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.
Friday, 26 November 2010
Thursday 25th November
K gets home from work armed with wine designed to see off an up-and-down week with style. My contribution is to sort out some home made potato wedges covered in far more cayenne pepper than is medically advisable to go with our equally spicy pizza. The food goes down well and we make sure to eat it far away from the pristine new sofa - though luckily no such restriction is extended to the wine (we got a red sofa for a reason).
K does a bit of sewing while I sit in the living room and make decent progress with some writing and photo editing I've been meaning to do for a while. Eventually she comes to join me in time for Never Mind the Buzzcocks - which seems to be doing well in these post-Amstell days of HIGNFY-style guest presenters. The only downside is the presence of some-sort-of-singer Paloma Faith, who has that irritating habit some women do of talking like a baby to get away with saying things that would otherwise just be stupid. She's probably so used to boys finding her adorable that she wouldn't be able to stop now if she tried.
Later on we watch Something's Gotta Give, which comes on ITV1 - an enjoyable chick flick starring a still-loveable Diane Keaton playing a character who could plausibly be a grown-up Annie Hall. Jack Nicholson is also very good as the ageing playboy coming to terms with his age and working through the conflict of finding himself attracted to a woman nearer his age. It goes on very late though, and K eventually convinces me to give up on it (I have seen it before) and go to bed before it gets to silly o'clock.
K does a bit of sewing while I sit in the living room and make decent progress with some writing and photo editing I've been meaning to do for a while. Eventually she comes to join me in time for Never Mind the Buzzcocks - which seems to be doing well in these post-Amstell days of HIGNFY-style guest presenters. The only downside is the presence of some-sort-of-singer Paloma Faith, who has that irritating habit some women do of talking like a baby to get away with saying things that would otherwise just be stupid. She's probably so used to boys finding her adorable that she wouldn't be able to stop now if she tried.
Later on we watch Something's Gotta Give, which comes on ITV1 - an enjoyable chick flick starring a still-loveable Diane Keaton playing a character who could plausibly be a grown-up Annie Hall. Jack Nicholson is also very good as the ageing playboy coming to terms with his age and working through the conflict of finding himself attracted to a woman nearer his age. It goes on very late though, and K eventually convinces me to give up on it (I have seen it before) and go to bed before it gets to silly o'clock.
Wednesday 24th November
As promised, I get a call from DFS at around lunchtime informing me that their delivery driver will be at my house within the next hour. Pleased that the delivery has matched up well with my lunch break at work, I walk home and eat lunch there - which is a nice novelty in itself.
I put the news on and entertain myself by watching the breaking coverage of the latest round of student protests in London. They're protesting the cuts to university and college funding, as well as (mostly) the fact that university fees could reach up to £9000 - a debt repayable after you graduate and are earning over £21,000. I'm usually with students on issues like this, but I can't help but feel that a lot of the protestors don't know that it's basically an extension of the student loan, which should go into improving the universities they're attending - and that they don't have to pay it up front. I also can't shake the feeling that, like the violent protests of two weeks ago, a lot of these kids are just there for fun; to shout at the police, smash stuff and dance around fires. It's tedious and stupid after a while, the fun only coming with the most hilariously out-of-touch and "boo hoo diddums" placard I've ever seen: "We'd Like To Teach The World To Sing But We Can't Afford Our Music Degree". What a sad state of affairs it is when such a socially vital degree as music goes unstudied.
An hour passes, then 90 minutes. I give DFS a call moaning that I have to get back to work - but they tell me to sit tight. Another hour passes and by now I really, really should be back at my desk. Eventually the delivery men arrive at 3.15 and proceed to wedge the sofa in our narrow downstairs corridor. There's no way the thing is fitting through the door frame, even after the men have stripped all the packaging away. Around this time, I see the driver run out of the corridor and down the street, shouting. It seems some kid has jumped on the back of the lorry and is trying to steal one of his drills. The kid is chased away - but my sofa is still nowhere near being in my living room.
We then hit on the collective brainwave of seeing how far we can open the living room window - which turns out to be surprisingly far. After one of the delivery men has climbed up on the radiator and taken parts of the window frame apart, we somehow manage to slide the bulky sofa through the gap. Relieved that I'm not going to be sending it back for a refund, I thank the delivery guys and run back to work - eventually getting there for 4.30 and spending a frankly useless last hour of the day trying to catch up.
I put the news on and entertain myself by watching the breaking coverage of the latest round of student protests in London. They're protesting the cuts to university and college funding, as well as (mostly) the fact that university fees could reach up to £9000 - a debt repayable after you graduate and are earning over £21,000. I'm usually with students on issues like this, but I can't help but feel that a lot of the protestors don't know that it's basically an extension of the student loan, which should go into improving the universities they're attending - and that they don't have to pay it up front. I also can't shake the feeling that, like the violent protests of two weeks ago, a lot of these kids are just there for fun; to shout at the police, smash stuff and dance around fires. It's tedious and stupid after a while, the fun only coming with the most hilariously out-of-touch and "boo hoo diddums" placard I've ever seen: "We'd Like To Teach The World To Sing But We Can't Afford Our Music Degree". What a sad state of affairs it is when such a socially vital degree as music goes unstudied.
An hour passes, then 90 minutes. I give DFS a call moaning that I have to get back to work - but they tell me to sit tight. Another hour passes and by now I really, really should be back at my desk. Eventually the delivery men arrive at 3.15 and proceed to wedge the sofa in our narrow downstairs corridor. There's no way the thing is fitting through the door frame, even after the men have stripped all the packaging away. Around this time, I see the driver run out of the corridor and down the street, shouting. It seems some kid has jumped on the back of the lorry and is trying to steal one of his drills. The kid is chased away - but my sofa is still nowhere near being in my living room.
We then hit on the collective brainwave of seeing how far we can open the living room window - which turns out to be surprisingly far. After one of the delivery men has climbed up on the radiator and taken parts of the window frame apart, we somehow manage to slide the bulky sofa through the gap. Relieved that I'm not going to be sending it back for a refund, I thank the delivery guys and run back to work - eventually getting there for 4.30 and spending a frankly useless last hour of the day trying to catch up.
Thursday, 25 November 2010
Tuesday 23rd November
There is some pleasant and surprising news today as I get a call from how-many-sales-can-one-store-have sofa specialists DFS to advise me that the sofa we ordered back in October will be delivered tomorrow. This is some three week ahead of when they said it would be available, so needless to say we're extremely excited about being able to sit on our ludicrous red beast of a couch sooner than we expected.
Back at home, I busy myself getting dinner ready before K gets home and then we set about moving our existing sofa into the dining room to make space - could this blog get any more thrilling? I find it hard to imagine. This leaves us with a big space in one room and a big clutter in the other, so we get to cleaning the flat, preparing the place as if we were having a special guest to stay.
I hoover and tidy and actually sit down to do some writing while K watches the inane but plausibly research-justified reality show Four Weddings, which follows four women as they attend each other's ceremonies before passing judgment on things like the dress, the food and the entertainment. I can't think of anything worse - but K is glued to it and I'm horrified that she might actually end up applying for it. That said, if you win you get an all expenses paid exotic honeymoon, so maybe it's worth inviting three moaning strangers and a camera crew into your party. Then again, maybe not. I'm not sure me, dancing on an electric light-up dancefloor in a kilt, is the sort of thing that should go out on television.
Back at home, I busy myself getting dinner ready before K gets home and then we set about moving our existing sofa into the dining room to make space - could this blog get any more thrilling? I find it hard to imagine. This leaves us with a big space in one room and a big clutter in the other, so we get to cleaning the flat, preparing the place as if we were having a special guest to stay.
