Invisible Stranger |
|
|
Collecting Crises on Old Compton Street and Beyond
Archives
Currently clicking:
Usually Playing:
|
Wednesday, April 30, 2003
Silver Medal
When I was a lad it was either Magpie or Blue Peter. Magpie was the one for all the trendy, popular kids, hoping for a glimpse of Sue Stranks bra-less. Blue Peter was reliable BBC sticky-backed cosiness with Val Singleton in a cardie. No prizes for guessing the one I watched. Always was a BP boy. Always will be, in fact. The only items I'd save from my burning flat are my Eric's tee-shirt, a bit of the Berlin Wall, and my two Blue Peter badges. I won the blue BP badge for successfully naming three of Petra's nine puppies (Candy, Kim and Peter, in case you're interested). That tiny plastic shield pinned to my blazer lapel made me a minor celeb at the local infants, but my boyish heart was set on bigger things. Three months later, and I had it. Shinier and far more exclusive than those tacky blue ones. A silver Blue Peter badge, sent to me after I'd posted the presenters a home-made Easter card, a hand-drawn pic of bunnies, tarted up with gold glitter, and finished off with a pink bow. Without even digging out the accompanying letter, I can still recall every single line: Thank you for your Easter card. Val, Chris and John think it is splendid and have pinned it up on the office wall for everyone to see. And they finished off with: PS As a reward we are sending you a silver Blue Peter badge, as we see from our files that you already have a blue one. Barely seven years old, and already I was filed, stamped, indexed and numbered. A former BP presenter has since confirmed to me that the production office keeps a note of every kid ever to have won a badge. It's almost forty years later, but I still get a warm feeling inside. Knowing that, somewhere in a dusty TV Centre office, there's a card-index recording the fact that Master Stranger, aged 6½, is the proud owner of not just one, but two Blue Peter badges. Tuesday, April 29, 2003
Let's Get Physical
All right Mr Well-Meaning Fitness Instructor, let's make a few things clear, shall we? Every weekday morning I get up at six, to be in the gym for seven. I go there for my health and to halt the inevitable approach of middle age. But mainly I go there to be certain in the knowledge that, should someone ever have the urge to rip off my tee-shirt in the middle of a crowded dancefloor, then they will not be disappointed. I do not go to the gym to have some Well-Meaning Fitness Instructor, who I have never seen before in my life, stride all the way from the far side of the Sports Hall, solely to tell me my lateral pull-down technique is one-hundred-per-cent wrong. And probably has been for the last ten years. Shy, self-conscious flower that I most certainly am, I spent the next ten minutes sure all the sports staff were watching and laughing at me, before finally throwing in the towel and hitting the showers. Which is why, my dears, I am posting this at 9.25 from work, and getting the grease from my bacon buttie all over the keyboard. Monday, April 28, 2003
Soho (Needless To Say)
Ever since the early-nineties, due in part to the pink push eastwards from the Earl's Court Road to Old Compton Street, London's Soho has been the centre of metro-hip, darlings. With that status have come ever-rising property prices, and the disappearance forever of one-off pubs and family-run businesses which have been around for generations. Much as I enjoy the delights Queer Town has to offer me, I find it sad that, pretty soon, much of Old Soho will have gone, and all we'll have left is some sort of sanitised gay theme park, where everyone will fit in perfectly as long as they're wearing the right label, flicking through the right mags, snorting the right drug, and holding a membership to the right club. But look hard enough, and you can still spot bits of old Soho peeking out through the glitz, valiantly holding their own against the Costas and Prêt à Mangers. Caffs and nosh bars, delis and drinking dens, still existing in a time-warp of the 1950s where Tommy Steele's playing the Two I's coffee house round the corner. The Coach and Horses belongs to that era. It's a seedy, messy pub – no, not a pub, but an honest-to-badness boozer - just off the main Soho drag. In the fifteen years I've been getting pissed there, I can't recall it being redecorated once; the ceiling is still the same shade of nicotine-brown it's always been. The formica-topped tables are rarely wiped clean, the ashtrays seldom emptied. You won't hear a juke-box or fruit-machine here, and I don't think I've ever spotted a Bacardi Breezer. You can get a door-stopper of a cheese sandwich for one quid, however. I like to go there during the day, long before the post-work gangs, the art students from St Martin's, and the pre-clubbers take it over, paying decent prices for surprisingly good wine, and rip-off prices for warm Stellas. By noon, the old soaks will already be stationed at their regular stools, sipping that second glass of malt. Later they'll watch the racing on the pub telly, while rolling Golden Virginia beneath the sign forbidding smoking in that part of the bar. Occasionally, for the price of a double Scotch-and-easy-on-the-soda, they'll tell me Stories. Stories of the skiffle-bars in the fifties, or the Vice in the sixties; Fleet Street in the seventies when some of them got sacked and never held down a proper job again. Remembering Jeff, their best-known regular, or gossiping fondly about "Helen of Troy" and her drinking club; laughing about No-Knickers Joyce. Or usually just slagging off Norman Balon, famously the rudest landlord in London, but one who’s always ready to lend his regulars a couple of quid, "and you'll f**king pay it back with interest by Tuesday, you bastard." Gents, every single one of them, even the red-nosed old roués, making it, so I'm told, one of the few London pubs where a single women isn't made to feel uncomfortable. Or a single bender, for that matter. In twenty years' time, when you come looking for me, forget about The Edge, or Bar Code. You can even pass on Comptons,with its posh new polished wooden floor. I'll see you in the Coach. And mine's a double. And then I'll tell you Stories. . . Sunday, April 27, 2003
All Alone Am I
Invisible Stranger wakes up early on a lovely Sunday morning. For once, Invisible Stranger feels clear-headed and as fresh as a daisy. My, what a queer feeling that is! Invisible Stranger rubs Mr Sandman's sleepy-dust out of his eyes, and then gets up and skips merrily off into his lovely little kitchen to make himself a scrumptiously healthy breakfast. Invisible Stranger is happily singing a happy song, because he is just so happy. And what could be making Invisible Stranger so happy? you may ask. Why, because Invisible Stranger decided not to go to any of those nasty dancey places last night and have a nasty dancey time with all his nasty dancey friends. No, instead, Invisible Stranger was very grown-up and stayed in his lovely little home, trying to laugh at the lovely Jack and Karen Show on his lovely little video-machine. Oh, Invisible Stranger has been such a good and lovely and boring little boy! And now Invisible Stranger is wondering why all his nasty dancey friends, who went to all those nasty dancey places last night, aren't answering their phones. Silly Invisible Stranger! Saturday, April 26, 2003
