Guest post by Graham J Macey, author of On the Road with Heitor: Journeys of Hope, Healing and Peace, Further on up the Road, Volume 1 : A Journey through Corona: A Winter in Spain and Volume 2: 'Lockdown', all available on Amazon
I like my old nose. If I could get it out the cupboard and put it on,
then I would.
Katie Price
Everyone is discovering things these days – small things and big things – nice things and not so nice things… everyone is an explorer on their own unique journey of discovery and adventure… here are just a few examples of these wondrous journeys of self-discovery…
One of my brothers discovered that he likes growing beards – while my other brother discovered that he most definitely doesn’t.
Some people have discovered that empty roads are great places to find out how fast your car or motorbike or truck or tractor will actually go – while others have discovered that they like working from home and that the kids can now draw patterns in the dust on the car.
I have discovered that I quite like cooking and that it’s nice to keep some food in the fridge after all – but I have also discovered that the local Pizza shop do free home deliveries on orders over £10.
A lot of people, it seems, have discovered that they like being a racist and blaming ‘foreigners’ for all their problems – while many have discovered that caring and looking-out for others turns out to be the very best way of caring and looking-out for yourself.
Some people have discovered that if you over stock on toilet rolls then you can’t always rely on being able to return them for a full refund – while lots of other people have discovered that they like painting rainbows and hanging them outside their houses, and that they like clapping and saying thank you.
Many have discovered that they love and treasure their family and their home more than they ever imagined – while others have discovered that they would rather fix the catch on the garden gate than spend another five minutes with their partner.
Boris Johnson discovered that he is not invincible after all – while some of his friends discovered that, if you’re going to tell people to stay at home, it might be a good idea to do the same.
Some politicians discovered that it’s a real wheeze to stand in from of the camera and promise people all kinds of benefits and support – and then spend the rest of the day inventing loopholes to get out of paying them a penny.
There are at least one or two sad souls in this world who have discovered, when faced with their balance sheets, that the numbers just don’t go high enough – while their employees have discovered, to their immense relief, that you don’t need so many toilet breaks when you can’t afford to eat.
Some people have discovered that it’s fun to spy and report on your neighbours – while others have discovered that it feels good to ask their neighbours if they need anything.
I have discovered that writing is really hard if you can’t sit outside your favourite café in the sunshine with a notepad and a pen – while my good friend Barnaby has discovered that the strange blank featureless piece of wood in his kitchen that he has puzzled over and mused over for so long, is actually a sneaky little cupboard in disguise…
Way to go, Barnaby!
Discovery is the ability to be puzzled by simple things
Noam Chomsky
Showing posts with label Stories. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Stories. Show all posts
Sunday, June 07, 2020
Journey to Exeter Services
Though local traffic had almost got back to ‘normal’ levels, we were surprised to find the highway virtually empty, leading me to surmise that we were in a post-apocalyptic road movie, which was sort of true (lockdown mostly felt over). The trees and foliage either side of the highway felt wildly overgrown and green (a good thing); there were birds of prey perched on the median strip, various abandoned car parts were littered along the shoulder and signs of fresh road kill were abundant (a bad thing).
We did some shout-singing on the way; we were euphoric screaming U2’s Without or Without You, and just reached the “Ohhh Ohhh Ohhh Ohhh” bit at the end when the traffic news on the radio suddenly interrupted us. It was a huge comedown; the “Ohhh Ohhh Ohhh Ohhh” became an anti-climatic “Oh”.
The Moto Services didn’t dispel my apocalyptic road movie feeling. Most of the shops and food places were shut but the toilets were open. The lights were on, music was playing from loudspeakers, but no one was home. Traffic cones, warning signs and black and yellow hazard tape reinforced my feeling.
Anyway, we successfully handed over the merchandise, a teenage girl, and went on our way. I tried counting the traffic cones for some roadworks along the highway, gave up. I estimated it to be 4,000. Then I looked up how many cones are in the UK: impossible to know precisely, but 1.3 million approximately, 140 million worldwide.
We did some shout-singing on the way; we were euphoric screaming U2’s Without or Without You, and just reached the “Ohhh Ohhh Ohhh Ohhh” bit at the end when the traffic news on the radio suddenly interrupted us. It was a huge comedown; the “Ohhh Ohhh Ohhh Ohhh” became an anti-climatic “Oh”.
The Moto Services didn’t dispel my apocalyptic road movie feeling. Most of the shops and food places were shut but the toilets were open. The lights were on, music was playing from loudspeakers, but no one was home. Traffic cones, warning signs and black and yellow hazard tape reinforced my feeling.
Anyway, we successfully handed over the merchandise, a teenage girl, and went on our way. I tried counting the traffic cones for some roadworks along the highway, gave up. I estimated it to be 4,000. Then I looked up how many cones are in the UK: impossible to know precisely, but 1.3 million approximately, 140 million worldwide.
Thursday, March 19, 2020
Train tales #3
I generally don't like striking up conversations with strangers on a train but I like eavesdropping on others doing it. The two Americans and an English woman were all strangers sitting close to each other. The well-groomed American woman had a dog, always a conversation point. Coronavirus is the other obvious topic of talk but the opener was another classic: train confusion – in this case, conflicting opinions about which part of the ten-coach train was being split up; which part was stopping at Plymouth and which part part was going on to Penzance. There were conflicting, but not very interesting, opinions about it. In the end, we all could stay where we were, instead of having to move to a rear carriage.
Trains – dogs – coronavirus – the conversation didn't get interesting until the subject of travel came up. The Cornish woman – who repeatedly insisted her cough was a smoker's cough – was 36 and had never left the UK for a holiday until 2011, when she went to Thailand with her boyfriend. Unfortunately it was the same year as the Japanese tsunami and Thailand suffered knock-on effects from it. She said her whole resort was flooded, and she spent most of her time there waist-deep in black, dirty water. She has still, to this day, never been to London.
The middle-aged American woman had gone on her own to the former Yugoslavia as a child to visit some relatives in the 1970s. She spent a week with an uncle she'd never met; their only mutual language was a smattering of German. He didn't have children, and wasn't used to them. They went to a market, and the uncle got his American niece to buy an assortment of food, which she kept on a table in her bedroom. This was apparently what she was to have for her dinners. For breakfast, every morning, the uncle got the same large piece of meat out of a drawer to give to the girl. She ate it for days, not sure what it was. She had a feeling it was dog food but ate it nonetheless. The uncle's girlfriend turned up about three days into the girl's stay. The girlfriend looked at the girl, green around the gills, and shouted at the uncle, what the hell have you been feeding her?
The jovial American man, quiet but chuckling along at various intervals, chimes in with his growing up in Mississippi in the 1970s – and then spending six weeks as a student in the Soviet Union; quite the culture shock. He'd also been to Serbia in 1994. The American woman, intrigued, asks the man what he does for a living. He's a history teacher in Maryland, and he's worked in Afghanistan, Kuwait and Bhutan (I didn't hear how or why). I didn't hear either exactly what the American woman did, but she worked in offices in New York and London, with yogurt and fruit for breakfast provided by the office, so must be somewhere posh. The Cornish woman worked as a cashier in Sainsbury's. The man got off at Bodmin Parkway, and the conversation went dead.
Previously on Barnflakes
Train tales #2: taking the piss
Train tales #1: the nipple-tassled French woman
Trains – dogs – coronavirus – the conversation didn't get interesting until the subject of travel came up. The Cornish woman – who repeatedly insisted her cough was a smoker's cough – was 36 and had never left the UK for a holiday until 2011, when she went to Thailand with her boyfriend. Unfortunately it was the same year as the Japanese tsunami and Thailand suffered knock-on effects from it. She said her whole resort was flooded, and she spent most of her time there waist-deep in black, dirty water. She has still, to this day, never been to London.
The middle-aged American woman had gone on her own to the former Yugoslavia as a child to visit some relatives in the 1970s. She spent a week with an uncle she'd never met; their only mutual language was a smattering of German. He didn't have children, and wasn't used to them. They went to a market, and the uncle got his American niece to buy an assortment of food, which she kept on a table in her bedroom. This was apparently what she was to have for her dinners. For breakfast, every morning, the uncle got the same large piece of meat out of a drawer to give to the girl. She ate it for days, not sure what it was. She had a feeling it was dog food but ate it nonetheless. The uncle's girlfriend turned up about three days into the girl's stay. The girlfriend looked at the girl, green around the gills, and shouted at the uncle, what the hell have you been feeding her?