I hoover and tidy and actually sit down to do some writing while K watches the inane but plausibly research-justified reality show Four Weddings, which follows four women as they attend each other's ceremonies before passing judgment on things like the dress, the food and the entertainment. I can't think of anything worse - but K is glued to it and I'm horrified that she might actually end up applying for it. That said, if you win you get an all expenses paid exotic honeymoon, so maybe it's worth inviting three moaning strangers and a camera crew into your party. Then again, maybe not. I'm not sure me, dancing on an electric light-up dancefloor in a kilt, is the sort of thing that should go out on television.
Monday 22nd November
Another night of promising to write and not quite achieving the volume I'm hoping for falls apart early on when I get home from work in a less-than-brilliant mood and cheer myself up by jumping around the kitched to Refused's seminal album The Shape of Punk to Come. The album offers the exact right mix of catharsis and nostalgia to see me through to a dinner of leftover cottage pie from last night (delicious) and University Challenge coming on TV.
I get by OK with my score again - occasionally surprising myself with the sort of thing I can pull from my head under pressure - and make detailed notes on my progress for reasons I'm slowly beginning to lose sight of. The idea, as I've mentioned, is to build up a record of my personal score on University Challenge to see if I'm learning anything over time - but again I fail to find the time to bother typing it up. This plan will come to something, though, and it's actually a little fun not to know quite what it is yet.
K comes home later and we sit and watch The Trip on iPlayer. The Coogan/Brydon improvised comedy continues to intrigue - but more than anything it makes me long to go on a trip driving around the countryside. Perhaps K and I will drive around Scotland sometime soon.
I get by OK with my score again - occasionally surprising myself with the sort of thing I can pull from my head under pressure - and make detailed notes on my progress for reasons I'm slowly beginning to lose sight of. The idea, as I've mentioned, is to build up a record of my personal score on University Challenge to see if I'm learning anything over time - but again I fail to find the time to bother typing it up. This plan will come to something, though, and it's actually a little fun not to know quite what it is yet.
K comes home later and we sit and watch The Trip on iPlayer. The Coogan/Brydon improvised comedy continues to intrigue - but more than anything it makes me long to go on a trip driving around the countryside. Perhaps K and I will drive around Scotland sometime soon.
Sunday 21st November
I surprise myself by waking up at a reasonable hour and feeling completely fine this morning. K, on the other hand, is rough as a cat's tongue - and so I spend much of the morning hiding in the living room catching up on cosy quiz shows like QI and Have I Got News For You while she naps it off.
By about lunchtime K seems to be back in the land of the living and so we head out of the house. This, despite being still mid-November, is my last chance to get any Christmas shopping done for my family, so the plan is to head into town to trawl Covent Garden for decent presents. On the way, though, we stop off at Euston to visit the new exhibition at the Wellcome Collection. The Wellcome is one of my favourite museums, mostly for the way that it mixes art with science so splendidly - but also because it's adjacent to Euston station and doesn't involve trekking to South Kensington or the like. The exhibition - based on the history of drugs and their effects on the human body - is very new and as such the gallery is as busy as I've ever seen it, but it's still enjoyable to wander around before we get down to the business of shopping.
We walk down through Russell Square towards the West End, stopping at any shops and department stores that take our fancy. We eat a quick lunch at M&S on Tottenham Court Road to fuel the next couple of hours of shopping, which we complete with surprising ease. Certain members of my family are easier to shop for than others, but when we're heading back on the tube later I feel a sense of a job well done.
By about lunchtime K seems to be back in the land of the living and so we head out of the house. This, despite being still mid-November, is my last chance to get any Christmas shopping done for my family, so the plan is to head into town to trawl Covent Garden for decent presents. On the way, though, we stop off at Euston to visit the new exhibition at the Wellcome Collection. The Wellcome is one of my favourite museums, mostly for the way that it mixes art with science so splendidly - but also because it's adjacent to Euston station and doesn't involve trekking to South Kensington or the like. The exhibition - based on the history of drugs and their effects on the human body - is very new and as such the gallery is as busy as I've ever seen it, but it's still enjoyable to wander around before we get down to the business of shopping.
We walk down through Russell Square towards the West End, stopping at any shops and department stores that take our fancy. We eat a quick lunch at M&S on Tottenham Court Road to fuel the next couple of hours of shopping, which we complete with surprising ease. Certain members of my family are easier to shop for than others, but when we're heading back on the tube later I feel a sense of a job well done.
Saturday 20th November
Last night, halfway to being out of our heads on fine wine, K and I decided that it might be fun to get a kitten at some point in the near future. Suspending all reason for a while, we decide to spend this morning going to the Cat's Protection League adoption centre in Archway. There's no plan to actually get a cat today, of course, but it seems like a good idea to find out exactly what is involved.
We get the bus to Archway and walk down Junction Road to the adoption centre. A nice lady meets us and takes us down to where the kittens are kept. This is a big mistake - I instantly fall for a pair of grey tabby cats who, after having been held by me for a minute or two, seem to have fallen for me as well. We are shown another, older pair of cats, but I can't take my eyes off the needy, mewling pair in the first cage. At this point, I can't imagine leaving without them. As such it makes sense for us to get out of there as soon as possible, so after having a quick chat about the adoption process and home visits and the like, we make our excuses and head off. We probably shouldn't be doing impulsive things like getting pets while we're trying to save for a wedding and whatnot - but it's a nice idea and a cute way to spend the morning.
We walk down from Archway to Holloway Road, then along Seven Sisters Road to Stroud Green Road, where we potter around the shops for a bit before walking through Finsbury Park to Sainsbury's. The big shop is duly done and we're back at the flat for lunch and a bit of afternoon pottering before we head out for the evening.
Tonight is Kelli's birthday party in Muswell Hill, so we get in the mood with a couple of beers at home before getting the bus up the steep, steep hill and walking through the Broadway towards The Alexandra. It's really cold tonight and it feels like one of those winter evenings where you want to hide away in a cosy pub. The Alexandra doesn't disappoint as it's small and warm - and as people begin to file in we share the cupcakes K has made and enjoy cake and champagne with the birthday girl.
A bit later, I find myself playing some sort of "higher or lower" drinking game with an oversize pack of cards. The majority of the rest of the evening is a blur - suffice to say K and I make it back to Muswell Hill Broadway in time to get the bus home. It feels like the first Winter weekend of the season and it's fun to be reminded that good nights out can be had in the absence of warm beer gardens.
We get the bus to Archway and walk down Junction Road to the adoption centre. A nice lady meets us and takes us down to where the kittens are kept. This is a big mistake - I instantly fall for a pair of grey tabby cats who, after having been held by me for a minute or two, seem to have fallen for me as well. We are shown another, older pair of cats, but I can't take my eyes off the needy, mewling pair in the first cage. At this point, I can't imagine leaving without them. As such it makes sense for us to get out of there as soon as possible, so after having a quick chat about the adoption process and home visits and the like, we make our excuses and head off. We probably shouldn't be doing impulsive things like getting pets while we're trying to save for a wedding and whatnot - but it's a nice idea and a cute way to spend the morning.
We walk down from Archway to Holloway Road, then along Seven Sisters Road to Stroud Green Road, where we potter around the shops for a bit before walking through Finsbury Park to Sainsbury's. The big shop is duly done and we're back at the flat for lunch and a bit of afternoon pottering before we head out for the evening.
