Posts (page 2)
The guy who is supposed to move into my room when I move out was due to come and look at it yesterday, but he texted to tell me it was too cold to walk over, and would I like to come and join him in the pub instead? This seemed like a good idea, so my flatmate and I set off into town. On the walk there, it transpired he was wearing two pairs of jeans. I might have never known this, had he not gotten into a minor spot of bother due to buttoning the... er... buttons of one pair into the buttonholes of the other. That is the most times I will ever write 'buttons' in one sentence.
The pub was nice and warm, and we all perched at the end of the bar. My potential replacement started talking about the fact that he usually remembered being born nowadays, which started happening in about his fourth life. Maybe it was his fifth. I can't remember. Anyway, he continued to tell us that it was better if a few years passed between death and birth, as the soul has some kind of buffer zone to rest for a bit, before you're born again. He said it was far too disorientating to be in the trenches one minute, getting shot in the face, and then instantly popping out of another vagina. Although I suspect he was joking, I don't really know him well enough to be sure. Either way, this conversation sprang back to mind today when I heard one lady of two who were huddled around a pushchair saying "He always frowns like an old man!", and it made me smile.
At two o'clock this afternoon, I went to sign contracts for my new flat. The landlord asked me for three referees - one from my work, one previous landlord, and another personal one. Once he'd checked me out, he'd hand over the keys and I could start moving stuff in. However, it came to light quite quickly that I might not get a chance to meet with him before he goes away for Christmas. So he suggested that he call my referees there and then, so he could hand them over straight away. All this rather caught me on the hop. I gave him three names and numbers, and he went into another room to call them.
While he was away, I got to thinking. For my personal referee, I could have chosen a GP, an accountant, a barrister, a surgeon... But for some reason I'd chosen the landlord of the pub I worked in for about six months this year. It occurred to me that he might well claim I was some kind of sex criminal, just because it would amuse him to do so.
But this was not quite as dumb a choice as my tenancy referee. I had thought 'Well, I've lived in my current flat for less than six months... So I'll give him the number of my previous landlord'. The landlord of The House Of Rock. For those who don't already know, this is a house that I lived in that was scheduled to be demolished when we moved out. The landlord had told me that we could decorate how we wished, as the house would be levelled afterwards. We took him at his word. On my birthday last year, four grown men with marker pens wrote and drew all over the house - both outside and in. Shortly before we were due to move out of the house, the landlord told me that actually he'd be getting new tenants in after us. *Gulp*! You should have seen his face fall when he came around for the final inspection. But he was bound, as he'd told us we could decorate "how we wished". We got back the whole deposit.
I chose him as we had a pretty good relationship, and I even made him a website for his company after we moved out. This recent history had rather obscured the previous stuff when I cited him as a reference. Now that my prospective landlord was on the phone to him in the next room, it occurred to me wot he might say. "Oh yes, [subideal] is a splendid chap. There was - of course - the issue of the whale, and sperm with faces painted on the lino in the kitchen. And the six-foot cock drawn in marker pen on his bedroom wall... But other than that, he was the ideal tenant."
The three calls were made in about as many minutes, but it seemed longer somehow. I had clearly not thought this through.
My prospective landlord re-emerged, and handed me my new keys. The next phase begins.
In two weeks, I shall be moving house for the tenth time since I began blogging (on 20Sux anyways) back in October 2003. Truly I am the littlest hobo (albeit a rather big one). As such, there are a few thousand tasks I need to perform in an already busy season. To wit, a subideal time to be sitting down and telling three people on the InterMcWeb wot I've been doing with my life. Therefore, paradoxically, the ideal time to do it.
I'll crack on, shall I?
- Most recently, I have been down to William Tell's, to place a bet. It is a depressing place, most of all on a Saturday. Two dozen proud fathers mill about, taking pot-shots at the apple which will grant them the freedom they so desire. Except they usually misfire, and end up crossbowing their sons repeatedly in the face. It is but a hollow victory if you hit the apple from atop the pulpy mass that used to be your child, yet still they fire. Have I milked the hope versus broken spirit gambling metaphor yet? Most likely.
So anyway, I went to place a bet on Malcolm Middleton being Christmas number one. Except that I dearly hope he doesn't achieve this accolade. Why? Because I've been meaning to place this bet for just over a month, but kept forgetting to do it. Back then, the odds were a thousand to one. Today, they are sixteen to one. My flatmate, who is young enough to be as yet unbroken by cynicism, pointed out that at least if I did win the bet, then I'd collect enough for a night out to commiserate not having won thousands. I shall miss living with him. - Speaking of Malcolm Middleton, as we were, I went to 'The Nightmare Before Christmas' ATP down in Minehead last weekend. I do not have a huge amount to add to Foxy's account, except that my old flatmate and I found ourselves sitting on a table next to Mr Arab Strap's on the Friday night. I considered introducing myself. But I don't know how he would have felt about some saucer-eyed yeti mischievously ruffling his hair. So it's probably a good thing I didn't.