Goin' Back To My Roots
It could be the growing spectre of middle-age. Or simply the realisation that, as an only child, the pedigree ends with me. In the past month, I've been tracing my family tree, trying to put names and dates to all the people who, in some way, have made me what I am. Despite being a bunch of breeding-like-rabbits Lancs/ Irish Catholics, my parents' siblings were never ones for staying in touch or keeping records. Almost all of them are dead now anyway. So, for the facts, my main source material has been the staggering amount of info available in the 1901 census returns at the Public Records Office. Several pleasant G&T-sozzled evenings with Mum have provided loads of the long-forgotten goss. Bit by bit, I'm starting to put the flesh of fact onto family legends. So, the story that an anonymous ancestor has a statue dedicated to him in a park in Cork seems to be a myth. And despite my nanna's remarkable resemblance to the late Queen Mum, I regret the Bowes-Lyon connection has to be ruled out. But I've discovered two uncles I never knew existed; and Cathleen (who they didn't talk about after That Divorce); and, just possibly, my paternal great-grandfather. As well as flame-haired Catherine, considered such a beauty in the 1880s that the jealous Paddy never let her out alone. John, just nineteen, dead at Ypres. Edna, who changed her name to Judy Gray and tried to make it big on the stage. Fred, who did make it big - in fish. And Isabella, wilful mill-owner's daughter from Chorley, disowned by her family when she married beneath her. The 1901 census tells me that, as a widow, she was forced to take in as boarders two circus clowns. And then there was Thomas. Fine figure of a man, by all accounts. Winning ways, to-die-for smile. All the lasses from miles around were half in love with our Tommy, but, oh no, he wasn't interested. He went off to be a sailor instead. Later they heard he'd taken the boat to America to become an actor. Surprisingly, he never married. Hmmm… I wonder what happened to him? Friday, April 25, 2003
Out On A Limerick
It's all Troubled Diva's fault, of course, although I think LondonMark should share some of the blame. So here goes: "There was a young blogger called Stranger (The strange subterranean spinning sound you hear is this gentleman turning in his grave.) Thursday, April 24, 2003
The Sound Of Silence
What to do when the entire IT system of a major international company crashes on Thursday afternoon: make half-hearted effort to clear up outstanding paperwork; construct five-metre daisy-chain from paper-clips; cheer, upon discovering you can still play Minesweeper; read this week's Popbitch; piss off to pub. What to do when you arrive home to discover there was a power cut earlier today: reset kitchen clock; reset microwave (badly); reset central heating timer; reset alarm-clock; for six a.m., I'll have you know; reset VCR; pull strop when you realise you've missed tonight's EastEnders; reset digital ansaphone; realise that he could have left a message and now you'll never know; curse all things digital; piss off to reliably analogue pub. What to do when, having been told to turn off all the lights and power at your local radio station late one night, you end up pulling one lever too many, and take BBC Radio 2 off the air throughout the entire North-West (population: a mere 4 million) for the next twenty minutes: Leave North-West for good, piss off to London, keep quiet for next twenty years. (And the sad thing is that no-one noticed. Radio 2 going off the air, that is.) Wednesday, April 23, 2003
Master of the Universe
For a time I was professionally involved, in various ways, with cult telly programme, Doctor Who. And that is how I ended up at Birmingham airport driving a Dalek. The airport was host to a children's book festival, and, for some reason, felt the presence of a Dalek would encourage the little angels to read more sci-fi. The budget didn't stretch to hiring a professional Dalek operator. Even if it had, it wouldn't have happened. Give a "resting" actor some gainful employment? Or let a big kid like me drive the thing? No contest. The Dalek made its own way up to Brum, hidden under a tarpaulin in the back of a lorry The tarpaulin seemed a good idea. The last thing you need when you're doing 70-plus on the motorway is seeing the galaxy's meanest motherf**ker cutting you up on the outside lane. Down in the airport loading bay, a special screen had been set up, to conceal the Dalek's arrival from any passing kids. It was all about maintaining the illusion. A Dalek, as everyone surely knows, is a mutant blob of alien hatred, housed in a travel machine made of bonded polycarbite armour, and landing in a flying saucer. It is most definitely not a piece of tat hired from BBC Props, its wooden panels chipped and warped, crying out for a fresh lick of Dulux, and brought in by Rent-A-Van. The deadliest creature in the universe comes in two parts for quick 'n' easy self-assembly. There's the slatted "skirt" with the bumpy bits and the rubber fender round the base; and the top half with its gun-stick, sink plunger and eyestalk. The operator perches on a tiny splintered cross-bench in the bottom half, which is open to the floor. You're positioned in such a way that, as you start walking, your knees are forced against the inside of the casing, pushing the Dalek forwards. Stripped down to shorts, vest and knee-pads (driving Daleks is sweaty work), you climb in, and the top bit is lowered over you. It's surprisingly roomy inside; there's even a ledge to rest your Evian bottle. There isn't any claustrophobia either: the grille around the Dalek is made so you can see out, but others can't see in. And, as your hands are going to be pretty busy manipulating that gun and sucker-arm, a leather strap dangles in front of you. Grab that by your teeth, and the eye-stick it's attached to will wiggle up and down. By this time I was beginning to have second thoughts. Was this something a grown-man really should be doing? But this Dalek was fearless; this Dalek wasn't going to chicken out now. I was manoeuvred into the service lift (the stairs were out of the question for obvious reasons), the floor button was punched, and I was taken up to the airport's main concourse. The doors opened, and, as my Dalek embarked on its initial attempt at world domination, it made its only mistake. The large castors fixed round the fender make moving over flat surfaces relatively easy. Too easy, in fact. My space-invader gathered speed down the steep slope. That was when I discovered Daleks do not have brakes, and narrowly managed to stop crashing into a display of Terry Pratchetts. I soon got the hang of it though, gliding around the room in a circle, clinically regarding the humans through my eye lens, sweeping my blaster menacingly in their direction. And what, just a few minutes ago, had been a decidedly shabby and static prop, had with new-found mobility become the Star Attraction of the airport. Foreign tourists, just out of Arrivals, stared, shook their heads uncomprehendingly, and shrugged on their way. Check-in girls deserted their desks to catch a look. Grizzled old baggage-handlers ran over, eyes green with jealousy. Can