“You really are getting fat.”
“Don’t wear that shirt again until you’ve lost some weight.”
“Walk? I thought we’d drive.”
“I’ve baked you a birthday cake, darling.”
Ah well. If she made sense it wouldn’t be so much fun.
Wednesday, 7 May 2008
Tuesday, 6 May 2008
Meanwhile, back in Margate...
Ah, yes, the seaside Bronx after fooling me for a moment that it might actually not be such a bad place, shows it’s true colours.
We’ve been to Margate a few times before last week. We went to see a rather excellent Mike Nelson installation a couple of years ago. It’s was the 17th of December (I remember as it was Beck’s birthday) and we spent the whole day driving in pouring rain from Eastbourne where she’d had a private view the night before to Margate. Good show, but as with most of Mike’s work it took place in an abandoned building with hints of a nefarious past. Typical Margate. Not exactly pleasant, but Beck seems to like it.
She was excited about the show.
Walking down from the station last Friday I was staggered by the concentrated number of boarded up buildings. Given that this is the so-called affluent south (and okay, so the Kent and Essex estuary-coast has never really been included in that) I still don’t think I’ve a British town quite so run down for many years. And, remember, I spent three and a half years driving around the country to light and heavy industry estates which never give the best impression of a town.
Unfortunately I’ve been proved right.
Sunday night our early-morning wake-up call (or someone else entirely) came back, with a screwdriver and broke into the shack stealing the DVD player, inside of which was Beck’s film.
Now, okay, it’s not like someone’s stolen a painting or a sculpture or anything like that. The thief isn’t even going to care what’s in the player, he just wants to sell it for a tenner to someone down the park and the film is easy enough for Beck to replace.
Burn new DVD?
OK. Cancel
But there’s still something particularly unpleasant about this. Margate’s current big plan for regeneration is through the arts. Cheap studio space for artists, cafes and bars for them to lounge around in being all bohemian and watch the property prices soar. Just like in Shoreditch and various other bits of the East End.
Of course, it’s hugely debatable as to whether you can force this in the first place. In sixties speak this is the man trying to effect a counter-culture movement. Which just doesn’t work. These things happen organically and under completely different sets of circumstances.
Which is a shame. A real shame.
But, I guess, the town’s tried everything else and this is a last roll of the dice. Mind you, if it can’t get up off its knees in ten years of continual economic growth I’m sceptical that it’ll be able to do that now.
And perhaps that’s what our friendly proprietor of the local electronics van-store (aka the thief in question) realises? That even though the council thinks that inviting all these arty types down from London to slum it at the beach is going to benefit the locals, he (or she) realises that it ain’t and rather than wait for the non-existent payoff in three years time, decides to get ten quid now.
We’ve been to Margate a few times before last week. We went to see a rather excellent Mike Nelson installation a couple of years ago. It’s was the 17th of December (I remember as it was Beck’s birthday) and we spent the whole day driving in pouring rain from Eastbourne where she’d had a private view the night before to Margate. Good show, but as with most of Mike’s work it took place in an abandoned building with hints of a nefarious past. Typical Margate. Not exactly pleasant, but Beck seems to like it.
She was excited about the show.
Walking down from the station last Friday I was staggered by the concentrated number of boarded up buildings. Given that this is the so-called affluent south (and okay, so the Kent and Essex estuary-coast has never really been included in that) I still don’t think I’ve a British town quite so run down for many years. And, remember, I spent three and a half years driving around the country to light and heavy industry estates which never give the best impression of a town.
Unfortunately I’ve been proved right.
Sunday night our early-morning wake-up call (or someone else entirely) came back, with a screwdriver and broke into the shack stealing the DVD player, inside of which was Beck’s film.
Now, okay, it’s not like someone’s stolen a painting or a sculpture or anything like that. The thief isn’t even going to care what’s in the player, he just wants to sell it for a tenner to someone down the park and the film is easy enough for Beck to replace.
Burn new DVD?
OK. Cancel
But there’s still something particularly unpleasant about this. Margate’s current big plan for regeneration is through the arts. Cheap studio space for artists, cafes and bars for them to lounge around in being all bohemian and watch the property prices soar. Just like in Shoreditch and various other bits of the East End.
Of course, it’s hugely debatable as to whether you can force this in the first place. In sixties speak this is the man trying to effect a counter-culture movement. Which just doesn’t work. These things happen organically and under completely different sets of circumstances.
Which is a shame. A real shame.
But, I guess, the town’s tried everything else and this is a last roll of the dice. Mind you, if it can’t get up off its knees in ten years of continual economic growth I’m sceptical that it’ll be able to do that now.