- I had a date last week. Except that I made the classic Lemonsquash error of telling everybody about it. The girls of the marketing team where I work in particular were worked up into more of a frenzy about it than I was. They made a lot of effort in imparting tips on what to do on my date, how to get my flat to look, and how I should smell. I was asked what I'd do if I got her back to my room. "Er... I don't know," said I; "It's been such a long time, I doubt if I'll remember what to do. I almost will it not to happen." "You'll probably come before you enter her," one young 'lady' helpfully ventured; "You'll have to knock one out before you go on the date." Quite.
And what did happen on the date? Well, certainly not that. - Very soon Nooma will be returning from spending a year in South America. She has been working for a charity, which is a foundation to educate under-privileged children in Ecuador. However, the foundation is in dire straits, and will be closed down if it doesn't raise some green sharpish. So she has asked me to write and co-host a pub quiz with her back at The Edge Of The World sometime between Christmas and New Year, in order to try and raise this sum. Naturally I thought of those money-grabbing little urchins selling the foundation's furniture and textbooks in order to spend all the proceeds on drugs, and said no. I hate children. Just kidding. We are going to save the world!
- I saw one of the funniest fights I have ever seen a little while ago, on a city centre bridge at around midnight. It involved two main agitators who clearly weren't used to rumble situations, each of whom had a pocket of friends embarrassedly trying not to get too involved. People seemed to fall over very easily, despite very few (and almost professionally inexpert) punches being thrown. The best bit was when one guy spent so long windmilling his arm (no, really) that he evidently lost focus, and when he decided to release the 'might', he ended up punching one of his own friends in the jaw instead. Finally one of the protagonists decided to bravely end the fight by running away slightly girlishly down the street, as fast as he could.
There's probably a bunch more stuff of mild interest, but I guess I'd better start packing. Or maybe have a nap. We'll see wot happens.
I learned something about myself this weekend, via a good friend who can actually remember our conversation:
"What I really want in my ideal woman is for her to be someone who could - potentially - kill my parents."
I have no idea wot my parents have done to deserve this.
Hello. I'm subideal. I used to blog here, some time ago. Anyway, hi! *Waves*
So I started this new job, and I told the landlord of the pub I was working at previously that he shouldn't be shy about calling me if he was stuck for staff. I couldn't guarantee that I'd always agree, but I'd certainly try and help out if he found himself in the shit.
I found myself working there on only the second evening since starting the new nine-to-five. Yeah, I know, I know. But I've been pretty good at declining since. Anyway, it was a Tuesday evening, so I figured it would be dead, and I could just read a book at the end of the bar.
I have befriended a Polish girl who used to work in the newsagent next-door. She seems to have moved to the UK seeking Eldorado, and has met with the type of disillusion endemic in such a quest. I empathise with this. Plus, I'd be lying if I said that I don't have something of a soft spot for her. She is just the cutest thing!
She crossed my mind, and I decided to text her to see how she was getting on. This was unnecessary, as she came into the pub within a minute of the thought. I have tremendous power! Anyway, she propped up the bar, we chatted, and she ended up hanging around for about three hours.
When she first came in, The Clodfather was sitting at his usual table (for those not already acquainted with The Clodfather, part one can be found here, and part two here; that is, assuming anybody's actually reading this). He spoke loudly at us both a couple of times, as he is accustomed to doing to anybody prepared to listen - or even if they aren't, come to mention it. Then he left, to go and play skittles (he has modestly told me that he is the best skittler in the area). After he'd gone, Polish Cutie scowled, and announced that she didn't like him. I told her that she wasn't alone in this. She went on to tell me how he'd been really shitty to her and her (then) boyfriend in the shop once, for no good reason. And that he had an unfriendly, gnarled bulldog look about him. This is fair comment.
He returned as she was about to leave. "You're still here then? Fair play," he said to her. He then went on to ask her if she was any good at gardening, as she could come and work for him. He wittered on about having employed a fully ripped bloke to work for him, and that he had been useless, and she was bound to be miles better. The whole time Polish Cutie said nothing, avoided eye contact with him, and looked coolly at me instead. The Clodfather continued talking. He's not very good at reading the signs.
He then embarked on his favourite conversational tack - self-flattery.
"Women are always surprised when they learn how old I am. They says 'You're not 62, [Clodfather]? My God! You look good for your age,' they says. I says 'I am,' I says. 62 years old. What do you think? You think I look good for my age, love?"
