Christmas on Ice

Snow is falling off the roof in blocks as we step out onto the ice skating rink in our blue skates. It's a slow start, skating around the outside, keeping the barrier in easy reach, until we make our way gradually towards the middle where the fast skaters are flying past. You feel yourselves falling backwards and the confidence goes. Others fall and we start to slow down. We stop to look at the dark walls of the Tower of London, contrasted with the well lit offices of the big glass buildings in front of us. We take a corner fast and we fall over. We're back to where we started.

I'm on holiday at last, and the pressures of work makes it feel like a well deserved break. It takes time to shake work off. I went and did all my Christmas shopping yesterday morning. It all went well; when I reached the bank I discovered I'd been paid. I found the presents I went for, found them amongst the lights and the people in red, with their buckets, singing christmas songs and collecting for charity. I stumbled into shops to find other good gifts. I was home before the rain started and we were at the ice rink in time for the snow to stop.

This morning I had the luxury of getting on the tube at ten. It rolled in, empty but for a few people a carriage. This morning I took my time, eating crumpets and drinking tea at the kitchen table at eleven.

On the skating rink we've ten minutes left and I'm skating fast now, weaving between the people, away from the barrier, getting close to the middle, faster, faster, looking down at the ice, then around at the snow surrounding the tower and at the people smiling, people in scarves and red christmas hats, gliding around together. It feels like Christmas now. Merry Christmas.

Ranting

Ok, it’s nearly Christmas, good will to all mankind, the season to be jolly etc. I’ll get round to that soon enough but first let me indulge in a bit of banter. It's nearly the new decade and I want to mention a few things that crept into the early 21st century and shouldn't be allowed any further.

Men trying to sell toiletries in night club toilets

What’s this all about? You go to the toilet and a man selling toiletries squirts the soap for you and turns the tap on and you’re supposed to tip him? It’s a sickness my friends. Give the guy a proper job in your club or get rid of him. These people have crept into night club toilets across the land. You can’t even go to the toilet without someone trying to sell you something. That’s fucking sick. I'll wash my own hands. And while we’re at it I’m quite capable of turning a handle on a toilet door rather than wanting to press a button, Mr idiot designer who designed toilet doors on trains.

Text messaging as a form of conversation.

Too busy to answer the phone but can text all night? How does that work? If you spend all night texting what other possible task can you be doing. If you speak to someone on the phone you can do no end of things; cook a meal, wash up, even have a shave. Ok, I don’t mind the odd message: meet you here, etc, but trying to have a conversation, forget it. It’s really bad. Text messaging should have been invented before the telephone. Think about it, it’s less advanced. Imagine if text messaging had been invented first. They’d have said, yes it’s good but imagine a device where you could have a two way speaking conversation with someone. Now that really would be the future. Bring it back for the new decade.

Camden

Thieving Council, horrible after hours food, massive queues at crap bars to buy a £4.20 can of lager, waiting for uptight people who insist on paying by debit card. Third rate opticians with their horrible little grey suited sales people and ill mannered inept staff. Camden is like the bitter older brother who never really moved on, and can never get to terms with the fact his younger brothers, Brick Lane and Islington are far better dressed and people you’d like to hang out with. And in Camden you never ever see anyone looking as though they’re having a good time. See the photo above for an example of neighbourly communication in the borough of Camden. The only good thing about it is Alan Bennett and the fact it’s near Regent’s Park.

Automated/most customer services

So you phone with a problem, you’re taken to a series of options, which lead you down a cul-de-sac that won’t answer your query, then you’re told what to do for a problem you don’t have, and the phone cuts off, as if you’re query has been in any way answered.

And while we’re at it, what happened to customer service? It’s all attitude and people pointing the accusatory finger at you. On trains, in Banks, on the phone to the Council.

And what’s going on with administration systems? They can’t process anything: contact lenses can’t arrive, council tax bills can’t arrive, driving licence sent to the wrong address, any money you’re owed – no chance. It’s the 21^st century and a change of address has made me notice that virtually nobody seems to be able to process anything anymore; everything is so fucking lame. This has got to change.

Manners for customer based jobs should be re-introduced into the new decade. Oh, and top hats too. This helps with the manners you know. You can tip your hat to people to greet them.

Busy

Hello, are you still there? December and the rainy days have found us. Weekdays are spent trying, and failing, to get to the tube before eight to try and get me some space on the tube. The first few times I took the tube, since I moved, I kind of liked it. But now the novelty has worn off. This morning I skipped the tube and waited for the next one, which was coming a minute later. I was the only person on the platform but then every few seconds another person appeared until one minute later, there were about thirty people ready to board the already packed train.

