Friday, December 31, 2004
Unlucky Gold: ‘Blind date saga’
Pretentious Prelude:
Requested by The Girl, aged 15, London and The Mighty Crumb, aged 84, Bristol – Unlucky vouchers in post, you lucky lucky people.
My first date, let alone a blind one, in seven years was naturally a big deal for me. But, encouraged by m’lackey to jump back in the deep end of the dating pool via an organised dating evening, I felt compelled to reply to an unsolicited contact received via the event site.
The day-by-day buildup to this personal milestone started here, if you’re interested. Looking back, these nervous and wary posts make for some uncomfortable reading for me, seeing how swiftly I’ve reintegrated with the whole dating malarkey since. But although never followed-up I’ve never regretted going on this blind date, documented below, as the confidence boost it provided certainly played no small part in what I call ‘my rehabilitation’.
Last night’s first night (28 April 2004)
“We need to fix our voicemail system” complained m’lackey, as I was rushing to leave early, “because I need to go for a crap, and reception’s closing now, so we’ll miss any calls.”
Prospect #0001 had texted earlier with a Perfectly Valid And Plausible Reason Why She Could Only Meet Up Quickly. Hmmmm…but, actually, this just helped make the encounter less daunting.
Fortunately, I’d been preoccupied with work for the last few hours, so had little time to dwell on the date. But now, I had far more important things to think about than this conundrum.
“To be honest, lackey” I explained, diplomatically, “I’ve got more important things to think about. See you tomorrow.”
“Yes – see you tomorrow.… and good luck!”
I left my desperate colleague and hurried out the building. My lack of concern was immediately repaid as the heavens opened upon me. And I realised I had no umbrella. My combed hair suffered.
Thunder crashed overhead: I cowered, having come quite near enough thank-you-very-much to getting struck by lightning already last week.
The Dating Gods clearly weren’t smiling on me.
Then our beloved London Underground chose to reroute my tube train AS I WAS ON IT, causing unwelcome delay and further risk of Things Going Very Wrong.
The Dating Gods were laughing and pointing at me on the CCTV.
After half-hour, I resurfaced overground clutching my directions to our arranged meeting place, and wondered where on the street it would be located.
I was buoyed receiving a couple of ‘good luck’ texts, then a further text from P#0001 explaining exactly where she was sitting.
I was already running a bit behind. And, inevitably, the bar was located at the furthest end of the street.
The Dating Gods were pissing themselves and rubbing their hands with glee. Bastards!
I arrived only a few minutes late, and negotiated my way to the advised table.
And there she was. And she was…….. nice. Very nice, in fact. (Not a wok in sight.)
I greeted her, shirt hangy-out and with new pants: she was immediately warm and friendly, and I hope we both put each other at ease.
The conversation flowed pretty smoothly, I think, and we had a healthy amount in common.
And I found her Perfectly Valid And Plausible Reason To Leave held up to gentle scrutiny.
By this time, the rain was pummelling the overhead skylight, but we just laughed and raised our voices.
The Dating Gods shrugged their shoulders in resignation, and knocked off early for the night.
I’ve really no idea, or more importantly no expectation, where if anywhere this could go.
All I do know is that we had a really good laugh, and willingness was indicated to meet and laugh some more next week.
And that, friends, is very important to me and all I could have possibly asked for.
An infinitesimally small step for mankind, maybe, but one ginormous step for this unlucky man. ¶ Posted by Unluckyman at 10:29 AM
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Requested by The Girl, aged 15, London and The Mighty Crumb, aged 84, Bristol – Unlucky vouchers in post, you lucky lucky people.
My first date, let alone a blind one, in seven years was naturally a big deal for me. But, encouraged by m’lackey to jump back in the deep end of the dating pool via an organised dating evening, I felt compelled to reply to an unsolicited contact received via the event site.
The day-by-day buildup to this personal milestone started here, if you’re interested. Looking back, these nervous and wary posts make for some uncomfortable reading for me, seeing how swiftly I’ve reintegrated with the whole dating malarkey since. But although never followed-up I’ve never regretted going on this blind date, documented below, as the confidence boost it provided certainly played no small part in what I call ‘my rehabilitation’.
Last night’s first night (28 April 2004)
“We need to fix our voicemail system” complained m’lackey, as I was rushing to leave early, “because I need to go for a crap, and reception’s closing now, so we’ll miss any calls.”
Prospect #0001 had texted earlier with a Perfectly Valid And Plausible Reason Why She Could Only Meet Up Quickly. Hmmmm…but, actually, this just helped make the encounter less daunting.
Fortunately, I’d been preoccupied with work for the last few hours, so had little time to dwell on the date. But now, I had far more important things to think about than this conundrum.
“To be honest, lackey” I explained, diplomatically, “I’ve got more important things to think about. See you tomorrow.”
“Yes – see you tomorrow.… and good luck!”
I left my desperate colleague and hurried out the building. My lack of concern was immediately repaid as the heavens opened upon me. And I realised I had no umbrella. My combed hair suffered.
Thunder crashed overhead: I cowered, having come quite near enough thank-you-very-much to getting struck by lightning already last week.
The Dating Gods clearly weren’t smiling on me.
Then our beloved London Underground chose to reroute my tube train AS I WAS ON IT, causing unwelcome delay and further risk of Things Going Very Wrong.
The Dating Gods were laughing and pointing at me on the CCTV.
After half-hour, I resurfaced overground clutching my directions to our arranged meeting place, and wondered where on the street it would be located.
I was buoyed receiving a couple of ‘good luck’ texts, then a further text from P#0001 explaining exactly where she was sitting.
I was already running a bit behind. And, inevitably, the bar was located at the furthest end of the street.
The Dating Gods were pissing themselves and rubbing their hands with glee. Bastards!
I arrived only a few minutes late, and negotiated my way to the advised table.
And there she was. And she was…….. nice. Very nice, in fact. (Not a wok in sight.)
I greeted her, shirt hangy-out and with new pants: she was immediately warm and friendly, and I hope we both put each other at ease.
The conversation flowed pretty smoothly, I think, and we had a healthy amount in common.
And I found her Perfectly Valid And Plausible Reason To Leave held up to gentle scrutiny.
By this time, the rain was pummelling the overhead skylight, but we just laughed and raised our voices.
The Dating Gods shrugged their shoulders in resignation, and knocked off early for the night.
I’ve really no idea, or more importantly no expectation, where if anywhere this could go.
All I do know is that we had a really good laugh, and willingness was indicated to meet and laugh some more next week.
And that, friends, is very important to me and all I could have possibly asked for.
An infinitesimally small step for mankind, maybe, but one ginormous step for this unlucky man. ¶ Posted by Unluckyman at 10:29 AM
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Wednesday, December 29, 2004
Unlucky Gold: Winking and wanking
Pretentious Prelude:
Repeats of both these posts were requested by PPQ, aged 9, NW London. Congratulations, PPQ, your Unlucky vouchers are in the post, and are valid at no good shops everywhere.
Three weeks into blogging, this first hastily-typed post mid-hangover about being winked at the previous night was the first I hadn’t been really unhappy with, and of which the godlike Richard Herring said: "it was funny". This taught me two key lessons: ‘keep it simple’, and ‘write about what you know’.
So it also brings me great pleasure to repeat this second post to demonstrate just how far my writing had come in six months. This post is about wanking.
Never call this blog shallow and vacuous.
I winked at a girl last night (11 April 2004)
Well, technically, it was two of them. But if you're interested, it was the one on the right.
Winking is not something I normally do.
Winking is the preserve, in my experience, of only three types of people:
1) Grandads. Normally, just after they 'steal' your nose, with their thumb. Then serve up some grated apple, with sugar.
2) Greengrocers. When serving young ladies. Saying "I've dropped an extra Golden Delicious in there for you, luv". Then "Now, on your way, young lady", or something equally patronising.
3) Tossers. And this is the category in which I suspect I fall.
I'd had a really enjoyable night. Out to celebrate my sister's birthday in the West End. Chatted with her boyf Vernon Kaye (only passing resemblance, but that'll suffice for his pseudonym) and her mates, including an ex-boyband member with mixed success in Hong Kong, but excluding a member of a popular indie band I can't mention who, unsociably, played in solitude on the fruit machine all night. Moved on to a trashy basement indie-disco which I can best, generously, describe as a cow-shed.