I play? Can I play? Oh, please, I wanna play too! Even the flight announcers got in on the act, with a dead-pan request over the PA for the Dalek on Level One to return to Passport Control immediately. And of course, the kids loved it. Crowding round me, then racing away, when I threatened to blast them into oblivion. And when the inevitable smart-alec brat decided there was really a man in there, he became my quarry for the rest of the afternoon. I chased him past book displays, in W.H. Smith and the airport bar, through sliding doors, only stopping when I managed to pin him against a wall and get him really worried. And every single person in that airport got out of my way. You do not mess with Daleks. And when the kids had been bundled home, the book-displays packed away, I was still there, prowling the concourse of Birmingham Airport. I'd've stayed all night if they'd had let me. In the end, they had to drag me out of that thing, dripping with sweat, half-a-stone lighter, my knees bloodied and bruised, and a perfectly insane grin on my face. I don't know how many books were sold that day. But I do know that, for one glorious, megalomaniac afternoon, I was Master of the Universe. And I could have exterminated anyone I wanted to. Tuesday, April 22, 2003
Ain't Got No…
They say she was a bitch to work with, and certainly seemed to treat her audiences with contempt, making them wait hours before even setting foot on stage. Her behaviour was apparently so atrocious she was banned from ever returning to top Soho jazz spot Ronnie Scott's. Yet that voice sent shivers down the spine, and made you forgive her anything. Just listen to "Strange Fruit", her take on Billie Holliday's song about a lynching in the American Deep South. Her delivery, one of barely-suppressed rage, accompanied by her own solo piano, leaves you stunned and gasping for breath. So RIP, Nina Simone. We won't see the likes of her again. Sunday, April 20, 2003
Get Out Of The Groove
Today, Madonna (popular singer) releases her latest CD. It is called American Life. It is: one of the best things she's ever done/ an intimate love-letter to Guy and the kids/ her very own personal manifesto/ a guaranteed get-'em-on-the-dancefloor crowd-pleaser/ fantastic showcase for the talents of Mirwais Ahmadzai/ enjoyable if not essential/ better than Music/ the beginning of the end/ crap. (Delete where applicable.) Now, my dears, can all of us - myself included - go off and blog about something much more interesting? Thank You Very Much.
Broadway Baby
I've been a bit depressed the past couple of weeks. (Reasons, my dears, Reasons.) Nothing too serious. But this morning the Black Dog bit me pretty hard. However, personal experience has proved no-one can remain down for long when drinking Moët and/ or tap-dancing. The first option was out, so I put on "Tap Your Troubles Away" from Mack and Mabel, and, like the song advises, danced 'cross the floor, till my ankles got sore. You know what? It worked. So, of course, one thing led to another. Annie ("The Sun'll Come Out Tomorrow"). Gypsy ("Everything's Coming Up Roses"). Even (and may God forgive me for this) The Sound of Music ("I Have Confidence In Me"). It was only halfway through me and the Hairbrush lip-synching the entire score of Hairspray, that I realised the three snotty-nosed kids from across the road were sniggering at the Funny Man in the Ground-Floor Flat. And like the Camp Queen I can sometimes play to perfection, I just carried on. So, I suppose you can stop worrying about me. Looks like I'm on the mend.. Saturday, April 19, 2003
Undress Me
The big, black motherf**ker in the uniform and his lean, hot stud of a companion called me over. They glanced towards the half-open doorway. The look in their eyes told me what they had in mind for me. "You. Inside there. Now." Trembling with anticipation, I entered the room. They followed. They locked the door. Then the black dude spoke: "Right, big boy, pull them trousers down, and bend over.". . . OK! Woah! Steady on there! Remember where you are! Before I get carried away, and allow this to descend into a really naff porno, can I just point out that all of the above is true? Well, apart from the "big boy" bit, that is. I'd just got off the KLM from Amsterdam, and was passing through Customs, when I was pulled over. I thought things were a bit odd when the official didn't even look in my rucksack, but gruffly asked me to come with him and a (cute) colleague to a small anteroom. (They have to do these things in twos, apparently, so that when you go to Court, one of them can say that, no, his mate didn't kick the living shit out of you.) Now, I hadn't slept for three days, and looked a bit rough. But did they seriously think I was daft enough to smuggle Class As into Heathrow - and from Amsterdam of all places? Obviously they did, because after the usual questions of Where Do You Live, Sir? and What Do You Do For A Living, Sir?, Butch One (Bad Cop) said: "So - what you carrying?" "Don't know what you mean," I replied, knowing what he meant. "You mean, you went to Amsterdam, and didn't smoke nothing?" "I don't smoke," I replied, resisting the attempt to correct the double negative, and then lied: "No." Cute One (Good Cop) smiled: "Betcha had a great time out there, though, didncha, mate?" I smiled back at him, and relaxed. Hey! Here was a nice guy, after all! "Yeah. You know what it’s like, did a few clubs - " "Wicked. Any I'd know? No, suppose not... Look, mate, pain in the ass, but, see, we gotta do this, so, can you take off your shoes?" "Yeah, 'course, no problem, mate." While Good-and-Cute Cop searched in my Converse trainers for whatever Good-and-Cute Cops usually search for in Converse trainers, Bad Cop had reached into my bag and was now flicking through my Filofax. "Nothing here is private. Sir," was his sneering reply to my protest. That did it. Cue major Queeny Strop: Oh-yeah-get-real-like-I-really-keep-the-phone-numbers-of-my-preferred-Columbian-drug-barons-in-the-Filo-do-I? Guess what? Bad move. Good-and-Cute-Cop slams down my Converses and turns into Bad Cop Number Two. Bad Cop Number One tells me to take down my 501s and Calvins. Bad Cop Number Two reaches into a drawer and takes out a pair of rubber gloves. Tells me to bend over. Bad Cop Number Two starts to probe around in - well, you can guess where. Oh f**k, they're going to find something, I think. I'm going to go down for a really, really long time. I'd heard the horror stories. On her return from India, an acquaintance, a recovering smack-addict, had been held on a loo at Heathrow for eight hours, while they waited for her to dump the plastic bags of heroin she hadn't swallowed. And then reality hits in. There's absolutely nothing for them to find. And sure enough, after what seemed like an hour, but was probably only a couple of seconds, carried out to teach me a lesson for being so lippy, I was told to stand up, button up, and sign a book to say I was satisfied my "interview" had been carried out with all due and proper procedure. By then I would have signed anything. I laugh at it now, but, at the time, I felt violated. And though I had been a good boy and wasn't smuggling any hash through Customs, I was made to feel as guilty as hell. So, my dears, if you want anything back from my next trip to Amsterdam, you'll have to settle for a postcard Friday, April 18, 2003