And perhaps that’s what our friendly proprietor of the local electronics van-store (aka the thief in question) realises? That even though the council thinks that inviting all these arty types down from London to slum it at the beach is going to benefit the locals, he (or she) realises that it ain’t and rather than wait for the non-existent payoff in three years time, decides to get ten quid now.
Monday, 5 May 2008
How To Avoid A Hang Over Rule #3
Well, okay, so I wasn't technically hung over, but I did get more drunk than is generally advisable for one's health on Saturday night.
Generally speaking when you've been on a heady mixture of various Belgian beers and the odd Essex bitter for the best part of six hours and it's approaching midnight end it there. Call it a night. It's been fun; that's enough.
It's rarely a good idea to listen when someone says, "hey, my friend's band is playing around the corner. The don't come on til one. Let's go there."
Of course, when the person doing the encouraging is your girlfriend you just assume she has your best interests at heart.
Round the corner proved to be a half hour walk to a pub with more, h'mmm, how shall I put this? Local colour than many? A pub so off the beaten track it doesn't even make it onto the normally excellent fancyapint.com.
Anyway the band were pretty good...
Actually I have no idea if the band were any good or not. I've seen them before but Saturday night I could have been watching a Bangles tribute band for all I knew.
Rolling in just before four I'm pleased I resisted the little voice in the back of my head whispering "nightcap, nightcap." That would, I suspect, have been one too far.
Who am I kidding? I love going out and drinking and wandering around odd parts of London in the middle of the night. It's what makes the city so much fun. The sheer delight in being alive. And after a few years of being old before my time I seem to have bounced back in the other direction and at twenty-nine am being more like a twenty-two year old than I was at the time.
Generally speaking when you've been on a heady mixture of various Belgian beers and the odd Essex bitter for the best part of six hours and it's approaching midnight end it there. Call it a night. It's been fun; that's enough.
It's rarely a good idea to listen when someone says, "hey, my friend's band is playing around the corner. The don't come on til one. Let's go there."
Of course, when the person doing the encouraging is your girlfriend you just assume she has your best interests at heart.
Round the corner proved to be a half hour walk to a pub with more, h'mmm, how shall I put this? Local colour than many? A pub so off the beaten track it doesn't even make it onto the normally excellent fancyapint.com.
Anyway the band were pretty good...
Actually I have no idea if the band were any good or not. I've seen them before but Saturday night I could have been watching a Bangles tribute band for all I knew.
Rolling in just before four I'm pleased I resisted the little voice in the back of my head whispering "nightcap, nightcap." That would, I suspect, have been one too far.
Who am I kidding? I love going out and drinking and wandering around odd parts of London in the middle of the night. It's what makes the city so much fun. The sheer delight in being alive. And after a few years of being old before my time I seem to have bounced back in the other direction and at twenty-nine am being more like a twenty-two year old than I was at the time.
Sunday, 4 May 2008
Margate Rocks.
Or at the very least tilts gently in the pleasant ocean breeze.
The exhibition that Beck and I traversed the country for opened on Friday. I popped down to join her for then private view in the evening. Any excuse for a free beer.
Although factoring in the cost of the train fare it’s actually quite an expensive beer.
We’d originally planed to spend the night in the campsite just outside the town. A campsite that turned out to be one of the most expensive in the entire country, which coupled with a taxi fare was going to get pricey.
And Beck had just effectively built a little house.
So, yes we slept inside a piece of art on Friday night. Not often you get to say that.
We pitched the inner tent inside for added insulation, unfurl the sleeping bags and nip for a pee in the toilet of the gallery organising the exhibition.
It has, of course, just occurred to me that as we had the key for the gallery we could have just slept there. Then I’d be able to say we spent Friday night in a old pie factory. Ah, the clarity of daylight.
To secure ourselves in we manoeuvred a large sheet of plywood in through the entrance and then drilled it into the frame. Nice and safe.
So far, so much fun.
A few hours later I was awoken by the walls shuddering.
“Don’t kick their little house,” said a squeaky voice.
“There might be something worth nicking inside.”
Thud-thud.
“I reckon we can break this bit off.”
Thud-thud.
“Leave it, mate.”
“Nah, I reckon it’s nearly off.”
Sitting half-naked in my sleeping bag and a little dazed the only defence I can think to muster is to pretend to be Brian Blessed.
“Oi!” I bellow, trying to amplify my voice as much as possible, to make myself sound gigantic.
There’s a pause, then a tiny voice whispers: “Oh, sorry mate.”
Beck, needless to say, slept through the whole thing.
