Saturday 28 November 2009

Dream: I am still at the gig DJing.  Now there are more familiar faces there including my old Gringo Records cohort who I continue to avoid like the plague and who still reduces me to misery despite my many apparent feats.  At the end of proceedings I walk a Japanese girl down the hill towards the traffic lights accompanying her home.  As we walk along she hooks her arm in my arm.  When we reach the traffic lights I attempt to kiss her but she pulls back and tells me that I am misunderstanding proceedings.  The rejection isn’t the end of the work and for once I take it well.  Go figure.

I wake up just after 8AM today.  I still have my headache and as a result I fear pain will now ensue and stagnate my day.

Moving slowly I do the Asda thing around 9AM and in the process I spot The Crab doing his weekly jaunt also.  I have no heart or interest for this shit today.

Back home I casually listen to this week’s Danny Baker show while trying to pull myself together for the day ahead.  I endeavour to get a bit of writing done but I doesn’t go anywhere.

With view to socialising on a grand scale today and this evening I actually manage to get into the bath today all in an effort to polish this turd that is Jason.

Strangely even though we are working to a strict train time of 1.03PM nobody is really getting in touch this morning with arrangements so with the day hurtling towards 12.30PM I send out a few feelers.

As I leave the flat the first thing I see is a washing basket sat on our landing filled with ladies underwear.  That’s not a bad start to the day.  I bump into my new neighbour moving into the flat and she’s friendly once more.

In the end I wind up giving Mark a lift to the station while the others hitch a lift with Chris’ dad.  As I drive into the car park at a clock racing pace I cannot help but get pissed off when the car in front decides to pull over to make a phonecall without acknowledging I am stuck behind him.  Some people are so pathetic sometimes.

Mark and I get to the station in very good time for the 1.03PM train which Chris has tickets for only, which is also a train I never knew existed.

With time to spare we get tickets before heading to platform 3 to wait for the others to turn up.  Eventually the train comes and goes and there is no sign of Tom or Chris in the process.  Briefly Mark toys with the idea of catching this train and letting them catch up but realistically to split up the group at this point can only serve to cause painful complications for later on.  We then spot the other two waiting at the wrong platform.  Why is this not surprising?

In the end we wind up catching the 1.17PM train.  With Tom and Chris lugging around their guitars on their back while being wrapped up for winter I make comment that they look like the movie Once.  Tom remarks how we more resemble The Dream Team.  The fucker just had to drag us into the insult.

Today I am wearing my Camo Bapes with command the expected smart comments from the others including “wow, you’re wearing white trainers as an adult.”  Harsh.

The train journey up to London is fun but harsh.  It would appear that I am feeling excited and a buzz towards proceedings although I guess the coffee will have assisted in lending me some pep.

At one point things turn a bit tetchy as Tom begins asking me some accounting advice only for Mark, fresh from a meeting with an accountant yesterday, decides to hijack the conversation and despite my qualification and thirteen years plus experience he appears to have more knowledge on the subject than me.  I guess this was the beginning of the end.

With Mark exiting at Stratford to go to Leytonstone, when the remainder of us get to Liverpool Street we head to Brick Lane, past Spitalfields to meet up with some girl who I spotted at Liverpool Street while the other two were attempting to work out a ticket machine.

As we pass Spitalfields there is a weird flat back truck with a new dancing game being demonstrated on it with fluorescently dressed girls egging people on.  They sure egg me on.

Eventually we meet up with Tom’s friend who I had indeed pointed out at Liverpool Street to zero response, although even after I say this they still do not believe me.  After a bit of flakiness and a couple of people joining us at Brick Lane we end up in a place called Patisserie Valerie where it turns out one of the people joining us is Henry from Lovvers, who are a band I actually really like.  Now eight strong we all sit at a long table buying overpriced coffee in a modern setting.  When the waiter comes along to take our orders he notices my iPhone and makes immediate comment about the broken screen.  As I’ve said countless times already nothing more than this creates such personal interest in me.

Quickly Mark rejoins us just as Tom’s friend splits in what seems to be something of brief and pointless meet up.  Realistically not all our pennies stretch to a second cup or cake so soon we begin making moves from this place, which to be honest is slightly out of character for our group.  If only these people weren’t too proud to buy Starbucks.

As the other people (including the Lovvers dude) head off back to their own lives back in our dream team group we head along Commercial Street to the Commercial Tavern just as the lights come down on our Saturday night.  I have to admit I’m not such a fan of this place with its grotty faux dive feel that translates as actual grotty but at least we get a decent seat.  Unfortunately conversation comes couple with my headache continuing to pound and my desire not to be here at this time.  I shy away from a second drink as the ill affects of the first continue to slow me down.

