I Dreamt About You Last Night, And I Fell Out Of Bed Twice

As you probably know, it’s rather hot here at the moment.

This has resulted in me having near-Tiny Tim numbers of showers and spending the nights attempting sleep in sweltering conditions.

Last night, I was very tired and so despite the heat managed to drop off to sleep fairly early. However I was woken at around 1am by some shouting in the street.

As usual, I couldn’t quite make out what was going on lying in bed, so I got up and moved to the bathroom, where I’d be able to here what was going on better. In addition, it gave me an opportunity to re-moisten my towel*.

The people shouting in the street appeared to be a man and a woman and the first thing I heard on moving to the bathroom was something about “breaking up”.

Ooh hello, said the prurient, curtain-twitching part of my brain, and I strained to listen more. It could have been better, one of them could have done something really awful at the party I assumed they were at, which had resulted in their being dumped on the spot, but I think the dumping had already taken place and one party was not willing to accept this. From the tone, I’d guess it was him.

Annoyingly though, despite the fact that they were annoying enough to think that shouting in the street was any way acceptable, they weren’t doing it loud enough for me to make out much.

Firstly, I could only hear what she was saying. I inferred we was coming up with a series of ever more ridiculous reasonings, which she was quickly dismissing. He certainly wasn’t doing my patented annoy-the-person-you’re-arguing-so-much-with-your-passive/aggressive-mumbling-they-storm-off-in-disgust argument “technique” more’s the pity.

I assume that alcohol must have had its part to play in the argument although there wasn’t any one involved. This third person would have to be very, very drunk indeed and saying things like “come on people, we were having a great time, leave it out…”

I was tempted to shout something out of the window, telling them to shut the fuck up as people were trying to sleep, but decided not to as I thought this would wake more people up, and I was a bit scared they’d use the opportunity to make up with each other, break into my flat and beat me to a bloody pulp.

Which would be very annoying.

To my annoyance, despite feeling more awake that I thought possible I fell back asleep and woke up a tangled sweaty mess some hours later.

The argument had finished. Thankfully.

If only it had been more like this:

* A wet towel draped across the ankles has a wonderful cooling effect. Trust me.

Swells: A Tribute

So Stephen Wells AKA Swells AKA Susan Williams AKA Seething Wells AKA the-man-with-loads-of-hyphens-and-PLENTY-OF-SHOUTING-off-of-the-NME-back-when-I-was-a-teenager-and-it-was-good has died.

Other people have done tributes, so I am going to post this instead, a music video he was involved with.

And bloody hell, me old mucker Sky Saxon has died too. This is a depressing day.

Skyblankeyspeechkim

Sloane Crosley, who resembles nothing more than a cross between David Sedaris and Carrie Bradshaw if the reviews are to be believed, has the following to say on her childhood blankey:

Our Siamese cat, who we loved so much he survived on mass affection and insulin injections until I was twenty-five, was called Skyler. Skyler used to curl up in my pink blankey, which I still have. When I started middle school, my mother began encouraging me to get rid of it. What are you going to do, take that thing to college? When I started college, she said, What are you going to do, have it in bed with you and your husband one day?

Except from Christmas in July.

Here’s mine. It’s not pink, and I’d never call it a blankey. I’m not a lolcat.

I don’t spend every waking moment reading books of essays, by the way.

Consider David Foster Wallace

This is without a doubt my favourite sentence I have read this month:-

There is something deeply surreal about standing behind a female performer in hot-pink peau de soie, a woman whose clitoris and perineum you have priorly seen, and watching her try to get a microwaved egg roll onto her plate with a cocktail fork.

(excerpt from Big Red Son)

Suite For Toy Piano

Listen to this, it’s fantastic.

Middle-Aged Wank Fodder

In almost every place I ever worked at, there has been a least one couple working there too. Frankly, I find the whole thing a little bit odd.

In the vast majority of cases, they work in different departments and often do completely different jobs, so it isn’t like they interact with each other much in a work fashion. They come in work at the same, have lunch together, and leave together, but that’s about it.

There are situations where they DO work closely together though, and I wonder how they cope.

On one occasion I worked alongside a married couple who shared one job, so it was very rare they’d both be in on the same day. What I found odd about that was that you ended up treating them as one person, they shared work and finished off things the other one had been working on a such like. Assuming that both members of the couple like doing the same thing, I see this as an acceptable solution.

But how does this situation start in the first place? They must have met working there, as the idea of them finding a job together is just too freaky for words. Has this ever happened?

I’d ask someone, but they might think I’m being rude. Or nosey. Or worringly interested in every aspect of their private life.

I don’t want that.

Toilet Scientist

There are two things I notice in a public toilet:

1. The quality of the graffiti.
2. The quality of the soap.

There’s nothing like toilet graffiti, a mix of deranged racism, football rivalry and sexual come-ons. Sometimes though, unintentional comedy shines through.

