Londres, Mon Amour.

Went to London with the Padre yesterday; it was one of the best days I can remember. Bobbling along roads, sharing decent tunes, being harassed by Chinese Food Saleswomen at Camden Lock, winding up in a Cyber-age sex shop...


But let me explain. We were planning to go to the Tate Modern to see the Gauguin exhibition before it closes (which is next week, I believe), but the first time we could get in was 19:00. What better excuse could there be to make a day of it?

If you don't know Gauguin, he's a French post-impressionist artist from the late 19th Century and here is one of my favourites of his...

Now, we originally planned to hit The Globe and have a bit of a Shakespeare sesh, but inevitably the pull of Camden's beautiful markets got the better of us and what was meant to be a brief rummage turned into a Journey-To-The-Centre-Of-The-Earth Style foray into the bowels of the Locks and different markets around there. My favourite of these had to be the Horse Tunnel Market which was like something from Lord of the Rings crossed with Dickens. Here I found a rather dashing RAF rain-jacket and shamelessly broke my jacket embargo, and the Padre showed off his masterful haggling skills.



I also bought another hat (don't look like that, this one is spectacular!) I have wanted a cloche for ages, and I found the perfect one, so am vaaaaairy chuffed. HP bought some badminton shorts, too!

There were lots of stalls with people very eager to give us free food, and after a spot of mulled wine we were very grateful until they tried to force us to buy a whole pot of peppered chicken right after we'd had lunch. Not being hungry is, apparently, not an excuse. Our excuse earned us some abuse (rhyme intended).

Eventually it got dark, and as we wandered hither and thither (which Fry's English Delight tells me is the oldest cliché and was coined in 702) the atmosphere bloomed. Pretty lights, shadows and neon signs everywhere. There was also one of the most amazing and mind blowing shops in the world, which had a queue to get in and out called CyberDog; this was basically a giant, imposing, music-pumping cyber-fashion shop.

At first it looks (and sounds) like a club - but at 5pm this wasn't really likely. You go in and there are robotic bodies lining the walls and some shelves offering things like Astronaut Food and Stuffed Toy Microbes (Black Death was my favourite, but not worth £15). There are also people dancing like robots on balconies.


Then you descend into the abyss down an escalator into the main shop which is awash with neon and science-fiction inspired awesomeness, including bags made of floppy-disks, skin-tight clothes and cyborg shutter shades. People are also paid to walk around in various cyber gear looking like they are androids.


Naturally, we were having a great time, and ambled around, down some more steps, only to be confronted with BONDAGE TAPE! and a pole dancer and various electronic sexy things. Did NOT see that coming. Quite amusing though. Haha! (And thus, an anecdote was born.)


After this, we pottered about for a bit before deciding we ought to get a wiggle on and didn't want any more pepper chicken (until our later SFC on the way home) and we needed to traverse London to the good old Tate (or rather the good Modern Tate...) So we hopped back on the tube to Waterloo.

At this point (it being night and all) my sense of direction let us down and we went for a mile or so in the wrong direction down the Thames! We did, however, get some spectacular touristly views (see above.) This meant that, at 5 to 7 we had to make a mad dash of it to get to the gallery. Then commenced a conversation about Ai Wei Wei's Sunflower Seeds :


Me: Look over there - we discussed those at school.


Dee: It just looks like grit.


Me: Hey, it's conceptual. *ramble about society*


Dee: -also, the artists name is I wee-wee. Hehehe.


Me: *sigh*




The Gauguin exhibition was pretty good. I wasn't much of a fan of the work of his I had seen before, but it has always been Herr Padre's favourite, so it couldn't be missed. However, I found a lot of the stuff there useful and interesting, especially the sketchoodles which he would no doubt have abhorred anybody but himself seeing. Poor chap, died of syphillis.




Slightly let down that they had moved Bacon's Tryptich for the Base of a Crucifixion (above, one of my all-time Tate Modern faves) as that was one I was really looking forward to seeing again. They did, however, have a few others there instead, including the tryptich he did for his lover chap who committed suicide. Properly sad and emotive and excellent, his work is. And also proof that my taste in art is really morbid compared to Padre's enjoyment of quaint French villagers and rolling hills and Tahitian lounging women...



