Don't let our youth go to waste

I headed into Christmas wearing what I thought were my best jeans, of the darkest denim. Turns out they've faded more than I thought. My brother turned up wearing new denim (I'm sure he always does this trick of buying all his clothes a week before Christmas so everything's brand new). So next to him I noticed how old my jeans actually were. A bit like how you still feel young until you see teenagers with their fresh faces and their big hair, and you think I know why you're talking do excitedly - it's because you have so little past.

So today I headed into town to buy new jeans. At Angel a girl with a clipboard came up to me and tried to sign me up to do her job.

"Are you leaving?"

"No, we're just recruiting."

"I've got a job."

She was explaining that the job was something to do with being a superhero (this was a bit confusing - she told me she was Wonder Woman, but she wasn't dressed up), and then presumably selling something to passers-by, but she didn't actually say that. She asked me what I did.

"Oh that sounds good."

"Yes, I'm on my holidays. The last thing I want to do is sign up for extra work."

"Sorry, am I annoying you?"

"No." She wasn't, she was quite endearing.

Holidays are good, but they move fast. By the time I've bought my new dark denim jeans and reached home it's two o' clock. I've just been through the four o' clock lull. Do you get that? It reaches four and then everything feels awful for around three hours. I feel restless, I get little done, the music I listen to depresses me, I put the TV on but it annoys me. I think it's something to do with it being around going home time during a normal working week. Normally you'd leave work and head home, feeling that elation of the day's work being finished. But because you don't feel that elation everything feels bad. It's so deeply ingrained. I always get it if I'm indoors at this time. Seriously. I ended up going through my CDs looking for ones to take to the charity shop. I ended up with a huge pile, because everything looked rubbish. I better check that pile before I take them down.

This year is nearly through. Has anything changed, have I learned anything along the way? Am I all prepared for next year. Possibly not, as ever I'm unsure, I think 2010 has been a good year though. I need to make plans for 2011. I'm heading towards the new year in new jeans, so that's a good start.

Tis The Season

The snow is clearing but announcements are being made on the tube, telling people not to go to Heathrow Airport unless their flight has been confirmed. In the department stores on Oxford Street I’m stuggling. You can’t get to the counter without being asked a thousand questions. Do you have a reward card? Do you want one? Would you like to buy any of our rubbish items at the till today? In one store they have a girl with a sash around her saying ‘I’m here to help’. I ask her where the ladies handkerchiefs are. She says the department store doesn’t sell them. How helpful. Her sash should say, ‘I’m a big fat liar’. In Marks and Spencers it’s a different story. The ‘help’ woman more-or-less adopts me. She chaperones me to the first floor to get my present. On the escalator she asks me who I’m shopping for and I tell her I’ve not got anything for my Mum despite her being really organised and giving me her list weeks ago. The ‘help’ woman takes me around half the shop to sort my list out. She even walks me to where the cashiers are and points me towards the escalator. I follow her instuctions back into the street, following hordes of Ugg boots towards Bond street tube.

This morning there’s a sense of a city emptying out. People on the platform have suitcases and presents. The tube isn’t too packed. The woman opposite me makes the most of the space. She is knitting.

I’m waiting for the office to close at 12.30. I’m looking forward to my Christmas Eve afternoon, wrapping presents with the TV on. I suspect there’ll be a classic black and white film on. I’m not going to check though, I like running through the channels at random until I hit upon a classic. Hopefully the office closing will be like the close of school. The bell will ring and we will all charge out shouting and laughing our way up the street, throwing our books and bags into the air as we go. That’s a good way to see in the Christmas holidays.

Simply thrilled honey

At the Belle & Sebastian gig, I'm standing in my usual place about four rows from the front, to the right of the stage, when I wonder why security guards at festivals are so miserable looking. Is it part of the hard image they need to maintain or are they genuinely hating every minute of it? They're standing there in the best seats of the house, facing the wrong way.

There's an annoying girl with a gravelly voice shouting for 'another sunny day' after every number. I'm hoping everyone who can hear her is thinking the same thing as me. Great song. Don't play it. There's also the problem of people trying to force themselves to the front late on. Where exactly do they think they're going to stand? This aside it's a fantastic gig. Originally I thought i'd see the last 30 minutes further back, but i'm mesmerised, rooted to the spot. They don't play 'another sunny day'. I swear towards the end one of the security guards cracks and is smiling.

This isn't just any gig, this is Bowlie 2 at Butlins in Minehead. OK, so the outdoor swimming pool and overhead mono rail depicted in the 70's Butlins postcard I buy, isn't here to transport us to gigs but with everything else: the football, the music, the book readings, the scrabble, saturday night drinking, everything is fantastic. Our chalet, No. 31 Flamingo Grove, is small and homely. With no fridges people are keeping their milk on the windowsill or on the doorstep.

We walk amongst the winter cardigans, brown rimmed spectacles and messy hair, between the chalet and the giant white dome that houses the main stage, arcade, Irish pub, shops, bars and the ballroom where other bands are playing. Plus there's Reds and the Crazy Horse housing events. People are friendly, some people we meet up with once, such as the three drinkers we meet by the bar on Saturday night for the Franz gig, who've been drinking since 11am. Others are seemingly everywhere we turn, such as the Franz guitarist.

On Saturday I play football. We get through the first two rounds, which is pretty good for a thrown together team. There are a couple of fantastic players on our team, neither of whom are me. The matches are ten minutes and after the first I feel like my lungs are going to burst through my chest. A good lie down and I'm ready for match two. We're waiting around to play again, but it gets postponed to the Sunday. I never turn up for the Sunday match, until too late. Sorry team Noleen. Did we/you win?

Saturday afternoon we're at the front against the barrier for Edwyn Collins, backed by Teenage Fanclub, playing the songs of Orange Juice. Sound perfect? It was even better than that, it was just so magical. The Vaselines were amazing too, the foul mouth banter of Francis a bonus. Made me wish I'd joined her yoga class.