Midway through my usual unique dance to 'I Am The Resurrection', I decided to stay on as my sis's group left. I was having a good time. And I'd found a new friend. He was called Eddie. Eddie was cool.
In the early hours, I left the club to stagger down Regent Street, when the Two Girls were walking in the opposite direction.
She was looking at me. I was looking at her.
Then it just happened. I winked at her. (No, not the one on the left, the one on the right. Like I told you.)
Winking is seldom planned: you just wink.
It has the desired response. "He looks alright", I heard her reply. Gadzukes, she must have been more pissed than me.
I heard a voice inside my head: "Chase her! Chase her!!!". But a deeper voice knew best: "Leave her. Your work is done. You have winked."
As I think I've heard many people tell me before, I am at last a complete winker.
Winking is the future.
Bashed-out post (11 October 2004)
Here she goes again, I think, midway through our telephone catchup.
“...you know, I’m twenty-eight now and...”
Believe me, I do understand my paranoid pal’s worries. I know it’s only natural to have doubts about finding someone again. But I also, as anyone who knows her would testify, know how utterly ridiculous these fears will prove to be.
“...tick-tock, you know...”
At this point, I’m usually sympathetic, conveying lessons learned from my own experience to empathise, discuss then rationalise.
“Rubbish! You’ll be fine. Trust me.”
“What if I end up a lonely old cat woman?”
Sometimes, though, I succumb to the temptation to mock her, exaggerating her irrational concerns to make her realise just how negative she can sometimes be.
“OK, let’s make a pledge. If both alone in ten years time, you can have me!”
“But you’ll be...” (I hear the cogs of her mind whirring to mentally calculate exactly how old I’ll be)
“Don’t worry.” I interrupt, “My sperm shall still be good.”
Stunned silence.
“Better still, after this phone conversation, I’ll bash one out for you. Store it in a jar. Not just any jar, a good jar: Hartley’s jam maybe, I don’t like jam much. Then freeze it. Avoids all that nasty relationship and sex business.”
Silence turns to rightfully-earned gratitude: “Ahhhh. That’s very sweet of you.”
“Yes, it is, isn’t it. I’ll label the jar with your name. But don’t think I offer this service to just any girl in this city. I may even bash one out before this conversation’s over, if you’re extremely lucky.”
“Thank you. Very kind.”
I could tell the way she changed the subject so swiftly that I’d allayed her fears there and then.
I was glad I’d taken the sympathetic route, rather than the mocking one.
And will be double-checking labels very carefully before I defrost that white cheese sauce. ¶ Posted by Unluckyman at 1:22 PM
|
Repeats of both these posts were requested by PPQ, aged 9, NW London. Congratulations, PPQ, your Unlucky vouchers are in the post, and are valid at no good shops everywhere.
Three weeks into blogging, this first hastily-typed post mid-hangover about being winked at the previous night was the first I hadn’t been really unhappy with, and of which the godlike Richard Herring said: "it was funny". This taught me two key lessons: ‘keep it simple’, and ‘write about what you know’.
So it also brings me great pleasure to repeat this second post to demonstrate just how far my writing had come in six months. This post is about wanking.
Never call this blog shallow and vacuous.
I winked at a girl last night (11 April 2004)
Well, technically, it was two of them. But if you're interested, it was the one on the right.
Winking is not something I normally do.
Winking is the preserve, in my experience, of only three types of people:
1) Grandads. Normally, just after they 'steal' your nose, with their thumb. Then serve up some grated apple, with sugar.
2) Greengrocers. When serving young ladies. Saying "I've dropped an extra Golden Delicious in there for you, luv". Then "Now, on your way, young lady", or something equally patronising.
3) Tossers. And this is the category in which I suspect I fall.
I'd had a really enjoyable night. Out to celebrate my sister's birthday in the West End. Chatted with her boyf Vernon Kaye (only passing resemblance, but that'll suffice for his pseudonym) and her mates, including an ex-boyband member with mixed success in Hong Kong, but excluding a member of a popular indie band I can't mention who, unsociably, played in solitude on the fruit machine all night. Moved on to a trashy basement indie-disco which I can best, generously, describe as a cow-shed.
Midway through my usual unique dance to 'I Am The Resurrection', I decided to stay on as my sis's group left. I was having a good time. And I'd found a new friend. He was called Eddie. Eddie was cool.
In the early hours, I left the club to stagger down Regent Street, when the Two Girls were walking in the opposite direction.
She was looking at me. I was looking at her.
Then it just happened. I winked at her. (No, not the one on the left, the one on the right. Like I told you.)
Winking is seldom planned: you just wink.
It has the desired response. "He looks alright", I heard her reply. Gadzukes, she must have been more pissed than me.
I heard a voice inside my head: "Chase her! Chase her!!!". But a deeper voice knew best: "Leave her. Your work is done. You have winked."
As I think I've heard many people tell me before, I am at last a complete winker.
Winking is the future.
Bashed-out post (11 October 2004)
Here she goes again, I think, midway through our telephone catchup.
“...you know, I’m twenty-eight now and...”
Believe me, I do understand my paranoid pal’s worries. I know it’s only natural to have doubts about finding someone again. But I also, as anyone who knows her would testify, know how utterly ridiculous these fears will prove to be.
“...tick-tock, you know...”
At this point, I’m usually sympathetic, conveying lessons learned from my own experience to empathise, discuss then rationalise.
“Rubbish! You’ll be fine. Trust me.”
“What if I end up a lonely old cat woman?”
Sometimes, though, I succumb to the temptation to mock her, exaggerating her irrational concerns to make her realise just how negative she can sometimes be.
“OK, let’s make a pledge. If both alone in ten years time, you can have me!”
“But you’ll be...” (I hear the cogs of her mind whirring to mentally calculate exactly how old I’ll be)
“Don’t worry.” I interrupt, “My sperm shall still be good.”
Stunned silence.
“Better still, after this phone conversation, I’ll bash one out for you. Store it in a jar. Not just any jar, a good jar: Hartley’s jam maybe, I don’t like jam much. Then freeze it. Avoids all that nasty relationship and sex business.”
Silence turns to rightfully-earned gratitude: “Ahhhh. That’s very sweet of you.”
“Yes, it is, isn’t it. I’ll label the jar with your name. But don’t think I offer this service to just any girl in this city. I may even bash one out before this conversation’s over, if you’re extremely lucky.”
“Thank you. Very kind.”
I could tell the way she changed the subject so swiftly that I’d allayed her fears there and then.
I was glad I’d taken the sympathetic route, rather than the mocking one.
And will be double-checking labels very carefully before I defrost that white cheese sauce. ¶ Posted by Unluckyman at 1:22 PM
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Wednesday, December 22, 2004
To exchange or not to exchange
“Oh, you shouldn’t have!” I exclaimed.
“But we did!” came the reply.
“No, you really shouldn’t!!”
“But we did!!”
etc etc
So rang the familiar exchange which will no doubt be ringing through many homes up and down the land again this Christmas.
I looked bemusedly at my underpants. Having just turned eighteen, pants certainly weren’t top of my list, or indeed on my list at all. But I’d learnt over the years how to feign gratitude convincingly.
“Thank you” I mumbled, “I needed more pants. Thank you very much indeed. These pants are just what I wanted. I shall wear these pants, often.”
Trouble was, they weren’t ordinary pants. They were from Woolworths, never a reputed clothes seller. And Woolworth’s ‘Street Value’ range at that.
My new pants were, to be frank, utterly pants. An embarrassment, at an age where image is everything.
Investigating the packaging more closely, I noticed that not only had the price tag been removed, but the transparent plastic immediately behind it gorged out too, surely dashing any hopes to exchange them. But sensing déjà vu, I later checked my pants drawer to discover exactly the same pants, in exactly the same ruined packaging, from the previous Christmas. Filed to the back of my drawer, a distant memory. Never to be worn.
The chance to exchange not just one but two sets of pants proved too difficult for a young man of humble means. It would require loss of dignity, sure, but the financial reward would more than make up for this. My mind was made up, and I headed to my local store.
