Monthly Archives: September 2006

rivers of steaming piss

‘la noche en blanca’ is a large cultural event in madrid which occurred last saturday. there was free entry to museums and parties and concerts in the streets, plazas and parks. Of course, being the culture vulture that I am, I decided to take full advantage of this, and so I stayed in bed until 3pm, dossed around a bit and then went out when it was suitably late to get drunk. Indeed, I have never seen such culture. The bars were 50m long in the middle of the trendiest streets (closed to traffic for safety reasons), there were the craziest of punk/techno fusion bands playing on huge stages at a level of volume that caused small children to cry, and of course people pissing in the shop doorways. By the end of the initial festivities at 12, the streets absolutely shimmered with the vapour and nasal burning effect of people’s uria, flowing freely down the gutters. Also, the ground was stickier than you tend to find it in the most classy of London’s clubs, due to spilt booze.

I feel like I have arrived, and am slowly experiencing the real culture of Madrid. ¡Me gustaría estar borracho otra vez en esas calles!

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by jove! I think he’s got it!

we are but specks of dust on the surface of a sand grain’s vector
no meaning to our lives but that we give it, without this we are but spectres

perspective is a great thing, reject god, embrace the truth with the power of ten!

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T’pennyworth

Appearing crazed but through such
Rantings the bar has been raised
And though each word ever worthy of praise
A brutal intra-cranial malaise is suggested.
We’ve cogitated, contemplated and digested.
Pressure tolerance of skull lining well tested in concluding therefore:
Mad as a box of frogs.

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my god that’s a tasty pulpo!

Well, shit! If the Groover doesn’t outdo man, beast and animal in blog writing standards yet again! I’m shafted if I can keep up with the twisted ramblings of a man going that far out of his mind. There is a point (normally after about 10 years) when the body is so used to the abuse that to cease it suddenly is tantamount to a beating of epic and sustained proportions. I ask you, do you really think that’s ethical? Perhaps we should set up a campaign to inform the public of the hidden evils rampaging through our society in the form of disillusioned young men starving their bodies of the most uptodate, and some would say ‘bukka’ chemicals available in the name of EMPLOYMENT?????

Strange… I feel I should now do some pressups and cook myself a healthy vegetarian meal of steamed vegetables.

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Patches

baggy trousersWeek moving past at a blur. Couple of days down in Bromley wearing the suit again. Too much wear can provoke raggedness and am starting to think that maybe the right thing is to fit some of those natty leather patches to the knees and elbows, old-time professor style. Perhaps not, but shame to see the creases fall out and the legs dragging on the floor. Maybe I should go for turnups, which triggers sudden memory of doing that once on one of those horrendous non-uniform days back at school where everyone spends the day looking at each other, scoping the development of the young ladies (it was ok back then, Sun readers, we were under-age too) and mocking the socially-excluded kids for their C&A clothes and dunlop/hi-tec trainers. Anyway, I wore turnups and got ripped for it. Cue a year of recurring jokes on the subject.

Which maybe teaches me that I don’t know much about fashion. Then again, it probably mainly teaches me that kids are cruel, dysfunctional little bastards that are happy to see someone else getting laughed at – happy to join in – anything to avoid it being them…..

But this is a tangent I’m not ready to explore yet and what I was trying to say was that my suit waist line is too big, which makes me think I’ve lost weight, but that doesn’t sound right. Think that two years ago I may have purchased it in the mindset of a baggy jeans wearer. Clearly not the way to buy a suit. Word to the wise: showing your pants in business meetings doesn’t do you any favours.

And what else? Three days into my voyage into sobriety and so far so good. My nicotine patch is chafing, and I am drifting from elation, through to anxiety by way of extreme paranoia, back to elation again via rage. Found myself wanting to burst into song walking through the park this morning which is either a good portent of the prospect of a clean mind or an early sign of delayed psychosis. Also having some absolutely amazing dreams (once again a tangent to be explored later). Apparently if you chew the nicotine gum while wearing the patches you can get palpitations. I’ve been trying, but so far no joy.

So to leave you with a thought: If you were a non-smoker and wore the patches for a couple of months, could you then alleviate yourself of your addiction to them by taking up smoking. “Just start with 5 a day and hopefully within a few weeks you can work up to 10, then 20 and if you’re lucky even 40. Just remember, with willpower, you too can become a professional smoker. Try to avoid situations where you will find yourself with other non-smokers…” I think the boys in marketing are missing a trick on this one, but then again I may well be sickeningly wrong.

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The buck stops here

doorSaid some US president and maybe he meant it. Perhaps some collossal arrogance to think that the buck, so to speak, really can stop at one place with total infallibility. It would certainly take a man at the top of his game.

Which is not myself I think. But, that is not to say it shouldn’t be. Certainly not to say that I shouldn’t try to sort things out. Try to prevent history repeating itself and try to change. Oh for the soul of a nineteenth century reformer instead of the morals of a veteran nintendo kid, button-bashing and colour sampling to my heart’s content. These are not times for noble deeds or for struggling out of the quagmire that is a mixture of long lost adolescence, kwik-fit transcendentalism and cravings for oblivion. Time to stop all that I think. Oh yes, the buck stops here.

So tomorrow, which begins with a hard fought trip to South London, suit clad again and clutching papers and promises of design brilliance, must be the beginning of sobriety. The first step on a programme I like to call the Ken Kesey thirty nine steps recovery programme or KKTN to all you soundbite hunters. Like Ken said, when you first start you’re taking this stuff to free your mind and open the door, so you can go jumping through. Straight to main nerve, so to speak (thanks to the good Doctor for that one). But there’s gotta come a point where you say “hey, the doors jammed open now, man – it’s time to get away from the acid and just go through”.