I could have stayed there all week, made some time to use the pool and speed down those water shoots. But Monday morning and everyone's leaving, the bands too. We return to real life, the annoying sunny day girl's voice has dimmed, become something to mimic, the pushing and the December cold forgotten, with the music as wonderful as ever, shining bright in the memory like sky lanterns illuminating the night sky.

Silent Night

So tonight I'm at the work Christmas party, 4000 people in a warehouse in Battersea, just taking a breather from dancing to some top 40 hit to write this on a borrowed i-pad. I am the Christmas party. (Are you sure about this Davison? To the untrained eye you look like a man sitting at home, listening to Radio 2 in your slippers).

OK, so I didn't go to the Christmas party. I didn't feel like it. I almost changed my mind as I was leaving the building: women in their droves were heading to the toilets to get changed, usually drab and slightly worried looking clerks transforming into belles of the ball. The dresses, the heals, the exotic perfumes. Downstairs in the foyer gorgeous smelling women wait for the bus.

I don't want to go though. I just tend to go to these things and drift around, hating the music, refusing to dance unless they play the Ronettes, and with nothing really to say. It's like re-visiting adolescent rejection. I don't know, I can't get into these things, I'm too old maybe. I just never get into it, the drinks flow, everything goes hazy, but it never feels like you can cut loose at these things, corporate to the last. I'm being too cynical I know, some people will have a great time. Here's to them.

People will think I was at the party anyway. I've got tomorrow off which is a sure sign of someone who drunk too much. Tomorrow they'll come in hungover and see my empty chair, and they'll say:

"He's not turned up, must have had a skinful last night. I don't remember seeing him. He must have had too many in the pub beforehand, probably wasn't allowed in. That's typical of him."

They probably won't say anything of the sort. Ah well, it's ten to ten and I don't feel I'm missing out. I've got early Christmas party plans of my own.

Winter walks

So today was another tube strike and after the stress of the last one; hundreds of people queuing at the bus stop and charging towards the suspiciously late buses, packed out, people's faces squashed against the doors, I decided not to bother rushing. I was either going to get out early or late. So, late it was. I was up and dressed by eight, so I just pottered around for an hour. Gazed out of the window, there was a remarkable lack of people on the street; maybe they were leaving late too? I spent ages looking at a Christmas Card I bought yesterday of a girl and her cat staring out the window, waiting, wondering who I should send the card to. The postman came so I opened my post.

When I left the house it was still quiet, a few people around; scarves, hats -specifically big Russian hats and thick overcoats. The bus was quiet enough to get a seat, and lose myself in the crazy world of Bill Drummond. The Justified ancients of Mu Mu indeed. The winter quiet reminds me of last Saturday when I left the house to collect my food. The match was on and I walked past the stadium, the buzz of the crowd getting louder as I approached. There were a few bored policemen on street corners but nobody else. TVs were on in the bay windows of the houses. I walked past the allotments that slope down to the railway line near Drayton Park. They must have scored, there was a huge cheer from the stadium, and seconds later from somebody in his house. He should have stuck his head out the window, he'd have got the score in real time.

After I'd collected my fruit and veg, you could feel the match was about to be over. The police were standing up straight, radio-ing other officers, the stadium announcing the way to leave. The cafes and bars were gearing up for the post-match crowd. I walked home and closed the door, put the heating up and searched for an afternoon film to watch. The adverts are all Christmas adverts. Is Christmas coming early this year?

Career Opportunities (Part 4)

1988 and the world is changing but I’m still standing in front of the weighing scales, weighing boxes of bacon just the same as last year, except now Bros are playing on the radio speaker above my head. This is so depressing. I’ve bought the Morrissey album. I’ve taped a couple of Smiths albums too. ‘If you must go to work tomorrow, then if I was you I really wouldn’t bother…’ Now there’s an idea. The factory hours change to 8 till 5. They take away the smoke breaks, (the men would file down to a smoke filled room downstairs and the women would sit in an upstairs room twice a day). They also stop the 11.30 finish on Friday and it becomes 1 o’clock. Boy, does that last hour and a half drag. They take on two managers, Jack and Geoff, in a bid to increase productivity. Big mistake. Geoff’s a nice guy, but Jack is a moron. He just paces around, thinks he’s a time and motion man. One day he approaches me while I’m weighing bacon.

“I’ve been watching you. You don’t look like you’re enjoying yourself. Why is that?”

“That’ll be because I’m not.”

Jack doesn’t respect honesty. Paul and I start to get the blame for everything. We laugh too loudly, we take longer lunch breaks. Water gets spilt on the stairs and some housewife slips and nearly breaks her neck. We get the blame. It wasn’t us but the next time we’re late, we’re asked why and Paul replies:

“We were washing the stairs.”

This doesn’t go down too well.

On my 18^th birthday I take the day off. I run into this guy Will Ryman, who’s always hanging around town. He never has the same job for long, if he bothers working, but he never seems short of cash. Rumour has it he sleeps on the floor at his ex-girlfriend’s house. He calls everyone man and wears big baggy C-17 jeans covered in patches. A few months after he first appears it seems the whole town’s wearing C-17 jeans or the Pepe copies. I’m not wearing a cheap version, I’ve got a job. I buy the C-17 dungarees with the patches.

“I’m off to the job agencies man, come along if you’ve nothing to do.”

At the agencies they have jobs in the window, which, when you inquire about them, aren’t actually available. We fill in the forms and the woman tells us to wait while she checks the files. I’m sitting there dutifully.

“C’mon we haven’t time to wait for her, onto the next one man.”

We head over to the next agency, fill in the form and don’t wait for her either. I figure they won’t call. I didn’t even fill in my form properly.

I start taking a day off a week, usually Wednesday to break the week up. One day I return home and my mum says, “these agencies keep calling for you offering you work.” I’m liking the idea, I could work all different places, work a few days, take a few days off till the money runs out, and then get another temp job. I’m not interested in all that get a job and keep it till you get another one, make sure your CV doesn’t have any employment gaps on it type attitude. My CV says I work in a meat factory. This hasn't been getting me very far.