Handing my pants over with a more desirable item of similar estimated value, few words were exchanged, as the assistant appeared to innately understand my motivation. Turning a blind eye to the obviously destroyed packaging, within minutes I was, though four pairs of pants down, the proud owner of a brand new Pogues CD.
It seemed like a fair swap.
Just like a proper writer or journalist, I'm inevitably going to be too busy drinking, eating and socialising to blog much over the forthcoming festivities.
So just like a proper magazine or journal, I'm inviting readers of this blog to participate in one of those lazy, vain 'end of year' compilations by suggesting any old posts they think other readers might enjoy being repeated.
Feel free to comment or email me with suggestions. Or not.
UMx ¶ Posted by Unluckyman at 5:50 PM
|
“But we did!” came the reply.
“No, you really shouldn’t!!”
“But we did!!”
etc etc
So rang the familiar exchange which will no doubt be ringing through many homes up and down the land again this Christmas.
I looked bemusedly at my underpants. Having just turned eighteen, pants certainly weren’t top of my list, or indeed on my list at all. But I’d learnt over the years how to feign gratitude convincingly.
“Thank you” I mumbled, “I needed more pants. Thank you very much indeed. These pants are just what I wanted. I shall wear these pants, often.”
Trouble was, they weren’t ordinary pants. They were from Woolworths, never a reputed clothes seller. And Woolworth’s ‘Street Value’ range at that.
My new pants were, to be frank, utterly pants. An embarrassment, at an age where image is everything.
Investigating the packaging more closely, I noticed that not only had the price tag been removed, but the transparent plastic immediately behind it gorged out too, surely dashing any hopes to exchange them. But sensing déjà vu, I later checked my pants drawer to discover exactly the same pants, in exactly the same ruined packaging, from the previous Christmas. Filed to the back of my drawer, a distant memory. Never to be worn.
The chance to exchange not just one but two sets of pants proved too difficult for a young man of humble means. It would require loss of dignity, sure, but the financial reward would more than make up for this. My mind was made up, and I headed to my local store.
Handing my pants over with a more desirable item of similar estimated value, few words were exchanged, as the assistant appeared to innately understand my motivation. Turning a blind eye to the obviously destroyed packaging, within minutes I was, though four pairs of pants down, the proud owner of a brand new Pogues CD.
It seemed like a fair swap.
Just like a proper writer or journalist, I'm inevitably going to be too busy drinking, eating and socialising to blog much over the forthcoming festivities.
So just like a proper magazine or journal, I'm inviting readers of this blog to participate in one of those lazy, vain 'end of year' compilations by suggesting any old posts they think other readers might enjoy being repeated.
Feel free to comment or email me with suggestions. Or not.
UMx ¶ Posted by Unluckyman at 5:50 PM
|
Tuesday, December 21, 2004
New boy
Tense. Frantic. Buzzing.
Pressure’s building up, but I’m here to do a job: effectively, efficiently and without emotion.
I know my role. I know what I’m here to do. I’m a professional, after all.
“Would anyone like a cuppa?” I politely offer.
First day into my first significant contract job (ie one not involving being paid to interview people in pubs), I’m ingratiating myself with the ‘troops’.
I take the orders and head into the kitchen, planning to make coffee sufficiently well as to please everyone, yet not so well as to appoint myself as Chief Drinksmaker. I am clever.
It starts simply enough, locating the kettle easily enough, and water, which I start boiling without problem. Then swiftly finding the coffee and sugar, just where I’d been told they’d be, and three clean(ish) mugs.
But there appears to be only one spoon, and nothing in the way of washing and drying implements. Normally, as a moderately successful direct marketer, I would ask, but masquerading as a Freelancer Who Knows What He’s Doing, I decide to improvise:
Rinsing the spoon under the tap, I proceed to scoop coffee into the mugs. Then, without thinking, scoop sugar using the same wet spoon. Realising I have committed the cardinal sin of mixing coffee into sugar, I proceed to scoop more sugar, it moulding itself to the wetness, until the sugar is coffee-free once more. As this task completes, I notice that in my panic I have committed the second cardinal sin of splattering the worktop with coffee, sugar and water. In two minutes, I have reworked the kitchen into Kevin Costner’s ‘Waterworld’.
By the time the kettle boils, the kitchen is returned to its formal splendour thanks to some highly improvised hand towel wiping.
I take the drinks out, nobody the wiser, and sip my ten-sugared coffee. Soon, I’m tense, frantic and buzzing.
Just like a proper writer or journalist, I'm inevitably going to be too busy drinking, eating and socialising to blog much over the forthcoming festivities.
So just like a proper magazine or journal, I'm inviting readers of this blog to participate in one of those lazy, vain 'end of year' compilations by suggesting any old posts they think other readers might enjoy being repeated.
Feel free to comment or email me with suggestions. Or not.
UMx ¶ Posted by Unluckyman at 2:11 PM
|
Pressure’s building up, but I’m here to do a job: effectively, efficiently and without emotion.
I know my role. I know what I’m here to do. I’m a professional, after all.
“Would anyone like a cuppa?” I politely offer.
First day into my first significant contract job (ie one not involving being paid to interview people in pubs), I’m ingratiating myself with the ‘troops’.
I take the orders and head into the kitchen, planning to make coffee sufficiently well as to please everyone, yet not so well as to appoint myself as Chief Drinksmaker. I am clever.
It starts simply enough, locating the kettle easily enough, and water, which I start boiling without problem. Then swiftly finding the coffee and sugar, just where I’d been told they’d be, and three clean(ish) mugs.
But there appears to be only one spoon, and nothing in the way of washing and drying implements. Normally, as a moderately successful direct marketer, I would ask, but masquerading as a Freelancer Who Knows What He’s Doing, I decide to improvise:
Rinsing the spoon under the tap, I proceed to scoop coffee into the mugs. Then, without thinking, scoop sugar using the same wet spoon. Realising I have committed the cardinal sin of mixing coffee into sugar, I proceed to scoop more sugar, it moulding itself to the wetness, until the sugar is coffee-free once more. As this task completes, I notice that in my panic I have committed the second cardinal sin of splattering the worktop with coffee, sugar and water. In two minutes, I have reworked the kitchen into Kevin Costner’s ‘Waterworld’.
By the time the kettle boils, the kitchen is returned to its formal splendour thanks to some highly improvised hand towel wiping.
I take the drinks out, nobody the wiser, and sip my ten-sugared coffee. Soon, I’m tense, frantic and buzzing.
Just like a proper writer or journalist, I'm inevitably going to be too busy drinking, eating and socialising to blog much over the forthcoming festivities.
So just like a proper magazine or journal, I'm inviting readers of this blog to participate in one of those lazy, vain 'end of year' compilations by suggesting any old posts they think other readers might enjoy being repeated.
Feel free to comment or email me with suggestions. Or not.
UMx ¶ Posted by Unluckyman at 2:11 PM
|
Friday, December 17, 2004
ADVICE SOUGHT
OK, Kids...YOUR HELP URGENTLY SOUGHT!!!
Met girl Saturday night. (Yes: glitter night.)
Australian. Funny. Intelligent. Pretty.
Got on well; got her number.
Texted: no response... concerned.
Consulted mutual friend. Who reassured, then advised waiting, then waited, then double-checked:
Horror! One digit was wrong!!!
Yet mutual friend convinced "genuine mistake".
Meanwhile I am suspecting "oldest trick in the book".
Readers (Lurkers included. I know you're there. I NEED YOU): Ring... or discard??? ¶ Posted by Unluckyman at 1:46 AM
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Met girl Saturday night. (Yes: glitter night.)
Australian. Funny. Intelligent. Pretty.
Got on well; got her number.
Texted: no response... concerned.
Consulted mutual friend. Who reassured, then advised waiting, then waited, then double-checked:
Horror! One digit was wrong!!!
Yet mutual friend convinced "genuine mistake".
Meanwhile I am suspecting "oldest trick in the book".
Readers (Lurkers included. I know you're there. I NEED YOU): Ring... or discard??? ¶ Posted by Unluckyman at 1:46 AM
|
Wednesday, December 15, 2004
A time for giving?
London Bridge station, December 1994.
Unlucky boards a train from the snow-covered platform among the exuberant post-Christmas party crowd.
The carriage is packed, I think: you’d be hard pressed to squeeze even one more passenger on board.
