Out of town

"so i be ghost from my projects
i take my pen and pad for the week and hittin' L's while i'm sleep'
on a two day stay, you may say i need the time alone
to relax my dome, no phone, left the 9 at home
you see the streets have me stressed something terrible.."

Nas – One Love

Ok so I haven't got a nine, and I actually took my phone (though I might as well have taken one of those snake shaped draught excluders for all the good it did me) But the last few days were spent on a hillside in Wales.

I was literally surrounded by green, but neither of the crisp folding persuasion, nor the sticky kind that makes you laugh at crap films and walk to the garage at two in the morning to buy a twix. No it was the rather more prosaic form of green that sheep/cows eat, though there was lots of it, and it was probably partly to thank for the lovely fresh air that I got to imbibe for the duration of my stay; it's been a veritable tonic.

So I've done bugger all really, save walk aound, check emails, chill and read books (Truecrime by Jake Arnott, great, and Devil in a Blue Dress by Walter Mosely, almost finished). I also recovered a few bits and pieces that were languishing in my mum and dads' garage, thou not a great deal really – my Orb 'live 93' poster being one of them, along with a Henri Lloyd jacket that had a busted zip the last time I saw it (from my 26th birthday when I ended up getting bitten by a drunken Isrish man, don't ask).

And now here I am, back in babylon, staring down the barrel of another bank holiday weekend, and more immediately, a house meeting tonight. Can't wait. Got to don my 'Victor Mature' hat to talk reasonably about cleaning rotas and the house cleaning kitty. Then I might go to the pub afterwards to moan about it to someone else.

Celebrity Spotting

I saw Gail Porter in Marks and Spencer in Soho today.

Other celebs I've seen whilst in London include the guy who plays Martin Fowler in Eastenders outside the cafe across the road from the John Snow pub (I overheard him say something like "I dunno, I don't even know the geezer" as I strolled past, ears burning) the guy with the really flat profile/wonky nose who was in Holby City and that Smirnoff Ice ad where he's got off with his mate's mum at a party – he in a pub in Clapham junction, and Brian Dowling, who I saw strolling along just north of Oxford Street clutching a Louis Vuitton bag.

Pretty good eh?

I'm off to Wales tomorrow, where the only celebrities I'm likely to meet will probably be prize winning livestock.

Friday

All quiet on the western front.

Things I saw on the way to work this morning:

Two police support officers removing sheathes of those postcard sized chatline cards from a phonebox on the Charing Cross road.

Went to the Blues Bar on kingly street last night, and drank lager in the presence of Gridrunner and man like Zeon Cosini. Saw a guy there amidst the crowd that lived, or still lives in all probability, in Muswell Hill with a girl I saw last year. Couldn't remember his name though, so there really didn't seem much point in saying anything to him.

Then went to The Coffee House round the corner, which is, according to a clipping above the bar 'the pub where regulars go to be insulted'. They don't dissapoint either, and the guy behind the bar kept yelling "lightweight!" at me because I was trailing Ade in beer consumption. Also, last year when I was having about three pints on my luch break before nearly missing a flight to Corfu, the wizzened old guy kept whistling the Scooby Doo theme at me (I had long hair and a beard – I think he was implying I looked like shaggy).

Then went home and ate noodles and internetted.

Things I can see from my desk:

A photo of a a fat, gormless looking grey cat staring at me from the divider between the desks. I think it belongs to Carole who usually sits here (insofar as cats belong to anyone).

A stapler with 'Kate' written on it in black marker on Carole's desk.

Um, my hands?

That's not it obviously, but those are the things that stand out right now.

Well, another bank holiday weekend, and this time my brother's in town, so I feel I should really impress him with the glory that is London – go and do something interesting say, rather than drink in the Hermits Cave. Drink in the Joiners Arms maybe?.

I'm bored. Straw poll: what's in everybody's right pocket?

I've got:

Two pound coins

Some Wrigley's Sugarfree Gum (peppermint flavour)

My Wallet.