Finally, the bastards closed the gift shop before I could spend the remainder of my worldly cash. Being told no by an aristocratic sounding woman not good for your cultural street cred (especially when she is in 6-inch stillettos to your flat-heeled Dr Martens). Left brusquely in a bristling bustle of cloche, swishy coat and frilly brolly.



Being ostentatiously cultural this way is a real drain to one's alcohol reserves - and after this, what could possibly be more cultural than a visit to an excellent pub? Nothing, I hear you cry, with joy and apprehension as to whether we did or didn't manage this at about 11pm in Waterloo. (We did.)
We went to THIS charming little alery, The Hole In The Wall. The story goes that when my father and his school chums used to go on trips to London in Sixth Form, their teachers brought them to this very watering hole for a post-play pint; naturally, it was an unavoidable pilgrimmage. Situated as it is in a hole in the wall under a railway bridge, the bar was barrel-shaped, wood pannelled and rumbled occasionally with the noise of trains going over. They also served TEA BEER. Beer brewed with tea. It was gorgeous. Here is some modelled by a paternal relation of mine.

Overall the trip was astronomically good in all manner of ways, despite us arriving home at about 2am (dirty stop-outs) and my having to be up at an unearthly hour of the morning for a First Aid course. Jolly gosh darned spiffing and dashed good, it was!

Coincidences...

Freaky, freaky things are afoot. Anyone who follows me on Facebook will know that I got a bit excited about Thomas Ruggles Pynchon the other day after he was mentioned to me. Because I've wanted to start to get back into online writing bits, this evening I started up a bio for a Head of Science chappy called Roland James Pynchon (because the name was too good to not use) which is fine and dandy.

Following this, however, I was rummaging through shuffle and got absolutely freaked out when THIS song came on:



The lyrics of which include:
'Poor professor Pynchon had only good intentions when he
Put all his bunsen burners away'

Serious business, and also freaky as I could have sworn I'd never heard the name before Don mentioned it in English the other day. Freaky Deaky!
(Incidentally, Andrew Bird is a winner, and you should listen to him. (Y))

The Laptop Blues (A Ballad.)

Woke up this morning, cheery as can be,

Opened my laptop and it snapped off at me,

Bits of wires and metal and screws,

I need a new laptop 'n' it's giving me the blues.

Hoo, hoo, hoo, the snaptop blues.

Hoo, hoo, hoo, the craptop blues.

Googling on the web, looking through shops,

Tryin' to find out if anywhere sells good laptops,

Not too pricey, or cheap, this is hard to do,

Can't find a good laptop that I can afford, too-hoo-hoo

(The laptop blues)

(The craptop blues)

(It's snapped, boo-hoo)

Got me some money from the kindle I sold,

Maybe now I can get a laptop that's not old,

Huntin' for cash down the side of the bed,

Ain't enough money even to buy some bread.

Ooh-hooo!

The Laptop Blues!

Ooh-hooo!

Gonna try searchin' Yahoo's!

Well it's five days till Christmas, and I'm starting to wish,

I'd not asked for a new HiFi, or a special Poole dish,

Because I need something more in the computery vein,

Don't wanna have a HiFi and need to save up again...

Ooo-hoo!

Dell, Fuck you!

You-Do!

Need to learn to manufacture quality computers!

Ooooooooh!

(la la la)

Oooooooo-oooh!

(la la la)

I's got the laptop, snaptop, shut-your-traptop, absolutely crap-top blues!

(yeah.)

The last few days have been, quite frankly, shit.
Medicating with ridiculous dubstep music, loudspeakers and salt & vinegar crisps. I am what they call "hardcore".

Also brazenly handing in an Ethics essay late. Rebel.

Remember, Remember...

What a brilliant weekend.

