On a Monday there is only one reason why one would come into work, it’s very straightforward when you strip everything away. Coffee.
Fortunately, the boss likes the stuff too so we’ve a half decent machine. And that’s it really. My single eternal motivation for coming into work, dangled in front of me like the proverbial carrot on a stick as I rise, dress, bus, tube, walk and finally cycle. Christ.
Obviously Monday never helps when one has had a blistering weekend. Thinking back to last Friday from my perch it’s as if I was on a different planet. It got underway when I arrived at IC’s in Hackney at 7.30 after a non-day in the office; Mary cut my hair in the kitchen, which is the last word in separating the self from the working week and presenting the new incarnation to the weekend to be.
We three had a few sharpeners and made our way over to Orlando’s gaff containing a dozen ready-to-go types stuck into wine and such-like. As a group we took the bus to Angel and made our way to our destination, a club -dark, dry-ice- and settled in.
It’s only since I met IC that I’ve been ‘clubbing’ again. I like to avoid the word ‘clubbing’ as it implies vast rooms of cunts moving like defibrillated zombies to the vacuous mono-beat-offing of some artless gitprong fiddling with knobs. This is a tad unfair as some DJ’s do possess genuine talent, it’s just the majority of them are under the misapprehension they’re musicians and contain ego’s that vastly outweigh an ability to nick someone’s song and slap it over the sound of industrial demolition.
The clubs I used to frequent were dark and a bit scary, only made comfortable by the use of intoxicants and a poker face. Fortunately, the place I’d arrived in reminded me of being 20 again, though I’m not, and neither were most of the guests. The first band came on at midnight, they were called S.C.U.M and I liked them in an instant. They reminded me of a young Bauhaus/Jesus and Mary Chain and I took it on myself to try and help them out in ways I’m not entitled to discuss here. Indeed, they were far more impressive than Nitzer Ebb, the headline act that finally took to the stage at 2am.
I have to say I was less than impressed by their audience too. ‘Fucking rude’ is the phrase that springs to mind. I’ve seen some of the most unpleasant death metal and punk bands on the planet, I can’t recall an instance when, carrying drinks, I’ve had people refuse point blank to move out of my way… I walked from the back of Hammersmith Empire to the front when I last saw Slayer with two pints last year. I didn’t spill a drop! On Friday 2 glasses of whisky and coke were reduced to a couple of melting ice cubes in an inch of tan liquid.
Can’t moan that much though, IC and I had a splendid night, despite the crowd, and it was fun to bump into members of our group as we meandered about the place. By 4 or so we were done, we took the bus back home on the top deck sprawled in splendid isolation. I’m fairly sure we had a final nip of the good stuff before crawling into bed at dawn… I certainly recall the following lunchtime when I woke with a cheese grater skull.
IC and I ate breakfast and headed off to a tattoo shop in Shoreditch via Broadway Market in order for IC to get a piercing changed. We walked miles in a state of comatose, floating about the place like dandelion clocks until finally arriving at the venue exhausted. After a standoff with the owner (rude fat bastard he was) the deed was done and we took the bus home to recuperate from the ordeal. Almost as soon as we had settled we were off again to Hampstead to meet some friends in pub that had employed one of our pals -Dave.
We sat outside tentatively drinking wine. A behemoth panic attack gripped me as the hangover handed itself over to a fresh supply of booze rendering me silent for about 20 mins. It passed and I was free, back to indulge in my Saturday night with friends and a rather neat Cote de Rhone. Suddenly the evening accelerated and almost as soon we’d settled we were off to catch the final train to Hackney Central, it was if we were home in an instant. Foolishly IC and I decided to stay up for a little while longer. It was dawn when we finally decided we were done.
IC woke me on Sunday just before the Grand Prix, I nipped out to get a paper and some provisions and got back minutes before the start of what transpired to be a dull but positive race. It heralded the beginning of a lovely, lazy and, sensibly, alcohol free Sunday. The latter fact is even more remarkable when you consider we ate ‘British Tapas’ (little home made fish fingers and fishcakes, hand cut chips and wee venison burgers) in a pub at 5-ish with nout but Virgin Mary’s.
We watched TV and Barton Fink, a lesser-known yet brilliant offing from the Coen Brothers, and flopped about as if made from rubber. Marvellous.
I’m gonna grab a third cup of coffee, I’ll leave you with some S.C.U.M…