That's it.

zz

Really tired again; yet more no sleep action. Frankly, I feel slightly pissed (and no, I didn't drink last night). Maybe this would make a cheaper alterntive to boozng in the future? When aware of an impending date where alcohol is to be consumed in quantity, I could simply stay in and give sleep a miss for the night, and, hey presto! posess the glassy eyed torpor of the post-inebriated, but with a healthier bank balance and liver. There, that's my 'top-tip' for the day.

On a happier note I just hade a look on ebay, and a Futura 2000 print I bought in 2001 is going for nearly five times what I paid for it then. It's not even that good quality a print to be honest, as the stock is very thin and the screenprinting slightly dodgy. But still.. nice to know some baggy jeaned hipster somewhere's willing to pay big for it (and there were 29 bidders when I last checked).

Painted the living room completely white yesterday, and it looks great. A vast improvement on the previous sickly yellowy rent-a-beige anyhow. It took me Marvyn and Cecilia about four hours to do, and was actually quite enjoyable as some relatively no-brain jobs sometimes are. We listened to music as we were doing it – Animal Collective and Hi Records soul compilations, mainly, which I'd heartily reccomend to anyone doing likewise, and the time flew by. I got a pair of 'designer' paint spattered jeans out of it too.

It almost might not have happened too, as Cecilia went to get the paint rollers in the morning, Camberwell Church Street was cordoned off by police 'Do Not Cross' lines due to a shooting at the bottom of Grove Lane. This kind of thing seems to happen slightly to often for my liking on my street – Flashback to 2005 when me and Jess were talking in the living room only to hear rauccous sounds outside. What's this? Oh it's a phalanx of black suited police wih machine-guns wrestling two yardies to the ground. With dogs. While being filmed by CID. Oh. The best bit was that both the rudeboys were staring straight up at us from the ground when we looked out the window. Special.

Anyway. Too much merderation for my tastes. I laugh at Camberwell's eccentricities sometimes, but these eccentricities have as yet to pull a shank on me at the bus-stop, so I do so from a admittedly privileged position.

Top-tip two's probably keep your eyes out then, seen?

G'night G'bless

I'm sat up, it's twenty to five, the last of whichever housemate it was's syrupy orangle licqeur(?) is gone. The last Dire Straits tune fades to silent on my iTunes. Might be painting the living room tomorrow. Goodnight.

Good Friday

So just what is it that makes good friday so different, so damn good?

No work for starters, all tickety boo thus far then.

But what exactly do people do with their Bank Holidays? Anyone not involved in traditional bank holiday pursuits such as going to B&Q or the pub might like to do what I've been doing. "And what's that?" I hear you scream with such intensity that your spittle temporarily blinds me.

Well. Woke up this morning and read a bit of The Incal 2, by Moebius, then ate breakfast with Marvyn watching some Second World War comedy film thing called Ensign Pulver. It's a kind of shades of Sgt Bilko type affair set on a ship, and not actually that good. Most of what I saw involved the hapless Ensign Pulver ogling a bevvy of nurses stationed on the island they're anchored off – and comic hi-jinks ensue etc.

Then went and bought a scanner in town on Tottenham Court Road. Going to test drive it in a minute. I also got the latest All Star Superman by the team of Grant Morrison and my fave 'drawerer' Frank Quitely. He' really is almost too good. There's so much detail in each of his panels that each issue demands a reread just to drink up the little touches dotted around. We3 that they also collaborated on is also rather splendid. cyborg pets in exo-skeletal armour – what's not to like?

And now, I'm writing this, obviously. But just before then, I was staring at assorted bits of paper relating to banking, and trying in my own limited way to make some sense of them. The ongoing saga of me setting up as a limited company gets more tortuous each passing week. At the minute I've got a load of tax stuff from the Inland Revenue, who've managed to mis-spell the name of my company – a company I've as yet to invoice anyone for any money with, I might add. I really want to get this moving, but at the minute I'm just waiting for the final documents and information relating to it all to arrive. The woman I've dealt with at HSBC said she'd leave the relevant papers at the Baker Street branch yesterday, which I duly hiked to from Tottenham Court Road on my lunch break only to find she hadn't. I duly wheeled 180 degrees and trudged back – and that was my lunch break. Anyway. Also emailed Amnesty International to bitch at them about one of their shifty tabard wearing street people.