Paul’s determined to leave. He comes in one Monday and says he’s been offered a job at Tesco’s and he’s got his notice in his hand and he’s going to give it to Tony Adsett this morning. I tell him I will to. I go over to a slightly wet metal table and hastily write out my notice.

“I’ve told Tony,” he says.

I go over to Tony with my note.

“I’m leaving too,” I say.

“You as well. Are you going to Tesco’s too?” he asks.

“No, I’m just leaving.”

“Well don’t hand your notice in till you’ve got another job.”

“No, it’s OK, I’ll be alright, I’m going to leave.

It’s the Thursday and I clock in, knowing this is the last time I’ll do this. Matt Clark isn’t in today so yesterday he was saying how I had to be in on Friday. I can’t come in anyway, I’m booked in to collect my contact lenses tomorrow, so I’ll be able to see at last. Besides it’s pay day, another week’s wages plus tax rebate to go with the £500 I have saved.

It gets around that we’re not coming in tomorrow, so people come and say goodbye. I’ve been trying to keep it quiet because things happen when you’re leaving. When one of the butchers left they stripped him naked, tied him to a chair and took him upstairs.

Nothing happens though. We clock out, I arrange to meet Paul at twelve the next day at Mcdonalds, then I get the van home. The van, with the chat going across, I’m waiting as we crawl along, hoping they won't ask me any questions about the fact I'm leaving. I don't want their opinion. It reaches town where a few people get out, I tell Bert I’m getting out here too.

“See you tomorrow,” someone says. I slam the van door shut, turn and cross the road out of sight and start walking towards the future.

Career Opportunities (Part 3)

So let’s get this straight, you get 4 weeks off a year, plus bank holidays and weekends and that’s it, rolling on into the future till you’re 65, which in my case is 48 years off. You work one job until you get another. And get this, you have to be grateful because in today’s climate you’re lucky to have a job. These are the unwritten rules.

At work I’m considered quite thick. You’re being watched, they’re waiting for you to make a mistake, because thick people work here and just as long as it’s you and not them everybody’s happy. I’m starting to believe the hype. I’m short sighted but too vain to wear glasses, so when people gesticulate to me from far away, I just squint and wave. I’m insulated in my own world to escape the boredom, with ‘Tommy’ going round my head. I wear the worst clothes; an unwanted jumper I got as a Christmas present, tight faded jeans, all hidden under the blue overalls anyway, with steel toecap Dr Martin shoes - a good grip against the greasy floors. People tend to write their name on the white caps we have to wear. I’ve written ‘Hat’ on mine. Whenever the inspectors come over we have to wear hairnets, the rest of the time we don’t bother. My clothes stink of meat and when I get home I change immediately, part of the process of separating work from home life. But the smell of meat never quite goes away.

1987 doesn’t get off to a good start. I’m sent to work downstairs in the beef department, amongst a bunch of butchers where the piss taking is turned up to ten. I start the morning breaking ice off slabs of meat with an iron bar. I’m trying to blend in with the walls to avoid the butchers’ attention. I move over to the EDL department, the wall blending fails when Mole lets me use his donkey (which is basically a couple of forks with an electric steering handle used to pick up pallets). I think I’m getting the hang of it when I come through the plastic partition the same time as Mole comes the other way and I smash into his ankle. Poor guy, he’s flat out and bleeding. Mole is off work for a week.

By the time he returns I’m sent up to work in the bacon department. In the bacon department you queue in the morning and Steph dishes the jobs out. I always try to get put on the weighing machines. You put the packaged bacon on the machine, it produces a label with the price, you stick it the price on and put the package in a box. Box full, you send it down the production line and start on another. A guy at the end makes the boxes and you shout ‘boxes’ at him when you want more. For amusement I put the bacon on the scale and lift the scale up slightly to see how much I can reduce the price. One time I send a big slab of bacon out priced at 4p.

The days are depressing me, you live for the feeling of relief that you’re going home. Sunday nights I lie awake unable to sleep wondering what I’m going to do with my life. I lose myself in a world of books and music. I have a CD player but there aren’t that many CDs available. The Beatles being Beatles do it properly. George Martin pops into Abbey road to clean up the master tapes and the CDs are released in order, Sgt Pepper being released on CD exactly 20 years after the original was released. I’m getting intrigued and start buying the CDs as they come out. I’m not that bothered by ‘Please, Please Me’ so I wait for ‘Help’ then get ‘Revolver’, and I’m starting to get hooked. It’s not that far from the Who, and you can hear sounds in it that people like Paul Weller picked up on. I start listening to the Sex Pistols and the Clash. I work in a meat factory. ‘Career Opportunities’ says more to me about my life than anything else around. I’m looking for something new though, something you can go and see rather than just read about.

The Beastie Boys are beginning to hit big. Matt and I have tickets to see them with Run DMC at Brighton Arena. A few others have promised to come down too. I’m not sure about it, this is my first ever gig. When people ask me in ten years time what my first gig was I’m going to have to remind them of a long forgotten one hit wonder comedy white rap act. But I’m beginning to love them. They have a song called ‘Girls’ which is them rapping over a cheap keyboard pre-tune. It is clearly the best song ever. They appear on TV, jumping up and down on stage, a girl in a cage behind them. Then they turn up at the airport and swear at the British reporters. It doesn’t get any better than this. Mike D has a VW sign around his neck. People start to copy him, it becomes a craze. Mole’s VW gets beastied.

At the Liverpool gig a riot ensues when the Beasties take to the stage. Suddenly no-one is going to the Beastie Boys gig anymore. Matt is talking of driving there later and just seeing Run DMC. I’m naïve; who cares about a riot? I want to see the Beastie Boys. He eventually agrees and drives us there in his white beetle.

We stand near the back to watch the Beastie Boys. Matt does his neck strutting dance and I copy him. After a couple of drinks I head into the crowd for Run DMC. I’m right in the thick of it and as the band take the stage the mosh pit pushes backwards and forwards violently. I lose my balance and fall into the masses. All I can see is legs. Great, first gig and I’m going to get crushed to…

A huge guy lunges in and pulls me out of the crowd.

