Pass, Shoot, Goal

Another hot day and the drunks on the Finchley road sit drinking on the same bench; sometimes there are two of them, sometimes five. It's a strange place to sit, at the corner of two main roads. It's not even that near the Off-licence. And the TV shop opposite isn't showing any football (England are out and they were atrocious). Why don't they go to the park? it's nice there. Perhaps they get hassled by the police. I saw one of them the other day picking up cans and bottles and putting them in the bin. If he asks I'll write him a positive reference, which he can show to the park keepers if they doubt his character.

On a similar subject, Andy Wright is rumoured to be in London. The Andy Wright you ask? The guy who went through twenty driving instructors and passed his test under the instruction of one Henry Hips? Yes, him. So anyway I'm meant to meet him today but for some reason the text message he sends me at lunchtime doesn't arrive till 8PM. I ring him and he's wandering through central London looking for Parliament Square. He's in Holborn appreciating the architecture but unsure of where he is. Seconds later he's in Drury Lane and then another few seconds and he can see Trafalgur Square. Is he walking or flying?

At least he's not on the tube. They have become very fond of announcing that in hot weather you should carry a bottle of water with you. The other morning a woman was stood on the escalator, the step above her reserved for her bottle of water. Andy and I are meant to be meeting Thursday, so there should be a story to tell then. Especially if there's booze involved.

Notices on trees

Summer in the city and there seem to be a lot of notices pinned to trees. There are the ones advertising the fetes and the other day I saw one where people were looking for a flat. A strange enough request to pin to a tree, but the tree had huge hanging branches which obscured somewhat the trunk it was pinned to. I reckon those people lived in the tree. Next time I pass I'm going to throw a stick up and watch those house hunters fall down like conkers.

Today's a hangover day. You know how it is, a couple of drinks with friends from work and the next thing you know it's 11pm and you're hanging around the underground station being told the Piccadilly line is closed for the night, so you have to take the Victoria line, which is going to mean a walk the other side.

Everything is so much more difficult on hangover days. The queue at the bank, behind a mother with two kids shouting about wanting a donut. Shut up. And I feel less inclined to go to the decent supermarket and go to the rubbish small one in search of sausages only to be greeted with a big empty freezer shelf where the sausages should be. Then you have to think of an alternative which isn't easy because your brain is determined to have a day off from thinking.

So I scurry back to the house and drink multivitimin drinks. Yeah, as if that's going to make me feel any better. The football should do it later though. It's England's first game in the world cup. I'm not going to watch it at the pub though. I can do without that commentator you get, you know the one, the one who always insists on standing right next to you screaming about how it should be played. They hardly even bother looking at the screen. And it's always some fat sweaty middle-aged bloke who if he even so much as kicked a football would have to spend the rest of the night in out-patients.

No, first match indoors - a good seat, and food and drink you don't have to queue for. I might go and pin a notice to a tree about this. Why not? Everyone else is.

An Evening at the Union Chapel

Wednesday evening and the new wine glasses get their first airing. Jeffrey Lewis is in town playing at the Union Chapel, a big old church with great acoustics and the atmosphere of a big village hall; everyone eating summer foods around old wooden tables in the bar. You sit on pews to watch the bands. As we arrive Jeffrey is manning the merchandise stall. Tonight he's playing with a band he set up with Kimya Dawson, but Kimya hasn't turned up.

We get seats upstairs on the front row, the stage right below us. I've been to the Union Chapel three times and this is the best time I've been here. I could stay here all night listening to these guys, with their folky punk sound. The acoustics of the church makes the sound feel really warm, and the between song banter is always entertaining. This man knows how to tell a story. And when he plays one of his solo songs - Life - it's really special. Roll on his next album. The gig finishes and the band rush off stage to man the merchandise stall again.

We leave for a pub around the corner for a last glass of wine, but the glasses are too small for what we're becoming accustomed to.

Speed bumps

Conventional wisdom says a glass of red wine a day is good for you but apparently this isn't the case till you're 40. Some say it's two glasses of wine. Either way the time has come and I'm driving to the Swedish home store on a Tuesday night to find the biggest wine glasses available. I love going to Ikea at night, running around the store as fast as possible and taking home my goodies. The big wine glasses have no box and I'm wondering if they'll break before I get to the counter. I buy a big thick rug, which jam the glasses in place in my trolley.

As I drive out the car park the glasses are in a tied bag on the floor by the passenger seat. To leave the car park you have to go over several speed bumps, ostensibly there to slow you down, but really I know what's going on here. They want to make my new wine glasses into nothing more than a pile of jagged glass. I'm sure I can see several staff at the window of the store, pointing and laughing with gleeful expectation. I make it across the speed bumps but become painfully aware of every pot hole and bump on the North circular home.

Somehow when I reach home the king size wine glasses are still intact. The rug looks great too and makes my flat instantly twice as homely. I say instantly, but really I mean after several hours of fretting, pacing around and looking at the room from different angles worried that the rug doesn't really suit any of the other furniture in this room.

Satisfied that it looks great, I decide to relax with a glass of wine. Worried I'll spill it on the rug I change my mind. The wine can wait till tomorrow.

