Old times

I was in my local the other night. The Seven Bells. Not a lot happens in my local.

The last interesting thing that I can remember was the smashed up Ferrari, and that was years ago. Everyone loved that one. It was a beautiful car, bright red. Someone had driven it into the wall in front of the library opposite the pub. Whoever it was had just left it there. Part of the wall had fallen down. The front side of the car had been crushed and the side all scratched up. There was a crowd of people there for hours. Mostly guys, laughing and shaking their heads. It was during the summer so people kept going into the pub to get another beer and then came out again to join the crowd.

A guy along the bar was telling the story again the other night. His mates knew it already of course. It's a kind of legend in our pub.

That's about it really. There used to be a dart board. We had some good little competitions with that. Then they refurbed the pub and put in wooden flooring and high tables with stools. They introduced lots of new wines and things but everyone just kept on drinking Stella.

So anyway, it was Friday night and I was there with Jon and Doug. We didn't talk much. Jon was tapping away on his mobile and Doug just looked around the pub. Particularly over at one table of people who were actually talking and having fun. I started thinking how great it was when we were younger and couldn't get in the pub. We usually managed to get some booze and then walked the streets or went off to sit in the park instead. There was adventure in that.


'Let's get some tins and go up the park' I said and waited for a response.

'what?' said Jon without looking up from his mobile.

Doug turned to look at me.

'talking 'bout?' he said.

'Remember when we used to go up the park? and get pissed?' I said 'we had a laugh didn't we?'

'talking bout?' he said and took a swig of his pint.

'You go up the park' Jon said, still looking down at his mobile.


So I did.

I stopped in at the off-licence on the way. I wasn't quite the same as before. I was considered to look the oldest then. I'd had a premature spurt of chin-hair when I was about fourteen so it was always me who went in to buy the drinks. It was quite a sense of achievement to get away with it. All my mates would cheer as I came out. Great times. Now it was too easy of course. I know the guy who works there anyway, he was a couple of years below me at school.

I came out carrying a four-pack in a plastic bag and walked off in the direction of the park. I decided to open a can for the route. The park is a couple of streets away. Quiet suburban streets lined with street lamps. I remembered that before the lamps used to go fuzzy and get big haloes around them. Then when you squinted the light shot out like daggers towards your eyes. I'd probably have to get though this four-pack before that happens, I thought. Perhaps I should have bought more.

I went back and bought a half bottle of vodka as well. Might as well do it properly.


I'd already finished off the first can when I arrived at the park. The park was pretty empty naturally. I went through the gate and started to climb the hill over to the left. I remembered that we used to sit up top where you could look down on the surrounding streets.

I got to the top and sat down on the grass, already on my second can of beer.
It wasn't a great view actually. I could see a few empty back gardens and a couple of rows of street lamps. No fuzz yet. There were a few trees around. One or two closer to the road were nicely lit from the street.

I opened the half bottle of vodka and started pouring it into my beer.

When we used to come here even smoking seemed exciting. Cigs tasted strong and rebellious. I pulled out my cigarette packet and the look of it in the dark did remind me a bit of the old days. The plastic wrapping just caught the light a bit. I took one out and lit it. Nothing

I kept on sitting there for a while and then I noticed a group of five kids walking across the bottom of the hill. They seemed to be passing a bottle back and forth and I could see one or two cigarette tips glowing. They stopped at one of the picnic tables and climbed up to sit on it.

If this was going to be anything more than nostalgia then I needed a gang of mates to drink with. They probably weren't that much younger than me anyway.

It didn't seem like a very good idea, but then, after watching them and opening my third can of beer, I thought fuck it.

I still had at least half the bottle of vodka and as I walked down the hill towards them I got it out ready. That should sweeten the deal I thought.

They had evidently noticed me coming towards them because, even thought it was dark, I could see that they had stopped talking and were all looking my way.

'Alright lads' I called out. I noticed around the same time that the street lights behind them had started to get fuzzy.

As I got closer a couple of them actually got up and looked like they were getting ready to run off.

'Hold on' I said, 'I've got some vodka here'

As I held up my vodka bottle a can of beer flew past me and a light spray of beer splashed on my jacket.

'fuck off' one shouted and they all ran off. I could hear them laughing as they approached the gate and left the park.

I climbed onto the picnic table and opened my last can of beer.

'ah the good old days' I said aloud.

I lay down on the table and looked up into the branches of the trees for a while. Everything was turning quite a bit and there was a nice breeze on my ears.

_

I managed to get back down the Seven Bells to have one more with Jon and Doug. It was another interesting adventure. Nice.