“You alright mate?” he asks.

“Yeah, cheers.”

Back at work things are as oppressive as ever, but we do manage to have a laugh sometimes. Rik Mayall is the biggest comedian ever and we are all huge Rik fans. Me and Paul are re-enacting some Dangerous Brothers stuff at the weighing machines one day when this guy Jamie turns round and starts joining in with the quotes. He could recite word for word the lot. He’d been to art school for a year then due to parental pressure got a job. He was pretty shy and ate his lunch in the locker room alone. But mention Rik Mayall and he sprang to life. We become friends and meet up to go to Brighton to buy records some Saturdays.

People come and go from the factory but not me. Icontact one agency and they ring back enthusiastically about a job in a hi-fi shop, because I’ve told them I'm interested in music. I ask them to put me forward for it. Leave it to me they reply. It sounds like I'm in good hands. It’s my first dealings with agencies. I never hear from them again.

I take a week off. I’ve nothing planned I just don’t want to go to work. Walking along Hurst Road I hear my name being called from a loudspeaker. It’s Mole, who’s hooked up a speaker to his car so he can sing ‘Are you lonesome tonight’ to passing girls. We hang around for the week playing pitch and putt and drinking in the Crown.

Eventually they put me onto the end of the production line. This is a pretty good job because you get to work under the radio speaker, which is virtually the only place you can hear it due to the noise from the machines. You weigh the boxes of meat, write the weight on the box and put it on a pallet, until the pallet was full. Den, a mad ex-teddy boy from the fifties picks them up and delivers your pallets to you. He always sits in the same place in the canteen. He has this method for catching flies.

“You just got to follow it along the table then clap your hands in the air above where you think they’ll be, ‘coz they’re fast and then they’ll fly into your hands.”

One day a butcher called Wally comes up to me and says:

“Why do you work here?”

I ask myself this regularly but nobody else ever does.

“Well it’s money isn’t it?” I shrug.

“This place is alright for people like him,” he says, pointing to someone a bit backward, “but you’re wasting your time here. You’re not stupid.”

1987 is disappearing out of sight to the sound of the Proclaimers and T’Pau’s ‘China in your Hand’, and still I work in a meat factory. I’m looking down the production line at the lads cutting the meat, the housewives loading up the vat pack, the lads and girls on the weighing machines. They say you should be grateful for a job in this day and age, there’s some who can’t get work. They say it’s easier to get a job if you’ve already got a job, you don’t want any gaps on your CV.

I apply for a couple of jobs, my hard work rewarded with two rejection letters. So you don’t want a meat packer with four CSEs working in your office ‘eh, penpusher? Something has to change. I’ll be eighteen next year. There’s no way I’m working here when I’m eighteen.

Keef

Hey get this, I'm on my way out of Honolulu, when the customs guy picks up Bobby Keys' saxophone and a syringe falls out. He's busted and I'm next in line with Keef. (What are you talking about Davison? You're on a crowded bus in rush hour London on the day of the tube strike). Oh great, so I'm momentarily sent hurtling back to reality, surrounded by people on mobiles, phoning home to explain they won't be on time for dinner because the traffic's backed up for miles.

I was at Waterstones in Piccadilly as Keith Richards was turning up to sign his book, which I've been getting into since I bought it last Monday. I turn up late, the queue big, the security as helpful as ever.

"How many people roughly have been through so far, 100, 200?"

"It's not for me to say."

Great, another unhelpful thick shit who can't count is put in charge. The table where Mr Richards sits is surrounded and I don't even catch a glimpse of him. I just wanted to check he was real.

Reality isn't what I need this week, everything is falling down, having to deal with idiots entangled in crappy administration systems which fail you every time (Yes you - Islington council), customer services that never offer you a thing until you're leaving. Too little too late fuckers. I'm getting through the crazed world of Keef with the drug busts, the dealings at customs and all the crazy characters on the world tours, waiting for Sunday.

Sunday is where it's at. Ah, sweet Sunday. Tracy is working at the t-shirt shop so I'm cooking. The sweet smell of Bramley apples drifts from the kitchen, the lamb is slow cooking in the oven and the coffee is on the hob bubbling away. The heating is on, the 45s and 33 1/3s were dusted off and on the turntable earlier, but now I'm listening to Mr Cocker on 6 music, with his wonderful crackling records, on an autumn day.

The next time I go to Honolulu it'll be with Mr Oliver and Mr Hardy. Honolulu baby, where'd ya get those eyes?

Thirty-Three

So on my second week off all is good. The new Belle & Sebastian record is released which I buy from the friendly guy at Rough Trade West. Even the news is good; 33 Chilean miners successfully rescued months earlier than anticipated. I'm feeling relaxed and look at the tension around me in a bemused fashion; the cyclist arguing with the car driver, the girls playing truant shouting at the policemen that they don't understand, repeatedly, as they try and think up a plausible story. I'm sailing by on all this free time. And who's that over there? I could swear it's Richard Dawkins standing at the station, by those Christian posters, you know the ones, they say 'Do you believe in God?' then they have three options: Yes, no, maybe. Dawkins has a big black marker pen and is frantically putting a big tick in the 'no' box and stamping his foot, like Rumplestiltskin being told we all know his name.

I go to visit my sister who has a new daughter, brand new, two weeks old when I turn up. Beautiful. Then I go to my parents' house. It's funny going home, funny walking the streets, it's like in the Magician's Nephew when they go to the ruins of the city with all the people turned to stone. Something happened here only it was a long time ago, and all the people who made the town what it was have disappeared. Some of the buildings and streets have changed, some of the landmarks are still here, but they're full of other, unknown people. Mind you, if I ventured further than the distance between the station and my parents' house I might see someone from the old days.

The week back at work starts OK - whatever was I worried about? - but then it starts to decline. The news is bad, some fat cheeked fool announces the budget and the next thing you know Ian Duncan-Smith is on the television having a go at the Welsh. Telling them to get out of their town and to the job centre in Cardiff. Listen Duncan-Pillock, there is NOTHING written on those cards in the Job centre that could ever be called a job.