For the first time she turned to look at him, and her look withered every plant in the city. "Honestly?" she countered. I heard The Clodfather's heart snap in half. He was speechless. She bid me good night, and left. I turned away from The Clodfather and pretended to clean up the back of the bar, as I didn't want him to see the smile that had swept across my face. I'm sure that it was so big that it exceeded the edges of my cheeks.
"Did you hear that? Can you believe it?"
"I know [Clodfather]. Some people, eh?"
"God, you try to be nice..."
"I know," I said. There was no point in trying to explain the difference between being nice and trying to get someone to flatter your vanity to him. He wouldn't understand.
"Where's she from?"
"She's Polish," I answered, still not facing him.
"I knew she'd be from somewhere like that. You can tell from that look. They're mean-spirited."
I also knew that there was no point in trying to explain the difference between being mean-spirited and not putting up with a load of shit to him, so I reached for some empties, and disappeared into the kitchen to hide. I was still beaming. There is nothing quite like watching a small, young lady with fairly elementary English making a fool of a large, seasoned, knuckleheaded native to really make your month.
Why one shouldn't watch 'Beverly Hills Cop' the night before starting a new job...
[8.50am. Subideal is walking down a city street on the way to work]
Radio Squash : Do do-do do-do, do doo-do dew-doo!
Subideal : Sshh!
Radio Squash : The heat is on...
Subideal : I said 'Sshh!'
Radio Squash : It's on the street...
Subideal : Would you put a sock in it right now?
[9.20am. Subideal is being shown around by the HR lady]
HR Lady : The drinks machines are subsidised, so the coffee costs just 5p.
Radio Squash : O-hew-oh-ooohh, O-hew-oh-ooohh...
Subideal : Oh, that's good.
Radio Squash : Caught up in the action...
HR Lady : But there's no sink in the kitchen I'm afraid.
Subideal : Oh?
Radio Squash : I've been looking out for you...
[10.10am. Subideal is filling out a form in the People Services department]
Subideal : I'm sorry, but there's no tick box for my department.
Radio Squash : Tell me can you feel it?...
People Services Lady : Yes, sorry - it's an old form. Just write it in the space underneath.
Radio Squash : Tell me can you feel it?...
Subideal : Ok.
People Services Lady : Also, could I ask you to bring in a photocopy of your passport tomorrow? Just as we need proof of your eligibility to work in the UK.
Radio Squash : Tell me can you feel it?...
Subideal : Actually, I have my passport on me now.
Radio Squash : THE HEAT IS ON!
[10pm. Subideal is on the phone to Surf-Film-Maker Chap]
Surf-Film-Maker Chap : Ha! That's the way to make friends.
Subideal : It was internalised. I didn't *actually* sing it every time anyone said something to me.
[Pause]
Subideal : Although tomorrow I will.
The heat is...
[boom]
[boom]
[boom]
[boom]
ON!
Yes, you!
God's gonna cut you down!
Now, I seldom watch TV. But I did watch a bit last night. I spoilt all of 'Life On Mars' for myself by watching the last episode first. And later on BBC4, there were a bunch of nature programmes about the Galapagos islands. The second was entitled 'Lonesome George and The Battle For The Galapagos'. As the Beeb has it : 'Lonesome George is the last remaining Pinta Island giant tortoise and has become an icon of the battle to protect Galapagos wildlife'. This lumbering lovable creature is a case study for an ecosystem ravaged by man. Although protected, he still gets death threats from angry fishermen, pissed off with limitations more recently imposed on fishing. Boo them!
Two lady tortoises of the nearest living species were introduced in an attempt to carry on the bloodline; but, rather than get jiggy with them, George merely became more covetous of his food. This apparently had led to speculation that he was asexual. "Some have even claimed that he might be gay," the narrator told us. Not that there's anything wrong with being gay, obv - but leave the poor codger alone! Perhaps he just doesn't fancy them. It seems churlish to bring this dignified old creature's sexuality into question.
But absolutely nothing could have prepared me for wot happened next. What can best be described as a hooker (sorry - respectable scientist with loads of cleavage) was brought in to whack George off. *WHAT THE FUCK?* Now, I can understand that if George doesn't fancy hopping on of his own accord, then artificial insemination is the next natural step. But one line of narrative, such as "And attempts at artificial insemination have thus far yielded no fruit", would have been enough. Instead, the whole tone of the programme was lowered by painting out this whole process as romantic. They even played sexy music! Argh! And the masturbatrix spoke in a breathy tone of their time spent together; but - sadly - it was a love that wasn't meant to be. Dude! You're joy-wrenching an eighty-year-old tortoise on camera! He's an old giffer, not a porn star.