And later? who knows. Probably involves food at some point, but what I'm not sure exactly. I think the oven's broken now. but nothing in this fucking flat works anyway. Not even me today! Hah.

Just bought a Kinder Egg, which contained a 'haunted tree' which was something I never thought I'd need, but there you are.

Alright chaps, have a good un.

Tired

Man I'm tired.

I slept for two and a half hours last night, which combined with five or so the previous night makes for about seven hours out of the last fifty whatever. I actually went to bed early (for me) at 11, and fell asleep to at two, only to wake up at half four, and not be able to get back to sleep.

This has been going on for a few weeks now, and it's really starting to wear me out. I just really want to sleep a good nights sleep before work, but am seemingly incapable.

I feel wired, and somewhat stupid. I keep on making really crass mistakes, and am almost too tired to care. Yesterday on leaving the office I kept pushing on the door until the girl on reception gently said, "just pull it sweetheart".

I realised I'd been reading the "push" printed graphic on the outside of the glass (in reverse, of course)

Mentally, I feel on the level of watching lots of daytime tv, and that's about it. Countdown would probably seem as tough as quantum physics right now though.

If I can just get through tomorrow, I might just hibernate over Easter and not leave my bed.. In the meantime though, any sleeping tips?

This is getting trippy.

Stu-stu-studio

Well, monday rolls around again, and though I wasn't booked to work anywhere, here I be, in the studio of an agency on Rathbone Street. Looks OK. I'm told I'll be working on direct mail shortly. Hmm. Can't complain, or more accurately, turn the work down if it's offered, but I had planned on sorting some other stuff out. Like cleaning the flat. Woo.

Last week I was back at the dadvertising agency on Dean Street, which came and went, moderately painlessly. Lots of mocking up to do, which was slightly tedious – One of the slight perks of doing such things these days is that people don't use spraymount anymore, so you might live a bit longer anyway. I wasn't sleeping very well though, and one of the corollary risks of running on empty like this while working with scalpels was lopping an errant thumb tip off in an especially enthusiastic bout of trimming. I've jus checked though, and all digits remain intact, including that all important middle digit, which is handy because..

I did find out this morning though that I wasn't getting paid overtime for the evening work I did, which takes the piss a bit, as it was only time and a half, and I only did two and a half hours anyway. Gee thanks, tightwads. The girl at the agency put it down to them being a small agency and not having allowances for overheads like that etc etc.. blah blah.

Weekend was ok. Went to a Spanish place on Hanway Street, where I drank lots of bottles of Spanish beer, which somone else was paying for on their tab, then promptly regretted it when it came to divvying up at the end.

Saturday went to Clapham North for drinks, then wound up going to a nondescript party up the road off Camberwell Grove. Someone was playing somewhat nondescript drum and bass, so I stood by the decks and worked my way through two plates of free pizza (leaving the crusts) before vanishing bedward.

Nearly Easter, then. Not sure what I'm doing for it. Might go back to Manchester, but I'm not sure. The appeal of sleeping on couches for an entire weekend has started to lose some of its native charm recently.. not sure why but I definitely like waking up with two pences and cig butts stuck to my face less than I did a couple of years ago. On the other hand, I'm not sure who's going to still be around Londres for the festivities, so if there isn't anyone, perhaps I should get organising a solo easter egg hunt for myself. Or maybe dress as a giant rabbit and befriend the alcoholics and nutters of Camberwell.

Which reminds me. Whilst walking up Camberwell Church Street the other day I saw a Rasta guy dressed in black with 'DJ SILVER PRINCE' written on the back of his jacket in tippex. The cross bars of his bicycle had some kind of makeshift soundsystem attached, and though he wasn't playing anything, one could only surmise what he might if he had chosen too. My money's on some scratchy 70s dub (or the theme from fraggle rock) Either way, it's times like this you wish you had a camera, or one that worked anyway.