Then it's another early morning and I'm having trouble pushing the buttons through the button-holes on my shirt sleeves. Why does this stress me out so? Maybe I'll play truant, at least the police won't stop me.

Postcards from Ibiza (Part 3)

Being on holiday, you don’t need to be anywhere, you don’t need to rush but there’s still something inside pushing you along. If you took me to paradise I’d say this is perfect, where are we going next? I’m kind of fidgety, maybe we’re all like that? If the moment is perfect you still feel the need to leave it, because a perfect moment is always in danger of being made imperfect by outside forces, or by going on too long. So we lie on the beach in Portinatx, we lie on the beach in Santa Eularia, looking at the sun kissed Mediterranean sea calling out to us, then swim in the clear Mediterranean water, looking back at the beach calling out to us to come and dry off on its warm sand.

We do a bit of Kayaking. On the beach waiting for the party before us to come back to shore, I’m worried I’m not going to be able to control the Kayak. There’s a woman stuck only a few metres out. If I get stuck I want to be way out to sea. OK, no-one will see me to rescue me but more importantly, they won’t be able to stare, point and laugh. A couple of Kayakers return to shore, we put the life jackets on, and off we go. We’re soon getting the hang of it - I think I was born to do this - the beach is far behind us, we’re out to sea and bobbing about, the sound of hollow plastic hitting against the water.

I go on a mountain bike expedition. There are three of us, Josh, who’s 16 and from Dundee, who I like, we met him when we were playing table tennis and he immediately offered us his ping pong stuff. He’s friendly and good mannered and enjoying his two weeks in the sun. I think if you’re 16 the hotel must be ideal. Then there’s our leader, Stephen, who’s Dutch, and has a habit of saying: ‘Don’t die Josh’, or ‘How many times did you die out there?’ We travel 11 kilometres, starting off fast downhill, the hills ahead of us, then off-road into the forest covering the red-brown ground before hitting rocky ground. The suspension on this bike is amazing, I wouldn’t want to try this on my bike back home. We stop off to look over the cliffs.

"It's beautiful up here, yes?" says Stephen, as we look at the twinkling blue ocean below.

Below in the bay he points out the ghostly shell of a hotel, all the brick work but nothing more. Apparently it was half built then it was discovered the building was illegal as its owners had no planning permission. So it stays there unfinished, haunting an otherwise perfect bay.

We carry on up to the lighthouse where we stare over the cliffs. There is a lot of glass here from parties and a rusty car lies smashed on the rocks below. Our guide takes us to a bar in Portinatx where I get a well deserved fresh orange. Josh is knackered and decides he’s deserved a pint of San Miguel. Oh to be young again.

The guides like giving orders. Stephen guides us across the rocks telling us the best way to ride the bike, how to use the breaks, how to use the gears. When we finish for the morning, he’s still giving advice.

“OK, get a shower or take a dip in the pool.”

Slightly patronising, especially as I’ve been supervising my own showers since I was 34. But the guy’s OK, he’s got an interesting job; taking people out Kayaking and mountain biking, resting up in the afternoon and performing the shows in the evening, it beats the real world.

The real world, our real world is calling us. An evening in the Zulu lounge restaurant; drinking wine, watching the lights of the yachts in the bay, listening to the sea on the shore. A last day in the sun, schools of fish swimming around us and bumping into our feet. We’ll take these memories back with us, back to the English autumn.

Postcards from Ibiza (Part 2)

Another blue sky day and the stresses of the life we’ve made/fell into are falling away until we’ve nothing to worry about, apart from the insect bites (about 3 daily) and the fact the arm on my shades is loose so if I lean forwards they slip off my face. Important stuff.

Different characters at the hotel are making themselves apparent. There’s the posh couple who take a decanter of wine for dinner instead of a glass, the big couple who hang around the back for the entertainments looking non-plussed. Then there’s the big friendly-looking Scottish fellow, he looks a little like Buster Bloodvessel, who we see one time dive bombing into the swimming pool creating a tidal wave to wake the surrounding sunbathers.

We develop the theory that the hotel booze is so watered down you can’t get drunk on it. This is an all inclusive hotel, you can go in any time of day and get free drink yet we don’t really see anyone drunk. To put this to the test we order endless wine and settle down to watch the evening's entertainment. As we drink we notice a couple who fetch drinks by hopping in their socked feet to the bar. Surely this isn’t the behaviour of the sober? The entertainment consists of a themed evening, tonight 'Saturday Night Fever', that the cast dance and mime along to. This is better than it sounds, perhaps due to the hot Ibizian night, maybe down to Olivia, a long haired entertainer who's clearly relishing his role, and has a big booming voice he likes to employ regularly, introducing and closing the evening in four languages.

Before the clock has struck nine there’s people being sick in the toilets, disproving completely, the theory that you can't get drunk on the hotel booze. It's not us being sick, I should add, we’re busy applauding the evening's entertainment as if it’s the best thing we’ve ever seen, and right now, with this amount of free wine in us, it is.

Postcards from Ibiza

We are here in Ibiza chasing a last glimmer of summer, looking for sandy beaches drenched with sun and blue sky. We are staying in Portinatx in the north of the island, surrounded by the blue bay and green hills dense with pine trees. On first impression there are lots of tattooed people in our hotel, but they have rub on transfers for sale in the shop so there’s no need for us to feel left out. Portinatx has a great beach and the bay is beautiful, the only issue being the tacky English bars - there’s one called Delboy's - presumably here to cater for people suffering from culture shock.

Early in the week we take one of the four buses a day that go to Ibiza town. Us tourists all look out the bus windows eagerly, returning to the curious uncynical world of childhood, as we take in the views of our brand new world.

“Look sheep,” someone says, and we all look in wonder at these woolly creatures standing on a stretch of sun-scorched grass by the bridge we are crossing. Sheep, my English friends, are relatively small with crimped hair called wool and many have horns forming a lateral spiral. They are of a whitey-grey hue.

