chinese ministry

Friday was dreadful, I was so exhausted at work I could barely keep my eyes open. Rather than fall asleep at lunchtime I took it on myself to get my new leather boots soled. Shoe leather doesn’t have much longevity and suffers in wet weather; it acts rather like a potato on contact with water eventually causing liquid to arrive on the underside of ones foot by foul the foul chemistry of osmosis, fuck that, I said to an old lady’s face as I entered the heel bar.

I’d an hour to kill, so I groaned my way to HMV in order to procure the latest offing from popular beat combo Minstry, they’ve just released a covers album. It’s rather de rigeur for ‘metal’ bands to undertake such ventures, Slayer’s Undisputed Attitude is a masterpiece and it could be argued that Metallica’s Garage Days is their finest release, in true piqued fashion I’ve digressed, forgive me, I’m fraught with malaise.

‘You got Cover Up by Ministry?’ I said to the gum-chewing child behind the counter after failing to find it in their comic subdivisions.
‘What?’ He said looking at me as if I’d just spat a turd into his sculpting wax, I gave him a withering glance, ‘Oh Ministry of Sound, yeah, hang, o…’
‘…No’ I hissed, ‘not Ministry of fucking Sound, do I look like I do glo-sticks?’ I was delirious with the squitters and in no mood for innocent misunderstanding.
The young lad looked a little worried
‘I don’t know what you mean’, he said looking as if he might cry, his pricked up hair wilting under the halygon lighting.
‘Put ‘Ministry’’ into your computer and tell me what it says…’ By now I was starting to sound like Clint Eastwood, I could feel a queue bristling behind me. He tapped at the keyboard, after what seemed like an hour he piped up.
‘Oh, we’re expecting delivery of ‘Cover Up’ next week…Er, you want me to pre-order it for you?’ He looked up at me preparing to flinch.
‘No’, I said, ‘No, I don’t believe I want you to do that, no.’ and on the verge of passing out I wandered out the shop into the sunshine feeling like a proper tit.

I should’ve taken some heed of this incident, everything was weird and out of place, I reluctantly picked up some food and my newly shod boots and went back to the office where I fought with sleep for a further three hours.

Things weren’t that much better when I got home, lunch had made me feel sick and I was still absurdly tired. I called up Myfwt who was still feeling dreadful too. Turns out she’s got Chicken Pox –I nonchalantly mentioned her nephew had it last week? Her ‘immune’ theory didn’t hold much water I’m afraid, she’s currently convalescing at her flat refusing visitors on terms of altruism. Oh, I had it so I should be fine…still.

Friday evening was a disaster, I was feeling so rank I only managed 1 pint, I spurned my second after a few sips, I don’t think I’ve ever done that, Frank was rather taken aback. I made up for it on Saturday though, I’d had a day of rest, popped out for some supplies and had done some writing but apart from that I was recovering from the working week and having the shit of budget cola. On Saturday evening in the local Frank and I had one of those symbiotic conversations where everything flowed to a considered point before the formula was revised with another topic. We supped a variety of hand pumped ales and ended the evening facing a huge bonfire in the pub garden discussing female workers during the second world war before returning to our homes. I was feeling much better now, I whacked on some music and enjoyed a few G&T’s before going to bed late a bit pissed but by no means drunk saving myself a vast Sunday hangover.

I woke up to snow; I stood blinking at the window watching it fall not entirely sure what was going on, it was coming down heavily. My bro was due over for Sunday lunch so I began to prepare the vegetables. I’d already slapped the lamb up with rosemary and garlic the night before. By the time he arrived the snow had pretty much vanished which bode well for the afternoon. Lunch was devoured, there was much of it and it was fucking splendid, the crisp spuds were done to a tee having absorbed some of the lamb juices and the subsequent gravy, whilst not abundant, it had a thousand times more flavour than anything out of a jar or packet. A bottle of wine accompanied this taste sensation and we took charis for afters, following a giggling session at youtube footage of people being sick my bro and I wrapped up and walked out into the cold April afternoon. We were on a mission.

Destination: North Greenwich. My bros missus and her mate had arranged to meet some Amnesty International Members out side the tube to kick up a bit of a stink over the China Olympics. In case some of my readers have been eating lead, China were awarded the Olympics with the proviso they cleaned up their human rights record, something they’ve spectacularly failed to achieve. In addition to the situation in Tibet the Chinese government executes 8000 people a year without what could be regarded as a fair trail, essentially, you speak up against the Chinese regime, you’re toast.

My bro and I were feeling a little dozy on the tube but by the time we arrived at North Greenwich we were feeling a little more able. We met up with his missus and her mate, caught up with some Amnesty protesters and wandered to the bank of the Thames surrounded by hundreds of police who inadvertently fenced a potpourri of Amnesty types and pro Tibet protesters into a single posse.

I’ve been a member of Amnesty for 5 years but this was the first time I’ve ever actively protested, in fact it occurred to me I’d not protested about anything since my days with CND. I hadn’t missed much, standing about with a bunch of oddballs isn’t my preferred way to spend a Sunday afternoon but you’ve got to give the activists their due, it felt good being there, as the fuggle of booze and charis left my system I began to appreciate that it was actually a very good thing I was in attendance.

The atmosphere was tense but peaceful; we were flanked by hundreds of police and groups of pro Chinese Olympic supporters, the latter were rather perplexed by our presence and responded to our chants of ‘Shame on China’ with, ironically, ‘We Have Rights Too’.

After an hour or so the flame arrived by boat and down a gangplank framed by purple pops of fireworks. Cheering, boos and shouting accompanied tens of running police, dozens of Chinese security and within, one tiny athlete bearing a measly flame, they passed right by us and the shouting peaked causing the police to line in front of the group and face us with folded arms, the berks.

We followed the torch to its final destination with thousands of anti Chinese demonstrators heckling speakers with boos and yells, in among the crowd were a few pro Chinese supporters looking dismayed and upset, some in tears. I watched the crowd as one; there was no personal insults or acts of aggression, just a unified democratic voice voicing it’s disapproval, when the speaking was done the crowd evaporated and we took a packed tube back to South London for a post protest pint feeling jolly pleased with ourselves.

I only stayed for one, Frank and Harry had invited me for a spontaneous curry. I said a fond goodbye to my co-protestors and walked by Clapham Common to the tube. It was getting near to 9pm when Frank, Harry and I arrived at the restaurant. I was feeling hungry but it was only when I ate I decided that lunch was still sustaining me and I picked at my delicious combination of dishes like a bird. I managed to inhale a pint of Kingfisher mind you and, despite my appetite, had done a pretty good job on my meal when the bill arrived.

Harry reminded about this band last night, without going into details he’s working with one of the chaps, please notice your shoes when listening, stare at them, for they are fine shoes, fine