The jovial American man, quiet but chuckling along at various intervals, chimes in with his growing up in Mississippi in the 1970s – and then spending six weeks as a student in the Soviet Union; quite the culture shock. He'd also been to Serbia in 1994. The American woman, intrigued, asks the man what he does for a living. He's a history teacher in Maryland, and he's worked in Afghanistan, Kuwait and Bhutan (I didn't hear how or why). I didn't hear either exactly what the American woman did, but she worked in offices in New York and London, with yogurt and fruit for breakfast provided by the office, so must be somewhere posh. The Cornish woman worked as a cashier in Sainsbury's. The man got off at Bodmin Parkway, and the conversation went dead.
Previously on Barnflakes
Train tales #2: taking the piss
Train tales #1: the nipple-tassled French woman
Friday, February 14, 2020
Running rings around me
Monday, December 16, 2019
Casper, Jasper, Pasta and Rasta
In the 2019 film Us, Jordon Peele gives us another (after 2017's Get Out) slice of sociopolitical satire masquerading as a horror film. In it, an archetypal black American family are terrorised by their evil doppelgängers, donning red suits à la The Handmaiden's Tale (and both featuring Elizabeth Moss, which I've mentioned previously). A key scene in the film involves the young daughter of the family getting lost in a funhouse and encountering her doppelgänger in a hall of mirrors (no spoilers here but the film's denouement really knocked me for six).
I was reminded of the film whilst watching Casper watching Jasper watching Casper.
Casper sat in the flat at the large front window looking out at Jasper, who sat on the pavement outside looking inside at Casper. They would both sit in the same positions looking at each other poker-faced for ages at a time, like the tense agony of eternity in a Sergio Leone western just before the quick-draw. Casper was posh, plump and privileged, eating only freshly cooked fish and chicken. Jasper was a street cat, savvy and skinny, who would swipe us one just for walking past him. Both cats were ginger. I didn't actually know Jasper's name; I called him that because it rhymed with Casper, and suited him. I found out later the stone jasper is red-brown sort of orange, so it seemed doubly apt.
Their lives were completely opposite. Casper stayed in most of the time, sleeping and eating. Jasper was outside all the time, trying to sleep under cars and on shed roofs. When Casper did go outside, Jasper was usually hanging around, and we'd open the door minutes later to find Casper pinned against the wall by Jasper.
Summer ended and the rain came then the cold and the wind. Jasper was still outside, all the time. My partner's chance encounter with Jasper's owner revealed that they had a new puppy who Jasper didn't like at all. This was a puppy in addition to perhaps three cats, two kids and a rabbit, whom Casper had encountered a few times when it had escaped from its hutch, and not known what to make of it at all as it bounced past him (he'd also seen a hedgehog and been equally dumbfounded).
One of their other cats was a sweet-looking grey thing, small but a psycho who also attacked us (we blamed the owners and the chaotic-sounding home life). He sometimes hung out on the other side of our house. He was so small Casper actually chased him. We called him Pasta. Rasta we'd only seen a couple of times, a ginger kitten with long legs, with Jasper possibly a parent.
It became that Jasper was outside our front door all day and all night, whining and meowing plaintively. We felt sorry for him, caved in and started feeding him. He was always starving – or good at acting it anyway. We began by putting Casper's unwanted cat food outside and around the corner for him. Then a bit nearer. Then the horizontal rain started, and I stated letting Jasper in. Understandably, Casper didn't like this at all. But they came to a sort of arrangement – when I let Casper out, Jasper would come in, and they would pass each other over the doorway like ships in the night.
Then a change came over Jasper. He started being nice. He came in, quiet as a mouse, and didn't always want food. He didn't attack us, he didn't always attack Casper. He curled up on the sofa, next to the radiator, and slept. He seemed in heaven – warmth, peace and quiet, comfort. He would even sit on our laps, and sort of purr. It had probably been years since his vocal cords had made that noise, and Jasper was obviously unfamiliar with the sound, and not all that comfortable with it – but he did his best.
This carried on a bit awkwardly for a few weeks. I mean, we discussed keeping Jasper – catnapping him, so to speak – but it wasn't fair on Casper, who tolerated the new intruder at best, but would actually attack Jasper if he went for either of his two sacred, fundamental cornerstones: his food bowl, and upstairs (where the bed was).
Then suddenly, Jasper stopped coming. And we didn't see him outside for a few days. We assumed he'd gone home. About a week later, a neighbour knocked on the door. She asked me if Jasper was mine. No, I said, but... I told her the whole story. She said he'd been at her home for days. Her daughter loved him, and Jasper loved her. He hadn't wanted to leave the house. She had plans to take Jasper to the vets, fatten him up, treat him nicely. Sounds amazing, I said, do it.
I told her where I thought Jasper lived. The woman asked if I thought she should ask his owners if she could look after him. Well, I wasn't sure, I mean I guess so but then again it seemed like they abused their pets, so I'd just keep him. She asked me if I knew his name. Yup, it's Jasper, I told her.
I never knew what she did about his owners, and we didn't see Jasper for another week – so a few weeks in total now. Then one day we saw him outside our front door, and hardly recognised him. His coat was shiny and he'd put on weight. He was a new cat. He strolled into the flat when we opened the door, and had a rather regal walk around – he was showing off. Casper was like, hold on, I thought we'd got rid of him. Jasper left on his own accord after a few minutes, and we didn't see him again for days. Then, a rare day of sun, and we saw Jasper sunbathing on the shed roof across the way. We waved and called out to him but he acted like he didn't know us.
Previously on Barnflakes
The enigma of Casper the cat (sadly, Daniel Johnston, who wrote the classic lo-fi song Casper the Friendly Ghost, died in September this year, aged 58.)
I was reminded of the film whilst watching Casper watching Jasper watching Casper.
Casper sat in the flat at the large front window looking out at Jasper, who sat on the pavement outside looking inside at Casper. They would both sit in the same positions looking at each other poker-faced for ages at a time, like the tense agony of eternity in a Sergio Leone western just before the quick-draw. Casper was posh, plump and privileged, eating only freshly cooked fish and chicken. Jasper was a street cat, savvy and skinny, who would swipe us one just for walking past him. Both cats were ginger. I didn't actually know Jasper's name; I called him that because it rhymed with Casper, and suited him. I found out later the stone jasper is red-brown sort of orange, so it seemed doubly apt.
Their lives were completely opposite. Casper stayed in most of the time, sleeping and eating. Jasper was outside all the time, trying to sleep under cars and on shed roofs. When Casper did go outside, Jasper was usually hanging around, and we'd open the door minutes later to find Casper pinned against the wall by Jasper.
Summer ended and the rain came then the cold and the wind. Jasper was still outside, all the time. My partner's chance encounter with Jasper's owner revealed that they had a new puppy who Jasper didn't like at all. This was a puppy in addition to perhaps three cats, two kids and a rabbit, whom Casper had encountered a few times when it had escaped from its hutch, and not known what to make of it at all as it bounced past him (he'd also seen a hedgehog and been equally dumbfounded).
One of their other cats was a sweet-looking grey thing, small but a psycho who also attacked us (we blamed the owners and the chaotic-sounding home life). He sometimes hung out on the other side of our house. He was so small Casper actually chased him. We called him Pasta. Rasta we'd only seen a couple of times, a ginger kitten with long legs, with Jasper possibly a parent.
It became that Jasper was outside our front door all day and all night, whining and meowing plaintively. We felt sorry for him, caved in and started feeding him. He was always starving – or good at acting it anyway. We began by putting Casper's unwanted cat food outside and around the corner for him. Then a bit nearer. Then the horizontal rain started, and I stated letting Jasper in. Understandably, Casper didn't like this at all. But they came to a sort of arrangement – when I let Casper out, Jasper would come in, and they would pass each other over the doorway like ships in the night.
Then a change came over Jasper. He started being nice. He came in, quiet as a mouse, and didn't always want food. He didn't attack us, he didn't always attack Casper. He curled up on the sofa, next to the radiator, and slept. He seemed in heaven – warmth, peace and quiet, comfort. He would even sit on our laps, and sort of purr. It had probably been years since his vocal cords had made that noise, and Jasper was obviously unfamiliar with the sound, and not all that comfortable with it – but he did his best.
This carried on a bit awkwardly for a few weeks. I mean, we discussed keeping Jasper – catnapping him, so to speak – but it wasn't fair on Casper, who tolerated the new intruder at best, but would actually attack Jasper if he went for either of his two sacred, fundamental cornerstones: his food bowl, and upstairs (where the bed was).
Then suddenly, Jasper stopped coming. And we didn't see him outside for a few days. We assumed he'd gone home. About a week later, a neighbour knocked on the door. She asked me if Jasper was mine. No, I said, but... I told her the whole story. She said he'd been at her home for days. Her daughter loved him, and Jasper loved her. He hadn't wanted to leave the house. She had plans to take Jasper to the vets, fatten him up, treat him nicely. Sounds amazing, I said, do it.