Despite this, as the train pulls away, an obviously pissed late arrival attempts to match its speed, before yanking open one of the doors with a view to jumping on.
Instead, slipping on the frozen surface, he falls over in quite spectacular fashion. Though thankfully not under the carriage, the whole train screeches to an emergency halt.
An almighty English “ooooooooooh!” sounds throughout.
As concerned people quickly gather round the victim, the Smuggest Man I Ever Did See ambles calmly past. Giving only the slightest acknowledgement to the situation before stepping slowly onto the now emptier carriage.
“Ah well” he says aloud, to nobody in particular but his own satisfaction, before checking his watch, brushing his suit down, then smiling smugly nodding towards the befallen passenger, “One man’s misfortune...” ¶ Posted by Unluckyman at 10:43 PM
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Unlucky boards a train from the snow-covered platform among the exuberant post-Christmas party crowd.
The carriage is packed, I think: you’d be hard pressed to squeeze even one more passenger on board.
Despite this, as the train pulls away, an obviously pissed late arrival attempts to match its speed, before yanking open one of the doors with a view to jumping on.
Instead, slipping on the frozen surface, he falls over in quite spectacular fashion. Though thankfully not under the carriage, the whole train screeches to an emergency halt.
An almighty English “ooooooooooh!” sounds throughout.
As concerned people quickly gather round the victim, the Smuggest Man I Ever Did See ambles calmly past. Giving only the slightest acknowledgement to the situation before stepping slowly onto the now emptier carriage.
“Ah well” he says aloud, to nobody in particular but his own satisfaction, before checking his watch, brushing his suit down, then smiling smugly nodding towards the befallen passenger, “One man’s misfortune...” ¶ Posted by Unluckyman at 10:43 PM
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Tuesday, December 14, 2004
Inspiration
Sunday, 5pm. Highbury Stadium, London, England.
Arsenal are failing to take control of the game having lost their early lead over Chelsea.
It’s at times like this even highly-paid players sometimes spark off the weight of their supporters behind them for some much-needed inspiration:
Gunners supporter #1 (shouting): REDDDDDDDDDDD ARMMMMYYYYYYYYY!
Gunners supporter #2 (shouting, and pointing): WED AWWWWWWMY!
Gunners supporter #1 (shouting): REDDDDDDDDDDD ARMMMMYYYYYYYYY!
Gunners supporter #2 (shouting, and pointing): WED AWWWWWWMY!
Gunners supporter #1 (shouting): REDDDDDDDDDDD ARMMMMYYYYYYYYY!
Gunners supporter #2 (shouting, and pointing): WED AWWWWWWMY!
Gunners supporter #1 (shouting): REDDDDDDDDDDD ARMMMMYYYYYYYYY!
Gunners supporter #2 (shouting, and pointing): WED AWWWWWWMY!
Gunners supporter #1 (shouting): REDDDDDDDDDDD ARMMMMYYYYYYYYY!
Gunners supporter #2 (shouting, and pointing): WED AWWWWWWMY!
Gunners supporter #1 (shouting): REDDDDDDDDDDD ARMMMMYYYYYYYYY!
Gunners supporter #2 (shouting, and pointing): WED AWWWWWWMY!
Gunners supporter #1 (shouting): REDDDDDDDDDDD ARMMMMYYYYYYYYY!
Gunners supporter #2 (shouting, and pointing): WED AWWWWWWMY!
Gunners supporter #1 (shouting): REDDDDDDDDDDD ARMMMMYYYYYYYYY!
Gunners supporter #2 (shouting, and pointing): WED AWWWWWWMY!
Gunners supporter #1 (shouting): REDDDDDDDDDDD ARMMMMYYYYYYYYY!
Gunners supporter #2 (shouting, and pointing): WED AWWWWWWMY!
Gunners supporter #1 (shouting): REDDDDDDDDDDD ARMMMMYYYYYYYYY!
Gunners supporter #2 (shouting, and pointing): WED AWWWWWWMY!
Gunners supporter #1 (shouting): REDDDDDDDDDDD ARMMMMYYYYYYYYY!
Gunners supporter #2 (shouting, and pointing): WED AWWWWWWMY!
Gunners supporter #1 (shouting): REDDDDDDDDDDD ARMMMMYYYYYYYYY!
Gunners supporter #2 (shouting, and pointing): WED AWWWWWWMY!
Gunners supporter #1 (shouting): REDDDDDDDDDDD ARMMMMYYYYYYYYY!
Gunners supporter #2 (shouting, and pointing): WED AWWWWWWMY!
Gunners supporter #1 (shouting): REDDDDDDDDDDD ARMMMMYYYYYYYYY!
Gunners supporter #2 (shouting, and pointing): WED AWWWWWWMY!
Gunners supporter #1 (shouting): REDDDDDDDDDDD ARMMMMYYYYYYYYY!
Gunners supporter #2 (shouting, and pointing): WED AWWWWWWMY!
Gunners supporter #1 (shouting): REDDDDDDDDDDD ARMMMMYYYYYYYYY!
Gunners supporter #2 (shouting, and pointing): WED AWWWWWWMY!
Gunners supporter #1 (shouting): REDDDDDDDDDDD ARMMMMYYYYYYYYY!
Gunners supporter #2 (shouting, and pointing): WED AWWWWWWMY!
Gunners supporter #1 (shouting): REDDDDDDDDDDD ARMMMMYYYYYYYYY!
Gunners supporter #2 (shouting, and pointing): WED AWWWWWWMY!
(Inexplicable ten-second pause)
Gunners supporter #1 (shouting): REDDDDDDDDDDD ARMMMMYYYYYYYYY!
Gunners supporter #2 (shouting, and pointing): WED AWWWWWWMY!
Gunners supporter #1 (shouting): REDDDDDDDDDDD ARMMMMYYYYYYYYY!
Gunners supporter #2 (shouting, and pointing): WED AWWWWWWMY!
Gunners supporter #1 (shouting): REDDDDDDDDDDD ARMMMMYYYYYYYYY!
Gunners supporter #2 (shouting, and pointing): WED AWWWWWWMY!
Gunners supporter #1 (shouting): REDDDDDDDDDDD ARMMMMYYYYYYYYY!
Gunners supporter #2 (shouting, and pointing): WED AWWWWWWMY!
Gunners supporter #1 (shouting): REDDDDDDDDDDD ARMMMMYYYYYYYYY!
Gunners supporter #2 (shouting, and pointing): WED AWWWWWWMY!
Gunners supporter #1 (shouting): REDDDDDDDDDDD ARMMMMYYYYYYYYY!
Gunners supporter #2 (shouting, and pointing): WED AWWWWWWMY!
Gunners supporter #1 (shouting): REDDDDDDDDDDD ARMMMMYYYYYYYYY!
Gunners supporter #2 (shouting, and pointing): WED AWWWWWWMY!
Gunners supporter #1 (shouting): REDDDDDDDDDDD ARMMMMYYYYYYYYY!
Gunners supporter #2 (shouting, and pointing): WED AWWWWWWMY!
Gunners supporter #1 (shouting): REDDDDDDDDDDD ARMMMMYYYYYYYYY!
Gunners supporter #2 (shouting, and pointing): WED AWWWWWWMY!
Gunners supporter #1 (shouting): REDDDDDDDDDDD ARMMMMYYYYYYYYY!
Gunners supporter #2 (shouting, and pointing): WED AWWWWWWMY!
Gunners supporter #1 (shouting): REDDDDDDDDDDD ARMMMMYYYYYYYYY!
Gunners supporter #2 (shouting, and pointing): WED AWWWWWWMY!
Gunners supporter #1 (shouting): REDDDDDDDDDDD ARMMMMYYYYYYYYY!
Gunners supporter #2 (shouting, and pointing): WED AWWWWWWMY!
Gunners supporter #1 (shouting): REDDDDDDDDDDD ARMMMMYYYYYYYYY!
Gunners supporter #2 (shouting, and pointing): WED AWWWWWWMY!
Gunners supporter #1 (shouting): REDDDDDDDDDDD ARMMMMYYYYYYYYY!
Gunners supporter #2 (shouting, and pointing): WED AWWWWWWMY!
Gunners supporter #1 (shouting): REDDDDDDDDDDD ARMMMMYYYYYYYYY!