Ibiza town is quiet when we arrive, the rave kids have already gone home, or are asleep behind the drawn curtains of the hotels lining the promenade. I always think of foreign countries as places to eat gorgeous food; olives, fresh fish, grapes plucked from vines overhanging our restaurant seats. But it is harder to accomplish this: you have to avoid all the cafes offering English fry-ups. We come across a restaurant on the sea front selling delicious salads. The motherly olive-skinned waitress provides us with fresh bread and delicious home made aioli. We’re definitely coming back here.

On the way home there is plenty of excitement to look at out the bus windows. Helicopters fly overhead, huge orange pumpkin shaped buckets hanging from their framework, dropping water onto a forest fire. We look out the window excitedly, as one, the helicopters swooping to collect water from swimming pools and back over the pine forest to put out the flames.

Save us, John Logie Baird

Is this man in a light blue tracksuit the greatest character on TV ever? Is this the reason John Logie Baird came up with his invention? Possibly not, but there's nothing wrong with a bit of hyperbole. Surely though, we're in agreement that when Flip turns up in the first episode of This is England '86, with his totally rubbish learner motorbike gang it's one of the funniest scenes on TV we've seen this year. What can be a worse plan than trying to get a girl to go out with you by sending someone round her house to call her a fat dog, so you can rush to her defence. I myself have learnt from this scene and won't be applying that technique again.

The whole first episode was brilliant though, from the slow motion scene where Sean is leaving school, ruined in the next moment by his Mum turning up to meet him, to Gadget's silly ninja roll in the graveyard. I told everyone it was the best comedy ever, only to have it take a decidedly dark turn in the second episode. I may write to Mr Meadows and ask him to give Flip his own spin off comedy series. It'll be the second ever official type letter I've written, the first showing my disgust at the suggestion that the fabulous Radio 6 should be closed.

I don't understand people who say there's nothing on TV these days. TV is as it's always been: 90% rubbish and 10% quality, which is exactly how it should be. If TV was brilliant all the time we'd never leave the house. Mind you people who say TV is rubbish tend to stay in and watch it every night, and when you point out a good programme to them they've never heard of it, and usually they refuse to watch it. Some people are determined to never enjoy themselves.

Rumour has it there's to be another series of This is England set in 1990, and will capture the days of raves. I can't wait, let's go raving.

The dog runs around the clock

Thursday night we’re at the design festival at Earls Court, I have my name badge: right name, right job title, different company, stuffed in my pocket. There’s so much to see here, a favourite being a clock which has silhouettes of trees and houses, a park bench and other daily life objects dotted around with three silhouetted figures, a dog, a woman and an old lady, who represent the seconds, minutes and hour hands. It’s kind of hard to tell the time but it just looks fantastic. The Japanese designer introduces himself and tells us of his concept. Check it out here. It’s great seeing someone doing something they believe in for a change and in Earls Court tonight it’s all around.

The designers sit at their stalls, some smile, some have the sales technique, others are shrinking violets hiding in the corner while your watchful eye glances, sometimes momentarily, over furniture, lamps, animal shaped clothes hooks, something they may have dedicated the last year of their lives to.

Everyone is dressed to the nines and I’m feeling slightly self-conscious in my anorak and jeans. It’s inspiring being here, you get a sense that there’s a lot of people here tonight starting out, young and hopeful, their aspirations and dreams intact and if they work at it and have a bit of luck then it’s all ahead of them. It’s like watching people at the starting line, but you have to focus because the dog is running around the clock fast.

Up the stairs, Mister

7.30AM Last Saturday, I'm half way up the stairs with one end of a sofa which is proving to be one inch too big for the banisters. As it's wedged between the wall and the banisters we can spend time hatching a plan. We could try the other way - but it measures more the other way - and anyway we've tried that way already. We could smash the banisters up and replace them later? No, the only solution is painfully clear. We carry the sofa back to the van. Luckily there's a back-up sofa in the van, which we carry out and up the stairs in about fifty seconds. It's tatty but comfy.

Later Saturday morning I'm on the bus, my rucksack on my knees, travelling an unfamiliar route East towards Rough Trade. We drift through Forest Hills; the Jewish community are out in their Schtreimels, the big furry hats, some more furry than others. They must be off to church, there's a nice sense of community here. I seem to spend most of my life looking out windows watching how other people spend their days. I'm just trying to get some ideas together.

In my rucksack is a loaf of bread, a notebook, a coat rack and a drill. I'm going to put the coat rack up in my hall later. It'll give the hall a more homely feel. It's what the hall needs; autumn is approaching.

The bus passes through Stoke Newington, which has nice expansive green areas and slightly shabby looking three storey houses. It looks like a good area to live, reminds me of Lark Lane in Liverpool. The bus carries on through Dalston where street traders sell piles of clothes and rugs laid out on the street.

The bus reaches Whitechapel, I ring the bell and grab my rucksack, my arms already aching from moving the sofa.

Promenade

As we drive through the Sussex countryside towards the coast the smell of Sunday roast wafts through from a roadside Carvery. As soon as we reach our destination we're going in search of lunch. Our hotel is a huge white Georgian building on the seafront road; wide corridors, high ceilings and huge windows. Our window faces the car park but you can't have it all. On the Eastbourne Promenade we spy a pub serving Sunday roast until 2.30. It's 2.40. Further along we find another pub where they serve lunch till 4.00. This could be because they don't take your order until you've been sitting there a good twenty minutes, and they're not too interested in the details of your request either.

"One lamb, one turkey."

"Ok, so that's two lambs."

On the Prom a brass band plays. We had imagined a town untouched since 1952, the grandeur unfaded, and although this isn't quite the case the brass band is adding something magical to the atmosphere.

At Beachy Head the rain starts once we're a safe distance from the car. The black cloud hangs heavy while the sea below the white cliffs is a calm green. We head through the rain towards the red and white lighthouse, wondering whether people really jump or are blown over by the strong winds.