Let The Sunshine In
Whenever I'm schmoozing through London's Covent Garden I take a detour down Shelton Street. The top end of it, just off Drury Lane, is an uninspiring, dark and dingy alleyway. There's a bog-standard supermarket at one end, the side-entrance to some offices halfway down, and a couple of parked motorbikes at the other end. You'd normally pass through it without a second thought. Until you see them, painted white against the black bricks. Two lines of neat, painstakingly-formed, close-set, upper-case letters. The opening two verses of "Let The Sunshine In" from hippy musical Hair. WE STARVE, LOOK AT ONE ANOTHER SHORT OF BREATH, WALKING PROUDLY IN OUR WINTER COATS, WEARING SMELLS FROM LAB'RATORIES, FACING A DYING NATION OF MOVING PAPER FANTASY, LIST'NING FOR THE NEW TOLD LIES WITH SUPREME VISIONS OF LONELY TUNES. SOMEWHERE, INSIDE SOMETHING, THERE IS A RUSH OF GREATNESS. WHO KNOWS WHAT STANDS IN FRONT OF OUR LIVES; I FASHION MY FUTURE ON FILMS IN SPACE. SILENCE TELLS ME SECRETLY EVERYTHING, EVERYTHING. They've been on that same old wall for at least the fifteen years I know of. Probably a lot more. I like to think they go right back to '68 when Hair played down the road at the Shaftesbury. They have never faded. Occasionally other graffiti is sprayed onto the wall, usually of the Shaz + Jez 4 Ever variety. Never anywhere near those lyrics. And in a couple of weeks Shaz + Jez will have been cleaned off by the council anyway. Again, never those lyrics. Who painted them? When? Why? Does some crusty ex-hippy come by every couple of months to touch them up? Is there some sort of Preservation Order on them to protect them from the Camden Council Clean-Up Squad? I'd love to know. Or would I? Sometimes, it's little mysteries like that which make life fun. Thursday, April 17, 2003
Rebel, Rebel
"Due to Friday being a bank holiday, I confirm that Thursday will be classed as a 'dress down day'. As is the usual for those taking part clothing should be 'smart casual'. Jeans, trainers and other similar items of clothing are not regarded as acceptable." Wise up, old love. "Smart casual" is the best you get from me any day of the week. Won't do ties. Or suits. Still haven't figured out what cufflinks are for. In the button-lipped, uptight, professional world in which I currently work, I probably only get away with ignoring the suit-and-tie rule because of my cheeky-chappie, cute-as-a-button charm — — hello? Is there anyone out there who would like to back me up on that one? There is? Cheers. Thanks, Mum.— because of my cheeky-chappie, cute-as-a-button charm, and the fact I rarely have client contact with the outside world. And yes, I think that, secretly, everyone likes having a pet eccentric enfant terrible around, an unpredictable court jester who's also wise enough to know when not to rock the boat too much. So, today, as on every other day when I am encouraged to do "smart-casual", I am sporting a crisply-laundered collar and tie. Next dress-down day, I may even get that old Hugo Boss back from the dry-cleaners. There. That'll show 'em. That'll really get up their respectable, corporate noses, that will. Wednesday, April 16, 2003
What's Cookin'
One good thing about a social life spent largely in The impromptu meal-out is trickier. Call me old-fashioned, but I still reckon eating alone in restaurants is Sad. A little pre-planning is required. So you call Friend One, who's in the area but only up for one drink and then home. Friend Two switches to voicemail because he still hasn't forgiven you for last weekend. Friend Three is broke; and Friend Four is on a no-carbs, lean-protein, wheat-free diet, and doesn't like red wine anyway, so exactly what fun is he going to be? Getting desperate now, you ring the Foodie. She's never been known to turn down the suggestion of Snuffy's Chicken at Steph's, a pricey but perfect monkfish at Alastair Little's, or barbequed spare ribs at Joe Allen. "Hey, hi, it's me. Where are you now?" "Rue royale, with the Architect. Just off for a bite to eat at Maxims. Ciao." It is at moments like these that I hate my friends. Sometimes, Comptons and a bag of chips are Simply Not Enough. Tuesday, April 15, 2003
Getting A Drag
I don't smoke. Never have done. Apart from the occasional "funny" cigarette, which doesn't count. Although why it shouldn't count I'm not sure. Perhaps it's something to do with the communal passing around of the spliff, which makes the illicit act not quite as bad as the perfectly legal, but shamefully solitary, indulgence of the lone fag-addict. Never had the desire to, either. At school, the kids who did were the ones I'd been told always to avoid. They were the hard nuts who weren't going to pass their exams; whose parents were "common" (even though they lived in nicer houses than ours); and who took it in turns to snog the slapper from 3C round the back of the bike shed after Friday's RE lesson. And I didn't want to be part of that gang, thank you very much. As I grew older, I started to realise that maybe nice people smoked as well. People like Marlene, plumes of blue smoke curling seductively heavenwards. Or James Dean, little boy lost, sexy epitome of cool, a Lucky Strike between his fingers. Still I couldn't bring myself to take that first drag, That association with the "bad boys" lingered, especially when I learnt what little Jimmy really liked to do with those Lucky Strikes. And I'll have you know I've tried. One particularly reflective and melancholic night, I sat by the banks of the Thames, listening to the river gently lapping the shore. The stars shone down; the moon was full and bright. The image was perfect: me, the Young Romantic Hero, staring into the distance, contemplating the absurd futility of his own existence. And what was missing from that picture? On the table lay a pack of full-strength Camels, left by a friend. I reached out to pick up the packet, experienced the pleasure of crackling open that cellophane wrapping. Flicked the carton, pulled out a slim, elegant tube of delight; raised it to my lips, savoured that mellow nuttiness, a teasing foretaste of what was to come. ("Strike a pose – there's nothing to it.") Lit it. Sucked. Took a deep, dizzying drag of what I had been told could be that most exquisite of all pleasures. And after I'd retched my guts, mostly over my Armani jeans, I picked myself up off the floor. And it was at this point, my dears, that I finally came to terms with the fact that, sadly, I was just not cut out to be the Young Romantic Hero. Or even a Really Bad Boy. Monday, April 14, 2003
You Could Have Said…
It was a quiet place, once. Idyllic even. A welcome and much-needed retreat from the cold, cruel demands of an uncaring corporate world. A secret place, whose address was revealed to but a select few. Those who knew its location would always be dropping by. They'd chat together, sharing confidences. Sometimes they'd tell each other jokes. Nothing too risqué, you understand. No, their world was an old-fashioned one of charm and gentility and studied elegance. It was a world about to be changed forever. For one of the friends kept a journal. And, just over a month ago, that friend decided to put his journal on-line. And, in so doing, he made the whole world aware of his own private little place. And now? Ping! Spam to the left of me. Ping! Spam to the right of me. Ping! Ping! PING! Spam pouring out of every single bloody orifice you can think of… Sunday, April 13, 2003
