Friday 18 December
2009
This is a crunching
day much along the lines of earlier this year in February and Snow Day. Looking at the footage on TV it would
appear that Essex
got it worst through the night and when I did approach my car at the station
the many in which the wind swept the snow into my face was something alien and
foreign to me that I haven’t experienced in years.
I have to admit I do
enter into the day half awaiting a phonecall from work telling me not to bother
going in. The reality however that London has not been hit so hard by
the snow really serves to work against me and my situation does not really
translate to the powers that be.
I leave the flat at around 7AM to witness first
hand the carpet of snow in our courtyard.
As I do so my neighbour Michelle is outside scraping the snow and ice
off her own car. The idea of driving to
the station never enters my mind, I just find these conditions too terrifying
to drive in. As ever my neighbour tells
me not to bother going into work and I wish she held that kind of authority to
dictate things in this manner.
Looking around our
apartment complex seldom does it look so pretty. Rather than doing anything of use or sense I instead begin taking
photos of where we live caked in snow.
I am such a tourist sometimes now that I have the ability to take photos
once more.
Eventually I take the
bull by the horns and decide to walk to the station in the hope that much like
last time I will get five minutes down the road and have the boss telephone me
to tell me not to bother. Unfortunately
the best-laid plans do not necessarily always come off.
The walk down Layer Road is a heavy trudge
that I can’t recall ever experiencing before.
With the day still young cars occasionally pass by and with it I
concentrate on how they are moving and coping with the conditions. On the whole they are driving at an OK pace,
both sensible and realistic that doesn’t disturb or disrupt the flow too
much. Then I see a man on a bicycle and
he really does not look safe as houses.
I decide to cut down
to Maldon Road rather than taking the Butt Road
route (if for nothing else to avoid both memories of Action Park
and where I used to work). Upon
crossing the road I see a stranger who bids me “good morning” in a rare gesture
of friendliness seldom encountered here in Colchester.
Moving along Maldon
Road proves a slushy experience and occasionally a slippery one as the paths
feel more bedded in here. There is
something about this street that I love, the houses look welcoming and I have
always felt that this would have been a great place to grow up. At the end of the road there is a first
floor flat that I once viewed with the intention to possibly buying. It was a horrible squalid place that caused
me to question the realities of my social positioning in the grand scheme of
things.
Despite the nuisance
of the snow it is a very beautiful sight and as I reach the roundabout at the
police station I get my first full glimpse of Colchester town caked in
snow. As I cross towards Crouch Street
I see the Hogshead looking charming covered in snow. From here I head down Balkerne Hill passing where my parents live
and the complex that is currently causing me potential legal woes.
To my pleasant
surprise I manage to climb up and down the hill without slipping over and as I
reach Middleborough a number of photo opportunities arise as some of the nicest
views and sights of Colchester suddenly find themselves covered in white.
Just as I cross the
street onto North Station Road a voice shouts “good morning young man” and it
turns out to be my parents’ neighbour trudging to work with his other half (the
lady that once told how her family had a dog called “Nigger” growing up). I get into some kind of nice nice
conversation with them as I skirt around the subject of where they live trying
to glean whether the threatened
legal action against me for the website has been
mentioned. It would seem not.
Eventually I get to
the station where National
Express are apparently laying on a “rolling service” which means trains are
leaving for London as and when. When I
finally board a train the time is 7.55AM and I am covered in snow to the point
that I have to remove my coat to avoid melting in my seat and
turning the train damp.
At this point I send a
text message to my boss half annoyed that he hasn’t told me not to bother going
in. Perhaps the snow isn’t so bad in
London after all.
As the train runs
parallel to the A12
and nears Chelmsford
it is funny to observe on the road the sole car driving towards London in a determined
manner. There is absolutely no rhyme or
reason behind driving on this day. This
truly looks like the last man on earth.
The train finally
pulls into Liverpool
Street around 9.15AM. For all my
efforts I really am not all that late after all. With view to cheering myself up I head to Starbucks where I buy an eggnog
latte. Initially the lady serving tries
to give me a normal sized cup but I apologise and insist that she give me a
venti. Mere minutes later while on my
tube as it pulls into Moorgate just
one stop later I am already polishing the drink off with an obscene pace. Is this bad?