I had found the programme enjoyable and informative up until that point. But then it was just incredibly badly handled.
Sorry.
...with Surf-Film-Maker Chap just now. He has recently started his own business, and is running a water activities and retail shop on the beach :
Surf-Film-Maker Chap : So when are you down here next?
Subideal : Next week, I expect. I'm gonna take as much of the week off as I can. I can't be bothered to work anymore.
Surf-Film-Maker Chap : I don't blame you.
Subideal : It should be alright. One of the guys I work with wants to stack as many hours up as he can before he goes back to college; so I might just unload on him.
[pause]
I mean hours, obviously.
Surf-Film-Maker Chap : Not spunky jizz?
[another pause]
Subideal : Have you got any customers at the moment?
Surf-Film-Maker Chap : Yeah, a couple. They've gone pretty quiet.
Working in a city centre pub gets you down after a while. Every time I find myself mopping the floor or polishing brass drip-trays, I think the same thing - 'Why am I still doing this at age thirty? There was a time when life was so much better than this. When exactly was it that I fell off the map?'
But it is more than just the menial tasks. The volume of lost souls that drift into and out of the pubs in which I work is staggering. When I worked at The Ship Of Fools, you'd get the occasional lost soul - but in the main, you got chirpy holiday-makers, and locals of a quiet seaside village twinned with some hamlet in Utopia. The city, though, is something else. There are hundreds of them. I don't really know where to start. I saw who I imagined to be the loneliest guy in the world. He was a tubby, bald chap with really thick specs, an open white shirt and grey suit with the trousers tucked particularly high; and was wearing something that looked like a medallion if I remember rightly. He ordered a pint of Strongbow, took it to his table, and sat looking at the floor. I cannot put into words what it was about this guy that gave me a rush of sadness so overwhelming that I had to repeatedly pat my upper chest to stop myself from bursting into tears. There was just something about him. And I am usually a stolid and emotionless fuck. I hoped more than anything that he had someone waiting for him at home, or a friend somewhere to talk to.
Then there was a woman who came in, who told me that her brother had just walked into the river on Wednesday afternoon the week before. She was trying to piece together the last days of his life, and knew that he enjoyed drinking at this pub. In all likelihood, it was the last place he'd been before finally giving up hope. I didn't charge her for her drink (I didn't really know what else to do). She asked me if I'd known him. I told her I hadn't; but then, I only worked at this pub once every so often. I told her I'd fetch the landlady. The landlady began talking to this woman, and it became quickly apparent that she had no idea who the woman was talking about either. "Oh... Maybe I should have brought in some photos of him," she said flatly, shaking her head.
And then there's the folk who for some reason feel compelled to impart seriously dodgy opinions to me almost every other day, and expect me to agree with them (I say 'opinion' - what I mean, of course, is the blackened lather of their brainwashing). Yes, of course I think that homeless people should get their act together, and go get a fucking job. And it's a different person who'll spout this poison each time. Here's a brief (verbatim) conversation that I steered away from very shortly afterwards :
Cross-Eyed Bloke : And those immigrants - we should kick them all out too.
subideal : Ah, but some of them are just so *pretty*! [I was trying to lighten the tone]
Cross-Eyed Bloke : Yeah. But others are just so lazy.
subideal : Well, even if that's so, I'm sure as many native Brits are as lazy.
Cross-Eyed Tool : That's only because they haven't got the jobs, because of the immigrants...
Eh?
It's got to the stage where I find myself pacing back and forward, thinking 'I hate this. Why the fuck am I here?' on a loop.
Even the perks are illusory. One pub won two tickets for Reading Festival, after they'd sold more premium spirits than any of the brewery's other managed houses in the city. I was offered a ticket. "But that's a match day weekend. Are you sure you can spare the staff?" I asked the landlord. "Look, you've helped me out loads of times with little or no notice. You and [another staff member] have shown more dedication than all the other staff - even the ones who supposedly want to do this as a career. This is my way of saying 'thank you'." Which was a lovely gesture; but one which the landlord had to regretfully retract a couple of days later, as the weekend really will be an all hands on deck weekend. Nine Inch Nails! The Shins! Dinosaur Jr! Not for me!
But wheels have a habit of taking an upward turn. This morning I was offered a new full-time job. A job writing copy. Which I am thrilled about. In a weird way, I do love my pubs; but I cannot tell you how pleased I am to be able to escape from them.
Hey there,
It occurs to me that I've not been saying much recently. And that is set to continue. So here's some music to listen to instead. Waterloo are double-lush. Simple tunes and lilting harmonies are the way forward. I wish them success and happiness. Here's a song :
And their website is at www.waterloomusic.net.
That's all. Bye!