The Spurs fan and the general election

On Wednesday evening the announcement that Spurs have won comes in the form of a paralytic man boarding the tube with his wife and shouting that Man City may have all the money but they can't beat Spurs. At first his arrival to our quiet carriage is not good news, but his wife is both laughing with him and at him, which proves to be infectious and we the passengers are soon doing the same.

It's been a month of election headlines, of TV debates followed by representatives from each party saying that clearly their man was the best. Newspapers scream that the man they're backing is the only one who can save the Country. Estate Agents size signs appear in people's gardens advertising their party of choice. Brown calls a woman a bigot while his microphone is still on and all hell breaks loose and we can hear of nothing else for 2 days. Everything is analysed, magnified, twisted and distorted; it's just another game, and all too soon you get sick of the superficiality of it all and shout: OK enough, can we just vote now.

After dancing around a while and staggering off to talk to an Arsenal fan, Spurs Fan sits down and takes a look at the huge bruise on his knee he got as a momento when celebrating the Spurs goal. He tells us repeatedly that the taxi from Tottenham cost £30. He then reveals he saw the match in a pub there. "I'm so happy," he tells us, "I'm going to be happy for the next sixteen weeks." The Spurs win has cured all his problems. "Forget work, " he says, "I'm not going there tomorrow, we won."

The general election won't cure our problems. I don't get the people you see at political rallies screaming passionately at everything their leaders say. We're not voting in some radical change, like Barack Obama was offering to try for. It's just trying to suss out which one is lying the least. Cameron has said, 'we need to vote for change.' I couldn't agree more which is why there's no way I'm voting for him. I swear some people think you have to vote for the person you think will win, rather than who you think will do the best job. I always seem to back third place.

The whole carriage is enjoying Spurs Fan's elation, and hoping the journey will last a little longer so we can hear what he has to say next. Spurs Fan stands up again and lifts his arms triumphantly. "We won, my armpit's on my head and my leg's on my toe."

Now when they finally sort out who's going to run this country I bet there won't be anyone so excited they'll utter these words.

Mr Williamson's retirement plan

They say the trick to a long and happy retirement is to keep busy. After working as a Vice President for Sony, what better plan for a man of 60, than to retire early and re-join the band you were in before you took up a career, which, in James Williamson's case was the Stooges. He looks quite content up there on stage playing those jaggedy riffs, while Iggy, bare-chested after 50 seconds, is forever throwing himself into the crowd or doing his crooked child dance. The man never stands still. I've imagined standing here waiting for the guitar riff to 'Search & Destroy' to kick in, and now I'm here.

Driving home to Liverpool from Ormskirk one Friday evening Mark Lamarr announced a song as the best rock record ever. I thought this was a ridiculous suggestion, but when I heard the start of 'Search & Destroy' I just thought fair enough. Bank holiday Monday and I'm standing here listening to it being played live. I kind of wish I was standing closer though, I've thought about this too much, it doesn't seem real.

I wonder if James Williamson had a guitar and amp in the corner of his office so he could practice his Stooges riffs every once and a while? Or maybe he totally forgot them. He seems quite at home now though, standing on stage at the Hammersmith Apollo.

Springtime in Paris

Early Saturday morning we're headed to Paris for a wedding. It's 5.30 am and we forget to scan our oyster cards in. The woman at King's Cross tells us not to worry about it. I like that attitude, but it's rare in England. In Paris we get the same treatment. We arrive in Cergy after getting lost on the Metro, and we don't have the right tickets. The guy tells us to queue then changes his mind and tells us to go. Cergy is empty. The whole town centre is shut and there's virtually nobody around. It's like day of the Triffids. Later we find out it's the French Bank Holiday. The hotel rooms have names as diverse as 'Big Ben' to 'Yankees' and 'Dallas'. Our room doesn't have a name.

The wedding is held in a beautiful chateau on a hillside with a view of the river and lush green trees and fields. The wedding service is outside. I keep looking over to the trees because they don't quite look real. They look kind of smudged, a bit like they've gone through the blur effect on Photoshop. I have to forget the smudged trees because the wedding is starting. I like the way the groom is smiling, his head turned expectantly as he waits for his bride to walk up the aisle. As soon as the service is over we are served food and drink and the serving of food and drink lasts for the rest of the wedding. Spicy fish cakes on sticks are delicious and the starter is a winner as it's five different starters on one plate. There are lots of speeches in both English and French, and lots of applause for different people who've helped out. Everything is well organised with the groom running around sorting us out a lift back to our hotel around 1am.

The next morning we find the road running next to our hotel window has been changed into a bustling Sunday market. Despite our terrible grasp of the french language we manage to direct a frenchman to the station. We arrive in Paris late and have more problems getting round the Metro. This time we have the right tickets but they're determined not to work for us. We head for a cafe just over the road from Notre Dame. I can never find my way around Paris, have no idea how it connects up. The trouble is when I come here I'm always pushed for time, always meeting someone, or having to get a train straight out again. Today is no exception. We're meeting Richard and Jo at Montparnasse in an hour and want to get to the Eiffel tower beforehand via a walk along the Seine.

We just about make it for a few snaps before heading off to meet our friends and go for food and cider in a restaurant near Montparnasse. On the way home the train passes right by the Eiffel tower, all beautifully lit up. I try taking a picture through the train window but instead get a picture of the window reflection - of the people on the train.

Next time we come to Paris we vow to stay for longer.