30/12/2008

Post Christmas Oxford Circus Sales: A Review

I've just got back from a stint of post work bargain hunting. In a bit of a panic I hit Oxford Street for some 'Black Tie' related stuff. It turns out that when my office relaxed the dress code, and then refused to take me to task about my relaxed interpretation of the dress code, all my serious job clothes have turned to dust and got replaced with tight little jumpers & colourful shoes ("Okay, the sash is about two things, firstly, I'm not customer facing. Secondly - freedom").

I hit Oxford Street in a mad dash for a New Years triumph, I mean I do have a black tie, but I think I buried relatives in it. So I don't want to take that vibe into 2009, that'll be maudlin enough thank you ("Well, it wasn't exactly rape, but it was in a grey area" - shh, leave that all in '08).

First off, Topman. I got a fair old chunk of Vietnamese finery in there, including a skinny black tie and some trainers, I literally don't need. A couple of observations though, Topman only does clothing in three sizes. These are three sizes that might as well be the Hindu Caste system, 'XXS', 'S' & 'Fuck YOU, you're a disgrace'. I had a lovely chat with a camp chap who worked there and apparently he gets a week off in January as a reward. It didn't sound that bad but he had a look in his eye that broke my heart. Put all my petty bullshit into perspective, he looked liked Beirut. Although instead of massacres his horror was all those paper bits they use to stuff the shoes. A mountain of them... so senseless.

After that it was straight across the road to River Island. The main, instant visible difference between the two outlets? About a stone and a half per sales assistant. The Topman crowd have this whole 'Beautiful People' vibe but when you're in River Island a part of you is also in the Harlequin Centre, Watford. It's a bit grim. That said, I did get myself some crimson pumps. It's almost as if I can't be happy unless I look exactly like Gene Wilder in Willy Wonker (i.e. "Hi, I've just moved into the area... I'm on a certain list you may have heard of").

Then, Uniqlo, which was shut. How arrogant. No seriously, I really wanted some 'Heat Tech' clothing.

28/12/2008

Careful what you type


I just tried to get on the blog, but typed 'introversial.blogpsot.com' by mistake.

See what you get.....here. It's literally the opposite of what we are trying to do on this blog, ie. defunct the prophecies of the Lord God Jesus Christ.

24/12/2008

The main one



Okay,

Let's drop some of the niceties. I read something the other day, not something I'd usually pick up or read. I wasn't in a waiting room, I wasn't waiting to have an interview with the bank manager. I was trying to look down a cleavage on the underground.

Let's stop pretending that this lovely little tea party, the one where we all pretend to respect each other and know what the word 'platonic' means, is where we really want to be. We're all sweaty, perverted monsters, as Bernie Mac says in 'Bad Santa', it's Darwinian.

Anyway, I was trying to look at a bra, my commute was gruesome. I deserved it. However, it wasn't happening, I couldn't crane my head any further, it'd looked a bit improper so I had to settle by having a little read over her shoulder. It was More magazine, not my preferred read but the heading caught my eye.

'9 Ways to spice up you sex life'. This was written for women, meaning that it was 9 tips to make the experience more pleasurable for the man. I couldn't believe what I was reading...9?! I couldn't understand it. Neither could Lee, we had a sit down and thrashed out some specifics (he's also married, so I'm not sure if that closes or opens some sex doors).

All we could come up with were the three below:
  1. Do it dead hard, till it hurts a bit.
  2. Up the bum.

& finally:

3. Spit on it.

Real Christmas


Dickens is dead. There is no more white Christmas in London. It's just Starbucks with Christmas themed lattes, Ann Summers selling santa themed cheap lingerie and weird, weird Selfridges windows (Santa with loads of beer cans, I don't get it). So I have escaped for a real Christmas in the Mid West.

Over here in Minnesota, people genuinely want you to have a merry Christmas. They really, really do. The weather is currently hovering round -15C, so there is a real need for a hearth, hot cocoa and wrapping up warm. People carol like they mean it and it's the thought that counts.

I have been sledging, ice skating, and snowballing. We have mulled wine, nogged egg and will probably have a fairytale dinner. The radio is filled with White Christmas, people are carrying round wreaths with a smile. The saccarine could kill.