Gunners supporter #2 (shouting, and pointing): WED AWWWWWWMY!
Suffice to say, this chant with all the repetitive charm of an abandoned car alarm didn’t motivate the players to score a win. ¶ Posted by Unluckyman at 11:30 PM
|
Arsenal are failing to take control of the game having lost their early lead over Chelsea.
It’s at times like this even highly-paid players sometimes spark off the weight of their supporters behind them for some much-needed inspiration:
Gunners supporter #1 (shouting): REDDDDDDDDDDD ARMMMMYYYYYYYYY!
Gunners supporter #2 (shouting, and pointing): WED AWWWWWWMY!
Gunners supporter #1 (shouting): REDDDDDDDDDDD ARMMMMYYYYYYYYY!
Gunners supporter #2 (shouting, and pointing): WED AWWWWWWMY!
Gunners supporter #1 (shouting): REDDDDDDDDDDD ARMMMMYYYYYYYYY!
Gunners supporter #2 (shouting, and pointing): WED AWWWWWWMY!
Gunners supporter #1 (shouting): REDDDDDDDDDDD ARMMMMYYYYYYYYY!
Gunners supporter #2 (shouting, and pointing): WED AWWWWWWMY!
Gunners supporter #1 (shouting): REDDDDDDDDDDD ARMMMMYYYYYYYYY!
Gunners supporter #2 (shouting, and pointing): WED AWWWWWWMY!
Gunners supporter #1 (shouting): REDDDDDDDDDDD ARMMMMYYYYYYYYY!
Gunners supporter #2 (shouting, and pointing): WED AWWWWWWMY!
Gunners supporter #1 (shouting): REDDDDDDDDDDD ARMMMMYYYYYYYYY!
Gunners supporter #2 (shouting, and pointing): WED AWWWWWWMY!
Gunners supporter #1 (shouting): REDDDDDDDDDDD ARMMMMYYYYYYYYY!
Gunners supporter #2 (shouting, and pointing): WED AWWWWWWMY!
Gunners supporter #1 (shouting): REDDDDDDDDDDD ARMMMMYYYYYYYYY!
Gunners supporter #2 (shouting, and pointing): WED AWWWWWWMY!
Gunners supporter #1 (shouting): REDDDDDDDDDDD ARMMMMYYYYYYYYY!
Gunners supporter #2 (shouting, and pointing): WED AWWWWWWMY!
Gunners supporter #1 (shouting): REDDDDDDDDDDD ARMMMMYYYYYYYYY!
Gunners supporter #2 (shouting, and pointing): WED AWWWWWWMY!
Gunners supporter #1 (shouting): REDDDDDDDDDDD ARMMMMYYYYYYYYY!
Gunners supporter #2 (shouting, and pointing): WED AWWWWWWMY!
Gunners supporter #1 (shouting): REDDDDDDDDDDD ARMMMMYYYYYYYYY!
Gunners supporter #2 (shouting, and pointing): WED AWWWWWWMY!
Gunners supporter #1 (shouting): REDDDDDDDDDDD ARMMMMYYYYYYYYY!
Gunners supporter #2 (shouting, and pointing): WED AWWWWWWMY!
Gunners supporter #1 (shouting): REDDDDDDDDDDD ARMMMMYYYYYYYYY!
Gunners supporter #2 (shouting, and pointing): WED AWWWWWWMY!
Gunners supporter #1 (shouting): REDDDDDDDDDDD ARMMMMYYYYYYYYY!
Gunners supporter #2 (shouting, and pointing): WED AWWWWWWMY!
Gunners supporter #1 (shouting): REDDDDDDDDDDD ARMMMMYYYYYYYYY!
Gunners supporter #2 (shouting, and pointing): WED AWWWWWWMY!
Gunners supporter #1 (shouting): REDDDDDDDDDDD ARMMMMYYYYYYYYY!
Gunners supporter #2 (shouting, and pointing): WED AWWWWWWMY!
(Inexplicable ten-second pause)
Gunners supporter #1 (shouting): REDDDDDDDDDDD ARMMMMYYYYYYYYY!
Gunners supporter #2 (shouting, and pointing): WED AWWWWWWMY!
Gunners supporter #1 (shouting): REDDDDDDDDDDD ARMMMMYYYYYYYYY!
Gunners supporter #2 (shouting, and pointing): WED AWWWWWWMY!
Gunners supporter #1 (shouting): REDDDDDDDDDDD ARMMMMYYYYYYYYY!
Gunners supporter #2 (shouting, and pointing): WED AWWWWWWMY!
Gunners supporter #1 (shouting): REDDDDDDDDDDD ARMMMMYYYYYYYYY!
Gunners supporter #2 (shouting, and pointing): WED AWWWWWWMY!
Gunners supporter #1 (shouting): REDDDDDDDDDDD ARMMMMYYYYYYYYY!
Gunners supporter #2 (shouting, and pointing): WED AWWWWWWMY!
Gunners supporter #1 (shouting): REDDDDDDDDDDD ARMMMMYYYYYYYYY!
Gunners supporter #2 (shouting, and pointing): WED AWWWWWWMY!
Gunners supporter #1 (shouting): REDDDDDDDDDDD ARMMMMYYYYYYYYY!
Gunners supporter #2 (shouting, and pointing): WED AWWWWWWMY!
Gunners supporter #1 (shouting): REDDDDDDDDDDD ARMMMMYYYYYYYYY!
Gunners supporter #2 (shouting, and pointing): WED AWWWWWWMY!
Gunners supporter #1 (shouting): REDDDDDDDDDDD ARMMMMYYYYYYYYY!
Gunners supporter #2 (shouting, and pointing): WED AWWWWWWMY!
Gunners supporter #1 (shouting): REDDDDDDDDDDD ARMMMMYYYYYYYYY!
Gunners supporter #2 (shouting, and pointing): WED AWWWWWWMY!
Gunners supporter #1 (shouting): REDDDDDDDDDDD ARMMMMYYYYYYYYY!
Gunners supporter #2 (shouting, and pointing): WED AWWWWWWMY!
Gunners supporter #1 (shouting): REDDDDDDDDDDD ARMMMMYYYYYYYYY!
Gunners supporter #2 (shouting, and pointing): WED AWWWWWWMY!
Gunners supporter #1 (shouting): REDDDDDDDDDDD ARMMMMYYYYYYYYY!
Gunners supporter #2 (shouting, and pointing): WED AWWWWWWMY!
Gunners supporter #1 (shouting): REDDDDDDDDDDD ARMMMMYYYYYYYYY!
Gunners supporter #2 (shouting, and pointing): WED AWWWWWWMY!
Gunners supporter #1 (shouting): REDDDDDDDDDDD ARMMMMYYYYYYYYY!
Gunners supporter #2 (shouting, and pointing): WED AWWWWWWMY!
Suffice to say, this chant with all the repetitive charm of an abandoned car alarm didn’t motivate the players to score a win. ¶ Posted by Unluckyman at 11:30 PM
|
Monday, December 13, 2004
Star-spangled
Sparkles.
Sparkles, everywhere.
Sparkles on my fingers. Sparkles on my toes. Sparkles in my hair. Sparkles on my face.
“You’re covered in sparkles”, I was told, helpfully.
I knew this. Because I was covered in sparkles, which I couldn’t remove.
“Sparkly” had been the sole directive behind the invite to Saturday’s first party.
“Abba” had been the sole directive behind the invite to Saturday’s second party.
Although I knew of an ideal fancy dress fulfilling both briefs, I was damned if I was growing a beard again. Or risk getting beaten up as I made my way from east to south London.
So, despite my protestations that my watch was “a bit sparkly”, the host proceeded to draw sparkles up both arms with her sparkly lipstick.
This made my arms very sparkly, which pleased my host.
I just wish I’d remembered this, when I went to bed many hours later.
And wish I’d been able to remove them, before I went out to watch the football.
I swigged my pint in as the all-male roar celebrated another goal, glistening like a fairy. ¶ Posted by Unluckyman at 8:44 PM
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Sparkles, everywhere.
Sparkles on my fingers. Sparkles on my toes. Sparkles in my hair. Sparkles on my face.
“You’re covered in sparkles”, I was told, helpfully.
