Monday, 9 February 2009
Rucksack
I saw a gentleman on the underground train this morning with what can only be described as a 'Jamie Cullum' backpack. That is a regular backpack - a powder blue in hue - with Jamie Cullum's name in some kind of swirly font, plus the name of his latest opus underneath. Could this possibly be ironic? Would anyone take irony this far? To the point of a backpack? Surely not even Jamie Cullum wouldn't enjoy a Jamie Cullum backpack? Who possibly could? Either you were rushing from the house - all your other backpacks had caught fire, there was no other device for holding or transporting items because you are Amish and so you have to reach for the Jamie Cullum promotional backpack that was left at your house by a deranged PR executive. But even then surely you would obscure the Jamie Cullum area of the backpack with excrement or localised soil? It was an odd sight and not a little off-putting.
Tuesday, 23 September 2008
The First Thing I Heard This Morning
One schoolboy saying to another, is a really triumphant, boastful tone:
"Well my dad committed suicide by throwing himself under a train".
About the third thing I heard this morning:
"Mommy, where are we going"
"Mommy's going to the tattoo shop. She's going to have a Tigger put on her shoulder".
"Well my dad committed suicide by throwing himself under a train".
About the third thing I heard this morning:
"Mommy, where are we going"
"Mommy's going to the tattoo shop. She's going to have a Tigger put on her shoulder".
Tuesday, 8 July 2008
That's Why I Killed All Those People
This is a longer version of a story that was in that fine organ The High Horse
My grandparents had an old-fashioned sort of toilet. It sat in a room all alone, no sink, no tub, no drapery, not even elemental nods towards distraction. Your purpose there was clear. For some reason the room was always was achingly cold, even in the summertime. There was nothing interesting in there. Nothing at all. Just the bare walls and the toilet equipment and a small window containing the kind of glass you couldn’t see out of. The windowsill empty, except an air-freshener. Not an aerosol, but the block variety, a block held inside a plastic honeycomb. But the room’s smell didn’t reflect the air-freshener. It held another scent which I can’t readily describe but I think of even now. There was a moisture mixed with dust that left evidence on your fingertips and which you took away as you left.
So you would sit there in the cold, with no distractions except the air-freshener which you could piece apart and possibly marvel at the jelly-like block housed inside bearing a constitution with no equivalent. And you would wait.
The worst thing about the room was the chain. It was an old-fashioned toilet, as stated, with a cistern held high in the air by a long pipe. And rather than a handle there was a chain. A long chain about the length of a snake, with meshed together jigs of metal. The edges of the jigs were poorly rendered and felt razor sharp. There should have been a base to it, something substantial you could hang onto when pulling, something to take the chain out of the equation. But there was no base. And no story about the lack of a base. Just the chain. The coldness of the room conducted to the metal, which made the chain more dangerous, so no matter how well or how poorly your visit to the toilet had gone (and, like most things, there was always a certain amount of disappointment connected to the venture), the final daunting prospect was that icy, painful chain. Dragging across your fingers like a blunt saw and hurting them. A chilly sort of pain, the worst sort of pain. A numbness coated with a sharp kick. No blood drawn, nothing to elicit sympathy or foster an amusing anecdote. Just a welt.
So, that’s why I killed my grandparents.
And then there was Planter. He was one of those guys that would walk outside and be absolutely AMAZED to find himself there. I would drink with him sometimes and at the end of the evening we would walk out of the bar together. As soon as he was the other side of the door, his head would spin around him, he’d start to point at random objects on the street and his mouth would gape open, displaying a threatening set of yellow teeth and an expression seemed to suggest that this was the last place on earth he expected to be. Anywhere but there. Drop him in a hot-tub full of gangly, Mexican ladyboys, all got up like Edgar Allen Poe, he probably would have adopted a serene, impartial air. But the regular outside just made him giddy.
That’s why I killed Planter.
In the mid 1980’s, I became enamoured of two things greatly. The first was the popular drug meth-amphetamine, commonly known as crank, though in my town, for no reason I could ever fully discern, it was known as Herbie. My second passion in those days was the band Devo. I don’t believe that the two things were connected, though I have to admit there’s a certain degree of haziness associated with that decade.