But damn it, it's real. London Christmas is all about signs on the tube saying 'Don't fall on the tracks, fuckwit' or 'Don't piss yourself, you pathetic piece of shit'. People will drink themselves to death, then crawl on an overground train back to whatever suburban shithole they came from. It will rain, your parents will criticise you for not planning your future and all you will want to do is rush back to the grey metropolis to go back to drink the New Year into oblivion. You will get gifts you hate, wince as you think of the credit card bill waiting on your doorstep then wince again at the thought of another year of drudgery.

I'll probably build a snowman, wear a big wooly jumper and sing round a piano. So fuck London.

19/12/2008

Oxford Street at Christmas


Scene: The Somme, Christmas, 1915

Private: "Why sir, 'tis sunrise. Must be Christmas day, cor' blimey"

Sergeant: "Damn you Smithkins, I'm sick of your insolence!"

Private: "But sir, it's the 'appiest time of the year. Why right na, daaan Laaaandon taaaan, the arfs are bein' lit, the carollers are warming their vocal cords and the little street ragamuffins are 'avin a snow ball fight. All along White Chapel, you can smell the turkey, 'ear the songs and feel the good cheer that comes this time of year. And that warms me cockels, so it does, while us poor souls are 'ere, bein' shot at by fritz"

Sergeant: "I'm sorry Smithkins, you're right. It's this damned war, ye' see? I'm not a bad chap, got a girl back home, mother and father are probably worried silly for me. Nannie will have got the presents round the tree, little Johnnie will be so excited. Even Parsons, the grumpy old gamekeeper will be happy, with a port in his hand and a grouse under his arm. It's wonderful back home, this time and all, snow on the fields, the old cook's wonderful plum duff. Blast it Smithkins, Merry Christmas, Merry Christmas one and all!"

Private: "Oh sir! Merry Christmas!"

(all of a sudden several dozen German troops bound into the trench, the pair unawares as they embrace)

German soldier: "Hey! Halt! Acht! Jetzt! Jetzt!"
Sergeant: "What the....?"

(The Sergeant is cut off as the Germans open fire at point blank range. Both men are mowed down by the hail of gunfire, their insides explode into the stagnant black mud that's been their home for a year. They fall into the mud, hand in hand)

Private: "Sir (coughs blood) I think this is the end. Sir, I'm sorry I failed you."
Sergeant: "No, Smithkins, aaarrrghh, it's me who failed you. If only I'd...arrggghh...damn this war..."
Private: "I can't feel my legs, sir. It's all...it's all cold sir..."
Sergeant: "Ye gads, it hurts, maybe I can get up, maybe...."

(A German soldier sees them trying to get up)

German: Nein! Nein! (mows them down once again. Into the dirt, the excrement and the blood of a million innocent souls)



I would rather be there than on Oxford Street this week. 

"Please sir, Can I have some more?" Greedy little shit.



It's the season isn't it? No, not the season for all your warped family shit to come spewing out over the Christmas Turkey. It's meant to be about the last five minutes of a Christmas Carole (As in the movie, depending on reading speed it'd be dead difficult to judge the last 5 minutes of the Dickens - watched scrooged, it's better), Scrooge opening his window, yelling at that kid to skip away down the street to get a goose that you know'll have been a bit much for someone with a crutch.

That's right, Charity. Giving to others who are less fortunate than ourselves at the most difficult time of the year ("You know what, I could not have a turkey this year & just leave the oven on..."). I get this, I rarely give to others, in any way. It's kind of a personal 'thing' of mine to view any benevolence to others as a weakness in character (I think 'The Prince' ruined my mind). However, I know this isn't the right thing to do, I bitch & moan a lot about being skint all the time when really I spend all my money on buying Pate and silly t-shirts. Some people have it really bad, some people can't have hallumi when they want it & never saw Luche Libre at The Roundhouse.

...However, I'd like to know when exactly the art of soliciting donations for worthy causes became such a blood thirsty, militaristic endeavour. Nowadays you're walking down the street, literally minding your own business (probably for fear of being attacked/witnessing some nastiness and not doing 'the right thing' - that's right, read the fine print on The London Paper, no one saw anything) when all of a sudden, out of nowhere you are launched upon by a mad, wild eyed zealot. That's probably not right, the first thing that hits you is an odd smell, I've figured out what it is. It's the smell of recently removed greasepaint. That's right, they're all drama students who, after many a 'we're really looking for an actor with more range" has decided that those bills aren't going to pay themselves. It's not the end of the world though, maybe one of your victims will be Kenneth Branagh, although he will still probably think you're a twat.