The exhibition that Beck and I traversed the country for opened on Friday. I popped down to join her for then private view in the evening. Any excuse for a free beer.
Although factoring in the cost of the train fare it’s actually quite an expensive beer.
We’d originally planed to spend the night in the campsite just outside the town. A campsite that turned out to be one of the most expensive in the entire country, which coupled with a taxi fare was going to get pricey.
And Beck had just effectively built a little house.
So, yes we slept inside a piece of art on Friday night. Not often you get to say that.
We pitched the inner tent inside for added insulation, unfurl the sleeping bags and nip for a pee in the toilet of the gallery organising the exhibition.
It has, of course, just occurred to me that as we had the key for the gallery we could have just slept there. Then I’d be able to say we spent Friday night in a old pie factory. Ah, the clarity of daylight.
To secure ourselves in we manoeuvred a large sheet of plywood in through the entrance and then drilled it into the frame. Nice and safe.
So far, so much fun.
A few hours later I was awoken by the walls shuddering.
“Don’t kick their little house,” said a squeaky voice.
“There might be something worth nicking inside.”
Thud-thud.
“I reckon we can break this bit off.”
Thud-thud.
“Leave it, mate.”
“Nah, I reckon it’s nearly off.”
Sitting half-naked in my sleeping bag and a little dazed the only defence I can think to muster is to pretend to be Brian Blessed.
“Oi!” I bellow, trying to amplify my voice as much as possible, to make myself sound gigantic.
There’s a pause, then a tiny voice whispers: “Oh, sorry mate.”
Beck, needless to say, slept through the whole thing.
Saturday, 3 May 2008
I Hate You All
How could you do this?
The warnings have been there, but nobody ever listens, do they? You all go ahead and vote for that funny looking chap of the telly.
For God’s sake.
Boris Johnson is Mayor of London.
Well, don’t come crying to me when he pops your right eyeball out and skull fucks you until spurting devil’s jizz all over your brain, because YOU allowed him to that. YOU gave him power. YOU elected him.
It’s all YOUR fault.
“But Boris is all right. Boris tells it like it is. Boris is funny on Have I Got News For You.”
In four years time Boris will probably still tell it like it is and will probably still be vaguely amusing on celebrity panel games, but London will be a smouldering mess of disaster after disaster. Cross-Rail will be a failure. The buses non-existent. The congestion charge zone a thing of the past and any car journey requires you to leave yesterday. Race tensions will be at an all time high because every three months the Mayor forgets the microphone is still on and says what he really thinks. Crime will be on the up because, let’s be honest, no-one is going to take someone who sounds like a the deranged offspring of an inbred Lord and a tortoise seriously.
And Boris will be happy in his Oxfordshire mansion watching the chaos descend.
Fine, you can have him if that’s what you want. You deserve each other.
I’m emigrating to Norwich which at least had the intelligence to elect more socially-environmentally conscious councillors than anywhere else in the country. Even if there is a risk of becoming a tractor molesting Delia Smith fetishist, I’m off.
God, even the young lad who stood for the Hull Mayoral elections in a monkey costume a few years ago was better than Boris. At least he had no opinions on anything other than trying to raise the profile of Hull FC. Boris has got views and ideas and lots of them.
And they’re nasty.
The warnings have been there, but nobody ever listens, do they? You all go ahead and vote for that funny looking chap of the telly.
For God’s sake.
Boris Johnson is Mayor of London.
Well, don’t come crying to me when he pops your right eyeball out and skull fucks you until spurting devil’s jizz all over your brain, because YOU allowed him to that. YOU gave him power. YOU elected him.
It’s all YOUR fault.
“But Boris is all right. Boris tells it like it is. Boris is funny on Have I Got News For You.”
In four years time Boris will probably still tell it like it is and will probably still be vaguely amusing on celebrity panel games, but London will be a smouldering mess of disaster after disaster. Cross-Rail will be a failure. The buses non-existent. The congestion charge zone a thing of the past and any car journey requires you to leave yesterday. Race tensions will be at an all time high because every three months the Mayor forgets the microphone is still on and says what he really thinks. Crime will be on the up because, let’s be honest, no-one is going to take someone who sounds like a the deranged offspring of an inbred Lord and a tortoise seriously.
And Boris will be happy in his Oxfordshire mansion watching the chaos descend.
Fine, you can have him if that’s what you want. You deserve each other.
I’m emigrating to Norwich which at least had the intelligence to elect more socially-environmentally conscious councillors than anywhere else in the country. Even if there is a risk of becoming a tractor molesting Delia Smith fetishist, I’m off.