Tonight is Kelli's birthday party in Muswell Hill, so we get in the mood with a couple of beers at home before getting the bus up the steep, steep hill and walking through the Broadway towards The Alexandra. It's really cold tonight and it feels like one of those winter evenings where you want to hide away in a cosy pub. The Alexandra doesn't disappoint as it's small and warm - and as people begin to file in we share the cupcakes K has made and enjoy cake and champagne with the birthday girl.
A bit later, I find myself playing some sort of "higher or lower" drinking game with an oversize pack of cards. The majority of the rest of the evening is a blur - suffice to say K and I make it back to Muswell Hill Broadway in time to get the bus home. It feels like the first Winter weekend of the season and it's fun to be reminded that good nights out can be had in the absence of warm beer gardens.
Friday 19th November
With a busy weekend in store, K and I have a quiet night in planned. I thought it'd be nice to get some stuff for dinner that'd be a bit of a surprise for her, so after work I walk the old route (last year's route) through the tunnel to New River Village and up to Crouch End.
It's odd to do this again having done it every day once upon a time and it's good to have the time to catch up with the various podcasts backing up on my phone. The plan is to head to M&S's "Simply Food" Crouch Ender-magnet to check out their eat-in-for-£10 deal, but when I get there it seems that it doesn't actually exist - or at least not any more. Therefore I'm forced down a rung on Crouch End's hierarchy of posh mini-supermarkets (M&S > Waitrose > Budgens > Tesco) to Waitrose.
I spend a long time considering their fancy-looking ready meals, trying to balance the desire to buy something I can be relied upon to cook unassisted and the need to get something a bit different. I eventually settle on a delicious-looking chicken and leek pie and some potato rosti to go with whatever frozen veg we happen to have in the freezer - and of course plenty of posh (i.e. "from Waitrose rather than the corner shop") red wine.
K gets home and I refuse to let her in the kitchen while I struggle manfully with heating peas in the microwave and delicately arranging oven-cooked rosti on the plate. Thankfully, this all seems to go down well and I'm way up on fiance points for the evening. After dinner we settle in front of the TV for an evening of assorted nonsense programming while K gets her knit on. What a nice Friday.
It's odd to do this again having done it every day once upon a time and it's good to have the time to catch up with the various podcasts backing up on my phone. The plan is to head to M&S's "Simply Food" Crouch Ender-magnet to check out their eat-in-for-£10 deal, but when I get there it seems that it doesn't actually exist - or at least not any more. Therefore I'm forced down a rung on Crouch End's hierarchy of posh mini-supermarkets (M&S > Waitrose > Budgens > Tesco) to Waitrose.
I spend a long time considering their fancy-looking ready meals, trying to balance the desire to buy something I can be relied upon to cook unassisted and the need to get something a bit different. I eventually settle on a delicious-looking chicken and leek pie and some potato rosti to go with whatever frozen veg we happen to have in the freezer - and of course plenty of posh (i.e. "from Waitrose rather than the corner shop") red wine.
K gets home and I refuse to let her in the kitchen while I struggle manfully with heating peas in the microwave and delicately arranging oven-cooked rosti on the plate. Thankfully, this all seems to go down well and I'm way up on fiance points for the evening. After dinner we settle in front of the TV for an evening of assorted nonsense programming while K gets her knit on. What a nice Friday.
Tuesday, 23 November 2010
Thursday 18th November
With K out at a gig again tonight, I try hard to sit down and get some writing done. My main problem here is trying to do so in front of the TV. There are various things to catch up with on iPlayer and downloaded new episodes of US comedies like 30 Rock, Community and South Park which are all going strong at the moment. I also need to eat and do various chores about the flat, and all of a sudden the evening is drifting away. Finding the discipline to write is difficult - which is hard to take when I like to think of myself as something of a natural writer. I know if I had a deadline that wasn't self-imposed things would be different. As it is I know that there won't be any real consequences if I write nothing tonight - other than my own disappointment.
While talking to mum on Monday she suggested that next time I'm up in Scotland I should have a look at my Grandad's diaries. I hadn't known previously, but apparently he wrote in his diary every day from sometime in the early 1980s until just before his death a few years ago. He apparently wrote about what was going on in the world at the time as well as what was going on in his life. It would be nice to see them - and I'm sure he'd be pleased to see me trying to do the same. The diaries certainly sound inspiring, though right now I'm sure it's discipline rather than inspiration that I need.
While talking to mum on Monday she suggested that next time I'm up in Scotland I should have a look at my Grandad's diaries. I hadn't known previously, but apparently he wrote in his diary every day from sometime in the early 1980s until just before his death a few years ago. He apparently wrote about what was going on in the world at the time as well as what was going on in his life. It would be nice to see them - and I'm sure he'd be pleased to see me trying to do the same. The diaries certainly sound inspiring, though right now I'm sure it's discipline rather than inspiration that I need.
Wednesday 17th November
Tonight K and I are off to see Deftones at Brixton Academy (despite the fact that I swore never to return after that MF Doom gig last month) - but then Deftones are no ordinary band. They've been one of my favourites since I was around 14, and indeed the first time I ever saw them live was at this very venue in June 2000, when I was only 15. They're also probably the only "metal" band I still have time for these days, especially since they were so brilliant at the Kentish Town Forum last Summer.
Another nice thing about tonight's gig is that Faye has managed to wangle us free tickets - and free VIP tickets no less. This means entrance through the stage door, and access to the VIP bar. Fancy.
I meet Faye and K in The Beehive and the place is absolutely heaving. I manage to get a pint eventually and we hang around long enough to get a table at the expense of getting to the gig in time to see Coheed and Cambria. No great loss there, but eventually we head over to venue and go up to the VIP bar. The drinks are mighty expensive in here but we do get a nice view (through glass) across the crowd and to the stage. Deftones come on and we watch a couple of songs from this strange vantage point but soon head downstairs for the better sound.
We end up leaving at around 10.15 as it's Ant's birthday drinks in Crouch End's brand spanking new Wetherspoon's, so we jump on the Victoria Line and race back to Finsbury Park to catch the bus and last orders. The pub is indeed brand spanking new, and very recognisably a Wetherspoon's. The lights are too bright but the beer is nice and cheap - and the toilets are definitely the cleanest I've ever seen in a pub (by virtue of having been installed about a week ago).
Another nice thing about tonight's gig is that Faye has managed to wangle us free tickets - and free VIP tickets no less. This means entrance through the stage door, and access to the VIP bar. Fancy.
I meet Faye and K in The Beehive and the place is absolutely heaving. I manage to get a pint eventually and we hang around long enough to get a table at the expense of getting to the gig in time to see Coheed and Cambria. No great loss there, but eventually we head over to venue and go up to the VIP bar. The drinks are mighty expensive in here but we do get a nice view (through glass) across the crowd and to the stage. Deftones come on and we watch a couple of songs from this strange vantage point but soon head downstairs for the better sound.
We end up leaving at around 10.15 as it's Ant's birthday drinks in Crouch End's brand spanking new Wetherspoon's, so we jump on the Victoria Line and race back to Finsbury Park to catch the bus and last orders. The pub is indeed brand spanking new, and very recognisably a Wetherspoon's. The lights are too bright but the beer is nice and cheap - and the toilets are definitely the cleanest I've ever seen in a pub (by virtue of having been installed about a week ago).