Walkabout

Being unemployed does get repetitive sometimes. I get up around lunchtime. Doss about on the sofa for a while. Sometimes I walk up the highstreet, but there's not really much I want to buy. A few days ago however I went into the Cancer Shop to have a look. They normally have a good selection of VHS tapes at 50p each.

I walked over to the corner where the video shelf was, tilted my head and scanned through them. Not a lot today. Then I noticed a book on the next shelf along. On the cover was a picture of a man with a moustache who looked like he'd put his trousers on his head and wrapped the legs around his neck. He also appeared to be wearing a huge fur ruff.

'My Life as an Explorer' was written underneath and the authors name.

'Sven Hedin' I said as I picked it up. Nice name.

I looked on the first page and 75p was very neatly written in pencil in the top right corner. I flipped through a bit and there were even some drawings.

'Done' I said and went to pay. I dropped the 25p change into the 'karma box' and felt thoroughly pleased with myself.

When I got home I made some toast and then sat back on the sofa with the book. I stayed that way all afternoon, and then into the evening. It was great. This guy had been all over. Adventuring through the mountains, discovering lost cities, you name it.

I carried on reading well into the night. I got a text from Jon asking if I wanted to come over for a smoke and some playstation but I didn't even reply.

I'd just been reading a bit where he was travelling through the desert and all his companions had died of thirst but he carried on and on, following signs of life until he could barely walk and his pulse had all but stopped, and then suddenly found a lake and was saved. Man.

-

That night I dreamt that I was in the desert and went on an amazing adventure.

-

When I woke up I was pretty disappointed to be back in my bedroom I can tell you. Just like every morning, the sun was already high in the sky and most people had been at work for hours.

Then I started thinking. Where can I go to experience the solitude of the desert?

After a while I remembered the old shopping centre. It had been the best thing ever in it's day. Everyone went there. After a few years people started saying that it was sinking, then before we knew what happened it had closed for good. It was sinking apparently. It was build on marshland. I'd hate to be that red-faced architect! Anyway, I used to go out there to doss about with my mates when I was younger. There is a massive car park in front of it. It's endless. It's completely empty now of course. Even the shopping centre was destroyed a few years ago. Perfect.

I took the bus up there and even managed to avoid paying by jumping though the back doors. That'll be the good karma coming back at me. When I got there I stepped off the bus and walked along the fence to the main gates. Just next to them there is a big hole in the fence and it's easy to climb through. I walked past the empty car park attendant's booth. The last vestige of civilisation. From then on it was just me and the car park.

It was a sunny day. That was good. The tarmac was warm. The whole car park was criss-crossed with grids of faded white lines and occasional lamp posts. It was dusted with broken glass and odd bits of metal. Nothing could grow here.

I wandered on. I was already starting to feel thirsty.

I noticed that over to the left of the car park, way in the distance, there was a long chain of semi-detached houses.

I kept on walking, with my feet patting the dusty tarmac.

After a while I felt like sitting down and started looking out for a good spot. Over to my right I saw a wooden crate lying on the floor next to a lamp post. I walked over and sat down. The lamp post was huge and had multiple lamps pointing out in different directions.

I sat and listened to the silence. Actually, at first I could hear a car alarm going off somewhere near the road, but then it stopped and I was left with only the sound of the wind blowing the dust around.

Some other bits of rubbish were wafting about as well.

At one point an empty crisp packet drifted past me, its ripped side open like a sail.

I sat there for quite a while. 20 minutes I suppose. Sven Hedin spent months and months exploring the desert. I imagine after a while the serenity of it sinks into you, just as the sand gets into the roots of your hair. That's when it becomes a spiritual place I guess.

I didn't really get it myself though. To be honest I'd spent half of that time writing texts to Jon and Doug to see if they wanted a smoke later. It was always good to get out a bit anyway wasn't it.

What an advneture. Splendid.

Saturday Night

The other day Jon and me went down to our local Blockbuster Video on the highstreet. Seeing as it was Saturday night we felt we should do something. Once inside we noticed that they'd changed everything around. The walls were still tiled with hundreds of films. Mosty the same films. 50 copies of each. The shelves however, had been reorganised.

Jon, after walking about lost for two minutes, asked the sales assistant the only question on his mind-

'Where are the kung fu movies?'

'over there' she said pointing, 'in the World section.'

It seems they had taken the previous Martial Arts section, a sizable collection, and tossed in the 5 or so DVDs from the World shelf and then re-branded it World Cinema.

Jon went straight over but I idled about a bit in the aisles. I was getting a bit sick of kung fu movies. Of any movies. I passed the adult section, which as usual consisted of a handful of lame soft porn films. Looking at all the girls on the covers however I became more and more agitated. 'Saturday night' I mumbled to myself.