Pleasant Valley Sunday
Um… Well... Errr, look, I mean, it’s a Sunday after all, innit, give us a break, like, well, y'know, Day of Rest and all that, I mean, like, I really dunno…. - Right. Pull yourself together. Put down that fourth pint of Stella. No. Now. Thank you. Let's look at the options, shall we? For starters: what about those "oh-just-a-couple-of-drinks" you had at the Stanley yesterday with Lord and Lady Macbeth? Then going back, five hours later, to theirs and finally meeting Pushkin after all this time? And then ending up at the French Bar? Naaah. No-one would believe me. Apart from the Met, that is. Anyway, if I did write about that, then who would get to hear about me and the Dalek at Birmingham Airport ? - Good point. But only a few thousand spotty Anoraks, and several traumatised children, would be interested in that anyway. I know what! You could be Really-Up-To-Date and discuss today's Observer e-mail interview with Matthew Branton, and his spot-on analysis of the state of British culture instead! Couldn't you? Yeah. Guess so. Bit too arty though, isn't it? Especially for a Sunday. I know: maybe to wind up Bitful and the brick in their valiant efforts to give up the Killer Weed, I could talk about that night of the Full Moon when I bought a packet of Full-Strength Camels, sat down in Saint Katharine's with a voddie and coke, and tried to cultivate a serious smoking habit. - Yeeees. Like the Linky-Linkiness of that, I have to say. My word, you are getting into the spirit of this old blogging thing, aren't you? Charming. So charming. Community and all that. But, in the end, we have to come back to Nicotine…A bit too Controversial, don't you think? Tell you what, why don't you write about those safety-pinned times you and Eric had in Mathew Street? Possible. I'll have to ring up Pete and Ian and Jayne and a few others. See if they can remember what I've forgotten. But in the meantime, I could still talk about music, couldn't I? What about the new Sevara Nazarkhan album? - Sorry, my darling, but haven't you just gone and told everyone the first band you ever saw live were the New Seekers? OK. Point made. No-one would take me seriously… Hey! Here's an idea! Let's all be really brave and venture South-of-the-River, and catch the Dame Edna Experience at the Vauxhall! If I really behaved myself, I'd remember all about it in the morning and then I could write about that. - Sorry, sweetheart. Already been done. (And, dare I say it, a tad better than you ever could.) Try and be a bit more original, will you? OK. All right. Got it now. Just get this one. This is really going to knock their blogging socks off. That incident with Me, the Hairbrush, the Rent Boy and the Polish Punter. No? … Well, what about Me, the Changing Rooms and the Man with the Arsenal Tattoo? You mean. everyone's already heard about that one as well? … My Rectal Examination at Heathrow Airport? The Pesto Scenario on Bleeker Street? The Chanel Number Five Gambit on the 207 from Ealing? Oh, sod it. You think of something for me to write about. I'm going to the pub. (Yep. You've guessed it. Blog Block.) Friday, April 11, 2003
My One And Only
New as I am to this rather satisfying on-line nonsense, I do, however, realise that there are certain Rites of Passage one must undergo before being admitted to even the lower echelons of the Blogaratti. With this in mind, I present for the first, and - I promise - very last time, this Friday's Five. 1. What was the first band you saw in concert? Oh, don't really do concerts these days, y'know. Yeah, much prefer the pristine, studied clarity of a CD to the uncertain immediacy of a live event. - That's not answering the question. What was the first band you saw in concert? Look, it was a long time ago, my mum told me Marc Bolan was common, and Bowie was "One Of Them". Choices were limited for a good Catholic boy back then. - That is not what I asked. What was the first band you ever saw in concert? OK, I heard you the first time. All right, if I must: it was this bunch of flared, feather-cut, clean-living, primary-colour-wearing boys-and-girls-next-door. Ah, Eve, Lyn, Peter, Paul and (especially, oh yes, especially) Marty, to love you and your well-scrubbed harmonies today would be regarded as ironic. In 1972 it just got me picked on and called a puff at school. In mitigation, may I point out that I was thirteen at the time, and still hadn't started shaving? 2. Who is your favourite artist/band now? My dears, I am now a true Renaissance Man, a sophisticate, if you really want to know, who currently partakes of such eclectic and recherché musical delights as mad Americans, trendy minimalists, 60s survivors, and dead German divas… And, yeah, er, Kylie, as well…. 3. What's your favourite song? "Three Wheels On My Wagon" by the New Christie Minstrels. Only because it's the very first song I ever recall hearing as a child, probably on Radio Caroline, and introduced, no doubt, by Tony Blackburn. A rollabout, drunken saloon-bar singalong, with daft and slightly dodgy lyrics which are, most certainly, the root cause of my present enduring love for cowboy songs and saloon bars. 4. If you could play any instrument, what would it be? A tenor sax. Wailing for a lost love that never comes again. On a rain-swept night, somewhere near the Champs-Elysées. With Miles Davis on trumpet. And Jeanne Moreau in the starring role. If I had my way, my entire life would be a film noir played out to the sound of a solo saxophone.. 5. If you could meet any musical icon (past or present), who would it be and why? Icons belong in Russian Orthodox Churches. That is where they should remain. OK. Friday Five done. Normal service tomorrow, my dears. Thursday, April 10, 2003
Miss Manners
Please. Please. Please. Please. Please. May I? May I? May I? May I? May I? Thank You. Thank You. Thank You. Thank You. Thank You. No. It's all right. Feel free to have one of mine. As you have so obviously used up your own monthly allowance already... Wednesday, April 09, 2003
Pump Up The Volume
There's been a change of muzak down the gym. We now have a choice of three soundtracks, appropriate to our location, and what we're doing at the time. In the changing rooms, lightweight classical is now being played. Schubert, Strauss, maybe a little Satie. It's a soothing and civilised way of easing yourself either into or out of a strenuous workout. Over in the main sports hall, there's a live feed of Heart FM. All the latest hits to relieve the tedium and frustration of cycling ten miles on an exercise bike to arrive precisely nowhere. And down in the testosterone-charged and ever-so-butch Free Weights Room, we now lift our barbells to a backing track of mid-80s pop-rock. The crashing beats of a choice Duran Duran or the histrionics of a Jim Steinman collaboration are surprisingly good in helping you focus on those lunges and bicep curls. Until this morning, that is, when, to spite us all, some vicious little queen put a different tape onto the sound system. Do you realise just how much of a Nelly I felt, pumping serious iron to Wham!'s "Wake Me Up (Before You Go-Go)"?