On Friday were the annual fireworks at the Compass. For a few months beforehand the pub had a big jar on the bar for donations towards the fund, and the amount people were giving was amazing - there were more than a few notes in there - so, naturally, the display itself was excellent. Anna came along, which made it the best kind of ridiculous as we showed the village how loudly we could 'ooh' and 'ahhh' at even the tiniest little sparkles.

It was raining the sort of spit that meant you couldn't tell how wet you were until you went somewhere dry, and we faced the dilemma of trying to look into the sky, but being pelted in the eyes with water, leaving us both looking as though we had been crying ourselves into next week. (Thus lending a whole new level of literalism to the Flight of the Conchords: "I'm not crying - it's just been raining on my face...")

Afterwards, and after only one drink each, we came home because the pub was all kinds of crowded (not all of them the good kinds...) and somehow managed to go from philosophical conversation to drugless drug-style raving with improvised moves based on daily activities. We also jammed to a rousing rendition of the Joseph Megamix. I'm not sure I have ever laughed so much in my life; I headbutted a wall.

From the evening THIS plus a great number of ridiculous Facebook messages, including the Subliminal Penis Inclusion (when one attempts to penis include the word penis for male genetalia within sentences as one penis talks, with the aim of confusing the penis hell out of whoever's listening, additionally fun when typing, to draw attention to the penis best places for it to be placed.)

My favourite quote of the evening has to be: "So can you do that, just talk to me and put a little dick in?" Thanks Anna, and yes, yes I can.

***

Very few things epitomise ridiculous so perfectly as yesterday morning. There are days when one wakes up, full of the headaches of oversleeping and with all the honest intentions of ploughing out many and numerous Nobel Prize-winning essays and annotations of art work, only to have the opportunity snatched away from you on the cusp of personal fulfillment. Yesterday - Oh deplorable bastardery! - was one of those days.

Having woken up and found that I was in something resembling the 'working mood', I was promptly encumbered by the need to do admin. Most of the day was stolen by Santander's phone line and WH Smith's Customer Enquiry Services. If I ever get put on hold again, memories of yesterday will flood back to me, and the assistant will find me, when I am put through, weeping into my phone book.

Not a single sentence was written that morning, and the rest of the day was given over to watching Coupling and getting ready for the evening...

***

The evening. There was a bonfire the size of my house, a house the size of twelve of my houses, and a cabin with its own bar, a projector and a bloody sauna. But let me explain...

I met this chap Paul at the pub and, not knowing that he was practically God on the residential scale, greeted him with cheer and publy chatter while I was there. It later transpired that he had invited us out to his own bonfire party, which was held at his house - a gargantuan PALACE at the edge of the village. From personal observation, this dear chap Paul was not exactly the sort you would peg down as having a house the size of Toulouse.

So, when we arrived, I spent a few moments attempting to get my head around the luxury of the somehow Upper-Middleclasses (Experience, Anna! Closer already!) and then bumped into a couple of people that we knew, and all was fine and gosh darned dandy. Now, I had told my parents expressly that last night was for socialising, and I expected to see them both talk to at least ONE stranger at some point. (I have installed myself as something of a Relationship Manager, as per IT Crowd, for my parentfolk, who are simply some of the least socially adventurous people I have ever met. Our house is a fort, so are their social preferences.)

So, there were many schnapps and satay things and general noms, but these all came after the excitement that was the bonfire. I haven't ever been to a bonfire where there was an actual Guy - I had passed these off as a slightly violent and human-sacrificial tradition that people these days could generally not be bothered with - but there was one, and he was magnificent. His death was like something out of the Wicker Man. If he wasn't already an unconscious pile of stuffed fabric through smoke inhalation, there are no worries that the fire didn't burn him to a cinder. Often when I talk about fire, I am simply getting a little bit excited about matches and the mutant candle I ruin play with in my bedroom, but this was something else entirely. The fireworks, too, were spectacular!