It's just so personal and invasive. I reckon the psychology behind it is similar to that of the crusades, mixed with an acute telesales style logic. Imagine back in the day, a group of Muslim lads, chilling out, playing Hac-e-sac, when all of a sudden over the hill bounds a legion of soldiers powered by their unearthly rightness. My ex used to do it, she had some pretty convincing arguments in favour, ones I couldn't really argue back to. But, to someone who struggles to fill 5 minutes with my nearest & dearest it's a real trial. Especially with the mixture of extreme elation & aggression ("So you want to be my best friend or you'll kick me directly in the face?").

Finally, I've put together some excellent avoidance techniques for minimising the conversations with these types:

  • "Scope you say? No thank you, one of them killed my Grandad"
  • "Battered women want my help? I doubt it, I tend to contribute to the problem (universal sign for 'drinky drinky'")
  • "Yes, you can have £2 a month, all you have to do in return is tell me the most horrific, disgusting secret you have"
  • "Yes, I could spare the money, that's my business, I haven't once commented on your weird skin thing"

CX

16/12/2008

Sketchbook


"It's bigger than hip hop"

15/12/2008

Two to the five to Threezle



I normally catch the bus to work at a decent time. Living only 20 minutes away I get to see sunlight, Metro givers & and a range of impish, emotionally impotent office workers.

Work has gotten a feel of 'Siberian Salt Mine' about it recently so this morning I found myself up before 7, where a load of odd jogger types own the streets. It was pitch black, colder and crueler.

The bus ride was a completley different story. No one was reading no one made the custom sideward glance eye shuffle. This set of lunatics held every gaze from under their peaked caps. There were no suits to be seen, just hard looks & calloused, honest hands.

They could see my clammy, office trotters a mile off. Especially when my slender fingers struggled to keep hold of the railings...

13/12/2008

God Bless You


I have just been blessed on the train. 

Some old fellow with a limp and a bible in his pocket went round our carriage and blessed us repeatedly. He mumbled something about some 'Jesus' person and then he asked the Devil to leave us.

Now, I am not going to turn down a quick blessing, God knows I could do with one. But I don't like the assumption that the Devil is in me, or that if he is I want him removed. He might be the best bit of me for all I know. And now Wacky McBlessyou had rid him from me. I might wake up tomorrow all forgiving. Or I might give to charity. Or I might even be joyful and triumphant.

Shit. I have just bought a cardigan which wouldn't look out of place in a Anglican disco. And I gave up my seat on the last leg of my tube ride...I might have lost my Beelzebub mojo....

Nope. Just had some very unchristian thoughts, phew. Come to think of it, he did spend most of his time blessing a black guy and then yelling at him. Maybe he was just a crazy old racist.


12/12/2008



The other night I saw this awesome statement, literally scrawled on the front of a mouldy, rusty old "ribbed for her pleasure" wall mount.

It's been there from a different era, it's seen governments rise & fall, Rutger Hauer rise like a shooting star, crash into the dirt and then come back. Possibly, to be honest, its probably seen the odd reach over and cupping.

"Friends, how many of us have them". Jesus, that's some strong stuff. Some real emotion has been scratched onto the box ("You want to avoid the STIs but the it's the tetanus that'll get ya").

I'd like to think that the situation played out where the fellow was talking with a girl, he isn't exactly Rutger Hauer, it doesn't come naturally to him but somehow a bonds been formed. He begins to get a glimmer of hope, "you know what...it may end up in some hand holding".

He's into safe sex, he saw the advert where the guys mates go "you need to go in goal, get some practice wearing your gloves" (the reality would be "Yeah, bear back") so he thinks he'll get some, you know...johnnies (sic?). However, just as the pound is rolling around the entry he gets a text off his best mate saying:

"Listen, that bird, I've gone home with her"

Cx

10/12/2008

Black Hole


I know we like to blog about the doings and goings on in Laaaandon town, but I thought I would step back and ponder something bigger.

This week Germans have discovered that there is a black hole at the centre of our universe. 

It's as wide as our orbit, 4.3 million times more massive than the sun and is so strong light cannot escape it. But it's 27,000 light years away (2554342670000000 km), so it's not going to ruin your tea or anything.

The black hole bit is just the event horizon, the point where light can't escape. The actual hole is a singularity, one infinitesimal point at which everything is sucked in. Like Kerry Katona's gob.

Just imagine. A black hole. Something so big and powerful it rips space. I couldn't rip into a polythene bag containing some potatoes not 10 minutes ago, I had to use the knife.