The tube; full of people reading the free papers or books. Nobody looking at one another. Heading out of the tube to get the Metropolitan Line (which I like because I usually get a seat, and the train spends time above ground), I try and avoid people with suitcases, couples with arms linked, people walking along playing games on their phones. Anyone that will slow me down. Occasionally I smell an aftershave or a perfume that reminds me of years ago. I follow a man with a briefcase to try and locate a particular aftershave smell; it must have been the eighties, it was the age and time to overindulge in exotic smells to try and attract girls.

I like the clock at the tube station. It looks like a clock that someone would have in their house. Perhaps it was donated by an old lady on Gillepsie road. I like Gillespie road, I like the fact when you come out the tube it opens onto a normal suburban looking street, with the school at the end of it. It feels homely. I like the atmosphere on match day too, with the sweet stall and the hotdog stands and all those people in their scarves heading to the match.

When I go past that clock in the morning I'm going to make sure it hasn't yet reached eight o'clock.

It was years ago but fortunately it's still a cartoon world

Late Saturday morning. At Victoria station the wildlife have arrived. Somebody's fiance walks down the platform carrying a blow up

doll with a dick, the hen party walk behind laughing. It's a grey day as I head back to the suburbs. Kids are out

playing football on Streatham Common, their parents running with them. The basketball pitches

are empty, the streets beyond this silent. It's a good day for staying in.

People are dotted

across lonely stations as we race past.

I'm back in town for Darce's 40th birthday party. How did we get here so quick? But then looking back those days seem

a long time ago now. I meet James and Stevie for a few drinks before we go to the party at the Sun Alliance club. All the

faces are there: Darce, Doug, Sealey, Sally, Martin, Tim. It's so great to see everyone again. Sealey reminds me that he missed a lot of days of work to go to the beach with us. Bunking off

work to go to the beach. I remember one time I was at work and I told them I had to go to the opticians that afternoon

and Sealey drove into the

car park where I worked, and they all got out the car in shorts, shades and carrying beachtowels. Brilliant. What's gone wrong? I've not thrown a sickie for two years. People always tell you the last time they saw you, but I always remember it as a different time and a different place.

Fortunately I recorded the conversation myself and Mr B had before we walked into the party.

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Unexpected item in bagging area

Lunch time in Sainsbury's and things are not going well. The self-service machines are getting worse. I've had to call an assistant over every time for weeks. The machine is always claiming there's an unexpected item in bagging error. That would be a bag. It asks if you've brought your own bags. I haven't but say yes because last time I said no it told me to ask for the assistant. This time it doesn't believe me and tells me to ask for the assistant. I was lying. Then it mischarges me for the cheese which according to the label over by the cheese section is on special offer. The guy tells me I have to query it. I look to the query desk and refuse because there's a huge queue of people. If it was a cartoon they would be shaped like a huge question mark. Eventually he sends someone off to find out the price. The self-service machine says £3.29. I'm saying £2.50.

The price checker goes off to find out the real price. When he returns he's brought back a different cheese and hasn't looked up the price. I'm looking at my bag of stuff and thinking of just walking off. But my lunch is in there and I'm hungry. I get in to a conversation with the original assistant.
"These self-service machines are getting worse."
"Yes you're right," he replies eagerly. "Everytime they update them they are less reliable."
The price checker returns and the assistant asks him what the price should be.
"2.25."
I have him on side now, the query queue has gone down and he charges over there and tells the girl to put my shopping through, quickly.

Back in the dark ages, in the seventies, when you couldn't move for Osmonds, the weekly shop took place at the Spar shop round the corner, you put your order in and they delivered your shopping for you. Now you can serve yourself. That's progress for you.

Here comes the weekend. I'm heading to a 40th birthday party, some of the guys who'll be there I've not seen for nearly 20 years. I've a great picture somewhere of a load of us in the Crown, which was the main pub we went to when we were 18 - 20. I'll have to get an updated one of us all now. I'm always promising you pictures aren't I? Here's the tray I bought as a housewarming for myself when I still didn't have a place to live. Good in'it? See you soon.

Mr Coyne's confetti

The confetti, the giant red and yellow balloons, the lasers, the lead singer rolling about the audience in a giant bubble, the gong with lights around it, the dancing people in Yeti costumes, Mr Coyne singing a song on the shoulders of a man dressed as a gorilla. It can only be the Flaming Lips. The entrance is so tremendous that when they launch into ‘Race for the Prize’ you know it can’t get any better than this.