I told her where I thought Jasper lived. The woman asked if I thought she should ask his owners if she could look after him. Well, I wasn't sure, I mean I guess so but then again it seemed like they abused their pets, so I'd just keep him. She asked me if I knew his name. Yup, it's Jasper, I told her.
I never knew what she did about his owners, and we didn't see Jasper for another week – so a few weeks in total now. Then one day we saw him outside our front door, and hardly recognised him. His coat was shiny and he'd put on weight. He was a new cat. He strolled into the flat when we opened the door, and had a rather regal walk around – he was showing off. Casper was like, hold on, I thought we'd got rid of him. Jasper left on his own accord after a few minutes, and we didn't see him again for days. Then, a rare day of sun, and we saw Jasper sunbathing on the shed roof across the way. We waved and called out to him but he acted like he didn't know us.
Previously on Barnflakes
The enigma of Casper the cat (sadly, Daniel Johnston, who wrote the classic lo-fi song Casper the Friendly Ghost, died in September this year, aged 58.)
Monday, November 11, 2019
Encrusted
A post-Brexit Cornish story.
There are food shortages – mackerel and pilchard stocks are low, of course. Worst of all – Andrew Rowe, a.k.a. The Kernow King, is King of Cornwall, literally, ruling over the underground bakeries – Warrens, Rowe's, Philps – with an iron fist. He builds a wall of frozen pasties on the Cornish side of the Tamar to keep the Cornish in and the English out. What with climate change, it soon melts. When the pound becomes worthless, Cornish pasties become the official Cornish currency, and society reverts to a form of feudal system, like a collective or commune, with pasties forming the basis of bartering: two small Warrens are worth one large Rowe's or I'll fix your fence for two lamb and mint Philps pasties. The system works so well that over time, Cornish people are actually born in pasty-shaped wombs, and stamped with the creator's logo – Warrens, Rowe's or Philps – when they emerge from the pastry. The stamp determines the bearers social class. An uprising occurs when a baby is born, the protagonist of the story, not quite fitting in as others do. His name is Gregg...
I can't claim full authorship. I just had a pen and paper handy as the words flowed from my colleague 'Wing Man' (not real name).
There are food shortages – mackerel and pilchard stocks are low, of course. Worst of all – Andrew Rowe, a.k.a. The Kernow King, is King of Cornwall, literally, ruling over the underground bakeries – Warrens, Rowe's, Philps – with an iron fist. He builds a wall of frozen pasties on the Cornish side of the Tamar to keep the Cornish in and the English out. What with climate change, it soon melts. When the pound becomes worthless, Cornish pasties become the official Cornish currency, and society reverts to a form of feudal system, like a collective or commune, with pasties forming the basis of bartering: two small Warrens are worth one large Rowe's or I'll fix your fence for two lamb and mint Philps pasties. The system works so well that over time, Cornish people are actually born in pasty-shaped wombs, and stamped with the creator's logo – Warrens, Rowe's or Philps – when they emerge from the pastry. The stamp determines the bearers social class. An uprising occurs when a baby is born, the protagonist of the story, not quite fitting in as others do. His name is Gregg...
I can't claim full authorship. I just had a pen and paper handy as the words flowed from my colleague 'Wing Man' (not real name).
Thursday, June 13, 2019
Tunnel of green
If I told my daughter about the train journey, she’d sound excited and want to do it. And maybe we would in a few weeks time, then after a minute on the train she’d say, dad, this is so boring. It was the same with the record cleaner; I’d built it up to be the most exciting thing ever, which I still think it is, but after cleaning one side of one record she’d said, dad, this is so boring.
The train journey was from Truro to Falmouth Town. Admittedly it doesn’t exactly have the same exotic ring about it as the train journey through the jungle we did from Cusco to Machu Picchu in Peru, but it wasn’t far off.
The rattly old train hurtles south towards the coast. For most of the 20-minute journey we are surrounded by lush, verdant foliage. The bushes and trees are alive and moving as the train whooshes past them. The foliage is alive, obviously, but more than that, it seems to jump out of the way of the train. The plants, trees and bushes seem to enjoy the train speeding past, blowing them out of the way. It's like they're waving with their leaves. Most of the journey is like this, with the foliage really near to the train and the banks really high, so really the journey feels like a tunnel of green.
Except for the flowers. There's part of the journey where it's all about the flowers. Huge foxgloves, mainly, but also, maybe, rosebay willowherb or clematis, I wouldn't really know, or care. But their pinks and purples are overwhelming. Then there's the giant echiums (also known as viper's-buglosses) – slim, long, wavy towers of pink flowers with spiky green leaves sticking out, as big as the ones at Trebah Gardens that have a plaque by them for being so big, but these are just on the side of the railway line, swaying in the wind the whizzing train creates. They don't seem natural, all the blurs of pink and purple, but like candyfloss and sweets from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, perhaps.
Previously on Barnflakes:
Where we are now
The train journey was from Truro to Falmouth Town. Admittedly it doesn’t exactly have the same exotic ring about it as the train journey through the jungle we did from Cusco to Machu Picchu in Peru, but it wasn’t far off.
The rattly old train hurtles south towards the coast. For most of the 20-minute journey we are surrounded by lush, verdant foliage. The bushes and trees are alive and moving as the train whooshes past them. The foliage is alive, obviously, but more than that, it seems to jump out of the way of the train. The plants, trees and bushes seem to enjoy the train speeding past, blowing them out of the way. It's like they're waving with their leaves. Most of the journey is like this, with the foliage really near to the train and the banks really high, so really the journey feels like a tunnel of green.
Except for the flowers. There's part of the journey where it's all about the flowers. Huge foxgloves, mainly, but also, maybe, rosebay willowherb or clematis, I wouldn't really know, or care. But their pinks and purples are overwhelming. Then there's the giant echiums (also known as viper's-buglosses) – slim, long, wavy towers of pink flowers with spiky green leaves sticking out, as big as the ones at Trebah Gardens that have a plaque by them for being so big, but these are just on the side of the railway line, swaying in the wind the whizzing train creates. They don't seem natural, all the blurs of pink and purple, but like candyfloss and sweets from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, perhaps.
Previously on Barnflakes:
Where we are now
Tuesday, April 16, 2019
Notes on being me
R contacted me early last week to let me know Eggleston was doing another book signing at the end of the week in London. Here I was, in Cornwall, with all my books in London at my parents, including two by William Eggleston. There was only one option – ask the parents. My dad kindly agreed to go and get a book signed for me. Except he didn't know where my Eggleston books were – and neither did I. He looked and found The Democratic Forest. Great, but not the one I wanted signed. I wanted William Eggleston's Guide signed. Dad couldn't find it. Mum couldn't find it. They sent me photos of my piles of books. I couldn't see it either. I let it go. Dad got The Democratic Forest signed. I was happy.
That was William Eggleston. Next was Bob Dylan.
Saturday was Record Store Day. Getting mugs to queue up all night outside record shops to buy already-released records you'd normally only spend a pound or two on in a charity shop – A-ha, Queen, Elton John, Abba etc – but producing them in limited numbers on – say – pink or yellow or red vinyl and then charging £30 for said records, well, it's genius from a marketing perspective and record companies surely can't believe they're raking in money from what was a dead market – not just vinyl but all removable media (just wait for CD Store Day and VHS Store Day – there's already a Cassette Store Day) – until a few years ago. (I'm being slightly ungracious – RSD often features exclusive live albums or alternate versions of classic albums and has helped spearhead the vinyl revival, but a lot of RSD is re-releasing crappy old albums with the dubious distinction of being "the first vinyl release since the last one". And picture discs.)
Well, guess what? I'm one of the mugs. Not content with owning Bob Dylan's classic Blood on the Tracks album on vinyl and CD, as well as the recent More Blood, More Tracks, the 6 CD Deluxe Edition of the Bootleg Series, Record Store Day was releasing the Original Test Pressing for the very first time (naturally I already own it on a bootleg mp3 – oh, and on cassette) which I was rather keen on (Variety called it the 'holy grail' of RSD releases). To be fair, I've never bought a single record from Record Store Day before (unless it's almost a year after the previous RSD and a record shop is selling their unsold stock half price – which happened with Heart of the Congos, the Lee 'Scratch' Perry mix from the 2017 RSD, which I got for £10 some time in 2018, despite it going for circa. £150 on eBay).
I thought I had it sorted. I'd asked my ex to get it from her local, excellent (despite, in the past, staff not being exactly knowledgeable about music) record shop in a small town in Wiltshire – all she'd have to do was walk down the road to buy the record for me. Turned out she was off to Paris that weekend. I asked her to change her flight (no lie); she wouldn't budge.