Finishing off here we head back towards Liverpool Street with view to getting a tube to central London where Chris wants to meet up with Sofie and her mum.  When we get to Liverpool Street suddenly some strange middle class lady offers us free tickets to the Motorhead gig tonight.  Really, do we look like Motorhead fans?  Graciously we decline, suspicious of the funny looking lady and just what the catch to the offer is.  More than likely they were just some kind of rubbish corporate comps.  Not long after turning them down Tom comments “and The Damned were supporting.”

Saturday night on a crowded Central Line train just is not where I want to be at this time.  As we squeeze onto a squashed platform, staggering past the rapping busker, I wind up stood in a carriage on my own, away from our dream team whose morale suddenly appears to be rapidly on the wane.

Eventually we get off at Tottenham Court Road at which time Chris solidifies plans to meet up with Sofie etc at for 7PM at Leicester Square.  By this point however I just want to head to Tulse Hill and indulge in fresh blood for friendship.

At Oxford Street we head North up to the Samuel Smith’s pub on Charlotte Street.  With no seats spare on the social level we wind up heading down into the dank dungeon basement of the establishment which appears full of German tourists on the arse end of a London shopping spree.  Not long after we arrive they filter out, occasionally giving us smiles as they establish and express their own retail orgasms.  The smiles are wrong, these women are old enough to be our mothers.  Later as Chris falls asleep and Tom turns conversation in a serious direction bemoaning the latter life decisions of Christopher Reeve what appears to be So Solid Crew filters into the pub and turns the volume up uncomfortably.

Soon we are leaving heading off to our meet up at Leicester Square.  Almost immediately I begin to question (and moan) about just how sensible it is to be meeting up with people at one of London’s busiest destinations on a Saturday evening.  Sometimes common sense does not prevail.

Somehow as we near the station we wind up on opposite sides of the road as Tom and I change to the more quiet side of Charing Cross Road as Mark and Chris seem happen to continue combating the hoards of tourists in the rain.  Then I realise that I am with tourists myself.  They really should know better but just don’t.  This is tourist Armageddon.

Finally we meet up with Sofie, her mum and her friend Katy.  I barely recognise Sofie’s mum and she certainly doesn’t act as if she remembers me.  As we stand in the rain gawping at our existences the smart suggestion goes on heading to a restaurant for a Chinese meal.  As ever Mark suggests Special 1979, which I tend to be indifferent about, it’s a solid restaurant but not blinding.  Unsurprisingly when we arrive it is rammed and packed but happy to accommodate us they lead us up three sets of stairs to the third floor, a room for special people it would appear.  I suspect this may have been a bedroom or two at one point.

The seven of us squeeze around a table that realistically would barely be fit for four.  Again my friend takes over ordering, casually telling people what they should have and insinuating that we chuck all our food in the middle in some kind of communal gesture and free for all.  Thankfully it is not only me for whom this idea does not go down well.  Then he says to me he has ordered enough duck for two, insinuating that I should share his.  I fucking hate duck, its greasy and putrid and one of those posturing dishes.  At this point I get a bit snarly and snappy pointing out that I am having lemon chicken and I ain’t sharing it with anybody.

Ultimately it’s not the best meal I have ever indulged in.  I spend the majority of it giving Tom looks as our friend says one annoying thing after another.  By this point Chris appears to have clammed up completely, seemingly shutting down away from us.  With this gesture I truly get the impression that we weren’t supposed to be tagging along to this part of the evening.

Eventually we get done with the meal just after 9PM.  By now I think Sofie’s mum has just about remembered me as we exchange a few pleasant quips.  When the bill arrives I duke £20 into the pot because I don’t have any change even though my lemon chicken and beer came nowhere near to costing this.  Ordinarily I wouldn’t mind this had I enjoyed the meal.

With the rain still coming down we part ways at Charing Cross Road with Sofie, her mum and Katy before boarding a tube at Leicester Square and heading down to Brixton to get a bus.  This is a bone of contention with me as we have words about the route to the party.  Without doubt I know that the best route to the party from here is to get the overground to Tulse Hill from London Bridge and being the only member of our party to have actually been to the house before you would think/expect that I know best.  How naïve.  Nope, I get railroaded as it is insisted that we do the tube thing to Brixton and then a bus to Tulse Hill.  This is not a good start to any party.