My mind was really racing with ideas about what I should really be doing with life, one concerned itself with a club called the hello club where everyone dresses up and looks really psychedelic and strange, like when you first go to a club that plays good music and you see people with bowlie haircuts and flowery shirts, and you think where did these people come from? I’ve never seen anyone this strange walking the streets. Do they only come out at night? There's no way anyone would employ these people, how do they get money? I wanted a part of that when I was a teenager going to work every morning. And that’s what I got in the 90s. I remember walking down Bold Street on a friday afternoon in 1992 with my friend Dan, and being asked where we got our sixties gear, by a couple of local lads, because they were going to a fancy dress party. I had a big pair of 22" flared blue cords on at the time. I think they thought we were going to some fancy dress do too.

It's funny, you go to a concert or a festival and when it's really magical and captivating you think I don’t want to leave but when I do the world will be different. But the band exits the stage, the roadies come out and start packing away the gear and you’re left with a stage full of confetti. You want to leave with the band, onto the next place, but for some reason you can’t. But in your head the world has changed, at least for a little while. I used to try and keep things going, by heading off to the pub, but tonight is a school night, so it’s home to bed.

Midnight Ramblers

Whatever happend to October? I've been busy my friends, looking for a new flat, searching for home, yes. On my traipsing around the streets of London I saw this Morris Traveler in Whitechapel. It took me back. We used to have this same model car in the 70s and early 80s. It had leather seats, the windows slid open across and I'm sure on cold mornings my Dad used to have to start it by turning a starting handle somewhere in the front of the car. I like Whitechapel, it's got a feel of a London from a different age about it, maybe the 20s. Let's go back to last month though.

Friday 23rd October.

I've found a new flat, I've got the keys and I'm off for a celebration meal, although I'm not quite ready to celebrate. My stuff is still in the old flat, I've a million things to organise and I want to be out of there. I want my landlady out my life forever. Her refusal to answer the phone but her insistence on leaving weird notes are disturbing me. And let's face it, anyone who writes a list of all the things in her kitchen cupboard and what to do with them e.g. drinking chocolate - for night time and when it's cold - yes seriously - needs medical attention.

Everybody else seems ready to celebrate though. The guy from the greengrocer's is outside the shop and talking on his mobile enthusiastically about the evening ahead. On the packed tube, a guy in dogtooth trousers still finds the room to demonstrate a dance to his girlfriend, guiding his movements with the pole.

We manage one car load of stuff on Friday night, but it's late by the time we get to the new place. We decide we are the midnight movers.

Sunday 25th

The midnight movers thing is proving right, despite getting to the old flat early on Saturday, it's late when we leave. We drive, my stuff in the back of the car, through the packed streets of Camden, the kids are out enjoying their saturday night. All that's left in the flat is the big furniture.

On Sunday we're in Tesco, picking up things I need to set up my new home; a silver kettle, cleaning products, quilted toilet paper - you know the score. In a way it was Tesco's where it all started. I'd handed my notice in on the flat saying there was no way I was re-signing the contract and we'd gone to the cinema to see 'Away we go' (30ish couple expecting their first baby, travel across America to search for a place to bring the baby up). Afterwards we went to Tesco's to stock up on food. I was feeling homelss but it was exciting.

Thursday 29th

I get the last of the stuff out on Monday with the help of a man in a van. It takes no time at all. I like hiring both, because then you don't have to waste time collecting and returning the van. Steve helps us at the other end, complete with a new pair of orange gloves. I finally arrange to return the keys and get my deposit back on Thursday, and it's a massive relief to have the cheque in my hand and be walking away from that flat for good. Time for a new start.

Now

I'm finally here, a foxhole of my own, a new nest, a home for my tray. I'm loving my new flat. I like the view from the kitchen that looks across to the church spire peeping up over the houses. I don't know which church it is, or which area it's in. I shall go exploring soon, wander through the autumn streets and find out which church it is. It's so good to have a place of my own again. It needs some work but it's well on the way.

It's strange when you pack all your stuff up, because you look at all your possessions in boxes and think, where did all this rubbish come from? Any evenings in have been spent sorting through stuff. The shredder's overwhelmed with work. I need to take stuff to the charity shop, get some stuff on ebay. I need to spend some time nesting.

Monday night after the fantastic Daniel Johnston gig at the Union Chapel, we wandered back through the streets and spied a nice office chair left in the street. It's midnight but there's a guy in the garden and he tells us we're welcome to take the chair, as he's having a clear out. This midnight thing is catching. We part wheel it, part carry it through the empty streets.

This chair is going to like its new home. I can recommend it.