When I got to Jon he handed me one called 'The Art of Killing' and asked me what I thought.

'Fuck it' I said, 'let's go out'

Jon looked at me and said 'what?'

'Let's go up Tiki's' I said.

_

Tiki's is by far the shittest nightclub we know. All mirrored walls, technicolour carpets and wedding reception music.

We work on the logic however that the shitter the club, the more chance of pulling.

I'd given Doug a call as well. He was going to be my other wingman. He met us outside in the queue.


We walked in and went straight to the bar. After the first pint the conversation had already dried up and we just stood near the bar facing the dancefloor. Doug got another round in and we quietly sipped our beers while all around us people shouted and laughed.

We weren't exactly making waves.

'Dance?' I shouted in Doug's ear. He made a face and shook his head.

I looked over the dancefloor. Loads of girls, swaying and laughing. I watched one guy singing along with the music, his big smiley face skywards and his arms beating the air. A group of girls next to him whooped and cheered.

'That's how it's done' I thought.

I looked at Doug. Short and stocky. Fat stocky, with his gold watch and work trousers. He tries to compensate for his generic face with expensive shirts and huge quantities of hair gel. On my other flank was Jon. Jon had smoked so much weed that he looked like any kind of physical action was beyond him. His facial features remained slack like his body.

We just carried on standing there with the carpet buzzing under our feet. That's when I decided to do it. I was going to hit the dancefloor and act like I was having the best time of my life. After all this little experiment could really pay off I thought.

'I'm going' I shouted.

'go on then' said Jon. Doug shook his head.

I walked over to the dancefloor and found a good spot right in the middle. I started swaying and looking about. Nobody was paying me much attention. Tried to liven it up a bit but it was hard to just switch it on like that. I remembered to smile. 'Got to turn this around' I said to myself. Then suddenly the overhead smoke machine hissed out a solid stream of dry-ice onto the middle of the dancefloor.

'this is it!' I thought and when I came out of that smoke cloud I was hopping about, waving my arms in the air. People were paying attention now. I had an almighty grin on my face and then I closed my eyes and started nodding my head, grooving to the music. Somebody whooped.

Next thing I saw were girls. Laughing. Dancing. Looking at me.

The DJ dropped another rotten old 80s disco track and I threw both hands up and let out long 'YEAAAHH'

More looks. On a roll. Suddenly a girl appeared before me laughing with an expression that said 'incredulously cool'. That's right. She put in some moves and I pulled out the jazz hands. She went off laughing to her mates. Too hot to handle.

I looked over to Jon and Doug and they had clearly spotted the girls around me because they were busy pushing through the crowds to get on the dancefloor.

I started bringing my knees up. Really going for it. People even formed a cirlce and started clapping.

'What a success' I said to myself.

Yes indeed, this one was surely a successful adventure.

Virtuoso

I rarely give money to buskers. I see them all the time. They get on the trains, usually with a little karaoke box and whatever instrument. Then out comes the hat. I've become quite skilled at blanking them actually. I just stare dead ahead like I'm deep in thought, even if they address me directly.

I take the commuter train occasionally, but not for work. That's because yours truly, Greg Grendle, doesn't have a job.

For me to even acknowledge buskers, they have to be very good or very shit. I once saw a guy who sang so bad and looked so miserable, it just cracked me up. There's a value in that so I gave him a coin.

I thought I'd give busking a try. Surely being a shit busker would require very little effort.

I have a mate that plays the violin. Sort of a mate anyway, his name's Steve. He drinks at my local. I gave him a call and he said to stop by. He lives on an estate up the road. Big old block with small windows and a concrete garden in front.

He opened the door and lead me through a narrow corridor to his room. Very neat and tidy. There was some classical music playing. The violin lay ready on the bed with its bow. He picked it up and handed it to me. Strange looking thing really. He said I could borrow it for a couple of weeks but if I damaged it he would, his words- 'smash my fucking face in.'

He wasn't joking. Steve might like a bit of classical but he's a scary bastard. Double hard and dead serious. I tried to lighten him up once with a bit of banter in the pub. I said that of all the instruments in an orchestra, the violin was easily the gayest. He didn't laugh but just stared at me. Then his mouth tightened and he went red, still staring. I knew he was pissed off so I just looked down at my pint. I could feel him staring at me.

Anyway, I pressed the violin into my neck and pushed my chin down on it. It looks quite big like that. I pulled the bow across the strings and the awful sound was instantly mirrored by Steve's face. I stopped.