Monday, 22 November 2010
Tuesday 16th November
There is a little excitement in the office today as Spurs and Argentina legend Ricky Villa pops in to sign some copies of his autobiography in our warehouse. It's undoubtedly one of the least glamorous places he's ever set foot - but the fact that our office is based in Wood Green ensures that we have tons of Tottenham fans in and around the place, all of whom rush down to where he's signing (donning high-vis jackets for the trip, naturally) to get their copies signed. I'm initially reluctant to bother - very much not being a Spurs fan - but eventually reason that it'd be silly to miss the opportunity to say hello to a successful international footballer.
It's not every day you get to meet someone who was in the 1978 World Cup winning Argentina squad, nor someone who has scored a famous winning goal in the FA Cup Final. I venture down to the warehouse and shake the old man's hand, also making sure to get a photo for the work Twitter account. His English isn't great (which is handy as I can't really think of much to say to him at the time) so I shuffle off to leave him to his tireless scribbling in book covers.
It's not every day you get to meet someone who was in the 1978 World Cup winning Argentina squad, nor someone who has scored a famous winning goal in the FA Cup Final. I venture down to the warehouse and shake the old man's hand, also making sure to get a photo for the work Twitter account. His English isn't great (which is handy as I can't really think of much to say to him at the time) so I shuffle off to leave him to his tireless scribbling in book covers.
Monday 15th November
With K out at her course, tonight is supposed to be a night of getting on with writing - but as usual I manage to find ways of procrastinating. I have dinner, read technology blogs like Engadget and Gizmodo obsessively and even start listening to the nerdtastic (but actually quite enjoyable) Engadget podcast, picking up knowledge for my self-education based 'other' blog. But it's still not writing.
Just before University Challenge starts, mum calls and we chat for a while about Christmas plans and various other things meaning that I need to watch the show on iPlayer at 9. It's good being able to pause it while I record the answers I've got correct, but having more to write up just leads to more procrastination and I don't get round to typing anything more before K eventually gets home. She's had a fairly horrendous tube ride back from East Finchley and so we chill out in front of the TV for the rest of the evening. It's frustrating to know that I haven't got anything done when I've actually put aside time to do so - but I'm a firm believer in the fact that creativity can't be forced and that if the mood's not there it's just not there. Successful writers would probably tell me that it can in fact be forced - and must be. Must try harder.
Just before University Challenge starts, mum calls and we chat for a while about Christmas plans and various other things meaning that I need to watch the show on iPlayer at 9. It's good being able to pause it while I record the answers I've got correct, but having more to write up just leads to more procrastination and I don't get round to typing anything more before K eventually gets home. She's had a fairly horrendous tube ride back from East Finchley and so we chill out in front of the TV for the rest of the evening. It's frustrating to know that I haven't got anything done when I've actually put aside time to do so - but I'm a firm believer in the fact that creativity can't be forced and that if the mood's not there it's just not there. Successful writers would probably tell me that it can in fact be forced - and must be. Must try harder.
Sunday 14th November
In on my own again this afternoon, I stick the Grand Prix on and have some lunch. Around halfway through, Alex pops round and we rig up the laptop to watch the Arsenal game at the same time. Watching two sports on two screen simultaneously is tricky, and confusing, especially when the commentary for the football is in Romanian and soundtracked by the wails of Formula One cars. At one point, I'm certain that Alex Song is the favourite for the driver's championship and Fernando Alonso swings in a decent cross on lap 43.
What actually happens is that Sebastien Vettel leads from the start and takes advantage of Alonso getting bogged down in traffic to win the driver's championship - meaning a maiden title for Red Bull and a double title at that. It's not the most dramatic result, but it's better than Alonso winning man I just can't bring myself to like.
While we fiddle around with the computer again to try and get a feed for Chelsea v Sunderland, Alex and I get to work baking a ginger cake for when the others return. In the end I'm glad my attention is elsewhere, as Sunderland manage the unthinkable and win 3-0 at Stamford Bridge to thoroughly ruin my afternoon. No matter - defeats happen - and my mood is soon lifted when K begins working on dinner, a Mexican feast fit for several Mexican kings.
K, Ellie, Alex and I get stuck into the fajitas while watching The X Factor (damn it, I'm hooked til the end now) and drinking some really very nice red wine from Tesco. Football results aside, it's been a pretty lovely Sunday by bedtime.
What actually happens is that Sebastien Vettel leads from the start and takes advantage of Alonso getting bogged down in traffic to win the driver's championship - meaning a maiden title for Red Bull and a double title at that. It's not the most dramatic result, but it's better than Alonso winning man I just can't bring myself to like.
While we fiddle around with the computer again to try and get a feed for Chelsea v Sunderland, Alex and I get to work baking a ginger cake for when the others return. In the end I'm glad my attention is elsewhere, as Sunderland manage the unthinkable and win 3-0 at Stamford Bridge to thoroughly ruin my afternoon. No matter - defeats happen - and my mood is soon lifted when K begins working on dinner, a Mexican feast fit for several Mexican kings.
K, Ellie, Alex and I get stuck into the fajitas while watching The X Factor (damn it, I'm hooked til the end now) and drinking some really very nice red wine from Tesco. Football results aside, it's been a pretty lovely Sunday by bedtime.
Saturday 13th November
The girls head out early and I take the opportunity to spend a good portion of the day mooching. It's a solo activity and one that takes virtually no effort - so perfectly suited to me really. I watch the Grand Prix qualifying; it's the last race of the season and one in which four drivers can potentially win the title. It's also in Abu Dhabi, meaning a spectacular day/night race against the backdrop of a desert flooded with money. The seven star hotel that straddles the race track is stunning and lends itself to repeated flyovers by the TV cameras as the sun sets. There was literally nothing there in 2007 - now it's a Monaco for the Middle East and everyone's beaming face during Martin Brundle's amusing pit lane interviews reeks of cash. Or possibly ca$h.
I move from mooching to pottering after Sebastien Vettel is confirmed as the pole-sitter, and do some washing up and general chores before K and Ellie get back. After a suitable period has passed we deem it time to go to the pub, so we walk up through the posh shops of Crouch End towards the Kings Head, where various others are waiting for us. It's a very sports-heavy weekend, and while I have lots of fun chatting to Rich, Tim and the others I am conscious that tonight is the David Haye v Audley Harrison fight (or Ordinary Harrison, as the sign outside the Hornsey Tavern perhaps unfairly dubs him). Aware I probably won't be able to watch it (I'm in a minority of casual boxing fans tonight), I follow it with one eye my phone even as we head to Big Red.
The pub is busy but we find a space - and some of the assembled folks play table football while I follow a laughable third-round TKO by David Haye, and probably the end of Harrison's career. Boxing can be cruel - and I suspect that's how Harrison will remember it.
I move from mooching to pottering after Sebastien Vettel is confirmed as the pole-sitter, and do some washing up and general chores before K and Ellie get back. After a suitable period has passed we deem it time to go to the pub, so we walk up through the posh shops of Crouch End towards the Kings Head, where various others are waiting for us. It's a very sports-heavy weekend, and while I have lots of fun chatting to Rich, Tim and the others I am conscious that tonight is the David Haye v Audley Harrison fight (or Ordinary Harrison, as the sign outside the Hornsey Tavern perhaps unfairly dubs him). Aware I probably won't be able to watch it (I'm in a minority of casual boxing fans tonight), I follow it with one eye my phone even as we head to Big Red.
The pub is busy but we find a space - and some of the assembled folks play table football while I follow a laughable third-round TKO by David Haye, and probably the end of Harrison's career. Boxing can be cruel - and I suspect that's how Harrison will remember it.