We finally get down to Brixton, which is the end of the line.  Emerging at the station the rain is still pouring down and the queues at the bus stops are vast.  When a bus finally arrives a small mob descends on it like ants with Oyster Cards.  We don’t stand a fucking chance of boarding up against these natives.  Mark however makes sure he gets on before realising that the rest of us have not been so bolshy and swiftly he makes the driver open the door for him to get off.  That’s not going to make anybody popular.

Soon another bus comes along and this time we board as a group without necessarily knowing where or when to get off.  Had we got the train as I suggested I would have known exactly where we had to go.  On the bus Chris now stands on his own away from us, away from the group, his group.  As a group I now sense that we are splintering, a feeling it is just not me sensing.

Eventually we get to Tulse Hill where we are apparently supposed to be getting off at the fire station.  I see no fire station.  I know no fire station here.  Luckily Tulse Hill isn’t the biggest of places and soon I spot the hallowed train station and I know where we are.

Just before attempting/attacking the hill we buy beers from a corner shop (me: Red Stripe) with view to arriving at the party with goodies to compensate for our late (rude) arrival.  As we arrive at his place the time is now 10PM and we are drunk.  These are bad manners.

Happily upon arrival at the party I am soon pounced on by people (friends) by the doorway meaning for the first few minutes I barely step into the party.  It is quite a relief when smiley faces react happy to see me and I am able to drop the people I feel I have been stuck/lumbered with all day (in the best possible of manners).

Soon I find myself being complimented on my top by a pretty American (the wife of a friend) and I am ashamed to admit that it is just a £6 job from Asda George.  Really it is the BAPE shoes I want the people to be commenting and commending at this time, to which I go to great lengths to highlight and point out.

Drunk I find myself slipping into a lengthy conversation/discussion about Jeremy Piven and how Ari Gold is currently something of a hero of mine.  I think I have found my scene as the statements get responded to in the affirmative, albeit in drunken fashion.

I spot Kerry-Jo from the weird Facebook altercation back in July and I truly would like to make amends with her, to explain myself and put right the back opinion/impression she obviously harbours towards/of me.  Unfortunately she does not appear to be acknowledging me.

From here as a result of a tough and tense day I find myself becoming mouthy and snappy towards my cohorts.  At one stage I find myself getting into a weird argument with my friends over the person I used to do Gringo Records with, getting into something strange whereby Mark makes comments about the situation that he is nowhere near qualified enough to be make observations about.

The party later takes another dip due to our arrival as Tom pisses off Racton attempting to tamper with his partylist, trying to get Kraftwerk on the decks and apparently interfering with “Sexxlaws” by Beck which is apparently the only request from Sam.

Going forward the rest of the party feels like something of a haze, like me playing a kind of cat and mouse game with my existing friends as I feverishly try to make new friends.

The low point occurs when I finally cross paths with Kerry-Jo as I bump into exiting the toilet and I enter it.  She just proves fucking rude to me as I ask her how she is and she responds in kind before struggling with her snap I repeat my apparent question of concern and she cuts me dead by going “is this going anywhere?”  Maybe it’s the acne, maybe she’s on the blob.  Thankfully Racton witnesses the exchange and confirms that I am not just being paranoid.  Cold as ice.

Later it appears that I am truly out of favour with this part of the crowd as another mutual friend appears to blank me as she leaves.  To overcompensate I proceed to more than once bid “hello” to Miranda a number of times bearing in mind our last little encounter which was at the Answer Me This 100^th episode in the summer.  All in all this is a sure-fire of remorse on my part and guilt in my mind when it may not actually be necessary.  More than likely I am just being played by people who don’t give a fuck about me in any capacity.  What a joke.

All in all I fucking hate how all this leaves me reeling.

Things improve when I eventually find myself talking to a lady in the doorway about finance, Suffolk and blogging.  To my surprise she does immediately glaze over and as Tom leaves me to chat with her our nice nice conversation carries into something of more substance.  Typically though she was by the door for a reason as soon the realisation hits that she is leaving.  Oh well, fail.

From here the party begins to noticeably slow/wind down.  Subtly things begin to get messy as Tom begins to fall asleep while leaning on the arm of a chair just short of Blair Witching while elsewhere Chris, seemingly depressed by proceedings, discovers a banjo from somewhere and begins plucking.

Out of nowhere there is suddenly a loud Australian girl and her friend who are serving as some kind of centre of attention.  As I take a seat on a sofa and begin to pass out myself the night pretty much ends with Tom and Pauly snapping at each other.

Where was “indie disco”?