At 9.15pm we leave the hotel to check out the Eastbourne nightlife. The brass band is still playing into the night, the sound drifting along the row of lights that light the Promenade and the Pier. Amongst the adverts for the Abba tribute bands and swing bands is a poster for the Balkan folk sounding Beirut. They are playing their one English gig of the year, here in Eastbourne. Well, they were. The gig was Friday. Today is Sunday.

The glass fronts of the Georgian hotels are filled with pensioners, drinking and looking wistfully out to sea. A couple of streets back, in the town, it is quiet apart from drunk teenagers stumbling along shouting to one another. There are signs of life from a couple of pubs playing 90's dance music but it ain't our bag baby and besides we're too old. We decide to look for a decent chip shop. We find one which shuts at 10. It's 10.05.

Fortunately we find another one up the street and eat fish and chips on a bench on the Promenade, watching the twinkling of the lights on the Pier and the sound of waves drifting towards the shore.

Don't throw your rubbish away

Since Boris set up his bike scheme, the bikes with the flashing front lights, I’m sure I’ve noticed more non-Boris bikes than usual with missing front wheels, saddles and handlebars. Outside the charity shop on the Finchley road, four bags of home taped videos have surreptitiously been moved away from the charity shop to the rubbish bins opposite, where their labels are getting the writing smudged by the afternoon rain. For some reason the charity shop don’t want videos of ‘Bridge over the River Kwai’ taped off ITV. C'mon charity shop people, you've got to speculate to accumulate. The video owners were probably turned away from the landfill site by the same sanctimonious people who work in bookshop chains and ask you if you want a plastic bag, daring you to say yes so they can glare in self-righteous disbelief at your lack of care for the planet. The people getting rid of their entire video collection must have been compelled by 21^st century recycling guilt; you can’t throw anything away these days. It doesn’t matter how much tat is produced make sure you recycle it.

I was suffering from this in the eighties. I once took Brut 33 deodorant to the charity shop, hidden amongst more worthwhile goods. It was a christmas gift that had been on my shelf for 3 years. Not any Brut deodorant though, it was the gift pack which included eau de cologne, a dark green face cloth emblazoned with the Brut 33 logo and maybe even soap. I reckon it was snapped up, who wouldn’t want the refined, spicy, lavender, amber fragrance? This masculine scent that possesses a blend of citrus top notes with hints of spicy woods, who could possibly refuse?

As I head home the videos are no longer by the bin. Maybe they were biodegradable. Later, I swear I see the Mayor of London in a local park digging a huge hole behind a tree and throwing down bike parts, while laughing like Dick Dastardly. Could have been someone else of course. Maybe he's got the bags of videos to chuck down there too.

Ludlow, Go, Go.

I'm here in Ludlow amongst English tourists, quiet retired people; the sandals and socks brigade. I’m out for Ricky’s 39th birthday. It’s 8.30 pm and I’ve known Ricky for nearly twenty minutes. I’m on holiday, visiting friends and relatives for the week, which roughly translates as hanging around other people’s lives for the week. Today I’m here with the proprietor of the Globe restaurant and bar, my friend Adam who’s out on a Monday night for Ricky’s birthday and so, by default, I am too.

Earlier, sitting in the beer garden at Adam’s bar on a sunny Monday afternoon, he asks when we first went to Glastonbury.
“Oh that was years ago, 2002."
"It was longer ago than that.”
It had a 2 at the end.
“1992.” Boy, that was a long time ago. So we’re not young anymore after all. We used to live in a squalid house in Toxteth, next to a burnt out petrol station left over by the riots. The early nineties were so long ago I’ve taken ten years off to make it more palatable.

The past, the present, the future. It was all making sense on the train here. The train rolls along in no hurry, but that’s ok, it’s great when all you have to do is look out at the pleasant valleys, the round bails of hay in the fields, the wild red heather. Everything makes sense on a train when you’re headed somewhere that’s away from your everyday reality.

Reality is only a phone call away though. The next morning my landlord calls to tell me he’s been getting irate calls from the council for non-payment of council tax. Funny thing is I’ve paid my council tax. The council had the flat as Flat 2, I’m living in Flat B and paying for that, so they’ve decided as no-one is paying for Flat 2, which isn’t real just a part of their wilful imagination, they have to send the baliffs round to demand the money they’re not owed. Which means at sometime on their records, it must have said there was one flat on my floor and then when another one magically appeared they didn’t bat an eyelid, they just charged for it. Bureaucracy fails us every time. Don’t get me started.

Later, I’m sitting in Adam’s pub garden again, which is pretty empty apart from a retired antiques dealer who apparently comes in every day and buys a pot of coffee which he makes last all afternoon. The council tax people ring to say they’ve sorted it and called off the Dogs, as if it wasn’t really their fault at all. There’s a pause to allow me to speak my gratitude but they’re not getting any from me. A quick visit to Ludlow castle, feeding the ducks at the river, a delicious Thai meal and then I have to get back on my train and head off to someone elses life.

Seaside

The grey cloud hangs heavy over the beach. It’s warm but threatening to rain. We walk along the promenade, above us, at the top of a grassy hill, a fairground hangs precariously on the edge, blaring out chart hits from 10 years ago. People are lounging around and cooking food from blue beach huts, a candy striped beach hut and other brightly coloured ones built into the hill. Below them people are scattered on the beach, a couple are even swimming. Two old people on old people vehices glide past. The fellow is smoking a fag, neither of them look particularly happy. Above us a plane dives and loops around.

We started off with breakfast at The Golden Globe in Chertsey, which is the pub at the end of Keith Moon’s drive, when he lived here at the start of the 70s. It was reputed he’d bring in a shotgun and fire it at the ceiling to get served quicker. There’s a picture of Keith in the corner by the pool table. He used to live in a pyramid shaped house, which sadly has been knocked down and replaced with an even more space-age looking round house, the top of which you can just about see over the huge wall. It’s 11am and even though we’ve brought our shotguns, there’s no queue at the bar.