I knew this. Because I was covered in sparkles, which I couldn’t remove.
“Sparkly” had been the sole directive behind the invite to Saturday’s first party.
“Abba” had been the sole directive behind the invite to Saturday’s second party.
Although I knew of an ideal fancy dress fulfilling both briefs, I was damned if I was growing a beard again. Or risk getting beaten up as I made my way from east to south London.
So, despite my protestations that my watch was “a bit sparkly”, the host proceeded to draw sparkles up both arms with her sparkly lipstick.
This made my arms very sparkly, which pleased my host.
I just wish I’d remembered this, when I went to bed many hours later.
And wish I’d been able to remove them, before I went out to watch the football.
I swigged my pint in as the all-male roar celebrated another goal, glistening like a fairy. ¶ Posted by Unluckyman at 8:44 PM
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Saturday, December 11, 2004
Christmas spirit
The lights on the tree are twinkling, and my street’s Christmas lights shining through my window.
I’m feeling all warm inside, and it’s not just because of this afternoon’s mulled wine.
I’m feeling warm inside, because I’m feeling Christmassy.
I didn’t feel Christmassy on Monday morning. In fact, I felt distinctly down facing another week self-unemployed having come so close to gaining work the previous week. So it was a welcome pick-me-up when Bookseller phoned to invite me out for a quick pub lunch. Having made sufficient work-hunting calls to clear my conscience, I set out for the Caledonian Road gastro-pub we’d arranged to meet at.
After a good lunch washed down with a couple of Guinnesses, Bookseller suggested we follow the canal path through Camden. I’m thankful how over recent weeks he’s taught me to love this underappreciated network of peaceful waterways cutting through the heart of our city, and never far from a watering hole. Cutting through the bustle of the market, we made the short walk through to Primrose Hill before stopping off at a cosy establishment for a couple more drinks. Leaving him for a quick meeting in Farringdon, I walked through Clerkenwell and to rejoin his group by Old Street, before meandering onto a buzzing Shoreditch boozer bedecked in Dickensian yuletide decorative splendour. Knocking back a Baileys at the end of a pleasantly unplanned day, I realised: I felt Christmassy. It had happened. And ‘Tall Kylie’ in her Santa outfit at the ‘Sports Bar’ we visited at the evening’s end was just the icing on the cake.
Saturday night, two Christmas parties. I’m feeling all Christmassy, and positively excited about meeting good people in this tremendous city. ¶ Posted by Unluckyman at 7:41 PM
|
I’m feeling all warm inside, and it’s not just because of this afternoon’s mulled wine.
I’m feeling warm inside, because I’m feeling Christmassy.
I didn’t feel Christmassy on Monday morning. In fact, I felt distinctly down facing another week self-unemployed having come so close to gaining work the previous week. So it was a welcome pick-me-up when Bookseller phoned to invite me out for a quick pub lunch. Having made sufficient work-hunting calls to clear my conscience, I set out for the Caledonian Road gastro-pub we’d arranged to meet at.
After a good lunch washed down with a couple of Guinnesses, Bookseller suggested we follow the canal path through Camden. I’m thankful how over recent weeks he’s taught me to love this underappreciated network of peaceful waterways cutting through the heart of our city, and never far from a watering hole. Cutting through the bustle of the market, we made the short walk through to Primrose Hill before stopping off at a cosy establishment for a couple more drinks. Leaving him for a quick meeting in Farringdon, I walked through Clerkenwell and to rejoin his group by Old Street, before meandering onto a buzzing Shoreditch boozer bedecked in Dickensian yuletide decorative splendour. Knocking back a Baileys at the end of a pleasantly unplanned day, I realised: I felt Christmassy. It had happened. And ‘Tall Kylie’ in her Santa outfit at the ‘Sports Bar’ we visited at the evening’s end was just the icing on the cake.
Saturday night, two Christmas parties. I’m feeling all Christmassy, and positively excited about meeting good people in this tremendous city. ¶ Posted by Unluckyman at 7:41 PM
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Thursday, December 09, 2004
Under pressure
It’s not all that complicated. Really, it isn’t.
Setting myself simple, mundane, achievable aims for the day, I set out to post my voter registration form, and post back my rented DVD.
I insert my DVD in its case, and fold and insert the case in its return envelope, smiling smugly to myself at the patronising nature of the ‘Have you remembered?’ checklist on the reverse flap.
Never mind my form’s been sitting in my paperwork pile for months, so probably too late: I complete it, prudently take a copy for myself, then fold and insert it, and seal it in its return envelope, smiling smugly to myself at the patronising nature of the ‘Have you remembered?’ checklist on the reverse flap.
I wash to remove my bad smell, put on some clothes and walk the hundred yards to my local Post Office.
At the Post Office, I am confronted by a choice of three letterboxes: First Class, Second Class, and London.
This confuses me, because my DVD return envelope is both First Class and to Twickenham which, although postcoded outside London, is commonly accepted to be within the environs of Greater London.
I close my eyes and plump bravely for the First Class letterbox.
But my form’s return envelope is both First Class and central London.
I consider this for a minute, before deciding to throw all caution for the wind, and plumping heroically for the London letterbox.
Just as I’m posting it, I notice no return address is showing in the envelope’s window. In my hasty smugness, I had ignored the final point in the checklist.
I return home the hundred yards home to recomplete this complicated task.
All this high-powered pressure is getting to me. ¶ Posted by Unluckyman at 4:50 PM
|
Setting myself simple, mundane, achievable aims for the day, I set out to post my voter registration form, and post back my rented DVD.
I insert my DVD in its case, and fold and insert the case in its return envelope, smiling smugly to myself at the patronising nature of the ‘Have you remembered?’ checklist on the reverse flap.
Never mind my form’s been sitting in my paperwork pile for months, so probably too late: I complete it, prudently take a copy for myself, then fold and insert it, and seal it in its return envelope, smiling smugly to myself at the patronising nature of the ‘Have you remembered?’ checklist on the reverse flap.
I wash to remove my bad smell, put on some clothes and walk the hundred yards to my local Post Office.
At the Post Office, I am confronted by a choice of three letterboxes: First Class, Second Class, and London.
This confuses me, because my DVD return envelope is both First Class and to Twickenham which, although postcoded outside London, is commonly accepted to be within the environs of Greater London.
I close my eyes and plump bravely for the First Class letterbox.
But my form’s return envelope is both First Class and central London.
I consider this for a minute, before deciding to throw all caution for the wind, and plumping heroically for the London letterbox.
Just as I’m posting it, I notice no return address is showing in the envelope’s window. In my hasty smugness, I had ignored the final point in the checklist.
I return home the hundred yards home to recomplete this complicated task.
All this high-powered pressure is getting to me. ¶ Posted by Unluckyman at 4:50 PM
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Wednesday, December 08, 2004
Swayze days
“...and you’re RUBBISH at dancing...” she complained.
It was a fair response, I guess, to my suggesting we just be friends.
And an undeniably accurate response, I thought.
She had, after all, only seen me dancing whilst mildly drunk. At this stage, my dancing is still awkward, rigid, uncoordinated, an embarrassment, to be frank.
She hadn’t, after all, seen me dancing after a few more drinks. At this stage, I mysteriously transform into The Greatest Dancer In The World.
Nor had she been able to see me dance as a child: unrestricted. totally unselfconscious, innocent and devoid of the fear of others’ opinions.
Or watched me hone this natural gift through the schooltime activity then called ‘Music And Movement’. Prancing round in just my underpants and a vest (is this still allowed?), the 7-year old Unlucky made a very good tree, blowing in the wind.
Or witnessed me harness my talent at lunchtime ‘country dancing’ classes. Identifying this obviously manly style as a good way to meet girls, the 10-year old Unlucky took relatively easily to this organised form of group dance, regularly letting a rogue black plimsoll fly across the junior school hall during the run of the ‘Flying Scotsman’.
Or been privy to my drunken disco-dancing in the clubs of Essex heartland: from Tots in Southend, through Reds in Chelmsford and Hollywoods in Romford to the peak that was the ’24-hour-charity-discothon’ in Basildon. The teenage Unlucky throwing some shapes among the wide-jawed market traders, gold-jewelled city dealers spotting my peroxide-infused prey in this vastly misunderstood county.