Haircut

Well went back to Manchester, fleetingly, and got my ears lowered as I generally do in those colder wetter climes.

The place I go is a The City Barbers, just a few doors up from The Roadhouse. It's run by a lovely guy called Jim, who's started to remember me. He's a pretty unpretentious type of guy, as happy dispensing short-back-and-sides or ceaser-cuts as anything, I suspect, but dude knows how to style it too. After all, this was the man that gave me a semi-mullet briefly in 2004, and happy I was with it too.

I used to go in on my lunch break. Once when I went in, he was scarfing down a curry, which he promptly ate to give me a cut. He'll also typically light up a cig mid-session, which he'll ocasionally retrieve from the ashtray with thick fingers, whilst gesticulating with the scissors held in the other hand "Getting these in for the ban next year mate". He's brown, slightly wrinkled, paunchy, a Manc.

He always asks how work's going, and tells me how his kid's doing, and narrates tales of the ex-wife with whom he's embroiled in some long running Kramer-esque feud. He never talks to me about football, which either means he doesn't like it himself, or some barberly sixth sense, (perhaps innate, perhaps bestowed by a device concealed in the chair) lets him know I'm not really bothered myself, and indeed find the ritual of confessing to a lack of interest in football as unrewarding as queueing to get frowned at. Either of these possibilities are fine with me.

Sometimes his patter is so good natured and unselfconcious I have to fight to control my laughter, quaking silently in the chair. He doesn't seem bothered though, and inevitably rambles on, about where he's taking his kid next year, or how he's always wanted to run a bar.

And a bargain too, at £9, for a gents haircut I don't think I'd get better than at. say, Toni and Guy (not that I've been). I tipped him a quid last time, and he said thanks, and then I left, with a colder neck, to return no doubt in a couple of months.

Result

Well, got jerked about royally this week on a booking out in Hertfordshire. After it was changed no less than three times, I turned up only to be told that they only had a days work for me – this after getting up at six and travelling for two hours to get there.

The work was fairly dull too, and got briefed in late, by someone hung over. Part of it was report and accounts, relentlessly copying and pasting figures from a word document into an Indesign template, then tabbing them, and after a few hours of that, my mind was well and truly fried.

Anyway, I'm using my newly non-working status tomorrow to flee back oop north, with the dual purpose of seeing some old faces and getting a few bits and pieces languishing round at my brothers. I'm getting a lift back with my new housemate Marvyn on Saturday.

I'm also getting my quarterly (or therabouts) haircut at the best barbers ever, in Manchester.. I shit you not, this guy is a dude.

But anyway, I'll blog about that later.

Just popped into Cash Converters on Walworth road and scooped a couple of CDs – a Shriekback best of compilation, and the Bring Da Ruckus compilation on Loud, which I've been looking out for a bit – mostly for the remix of Rainy Dayz by Raekwon, but really, it's crammed with what Tim Westwood would term 'hot joints', so a steal at £2.

Anyway, I'll probably write again post Manchester.

I don't beliieeeeve it

I appear to be turning into a Victor Meldrewish type figure, really. Thwarted by petty beauracracy and nursing a throbbing vein in my temple the size of a Nik-Nak (not nice and spicy flavour, either).

But I'm going to moan about one more thing, and then stop, alright? then return to writing haikus about, I dunno, snow blossom or something, and gazing at my poster of a wet kitten with the 'bad hair day' legend embazoned across it in comic sans.

Had today and Tuesday off, so endevoured to fulfill the second leg of my quest to become a limited company by opening a business bank account. Unfortunately I hadn't reckoned with the Camberwell branch of HSBC, where they've presumably had to reinforce the floors to cater for a typical days traffic, whilst simultaneously forgetting to employ anyone – anyone real at least.