Why couldn't I go and buy a copy myself, I hear you cry. Well, I could but it would take me an hour to get to any record shop in Cornwall. I went to Falmouth on Friday to a participating cafe/record shop, Jam, and asked if I could buy a copy a day before as I wouldn't be able to make it there in time on the Saturday. The owner looked at me as if I'd blasphemed in church. It goes against everything RSD stands for, she told me, in no uncertain terms. I asked her how many copies of the record she had. Four, and they'd go immediately, she said. Cost? £25.
She did mention that Drift in Totnes would probably have a lot more copies. Then a lightbulb went off in my dim brain: my brother lives there. Which I told the woman. Ah well then, sorted, she said, you don't even have to get out of bed early, but your brother does. Getting him to do that might be difficult, I quipped: he has a new girlfriend. Ah, said the woman.
Anyway, it was a possibility. I texted him. He was on holiday too, but on his way back Saturday afternoon. I told him I was off to the Truro record shop first thing in the morning to get it, and I'd let him know. By 9am Saturday morning I am standing at the end of a queue thirty deep in Truro's Pannier Market, which is where Music Nostalgia is. The man in front of me is after the alternate mix of A-ha's debut album, Hunting High and Low. Which he gets. I do not get the Dylan. Sold out instantly, the owner tells me.
I tell my brother. He's almost in Exeter. He asks me if there's a record shop there. Of course! Rooster Records, been there a few times. He 'rushes' (after having a coffee first) to Rooster Records – they've sold out too. He phones Drift – they have copies left – and asks if he can reserve one. He's told no. I phone Drift and ask if I can reserve a copy for my brother to pick up. I'm told no, in no uncertain terms: you have to be there in person to buy the record. They have a 'pinch' of the records left. I tell brother to leg it there. After Exeter charity shops, lunch and more coffee and a late train he is in Totnes by late afternoon.
Whilst brother was running around South West England record shops, what was I doing? Having a leisurely stroll around Tregothnan House, which has the largest historic garden in Cornwall, and now contains Britain's first tea plantation, producing tea to buy in the shop which reportedly contains only 15% Cornish tea and works out costing about 50p a tea bag. Tregothnan House and gardens has been owned by the Boscawen family since the 1300s. They also own – and holiday-let to rich Londoners – property all over Cornwall. Aside from a brief ransack during the English Civil War (1642–1651), the estate has remained untouched. It beggars belief why this country hasn't had a proper revolution. Anyway, lovely garden and it was only £10 on the charity open weekend (otherwise it's £65 for a private garden visit). Then we went to Merther to see its abandoned church. It has no roof and a forest growing inside it. The squirrels and ravens were surprised to see me.
Meanwhile brother is speeding up his pace in Totnes. Then, with the shop in sight, he thinks about running and imagines having to wrestle the last copy from the hands of the punk who'd just bought it, drag him outside and 'do a De Niro on him' (his words).
Luckily time was on his side and after all the pseudo rush the shop still had half a dozen copies left after my bro bought one for me. I don't know when I'm going to see it or play it, but I've got it. The Eggleston and the Dylan – couldn't have done them without a lot of family help. Much love and appreciation.
• William Eggleston, 2¼ exhibition at David Zwirner
• Bob Dylan's Blood On The Tracks Test Pressing, Record Store Day Edition, Reviewed
Previously on Barnflakes:
Top ten records I would have bought in Totnes if I had any money
South London record shops
Weekend Barngains
Top ten photographers
Tuesday, December 11, 2018
The Enigma of Casper the Cat
"Casper lives in a world without promise
Sitting at home in his pyjamas
Just wishing it would all go away somehow
He walked by but he never saw us
He could have been a famous guitarist
He must have not have had a clue"
– Daniel Johnston, Casper the Friendly Ghost
Casper is a big cat, and we'd both have to brace ourselves for his landings. In the mornings he'd jump up on our bed, meow, and settle himself on one of our chests, inches away from our noses, his whiskers tickling our cheeks. We'd feel his cold breath on our faces as he purred contentedly and dug his claws into the duvet. If we were spooning in bed, he would lie diplomatically across both of us, half and half.
It occurred to me a while ago that whilst my former pet cat, Casper, occupied the same space as me, lived with me within the same four walls, to all extents was a member of my family (or so I liked to think; we didn't have any children), he had a completely different experience of life to me. Yes, sure, he's a cat, but I could also be talking about my wife, Annie, who also left me.
I used to say to her that Casper's one of the world’s great thinkers, with a Buddhist-like propensity for sitting still and staring into space, thinking great thoughts. When he stared into nothing with his big black eyes, I always thought he was seeing things us humans couldn't see. Annie wasn't so sure. She thought when he stared into space he was staring at sounds, looking in the direction where he could hear things that we couldn't. Either way, he experienced things us humans didn't.
It was when I'd left for work one morning Casper told Annie I'd been having an affair. She told me later she screamed so loud but wasn't sure what was most upsetting – me having the affair or Casper speaking, in English, and sounding a bit like Kenneth Williams. It was the first time in recorded history a cat had ever spoken a human language. Casper was exaggerating somewhat when he said I'd had an affair. I'd spent time with a female neighbour, it's true, but less than half a dozen times, in the evening, when Annie was out at yoga. It meant nothing. I was stupid, but it was a blip. But for Casper to tell Annie was a gross betrayal. I thought we'd had a bond.
I knew something was amiss that day because Annie hadn't answered any of my texts, and when I got home sure enough, she was gone, and so was the cat. I knew they weren't coming back (there was a note which emphatically said so). Well, not until I was gone, which happened very early the next morning with a loud knock on the door from the police.
At first I thought they had the wrong address. I opened the door to two policemen in uniform and a detective. Then I thought it was a joke – I racked my mind for what I'd done wrong (all I could think of was the fling with the neighbour). The detective told me I was under arrest for domestic abuse, kidnapping and torture. Eh? I'd never laid a finger on Annie. I protested, they said the usual 'anything you say will be taken down and could be used in court later', though it was the first time I'd actually heard it spoken outside of films and TV. They forcibly escorted me to the police station.
This was all surely some mistake; some Kafkaesque administration error. Nevertheless, I tried to be as co-operative as I could. My photo was taken and fingerprints digitally scanned. I was read my rights. I was asked if I'd taken drugs, or drunk alcohol or was liable to self-harm. I said no. An officer asked me if I wanted a solicitor. I didn't see any need. They put me in a cell for two hours.
When they let me out I was taken to the interview room. It was here I was read the full charges against me. It was here that I think I fainted. I was being accused by Casper – my cat – of these so-called crimes. I looked at the officers. They were serious. They advised me to accept legal counsel and a solicitor was appointed to me.
I loved Casper like a member of my family, probably more so than most humans. The list of offences against me went on for several pages, and they were all read out to me. Most I thought were pretty trivial to say the least, but apparently this was no laughing matter. Torture, kidnapping and false imprisonment was the general gist of it.
More specifically: the plaintiff was taken away from his parents and siblings at a young age which caused him considerable psychological and emotional trauma. The plaintiff had his genitals removed against his will. The plaintiff was forced to eat the same boring, horrible cat food every day, food not even good enough for dogs (this one really got me – Annie used to joke that he had tapas for dinner every night – a selection of cat food, chicken, fish and biscuits). The plaintiff's litter tray was not always changed regularly. The plaintiff was frequently locked inside the house alone, and on three occasions, for an entire weekend. The plaintiff was, on occasion, kicked (I would have called it a gentle nudge). The plaintiff was placed in a box and escorted to vets against his will, and had treatments and operations he was unaware of (which cost me hundreds of pounds).
I was under arrest. I made a statement and pleaded not guilty. My solicitor advised me not to say anything else so I didn't. The police had a warrant to search my house. A court day was set.
Within hours it was all over social media. The #MeowNow movement was launched. It seemed inevitable that cats would take to Twitter like a duck to water; after all, they love birds – to catch, to play with, to torture, and sometimes even to eat. They tweeted till the cows came home. Then the floodgates really opened. Other pets followed suit. Animal rights marches and protests took place in major cities. There were pussy riots in the streets. Within months, a law was invoked decrying pet ownership illegal, and having a pet was suddenly likened to slavery. All pets were declared sentient beings. Pet shops were shut down. Making fun of cats on the internet was banned.
What can I say? I was the fall guy, the patsy. I wasn't released on bail; I had to stay in the cell, for my own safety as well as for the protection of all cats. Nevertheless, I thought I had a good case for the trial. I'd had great times with Casper. The truth would shine through. It wasn’t until I was in the courtroom and noticed that the jury consisted of six cats, three dogs, two humans and a hamster that I started to get really uneasy. Only then did my solicitor inform me that the prosecution was a prominent pet rights lawyer.