Thursday, 18 November 2010
Friday 12th November
Our wonderful friend Ellie arrives from the bitter mists of Cornwall this evening, so when I finish work I head to Turnpike Lane station to meet her and escort her safely back to our flat. I stand outside the nearest exit to the flat for a full 15 minutes before it occurs to me that she might be inside the station. Sure enough she appears up the stairs - and it turns out she's been there for around the same amount of time. Doh.
Foolish standing over, we drop Ellie's stuff off then head back out to the tube to make our way into to town to meet K and the others at The Cock. It's been a while since we've had a proper Sam Smith's night, and while the pub is as busy as usual, K has managed to snag a decent table upstairs and we take our seats to wait for reinforcements. I manage to get into a row with two people - one who refuses to wait for me to climb the narrow stairs before starting their descent, and another who accuses me of rudeness while overhearing something I'm saying to someone else. I can't win in this stupid world. Isn't it in fact more rude to loudly, and falsely, accuse someone else of rudeness in public?
Needless to say our friends find my incredulity very funny - and I soon calm down and get on with a couple more drinks. Unusually, we end up staying at The Cock for the entire evening - and we celebrate getting home later by calling the venerable Pizza Go-Go in Hornsey for express meat feast pizzas. Yum.
Foolish standing over, we drop Ellie's stuff off then head back out to the tube to make our way into to town to meet K and the others at The Cock. It's been a while since we've had a proper Sam Smith's night, and while the pub is as busy as usual, K has managed to snag a decent table upstairs and we take our seats to wait for reinforcements. I manage to get into a row with two people - one who refuses to wait for me to climb the narrow stairs before starting their descent, and another who accuses me of rudeness while overhearing something I'm saying to someone else. I can't win in this stupid world. Isn't it in fact more rude to loudly, and falsely, accuse someone else of rudeness in public?
Needless to say our friends find my incredulity very funny - and I soon calm down and get on with a couple more drinks. Unusually, we end up staying at The Cock for the entire evening - and we celebrate getting home later by calling the venerable Pizza Go-Go in Hornsey for express meat feast pizzas. Yum.
Thursday 11th November
It's been long enough since we've made any advance with it, so tonight has been set aside for K and I to get cracking on some wedding planning. One thing that's been niggling lately is the need to get some 'Save the Date' cards made - since they're ever so popular these days and, I suppose, quite a nice pre-invitation thing to send out to get everyone up to speed. We're aware that there will soon be people thinking about their summer holidays for 2011 so we need to preempt the people we want to be there booking something that will keep them away. Having said that, anyone who would dare to book a holiday and miss our wedding isn't worthy of our time anyway - let alone the price of a postcard and a first class stamp.
We have a look around online for companies who specialise in printing these sort of things, leading to a lot of ugly, business-focused websites trying to hawk cheesy business cards by the thousand. Eventually we find a printer with a surprisingly versatile little tool for designing the card and entering the text we want - only to find that their delivery charges are really where they get you. We crack open a bottle of red to deal with the stress of this setback and end up getting too irate to be bothered any more, ordering some nice-looking cards from a website that doesn't look too dodgy.
Later on we relax by watching The Apprentice on iPlayer - during which the clueless contestants wind me up even more by creating two products, named completely wrongly but for amusingly similar reasons. Tasked with coming up with a new brand of cleaning product, the first team try to mix the words "germ" and "terminator" to create: Germ-O-Nator. Where did the O come from?! Germinator would surely have been the obvious choice.
Then, to make matters worse, the second team create an octopus-themed cleaner (don't ask why) and manage to name it Octikleen. WITH AN I! The daft woman who ends up presenting it even pronounces "octopus" as "octipus". If they'd just swapped each other's middle letters around I could have avoided a full hour of shouting at the telly and driving K batty. How did no one tell them to sort this out!??? It's almost like reality TV is deliberately designed to wind people up. Oh.
We have a look around online for companies who specialise in printing these sort of things, leading to a lot of ugly, business-focused websites trying to hawk cheesy business cards by the thousand. Eventually we find a printer with a surprisingly versatile little tool for designing the card and entering the text we want - only to find that their delivery charges are really where they get you. We crack open a bottle of red to deal with the stress of this setback and end up getting too irate to be bothered any more, ordering some nice-looking cards from a website that doesn't look too dodgy.
Later on we relax by watching The Apprentice on iPlayer - during which the clueless contestants wind me up even more by creating two products, named completely wrongly but for amusingly similar reasons. Tasked with coming up with a new brand of cleaning product, the first team try to mix the words "germ" and "terminator" to create: Germ-O-Nator. Where did the O come from?! Germinator would surely have been the obvious choice.
Then, to make matters worse, the second team create an octopus-themed cleaner (don't ask why) and manage to name it Octikleen. WITH AN I! The daft woman who ends up presenting it even pronounces "octopus" as "octipus". If they'd just swapped each other's middle letters around I could have avoided a full hour of shouting at the telly and driving K batty. How did no one tell them to sort this out!??? It's almost like reality TV is deliberately designed to wind people up. Oh.
Thursday, 11 November 2010
Wednesday 10th November
I know it's not cool to blog about one's blog - but the fact is that this evening is mostly spent catching up with Along Presently posts. Keeping to a daily blog is tricky - and I've spent much of the last month at least a week behind. There have been times when I've considered drawing a line under it and concentrating on other things, particularly when I have a few days to catch up on, which then takes up all the time I have for writing. I've kept going though, mostly because it's a lot of fun to look back on - and I can't help but think of the landmarks. If I stopped now I'd have done a daily blog for 242 days of my life. What's that? That's meaningless. A year is much more impressive - though that means carrying on well into next March. I'd also quite like to have the blog cover all the build-up to the wedding, since it covered the engagement. The wedding is 282 days away, which would take the blog to an impressive (yet still maddeningly non-rounded) 524 days. So I'm not stopping quite yet.
Tonight is productive, at least in terms of this blog, as I get 9 days-worth written down before K gets back from her gig, bringing me up to date for the first time in ages.
I also find time to rig up a dodgy online feed to watch the Chelsea v Fulham game - managing to tune into Fox Soccer Channel live from the US. The commentators are, thankfully, British, but the half-time report is full of amusing pronuciation of names and peculiar American soccer slang. The voice-over refers to the post as something funny, but I forget now what it is. As far as the game goes, Chelsea overcome Fulham 1-0 (as they are expected to do) but do it without ever really playing any scintillating football. The dominance is total in the first half, but later on in the game Fulham seem to grow in confidence and the last ten minutes look very dodgy indeed. Still, it's 3 points on a night when Man United and Man City play out a tedious 0-0 draw at Eastlands, meaning Chelsea have a four-point cushion with just under a third of the season played. The real tests though, are very much still to come.
Tonight is productive, at least in terms of this blog, as I get 9 days-worth written down before K gets back from her gig, bringing me up to date for the first time in ages.
I also find time to rig up a dodgy online feed to watch the Chelsea v Fulham game - managing to tune into Fox Soccer Channel live from the US. The commentators are, thankfully, British, but the half-time report is full of amusing pronuciation of names and peculiar American soccer slang. The voice-over refers to the post as something funny, but I forget now what it is. As far as the game goes, Chelsea overcome Fulham 1-0 (as they are expected to do) but do it without ever really playing any scintillating football. The dominance is total in the first half, but later on in the game Fulham seem to grow in confidence and the last ten minutes look very dodgy indeed. Still, it's 3 points on a night when Man United and Man City play out a tedious 0-0 draw at Eastlands, meaning Chelsea have a four-point cushion with just under a third of the season played. The real tests though, are very much still to come.