I will always remember the person who wrote all about the cocks he liked to suck and such like and then gave a landline number you could contact him on if you’d like to discuss this further.

Now why would you do that? I can imagine an awkward conversation ensuing. At least with a mobile phone you are pretty much guaranteed to speak to the person whose phone it is.

In addition, I also recall someone setting a date for a meeting a few months in advance only to check on a calender (yes, yes, I know) and realise that it was LAST year. More up-to-date stuff needed please. Or better cleaning and tidying up.

Soap is another matter. The only place you get decent soap is in luxury hotels and it is a rare occasion indeed that I get to use those. It is a rare treat…

Most men’s hand-washing habits  (I can’t speak for women, not being in the habit of visiting their public toilets and checking out their habits) seem to consist of the following: run hand under tap for a few seconds then stand for what feels like hours under the hand dryer.

Don’t start me on hand dryers. Hand dryers, which is the single worst way of drying your hands, bring back paper towels for crying out loud, they can be recycled after all and you don’t end up with the drying pointlessly blowing nothing for thirty seconds after you’ve given up and walk out, drying your hands on your trousers.

I used to be like this, now I’m better. I now wash my hands properly, but of course as long as hand dryers are present in the toilet of my choice, I still dry my hands on my trousers of course.

It’s either that or carry a whole load of paper towels on my person.

That isn’t going to happen.

The Man Who Invented Sex

Once, while watching one of those talking-head documentaries, I realised that when I’m older, I’m not going to be John Peel.

I’m going to be Pete Waterman.

I don’t know what he was talking about in this programme, but I knew without a shadow of a doubt, I would have said the same thing, in the same way if asked that very question.

It was very humbling and more than slightly disturbing.

(I don’t like trains by the way)

In a similar way, I knew, no matter how much I wanted it to happen, I was never going to be England’s heterosexual Gore Vidal (the position of England’s heterosexual Truman Capote being already taken) I was going to be someone much worse.

Then I had this weird vision that I would end up like Harold Robbins.

(I’m sure I’ve read a Harold Robbins though I have no idea which one. Its only saving grace, in my opinion, is that at least it had some sex in it. You don’t get that with a Dan Brown, that’s for sure.)

All this shows is that I’m unnecessarily concerned with self-mythologising over content, which is no bad thing really.

But when I eventually become a famous writer, I’m going to make sure the picture that graces all my books is like that of Mr Robbins above.

Tubefail

For those of you who follow my twitter feed, you may have noticed a fair amount of “tweets” which have been “hashtagged” tubefail.

Yes, there’s a 48-hour strike on the tube, due to finish (at time of typing) in just under a hour.

Without this happening we wouldn’t have had the brilliance of the Tube Strike Drinking Game:

- National broadcast media dwell on strike like it’s the most important thing in the country. (a tot of brandy)
- Uppity Scotsman sends a text message to BBC 5 Live Breakfast to say he doesn’t care about the Tube strike. (pour a pint of McEwans Export over radio)

- Phone caller to radio station upset at having to walk two miles. (small glass of absinthe)

- Bob Crow complains about “bullying”, demonstrating slight lack of self-awareness. (A Watney’s Party 7)

Brilliant.

This strike has been set up as Johnson v. Crow, in such a way that there must be some slash fiction in the offing.

I for my part hate both of them and if there was a way they could both lose, I’d be very happy.

Take Boris’ statement that a pay-rise of 5% is “demented”. What was the Mayor of London’s salary increase this year then? That’ll be 5%.

Take Crow stating the strike is “well-supported”. Excuse me while I just cough up a lung.

I’ve been very lucky as I can use both Overground train and/or bus to get to work and it takes about the same time. It’s a lot more crowded than usual, but I still get there and if it means having a latte and a croissant in a cafe to avoid being in work at stupid o’clock then I’m not exactly complaining.

For those who have a more difficult journey though, the frustration and seething have been spilling out. Here are some suggestion I have overheard about what should be done about striking workers.

• They should be pelted with stones.
• They should be locked out of the station over night.
• They should be tied up and furiously masturbated to the brink of orgasm, only to be cruelly abandoned at the last second, leaving no method of release.

I may have made one of those up.

In the meantime I need suggestions of alternatives to striking if you’re pissed off with your management. Working to rule has long appealed to the pedant in me, but there must be better ones.

Ones that don’t involve the greater public, as they’re far from enjoying this.

We Are Stardust, We Are Golden And We’ve Got To Get Ourselves Back To The Garden Centre

Once I had avacado on toast for breakfast. Hell, I probably drizzled some fucking oil on it too.

As I consumed this gastronomic delight I had the radio on. Radio 4.

I think this is the most middle-class thing I’ve ever done. How about you?