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.