God, even the young lad who stood for the Hull Mayoral elections in a monkey costume a few years ago was better than Boris. At least he had no opinions on anything other than trying to raise the profile of Hull FC. Boris has got views and ideas and lots of them.
And they’re nasty.
Friday, 2 May 2008
Apples Rolling On A Damp Afternoon
Walking down to college this afternoon to finally discharge my assignment into the ether of the marking system I witness something really quite distressing.
At the bus stop outside Jam Circus a guy in his mid-twenties stands with his shopping. He’s a bit beardy, hair a bit tousled. A bit like me at the moment; he’s probably a student somewhere. As the bus approaches he picks up his shopping and the one bag handle rips. Loose apples fall out to the floor and roll like red and green marbles across the concrete slabs. Some pass through puddles, some whiz off down the road, a couple bounce off the edge of the kerb and into the gutter.
“Oh no,” the guy says sounding quite upset.
People around scramble to grab the apples for him. Arms outstretched they try to push them back into the remains of his bag, or into his hands, which just hang by his sides. Everyone seems quite keen to help.
But he’s just staring into the middle distance and then, ever-so slowly, he squats down and puts his hands over his head so his arms cover his face.
“Noooo,” he groans in little more than a whisper.
“Hey, it’s okay,” a woman proffering an apple says. “We’ve got them.”
“It’s all spoilt. They’re all ruined,” he says a little louder.
He ignores those trying to help and gives what can only be described as an anguished howl. I’ve never heard anything like it, but it seemed to come from deep inside. It was the sound of despair. I don’t know how else to put it.
Finally he burst into tears. Great big, shuddering sobs.
I felt really quite sad watching this spectacle. I felt like I was intruding just observing him. It’s not like I was gawping, but it was taking place right in front of me. Part of me wanted to help, but I don’t know what the problem was or if, indeed, there was anything anyone could have done for the poor guy.
It puts things in perspective, though. I mean, we all have our problems, but what could have made someone break down like that?
Anyone would have thought the Tory's wet dream of winning the London mayoral race had a chance of coming true.
Oh.
Crap.
At the bus stop outside Jam Circus a guy in his mid-twenties stands with his shopping. He’s a bit beardy, hair a bit tousled. A bit like me at the moment; he’s probably a student somewhere. As the bus approaches he picks up his shopping and the one bag handle rips. Loose apples fall out to the floor and roll like red and green marbles across the concrete slabs. Some pass through puddles, some whiz off down the road, a couple bounce off the edge of the kerb and into the gutter.
“Oh no,” the guy says sounding quite upset.
People around scramble to grab the apples for him. Arms outstretched they try to push them back into the remains of his bag, or into his hands, which just hang by his sides. Everyone seems quite keen to help.
But he’s just staring into the middle distance and then, ever-so slowly, he squats down and puts his hands over his head so his arms cover his face.
“Noooo,” he groans in little more than a whisper.
“Hey, it’s okay,” a woman proffering an apple says. “We’ve got them.”
“It’s all spoilt. They’re all ruined,” he says a little louder.
He ignores those trying to help and gives what can only be described as an anguished howl. I’ve never heard anything like it, but it seemed to come from deep inside. It was the sound of despair. I don’t know how else to put it.
Finally he burst into tears. Great big, shuddering sobs.
I felt really quite sad watching this spectacle. I felt like I was intruding just observing him. It’s not like I was gawping, but it was taking place right in front of me. Part of me wanted to help, but I don’t know what the problem was or if, indeed, there was anything anyone could have done for the poor guy.
It puts things in perspective, though. I mean, we all have our problems, but what could have made someone break down like that?
Anyone would have thought the Tory's wet dream of winning the London mayoral race had a chance of coming true.
Oh.
Crap.
Thursday, 1 May 2008
The Daily David - Limited Offer Only
So, for one month only davidmarstonwrites is going daily.
I’m not exactly sure why I’m giving myself a load of extra work, but I’ve been reading quite a few other blogs recently. I quite like the idea of popping up and briefly saying something irreverent without my usual (hah!) more structured work.
Like the guy I saw just before Christmas. It was nearly midnight, absolutely freezing cold and he’s walking along holding a piece of broccoli out before him like a religious icon. I had something funny to say about that, but managed to forget it over the next couple of days.
I’m mean, it’s not as though I’ve much else to do. I spend most of my time sitting at the computer writing.
God, I spend most of my time sitting at the computer writing? How the hell am I going to find enough copy to write something every day???
Prepare to have a conversation near you pilfered very soon.