Later in the evening, somebody broke out the guitar hero and singstar. First off, I cannot begin to play guitar (or even the easy level of bass) without getting very frustrated and growling as the song progresses. I can, however, sing to an alright enough standard, so I tried as much as possible to stick to that. It was great fun - the best score, I think, being 99% of Evanescence's Bring Me To Life. Oh so reminiscent, that song. My Padre did a stonking rendition of Tokyo Girl by Deep Purple, and sabotaged my (third) attempt at King Crimson's 21st Century Schizoid Man - I literally rofl'd.

They also made me sing the Barbie part of Aqua's Barbie Girl at least five times. So many times.

We stumbled our way back, quite loudly, at half two, taking revenge for all the times people have unsubtly gone home from the The Compass outside my window.

It is now twenty-to-one, and I think my parents are STILL asleep.

A Sticky Situation, A Victory and a Discovery

Madre was going to park the car somewhere that wasn't the drive. I had not been out of the house today, so I decided "Hey, I'm going to go on a minimal road trip!" Only problem? I'd just got out the bath, and was wandering about in my bath robe, slightly soggy.

So, I looked out of the gate - the coast was clear and so I pegged it to the car. It soon transpired that, for whatever reason, Milton Malsor is THE PLACE TO PARK tonight, and there were no good places on our road. So we drove around the block which was all well and good until we found a place just around the corner from the house.

Sod's Law is a bastard indeed. At some point between my getting into the car and us parking, a congregated MASS of Trick or Treaters and their parentfolk had gathered outside my house and were talking to the people across the road. So, naturally I hid behind the wall and hissed at my madre to remain equally out of sight. What does she do? Does she take up the opportunity of some impromptu espionage? Never fear! She marches out, brazen as anything and says hello to them, leaving me no choice but to make swiftly for the house. As decoys go, it was nothing less than disastrous.

I think I managed to pull off the bright-red-bath-robe ghost look quite well, all things considered.

Thank Moses for Halloween - the only night you can safely be a prat without facing life-long harassment from the neighbours.

***

In other news, my padre won the Mensa Scrabble Championships for the first time today! He has entered the tournament for the past few years and always came second, so I'm really proud, even if he did do it by playing words without knowing their definitions...

Well done, Daddio!

***

Also watched Walk The Line today and loved it a little too much - it seems that Joaquin is meant to be pronounced wah-keen, though that makes kein sense whatsoever - and it has caused me to download a fairly absurd amount of Johnny Cash music. :)

"Cocker was involved in an incident in which he had to fight a bear."

I have had an increasing urge over the past few hours to share with you my love for this man, right here! This (as though anyone couldn't know!) is Jarvis Cocker, who is a long-term love of mine. Why, you ask? Well, to begin with, he has a voice which could melt polar icecaps - it is deep and resonant and lovely. He was also in a fabulous band called Pulp, which I love very much. You're most likely to know their song Common People, which is played tout le temps, tout les places!

Additionally, he appeared (and made worth enduring) the Harry Potter & The Goblet of Fire film as Kirley Duke of the Weird Sisters, and is who I am listening to right now on his radio programme The Sunday Service on Radio 6. I would also like to point out that he is very lovely, and makes me laugh at his silly humour, and is also quite humble, compared to many radio presenting folk. Though he did do a little raunchy introduction to a song when my mother was in the room which, while I am not complaining, was slightly awkward considering.

Also, if I remember rightly, he is a master of crazy dance moves. :D Also, he wears very nineties glasses, and has done since long before David Perham decided to bastardise them.

My only critique is that he now has a beard, which he definitely needs to get rid of. Definitely, definitely.

Have some more pictures of Him:

Here he is back in the nineties with Pulp. :)

And here he decided to dye his eyebrows and beard blue. As y'do...

Finally, when he was touring *in the nineties* he walked into a bear. I'll let him tell you the story...

"I turned a corner and there he was, just staring at me. I knew right then what was going to happen, that it was just me and him, mano y bearo. So I grabbed a gazebo pole from the ground and managed to halt his beary advances by swiping at his face. When he took a few steps back I ran to the bus."

And there you have it. Jarvis is a bear-defeating, pop-singing, sexy-talking, rather amusing chap, who is (as they all seem to be) old enough to be my padre...