The trail was all a blur, to tell the truth, and I did tell the truth, mostly. Witnesses came and went, evidence was presented – cat litter tray, cat food sachets, photos, my text messages and phone records, CCTV footage, you name it. Vets, scientists and psychologists gave evidence. All the time Casper sat there, Sphinx-like and poker-faced, either on the witness stand or watching from the public gallery. The jury was putty in his paws. He seemed to hypnotise them with his big eyes like black moons, his Kenneth Williams purr-like voice.
My solicitor was next to useless. He knew the result of the case before it started, and merely went through the motions. The prosecution, on the other hand, was like an actor on a stage. He was in his element.
His summing up speech, to be fair, encapsulated man's sometimes uneasy relationship with pets. He started on a light note. There's an urban myth that 15% of all internet traffic is cat-related, he intoned, almost in a purr of a voice. Everyone loves cats, he went on, and pets in general. Indeed, in a recent survey some 90% of British households considered their pets to be members of the family. In fact, 42% of British pet owners love their pet more than their partner (light mirth from the jurors). We are spending more money on our pets than ever before. So what's the problem then? He asked the jury rhetorically.
The problem is, he continued, the more we think of our pets as being part of the family, the more we think of them as being human, the more difficult it to justify keeping them as pets. More and more research shows us that pets, from cats to goldfish, have far more emotional feelings than we previously thought. They are independent, free-thinking, emotional beings that we are treating like prisoners. We are deciding where they go, what they eat. We are deciding if they have genitals or not, for God's sake! It is not our choice to make! With cats, we call it neutering and spaying. In human terms, it would be called castration and female genital mutilation.
Then the lawyer zeroed in on me one last time – me, the abuser and torturer – and it was all over. The jury took two hours to reach a guilty verdict. The judge gave me three years. Casper blinked at me and licked his lips. The public gallery erupted in applause. The press went mad. Casper was a celebrity.
When I got out of prison, 25 months later for good behaviour, my life was in shreds. I rented a room in a house away from London, and kept mostly to myself. I changed my name. I'd received enough death threats. But I missed the company of a woman and a cat. The amount of times I said to Annie I wished Casper could speak and tell us what he's thinking and feeling, but in truth, well, in hindsight, I preferred it when cats couldn't talk.
Tuesday, November 20, 2018
Train tales #2: taking the piss
Yes, Train tales #1 was back in 2013.
The smell of him fills the train carriage before I even see him, before he's even in the carriage. An overriding stench of urine and alcohol. The man sits across the aisle from me, opposite me. The smell of him makes me want to gag. He looks fairly respectable, possibly in his late 30s, neatly cut curly black hair, glasses, green jacket. But the bottom of his jeans are filthy, and he has a filthy carrier bag full of stuff. From which he proceeds to unpack a smart-looking video camera and an iPad. He connects the two up. Not your typical homeless guy, for sure.
At least I'm an aisle apart from him; there's a woman sitting directly opposite him on the same table. She looks aghast and is perhaps holding her breath. The guy is quite pleasant and chatty, in that mad kind of way, half muttering to himself, half talking to the woman. She doesn't really want to engage him in conversation.
By now he's got his camera and iPad linked up and seems to be editing a video. If it wasn't for the smell and the carrier bags, he'd look quite cool. He notices the book cover of the novel the woman's reading. There's a photo of London Eye on the front. 'What's that on the front?' he asks her, directly. 'What?' she says. 'That photo on the front of your book, what's it of?' She tells him it's the London Eye. 'What a coincidence!' he exclaims. 'I'm making a film about London, and was just editing a sequence with the London Eye. I thought I recognised it'. The woman doesn't say anything in return.
The man gets up abruptly, walks out the carriage and enters the toilet. The woman and I collectively exhale. She takes some perfume out of her bag and sprays it liberally all around her. It's a bit better, but the mix of perfume and urine actually quite sickly.
The man returns a few minutes later. He stands in front of his table. 'What's that smell?' he asks to no one in particular. 'It's like a combination of... caramel and flowers.' No one says anything. That he has a fine sense of smell is, well, quite extraordinary. He seems completely oblivious to his own aroma.
After another ten minutes of editing and muttering and stinking he packs up all his things and walks to the other end of the carriage, finding another seat there for no apparent reason. Maybe he didn't like the smell.
I exchange a vague look of relief with the woman, though I can still smell the man from the other end of the carriage when the breeze whoofs down my way.
The smell of him fills the train carriage before I even see him, before he's even in the carriage. An overriding stench of urine and alcohol. The man sits across the aisle from me, opposite me. The smell of him makes me want to gag. He looks fairly respectable, possibly in his late 30s, neatly cut curly black hair, glasses, green jacket. But the bottom of his jeans are filthy, and he has a filthy carrier bag full of stuff. From which he proceeds to unpack a smart-looking video camera and an iPad. He connects the two up. Not your typical homeless guy, for sure.
At least I'm an aisle apart from him; there's a woman sitting directly opposite him on the same table. She looks aghast and is perhaps holding her breath. The guy is quite pleasant and chatty, in that mad kind of way, half muttering to himself, half talking to the woman. She doesn't really want to engage him in conversation.
By now he's got his camera and iPad linked up and seems to be editing a video. If it wasn't for the smell and the carrier bags, he'd look quite cool. He notices the book cover of the novel the woman's reading. There's a photo of London Eye on the front. 'What's that on the front?' he asks her, directly. 'What?' she says. 'That photo on the front of your book, what's it of?' She tells him it's the London Eye. 'What a coincidence!' he exclaims. 'I'm making a film about London, and was just editing a sequence with the London Eye. I thought I recognised it'. The woman doesn't say anything in return.
The man gets up abruptly, walks out the carriage and enters the toilet. The woman and I collectively exhale. She takes some perfume out of her bag and sprays it liberally all around her. It's a bit better, but the mix of perfume and urine actually quite sickly.
The man returns a few minutes later. He stands in front of his table. 'What's that smell?' he asks to no one in particular. 'It's like a combination of... caramel and flowers.' No one says anything. That he has a fine sense of smell is, well, quite extraordinary. He seems completely oblivious to his own aroma.
After another ten minutes of editing and muttering and stinking he packs up all his things and walks to the other end of the carriage, finding another seat there for no apparent reason. Maybe he didn't like the smell.
I exchange a vague look of relief with the woman, though I can still smell the man from the other end of the carriage when the breeze whoofs down my way.
Thursday, March 29, 2018
Three recent coincidences
1. R had been telling me about Unit Editions, ‘a progressive publishing venture producing high-quality, affordable books on graphic design and visual culture’, that I’d never heard of, the day before. The next evening R popped round the flat (a rare occurrence btw, being allergic to my cat, Casper). A parcel was waiting for me in the doorway. I opened it up and it was a beautiful book called Letraset: The DIY Typography Revolution (with ‘free’ poster), published by, yup, you guessed it, Unit Editions and costing £55 (I must take umbrage at the ‘affordable’ claim in their blurb). I hadn’t ordered it; it was sent by an old friend I hadn’t heard from for years, completely out of the blue. He thought I’d like it.
2. S and I were sipping our Greggs coffees on a bench behind a church in Greenwich. We were talking about Krautrock, Can and Stockhausen, then onto atonality and minimalism; then came Carrie and Brian de Palma, followed by Dario Argento and Italian giallo films which led on to Peter Strickland via Berberian Sound Studio and the Duke of Burgundy, then vampire films and finally, somehow, the films of Rainer Werner Fassbinder (Fear Eats the Soul is one of my favourite films, ever). Five minutes later we were strolling around the secondhand market across the road, and S spotted a DVD box set of Fassbinder films. What are the chances? S didn’t want it, so I snapped it up immediately. 9 Fassbinder films! For £5! Barngain.
3. I was moaning on the phone to H about many things, including this very blog. 12 years I’ve been writing it, I said, and virtually no comments, no feedback, nothing in return (I blame social media for the death of blogs). Why do I bother writing it, I asked her. She didn’t know. I didn’t know. Anyway, just as I said no one ever leaves a comment, I was checking my emails and a notification came up that C (for Caspar; different spelling to my cat, so, no, they're not one and the same) had left a comment on a recent post. Faith in mankind was temporarily restored.
2. S and I were sipping our Greggs coffees on a bench behind a church in Greenwich. We were talking about Krautrock, Can and Stockhausen, then onto atonality and minimalism; then came Carrie and Brian de Palma, followed by Dario Argento and Italian giallo films which led on to Peter Strickland via Berberian Sound Studio and the Duke of Burgundy, then vampire films and finally, somehow, the films of Rainer Werner Fassbinder (Fear Eats the Soul is one of my favourite films, ever). Five minutes later we were strolling around the secondhand market across the road, and S spotted a DVD box set of Fassbinder films. What are the chances? S didn’t want it, so I snapped it up immediately. 9 Fassbinder films! For £5! Barngain.