Wednesday, 10 November 2010
Tuesday 9th November
Now here's a rare event - I'm actually going out to a gig with K tonight. She has tickets to see Broken Records at the Borderline, and I've agreed to come along based on the fact that I had enjoyed Broken Records when they supported The National at the Royal Festival Hall a while back, and that I like The Borderline as a venue very much. She has also promised to get me a burrito from Chipotle (at which I will have to banish memories of the Chipotle-based South Park episode from last season).
I meet K in Leicester Square just after seven and we head to Chipotle on Charing Cross Road. The burritos we get are very tasty and, predicatbly, very quickly polished off. With a little while to go before the band come on stage, we walk up to The Angel for a couple of pints where we indulge in some overdue wedding-talk, making plans to make plans later in the week. Sometimes it feels like we're putting things off - but I can't think of any other way to plan something that seems so far in the future.
We head to The Borderline just after nine, annoying lots of punters by pushing through the tightly-packed audience just after the band have taken the stage. We take up position at the back, by the bar, and get a drink on board. The band are accomplished and the sound in the venue is great - especially when compared to the reprehensible sludge displayed by Brixton Academy at the last gig I went to.
I meet K in Leicester Square just after seven and we head to Chipotle on Charing Cross Road. The burritos we get are very tasty and, predicatbly, very quickly polished off. With a little while to go before the band come on stage, we walk up to The Angel for a couple of pints where we indulge in some overdue wedding-talk, making plans to make plans later in the week. Sometimes it feels like we're putting things off - but I can't think of any other way to plan something that seems so far in the future.
We head to The Borderline just after nine, annoying lots of punters by pushing through the tightly-packed audience just after the band have taken the stage. We take up position at the back, by the bar, and get a drink on board. The band are accomplished and the sound in the venue is great - especially when compared to the reprehensible sludge displayed by Brixton Academy at the last gig I went to.
Monday 8th November
Back at work we're into the beginning of yet another monthly cycle, the last one having finished just last Thursday. It never ends - but it never gets less gruelling. Maybe gruelling is extreme - but it can feel that way on a freezing cold, wet Monday morning in November. Pity me, won't you?
In the evening I carry on working on my latest, foolish internet project - a tech/geek blog I have called Nerdmirer. Inspired by the science books I've been reading lately, along with my leisure time spent browsing sites like Gizmodo and Engadget, it's an attempt to resolve my inner nerd while aggregating all the cool tech stuff I keep spotting online. Ideally it will help me learn (and improve my University Challenge score) and I'm even considering asking people to contribute to it, helping out with the nerdy things I'm just no good at. The manifesto is up there, anyway.
Tonight's contribution is to write up my University Challenge, which one day might build into a chart of progress, learning and general geek triumph. We'll see. I'm not setting any deadlines for updates or regularity (which seems to be the death of many an earnestly-begun blog) so it'll be interesting to see how far this one gets, especially as in making it I am well out of my comfort zone.
In the evening I carry on working on my latest, foolish internet project - a tech/geek blog I have called Nerdmirer. Inspired by the science books I've been reading lately, along with my leisure time spent browsing sites like Gizmodo and Engadget, it's an attempt to resolve my inner nerd while aggregating all the cool tech stuff I keep spotting online. Ideally it will help me learn (and improve my University Challenge score) and I'm even considering asking people to contribute to it, helping out with the nerdy things I'm just no good at. The manifesto is up there, anyway.
Tonight's contribution is to write up my University Challenge, which one day might build into a chart of progress, learning and general geek triumph. We'll see. I'm not setting any deadlines for updates or regularity (which seems to be the death of many an earnestly-begun blog) so it'll be interesting to see how far this one gets, especially as in making it I am well out of my comfort zone.
Sunday 7th November
Dad's idea for a trip out today is to head to Greenwich - somewhere he hasn't been for a few years and somewhere K and I have avoided for reasons mainly due to distance and the unreliable Jubilee Line, despite it being a very lovely place to spend time. As he and Eve drive over from Hammersmith, K and I get there using a combination of the Piccadilly, Victoria and Jubliee lines, followed by the DLR from Canary Wharf. It takes an hour but is relatively painless - and we turn up at around 12.30 to meet the folks.
We walk up through the high street, stopping at a street market for a bit (where K and I pick up a rather nice looking chess set for a fiver) before heading for lunch at a slightly incongruous Cuban restaurant. Suitably fed we head to the park and walk up the steep hill to the observatory, taking the time to get the obligatory photo on the meridian line and marvel at the rather brilliant view. As is my custom these days I make sure to point out the under-construction London Shard, whose rise into the skyline I'm following with interest.
We walk around the exhibits in the Royal Observatory and the Planetarium, the stuff on display tying in nicely with the chapters I've been reading from Bill Bryson's excellent A Short History of Nearly Everything. Eventually we head back down the hill and towards the river, past the almost non-existent Cutty Sark and along to the Maritime Museum.
Dad and Eve give K and I a lift back to Turnpike Lane (during which time we amuse ourselves by playing two-player Fruit Ninja on Dad's iPad) and stop off for a cup of tea before making their way back up north. Later, K and I eat bangers and mash and (finally!) catch up on The Apprentice before bed - conscious that we have eaten incredibly well this weekend.
We walk up through the high street, stopping at a street market for a bit (where K and I pick up a rather nice looking chess set for a fiver) before heading for lunch at a slightly incongruous Cuban restaurant. Suitably fed we head to the park and walk up the steep hill to the observatory, taking the time to get the obligatory photo on the meridian line and marvel at the rather brilliant view. As is my custom these days I make sure to point out the under-construction London Shard, whose rise into the skyline I'm following with interest.
We walk around the exhibits in the Royal Observatory and the Planetarium, the stuff on display tying in nicely with the chapters I've been reading from Bill Bryson's excellent A Short History of Nearly Everything. Eventually we head back down the hill and towards the river, past the almost non-existent Cutty Sark and along to the Maritime Museum.
Dad and Eve give K and I a lift back to Turnpike Lane (during which time we amuse ourselves by playing two-player Fruit Ninja on Dad's iPad) and stop off for a cup of tea before making their way back up north. Later, K and I eat bangers and mash and (finally!) catch up on The Apprentice before bed - conscious that we have eaten incredibly well this weekend.
Saturday 6th November
Dad and Eve are down to visit this weekend, so this evening we head down to Hammersmith to meet them, Philip and his girlfriend Emma for dinner. Hammersmith is a full 19 stops on the Piccadilly Line so I'm glad to have my Kindle with my while K plays Angry Birds on my phone - plus the tube is terminating early so the train crawls between Barons Court and Hammersmith.
Never mind - we still get to this pleasant end of West London with plenty of time for our early dinner reservation, which is at a pub named by the Sunday Times as one of Britain's 10 best gastropubs (and, apparently, the only one in London). The place is busy in preparation for the nearby fireworks display at Ravenscourt Park (for which the weather is much better than it was last night), but we squeeze through and are seated at our table. I order the rib eye steak and a beer, and we sit and happily catch up over a tasty (and rather posh) meal.
We need to eat up quickly, though, as the fireworks start at 8pm. We walk through the maze-like streets near the pub to the park, where we join the few thousand other people waiting around for the show. The fireworks themselves are very impressive, and last longer than any of us were expecting. Emma buys everyone candy floss (which I don't think I've had for at least ten years) and we huddle together for warmth.
Later we walk back towards Philip and Emma's flat, stopping off for a quick beer at a nice pub before K and I need to shoot off to get the tube. The 19 stops back feel long again - but it's a been a nice, boozy, wintery evening.