Right. You know that thing we all do when something’s finally gone right? When you want to pump your fist in the air or, if it weren’t for carpet burns, slid across the floor on your knees, the soundtrack in your head a big triumphant rock band. With strings.
“Yeeeessssss!!!!”
When I was a salesman and I got a particularly large order confirmed I wanted to run laps of the building waving the contract in the air. Instead, because I’m terribly English at times, I’d just smile and get on with processing the order through the computer system.
I’m a lot less reserved at home (not least because there’s no-one around to tut disapprovingly) and this morning I finally figured out why a story wasn’t working. It all suddenly clicked into place perfectly - not a moment too soon, either, the deadline’s tomorrow. There was something suitably raucous on the stereo and before I knew it I’d finished the problem-scene and was standing in the middle of the lounge playing air guitar.
Now, the front gardens (front concrete, rather) on our road are about two foot long. We’re the only house to not have one of the following: blinds, net curtains, handy bushes. Which is my fault (obviously) because I enjoy the light coming through the big windows. The drawback is we get gawpers; people who unashamedly walk past with their heads turned, mouths open, dribble running down their chins.
When I opened my eyes, mid-riff, I saw a what appeared to be a dozen Japanese tourists, over-night bags and all, staring in.
Quite what they were doing in Brockley I never found out. I was too busy mentally shrivelling into a ball of goo.
At midday I, sheepishly, went out to vote. Elections, love them. Admittedly the locals aren’t as much fun as a general election, but I’ll still be there tonight, glass of whisky in hand, watching the BBC’s coverage of pensioners counting pink forms as fast as their fading eyesight allows.
I think I might be the only person not directly involved in politics to watching, though.
As I made my mark today, I wondered why I get quite so obsessed with politics. Then I realised: It’s pure vanity. It’s a little bonus point for my ego that gets all romantic about changing the world, about fighting the good fight. I’m doing something worthwhile.
Whilst, of course, the rest of my time I spend sitting at the computer in the spare room.
I might need to get out more.
I’m not exactly sure why I’m giving myself a load of extra work, but I’ve been reading quite a few other blogs recently. I quite like the idea of popping up and briefly saying something irreverent without my usual (hah!) more structured work.
Like the guy I saw just before Christmas. It was nearly midnight, absolutely freezing cold and he’s walking along holding a piece of broccoli out before him like a religious icon. I had something funny to say about that, but managed to forget it over the next couple of days.
I’m mean, it’s not as though I’ve much else to do. I spend most of my time sitting at the computer writing.
God, I spend most of my time sitting at the computer writing? How the hell am I going to find enough copy to write something every day???
Prepare to have a conversation near you pilfered very soon.
Right. You know that thing we all do when something’s finally gone right? When you want to pump your fist in the air or, if it weren’t for carpet burns, slid across the floor on your knees, the soundtrack in your head a big triumphant rock band. With strings.
“Yeeeessssss!!!!”
When I was a salesman and I got a particularly large order confirmed I wanted to run laps of the building waving the contract in the air. Instead, because I’m terribly English at times, I’d just smile and get on with processing the order through the computer system.
I’m a lot less reserved at home (not least because there’s no-one around to tut disapprovingly) and this morning I finally figured out why a story wasn’t working. It all suddenly clicked into place perfectly - not a moment too soon, either, the deadline’s tomorrow. There was something suitably raucous on the stereo and before I knew it I’d finished the problem-scene and was standing in the middle of the lounge playing air guitar.
Now, the front gardens (front concrete, rather) on our road are about two foot long. We’re the only house to not have one of the following: blinds, net curtains, handy bushes. Which is my fault (obviously) because I enjoy the light coming through the big windows. The drawback is we get gawpers; people who unashamedly walk past with their heads turned, mouths open, dribble running down their chins.
When I opened my eyes, mid-riff, I saw a what appeared to be a dozen Japanese tourists, over-night bags and all, staring in.
Quite what they were doing in Brockley I never found out. I was too busy mentally shrivelling into a ball of goo.
At midday I, sheepishly, went out to vote. Elections, love them. Admittedly the locals aren’t as much fun as a general election, but I’ll still be there tonight, glass of whisky in hand, watching the BBC’s coverage of pensioners counting pink forms as fast as their fading eyesight allows.
I think I might be the only person not directly involved in politics to watching, though.
As I made my mark today, I wondered why I get quite so obsessed with politics. Then I realised: It’s pure vanity. It’s a little bonus point for my ego that gets all romantic about changing the world, about fighting the good fight. I’m doing something worthwhile.
Whilst, of course, the rest of my time I spend sitting at the computer in the spare room.
I might need to get out more.
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