He didn't have a spare case so I carried it in my hands as I left his flat. I came out of the lift and crossed the little garden. A bunch of kids was hanging out by the gate and as I approached one of them called out 'hello beethoven!' at which I gave them an ironic smile. Not so bad this estate I thought, until I got closer and one of them said 'giz a tune then cunt' and then as I walked off towards the gate the others began shouting obscenities at me. Cretins.

Once at home I was able to get some serious practice in. I never had music lessons as a kid but I think I've got a pretty good ear. It was nearly Christmas so I tried to figure out Silent Night. It actually took quite some time to figure out the beginning, so I didn't bother with the main part. I figured I could get away with just repeating the first bit.

-

I got myself out of bed the next morning and put on some trampish clothes. A woolen jumper, white shell-suit bottoms and a pair of black leather brogues, which were hardened and twisted like an old tree trunk. I didn't have any fingerless gloves, which would've been a nice touch, but a rotten old scarf completed the look nicely. I headed off for the train.

When I got to the platform there were quite a lot of people around even though the rush hour was long over. I stood waiting, violin in hand. I noticed that people on the platform were already moving away from me. The train rolled in. Through each window I saw all the miserable looking passengers, illuminated by the strip lights, hanging on to the greasy poles and overhead straps.

I stepped on to the carriage and found a good spot where there was just enough space for me to play. I put the violin under my chin, placed the bow on the strings and with a long, pitiful face, drew down slowly on the bow to play the first note.

As I did this the doors beep-beeped and then closed. As I stood in the middle of the carriage, already well into the silent night intro, the train jolted forward with all it's weight.

Funny, the one thing I hadn't considered, before this experiment, was, seeing that most musical instruments require two hands to play, how buskers manage to stand up while the train is moving?

I took off. It certainly felt like it anyway. I hit at least three people I think. One lady actually fell down to the floor and another guy into the people behind him.

The violin?

Fell on it. Crushed it with my forearm as I hit the floor.

-

I approached the estate. I had the remains in a plastic carrier bag. I told myself it was better to at least give him back what was left, and besides I didn't have the money to fix it. If that was possible, which honestly, it wasn't. At least he wouldn't think I'd nicked it.

I saw one of the kids hanging by the gates and had an idea. I approached and he turned to look at me. I held up the bag and offered him two quid if he would take it back to Steve.

'two quid, do you think I'm a little fucking kid or something'

He was. I sighed and pulled out a ten pound note.

It was after all better than taking a chance and having my face smashed in. Needless to say I haven't been to my local for a while, but then, this was far more interesting than sitting in the pub. Good work.

Aragorn Love Machine

Just the other day I was hanging out at a Jon's place. Pretty typical really. 3 in the afternoon, curtains drawn and the TV flickering in the smoke. Every now and then we rolled a joint or made some tea.

Jon had just put on a DVD and I thought recognised the guy in the film. He stood tall and straight. Majestically even. He was Muscular. He had long flowing hair and an angular, stubble flecked jaw.

I was sure it was him.

‘that’s whatsisname' I said.

Jon looked at me and said 'what?'

I pointed at the screen.

‘Aragorn, son of Arathorn.’

We watched.

I tried to imagine him with a sword, wearing a cloak and an amulet. I say tried to imagine, because in this particular film he was totally naked and thrusting into the behind of a women whose facial expression flashed between shock and indignation.

We waited, for quite some time, for another shot of his face. When it appeared, snarling, euphoric, we both sat forward.

It wasn't him. But it got me thinking- What must it be like to be famous?

I decided that it was time for a little adventure. It was after all only 3 in the afternoon. I was going to dress up like a disguised superstar and check people's reaction.

Jon dug out a pair of shades. Big black ones, perfect. It was a typically grey afternoon so I'd definitely stand out. Next was a black winter scarf. It was in no way cold outside. Jon was surprisingly good at this actually. It seemed to give him a sense of purpose for a few minutes.

I wrapped the scarf high up around my neck so it covered the lower part of my face. The look was just great. I headed off down to the local shops.

On the way I tried to put on a suspicious, slightly hounded sort of air. I think it was pretty authentic because I noticed plenty of people staring at me as they passed in their cars. One guy even gave me a double toot and called out something that was muffled by his car windows.

The first stop was the newsagents. There was nobody else in there when I walked in apart from the guy behind the counter. A haggard old guy with a 40-a-day face. He fixed a humourless, puzzled stare on me.

'Cold out is it?' he said

I chose to ignore this and picked up a gossip magazine from beside the counter.

'That's all' I said, with what I hoped was an air of celeb authority.