I’m in a Henry Fool mood today, I
genuinely feel that I resemble something of a lo-fi version of him with my
shaggy appearance and delusions of grandeur with regards to my knowledge and writing. My coat I feel sets me apart from the
majority of people
around me. Rightly or wrongly I feel I
can look down on these people and their stupid Oyster cards. My travelcard is
gold, it costs me £4600 and is still made of card. I guess at least The
Man cannot trace my whereabouts through my train ticket. With this I maintain some of my
freedom. Suddenly it becomes apparent
to me that it is the latte that has caused some kind of euphoria and mania
within me.
Interestingly today
the front page of the Daily Mirror
features Simon Cowell bemoaning Rage Against The Machine and how they are
getting biased treatment by/from the BBC. What television network were his shitty
programmes on the last time we looked?
Get over it.
From here onwards
beyond the rough start the day plays out pretty successfully. I spend the day awaiting a response from the solicitors once again but it
doesn’t come. I wonder what are they
playing at?
Soon the rest of the
day sails out devoid of negative drama and with a meeting time of 6.30PM this
evening I head to Bond Street
with view of buying everybody a Christmas present of the Rage Against The
Machine single on CD. Unfortunately
this ultimately isn’t to be, they haven’t done physical copies of the single,
which I guess in the long run is good for the environment fitting in with their
flower punk mentality/ethos. Still, it
would have been a great thing to possess.
Tonight Bond Street is
carnage. I guess it is the final Friday
before Christmas
but really, why the panic? I didn’t
think anyone had any money this year.
Oh yeah, that’s the rest of the country, London in comparison is doing just
fine (well, as fine as fine can get in the nations capital).
When I fail to get the
CDs I return back into Bond Street tube station where I find myself confronted
with bedlam and the realisation that it is only hassle that lay ahead by taking
this route. Promptly I turn around and
exit the station with view to walking to Green Park
and getting the tube up from there.
Walking through Mayfair is one of the nicer
strolls you will ever take in London, even on a chilled dark night in
December. As I walk past the US Embassy it looks mammoth and
intimidating much like the arsehole country itself.
Soon I find myself
lost in amazing streets amongst the most regal of buildings. I wonder just what it is you have to do to
get to this point. Is it something you
are born into? Are these fruits of hard
work and labour?
It is at this point that
I decide next year at Christmas this is where I want to be. I want to awaken on Christmas Day and go for
a stroll around central London and see the sights deserted and peaceful. That is my idea of luxury.
Eventually I get to
Green Park tube station and get a ride up to Highbury
& Islington where we are all supposed to be meeting. Not long after emerging from the station I
get a text message from Racton saying that they are at the Albert And Pearl. When I get there Racton is already with Matthew where everyone
appears jolly and in Christmas spirit.
Tonight I come filled
with tales of post-ATP
woe, of dealing with the snow and my latest shower of shit in the form of the
apparent legal
threat I am being subjected to.
Considering that it was only four
days ago since I last saw these guys a lot seems to have happened.
Finally Mark turns up
and we are set for the evening. In full
flow we slowly head towards Akari
on Essex Road,
the Japanese restaurant where we are eating this evening. When we arrive there the décor is not as
expected, instead managing to represent the best of both worlds.
Soon we find ourselves
tearing into more alcohol as various unrecognisable dishes are ordered off the
menu and dumped into the middle of our table where we collectively pick at the
food. The portions are small but the
quality is high, this is not a place to come when you are feeling hungry.
The menu has plum wine
on it and soon I am downing my favourite tipple, almost to an extreme
point. I polish off my first glass and
soon I am ordering my second and then a third.
Tonight the food is
good and conversation flows. Later as
we hit the sushi and sake combination and I pass on a second shot of sake Mark
makes comment that “I was never much of a drinker” to which I seem to take
great offence, neither thinking this is true or a necessarily a bad thing,
basically on the whole being a comment that didn’t need making seemingly only
delivered to undermine my role in the evening.
At the time however immediately it took me back leaving my trying to
compute just what the fuck it meant for the longest time.
As I continue to make
stupid but sometimes funny observations, after a wrestling
reference Matthew tells me that I should speak to Wil Hodgson because he is
into similar things such as me and indeed himself used to be a wrestler. At this point we almost make a date to hang
out with him the next time he does London.
Eventually we finish
up the meal, exiting the restaurant and heading to On The Beach at the Buffalo Bar. I have to concede that despite spending around £30 on the meal I
leave feeling still very hungry. As we
stagger along Essex Road we spot a Banksy
tag and I have to concede it is the first one I have across away from East
London. As I take a drunken photo of it
with my iPhone
Mark calls me a “tourist.”