I lived in a house with several Heavy Metal guys (those I did not kill, don’t worry). Against type, they were pleasant housemates who liked to cook and always played their music at a reasonable volume. I could not interest them in the virtues of Devo however. In fact, I felt that they considered Devo as their enemy. It hurt but it was their choice.
I used to buy my Herbie from a guy named Charlie in a part of town known as the heights. I think it bestowed this nickname on itself to add a little colour to what was a shabby and quite low-lying neighbourhood. The general cabal that bought, sold or were affiliated with the drug scene referred to me as ‘the Devo guy’. But my familiarity with Charlie did away with such generalisations and I was known to him simply as ‘Devo’. For a drug dealer, he was always very cheerful,
“Hey, Devo,” he’d say, as he saw me approach in my yellow Devo suit, which, though industrial in design, was quite fragile after a certain amount of wear. I’d smile back and hand over the money and he’d give me the Herbie.
Then one day I went to the Heights and Charlie was gone. And none of the other guys, the ones that called me ‘the Devo guy’ knew where he was. So, I didn’t take Herbie anymore. Then the Heavy Metal guys moved away. I didn’t know they were in a band.
Shortly afterwards I killed Devo. This was something I would later regret.
I got thrown out of the hospital. I was sick. I couldn’t understand it. I think I had a perfect right to be upset. So, I went over to the other hospital. Same thing happened there. So, I killed both hospitals.
The train I used to take down there, to the hospital not to the Heights, I would walk to the Heights unless the weather was poor in which case I’d take the bus, the train I used to get to the hospital before I was ejected, was always seven minutes late. It should have been the 8.32, but every day it rolled up at 8.37. Calm as you like, with no obvious explanation. They even gave up making announcements about it, as if we were all expected to accept this state of affairs without question. No immediate symptoms for its delay. No singeing on the side of the train. No seats soaked in blood or ashen-faced passengers, their eyes mutually gripped by one particular spot, now vacant with a child’s toy abandoned under the seat. There was a smugness to it. I’d try to catch the eye of the driver as the train would pass, but his face was always moving too fast.
And the thing was, you could never alter your routine accordingly. The train would be tardy by that degree without question, but I knew if I set out just a little later, I would be greeted by the butt of the train dwindling in the distance as I stood on the platform, deflated. Early for once or just on time and happy. Either way I wouldn’t run, I won’t run for anything, it’s one of the standards I set.
So, yeah.
Colin Murray, from my school, small kid, always had the same stuff to eat, every day. Every day I’d see him on the same spot on the wall, in all weathers, eating exactly the same thing, of the exact same size and texture.
I killed him with cancer.
There was a lady on the bus, (not the bus to the Heights, there’s more than one bus) reading the Bible, but with her bag on the seat next to her. All spread out, a protective hand dropped across it as if to say, ‘Yeah, don’t touch my bag but don’t try to sit here either’. A seat for her bag, a damn seat for her bag. So to try and sit there would provoke either pointless conversation with half your ass hanging off the seat, or no seat at all. And she was reading the Bible. Hypocrisy!
And so another one fell.
Guess my biggest one was Booboo. She took exception to many of the things I did and chose to comment on them, but I held my tongue and soldiered on. It wasn’t the personal stuff, that I’m ok with, I realise I’m not that easy to live with.
“I can’t understand why you roll your socks up when you put them in the laundry corner? I’m forever finding myself unraveling your socks.”
That was fine. I was guilty.
“Just straighten out the cushions before you get on the couch. They’re getting all bent at the edges. Just skooch them back before you sit.”
Like water off a duck’s back, no problem.
“There seems to be a pool of something forming by your side of the bed. I’m scared to go over there.”
I didn’t bat any eyelid. But the clock was ticking for Booboo. It was like one of those bombs you set and then forget about (I appreciate you don’t live the life I do – bear with me), or if you get up early by mistake, then the alarm goes off, sounding like the loudest thing you’ve ever heard. That was the tension amongst us. You see, I had a hutch. And in the hutch I held all the words that Booboo got wrong. And she was always getting words wrong. And while there was room in the hutch everything was fine. But the hutch was slowly filling and I knew one day it would burst and the inevitable would happen. (The hutch was in my mind). I’m not a snob. There’s plenty I don’t know or understand, but its laziness I can’t abide.
