Sunday, September 30, 2007

Shit Tubes, Exploding Computers, and Noisy Neighbours Mk II

I went to a mate's wedding on Friday. As a result, my last day at work last week was Thursday.

It started well enough that day; I got up early and packed (the wedding was miles out of the way and necessitated a spell on beds and sofas), then my boss phoned to inform me that the tubes were up the spout. Armed with this bit of insider knowledge, I bypassed the tube line directly behind my shit flat, and walked the fifteen minutes or so to Hammersmith. Imagine my surprise when I got the the Hammersmith and City line and that too was closed, citing a suspicious 'lack of trains'. Starting to panic, I called my boss who told me to take the neighbouring Picadilly like to South Kensington and take a bus to work.

So I did, amid heaving, miserable crowds. At South Ken, I left the station and consulted a map. The 414 bus would take me to work, so I looked up, saw it coming, and jumped on. Not too bad - At this rate I would only be 10 minutes late.

Except it hadn't occurred to me to check what direction the bus was going. I had sat on the bus for 20 minutes reading the paper before I realised I was actually heading back home.

My boss called me a 'fucking disgrace.'

The night before my travelling cock-up, actually due, it transpired, to a wildcat strike because presumably one of the world's most expensive and ageing underground networks isn't shit enough without random, unannounced crippling walkouts, I had boasted to my boss about my new CD/ DVD burner that had arrived by courier at work. I had told him how I intended to open up my new computer at home, then install the new drive and wire it up, as it's cheap and easy and I could start rattling off bumper cds of music and porn.

So I go home and my computer explodes. As far as I could tell, I did everything properly, installed the drive just below the current CD, and did everything as instructed. So I was a little surprised when I inserted the mains lead. Rather than having the desired effect of powering up my computer, instead I broke it with a POP and an electrical flash. It is now dead. Apparently it's not uncommon for such a fusing of the computer to have affected the motherboard too, meaning that if I ever get the machine working again, it'll be blanker than the accumulated teenage brainpower gathered outside the Acton McDonalds on a Saturday night.

So this is being typed on Large Northern Flatmate's laptop, on a Sunday afternoon.

The wedding was great fun, my first non-denominational event with no mention of That Guy to ruin proceedings. It also felt like a stag reunion with a marriage attached. There was a free bar all night (although they did run out at the end and no-one had told me after I'd received my drinks. I then had to pay for them with Marks & Spencer's vouchers as I had nothing else on me.) That night I was being put up at my lady Muslim friend's parent's house nearby. I probably shouldn't have bothered keeping her folks up til 3am to ascertain that There Absolutely Isn't A God. Needless to say, they didn't agree, although they were a bit short of proof themselves.

I felt rather delicate waking up with a hangover, and a little guilty eating toast in front of the family when they're all observing Ramadan and not actually eating during daylight hours. Then I had to travel back to London for some regrettably necessary Saturday work.

So it's been eventful and I may have lost everything I own on my computer, And that includes, hmm, let me see? Oh yes, 40,000 words I've written for NaNoWriMo. My Magnum Opus. My Write-A-Novel-In-A-Month, four-fifths from completion, potentially obliterated.

I'm so very, very, very happy.

And then, last night, 5am to be precise, a very early Sunday morning, banging techno. Again. My French neighbour back to his old tricks. It was louder than normal, more Go-Fuck-Yourself than I thought he'd ever stoop to again, but there it was, banging away. Large Northern Flatmate had finally been woken up by it and was fuming. I was just bored and indifferent. Being a weekend helped, but I was at a loss as to what to do. But LNF was in the mood to do something. He went next door and returned, saying he couldn't actually hear anything when he got there, then it occured to him that it was coming from upstairs, our new neighbours from our own block who had only recently moved in. Flatmate banged on their door, I heard frantic footsteps, the music went off immediately.

So now we have a techno wall of sound coming at us from two directions, unannounced and between the hours of midnight and 6am.

Everything is Utterly Fucking Rubbish.

Wednesday, September 19, 2007

Monkey

Still NaNo-ing on my week off work, and have managed to write a ridiculous 5,000 words a day in the last few days to catch up. I'm now bang on target and haven't done anything creative today. But I have pottered around the flat, eaten toast, not done anything vaguely practical, and managed to not arrange a pending date with a ladyperson as she's busy and I've probably blown it by now.

So I've been searching for crap on Youtube to pass the time. Here's something from my childhood, with it's strange phallic rock and oddly pornographic egg intro. God, this song gives me the tingles...



Ah, cheeky little Monkey with the flying cloud he kept in his hair. Do you remember the sad music they played as an outro? It included the line "They say it was in India", which always amused me for some reason. And the fact that the 'Master' they followed around was played by a quite attractive if completely bald woman, which could've potentially scarred me as a child.
And what about Pigsy? And the boring one with skulls around his neck?

Erm, ok. I'm going to pretend to write.

Saturday, September 15, 2007

NaNo No No

I'm finding it quite difficult to write my magnum opus right now, firstly because I am struggling against a 9,000 word deficit, and secondly because I have a streaming cold. Thirdly, and perhaps most annoyingly, a blind-drunk man is sat on a bench directly outside my window, hurling abuse at everyone on the high street for the past four hours.

He's Irish, evidenced by him screaming at passers-by 'I'm Irish! IRA! Fuckin' Republican!' And now he's screaming 'Open yer legs! Do you wanna fuck?' at some hidden ladies, followed by a pause, then 'Fuckin' lesbians.'