After a slight detour
and loss of direction we finally wind up back on Upper Street where despite
only being halfway up the street it gets decided that we get a bus up to the
Buffalo Bar. Have we really become so
lazy as a race?
By this point of the
evening I now have the song “For A Million Pounds” by Kunt And The Gang playing in my
head and being in high spirits I apply this externally (sing it) to a number of
examples involving everyone and anyone around.
This decision garners mixed results.
Soon we get off the
bus at Highbury & Islington and arrive at the Buffalo Bar and enter On The
Beach. Like Z-Man from Beyond The
Valley Of The Dolls “this is my scene and it’s freakin’ me out!”
Tonight I am feeling
on good form. By this point in
proceedings I have stopped drinking for fear of going loco so instead I feel
focused enough to channel my energy into more productive movements for the
evening. Unfortunately this is not
universal as when my little
legal issue gets brought up again (my bad) my friend now does some kind of
u-turn and literally drunkenly berates me for my actions telling me “of course
you are in the wrong.” What about the
nuances? Nope, I am completely in the
wrong but it would seem I am regarded as stupid. Thanks for the support great mate.
Eventually the roller derby girl from ATP
turns up and once again I make a fool of myself as I stumble into some kind of
one trick conversation with her along the lines of “I work with a couple of roller derby girls.”
As the night heads
towards 11PM I begin to make moves. It
would appear that this is potentially the last time I will be seeing these
people this side of Christmas so things almost get emotional. I briefly make enquiry with Mark about
Christmas Eve night in Colchester but my sad fears get confirmed as my old Gringo Records cohort has already
set about attempting to make plans for the night and thus a Christmas
Eve Massacre looks likely to occur.
I just shrug with some kind of resignation instead of indignation. These things.
I wind up on the
11.30PM Norwich
train home half surrounded by tourists with the other half being salarymen
returning home themselves from Christmas drinks all relatively merry. As the ride continues I guess the night’s
excesses catch up on me as I nod off halfway through the journey.
Without delay the
train finally gets back to Colchester just before half past midnight still
caked in more snow than London.
As I leave the station
I find myself met with a denser carpet of ice than was evident this morning and
while I head under the bridge the stoop is visibly precarious. After a couple of serious slips the
inevitable occurs as I going flying onto my back. While I sprawl around on the floor a couple follows me equally
cautious and fearful of falling over also.
I note how they do not stop to check that I am all right.
Beyond the initial
fall the late night walk home turns out to be an enjoyable one. In the world nowhere ever feels truly dark
anymore as instead everywhere gets saturated with a sickly neon orange glow but
sometimes this is a beautiful thing to behold.
Walking up North
Station Road and onto North Hill it is a struggle not to slip and fall again
but eventually as I land in the centre of town many venues are still wide open
with spirits flying high and bad music playing loud. This is truly Christmas now.
As I pass Yates’s two
policemen stand shivering on the corner as Mariah
Carey and “All
I Want For Christmas Is You” booms out from the venue. Its all so wrong it is right.
Later as I pass The Playhouse
it is to the vision of a police van and two cars parked outside with a girl
lying on the ground with her legs akimbo.
It’s a great sight.
From here I head up Butt Road and
almost pass Chernobyl
without realising. As I look across at
the main Butt Road office so many memories return and I wonder if inside things
are how I remember them. It has been
literally years since I have walked along here.
As I stagger up Butt
Road ahead of me a couple stumble through the snow trying not to slip. Their pace is slow so I figure it is safer
to walk on the other side of the road rather than attempt to pass them. Soon I am pass the pair, managing to avoid
acknowledging them, and eventually I arrive at Action Park,
yet another scene from my past that saw many lofty dramas and experiences
unravel. Again it has been so many
years now since I have passed this place, it is scary to think that it is
almost ten years since we lived in the house.
On my journey home
tonight I am listening to an episode of Tank
Riot where they are talking about space and as I walk beneath so many stars
for the duration of it I cannot think of a better time and place to be
listening to it.
When I hit Layer Road
there are a couple of chavs wrestling with the snow. In order to head up the road there is no avoiding them and I have
to expect a torrent of drunken comments (abuse) but happily as we cross paths
we ignore each other.
The final leg of the
journey feels the longest. Was Layer
Road always this long?
By the time I
eventually get home the night (the day) is heading towards to 2AM and I
genuinely cannot remember the last time I was out this late. For some reason it feels distinctly festive
(the snow) and when I get home it is one of the most relieving moments of 2009.
Merry Christmas!