3. I was moaning on the phone to H about many things, including this very blog. 12 years I’ve been writing it, I said, and virtually no comments, no feedback, nothing in return (I blame social media for the death of blogs). Why do I bother writing it, I asked her. She didn’t know. I didn’t know. Anyway, just as I said no one ever leaves a comment, I was checking my emails and a notification came up that C (for Caspar; different spelling to my cat, so, no, they're not one and the same) had left a comment on a recent post. Faith in mankind was temporarily restored.
Wednesday, September 07, 2016
Monday, August 29, 2016
Top five office moments
The interesting thing about office life is there's nothing remotely
interesting about office life. In over four years in the same office I could count the
interesting things that have happened on one hand. And here they are:
1. The office Christmas party
In the lead up to Christmas there is magic in the air; people are more social; barriers come down; fun is to be had. By New Year, and back at work, the spell is broken. It was spoken about for months after but even by the Monday after the Friday office party just before Christmas, even the people who were there were unsure about who sat on whose lap, whose pocket her flicked gold chocolate coin had miraculously landed in, who put out whose cigarette with the fire extinguisher.
1. The office Christmas party
In the lead up to Christmas there is magic in the air; people are more social; barriers come down; fun is to be had. By New Year, and back at work, the spell is broken. It was spoken about for months after but even by the Monday after the Friday office party just before Christmas, even the people who were there were unsure about who sat on whose lap, whose pocket her flicked gold chocolate coin had miraculously landed in, who put out whose cigarette with the fire extinguisher.
In
other words, details were hazy two days after the event, let alone eight months. Seemingly insignificant events assumed massive proportions. Who threw the first cherry tomato? Was Steve really levitated? Did I really juggle with lemons? Details were hazy.
The
evening did not bode well. For a start the company was down to thirteen
members of staff. It had been double that six months ago. By
the time bingo, musical chairs and musical statues had finished (I'd come second in the last two; story of my life), and Secret Santa's opened, it was 5:30pm, and several people went home on the
dot. Nothing more was expected to happen. They'd been nibbles and a few
drinks. No one was feeling very merry. There was eight of us left. We toyed with going to the pub, but with booze, food and music in the office, we decided to stay.
We all started drinking and dancing. The two MDs of the company (both women), another three women and three guys, including me. One guy was too cool to dance, he just leaned against a post, stroking his beard. It was down to me, Amy, Steve and Laura to do the moves. Suddenly, a cherry tomato comes flying my way – and hits me on the arm. And that signals the start of the food fight. Tomatoes, carrots, apples, oranges, lemons, scotch eggs, crisps, cup cakes and chicken legs all go flying around the office. I'm pretty sure I juggled with the lemons.
At some point, one of the MDs opened the floodgates by smoking a cigarette in the office. It felt very naughty and decadent indeed. So others followed suit, even Steve, who hadn't had a cigarette for years, though I'm sure it was him who then let off the fire extinguisher. By now we were all pretty drunk, and started playing the shopping list memory game, 'I went to the shops and bought...' Traditionally a children's game, we played the adult version with an assortment of sexual toys in the basket, only some of which I'd actually heard of. I did quite well nevertheless.
Next the MD suggested levitation, something I used to play at school, where a group of us would put a couple of fingers underneath someone lying down and miraculously lift them up as if they were light as a feather. After a few false starts (giggling), I was chosen to lie down. Each person put their fingers underneath me, and spoke the same lines: 'He's looking sick / Call an ambulance / He's looking very ill / Where's the ambulance?' Then, 'He's dead' and whoosh – up I went. Sort of.
We finished with pushing each other around in the office chairs, went to a bar about 2am, then headed home. Naturally, I got lost about 3am or so when the night bus left me stranded in the middle of nowhere. Nevertheless, it had been a good evening.
2. The big showdown*
One was a production manager (PM), the other a freelance graphic designer (FGD). They didn't quite see eye to eye: the PM would design pages; the FGD would tinker with them for days. The showdown was like what the meeting of De Niro and Pacino in the film Heat should have been like. They were working opposite each other. It was lunchtime, the office virtually empty. Something snapped in the PM; probably it was the overpriced FGD fiddling with the Quark (yes, Quark) pages yet again. The PM started shouting at the FGD about changing the pages just before press day. The FGD had no choice but to shout back, telling him his pages were rubbish and needing changing. This goes on for a bit and by now they are both standing up. Then the FGD utters the words which might actually be straight from the film Heat: "If you want me gone, just say the word. I'm gone in five minutes. I'm out of here and you'll never see me again." Four years later, he's still there and the PM isn't.
3. The dramatic resignation*
The new magazine editor was born on exactly the same day, month and year as me – we had been on earth exactly the same time, and had had different life experiences to say the least. More worryingly, a young woman we worked with – well, her mother was also exactly the same age as us. He had issues: since leaving the army he'd been listless and lacked direction. I didn't know anything about him, except he'd only just met his nine year-old son for the first time the previous year. He'd had a turbulent affair for six months with a Spanish woman (who he said was crazy) a decade previously. Ten years later she'd called him up and said he had a nine year-old son. He'd been able to meet him once, in Spain, chaperoned by his son's mother's sister. Neither the mother or the sister approved of him, and didn't want him seeing his son again.
He worked with us for a few months. He obviously wasn't enjoying it. One day, just before home time, he was getting upset about being dictated to by PR agencies; he said he couldn't work under these conditions. The managing editor informed him it was the nature of the beast. His face turned red; he slammed a load of papers down on his desk; stood up, and declared, in that case, 'I resign'. It just came out, I wasn't sure he actually meant it. He looked surprised that the words had come out of his mouth. People don't resign like that any more; I admired it. There were only a few of us in the office, but the words had been uttered, and he had to pretty much follow through with it.
4. The crazy freelancer*
She looked like what I imagine a Marxist lesbian would look like. Very intense, she could barely look at men, and sneered when I suggested she could use the men's toilet (the women's being occupied). She slammed drawers and office stationary loudly and muttered to herself. The incident happened, again, at lunchtime; the office was almost empty. She was a freelance reporter, interviewing someone on the phone for a magazine article. At some point a couple of us sitting nearby realised she was having an argument with her interviewee, and her voice got louder and more aggressive. She had our full attention by the time she was shouting at him "You will not hang up on me! You will finish the interview! Don't you dare hang up on me!" She was gone the next day.
5. I resign
I saved the best till last didn't I?
*I know what you're thinking – the office was virtually empty in all three episodes – how was I the only person to witness all three events? Just lucky I guess.
I know I moan about office life a fair bit (see below) but seriously, taking a bunch of random people; putting them in a grey box with strip lighting (ie an office); staring at a screen all day; getting them to have to work together eight hours a day, five days a week; where passive aggressive behaviour is the order of the day; and do activities that are at best pointless, at worse painful; I don't know, it just seems like a perverse joke.
Previously on Barnflakes:
The dream of basic income for everyone
Don't become a graphic designer
Wasting time
Just a quick one
Four-day working week
Introverts vs extroverts
'In terms of' overtakes 'literally'
London Bridge Lunches
The Metros
Email étiquette
I'm literally not being funny but let me ask you a question
Aspire to be average
The Offensive Office
We all started drinking and dancing. The two MDs of the company (both women), another three women and three guys, including me. One guy was too cool to dance, he just leaned against a post, stroking his beard. It was down to me, Amy, Steve and Laura to do the moves. Suddenly, a cherry tomato comes flying my way – and hits me on the arm. And that signals the start of the food fight. Tomatoes, carrots, apples, oranges, lemons, scotch eggs, crisps, cup cakes and chicken legs all go flying around the office. I'm pretty sure I juggled with the lemons.
At some point, one of the MDs opened the floodgates by smoking a cigarette in the office. It felt very naughty and decadent indeed. So others followed suit, even Steve, who hadn't had a cigarette for years, though I'm sure it was him who then let off the fire extinguisher. By now we were all pretty drunk, and started playing the shopping list memory game, 'I went to the shops and bought...' Traditionally a children's game, we played the adult version with an assortment of sexual toys in the basket, only some of which I'd actually heard of. I did quite well nevertheless.
Next the MD suggested levitation, something I used to play at school, where a group of us would put a couple of fingers underneath someone lying down and miraculously lift them up as if they were light as a feather. After a few false starts (giggling), I was chosen to lie down. Each person put their fingers underneath me, and spoke the same lines: 'He's looking sick / Call an ambulance / He's looking very ill / Where's the ambulance?' Then, 'He's dead' and whoosh – up I went. Sort of.
We finished with pushing each other around in the office chairs, went to a bar about 2am, then headed home. Naturally, I got lost about 3am or so when the night bus left me stranded in the middle of nowhere. Nevertheless, it had been a good evening.