We continue the wrong way round the M25 for 3 hours, in a bid to outwit the grey cloud which seems to have followed us from London, until we reach Whitstable, a small town on the Kent coast. I had this idea to go swimming but the lack of blue sky has changed my mind, so now we’re walking along people watching. I’m always convinced I’ll see someone I know, despite the fact I don’t know anyone who even lives anywhere near here. I scour the faces but don’t recognise a soul.

The thing with English seaside towns is you have to deal with the fickleness of English summer. Although warm, it’s too cloudy and there’re not enough people for it to feel like a real beach day out. You need the sky blue and the smell of salt sea air to overpower your senses. Sometimes you’re desperate to get out of the self-possessed charge of London for the slow dancing of English towns, but when it finally happens it doesn’t quite feel right.

We go for food at 5 o’clock, but the pubs have stopped serving. The shops are closing and everyone is packing up and going home. The suburban streets are empty, it’s like Day of the Triffids but neater, someone hasn’t bothered overturning the buses, they’ve just been left in the bus lock-up from teatime till morning.

We go the right way round the M25 and get back home within an hour and a half. The next sunny day we’ll sneak out early and try again.

Danielson

The first day of the summer holidays. Is there a lovelier phrase in the English language? Friday and I’m home from work, the music on, waiting for Tracy so we can go to the chip shop. I need a shave. Forget it, I’m on holiday, I’ll grow a beard. I’m bouncing around to the Ramones on Tracy’s exercise ball (c’mon it’s the summer hols) and thinking of all the possibilities. This is the best part; a week of freedom stretched out before you, beckoning. Maybe we should go to the Boogaloo and dance all night. Maybe I should ring up some friends who live round the corner and we should go for a few drinks?

Maybe I should phone Richard and ask if he’s going to be in London this weekend. He texted on Thursday to say he was in Cambridge and Nik Kershaw was playing on the jukebox. I texted back to ask if he was coming to London. No reply. I guess he just needed to communicate the Kershaw problem on the jukebox. Maybe, maybe, maybe. In the end I don’t do anything, we venture no further than the chip shop and back to slob out.

It’s hard to do nothing. Even if you convince yourself you don’t want to do anything the guilt makes it impossible. People say chill out. Saturday, and I don’t venture too far either. I make a few plans for Sunday and Monday but that’s about it. I’ve earned this I tell myself. I can read and watch tv all day if I like. But I can’t. Mr Miyagi wouldn’t approve (is he still called Mr Miyagi in the new Karate Kid?), and besides this three day beard itches so I’m going for a shave now.

Tomorrow, I will be busy.

Out in the Country

In London there seems to be this obsession with pretending you’re in the country. For instance places are named as villages, like Marylebone village, which is nestled between the remoteness of Oxford Street and the quiet clippity-clop of the horses on Marylebone road.

I like to do this myself, I’m always looking for a quiet lane to walk down. I found just the place today on my way back from collecting my vegetable box, from a place called Farm direct (more country references). There’s a row of mews houses on a quiet lane off Ronald’s road which snakes up towards Highbury Fields. It’s also where I found this lovely coloured gate pictured above. Nice isn’t it? Saturday is the perfect day to admire a finely coloured gate.

As I walk down the hill to collect my veg box, the fancy dress brigade pass by, a stereotypically dressed Red Indian, Mexican and Frenchman - complete with onions around his neck. It’s 10.30 am. I’m not sure where they’re going at this hour dressed like that, but they are looking very proud of themselves.

At the bottom of the hill I see a wasp attacking a butterfly. I kick the wasp away, despicable creatures, remind me of estate agents. The butterfly is still flapping around distressed so I put him in the hedge so he doesn’t get trampled on.

My good deed done I continue to the farm shop. I had to take my car for its MOT yesterday. I was driving to the garage, becoming increasingly paranoid that something was wrong with it while trying to map my way via tube stations; there’s a tube station to the right –Tufnell Park, I can’t be far away. I take a right, then a left and down the hill until I can see a tube station on the left, that should give me some clues – Tufnell Park, oh well, if I drive in circles all day they won’t be able to fail it. I sat in work waiting for the call and they phoned to say it had passed. I couldn't believe it, first time in 5 years.

I collect the vegetables, go for a run and my morning chores complete, I wonder what to do. I take a bus to the centre of London village, for no real reason, but I’m sure last time I past Bloomsbury square, close to the British Museum, there was a newsagents with a huge sign that said something like ‘purveyors of quality Viz magazine’. Can’t be. I must have dreamt it.

I board the bus and it drives past a pub garden, where a group of lads are sitting dressed as cops and robbers. What on earth? It’s only 2pm.

Whatever happened to Alex Cox?

Tracy's Uncle Alan comes to visit and we are late when we meet him in Covent Garden. I think a place fades the more you live in it; you just stop noticing things. When we meet him he's buzzing about a juggler he's just seen who, dressed in only a pair of shorts, juggled a sword, a cricket ball and a chainsaw. All I saw was the back of the head of the idiot who tuts on the tube when the driver announces a delay. We go off for a delicious meal and then to the Duke of York's theatre where we are getting scared by the sights, and (mainly) sounds of Ghost stories. I need a holiday, but until then visits to fictional worlds will do me just fine.

Tracy has this idea of a cinema club where a group of us watch a film every Sunday night. It's the perfect night for films. It cushions you nicely against the Sunday night blues as work approaches on the Monday, giving you another world to escape into. The cinema club will be like Moviedrome but without Alex Cox. Do you remember Moviedrome? It was ace, it ran in the late eighties, early nineties, and on Sunday nights Alex Cox would introduce a cult classic. He had a real passion for the films and lots of facts which would draw you in and make you look forward to the film. He had an odd accent, kind of half Scouse, half LA. Whatever happened to him? I saw him in the Everyman in Liverpool one time years ago.

It's funny, I googled Moviedrome and they had a selection of the films played. I didn't recognise the names of very many of them, yet, in my mind at least, I used to watch those films every week. It was a last release from the drabness of the working week. Maybe Alex Cox needs something to do on a Sunday night, and could come and introduce the films at our (currently imagined) cinema club.

Although we had a film at the ready, but not the audience, we didn't see a film on Sunday.