'three quid' he said and held out his hand. I could see that his eyes narrowed like he was trying to see through my shades. That's celeb, I said to myself.

Next up was the bakers.

This time the old lady recognised me immediately as I walked in.

'Everything alright Greg?' she asked

OK, I do know her. Being recognised, however is very celeb so I decided the best thing to do was make a quick exit. Without saying a word I crashed out of the shop and ran off, leaving the door shaking behind me.

I stopped a little up the highstreet and looked around. I wondered if anyone famous would live in a suburb like this. A high street full of pound shops. Crap everywhere. Seemed unlikely.

I decided to go back. Leave it to the pros. I'd get Jon to rewind the DVD, and perhaps make some more tea. Nice.

Squeaking Trolley Lady

Yesterday afternoon, I decided to follow an old lady pulling a squeaking trolley.

I heard her coming as we approached each other on the high street. That baby was loud let me tell you. OK, perhaps I'm exaggerating. I do that. It was however a clearly audible, repetitive, whining squeak. Slow, like the lady.

Her trolley was just perfect. It's going to sound like a really clichéd trolley- two plastic wheels on a metal frame with a blue tartan, upright bag. That's how it was. She pulled it behind her.

What must it be like I thought, to walk about so slowly with this squeak in your ears. Unless she was deaf of course, which admittedly was a possibility.

I suppose the most authentic experiment conditions would have been to find my own squeaking trolley, but, you know. I decided to follow her along the high street and stay as close as possible.

First of all the pace was pretty tricky. I walk fast, and it felt uncomfortable to be moving so slowly. Especially as I was within touching distance of the old lady. Luckily there were shop windows just beside us so I could occasionally look into them, not forgetting of course, to concentrate on the squeak.

We plodded on and then she turned off into a side road. It was a quiet little street and suddenly our proximity seemed a bit strange. She seemed to become more aware of me because her head kept turning to the side a little. I got my mobile out and started fiddling around. There's just nothing like it for those tricky situations. While doing this I sensed her stop, turn around and look at me. I kept my head down and she eventually turned back again and carried on walking. I followed.

We walked a little further and then she caught me off guard. She turned around quickly and we came face to face. Not knowing what to do I decided to pull that chaplinesque move of just looking away like there's nothing happening. OK not really, that's a bit childish. It would have been great though wouldn't it.

I just said excuse me and walked around her. I'd had a good few minutes to feel the experience. Most interesting.

Train food

The other day I saw a fat guy eating on the train.

I love it when you see fat people eating. It just makes sense.

So anyway, there he was, sitting on one of the pull down seats. He was pretty fat. I mean, not massive, but just fat enough to squeeze into a pigeon hole labelled 'glutton'. Rather than, say, 'businessman on the move'. Saying that he didn't look out of place in this suburb.

There was his choice of food as well- Kebab and chips, in a flip-top carton.

The people around him seemed a bit pissed off by the pungent, fat and onions smell, which, lets be honest, can be pretty enticing at times.
The carriage was busy. I was standing up. The lady sitting next to him was definitely ticked off by the smell. The expression 'ticked off' came to mind there because of the way she kept sniffing and scrunching up the side of her face.

I felt like it was time for an adventure, and, I'll be honest, the fat and onions smell had sunk it's hooks into my stomach. I got off the train at the next stop and headed for a kebab shop. There's always a kebab place near the station so I knew it would be a doddle to find one. Sure enough, when I came out onto the street there was one right there.

Lamb Kebab, Chips and a can of Fanta. Cooked before my eyes and placed in a plastic bag, as fine as silk.

I got back on the train and found a good spot on a pull-down. Most of the other seats were taken. The fat and onions smell had already started to fill the carriage as I opened the bag. I pushed in the tab on the carton, the top flipped up, light as air, and the smell hit the other passangers square on the nose.

Now I had to decide on some conditions for this experiment. Namely, what kind of behaviour was appropriate.
Indignant: looking people flat in the face while loading strips of meat into my mouth.
Or apologetic: delicately picking out chips, humble-faced.
I go for the middle ground and attack the kebab while keeping eye contact to a minimum.

I hear some tutting over to my left. I keep chewing. When I look up I notice a few people looking at me. I take another bite and look back down to the ground. I notice a strip of onion stick to my shoe. Another bite. People get on at the next station and a guy stops near me. I can tell he's watching me. Strange how we can tell. I keep chewing.

I move on to the chips and start to get the heavy stomach. It's a nice but slightly guilty feeling. My throat feels a bit greasy so I crack open the Fanta to freshen up.

Yes, A most interesting experiment.