Tuesday 10 August
2010
I’m feeling energy drink
caffeine gut rot again this morning.
Without doubt this is down to the cans of Kick I have been
downing. This is foul stuff, best
avoided. I however am too foolish to do
this. The can claims “no artificial
flavours or colours” which is probably why it has such a gnarly affect. Bring on the chemicals.
Again this morning as I leave my flat my building stinks. I cannot decide now if it is the bin bags or
if it is my neighbours
smoking profusely or a combination of the two.
It doesn’t help that 15 Hollytree Court
keeps closing the windows on our landing that I open in the hope of them
letting in fresh air and getting rid of the stink. Just how am I expected to explain this should
I decide to put my flat on the market (as I have been heard to murmur
recently)?
Despite this misery when I leave the building I have the Caddyshack
theme (“I’m
Alright”) playing in my head so all feels well.
For some reason the cars on the road today are just
retarded. What happened to
velocity? What happened to urgency? Did all their accelerators break at
once? These people have no dicks.
When I finally get to the station a car does not bother to
acknowledge me at a mini roundabout when it comes from the right and I almost
make an example out of him as an urge to drive into him tempts me. In the end I just mouth the words “give way
to the right” as I pass. Why can’t all
drivers be perfect like me?
Within seconds karma however catches up on me (fails me) as
both of “my spaces” are taken at the car park.
Why the sudden run of popularity on these places?
Despite this I soon find myself on a train with us both
appearing to be on autopilot. An early
hiccup sees the train soon slowing down, to the point that when it crawls
through Kelvedon
it rolls teasingly slow to the point that the locals think they may be able to
get on. It is at this point that I spoke
Kelvedon
Bike Man for the first time in probably over a year. He’s still around?
In addition to this farce early into the journey the heavens
open and it begins raining which all in all scuppers morale for the day.
Eventually we get to Shenfield
where a lady decides to sit next to me but thankfully does not plate crowd. I’ve had it too good for too long now it
would seem.
From here it doesn’t take long to get to London as the train appears to
put some effort into making up time/pace.
Soon before I know it I am aboard a tube speeding across town. I hope I wake up before I get to work.
Once on the tube I spot a lad with a tattoo on his upper
neck. It is two letters but I can’t tell
if it is “TU” or “JM”. Surely shouldn’t
the minimum requirement of such a gesture be that it is clear in execution?
Before long I find myself stepping out at St Johns
Wood and walking towards the restaurant. Somehow despite the hold up at Kelvedon this appears
to be my earliest arrival into work yet.
This morning it feels as if it takes forever for The Girl and my boss to
turn up. And when The Girl finally
arrives she royally is the walking dead.
This is a person that takes more time off work than any of my previous
work colleagues or subordinates. When I
make comment that she needs to be wrapped up in cotton wool she always turns it
back on me, claiming that I am the real hypochondriac. My absence record is next to perfect so where
on earth does she find the front to throw such accusations at me? All in all though, today it is impressive
that she has even made it in. Are times
and her attitude changing?
From here I finally put in the solid day’s work that I was
needing to achieve/accomplish on Friday. Better late than never I
guess.
At some point we remember that there are still cupcakes
remaining from yesterday
when the angry boss bought them in after his wife baked them. However when we look at the remaining two as
predicted the berries have turned and sprouted furry fungus. You half suspect legs will be next. Subtly we throw them away.
With work busy at his end Racton emails and suggests that we
meet up at Highbury
for 7PM this evening for CALVIN JOHNSON
meaning that when 5.30PM comes
around I am not in a rush to leave. As a
result of this I find myself putting in a productive extra hour which lends me
a great head start on tomorrow.
When I finally leave my boss is at the bar getting business
drunk. There is an invitation to
join him but I don’t really have the time or inclination. Shortly after exiting as I walk up Loudoun
Road I receive a text from Racton alerting me to
the fact that he has only just left his work also.
After changing lines at King Cross
as I exit Highbury & Islington tube station there is a guy in front of me
with a t-shirt that says “I’m fucking over it” on the back. I guess it is good news to hear that this guy
has recover (got over it) and come to terms with his condition but just what
was the “it” I wonder. If he has to use
such an expletive it must have been a bad one.
From here I proceed to stand outside opposite the tube
station waiting for Racton’s arrival.
People look weird tonight, not least the black guy in a yellow baseball
cap creeping up behind me. Was he a
pickpocket? Am I racist? Is he a racist?
Soon it begins to rain and with no sign of Racton’s arrival
I step back inside the station where I get in the way. Not long afterwards he turns up thankfully.
With me think we were in a rush to get to Dalston
he asks me if I have eaten, announcing that he himself is hungry. I shrug, half happy either way but isn’t time
of the essence? Eventually we wind up in
KFC where I order a Colonel’s Banquet. It’s a pretty shitty banquet. Over “dinner” we cover recent events and all
sounds very messy.
Before long we find ourselves on a bus heading across North
London towards Dalston.
Buses are no fun; I can tell you this from experience. I grew up on the fuckers and I do not wish to
grow down on them. Quickly it becomes
apparent that we are behind a couple of people headed to the show also (the
flannel/plaid shirts and general aura/demeanour of sweet feebleness makes it a
no-brainer).