Never mind - we still get to this pleasant end of West London with plenty of time for our early dinner reservation, which is at a pub named by the Sunday Times as one of Britain's 10 best gastropubs (and, apparently, the only one in London). The place is busy in preparation for the nearby fireworks display at Ravenscourt Park (for which the weather is much better than it was last night), but we squeeze through and are seated at our table. I order the rib eye steak and a beer, and we sit and happily catch up over a tasty (and rather posh) meal.
We need to eat up quickly, though, as the fireworks start at 8pm. We walk through the maze-like streets near the pub to the park, where we join the few thousand other people waiting around for the show. The fireworks themselves are very impressive, and last longer than any of us were expecting. Emma buys everyone candy floss (which I don't think I've had for at least ten years) and we huddle together for warmth.
Later we walk back towards Philip and Emma's flat, stopping off for a quick beer at a nice pub before K and I need to shoot off to get the tube. The 19 stops back feel long again - but it's a been a nice, boozy, wintery evening.
Friday 5th November
It's bonfire night - another 'holiday' which, like Halloween, I've never been particularly bothered about, ever since the years spent at The White Lion fireworks display in Rochdale where I'd invariably beg to be taken home after about five minutes. It's not that I don't like fireworks, more that, well, they're just bloody loud aren't they?
Tonight promises to be a bit different though, as K and I have been invited to a bonfire party at a strange community of houseboats, moored no more than 100 yards downriver of Tower Bridge. The boats are very much permanent, each with well-tended gardens on their roofs, and connected by a communal area with a stage, tables and chairs. We walk down the South Bank to try and find it - succeeding only when we see the huge bonfire at the back of one of the huge boats.
We head in with Ellie and meet her boyfriend Mike on his friend's boat. We say hello and sit on the floor with a beer, where the rocking of the boat momentarily confuses me into thinking I might be about to pass out. The odd feeling passes, though, and we enjoy a nice chat and learning a bit about what it's like to live on a houseboat in Zone 1.
The only problem with tonight is the weather - which makes the planned fireworks display a complete washout. It's not even nice enough to stand outside for long, so after K has had her fun with a Giant Sparkler we say our goodbyes and head back to London Bridge for the tube. Like the guy we met who lives on the houseboat says, it's not somewhere you could stay forever, but it's fun to say you've done it. And leaving home in the morning to the sight of Tower Bridge, the Gherkin and Canary Wharf must be pretty thrilling.
Tonight promises to be a bit different though, as K and I have been invited to a bonfire party at a strange community of houseboats, moored no more than 100 yards downriver of Tower Bridge. The boats are very much permanent, each with well-tended gardens on their roofs, and connected by a communal area with a stage, tables and chairs. We walk down the South Bank to try and find it - succeeding only when we see the huge bonfire at the back of one of the huge boats.
We head in with Ellie and meet her boyfriend Mike on his friend's boat. We say hello and sit on the floor with a beer, where the rocking of the boat momentarily confuses me into thinking I might be about to pass out. The odd feeling passes, though, and we enjoy a nice chat and learning a bit about what it's like to live on a houseboat in Zone 1.
The only problem with tonight is the weather - which makes the planned fireworks display a complete washout. It's not even nice enough to stand outside for long, so after K has had her fun with a Giant Sparkler we say our goodbyes and head back to London Bridge for the tube. Like the guy we met who lives on the houseboat says, it's not somewhere you could stay forever, but it's fun to say you've done it. And leaving home in the morning to the sight of Tower Bridge, the Gherkin and Canary Wharf must be pretty thrilling.
Thursday 4th November
The theatre students are really grating today. It's surprisingly warm this week, so we have the windows open in the office - the main drawback of which being the oblivious, abrasive kids "expressing themselves" at the top of their lungs across the road. If they're not endlessly (and tunelessly) rehearsing showtunes, they're screaming and hugging each other on the street - or walking along alone but singing at the top of their lungs, trying to get noticed. Today though they're just shouting. I'm sure this is some brilliant "acting" technique, like the Stanislavsky horseshit they briefly tried to teach us at uni. What it actually is, though, is noise pollution.
It's genuinely hard to work through the noise - and I post something caustic and unnecessary on Twitter to try and relieve some of the pressure building up in my skull. Amusingly, some appalling 18 year old self-satisfied grin machine sees it and tweets back, asking why I'm being so "harsh". I tell him that ignorant, extroverted drama students are basically everything that is wrong with the world. Then I block him and report him for spam. My anger management techniques may be crude, but they'll do for now.
It's genuinely hard to work through the noise - and I post something caustic and unnecessary on Twitter to try and relieve some of the pressure building up in my skull. Amusingly, some appalling 18 year old self-satisfied grin machine sees it and tweets back, asking why I'm being so "harsh". I tell him that ignorant, extroverted drama students are basically everything that is wrong with the world. Then I block him and report him for spam. My anger management techniques may be crude, but they'll do for now.
Wednesday 3rd November
It's another rip-roaring Champions League night, and as such Alex pops round after work to get in the mood. I take it upon myself to cook dinner for the two of us, and for K (who will be getting home later). Alex insists I've never cooked for her properly in the nearly four years we've been friends (I strenuously deny this, but who knows) so I manage to confound her expectations somewhat by cooking up some rather tasty bolognese.
At kick-off time we sit down to watch Chelsea taking on Spartak Moscow, which sees the Blues making what feels like a rare appearance on terrestrial TV. It's also rare that Alex and I are watching a team other than Arsenal these days. Chelsea make light work of Spartak, which is a little disappointing in terms of the contest but great in terms of the team's progression through the group stage.
Alex leaves after the football and K gets home, having a brief Skype chat with her sisters in Bolivia (technology, eh?) which I listen in on while faffing around in the kitchen, washing up.
At kick-off time we sit down to watch Chelsea taking on Spartak Moscow, which sees the Blues making what feels like a rare appearance on terrestrial TV. It's also rare that Alex and I are watching a team other than Arsenal these days. Chelsea make light work of Spartak, which is a little disappointing in terms of the contest but great in terms of the team's progression through the group stage.
Alex leaves after the football and K gets home, having a brief Skype chat with her sisters in Bolivia (technology, eh?) which I listen in on while faffing around in the kitchen, washing up.
Tuesday 2nd November
My alarm goes off at 7am and I immediately surprise myself by actually getting out of bed. I get dressed in shorts and yesterday's t-shirt (no need to put anything clean on just to slog up to Crouch End) and head out of the door at 7.15. It's weird being up and about at this time of day, while people jog and walk their dogs - and the unluckiest fools are already on their way to work. I get to the pool at around 7.40 and head in for a swim, only to find that the pool is busier than I had hoped. As it turns out, the dreaded HBSC have a slot booked this morning too, meaning that I have one of two lanes to pick from. One of them is very busy, the other is very fast and full of aggressive nobheads who feel the need to overtake or just swim straight down the middle of the lanes. Ah well, it was worth a go, and there's a chance that I could try a different day of the week next time.
I head home and arrive back for a shower and breakfast at around the usual time I'd be getting up - it is actually quite surprising what you can get done before work. K treats me to a boiled egg and I head off to work feeling oddly refreshed, if a little chlorine-y.
This evening I have to head to the London School of Hygiene and Tropical Diseases to sell books at a lecture given by an eminent doctor (one of the few weird things I get to do in this job). I get there in good time and sell a few copies before the attendees head into the lecture theatre in this strange and compelling building near Russell Square. I sit outside reading for the hour they are inside, then shift a few more copies at the end. Unfortunately, this does leave me with 25-odd heavy hardbacks to lug back home, but I do eventually make it (albeit a bit tired and not in the best of moods).