I eventually spotted a weary looking HSBC employee at the head of a queue, to be told twenty minutes later that the soonest I could be seen was next Monday afternoon, if the world didn't end first. Man this guy was getting me depressed. Fair enough though, the only other sound above the paranoid aandroid's valium induced drawl was the sound of teeth getting sucked and middle englanders tutting behind me, which would've induced clinical melancholia in Ebeneezer Goode.

I agreed, but on leaving thought 'fuck it' I'll see if any other branches of my bank in the nations's capital would see me tomorrow for half an hour. Herein followed a debacle it probably takes an institution as monolithic and arrogant as the HSBC to unwhittingly engineer, as this simple exercise is now seemingly impossible.

Having gained the number of the Baker Street Branch off t'internet, I rang it at home, only to be greeted by that flat robotic woman's voice that makes me want to go out and smash phone boxes.

"YOUR CALL IS BEING HELD IN A QUEUE PLEASE HOLD THE LINE WHILE WHILE WE ATTEMPT TO CONNECT YOU TO A CUSTOMER SERVICE ADVISOR"

It intoned at me, irritatingly, before a tinny loop of Handel's Water Music kicked in, in a vain attempt to soothe me.

Then, predictably, after some Parappa-the-Rapper-esque tone dialling shenannigans I got connected to the inevitable call centre located in Delhi, or somewhere, where my 'customer service advisor' was scarcely more helpful than robot bird.

"Er, hi, I just want to speak to someone at the Baker Street branch to see if they'll see me tomorrow?"

I asked.

No fucking chance, it transpires. The girl offered to ring for me, again putting me on hold for yet another bout of torpid lift music, before informing me that no-one was answering the phone, though if I liked, she'd leave a message for me.
Ultimately it transpires, any number I get off the internet leads solely to one of these places, where my 'customer service' consists of someone telling me no one is picking up the phone somewhere else. Thanks.

Ultimately, I ended up going into central London and walking to the Baker Street branch, where within quarter of an hour I'd arranged a meeting for tomorrow, and the staff were very helpful and polite.

It did mean I missed Countdown though.

'The World's Local Bank'? yeah right.

OK enough!

See how the money goes

I went into the bank on my lunchbreak today, to cancel a standing order to my housemate who's moving out. (It was for broadband and NTL)

I also canclled the insurance on my old flat, that while negligable was unnecessary, and also discovered that yet more money was being pilfered off me.

When I moved down in November 2004, whilst roaming central London with a sheath of CVs in search of work, I ran into one of those charity workers in bright jackets who try to catch your eye, then clothes-line your conscience into submission. Instead of mumbling excuses and swerving round him I actually stopped listened to what he had to say, and despite being strapped eventually agreed to make a donation in the new year.

The agreement was it would come out in March, and I'd get a phone call to confirm it. I didn't actually get any such call, and the money came out in February but hey ho.

Anyway I since learned today that the donation was not just a one off – which is something the guy completely omitted to mention to me. Indeed I'd go as far as to say the implication was very much the opposite. It's not such a big deal, and OK the money is hopefully going to do some good, but I find the fact that it was obtained by means tantamount to deception somewhat.. disappointing really. They relied on my good nature to stop and agree to making a donation in the first place so not being completely transparent upfront is pretty sneaky if you ask me.

The woman at the bank said it was a pretty widely used tactic, you should always check the fine print, but then, HSBC hasn't exactly got room to gloat (she kept dabbing at the blood of her last 'customer' on her HSBC tunic ).

Oh well. good karma for me I suppose (though I might have mitigated it somewhat by bleating about it in a blog).

I also got offered nine and a half weeks (oo-er) contract work in Watford.

I turned it down because:

a) It was an in-house role

b) Brochure/Catalogue work (snore)

c) Watford

d) GOTO a)

Bankers

A girl called Alli I went to uni with back in the primordial mists of time once told me how she and her housemate, high on student life and hell-bent on hi jinks, had developed a novel way of disposing of tea bags with the little bits of string attached, wherein having removed them, they’d whirl them round, sling like, before catapulting them into the wall above the bin, allowing them to slide down leaving a brown sluggy tea stain on the wall.

That’s how my head feels now.

