Tuesday 10 November
2009
Dream: somehow I find
myself in the role of some kind of social worker making decisions regarding the
futures of a group of needy individuals.
My paternal side comes through as I discover a young lad with the intelligence
and demeanour of Ralph Wiggum
boarding a tube on his own in Leytonstone
to visit his Nan. We wind up in some
kind of decision scenario where a team of us are deciding which person to help
out. The group includes the restaurant
manager trying to persuade me to choose his cause as being the subject of
assistance. His cause is a total
non-issue as I become focused and passionate about the wellbeing of the little
kid. Eventually the mother of the boy
turns up seething at our good intentions and when the decision is announced
that he is the person we are going to “save” and look after the mother explodes
and gives us his papers screaming “take him.”
Meanwhile as I am watching this scene play out the manager approaches me
as tries to hand me a large pile of pound coins in reward/gratitude for us
saving his cause.
I awaken tired this
morning.
You know its going to
be an interesting day when you walk past a car and set off its alarm without
even trying, as with the car at the station car park today. Such is the power of my presence I
guess. What does that say about the
extent and length of my aura?
Everyone seems to be
wanting to sit in/on my lap on public transport today. What does THAT say about the extent and
length of my aura?
Again I have the
fear. Life feels as if it is slipping
through my fingers and there is nothing I can do about it. I need time to work out and through this
shit, to get things back on track.
Unfortunately this is not a luxury I feel I am being afforded.
As I step into the
restaurant today it is empty and feels abandoned, nobody else is home. I hope this is not some kind of sick
premonition.
Slowly people filter
in and the day sort of begins but ultimately I never really manage to pull my
finger out, instead finding myself fascinated and distracted by the mini
politics of our organisation. Some
people, mostly female.
For lunch I have
sausage, beans and mash and then on top of this the chef sends up a bowl of
fries with it. This is too much for one
man alone. I endeavour to get some
assistance from the others in polishing it off but ultimately they are just
pussies. This place will cause me to
have a heart attack eventually.
In the afternoon I
attempt to redeem myself and rediscover some velocity but this is hard in the
light of receiving a barrage of flat queries.
I have no answers for these questions, I just view them as pedantic quizzing
that acknowledges and cements the existences of all those with stakes in the
finance department of this company.
Eventually I respond just with power and the authority of assertiveness
(in the form of an email). With a
degree of management comes the acceptability of petty mistakes and errors, the
luxury of being able to turn a blind eye to such items.
Despite my best
intentions this however does not prevent me from hitting the singles adverts on
Gumtree for the first time in a year (the
first time since Szesze). 500 Days Of Summer
let an indelible mark on me and as Mindy
changes her profile photo to display the Nth moronic pose of her with The Teeth I’m
beginning to feel envious and desperate.
Surprisingly I find the perfect girl on the website. Too perfect. Her profile dates back to September, I have left it too
late. Or have I left it too late? With blind naïve optimism I still send her a
message while agonising over which photo of me to send her. Slim pickings in the most obese way.
Around 5PM Stevo
phones up to talk to me and tell me about Millwall
v AFC Wimbledon. Rather than ranting about Millwall taking
the piss and pretending to be hard he is cool about things despite the fact
that my team beat his team 4-1 last
night. We trip through conversation
as once again I suggest we hit Kunt
And The Gang when he plays in Colchester
next month.
Eventually 5.30PM
comes around with me sat on my throne.
As I emerge from the toilet not for the first time today the place is
deserted. In no rush to leave as I have
plenty of time to kill before hitting the Roundhouse I continue doing some work
until 15 minutes later my boss phones from downstairs calling me down for a
drink (with view to getting business
drunk). I head down to join him
sporting hesitation conscious of recent developments.
During the course of
conversation I mention that I am heading over to Chalk Farm
and the boss points out how walkable this actually is from our restaurant so at
6.15PM I head off along Adelaide Road guided trustingly by the map application
on my iPhone. As I walk along the road I listen to “Street
Hassle” by Lou Reed which is the
perfect song to accompany such times and this evening all feels right with the
world.