I Am A Cliché
"Guardian then, is it, my love?" This woman has never seen me before in her life. In fact, this is the first time I have ever bought my morning newspaper from her newsstand. Do I really look that much like your typical Guardian reader? Tuesday, April 08, 2003
I Love A Piano
Way back in the Olden Days, when Soho was still raunchy and disreputable, I was a late-night regular at a tatty little joint called the Piano Bar. You'll have seen it. In the 80s, every video, every telly, every single photo ever shot in Soho at night, seemed obliged to show a glimpse of its tacky façade. Look! There it is now! On the corner. See it? Its name outlined in flashing pink neon. Past the hot-dog stand, next to Madame Jo-Jo's, across the alley from Raymond's Revue Bar (Live Bed Show! Exotic Dancing Girls! Full-Frontal Nudity!). Come on. Don't be scared. Just hand over your one-quid at the door and either Bill the bouncer or his missus will let us in. Sometimes, Bill turns people away. Not us. He knows me. Bundled me into a cab once when I was too drunk to stand. Whoops! Watch that step. Yeah, it is dark in here, isn't it? Mind that sticky patch of carpet. No, it’s nothing special. Barely the size of your mum's living-room. Look, here's a couple of quid. Go over to the bar and get us two cans of Pils from Gloria Passage. Yeah, guy in the white satin shorts. Oh, and don’t forget the straws. Cheers. Kind of empty, but, it's only half-ten. The background muzak? Sondheim, I think. Kander & Ebb? Could be Rodgers & Hammerstein. Hard to tell when your sound system consists of two manky speakers and a beaten-up cassette deck, isn't it? Those two? Seen the one in the leather jacket before. Yeah, him with the acne and the bum-fluff. Comes in with a different "uncle" every night. They never stay long. Can't imagine where they get off to. It 's only just gone eleven, but I reckon you ought to grab us a couple of them stools by the piano. Me, I'll get more Pils. Geezer in the white jacket who just waved at us? Bob, the toilet attendant. To make sure people don't shag in the loos, of course. Filling up nicely now. Comptons and the Golden Lion have chucked out, you see. Nowhere else to go. All the lost and wasted of Soho wind up here eventually anyway. Camp queens and their fag-hags. "Theatricals". Skinheads. Film editors from Wardour Street clocking off for the day. Even Sharon from EastEnders was in here the other night. Neil Tennant, too. Had a really cute boy in tow. See that guy in the camel coat with the gold jewellery and the cigar? Stay clear of him, mate. Just in case, you understand. Three years in Pentonville for aggravated GBH. Nah. One of the nicest blokes I've met in here. Usually. No, that's a man. Madame Jo-Jo herself. From the Philippines. Killer legs, aren't they? Runs the posh drag club downstairs (strictly for tourists, and overpriced, at two quid a drink, but, if you want, I'll get you in for free later). One-time porno boss turned property tycoon, Paul Raymond, owns both places. He slips in here now and again to listen to the act. Always polite. Keeps himself to himself, nursing a whisky and coke. Told you. Those stools get taken really quickly, don't they? Already fifteen of us perched at the piano. Though him next to me, well, he looks like he's going to fall off any second now. There. Told you he would. Yeah, get two more Pils in, will you? It’s midnight, and the show's about to start. And here's Ziggy Cartier (Steve, actually), making her grand entrance. Mwah, mwah, darling, how are you? Yeah, I know her wig's too blonde and bouffant, and that scarlet number's too spangley and clingy by half. Nice boobs though. She'll be singing here tonight, accompanied by the lovely Nigel on piano. Ziggy will do a few numbers in that husky, twenty-Woodbines-a-day voice of hers: "Gee, But It's Good To Be Here"; maybe "I'm Just A Girl Who Can't Say No"; definitely "The Vatican Rag". Whatever. We know all the words and we’re already singing along. A bit of foul-mouthed bitching and then she'll encourage the punters to come up and have a go themselves. Cute Jewish Michael will do his party-piece of "Hava Nageela Hava". A bunch of West End chorus-boyz usually mince in after work, and they'll take a turn at the mike. And, if you’re really lucky, that beautiful boy with the blow-job lips will do his amazing rendition of "Un bel di" from Madame Butterfly. Intermission now. Time to get another coupla cans. Those boys in fishnets and stilettos? They’re the Barbettes, the bar-staff from downstairs on their break. And that over made-up, over-dressed, Captain-Pugwash-in-a-frock lookalike? Ruby Venezuela. Best pair of lungs in the biz, she has. Now there's a turn up for the books. Not. That rancid tart from the Dilly hasn't just gone and passed out again, has she? Should've seen Dave. He can get you some speed, or that new ecstasy stuff they’re writing about in The Face. Huh! Sez he's straight. Didn't stop him posing for that sleazy w**k mag, did it? He'll get up and do a song later too. Does a nice "Delilah", does our Dave. Straight, my ass… Y'all right? Look a bit queasy, thass'all. Aww, c'mon, one little more Pils wone hurtcha, will't? See? Shhbetter, already, isshn't it? Yessh, lessh'all sing along with Ziggy: "If I can maaaaaake it therrrrrre, I'll maaaaake it any-wherrrrrrrre." …"And when I diiee I'm go-o-ing like Elllllll-sie…" Come on, it’s a laff, innit? Whaddya mean? Three o'clock, already. F**k, I'm shit-faced. What we need is a fry-up. Less' juss go 'long with Ziggy and Gloria and the Barbettes to Harry's All-Night Caff round the corner. You coming? Yeah, great night. F**king ace. We doing it again, tomorrow? Today Soho is Queer Central, the Homopolis of gay style and sophistication. Seedy little drinking dens have given way to bright spacious bars. Ziggy's left us for good, as have Bob, and Nigel at the piano. And you can walk