Strange tinpot logic from people that first learnt how to not shave and piss a lot of people off by wearing funny bright clothes and having sex with each other. Ah, how far we’ve come. But, I like this way of thinking and it has a certain resonance for me. It’s felt like the doors been open for a long time and if I could just put down this fine medicine and the eight foot chillum, maybe I could get through. Maybe there is a land of straight backs, effusive confidence and bright shining golf-courses somewhere beyond this ash stinking room. My god, the bits of paper, each one scrawled with some kind of crazed proclamation of greatness or some future plan of half-cocked commercial genius. Could I somehow gather some of these together into something salient, prolonged and enjoyable?

Phew, it’s a big thought for a long night spent reeling from the pain you can cause to other people without meaning to and the prospects of hard work and no more sleep again ahead. The work train cranks up another gear and the diver breathes in whole clean air, saving it up for the months of canistered low-oxygen high caffeine days to come. Gathering for the next speedy rush and then come up slowly, try not to go too fast or your brains pop out of your ears and your eyes shrink to the size of brazil nuts. But I digress. What might I find on the other side? That is the question. And for that, I guess I’ll have to wait and see. Sober as a judge.

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Not much

Arch-Angel FigroyNot much posting going on at the moment, but lots of thinking. Spend day trying to keep face on screen and hands on keyboard, but look up oblivious ten minutes later to find myself thinking about women, destiny, and how little time there is to gain a proper understanding of either of them, while smoking out the window. That slightly flaky feeling that the whole thing might reach up and send me spinning down onto the vegetated concrete floor of the path leading up to my house. Hoping that if that happens it knocks some sense into me rather than a spike or a left over bit of glass from our last trip to casualty.

Only other news I suppose is that me old mucker Tom laid on a good pub crawl on Saturday, where I succeeded in my aim of drinking heavily without heading towards the point of annihilation. Felt good to be exchanging words without a slur and pulling dance moves without a subsequent leap on to the tables. Progress of a sort, I think.

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Capitalism

cheekyHave spent the last month on a sales rinseout, attempting, and surprisingly succeeding in convincing the world and his wife that they want me and my crack (should that be cracked?) team to build them a new shiny website. Find myself trotting round like a wide-boy, in suit with the big shoulders, talking about accessibility standards, a fresh outlook and expanded sales activity. A strange role to find myself in, but predominantly positive I feel. The upshot is that with a bit of luck and a good prevailing wind, the rent should be getting paid up to Christmas and beyond and more importantly (whisper it mind), the company looks increasingly capable of standing on its own two feet.

Strange to for the first time in my life to have something employment wise to nurture that I love very much. Something that makes me feel like doing overtime (often to the expense of health and keeping in contact with friends). A bright shining jewel of creativity, and bolo work ethic (ie no mission statement, no vision and values and no hierarchy), fuelled by inebriation, optimism and occasionally glimpsed epiphanies of what could be. Cheesy I know, but hey it’s a good cheese. A fine stilton or perhaps a pack of mini babybels.

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Fools I tell you

BrainiacI read a passage in a transcript today that said something along the lines of:

“At the core of it in my mind, there is a sense.”

Which made me think cor (an underused word) blimey (equally undersold) that sounds like some pretty mystical wisdom. Either that or the complete absence of it. Bore comparison with my current situation (Ah an allegory, how lovely). No sleep for days due to workaday deadlines and evening website planning. The whole situation aided / deteriorated (delete as appropriate) by a potent mix of coffee, coca-cola, the occasional woodbine and haribo sweet mix. Exhaustion, but zealot style exultation at prospect of future financial solvency. Surely a bad sign and definitely an indication that it’s time for a brief holiday from madness, plumbaits, baitbods, ambitious youth-snappers and tee-totallers the world over. God damn you, you decrepit fun picklers.

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Well…

bueno, I am returning to the homeland temporarily, with mixed feelings. On the one hand it offers the rare excuse to celebrate seeing normality again; getting as pissed as possible and dancing like tina turner, as if it is made acceptable, with friends. On the other hand, I am still wondering why I went to Spain in the first place. I know there was a reason, and I know I have enjoyed myself (with senoritas, sangria, 37 degrees, and more cash than you can stuff down your trousers, it’s not hard). But I thought there was some kind of deeper, cheesier fulfilment I was after, and it still eludes me. And so, in the words of a famous trio, I shall:

Jungle Brothers
Regroup and lounge,
Put on a couple of pounds,
And make plans to create the raw, homegrown sounds
Without love and support,
I might come up short…

…and so I shall seek some, a respite, a kit kat, call it what you will. Refreshment is on it’s way. I hope you all gain the refreshment you seek this weekend.

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Toil

Alone in the libraryDeadline day today and inevitably, what should have been two hours of light worked turned into an intense full-day rollercoaster of exploding computers, inconsistent connections and screen-burnt exhaustion. Not a day I hope to repeat, but hopefully the job is done, a paycheck can now be claimed and I can pay the rent, the phone-bill and get the Greek out of the pawn shop, where I traded him for a pack of rizla and some mini-cheddars. So please god of half-sensed programming jiggery-pokery, please bless my much endeavoured efforts with your magic unix hands. I try great one, I try.

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More gibberish

Drunk on the train again and another thought that half made me laugh:

Stevie Wonder couldn’t see
When he wrote Songs in the Key of Life
But then again, neither can I
Late at night.

Perhaps it’s not the same
Perhaps it’s no Ordinary Pain
Perhaps I should leave the punchline gags alone
And just feed my brain.

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