This is a part of London I have not walked through
before. It is Hampstead and its real
advantage appears to be that it does not necessarily look like London. This is an area that brushes up against Primrose and with it
looks like Disney
London. I genuinely wish I lived
here.
When I eventually
reach the Roundhouse it is in good time.
Sharply I am brought back to reality by the sight of a street fight
trying to occur between an Asian and an old black guy. In between them is a little Asian fella in
the middle trying to break things up.
There is always somebody trying to break these things up.
It is just before 7PM
as I step into the Roundhouse and with the doors at 7.30PM I get a Becks and
sit down, Mr No Mates yet again.
The WILL SELF and RALPH STEADMAN talk turns out to be a
pretty sedate affair. It opens with the
pair of them looking at and reviewing a number of STEADMAN’s paintings being
shown on a screen behind them.
It begins with
paintings by STEADMAN documenting the fall of the Berlin Wall now
20 years ago. Unsurprisingly they
resembled a skewed view of proceedings, often focusing on the smallest detail
of the piece and an element that may not have been considered by other
media. Also of course he spews out
distorted versions of the most triumphant and striking of imagery attached to
the nation and its finest recent hour.
There is a sense of the bemused attached to the review of
recording/recalling such a moment in time.
Rye comments that entertain emerge from both as they accompany one
another’s observations and immediately it is plain to see that there is a great
chemistry between.
The paintings move
onto the illustrations by STEADMAN produced directly to accompany SELF and his “Psychogeography”
books. These are real pieces of work as
you would expect, unmistakably taken from the warped images than frequent
STEADMAN’s vision. One of the focal
destinations is Dubai which together the pair of them tear apart, generally
tending to unsubtly hint at the tackiness and pomposity of their
surroundings. The impression that I get
is that the place is fast turning into the new Las Vegas but this is a
distinction neither of these guys make.
I guess it needs the gambling.
It takes 56 minutes
for Hunter S.
Thompson’s name to be uttered and it is swift and soon concealed like the
elephant in the room it is. All in all
it does feel as if SELF is attempting a brand of his own variation of Gonzo writing in what
he is doing, which is anything but a gripe from this perspective. This is no overnight thing as it comes as a
true shock when STEADMAN points out that they have been working together for 13
years now.
The name of J.G. Ballard also looms
heavily over proceedings appearing to be a large inspiration for SELF and the
starting point for one of his expeditions.
The talk eventually turns into a Q&A session to which they are both
very accommodating, especially when faced with low end questioning.
By 9.15PM it is all
over and the billed book signing ensues.
Like a sucker I get involved.
Tonight I really want to shake the hand of RALPH STEADMAN, the hand that
helped Hunter S. Thompson reach great heights.
In the hand however is his trademark dagger pen.
Once more the pair of
them prove to be incredibly accommodating to a baying group of fan boys and
girls. This is even more pleasant to
realise considering just what a spiky personality WILL SELF is regarded as
having but actually he turns out to be far more polite than a person would
expect/imagine. When he signs my books
he does so with gusto and while I wait for STEADMAN to doodle in my copies I
have a brief chat with SELF asking him if the word “iranu” appears in either
book. At this point STEADMAN asks
“what’s that?” and SELF responds “oh just a TV show I used to do with Jim” and
he promptly draws a picture of himself saying “iranu” in my book. Even more gold arrives as STEADMAN sets
about quickly illustrating my books before inscribing his signature and
finishing it all off with his trademark swish.
This is more than lush.
It is perhaps a very
sad statement about myself and my own state of affairs but these gestures are
truly exhilarating to me. Suddenly very
happy and goofy a couple of random strangers look at me and go “happiness?” I nod with enthusiasm as I lay both books
out open and hope the ink dries before I take them home (to smudge these would
be a crime).
Eventually I close the
books and give the artists one last look of devotion.
From here I hop aboard
a train at Chalk Farm and head South on the Northern Line. When back at Liverpool
Street I hope aboard a 10.18PM train to Clacton which is
full of the usual characters. Anyone of
this region can imagine the difference degrees of passengers on a train ending
at Clacton compared with a train ending at Norwich.
I get back to Bohemian Grove just after 11.30PM
celebrating a total victory of an evening.
Tonight I sleep well.
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