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.