I’m sat in an agency on Baker Street, waiting for copy, staring out at scaffolding across the road. I’m drinking strong tea, and have just polished off a cinnamon whirl and a croissant.

Things I saw on the way to work this morning:

Two traders setting up at the Elephant & Castle market trading fisticuffs completely silently, while a third bloke tried to break them up, with very little success. Hard to work out exactly what was going on, but it looked like they were on the same stall. They were really swedging though, with some serious head pounding action

An old guy on the escalator on the tube at Baker street, bent at a nearly ninety degree angle, due to what? old person spine shrinkage or summat. Yoga please.

Found out just Wednesday while doing some sporadic letter opening that I’d gone over my overdraft, and my bank was cheerfully crucifying me for it (figuratively speaking of course – sorry Jews, Christians etc) which pretty much wiped out any money I earned in oh, the last two weeks. Basically they were charging me £30 every time I used my card, on top of some other charges which were probably set out in six point type (80% tint) on page six of something I signed in 1997.

Fair play to them though, I hear HSBC are a bit strapped these days, and they did offer me a loan to sort it out.

*cunts*

And in saying that I apologise to female genitalia everywhere - no offense intended for indirect association with these vampires.

What annoys me is the utterly superfluous nature of these charges - which effectively amount to a poor tax for chumps like yours truly. As Simon said last night, evil geniuses. I hate the way banks have the gall to actually crow when they’re not charging you for something too.

“We will not charge you for withdrawing money from this ATM”

Beamed an earnest HSBC cashpoint at me this morning. And? So you fucking shouldn’t.you cheeky, cheeky money hungry bitches. Honestly. Come the revolution...

Anyway Jules’s birfday at the Funky Munky (hate that name) tonight, so no doubt japes await me there.

Airhead

Well, I wrote a blog post yesterday, but it is currently languishing in simple text format on the desktop of a Mac in central London, so I'll have to get it up later.

I currently don't have internet access at my yard, so have returned to one of my haunts of old, the Banjonet internet place on the Walworth road. It's not even an internet cafe as it doesn't serve food, and it's the very definition of no frills. The keyboard I'm typing this on feels like a car has reversed over it, and beneath each of the mice is a patch where the paint has worn through to the wood beneath. I actually find it faintly dismal here, but at least there's not some dude next to me blasting out Usher while watching porn, as has happened in the past.

Went to Julia's party at the Funky Munky last night, which was good fun, though mitigated somewhat by the fact that the Funky Munky sucks ass, through a flesh coloured straw.

In the past, we've put on nights there, and have been allowed to hire the top room for free, and get 10% at the bar. Now it costs £250 to hire a not especially large cold room, with knackered old decks on pillows, and a mixer whose power lead kept popping out. It looks like it was knocked up by McGuyver on a bad day.


They were even charging people going to the party at the door which takes the piss a bit, and the drinks aren't exactly cheap.

I was deejaying for the first hour and a half or so, and the second thing that really pissed me off was when of my friend Julia's mates mistook me for a gatecrasher, and said:

"Come on mate, don't be a knob, go downstairs"

Which pretty much left me speechless. I thought she was taking the piss at first (which, actually, she was, in a matter of speaking) but it dawned on me that she was being completely serious, and before I could concoct a cutting riposte, she turned 180 degrees in disgust.

Fair enough, there happened to be some townie who'd wandered in next to me, and I've only met her once before, but on that ocassion I did spend most of the night talking to her, and some of it getting off with her. So obviously I mustn't have been very memorable.

Anyway. Woke up today and went for a bite at the Jungle Grill for a veggie breakfast. After things I've read recently, I might steer clear of Rocksteady Eddies.

Off to Camden tonight, to the Lock Tavern. Going early to hopefully get a table. With any luck, they'll have dismantled the Krypton Factor-esque assault course of tables and chairs that make cat swinging impossible too.

Pigeon Blog

I stumbled across this blog the other day, and was so taken I had to contribute an old pic (just under the merch).