Or been awestricken at the mere sight of my student indie-dancing at cheap, obscure gigs, JCR bars and any halls of residence or low rent house parties. Wherever I massacre myself on Snakebite and Black, in fact, the twentysomething Unlucky would cut some rug among the down and the dirty. (Mainly the latter).
No, she had seen none of this.
She had chosen, instead, to jump to this conclusion based on but a few minutes admittedly below-par improvised performance.
Given she had not seen my hard work to reach an acceptable standard of dancing, oblivious to my lack of any discernable talent, I had perhaps been a smidgen charitable to so quickly regard her response as ‘fair’.
It was obviously, with benefit of hindsight, grossly and naively unfair.
“...and you SMELL.” she continued.
I bet Patrick Swayze never had to put up with this. ¶ Posted by Unluckyman at 3:57 PM
|
It was a fair response, I guess, to my suggesting we just be friends.
And an undeniably accurate response, I thought.
She had, after all, only seen me dancing whilst mildly drunk. At this stage, my dancing is still awkward, rigid, uncoordinated, an embarrassment, to be frank.
She hadn’t, after all, seen me dancing after a few more drinks. At this stage, I mysteriously transform into The Greatest Dancer In The World.
Nor had she been able to see me dance as a child: unrestricted. totally unselfconscious, innocent and devoid of the fear of others’ opinions.
Or watched me hone this natural gift through the schooltime activity then called ‘Music And Movement’. Prancing round in just my underpants and a vest (is this still allowed?), the 7-year old Unlucky made a very good tree, blowing in the wind.
Or witnessed me harness my talent at lunchtime ‘country dancing’ classes. Identifying this obviously manly style as a good way to meet girls, the 10-year old Unlucky took relatively easily to this organised form of group dance, regularly letting a rogue black plimsoll fly across the junior school hall during the run of the ‘Flying Scotsman’.
Or been privy to my drunken disco-dancing in the clubs of Essex heartland: from Tots in Southend, through Reds in Chelmsford and Hollywoods in Romford to the peak that was the ’24-hour-charity-discothon’ in Basildon. The teenage Unlucky throwing some shapes among the wide-jawed market traders, gold-jewelled city dealers spotting my peroxide-infused prey in this vastly misunderstood county.
Or been awestricken at the mere sight of my student indie-dancing at cheap, obscure gigs, JCR bars and any halls of residence or low rent house parties. Wherever I massacre myself on Snakebite and Black, in fact, the twentysomething Unlucky would cut some rug among the down and the dirty. (Mainly the latter).
No, she had seen none of this.
She had chosen, instead, to jump to this conclusion based on but a few minutes admittedly below-par improvised performance.
Given she had not seen my hard work to reach an acceptable standard of dancing, oblivious to my lack of any discernable talent, I had perhaps been a smidgen charitable to so quickly regard her response as ‘fair’.
It was obviously, with benefit of hindsight, grossly and naively unfair.
“...and you SMELL.” she continued.
I bet Patrick Swayze never had to put up with this. ¶ Posted by Unluckyman at 3:57 PM
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Tuesday, December 07, 2004
It's good to walk
Up the rickety steps on one of London's few remaining Routemasters, I negotiate my way to a spare seat.
“Yes, I think that would be very interesting indeed”, the overly-loud Roedean-educated voice sounds, giving suspicion that whatever follows will not be interesting one little bit.
“A very interesting experiment” continues our Portia-Camille, “to investigate what motivates passengers to choose their seat.”
Already irritated by her unashamed inanity, I stare out of the window, relieved that I instinctively chose any seat not next to her.
“Look at that new building!” she exclaims, in earshot of everyone on the bus, upstairs and down, “It’s… NEW!!!”.
“It’s for key workers” mumbles a friend, utilising what I imagine to be a rare opportunity to interrupt their overbearing companion.
“Oh dear” sneers Portia-Camille, “I wouldn’t like to live there…”
I sigh at her narrow and patronising worldview, grateful that new accommodation is being built for our undervalued key workers, albeit angry at the discrimination against their undervalued and overlooked shoe repairing colleagues.
“I’m glad I’m a student.” she continues, “Hey everyone! It’s my birthday soon!!!”
At unnecessary volume, Portia-Camille regales her self-centred plans, and the exact date and location, to the increasing weary sighs of most passengers around.
I descend the steps to get off a couple of steps early, and remind myself of the benefits of walking. ¶ Posted by Unluckyman at 4:24 PM
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“Yes, I think that would be very interesting indeed”, the overly-loud Roedean-educated voice sounds, giving suspicion that whatever follows will not be interesting one little bit.
“A very interesting experiment” continues our Portia-Camille, “to investigate what motivates passengers to choose their seat.”
Already irritated by her unashamed inanity, I stare out of the window, relieved that I instinctively chose any seat not next to her.
“Look at that new building!” she exclaims, in earshot of everyone on the bus, upstairs and down, “It’s… NEW!!!”.
“It’s for key workers” mumbles a friend, utilising what I imagine to be a rare opportunity to interrupt their overbearing companion.
“Oh dear” sneers Portia-Camille, “I wouldn’t like to live there…”
I sigh at her narrow and patronising worldview, grateful that new accommodation is being built for our undervalued key workers, albeit angry at the discrimination against their undervalued and overlooked shoe repairing colleagues.
“I’m glad I’m a student.” she continues, “Hey everyone! It’s my birthday soon!!!”
At unnecessary volume, Portia-Camille regales her self-centred plans, and the exact date and location, to the increasing weary sighs of most passengers around.
I descend the steps to get off a couple of steps early, and remind myself of the benefits of walking. ¶ Posted by Unluckyman at 4:24 PM
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Monday, December 06, 2004
Times a-changin’
Returning home from an unexpected last-minute invite to a gig I decided, for the first time in months, to detour via my local’s Sunday Night Karaoke. (Previous posts 1, 2 and 3 refer).
Several months since my last attendance, the place wasn’t as I’d left it.
First, it was dark outside, rather than the late summer sunset.
Second, the interior was splattered with unashamedly garish Christmas decorations, obscuring the new Thai menu.
Third, the regular cowboy boot-wearing Karaoke compere had been replaced by a shorter, fatter, balder version.
Although locals of all backgrounds still mixed well, and ‘Blind’ Bloke still ambled happily through the establishment, pointing out his favoured beer to the barstaff, things felt somehow different.
I sat myself down at a spare corner table in a dark corner to immerse myself in the familiar ambience. But immediately realised the barmaid had not heard my third request for dry roasted peanuts as I bit into the gristle of my surprise bag of pork scratchings. Yet these seemed somehow more fitting with New SNK.
As I looked around to survey proceedings, a dark haired chav sat among mates at a central table nodded at me, raising his eyebrows. I ignored him, but could not resist checking him as I looked back again. He did it again. I ignored him again, repeated, he did same. By the time he reverted back to chatting with his mates, I was convinced he had Tourette’s, and that it would be rude to stare any further.
I held back, watching the performances instead, until he wandered over and interrupted a few minutes later:
“Sorry mate, I know yooz ’avin’ a quiet pint n’all” I heard him say through sound of the loud chav pop classics, “I just wondered if yooz wanted any friends?”
“Eh?” I answered, staggered at this abject rudeness.
“I just wondered if yooz ’ad any spliff?” I heard him repeat.
“No, I haven’t” I replied, surprised why I’d cast such an immediate impression.
“Noze mate” he repeated, “I just wondered if yooz wanted any?”.
I finally understood.
Things had indeed changed.
The pub’s pop idol wannabe Terri had since been replaced by a Jamelia wannabe, resplendent in a ridiculously short red mini-skirt (/belt) and showcasing obviously diligently-rehearsed dance routine and vocal pyrotechnics.
And Bandy-Legged Granny had, it seemed, been replaced by Maureen from ‘Driving School’. Karaoke’s simply not complete without a mature lady’s overenthusiastic dancing, sidling up to every table containing young men, before grabbing a chosen victim’s arm, and shouting much too loud “E’s a’wright, ’e iz!”.
Though different, it was good to be back. ¶ Posted by Unluckyman at 1:20 PM
|
Several months since my last attendance, the place wasn’t as I’d left it.
First, it was dark outside, rather than the late summer sunset.