There was indigestion (in-gee-gestion, she would say). And also certificate (pronounced sus-tificate). She also said ‘jet-leg’ instead of jet-lag and ‘alky-hol’ in the style of a grizzled prospector. ‘Premination’ was another favourite (I still do not know what this is) and she could never remember which were the odd numbers and which were the even. She wasn’t dumb, she had a Masters in Civil Engineering and tutored ghetto kids in French. She was just very lax when it came to vocabulary (I won’t even mention her grammar, she once left me a note on the kitchen table which would have made a pedant weep). And I could feel the hutch swelling, filling with these inaccuracies, many, many more than the one’s listed here, I’m not a monster. And the dam burst. The one that did it? ‘Satisfact’ I’ll use it in a sentence. ‘He’d like me to return all those light bulbs, but I wouldn’t give him the satisfact.”
And the hutch was full. To continue would have required building a new hutch. I was tired and so Booboo was gone.
I’m in this cell now. Been here a while. Seen some changes, to me and the others and the general environment. The light changing outside the window as new buildings are built and the kids shouting louder on the street. I don’t have any regrets. More the slow, crushing palm of inevitability which peppers my whole life and has dragged me to this point and left me here. Maybe it was the wonder of the world that drove me to all these killings, I don’t know, I never question my motives. Things ain’t so bad though. I just got cable.
My grandparents had an old-fashioned sort of toilet. It sat in a room all alone, no sink, no tub, no drapery, not even elemental nods towards distraction. Your purpose there was clear. For some reason the room was always was achingly cold, even in the summertime. There was nothing interesting in there. Nothing at all. Just the bare walls and the toilet equipment and a small window containing the kind of glass you couldn’t see out of. The windowsill empty, except an air-freshener. Not an aerosol, but the block variety, a block held inside a plastic honeycomb. But the room’s smell didn’t reflect the air-freshener. It held another scent which I can’t readily describe but I think of even now. There was a moisture mixed with dust that left evidence on your fingertips and which you took away as you left.
So you would sit there in the cold, with no distractions except the air-freshener which you could piece apart and possibly marvel at the jelly-like block housed inside bearing a constitution with no equivalent. And you would wait.
The worst thing about the room was the chain. It was an old-fashioned toilet, as stated, with a cistern held high in the air by a long pipe. And rather than a handle there was a chain. A long chain about the length of a snake, with meshed together jigs of metal. The edges of the jigs were poorly rendered and felt razor sharp. There should have been a base to it, something substantial you could hang onto when pulling, something to take the chain out of the equation. But there was no base. And no story about the lack of a base. Just the chain. The coldness of the room conducted to the metal, which made the chain more dangerous, so no matter how well or how poorly your visit to the toilet had gone (and, like most things, there was always a certain amount of disappointment connected to the venture), the final daunting prospect was that icy, painful chain. Dragging across your fingers like a blunt saw and hurting them. A chilly sort of pain, the worst sort of pain. A numbness coated with a sharp kick. No blood drawn, nothing to elicit sympathy or foster an amusing anecdote. Just a welt.
So, that’s why I killed my grandparents.
And then there was Planter. He was one of those guys that would walk outside and be absolutely AMAZED to find himself there. I would drink with him sometimes and at the end of the evening we would walk out of the bar together. As soon as he was the other side of the door, his head would spin around him, he’d start to point at random objects on the street and his mouth would gape open, displaying a threatening set of yellow teeth and an expression seemed to suggest that this was the last place on earth he expected to be. Anywhere but there. Drop him in a hot-tub full of gangly, Mexican ladyboys, all got up like Edgar Allen Poe, he probably would have adopted a serene, impartial air. But the regular outside just made him giddy.
That’s why I killed Planter.