2. The big showdown*
One was a production manager (PM), the other a freelance graphic designer (FGD). They didn't quite see eye to eye: the PM would design pages; the FGD would tinker with them for days. The showdown was like what the meeting of De Niro and Pacino in the film Heat should have been like. They were working opposite each other. It was lunchtime, the office virtually empty. Something snapped in the PM; probably it was the overpriced FGD fiddling with the Quark (yes, Quark) pages yet again. The PM started shouting at the FGD about changing the pages just before press day. The FGD had no choice but to shout back, telling him his pages were rubbish and needing changing. This goes on for a bit and by now they are both standing up. Then the FGD utters the words which might actually be straight from the film Heat: "If you want me gone, just say the word. I'm gone in five minutes. I'm out of here and you'll never see me again." Four years later, he's still there and the PM isn't.
3. The dramatic resignation*
The new magazine editor was born on exactly the same day, month and year as me – we had been on earth exactly the same time, and had had different life experiences to say the least. More worryingly, a young woman we worked with – well, her mother was also exactly the same age as us. He had issues: since leaving the army he'd been listless and lacked direction. I didn't know anything about him, except he'd only just met his nine year-old son for the first time the previous year. He'd had a turbulent affair for six months with a Spanish woman (who he said was crazy) a decade previously. Ten years later she'd called him up and said he had a nine year-old son. He'd been able to meet him once, in Spain, chaperoned by his son's mother's sister. Neither the mother or the sister approved of him, and didn't want him seeing his son again.
He worked with us for a few months. He obviously wasn't enjoying it. One day, just before home time, he was getting upset about being dictated to by PR agencies; he said he couldn't work under these conditions. The managing editor informed him it was the nature of the beast. His face turned red; he slammed a load of papers down on his desk; stood up, and declared, in that case, 'I resign'. It just came out, I wasn't sure he actually meant it. He looked surprised that the words had come out of his mouth. People don't resign like that any more; I admired it. There were only a few of us in the office, but the words had been uttered, and he had to pretty much follow through with it.
4. The crazy freelancer*
She looked like what I imagine a Marxist lesbian would look like. Very intense, she could barely look at men, and sneered when I suggested she could use the men's toilet (the women's being occupied). She slammed drawers and office stationary loudly and muttered to herself. The incident happened, again, at lunchtime; the office was almost empty. She was a freelance reporter, interviewing someone on the phone for a magazine article. At some point a couple of us sitting nearby realised she was having an argument with her interviewee, and her voice got louder and more aggressive. She had our full attention by the time she was shouting at him "You will not hang up on me! You will finish the interview! Don't you dare hang up on me!" She was gone the next day.
5. I resign
I saved the best till last didn't I?
*I know what you're thinking – the office was virtually empty in all three episodes – how was I the only person to witness all three events? Just lucky I guess.
I know I moan about office life a fair bit (see below) but seriously, taking a bunch of random people; putting them in a grey box with strip lighting (ie an office); staring at a screen all day; getting them to have to work together eight hours a day, five days a week; where passive aggressive behaviour is the order of the day; and do activities that are at best pointless, at worse painful; I don't know, it just seems like a perverse joke.
Previously on Barnflakes:
The dream of basic income for everyone
Don't become a graphic designer
Wasting time
Just a quick one
Four-day working week
Introverts vs extroverts
'In terms of' overtakes 'literally'
London Bridge Lunches
The Metros
Email étiquette
I'm literally not being funny but let me ask you a question
Aspire to be average
The Offensive Office
Tuesday, March 01, 2016
This morning
Last night in bed just before sleep I closed my eyes and suddenly we
were transported to an apple orchard where we were surrounded by very
tall wizards with long, grey beards wearing polka dot robes and pointed
hats; I had to open my eyes to make them go away.
Looking out of my kitchen window every morning I notice a man and his dog. The man always picks up rubbish lying around and has become a kind of unsung hero to me. The streets are littered with litter, no one gives a damn, I never see any binmen, and here's this lone ranger with his dog, clearing up the streets. He reminds me of my brother a bit, with his beard and wellies. I'd never spoken to him until today.
He comes up to me this morning just as I've left the flat on the way to work. I smile at him as he approaches and am about to say what a great job he does. He cuts me short:
"Six fucking years I've been doing this and every fucking day I think this will be my last."
"Oh."
"It's not about the litter it's about not being called a cunt."
"Oh." I was in shock.
Someone is apparently calling him a cunt, and dropping litter purposely to antagonise him. He's going to get violent if he finds out who it is. "I know it's not you, mate." I was relieved. He rants some more and is about to leave when he says, "Your bins are a fucking disgrace." I am aware of the ongoing problem of the communal bins (not my fault, I exclaim). "You can do something about it, you can make the change." And then, as a coda, "Litter causes property prices to drop by 6%-9%." I appreciated the tip.
A few minutes later there was Superman on the kerb covered in blood. He was a strange sight and I didn't know what to make of it. The figure in the Superman costume seemed young and lanky, blood all over his hands; he wasn't able to stand. It was a great image, loaded with metaphor, but I didn't linger; police had turned up, hopefully he would be okay. A few minutes later, a ginger cat without a tail came bounding over to me, meowing. I stroked the cat and it followed me for a while.
As morning walks to work go, it was action packed.
Looking out of my kitchen window every morning I notice a man and his dog. The man always picks up rubbish lying around and has become a kind of unsung hero to me. The streets are littered with litter, no one gives a damn, I never see any binmen, and here's this lone ranger with his dog, clearing up the streets. He reminds me of my brother a bit, with his beard and wellies. I'd never spoken to him until today.
He comes up to me this morning just as I've left the flat on the way to work. I smile at him as he approaches and am about to say what a great job he does. He cuts me short:
"Six fucking years I've been doing this and every fucking day I think this will be my last."
"Oh."
"It's not about the litter it's about not being called a cunt."
"Oh." I was in shock.
Someone is apparently calling him a cunt, and dropping litter purposely to antagonise him. He's going to get violent if he finds out who it is. "I know it's not you, mate." I was relieved. He rants some more and is about to leave when he says, "Your bins are a fucking disgrace." I am aware of the ongoing problem of the communal bins (not my fault, I exclaim). "You can do something about it, you can make the change." And then, as a coda, "Litter causes property prices to drop by 6%-9%." I appreciated the tip.
A few minutes later there was Superman on the kerb covered in blood. He was a strange sight and I didn't know what to make of it. The figure in the Superman costume seemed young and lanky, blood all over his hands; he wasn't able to stand. It was a great image, loaded with metaphor, but I didn't linger; police had turned up, hopefully he would be okay. A few minutes later, a ginger cat without a tail came bounding over to me, meowing. I stroked the cat and it followed me for a while.
As morning walks to work go, it was action packed.
Wednesday, February 24, 2016
Two funerals
Five of us lived in the college house twenty years ago. In the intervening years, two died. The two funerals were separated by more than a decade.
Death of the Piano Man (2001)
It was seven years since college but felt just like old times except me and Ben were walking up to North Wembley tube station to meet Emma. Ben was in hysterics walking along. He was laughing at my shoes and pin-striped suit – my only suit. Or rather, he was laughing at my dad’s old black brogues, two sizes too big for me and it felt like it and judging by Ben, looked like it too. Then there was Emma walking towards us. Dressed in black, and with a fake fur coat, I hadn’t seen her in five years yet she looked exactly the same and it felt like it was only yesterday. She said as much when we met. Yes, it was just like old times what with me and Ben walking along and Ben laughing at me. Except that I was wearing a pin-striped suit and Ben a dark grey one and we were going to a funeral. Emma said we looked almost like adults in our suits. Emma and Ben had turned thirty recently. I was to be thirty in a few months.
Emma asked me what I’d been doing and reminded me of the gypsy who told me, some years ago, that I would die on my thirtieth birthday if I hadn’t changed my way of life by then. I hadn’t really, and I was almost thirty*. We got into Ben’s brothers car and drove to the address, a short drive from the station. We small-talked until we arrived at the family house. Then everything turned a bit sombre.
I had called Ben the day before, and he’d called Emma. I had read about Dave’s death in The Financial Times on the Tuesday. It occupied a few lines at the bottom of page eighteen. There was no photo of him. David had died at the weekend, in his sleep, of a heart attack. He was thirty-four but the day he died it was his thirty-fifth birthday. Dave had been a photographer on the FT. He was a good photographer. I hadn’t see many of his photos after college but he'd spent time in Pakistan taking photos there. His two passions were photography and The Who.