hand-in-hand with your boyfriend down Old Compton Street and not get your head kicked in, most of the time. And the Piano Bar itself has been bought and transformed into a gay dance bar called Escape. The lay-out of the new bar is much the same, but now the Show Tunes have been replaced by House music. We drink Smirnoff Ices there, rather than cans of Pils, And instead of Rent Boys on the make, you'll probably bump into a couple of perfectly pleasant, well-educated, off-duty Escorts. It's all for the best, probably, and you'll occasionally find me there on a Saturday night. It's a well-toned member of the Soho scene; a great place to rev yourself up before your weekend clubbing; where the party-people are predictably beautiful and impeccably dressed; and where the buzz is fabulous (absolutely), and the pose always just so. And it's at times like this, my dears, that I really, really miss the old Piano Bar. Monday, April 07, 2003
Jealous Guy
I live in a slightly run-down area of North London, one which Estate Agents are trying hard to describe as "up-and-coming". To prove their point, over the last couple of years, a number of run-down pubs or industrial premises have been taken over, gutted, and converted into "Manhattan-style lofts". There's one just round the corner from me. Every night, on the way from the bus-stop, I walk past its first-floor windows. And look in. The blinds are never drawn. The lights always on. Surely that's what I'm expected to do? This apartment is an ad straight out of wallpaper* magazine. High white walls, decorated with vibrant examples of modern art. Black leather sofas, expressly fashioned for seduction. A kitchen, which has never fried an egg in its life, all sleek chrome modernity. Three people live here. One a statuesque ebony beauty, dressed in the colours of an African Queen. Another a hunky Italian-paparazzo type, straggly jet-black hair, permanent one-day-stubble, stylishly-crumpled white Comme des Garçonsshirt. The third slightly older, tall and tanned, with a greying Number Three crop; black Nehru suits and chunky silver rings. Occasionally they have their immaculately-turned-out friends around, where they sip at cocktails and eat dainty amuse-gueules off silver platters served by staff from the agency. They do not watch EastEnders on their plasma TV. And they have never dropped by Ali's kebab shop down the road. I am neither convinced nor amused. This is N7. And we have our standards. They are not Real. They're just Show-People, doing Show-Things, in a Show-Flat. Those Estate Agents don't fool me. Sunday, April 06, 2003
Love Letters
The Big Read, the BBC's search for the UK's best-loved book, was launched last night. You've until 19 April to cast your vote. Then the results will be trimmed down to a Top Ten, and the Number One voted on later this year. Steps have been taken to prevent block or automated voting. Don't worry. We'll have solved that problem by tomorrow evening. If the aim is to encourage reading, then hip-hip-hooray. But if it's to give us a nail-biting piece of must-watch telly, it's pretty pointless. We all know who's going to win, don't we? So, Messieurs, mesdames, place those sure-fire bets now! For in that Top Ten of the Nation's Best-Loved will be: • Lord of the Rings. Controversially, Waterstone's Best Novel of the Twentieth Century. Which it's not. Because there isn't one. Still, Peter Jackson's finest ever. Oops… er… oh, you mean, he didn't…? • That book based on that thing by Kate Bush. • Some cosy, rose-tinted bit of kids' lit, so excruciatingly twee in its Englishness that sergeant-majors have been known to break down and weep over their cluster-bombs. Ah. That'll be Wind in the Willows then. • • Lucky Jim. New prime-time Telly adaptation of this one coming up next Friday. Could just make Number One, punters. • Something by That Woman. I will not even dignify her pusillanimous prose with a link. She's mentioned at least five times on the BBC website. That's twenty times too many. • Pride and Prejudice Or anything with nice frocks, dashing rogues, and Colin Firth. • There's bound to be a dark horse. Otherwise what's the point of coming up with a way of getting round that block votes thing? So, if they are to be treated as one volume, I'm placing all my Pan-Galactic Gargle-Blasters on Hitch-Hikers' Guide to the Galaxy. My own favourite tends to change, according to mood. But forced to pick just one book, it would have to be Derek Marlowe's Do You Remember England?, a beautifully-crafted, bitter-sweet elegy for the lost dreams of youth. It's been out of print for years and years and years. Course it has. Never been on the telly, has it? Saturday, April 05, 2003
Dangling Conversation
"Yeah-yeah-yeah, Lisa, know whatcha-sayin', but, like, it's the Same Old Story all over again, innit? Hear wot I'm sayin'? You hear wot I'm sayin'? Er, Hello, Leece, this is me you're speakin' to, Do-You-Hear-What-I-Am-Saying? Right. Nah, 's OK. Yeah, I know, but he's a grown man, in'e? You don't have to be his nappy-changer any more. Know-wot-I-mean? Jus' go do it. 'course you can. Say sumfink's cropped up. Dunno. Hafta see a friend. Nah, 's'not a lie. Well, not really. Anyway, it's nuffink like wot he's bin doin' to you. Take time out. Yeah. Say you gotta go down the gym. Coupla days. Weeks. Month, if ya haveta. Lisa, that is Just-So-Wrong-Of-You-To-Think-That. You owe 'im nuffink. You hear me? Nuffink. Well, 'course that's what he'd say. And per-leeeaze, oh, excuse me here, but like we just really do not know why he went and did that, do we? Like we're all idiots or summat? Do us all a favour, willya? Look, Leece, I'm your friend, and so's Jo, an' we both of us all know what his little game is…" At which point I had reached my stop and had to get out. Sometimes, listening to the bus-driver's mobile conversation to her best mate is miles better than a triple bill of EastEnders.
