons railcard for the last time, seeing as I'll be 26 by the time this one expires. K and Mike, our travelling companion today, laugh at me for being young. Yeah, young and with 33% off the price of his ticket. For now.
There's a rail replacement bus service from Reading to Swindon, so to spare us the indignity of crawling down the M4 and stopping at Didcot (and adding an hour and a half to our journey) Nick has kindly offered to pick us up in Reading. This means our journey is only half an hour and we're meeting Nick well before lunch. We drive back to Swindon in Nick's swish company BMW, stopping at the biggest Asda in the world to pick up food and drink for later tonight. It's started to snow - the first us London folk have seen of the "Big Freeze" currently terrorising the rest of Britain - and by the time we get to Nick and Lucy's house we're glad of the cosy, new-baby ambience.
We say hello to Mollie and all have a little hold while Lucy sorts out some delicious hot dogs for lunch. We get a tour of their very nice house too - but after being so grown up it becomes clear that we must venture to the pub. This is to be Mollie's first pub trip and her behaviour is exemplary while we all enjoy a nice couple of pints as the snow falls outside. It's dark by the time we cautiously head back through the ice and when we're home we safely secure ourselves in the comfy living room with beer and wine.
Mollie falls asleep quickly and we sit watching Get Him to the Greek on TV - a film K and I had enjoyed on the train up to Edinburgh back in September and it's even funnier the second time around (and after a few beers, obviously). Feeling festive now, before bed we stick on Elf - which seems a strange and incongrouous thing for four adults to do on a Saturday night - but why not?
There's a rail replacement bus service from Reading to Swindon, so to spare us the indignity of crawling down the M4 and stopping at Didcot (and adding an hour and a half to our journey) Nick has kindly offered to pick us up in Reading. This means our journey is only half an hour and we're meeting Nick well before lunch. We drive back to Swindon in Nick's swish company BMW, stopping at the biggest Asda in the world to pick up food and drink for later tonight. It's started to snow - the first us London folk have seen of the "Big Freeze" currently terrorising the rest of Britain - and by the time we get to Nick and Lucy's house we're glad of the cosy, new-baby ambience.
We say hello to Mollie and all have a little hold while Lucy sorts out some delicious hot dogs for lunch. We get a tour of their very nice house too - but after being so grown up it becomes clear that we must venture to the pub. This is to be Mollie's first pub trip and her behaviour is exemplary while we all enjoy a nice couple of pints as the snow falls outside. It's dark by the time we cautiously head back through the ice and when we're home we safely secure ourselves in the comfy living room with beer and wine.
Mollie falls asleep quickly and we sit watching Get Him to the Greek on TV - a film K and I had enjoyed on the train up to Edinburgh back in September and it's even funnier the second time around (and after a few beers, obviously). Feeling festive now, before bed we stick on Elf - which seems a strange and incongrouous thing for four adults to do on a Saturday night - but why not?
Friday 26th November
After work I head into town to meet Will. It's been ages since we hung out and I'm looking forward to getting there, but it's a freezing cold night and The Cock is absolutely rammed. Luckily K is early for her later plans and is there already having reserved a square of floor space by the fire. We have a pint with Tim before Will turns up. The lanky one eventually arrives and we have fun catching up over talk of this week's student "riots" and next week's impending FIFA decision on the location of the 2018 and 2022 World Cups - which is all good fun and guaranteed to alienate everyone around us. So be it.
At around 8 K and the others say goodbye - they're off to do karaoke in a launderette in Soho (naturally) and so Will and I get another pint in. The Cock starts to get a bit quieter but we still can't get a seat for love nor money, so we decide to walk up Oxford Street to another Sam Smiths pub nearer Holborn tube, The Angel. This is, predictably, also packed, but we take up residence between the dartboard and the men's bogs and take a couple more drinks. Later on, Alex turns up fresh from having seen a play called War Horse down the road and we chat merrily as closing time approaches.
Later still, Alex and I find ourselves enjoying a late pint at Turnpike Lane's premier gay pub (i.e. it has a rainbow flag outside and literally no one else inside) as it's the only place still serving - but after being stared at by some of TPL's weirder residents we decide it's probably time for bed.
At around 8 K and the others say goodbye - they're off to do karaoke in a launderette in Soho (naturally) and so Will and I get another pint in. The Cock starts to get a bit quieter but we still can't get a seat for love nor money, so we decide to walk up Oxford Street to another Sam Smiths pub nearer Holborn tube, The Angel. This is, predictably, also packed, but we take up residence between the dartboard and the men's bogs and take a couple more drinks. Later on, Alex turns up fresh from having seen a play called War Horse down the road and we chat merrily as closing time approaches.
Later still, Alex and I find ourselves enjoying a late pint at Turnpike Lane's premier gay pub (i.e. it has a rainbow flag outside and literally no one else inside) as it's the only place still serving - but after being stared at by some of TPL's weirder residents we decide it's probably time for bed.
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