The reception was in Wembley, the Muslim prayers in Harrow and the burial in Hertfordshire. It was an open casket, we took turns to pay our last respects to Dave. Women were screeching but Dave looked peaceful and serene, as if taking a nap. It was such a shock meeting his brother; I had to do a double take. He looked identical to Dave. The congregation was, like Dave, a complete contradiction: there were bikers; there were poncy ex-film and photography students (us); there was Irish family and there was Muslim family.
After the funeral Emma and I looked for a pub, to toast Dave. Eventually we found an Irish pub, full of old men (and a few women), all watching Who Wants to be a Millionaire? on a large screen at the back of the pub. No one was talking, everyone was watching the screen. We didn't care. We went straight to the jukebox. Billy Joel's The Piano Man was Dave's song ("the microphone smelled like a beer"), and we played twice over, almost drowning out Chris Tarrant's voice. We had a few whiskies for Dave. It seemed apt. Dave's father was Pakistani but his mother Irish. A curious mix for a curious man who had long battled the bottle and his sexuality. He'd eventually come out winning and was sorting his life out.
(Shortly after was 9/11, but just before that another young friend died too. He had converted to Islam a few years before, and we hardly heard from him. He had a wife and child who we weren't allowed to see. He had completely changed since converting. He took his family to Jordan for a holiday where they all died one night in a hotel room of carbon monoxide poisoning. It felt like the whole world changed that year.)
One of the last times I saw Dave was when I accompanied him to an Alcoholics Anonymous party. It was tense and twitchy. People were standing around; obviously there was no alcohol involved. We didn't stay long. I remember him saying to me this evening would just become an anecdote, but to him it was his life. He was right – I did tell people about it, it was such a surreal evening. Dave was a passionate, tough, burly, complex, mixed up, bisexual, alcoholic, angry man but interesting and a good friend.
Redemption Song (2014)
Had I really not seen Ben since Dave's funeral? It would seem not. Again, after a ten year gap, we almost immediately reverted to our former roles: taking the piss out of each other. I was running late; it was deepest north west London. I finally got to the Methodist church and slinked in at the back. There was incense, chanting and a woman blowing from a horn. I was one of only about five white people in the crowd. It was my first Rastafarian funeral, and four old college friends were there too: Ben (white), Maria (black), Ruby (black) and Sharon (also black).
I remember Isaac's laid back attitude, his multiple women, his spicy chicken noodle soup with dumplings. The service was conducted by a charismatic black man in flowing robes. Before long the service turned into a sermon and diatribe, the priest vehemently blaming the white man for suppressing black people, who would all rise again once they returned to Africa. Later he asked the congregation to call out prominent black people (mostly men): Haile Selassie! Marcus Garvey! Bob Marley! I started feeling very hot around the collar, and glanced around at the handful of other white people in the room. But white and black people alike found it uncomfortable and inappropriate.
After the service, we all moved to the burial ground. It was a hot, windy day, and all the men – black and white – took turns shovelling dirt into the grave whilst the Priest and congregation chanted and sang. Bob Marley's Redmption Song was the last song, and it got quiter and quiter til it was almost a whisper.
In truth I had hardly thought about Isaac in the past twenty years. I regret losing contact with many friends but this is life, it seems to move forward at a terrific speed with scant regard for sentiment and reflection until it's too late. A funeral is the place you find out more about the dead person than you did during their life; it's the place you actually want the dead person to be alive at, there's so many questions to ask them, but obviously it's too late.
*Twelve years later, Maria would 'joke' at Isaac's funeral that the next funeral they will all be going to would be mine. Within the next five years. Charming.
Previously on Barnflakes:
Notes on losing friends
A funeral
Death of the Piano Man (2001)
It was seven years since college but felt just like old times except me and Ben were walking up to North Wembley tube station to meet Emma. Ben was in hysterics walking along. He was laughing at my shoes and pin-striped suit – my only suit. Or rather, he was laughing at my dad’s old black brogues, two sizes too big for me and it felt like it and judging by Ben, looked like it too. Then there was Emma walking towards us. Dressed in black, and with a fake fur coat, I hadn’t seen her in five years yet she looked exactly the same and it felt like it was only yesterday. She said as much when we met. Yes, it was just like old times what with me and Ben walking along and Ben laughing at me. Except that I was wearing a pin-striped suit and Ben a dark grey one and we were going to a funeral. Emma said we looked almost like adults in our suits. Emma and Ben had turned thirty recently. I was to be thirty in a few months.
Emma asked me what I’d been doing and reminded me of the gypsy who told me, some years ago, that I would die on my thirtieth birthday if I hadn’t changed my way of life by then. I hadn’t really, and I was almost thirty*. We got into Ben’s brothers car and drove to the address, a short drive from the station. We small-talked until we arrived at the family house. Then everything turned a bit sombre.
I had called Ben the day before, and he’d called Emma. I had read about Dave’s death in The Financial Times on the Tuesday. It occupied a few lines at the bottom of page eighteen. There was no photo of him. David had died at the weekend, in his sleep, of a heart attack. He was thirty-four but the day he died it was his thirty-fifth birthday. Dave had been a photographer on the FT. He was a good photographer. I hadn’t see many of his photos after college but he'd spent time in Pakistan taking photos there. His two passions were photography and The Who.
The reception was in Wembley, the Muslim prayers in Harrow and the burial in Hertfordshire. It was an open casket, we took turns to pay our last respects to Dave. Women were screeching but Dave looked peaceful and serene, as if taking a nap. It was such a shock meeting his brother; I had to do a double take. He looked identical to Dave. The congregation was, like Dave, a complete contradiction: there were bikers; there were poncy ex-film and photography students (us); there was Irish family and there was Muslim family.
After the funeral Emma and I looked for a pub, to toast Dave. Eventually we found an Irish pub, full of old men (and a few women), all watching Who Wants to be a Millionaire? on a large screen at the back of the pub. No one was talking, everyone was watching the screen. We didn't care. We went straight to the jukebox. Billy Joel's The Piano Man was Dave's song ("the microphone smelled like a beer"), and we played twice over, almost drowning out Chris Tarrant's voice. We had a few whiskies for Dave. It seemed apt. Dave's father was Pakistani but his mother Irish. A curious mix for a curious man who had long battled the bottle and his sexuality. He'd eventually come out winning and was sorting his life out.
(Shortly after was 9/11, but just before that another young friend died too. He had converted to Islam a few years before, and we hardly heard from him. He had a wife and child who we weren't allowed to see. He had completely changed since converting. He took his family to Jordan for a holiday where they all died one night in a hotel room of carbon monoxide poisoning. It felt like the whole world changed that year.)
One of the last times I saw Dave was when I accompanied him to an Alcoholics Anonymous party. It was tense and twitchy. People were standing around; obviously there was no alcohol involved. We didn't stay long. I remember him saying to me this evening would just become an anecdote, but to him it was his life. He was right – I did tell people about it, it was such a surreal evening. Dave was a passionate, tough, burly, complex, mixed up, bisexual, alcoholic, angry man but interesting and a good friend.
Redemption Song (2014)
Had I really not seen Ben since Dave's funeral? It would seem not. Again, after a ten year gap, we almost immediately reverted to our former roles: taking the piss out of each other. I was running late; it was deepest north west London. I finally got to the Methodist church and slinked in at the back. There was incense, chanting and a woman blowing from a horn. I was one of only about five white people in the crowd. It was my first Rastafarian funeral, and four old college friends were there too: Ben (white), Maria (black), Ruby (black) and Sharon (also black).
I remember Isaac's laid back attitude, his multiple women, his spicy chicken noodle soup with dumplings. The service was conducted by a charismatic black man in flowing robes. Before long the service turned into a sermon and diatribe, the priest vehemently blaming the white man for suppressing black people, who would all rise again once they returned to Africa. Later he asked the congregation to call out prominent black people (mostly men): Haile Selassie! Marcus Garvey! Bob Marley! I started feeling very hot around the collar, and glanced around at the handful of other white people in the room. But white and black people alike found it uncomfortable and inappropriate.
After the service, we all moved to the burial ground. It was a hot, windy day, and all the men – black and white – took turns shovelling dirt into the grave whilst the Priest and congregation chanted and sang. Bob Marley's Redmption Song was the last song, and it got quiter and quiter til it was almost a whisper.
In truth I had hardly thought about Isaac in the past twenty years. I regret losing contact with many friends but this is life, it seems to move forward at a terrific speed with scant regard for sentiment and reflection until it's too late. A funeral is the place you find out more about the dead person than you did during their life; it's the place you actually want the dead person to be alive at, there's so many questions to ask them, but obviously it's too late.
*Twelve years later, Maria would 'joke' at Isaac's funeral that the next funeral they will all be going to would be mine. Within the next five years. Charming.
Previously on Barnflakes:
Notes on losing friends
A funeral
Subscribe to:
Posts
(
Atom
)