Sawbridgeworth

This week I was working out in Sawbridgeworth, in deepest darkest Hertfordshire, which was neither very deep or dark. It actually became a royal pain in the ass, as I had to get a bus, tube, then train to get there; a total of two hours travelling time.

It was sort of strange working in a little village, as living amongst the litter and pigeons in London tends to make you forget such places still exist.

I mentioned on someone elses blog how despite being assailed by a blanket of media hype surounding the Arctic Monkeys, I had as yet managed to avoid hearing them, with the prediction that the next time I worked in a studio where they played the radio I would be inevitably hearing it on heavy rotation.

This prophecy proved true, as the studio I was in had Radio One on constantly. I'd forgotten just how much the inane twittering of daytime radio jocks annoyed me, and this week was an unwelcome reminder. Flashbacks keep coming back to me: Jo Whiley talking to the Sugababes and complimenting them on how 'raw' their new tune is. Really Jo? which bit were you listening to? More needling yet is Roy Walker's guest spot on lardarse Chris Moyles show, but the most irritating of the lot have got to be JK and Joel, who used to terrorise Manchester with their spot on Key 103, have now been given the keys to the gun cabinet with their vastly annoying stint in the afternoon. They're basically the Chuckle Brothers of daytime radio, except less funny - a fact amply demonstrated by their tedious 'remix' sketch where they take an old tune and create a hi-energy dance version of it. It's infinitely worse than it sounds too, and serves as evidence of how music can actually function as a torture device.

Anyway. Other than that work was OK. There was too much of it on Friday for my liking however, and being the type of guy who's only recently graduated to chewing gum and walking, was less well managed than I'd ideally hope for. I prefer to know where I'm up to with everything, and have a manageable workload, or else nothing gets done very well - which I hate.

Saturday went for a curry at Clapham Tandoori, and then a 'polite' party afterwards in Clapham South. This meant music - (but not too loud) drinks (but no drunks) and a general absence of hotel trashing antics. Fun enough though I suppose.

Sunday was Round 2 of our interviews for a new flatmate, with two guys who were both really nice. I got outvoted over the one I prefered, but It doesn't really matter. In the end it was getting slightly irritating the amount people were vascillating about it. Just make a decision for fucks sake..

It was also St Patricks Day, so me and Ade's evening consisted of finding an Irish theme pub in the West End, drinking stout til we couldn't see, then passing out in the fountains at Trafalgar Square while wearing those krazy Guiness hats people wear on such ocassions.

Actually no, we just went to the Sun and Doves, where some girl group calleed Inside 65 were performing. They were pretty good too.

Interviews

As Gridrunner carves up virgin snow like the new media playboy that he is, and DJ Phaze repopulates forest in Honduras, the Eye has somewhat more tedious things to get to grips with, such as repopulating his own flat; d-don't worry though, it's not because I've carved up virgins here.. or anything.

The beginning of the day was thus spent emailing people and placing ads online about the room, which is actually a bargain, and a very decent size. Being at the front of the house however, it also acts as something of a sounding board for rudebuoy's bass-bins as they thunder up Camberwell Church Street, or the quaking of buses at the stop outside, so I think I'm going to stick in my little broom cupboard in the attic.

It's elicited some response, but so far four of the five people who've expressed an interest have decided against it, two of them before even stepping inside. One let me know by text in the following shorthand: "Hey tom sorry2mess u around bvt i will have2postpone our meeting until i have a dEf moving dte.Sorry2have messed ubowt" *FINE* I don't think I'd want to live with such a sloppy texter anyway.
The girl we did meet tonight was really nice though.. and despite it being early days yet looking for people is starting to do my head in, so if she's interested, she can have it as far as I'm concerned.

Today was another example of just how brass-necked recruitment people can be. Someone from one of the agencies I signed up with late 2004 rang me up, a full seven or eight months after I last spoke to him, offering me some freelance out in - wait for it - Hertfordshire. It's a hike, but I might as well take it with nothing else on. Still, mission.

Anyway, I'm meeting up with a friend from Manchester who's down in London for training tomorrow, so that should be a larf if nothing else.