In the mid 1980’s, I became enamoured of two things greatly. The first was the popular drug meth-amphetamine, commonly known as crank, though in my town, for no reason I could ever fully discern, it was known as Herbie. My second passion in those days was the band Devo. I don’t believe that the two things were connected, though I have to admit there’s a certain degree of haziness associated with that decade.
I lived in a house with several Heavy Metal guys (those I did not kill, don’t worry). Against type, they were pleasant housemates who liked to cook and always played their music at a reasonable volume. I could not interest them in the virtues of Devo however. In fact, I felt that they considered Devo as their enemy. It hurt but it was their choice.
I used to buy my Herbie from a guy named Charlie in a part of town known as the heights. I think it bestowed this nickname on itself to add a little colour to what was a shabby and quite low-lying neighbourhood. The general cabal that bought, sold or were affiliated with the drug scene referred to me as ‘the Devo guy’. But my familiarity with Charlie did away with such generalisations and I was known to him simply as ‘Devo’. For a drug dealer, he was always very cheerful,
“Hey, Devo,” he’d say, as he saw me approach in my yellow Devo suit, which, though industrial in design, was quite fragile after a certain amount of wear. I’d smile back and hand over the money and he’d give me the Herbie.
Then one day I went to the Heights and Charlie was gone. And none of the other guys, the ones that called me ‘the Devo guy’ knew where he was. So, I didn’t take Herbie anymore. Then the Heavy Metal guys moved away. I didn’t know they were in a band.
Shortly afterwards I killed Devo. This was something I would later regret.
I got thrown out of the hospital. I was sick. I couldn’t understand it. I think I had a perfect right to be upset. So, I went over to the other hospital. Same thing happened there. So, I killed both hospitals.
The train I used to take down there, to the hospital not to the Heights, I would walk to the Heights unless the weather was poor in which case I’d take the bus, the train I used to get to the hospital before I was ejected, was always seven minutes late. It should have been the 8.32, but every day it rolled up at 8.37. Calm as you like, with no obvious explanation. They even gave up making announcements about it, as if we were all expected to accept this state of affairs without question. No immediate symptoms for its delay. No singeing on the side of the train. No seats soaked in blood or ashen-faced passengers, their eyes mutually gripped by one particular spot, now vacant with a child’s toy abandoned under the seat. There was a smugness to it. I’d try to catch the eye of the driver as the train would pass, but his face was always moving too fast.
And the thing was, you could never alter your routine accordingly. The train would be tardy by that degree without question, but I knew if I set out just a little later, I would be greeted by the butt of the train dwindling in the distance as I stood on the platform, deflated. Early for once or just on time and happy. Either way I wouldn’t run, I won’t run for anything, it’s one of the standards I set.
So, yeah.
Colin Murray, from my school, small kid, always had the same stuff to eat, every day. Every day I’d see him on the same spot on the wall, in all weathers, eating exactly the same thing, of the exact same size and texture.
I killed him with cancer.
There was a lady on the bus, (not the bus to the Heights, there’s more than one bus) reading the Bible, but with her bag on the seat next to her. All spread out, a protective hand dropped across it as if to say, ‘Yeah, don’t touch my bag but don’t try to sit here either’. A seat for her bag, a damn seat for her bag. So to try and sit there would provoke either pointless conversation with half your ass hanging off the seat, or no seat at all. And she was reading the Bible. Hypocrisy!
And so another one fell.
Guess my biggest one was Booboo. She took exception to many of the things I did and chose to comment on them, but I held my tongue and soldiered on. It wasn’t the personal stuff, that I’m ok with, I realise I’m not that easy to live with.
“I can’t understand why you roll your socks up when you put them in the laundry corner? I’m forever finding myself unraveling your socks.”
That was fine. I was guilty.
“Just straighten out the cushions before you get on the couch. They’re getting all bent at the edges. Just skooch them back before you sit.”
Like water off a duck’s back, no problem.
“There seems to be a pool of something forming by your side of the bed. I’m scared to go over there.”