It makes things like war and politics and tube trains a bit insignificant when you know just a few billion galaxies away there is something sucking up the very essence of existence and then maybe spewing it out in another dimension or one billion years into the future.

But then your phone rings and it's fucking O2 trying to sell you fucking insurance, again, and all the dreams of magnificence and the almighty poof out of your head while you try not to swallow your phone.

"Is that Mr Jones yeah?"
"yes. what?"
"right, Mr Jones, you know you could have insurance on your phone yeah?"
"I was busy. I was contemplating the heavens. I was pondering the majesty of our universe. I was trying to fit into my head the fact that there are more stars than there are grains of sand on this planet. I was trying to grapple with the absolute incredible, sir"
"So you want the insurance yeah?"

The State of the Nation


I'm terrified,

I don't know exactly when it happened or what changed to make it so but something has gone very wrong with Britain. It seems like we're only a radical new fashion trend away from living in A Clockwork Orange, a dash of the old ultraviolence has become fairly commonplace. Yesterday I read about some poor chap who fell asleep on public transport, which can happen, only he didn't wake up at Cockfosters and think "Shit, now I'll have to get the N29 back". No, he woke up on fire.
Some hoodlums, teenagers in hoodies had set him alight while he was having a little nap. It's genuinely horrifying, I'm of the same cloth, get me a couple of after work beers, slightly warm, possibly a flapjack and I'm sound asleep. A bit like a 13 stone Northern hamster. Who'd set a hamster on fire? Lunatic kids, that's who. Maybe if they'd eaten something a little better than burger meals for the last decade they'd be semi-functioning members of society but no, all those e numbers have made them equate a sleeping commuter with an annoying bit of tinder.
On this subject, what's with people carrying knives around. Now I can imagine that it feels awesome. I've often thought that some situations could be resolved better with a small weapon, probably a revolver ("This is what you want Nicky? I Love you"). We went to The Roundhouse in Camden to watch the Mexican Wrestling and some Recruitment Consultants (the filth of humanity) kept pushing in front of us. I reckon that Samantha (44 Mag) would get us the best seats in the house. However, I also realise that these are the impotent thoughts of a man who avoids confrontation at all costs.
Talking this through with some friends I decided England had gone to hell in a hand basket and it would probably be best to opt out at some point. However, we decided that it's not the worst place on the planet. Sure, there is a chance that if you say the words "Excuse me, there is a queue here", you do run the risk of getting hacked to death mercilessly by an N Dub but Jesus, at least it's a queue to a Pret.

07/12/2008

Lessons learned from cheap buffet


All you can eat ye say? well sir, I would like to jump aboard that train. Who doesn't? It's the best way to dine and it's cheap. Although sometimes it can be too cheap.

We decided to go to Chinatown for some food. First, it's not a town, it's 
about three streets in Soho, where you can get ground tiger balls, OKish food and Chinese newspapers. There are also an inordinate amount of betting shops, which really doesn't help with the stereotype.

Anyway, we went up and down the 'town' for a bit and found China China (so good, they named it twice) which boasted "All eat as much as you can" for £8. Well that sounds like a deal. So we went in.

We were ushered upstairs, and straight away it had a Fawlty Towers feel to it. I lived in Hungary for a year, so I am used to shoddy, dodgy dining, but this was pretty bad. Someone had ripped the fire alarm off the wall. I can only imagine it cost a few billion Yen to get through its last health and safety check up.

We took our seats and found out that the £8 was really £8.90. Then we looked round to see our fellow diners. Now we are not snobs per se, but we have come to being used to certain level of quality from our City. Basically there isn't usually any scum hanging about. Scum stay in towns like Halifax and Slough, not the West End of London. But it's near Christmas, people come down to see the lights and to have some cheap Chinese food it seems. Unfortunately we had to sit inches away from them in this woeful Communist cafeteria.

So we ate the God-awful food (the crackers tasted like stale cake, and a good percentage of the meat was unclassifiable) and queued next to scary scallies and fat women who hadn't washed their hair and grunted while eating. Not one person used chopsticks - I mean quite a few seemed to be having difficulty with a knife and a fork.

I can only imagine it was like eating in a cheap Chinese buffet across the road from the Jeremy Kyle studios. Many of these people were probably annoyed that Karen Matthews had thought of it first.