All this exercise and working has knackered me out, and I head to bed really rather early.
I head home and arrive back for a shower and breakfast at around the usual time I'd be getting up - it is actually quite surprising what you can get done before work. K treats me to a boiled egg and I head off to work feeling oddly refreshed, if a little chlorine-y.
This evening I have to head to the London School of Hygiene and Tropical Diseases to sell books at a lecture given by an eminent doctor (one of the few weird things I get to do in this job). I get there in good time and sell a few copies before the attendees head into the lecture theatre in this strange and compelling building near Russell Square. I sit outside reading for the hour they are inside, then shift a few more copies at the end. Unfortunately, this does leave me with 25-odd heavy hardbacks to lug back home, but I do eventually make it (albeit a bit tired and not in the best of moods).
All this exercise and working has knackered me out, and I head to bed really rather early.
Monday 1st November
Alex calls me early in the morning to eulogise about how brilliant it is going swimming in the morning before work. She's aware of my issues with Haringey Council over their ridiculous Park Road scheduling and is calling to helpfully volunteer me to try out an AM swim tomorrow. I've heard worse ideas - I certainly know a lot of people who exercise in the morning, but I can't shake just how terrible I am on weekday mornings. There's nothing quite as cosy or comfortable as your bed at around 8am on a weekday, when you know you shouldn't be there. At the weekend I practically leap out of bed well before nine - but in the week I could easily stay there for hours longer than I do. The idea of not only being up but getting dressed, going out, exercising, then coming home again fills me with cold dread, especially at this cold, dreadful time of year.
Having said all this, I am keep to get back into swimming while Haringey flirts with idiocy (and it is rumoured that this timetable is just temporary) - so I foolishly commit to getting up at 7am tomorrow and giving it a go. Ugh.
K is out again this evening so I amuse myself in the normal Monday evening way: cooking, watching University Challenge and writing. I get a woeful 11 correct answers tonight - but part of me thinks I should start recording my scores and plotting them somewhere, seeing if I can force myself to improve over time. Maybe there's another blog in it.
Having said all this, I am keep to get back into swimming while Haringey flirts with idiocy (and it is rumoured that this timetable is just temporary) - so I foolishly commit to getting up at 7am tomorrow and giving it a go. Ugh.
K is out again this evening so I amuse myself in the normal Monday evening way: cooking, watching University Challenge and writing. I get a woeful 11 correct answers tonight - but part of me thinks I should start recording my scores and plotting them somewhere, seeing if I can force myself to improve over time. Maybe there's another blog in it.
Monday, 8 November 2010
Sunday 31st October
Tonight K and I are off to the BFI to see the preview screening of the Halloween special episode of Psychoville - just four hours before it actually screens on TV but featuring an interview and Q&A with the cast and producers afterward. We had both really enjoyed the first series when it aired last year, capturing as it did the darkest moments of The League of Gentlemen along with the silly jokes and brilliant characters that made it so funny back in the 90s.
We arrive at the BFI just before six having wandered happily from Oxford Circus through Covent Garden and across the bridge to the South Bank - and collect our ticket while the likes of Dawn French (in the show) and Richard Bacon (conducting the interview) wander around us. We take our seats in NFT1 which seems to be completely packed out and the episode is introduced. It takes the form of an hour-long portmanteau story featuring Mr. Jelly, Joy, Mr. Lomax, Tealeaf et al - and while there are lots of good laughs in it, portions are genuinely bloody scary. This is amplified by watching it in the dark and on the big screen - but it has clearly been crafted by students of horror (a genre that I'm not too interested in) and students of comedy.
The interview portion is great fun too - with the likeable Reese Shearsmith slipping accidentally into certain characters and getting angry at internet trolls, among other things.
After the show, we're both very hungry - so we hit upon the idea of calling Jashan (Turnpike Lane's finest curry establishment) and placing a collection order before we get on the tube at Waterloo, meaning it's ready to pick up when we step off the Piccadilly Line 30 minutes later. We tuck into the curry at home, just in time to catch the Psychoville episode starting on TV! And I was right - it's not nearly as scary on telly (or, I suppose, for the second time in one evening).
We arrive at the BFI just before six having wandered happily from Oxford Circus through Covent Garden and across the bridge to the South Bank - and collect our ticket while the likes of Dawn French (in the show) and Richard Bacon (conducting the interview) wander around us. We take our seats in NFT1 which seems to be completely packed out and the episode is introduced. It takes the form of an hour-long portmanteau story featuring Mr. Jelly, Joy, Mr. Lomax, Tealeaf et al - and while there are lots of good laughs in it, portions are genuinely bloody scary. This is amplified by watching it in the dark and on the big screen - but it has clearly been crafted by students of horror (a genre that I'm not too interested in) and students of comedy.
The interview portion is great fun too - with the likeable Reese Shearsmith slipping accidentally into certain characters and getting angry at internet trolls, among other things.
After the show, we're both very hungry - so we hit upon the idea of calling Jashan (Turnpike Lane's finest curry establishment) and placing a collection order before we get on the tube at Waterloo, meaning it's ready to pick up when we step off the Piccadilly Line 30 minutes later. We tuck into the curry at home, just in time to catch the Psychoville episode starting on TV! And I was right - it's not nearly as scary on telly (or, I suppose, for the second time in one evening).
Sunday, 7 November 2010
Saturday 30th October
I'm not usually one for fancy dress or being particularly bothered about Halloween, but tonight is a party at Tristan's pub in Stockwell with the charming theme 'fucked up'. This is good, in that it allows me to put in the minimum of effort and dress up as a man called Damian Abraham from a band called, luckily, Fucked Up (pictured here). I don't know any of their music, but it's pretty easy to make myself look like him. So before Mike, Tim, Jenny, Nick and Rick come round I stick on a pair of shorts, a white t-shirt customised by K and a baseball cap - and the illusion is more or less complete. While we sit around drinking cans before heading out, I liberally apply fake blood to my forehead to Halloween-up proceedings. K, rather brilliantly, dresses as the infamous Cat Bin Lady in an old lady's dress and kitten-in-bin-bag accessory.
We head out to Stockwell at about 8, getting a fair few looks on the tube and surreptitiously drinking disguised Jack Daniels in water bottles. The pub is quiet when we arrive, but soon the Halloween pub quiz starts and later we watch a couple of middling bands while getting more and more drunk and taking pictures alongside Rick's giant polystyrene skull.
We leave Stockwell in good time for the last tube, stopping off at Big Red on the way through Holloway, which is, predictably, in full All Hallow's swing. The place is absolutely rammed but a display of magic and fire eating create a fun, festive atmosphere to soak up before we finally head home on the 29. I don't really do Halloween - and I don't think I'll ever enjoy dressing up - but this has been a fun one.
We head out to Stockwell at about 8, getting a fair few looks on the tube and surreptitiously drinking disguised Jack Daniels in water bottles. The pub is quiet when we arrive, but soon the Halloween pub quiz starts and later we watch a couple of middling bands while getting more and more drunk and taking pictures alongside Rick's giant polystyrene skull.
We leave Stockwell in good time for the last tube, stopping off at Big Red on the way through Holloway, which is, predictably, in full All Hallow's swing. The place is absolutely rammed but a display of magic and fire eating create a fun, festive atmosphere to soak up before we finally head home on the 29. I don't really do Halloween - and I don't think I'll ever enjoy dressing up - but this has been a fun one.
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