Needles and Pins
Nerves frazzled. Eyesight fading rapidly. Limbs shaking. Fingers blistered and bloody. I've been sewing. Sewing, I ask you! Badly as well. Trying to stitch together cushion covers from zebra-skin fabric I bought last week. Needlework is demonstrably not for Nancies. Friday, April 04, 2003
Hungry Heart
1. Take a small frying pan, no more than eight inches in diameter. Your Le Creuset one is fine, but better yet is that battered old thing that's been at the back of the cupboard for yonks. 2. Drop approximately 70g of lard into your pan. Olive oil and anything lo-fat are for sissies. They will not do. 3. Place your pan on a low heat – Gas Mark 2 should just about do it. (Note: you can try this on your electric hob, but the results just aren't worth it. Invest in a gas cooker today. You will thank me for it tomorrow.) 4. Take four good old English sausages - Wall's Thick Pork and Beef are the best – and pierce them lightly. For the sake of this dish, gourmet sausages such as Creole Smokey, or Wild Boar with Calvados, are to be treated with sneering contempt. 5. As the lard slowly starts to splutter, gently slide said sausages into the pan. They will bubble and burble for a few seconds and then settle down. 6. Leave for twenty minutes, only returning to roll the sausages over in the sizzling fat. 7. In the meantime, spread a thick layer of Anchor New Zealand butter onto four slices of processed white bread. The loaf must be the thinnest-sliced and cheapest brand available. On no account cut off the crusts. 8. After twenty minutes, take the sausages off the heat and slice lengthwise. Using a fork, squash the sausages down onto two slices, so that the fat and the melting butter start to ooze through the bread. Do not even think of adding ketchup, mustard or any other condiments. 9. Cover with the other slices, and press hard, before cutting each sandwich into four pieces, approximately three inches square. 10. Pile onto a chipped plate which is just a little too small. Serve. Do this even halfway properly and I am yours for Life. Thursday, April 03, 2003
When I Survey The Wond'rous Cross
They're cleaning up the Cross. King's Cross, that is, the dung-heap around the train station, home to rat-kebabs and crack-dens, knocking-shops and 24-hour Big Macs. Currently, this bit of neo-apocalyptic Central London has just one thing going for it. That's the salmon-pink, mock-Gothic magnificence of Sir George Gilbert Scott's Saint Pancras Station and Midland Hotel. One of the most breath-taking bits of Victorian architecture you'll ever see, it lifts the soul, while your Nikes trundle through pavement detritus of syringes, Special Brew cans, and used condoms. Otherwise, you can't move around here without being offered a "bit of brown", or, at the very least, a quick hand-job round the corner. I can handle the King's Cross winos and the dealer-junkies, but it’s the smacked-out, grey-skinned teenage tarts who get to me. (Sadly, not out of any sympathy for their predicament. It's their gob-smackingly awful, crack-addled misconception that I might just be that desperate for a syphilitic shag.) But all this is changing. For we're going Up-Market, darlings, in a much-needed "regeneration boost" for "London's exciting and vibrant new quarter". (It must be true, it says so here.) Oh yes, we're in for a fair bit of Urban Renewal round these parts. Spacious loft-style living for execs, and gated estates to keep out the riff-raff who can't afford to live here any more anyway. Kicking the whores and the druggies out of the way and up the road, rather than sorting the root problems. Sushi bars, staffed by gossiping Japanese fashion-students, doing Europe on the parents' money. Bored-with-Hoxton trendies with funny haircuts slumming it and opening up their coprorate-sponsored performance spaces. And Starbucks! Starbucks! And, oh yes, yet another Starbucks! Please, we really cannot have enough Starbucks! Can we! It's just too exciting for words! Of course, it'll be a runaway success. And if you need any proof: well, the Metro-Queens have already sashayed in. The first "exciting and vibrant new" business to open here in soon-to-be-really-nice King's Cross is this particular shop. I find it ironic - and also strangely satisfying - that the first major retail concern in the newly-sanitised King's Cross should be an upmarket gay sex store (conveniently located just a stone's throw from a downmarket gay cinema and a down-on-your-knees gay slut hut). Pushing itself as "a new & unique shopping experience for the gay and lesbian community", Prowler prides itself on "its welcoming entrance", as well as its "wonderful glass atrium", and its location in an "ornate and spacious Victorian building". (It's a clapped-out, run-down terrace at the butt-end of the Cally Road, for God's sake!) C'mon, my loves, in the end what you're really selling is poppers, porn and things to put up your bottom, isn't it? Some things, and especially some things in King's Cross, never change. Wednesday, April 02, 2003
Get In The Swim In the grand scheme of things, this may seem unimportant, but I lost my Speedos yesterday. Ideally, they should have been ripped off my thighs in a clinch of tide-crashing passion straight out of From Here to Eternity. Instead, I left them hanging in the showers after an early-morning twenty lengths. I never even missed them till arriving home later that evening. And me and my Speedos, we look good together. Their Lycra hugs my bum in a way no other swimwear has ever done before or since. It flattens those bits which need to be flattened, and accentuates… well, you get the picture. They just fit. Perfectly. I wasn't too worried though. In that All-Gym-Bunnies-Together comradely spirit, someone was bound to hand them over to the poolside staff. And tomorrow, me and my Speedos would be an item once again. So, it's 7 a.m. at the info desk this morning. Sorry, mate, nothing's come here. I check the bins. They might have been chucked in there. Nothing. I even look in the showers. Maybe, just maybe. No Speedos. Which means only one thing: Someone is wearing them. This is creepy. Somewhere out there, someone is swimming around in my Speedos. Someone is slipping his, no doubt, gym-toned, sun-bronzed, taut, V-shaped swimmer's physique into my Speedos. Someone is gliding manfully, with firm, sure, elegant strokes, through the water, attracting along the way admiring glances from whichever gender he's most interested in. In my Speedos, Godammit! Take them off! Give them back to me! They're mine! Humph. Frankly, I hope they give him a bad case of the crabs. |