Second, the interior was splattered with unashamedly garish Christmas decorations, obscuring the new Thai menu.
Third, the regular cowboy boot-wearing Karaoke compere had been replaced by a shorter, fatter, balder version.
Although locals of all backgrounds still mixed well, and ‘Blind’ Bloke still ambled happily through the establishment, pointing out his favoured beer to the barstaff, things felt somehow different.
I sat myself down at a spare corner table in a dark corner to immerse myself in the familiar ambience. But immediately realised the barmaid had not heard my third request for dry roasted peanuts as I bit into the gristle of my surprise bag of pork scratchings. Yet these seemed somehow more fitting with New SNK.
As I looked around to survey proceedings, a dark haired chav sat among mates at a central table nodded at me, raising his eyebrows. I ignored him, but could not resist checking him as I looked back again. He did it again. I ignored him again, repeated, he did same. By the time he reverted back to chatting with his mates, I was convinced he had Tourette’s, and that it would be rude to stare any further.
I held back, watching the performances instead, until he wandered over and interrupted a few minutes later:
“Sorry mate, I know yooz ’avin’ a quiet pint n’all” I heard him say through sound of the loud chav pop classics, “I just wondered if yooz wanted any friends?”
“Eh?” I answered, staggered at this abject rudeness.
“I just wondered if yooz ’ad any spliff?” I heard him repeat.
“No, I haven’t” I replied, surprised why I’d cast such an immediate impression.
“Noze mate” he repeated, “I just wondered if yooz wanted any?”.
I finally understood.
Things had indeed changed.
The pub’s pop idol wannabe Terri had since been replaced by a Jamelia wannabe, resplendent in a ridiculously short red mini-skirt (/belt) and showcasing obviously diligently-rehearsed dance routine and vocal pyrotechnics.
And Bandy-Legged Granny had, it seemed, been replaced by Maureen from ‘Driving School’. Karaoke’s simply not complete without a mature lady’s overenthusiastic dancing, sidling up to every table containing young men, before grabbing a chosen victim’s arm, and shouting much too loud “E’s a’wright, ’e iz!”.
Though different, it was good to be back. ¶ Posted by Unluckyman at 1:20 PM
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Friday, December 03, 2004
There's no need to be afraid
Arriving home from a top festive gig hideously drunk, I munch on a Scotch Egg with salad dips – the best my fridge could offer – and put on some music.
Nourished, I lie back and close my eyes, awaiting my Norfolk pal’s arrival from his first Christmas party.
I relax as I listen to the excellent Mark Lanegan.
Dulcet tones, rocking backing, thoughtful lyrics, and Scotch Egg: life doesn’t get much better than this.
Knock! Crash! Stumble!
“Unlucky!” screams the familiar voice from downstairs, “You there?”
I open my door and walk down a few steps to be greeted by JonnyB’s familiar silhouette.
“I had trouble with my spare key” he explains, unnecessarily, “but seem to have sorted it now.”
I greet him as best I can in my slurred state: “Good party?”
“Yeah. Here...” he offers, handing a white plastic bag, “...Happy Christmas!”
We take our bags into the kitchen and open a complex suite of boxes containing pitta breads, salad, sauces and, to cap it off, a ridiculous amount of meat.
“I thought I’d treat ourselves to a mixed grill instead of the usual kebab”, he explains.
“Thanks. There’s enough here to feed a small village.” I reply, before the irony dawns on me that this is probably exactly what he will be doing with the leftovers.
In contrast to every previous encounter of ours, I sober up as we catch up into the early hours.
The next morning, the kitchen looks like the aftermath of an unsuccessful UN food drop.
We agree the idea of a fry-up has lost its appeal.
As he leaves Jonny points at his tossed pants, socks and T-shirt.
“Same again?” he asks.
By now I know the washing routine, if not quite remembering how or why.
“Same again.” I reluctantly agree, “They'll be clean for your return next week.”
It’s Christmas time. ¶ Posted by Unluckyman at 3:45 PM
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Nourished, I lie back and close my eyes, awaiting my Norfolk pal’s arrival from his first Christmas party.
I relax as I listen to the excellent Mark Lanegan.
Dulcet tones, rocking backing, thoughtful lyrics, and Scotch Egg: life doesn’t get much better than this.
Knock! Crash! Stumble!
“Unlucky!” screams the familiar voice from downstairs, “You there?”
I open my door and walk down a few steps to be greeted by JonnyB’s familiar silhouette.
“I had trouble with my spare key” he explains, unnecessarily, “but seem to have sorted it now.”
I greet him as best I can in my slurred state: “Good party?”
“Yeah. Here...” he offers, handing a white plastic bag, “...Happy Christmas!”
We take our bags into the kitchen and open a complex suite of boxes containing pitta breads, salad, sauces and, to cap it off, a ridiculous amount of meat.
“I thought I’d treat ourselves to a mixed grill instead of the usual kebab”, he explains.
“Thanks. There’s enough here to feed a small village.” I reply, before the irony dawns on me that this is probably exactly what he will be doing with the leftovers.
In contrast to every previous encounter of ours, I sober up as we catch up into the early hours.
The next morning, the kitchen looks like the aftermath of an unsuccessful UN food drop.
We agree the idea of a fry-up has lost its appeal.
As he leaves Jonny points at his tossed pants, socks and T-shirt.
“Same again?” he asks.
By now I know the washing routine, if not quite remembering how or why.
“Same again.” I reluctantly agree, “They'll be clean for your return next week.”
It’s Christmas time. ¶ Posted by Unluckyman at 3:45 PM
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Thursday, December 02, 2004
Spinning plates
Freelancing, I've been told, is all about keeping plates spinning.
Spin enough, so the wisdom goes, and things will turn out OK.
Twenty-four hours ago, I was buoyed by the confidence of having three plates fiercely spinning:
Plate One: Successful global brand seeks marketing manager to implement launch in UK, and further afield in Europe.
My take: What an opportunity! Varied, diversified, interesting. Frequent visits to North America, France and Germany. Language-learning opportunities, and the fact it’s an online dating company wouldn’t be open to abuse AT ALL.
Outcome: Canadian marketing manager, evangelical about my abilities throughout, has last-minute change of heart and selfishly take the job themselves. Plate One crashes.
Plate Two: Highly-regarded global agency seeks project manager to firefight way through bureaucracy to get local team off the ground in the Far East for immediate start then hang round a couple of months, all expenses paid.
My take: Yellow Fever! Get fucking in. What time’s my plane?
Outcome: Agency finds someone local instead. Plate Two crashes.
Plate Three: Award-winning integrated agency seeks account director to manage loyalty scheme clients.
My take: Fine. Yes please.
Outcome: Agency doesn’t need anyone anymore. Plate Three crashes.
Need to find some new plates to spin.
I’d recently been criticised this blog simply hadn’t been unlucky enough of late. I hope this isn’t the start of a new phase. So I'm keeping the faith. ¶ Posted by Unluckyman at 3:41 PM
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Spin enough, so the wisdom goes, and things will turn out OK.
Twenty-four hours ago, I was buoyed by the confidence of having three plates fiercely spinning:
Plate One: Successful global brand seeks marketing manager to implement launch in UK, and further afield in Europe.
My take: What an opportunity! Varied, diversified, interesting. Frequent visits to North America, France and Germany. Language-learning opportunities, and the fact it’s an online dating company wouldn’t be open to abuse AT ALL.
Outcome: Canadian marketing manager, evangelical about my abilities throughout, has last-minute change of heart and selfishly take the job themselves. Plate One crashes.
Plate Two: Highly-regarded global agency seeks project manager to firefight way through bureaucracy to get local team off the ground in the Far East for immediate start then hang round a couple of months, all expenses paid.
My take: Yellow Fever! Get fucking in. What time’s my plane?
Outcome: Agency finds someone local instead. Plate Two crashes.
Plate Three: Award-winning integrated agency seeks account director to manage loyalty scheme clients.
My take: Fine. Yes please.
Outcome: Agency doesn’t need anyone anymore. Plate Three crashes.
Need to find some new plates to spin.
I’d recently been criticised this blog simply hadn’t been unlucky enough of late. I hope this isn’t the start of a new phase. So I'm keeping the faith. ¶ Posted by Unluckyman at 3:41 PM
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