choob

The underground walk between The Northern Line and The Jubilee Line is, during rush hour at least, weird. Fritz Lang’s classic movie Metropolis is much in evidence, of course, but it’s when you’re in the throng that a peculiar aspect of being makes itself known. It’s not so much the trudging in the same direction en-mass; it’s the sound of shoes, nothing but shoes. So many people, no one speaking, or having any communication whatsoever, not even eye contact. You’re absorbed into a hueless blob of purpose in order to conform to the dictate of capitalism, save the sound of thousands of pieces of shoe leather making contact with granolithic concrete, there is nothing remotely human about the environment one finds oneself in. At first I found it rather amusing, no one talking, no cries of either despair or exultation, then I saw myself in the crowds flocking in the direction of this office and I concluded that far from being whimsical this situation was fucking awful.

The weekend went in a flash. It began in my flat with Swineshead and Ned enjoying a spot of murder on the PS3. As with these things the evening began to get more and more frazzled, giggling broke out, we were having a right royal time. Then our respective partners arrived from a meal out and we found ourselves back in reality, well some of us, Ned played on regardless much to my amusement. In fact Ned stayed well after everyone apart from IC had toddled off home.

After a very late breakfast on Saturday I cleaned my gaff and IC and I took the bus to London Bridge. From there we walked through Borough Market down the embankment passing marvellous bits of history with the Thames lapping at the shore to our collective left. The views and the sheer innocent joy of just walking in our city in all that space made up for the intense cold. We nipped into the Tate Modern to visit Miroslaw Balka’s ‘How It Is’ in The Turbine Hall. The huge sculpture is reminiscent of a cattle truck; one enters from the rear and is gradually absorbed into a disorientating blackness. I’m fairly sure the innate comparisons with the logistics of the holocaust are no accident, or maybe that’s just me? Either way I couldn’t help thinking about those dreadful railways and their beautiful, terminal cargo.

Cocktails were in order. We walked over Hungerford Bridge as the moon peeped from behind the cloud in the East; we took a while to gaze at our favourite satellite as it rose over the undulating waters of the Thames casting golden lights on its surface, then headed down through Charing Cross, Covent Garden and into Soho. Trying to find a place to imbibe comfortably on a Saturday night was no mean feat, but it was still quite early, 6-ish, and we eventually found a place that had a happy hour and free seating by the bar. The music was reprehensible but other factors made the venue more than bearable, the drinks and seating ostensibly. I began with a whisky sour and followed it with a gin Martini; IC had a pair of rum sours and a row with the cocktail waiter over its price. I watched her performance with pride, that’s my girl you see.

At 8-ish we walked to Carnaby Street and took a place in a bar hired by friends for the purposes of celebrating The Roberts’ birthday. I procured a bottle of wine for IC and I and in a flash the place was packed. A fella formally known as Robotic Chap arrived with Rose and a small entourage and much shouting over music happened. I was quite lubricated by the time we left, which wasn’t too late and neither IC or I had eaten yet. At home I roasted some tomato and onion, which was served with enormous fish cakes. And Champagne, the latter had been liberated from work, I wouldn’t pay for that stuff, Prosecco is much better and vastly cheaper… still, neither of us were complaining.

Sunday already, we had breakfast at IC’s and did a spot of shopping before retiring to our respective flats. I had to clean the fucking kitchen floor with a mop and shit, a task I loathe with abundance. I had a go on the PS3 to fix me and read the paper for a bit. IC came down and we played Scrabble for a while… bearing in mind English isn’t her first language, and the fact she not played it before, she did surprisingly well. We ate nut roast in front of a particularly amusing Come Dine With Me and polished off the evening with A Prophet, which isn’t as good as one would believe from the hype but a blast nonetheless.

The reason I was forced onto Johnson’s Shame, and the very reason I have to repeat this horrific exercise later, is because I’ve a meeting this afternoon. It’s not all bad though; I should get home earlier as result and I get out of this place for the afternoon.

Look, lot’s of Brutta-clones (though not as good, obviously)