This would be, very very very - broadly speaking - mildly amusing, if it wasn't for the fact that he's so drunk he can barely point an accusatory finger at cars without his whole body wobbling, and the beer I notice he's spilled from his lap and down the pavement into the gutter probably isn't beer. I say that because in the four hours he's been sat there drinking cans of super strength lager, it's only just occurred to me that he hasn't moved for a 'break'.

I wonder if Dublin's full of Englishmen doing likewise?

Monday, September 10, 2007

Stag

I have specifically been banned from talking about it. Completely. Suffice to say a good time was had in *******, drinking almost nothing but Snakebite and Black for two days solid for some reason.

We watched England thrash Israel in a large bar, which caused me some consternation as I wanted Israel to win and England not to lose.
And nothing else happened. Absolutely nothing. (This is quite literally true when it came to me trying to pull.)

So, here's a picture of a cat having a bath.

This is a cat having a bath, clearly

Thursday, September 06, 2007

Update

Ok, I'm not writing much on the old NaNoWriMo, as evidenced by this post. Plus, I'm finding it extremely hard to invent hilarious goings-on from my head. I have oft thought of this blog during my writing, and mused upon how much weirder and amazing real life is. Had I written this blog as fiction, I would never have come up with smashing a Frenchman's speakers, masturbating on an ex-girlfriend's couch, or punching a wall in Spain after no sex (my hand still hurts), not to mention detailing a lifetime's idiocy.

As for a real-life update viz a viz the ladytramp, the police were called - ok, community officers (they hang around and chat more) - removing the lady in question. It turns out she was a prostitute, recuperating between shifts. Her thigh length boots and belt-sized skirt gave it away, but as she was perpetually under an old blanket lying on cardboard, I never noticed. Suffice to say, there's a troubled life full of intriguing twists and stunning turns that gets but a passing mention here. (Can you tell I'm screaming for interesting characters?)

I am about to embark on a STAG WEEKEND - a bachelor party for the un-British - in Bristol, fucking Bristol, tomorrow night and for two days, in honour of my mate Big Nicholas and his looming wedding. Bristol, to the uninitiated, is a large port town, perhaps a city, in the west of England. It is famous, in my mind at least, for getting fat on the profits of slavery, for Massive Attack, and for blind, mindless thuggery emitting from their numerous waterside pubs. Thirty men are going, and a fair few will be financial London City types. Hence, an Olympian amount of alcohol will be abused, and a fair amount of (allegedly) natural and chemical substances of the illicit persuasion gorged upon - but not by me. *Cough*. Needless to say, I am currently extremely concerned, not for being in such a reprehensible crowd, but more to do with my immediate and impending death in the next 48 hours.

And should I survive, I have a second date to look forward to next Friday (although she's currently not getting my text humour, which is bad); Me, her, and Matt Damon in the third part of an average trilogy.

Golly, things are actually happening.

[Publicists - please offer me a five-figured book deal.]

Finally, does anyone know how a postman can ruin a blind date? I'm out of NaNo ideas here.

Sunday, September 02, 2007

Ladydrunks, Ladytramps, and Ladydates

Chopper's birthday meal in Richmond just now. Pleasant, mild inebriation on a Sunday night when I would otherwise be winding down for bed and a week of work. And due to the fact that I spent all day Saturday writing, I felt it quite well earned, thank you very much.

So I leave early. The first to go, in fact. Large Northern Flatmate had cycled down and was going to cycle home, whereas I had to wing it on public transport. (To the amusement of many, Large Northern Flatmate had attached his bike to railings near a riverside pub in Richmond. The Thames then did something I've never seen before: Rise heavily. By the time we came to leave, he had to wade in to retrieve it.



I leave the restaurant and ultimately arrive in Hammersmith. Beginning the long walk home, I become aware of a person trying to get my attention. I take my iPod out of my ears, and am confronted by a young, if frail ginger lady. She seems slightly mental, and is babbling something about her 2-year-old and her mother. I begin to worry that I am about to get involved in someone else's domestic. She continues gabbling and apologising, then says something about her electricity. Then she says, 'Have you got...' and begins to cry.

'How much do you need?' I ask.

'£8.50.'

'My name's Lorna. I live at 21a...'

'Ok, ok, look, here's £9. That's all I've got. You are going to spend this on electricity, right?'

'Yeah, yeah.' She composes herself. Then, as I began to walk away, she asks if I have a spare cigarette.

'Sure.'

I walk off, content that I have helped a panicking lady in her hour of need.
Then I muse that she did seem kinda wired; not quite drunk, more out of her fucking incoherent mind.

I try not to think about what I've done.

We have gained a new employee at work, of sorts. The young lady in question has taken to sleeping next to our warehouse opposite our office, on the main road, where she passes out roughly between the hours of 8am-6pm. It has been quite problematic walking heavy boxes past her prone body, and even more problematic for the middle-classes, i.e., us, to work out her background without having actually talked to her.

An ex-con, my boss is convinced.
Drug addict, claims our driver, who has also added that she's quite attractive, and that "He would" - This, ladies, is the kind of man you tar the rest of us with. I would rather help the vulnerable than sleep with them. Or perhaps I'm just a sucker, as demonstrated above.
I believe our new friend is possibly a drunk, and extremely down on her luck. I want to help, but short of giving her money and coffee as we have done, the only person who can help her, cold as it may seem, is herself.

And finally, a miracle has happened and I've had a date. On Friday night. A ladyperson who isn't blind or desperate or mad, at least not to my knowledge. It went well, and we have agreed to see each other again.

But I haven't contacted her since. This, I'm lead to believe, is The Rules.
Sorry, not mine, just Society's.

Oh, and my stalker, 'Anders Nokram', was at the gastropub tonight. He has flown himself in from Boston, Ma. to admit to his nefarious deeds. Scumbag.