We arrive at Dalston Trinity Centre Hall
and it’s a shocker. It’s like a fucking
cub scout hall. Hats off for the
ingenuity of using this place but it just feels weird. Almost immediately we spot CALVIN JOHNSON who
is sat on a table at the back of the room selling CDs, vinyl and
cassettes. He truly is keeping it
real. And he still cuts quite an
intimidating figure.
This place truly is a village hall. Around us badly dressed hipsters with
matching hairstyles sit on the floor with their legs crossed discussing their
latest bands and cassette recordings (probably). This now feels like a different generation to
me, one I have outgrown which causes me to feel the need to become a wallflower.
Unsurprising with the minimal reality of such a venue comes
the lack of a bar and immediately I can’t help but resent those around us
better prepared with their “BYOB”. Quite
frankly I am gagging, spitting feathers and would happily offer these divs large
money for a beverage. At around this
point Racton makes comment that I “look unimpressed” to which I shrug and deny
the accusation. I was trying to hide
this externally. As people continue to
sit on the floor like flood victims the place begins to fill with more punters
and suddenly this begins to feel like a hot ticket (on the lowest level).
ADAM GNADE opens
sitting on the edge of the stage performing his songs acoustically without the
requirement of electricity. He does a
kind of Woody Guthrie via Jim Carroll thing with a
singing style that reminds me somewhat of Chris Leo with its stabbing
delivery. His songs are small narratives
of modern life lived hard as he subtly grasps and clings to hope. I immediately take to the guy; he is earnest
and grounded in fashion that is not deplorable or forced.
During his set the hall further begins to fill meaning that
the people sat on the floor suddenly need to stand up to make space and with
this they all move towards the stage in what might be perceived in intimidating
fashion. With this vision approaching
him upon seeing the minor surge GNADE lets off a joke scream
mid song without missing a beat.
GNADE is good to the end.
His set does not outstay its welcome and neither does his
personality. At the same time I don’t
think his spiel would work were he not American.
By the time CALVIN JOHNSON takes to the stage the room is
full, rammed and sweltering hot. Tonight
he appears to be in a good mood as ordinarily CALVIN is considered something of
a prickly customer and character (if stories from Nottingham
are to be believed). With no
amplification he truly succeeds off the back of smart but basic songwriting and
a genuinely unique singing voice and approach.
CALVIN JOHNSON is a raconteur of the highest degree. You get the impression that when he wants to
be he can be the most charming and charismatic person on the planet. He walks around the stage playing and
addressing the audience like the coolest supply teacher you ever had.
Pound for pound his between song banter equates to as much
airtime as his actual material as it ranges from the misconception that pizza
is not good rock food and how there are so many little white lies and
unfulfilled tiny promises in music scenes.
He is not angry about this just amusingly resigned.
All in all it’s a strange show. CALVIN JOHNSON doesn’t look like he has aged
a day and neither does his audience who remain young with an appearance of the
naïve and gullible. These things are
never going to change.
It all ends on a high as CALVIN knows he has come to town
and exhilarated us, passed on some knowledge and sprinkled us with enjoyment
thus enhancing our lives for one evening out of many. Whether he still inspires people to pick up a
guitar or start record labels is open to debate but it all remains a tangible
process, his existence serves to remind that DIY can work and is successfully
if only in an artistic sense.
With this Racton and I exit happy with our evening. Soon we are heading in separate directions
where at the Dalston bus stop I experience a true scare/fright when I think a
blonde Bella
is boarding the bus with me. This girl
looks so terrifyingly similar the person that once made my life hell.
From here the buss rolls down to Liverpool
Street where it arrives around 10.45PM. On the way to the train station I pop into
the Bishopsgate Tesco where two cars full of police appear to
have circled on a wasted middle class Peaches Geldof
lookalike. I’d fuck her.
Inside the shop I buy two bottles of Neuro Sonic as part of a
twofer. This is definitely a new level/hybrid
of energy
drink. It literally glistens.
In the end I wind up on the 11PM
train to Ipswich. It is sparse and thus potentially
pleasant. Unfortunately not far into the
journey it beaches at Stratford and
never really recovers. At first it
appears to be to let a freight train pass through but then it turns out that it
is due to an incident at Seven
Kings. As the bars on my iPhone begin to
diminish naturally I experience battery
angst.
As the train remains sat at Stratford around midnight a guy
in a suit begins shouting for “free pies and coffee” as
reparation for the hold up but when this does not come he resorts and moves
onto shouting “c’mon lets get moving”.
Sadly National
Express East Anglia do not necessarily listen to or respond to such
requests.
Later it continues with “c’mon, any news?” as Information
Jimmy remains silent, dead to the world much like the train.
Around 12.15AM I
begin to smell burning as the train gets overrun by chav party types. Suddenly I feel as if I am on the Fellini train from 8 ½.
When the time reaches 12.40AM
I begin to wonder if I will ever escape this train. I look around and play Eat, Marry Or
Fuck. It is at this moment the doors
beep and thankfully the train begins pulling away. For the win.
At this point the battery on my iPhone finally dies. It all happens at once.
Eventually I get home
just past 2AM. On a school night.
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