My reason for blogging began in Spain, when Nothing's girlfriend had to reliquish her romantic holiday abroad with her beau, and I was offered her place. The holiday swiftly became ruthlessly less romantic and significantly more debauched.
Whilst in Fuengirola (population: 3 Spaniards and 250 million LCD Brits fuelled out of their tiny Neanderthal minds on cheap Sangria and San Miguel), Nothing noted my angry views on my fellow countrymen and any other passing nationality and suggested I start a blog about it.
While I am still trying to character assassinate every country on Earth, I have noticed my posts getting consumed by day-to-day trivialities to the point of taking over. The plus side to all this dull record keeping is that while I had always considered my life to be rather ordinary and uneventful, I can look back at half a years' worth of drivel and see little oases of interest, even some fun in occasional profundities, this weekend being a case in point.
I had taken the tube to work on Friday morning. As I reached Hammersmith, there was Leader of the Opposition David Cameron, spouting political insincerities to a dozen television cameras and journalists. David is your typical British politician; Eton educated, smarmy and hypocritical, and currently being buffed and polished through the PR mill until he's half-way electable. I last saw Dave as he rode his bicycle through Kensington Palace Gardens and he cut me up on mine. Dave likes to ride his eco-friendly pushbike and mingle with the proletariat until he gets to a designated spot far from prying eyes so he can switch to his chauffeur driven car. And now there he was, unprotected, nobody behind him but the occasional passing commuter and me.
(But this is going to be a non-story, sorry.)
With each step as I approached, I considered ticking him off for his cutting me up. Then I thought of a more smash-and-grab approach, something devilishly witty and clever, like making devil horns with my fingers behind his head, or else kicking his arse and running like the wind.
Oh yes, I am definitely going to do this.
But with each step, as I looked at the cameras and saw his heartfelt ramblings about whatever the hell he was talking about now, I suddenly came to my senses. What if he was lauding the centenary of the abolition of the Slave Trade just as I ran up and slapped his head? And wouldn't I be charged with assault, and was filmed doing it? In which case, devil horns is just so lame. If I was going to do this, it has to be all or nothing, and walking over to announce "This man is a shit cyclist" just wouldn't quite cut it.
If that footage was ever aired, can someone please let me know as just over the left shoulder of David Cameron can be seen a man with conviction approaching him only to take a sudden 90° turn in the other direction.
For that man is me.
Friday night, and I had left work and headed for Ruby Lo, where my tiny pocket Hindu friend Trotter* was having her birthday bash. This was always going to be a pleasant end to the week, just a few drinks to be merry and sociable, and an early night.
Luke and his girlfriend, my lovely lady Muslim friend Sabina, had announced a week ago that they were getting married. That night in Ruby Lo, Luke casually asked if I would like to be Best Man. I was utterly floored. Luke has a vast contingent of friends stretching back to his school days, one of whom is Hippy Dave, a friend of mine from University. It was through Dave that I met Luke and the other guys, who accepted me into their collective bosom like a heavy cold they couldn't shake off. I was speechless when asked to be Best Man (ironic, as I will probably be speechless come the big day), plus I have never been Best Man before, the very phrase seeming at odds with my entire existence.
It took several minutes for it all to sink in, even reminding Luke that he has other friends - not out of ingratitude, more out of an assumption that he has friends he's known since he was a foetus, and ones less likely to fuck things up too. But sink in it did, causing me to become very excitable. So I ran to the bar and yelled triumphantly for 'Your second least expensive bottle of champagne!' Then red wine. And white. And I don't much remember anything else. Although I do remember handing Russell a glass of red only to smash it loudly on the floor. It also led me to surmise that if you want to hideously embarrass a member of the black community, all you have to do is go to a trendy bar and break glass at their feet. (I also met a South African work colleague of Lukes who was good enough to inform me that there are indeed gunrooms in South African nightclubs.)
Lizzy was there that night, a pretty blonde ex-colleague of mine with a very buoyant and cheerful chest. She also looked fairly scared when I turned up. This is probably due to the time a year ago when Sabina informed me that Lizzy had split up with her boyfriend.
'Oh that's a shame', I'd replied. 'Put in a good word for me.'
'No chance', said Sabina.
'Eh? Why not?'
'You're not her type.'
'What the fuck does that mean? What's her fucking type? Not Me?'
'No', said Sabina, 'I just don't think you're suited.'
'WHAT? Are you saying I'm clinically undatable?'
'No, I just don't think you're a good match.'
'Fuck that. I demand you tell her.'
And so it went on.
I'd harangue Sabina to speak to Lizzy, despite the fact that I was more bothered about Sabina's reluctance than I was about any miraculous getting it together, based on the fact that Lizzy's quite attractive and I'm not. And then, one day, Sabina cooly informed me that she'd spoken to Lizzy.
'Oh?' I'd replied in mild panic.
'She said 'Thanks, but No'.'
'Aw, why the hell did you say anything?'
'You fucking told me to!'
My head on Saturday morning felt as if it had been ambushed by Iranian gunboats. I don't actually recall leaving Ruby Lo - just being there, then suddenly finding myself lost in Acton, forcing me to get a cab back to my flat where I discovered I had spent £100 in booze and had dropped most of it down my shirt. I was woken up by my mobile phone - Jimmy, who does shift work at Sky TV, had taken that Saturday off to meet up for more - ugh - alcohol. I felt particularly bad as a blogmeet had been arranged with Fussy Bitch, Vi, Midnight, and a whole host of other troopers, but it was going to be particularly difficult chatting to old friends when I'd rather be mute and keep very very still, let alone meet old bloggers and have to relate in detail the tiny minutiae of my life up til now. That's for another time.
As it was, we did very little. I wasn't in the mood for drinking and, as the evening continued, we weren't in the mood to try, particularly when we'd got to a heaving Shaftesbury Avenue and saw the police out in force. We were just about to head towards Leicester Square when a policeman yelled at me and the throngs of oblivious tourists and booze-hounds to cross over the road immediately. When I looked down, I saw the reason why; at my feet was a dead body sprawled out on the cold pavement, a flourescent police jacket covered over its face and torso while another copper sealed off the area with tape.
Those legs are etched on my mind; sprawled out and motionless from under a policeman's coat, its former owner putting on his black jeans and adidas trainers earlier that night, little realising he wasn't going to make it home.
Oddly enough, that wasn't the first time I've seen the legs of the recently deceased. Once, in India, I saw a stationary truck at the edge of a road, and a small crowd surrounding it. Underneath its wheels, legs, non-moving.
Life is fleeting. Dammit, I should've stuck two fingers behind David Cameron's head.
(* If you are a decent upstanding young Hindu Bangladeshi male with own teeth and car living in the London area - or Bangladesh - please do get in touch. I know a very cute Hindu girl, 29, who WLTM you. Must have lots of disposable income, an interest in clothes and R&B, and be deaf. She is tremendously gobby so you won't be needing your ears.)