The scary scallies ran out without paying, and the fat kid next to us stared at the wall with his earphones in. Everyone was wearing tracksuit bottoms and most people just ate the stale chips.

You are not supposed to look forward to finishing your meal. We did.

So what did we learn? You get what you pay for, really. Pay £20 each, and you will sit next to people that groom themselves. Pay £8.90, you will sit next to people who consider putting on a clean football shirt as 'dressing up'.






(Pictured: Louie Walsh rumoured to be spending a lot of time in Millets)



I swear,

If Eoghan Quigg (pronounced 'Eegohan Queeeeeeg' in a dry monotone voice) wins X Factor I'm quitting this country. Poor little, in the danger area for a mid 20's man, Diana Vickers got voted off last night & it's all getting too much. I thought she'd win it, hands down. it was almost like they shouldn't have bothered unpacking the tiny Gary Barlow from JLS.

Then what happened? Saturday night & the X Factor got torn wide open. Although unlike Ruth "This isn't the last you've seen of me!" Lorenzo, I do think Diana has the potential to do more than the X Factor. More often than not winning isn't the greatest thing. Leona Lewis has done alright, but they put her away in a box for a year so everyone forgot she was on that miscarriage of Reith.


Now, my favourite to win is going to have to be Alexandra, then JLS. There was a point of contention between me & my boss last week when I pointed out that Eoghan "Go on, just touch it for a second...please" Quigg would not grow into an attractive adult. He'll grow into a normal looking sort of chap but not a pop star. Possibly he'll be the best looking lad where he works, but that'll be on the sales floor at Dixons.


I reckon I may not actually finish with this country if he wins. I may just turn off the television, pick up a book & possibly try to learn French or something.


Also, after watching about 30 Seconds of Timmy Mallet on I'm a celebrity get me out of here, I've decided that I need to complete a definitive account of Timmy's personal life. I'd spend some time with him, travel the country with him visiting universities & taking the receipts he found in Tescos car park & desperately trying to get the club card points. Then we'd become so ingratiated in each others lives, I'd make him hate his odd friends & he'd show up at my house for the family Christmas and make dead sly comments about my mums gravy.


Then I reckon It'd ultimately end in a weird, quasi sexual mix between Whack-a-Day & The Deer Hunter.



(Mallet, the highs are high, but the lows will break your fuckin' heart)

06/12/2008



Hello,

This is a self portrait.

Coursework


Fighting birds


I just saw some crows fighting. It was awesome. One of the crows had the other pinned down and was going at his wings. They were huge and making a racket. It was amazing to see the brutality of the wilderness right there, near a bin.

It seems London animals are particularly violent. I am expecting to see some sparrows ganging up on a pidgeon, or a fox shoving about a rat.

And they are fearless. Last week, walking back from the tube, there was a squirrel just standing in the road, nibbling on something. I got closer and it didn't move. It was the first time I have ever thought 'wow, that's a hard squirrel'. I was expecting it to drop the food and mug me for the bit of sandwich I had left in my bag.

I think London animals just have attitude. Like seagulls do down in Newquay. And I like that. Fearless creatures just trying to get by in the big smoke, like the rest of us.

Sent Items

...ouch,

I woke up this morning with my laptop whirring away next to me, a dry mouth & a crusty belly button. The browser had the 'Successful Post" screen on & I knew I'd come home, put some truth bombs down.

I had a little look at what I'd put up & decided to delete it. I'm not sure if that's the correct blogging etiquette, but as I pointed out to my friend Rob (author of this crazy bullshit that's going to land me in an interrogation room with people demanding to know if I have any clue about his whereabouts), the world of the blog is ultimately not as important as the world of...well, the world. Rob was explaining about blogs to our friend who is blog less, he's a normal person, he goes out, plays football has sex with girls. Rob then made a statement which I found worrying, explaining that he now "reads more blogs then he reads the news". His thinking is that there are people out there with a wealth of opinions, very knowledgeable on key subjects with pressing & valid opinions. This isn't the case at all, the crux of it is that really the people who blog are a pasty mixture of mouthy weirdo & attention seeker. Often saying wild, unsubstantiated things. Stick to the news.

Yeah so, my blog was related to people I work with, it sited specific names, departments stuff like that. I'm not going out like that, Rob did though. He wrote some stuff about his old employer and they had rid of him. Which is ridiculous. I know that when they finally get a case together for me it'll most likely be for my flippant nature, rampant unprofessionalism & sexual terrorism.