And thou shalt know them by their iTunes playlist

Thursday and Friday I was in for my week overdue booking at an ad agency at the top of Dean street in Soho. It was with some good old boys who'd broken away from their old agency to form their own. Consequently it was quite a small operation, though very friendly, and quite old school. No huge framed glasses a la Morris Saatchi though.

They had music playing too, but it was almost 100% uncut 'dad rock' - think Fleetwood Mac, Eurythmics etc. Actually no bad thing, and I did feel a bit like I was in my dad's car on holiday in France circa the late eighties. There was also a bit of Frank Sinatra later on.. Three Coins in a Fountain anyone?

One of my jobs was to go trawling stock image libraries on t'internet for a picture to go on the front of a mailer, and the brief was to find a young 'fun' looking mum and kids on a beach. I found many pictures, mostly slightly rubbish, including various cheesed out american shots that looked dated to say the least, to lesbian couples and families that were, I suspect, too 'ethnic' for the middle-england-courting client. Ones featuring nude kids were also quite clearly off the agenda, unless I fancied jackbooted Sun sponsored stormtroopers kicking in my door in the dead of night and stringing me up from the nearest flagpole.

Which reminds me.. did anyone see this headline from my favourite tabloid. Very much in the vein of 'Brass Eye' I thought, only without the satire. I think personally the 'art direction' should have featured an artists impression of a paedo, in a spring heeled jack vein, photoshopped into a classroom (possibly with cross hairs over him).

Anyway. Caught up with some mates in Clapham for a couple o' beers in the evening, then totally failed to get a 35 home -instead walking all the way through Brixton to Camberwell in the freezing cold after I gave up hope of one ever coming.

Checked out the charity shops on the Walworth Road today, where I bought a book and a the SWV single 'right here' from 1993, which features Pharrel Williams rapping on the UK mix for about thirty seconds, and a remix by Lord Finesse, complete with trademark horns.

For some insanely annoying reason, my Last fm chart refuses to update on my mac at home, even when I refresh the page.. it doesn't do it on other computers though. Wierd.

Well, off to It's Bigger Than tonight. By myself though as my half my mates are on holiday at the minute.

Long day

Today was long. It mostly involved me working on some stuff for the AA – a prompt card and a 12 page booklet thingy that list the stuff you can get if you're part of the AA. As a consequence the days official colourways were yellow and black, and I feel a bit like I've been staring at wasps for the last 12 hours.

None of the Macs were working properly for the first two hours, and initially I was perched on the edge of a small drawer unit in lieu of an actual seat. Wizard!

Glad I got out with my sanity, but possibly more bothersome was leaving my phone at my friend Wills house, which gave me a nervous tic which is only just subsiding now. Indeed the fun was just beginning when I left work as I had to enact an obscure dog-leg to Camberwell via Angel in order to get the decrepit thing.

Inevitably, perhaps, there were various missed calls from people chasing time-sheets and offering me work, which I've no doubt missed the boat on. There was also a folorn sounding message from me twelve hours previously, which I recorded because it kept going straight to answering machine - I put this down to it running out of batteries or some fagin type character disenabling it, but actually, Will just switched it off 'cause my incessant ringing was getting on his tits.

Anyway Gridrunner goes Snowboarding on Saturday, so that's one less person for me to bother in the Evenings.. The next two weeks might involve me heading North of the river more as a consequence, but perhaps that's being a little hasty.

Phone loss

Ahhh fucccck.

Sunday was so nice, all really nice food and friends, and now I've got in and can't find my phone.

I don't know whether it's been swallowed by Will's armchair, or is languishing somewhere on the Underground, or has been cast into some shrubbery by a disgusted pickpocket (unlikely in London I know. The shrubbery that is).

All I know is, it's going straight to its answering machine when I ring it, where a telegraphic female voice intonates at me in a really irritating fashion. As we all know, this is never a good sign.

I can't even ring Will as his number's in my phone.

Please let it still be mine, somewhere. I feel like someone's hacked off a secret ear I took too much for granted.