I didn’t bat any eyelid. But the clock was ticking for Booboo. It was like one of those bombs you set and then forget about (I appreciate you don’t live the life I do – bear with me), or if you get up early by mistake, then the alarm goes off, sounding like the loudest thing you’ve ever heard. That was the tension amongst us. You see, I had a hutch. And in the hutch I held all the words that Booboo got wrong. And she was always getting words wrong. And while there was room in the hutch everything was fine. But the hutch was slowly filling and I knew one day it would burst and the inevitable would happen. (The hutch was in my mind). I’m not a snob. There’s plenty I don’t know or understand, but its laziness I can’t abide.
There was indigestion (in-gee-gestion, she would say). And also certificate (pronounced sus-tificate). She also said ‘jet-leg’ instead of jet-lag and ‘alky-hol’ in the style of a grizzled prospector. ‘Premination’ was another favourite (I still do not know what this is) and she could never remember which were the odd numbers and which were the even. She wasn’t dumb, she had a Masters in Civil Engineering and tutored ghetto kids in French. She was just very lax when it came to vocabulary (I won’t even mention her grammar, she once left me a note on the kitchen table which would have made a pedant weep). And I could feel the hutch swelling, filling with these inaccuracies, many, many more than the one’s listed here, I’m not a monster. And the dam burst. The one that did it? ‘Satisfact’ I’ll use it in a sentence. ‘He’d like me to return all those light bulbs, but I wouldn’t give him the satisfact.”
And the hutch was full. To continue would have required building a new hutch. I was tired and so Booboo was gone.
I’m in this cell now. Been here a while. Seen some changes, to me and the others and the general environment. The light changing outside the window as new buildings are built and the kids shouting louder on the street. I don’t have any regrets. More the slow, crushing palm of inevitability which peppers my whole life and has dragged me to this point and left me here. Maybe it was the wonder of the world that drove me to all these killings, I don’t know, I never question my motives. Things ain’t so bad though. I just got cable.
Friday, 30 May 2008
John Barnes
I've really busy with various stupid things so in the meantime, here's a sketch I wrote which every major broadcaster has decided is unfilmable:
John Barnes
INT – OFFICE – DAY
COLIN is standing at a water cooler in an average looking office. His friend GRAHAM approaches.
GRAHAM: All right Colin?
COLIN: Hello mate.
GRAHAM: How are things?
COLIN: Couldn’t be better. I’m off on holiday tomorrow.
GRAHAM: Lucky sod. Where you off to?
COLIN: Japan.
GRAHAM: Blimey, really? Bit exotic for you isn’t it?
COLIN: Suppose so.
GRAHAM: Why Japan?
COLIN: Dunno. Just always fancied going there.
GRAHAM: Not after a mail-order bride then?
COLIN: That’s Thailand.
GRAHAM: Oh yeah. Well, have a great time anyway. Let me know how it goes.
COLIN: Cheers.
Fade Out.
INT – AIRPORT – DAY
In the Tokyo airport arrivals lounge, passengers emerge from a door. A bleary eyed Colin appears. As he walks across the airport, several Japanese people stare at him open mouthed. A few smile, point and speak conspiratorially behind their hands. Colin checks his appearance to make sure there’s nothing untoward happening with his clothing.
INT – BAGGAGE CAROUSEL – MOMENTS LATER
Colin is waiting for his luggage to arrive. Again a few Japanese people grin at him, nod and try to catch his eye. Colin politely smiles back, and looks confused.
INT – TAXI – MOMENTS LATER
Colin jumps into a waiting cab in front of the airport. The CABBIE looks uninterested then breaks out into a broad smile when he has a good look at Colin.
COLIN: [Speaking clearly] Hotel Ok-ura please.
CABBIE: Yes, yes. Of course Mr Barnes.
Again Colin looks confused.
COLIN: I’m not Barnes. Not Barnes. We’re you supposed to be picking up someone else?
The Cabbie smiles at him.
CABBIE: No problem Mr Barnes. I understand.
Colin grows more perplexed as the cab pulls away.
INT – HOTEL – LATER
Colin approaches the desk of his hotel. There is a RECEPIONIST behind the desk.
COLIN: Hello, I have a reservation.
The Receptionist looks up, sees him, and smiles broadly.
RECEPTIONIST: Oh yes, of course.
She looks at her register.
RECEPTIONIST: I don’t see your name here.
COLIN: I haven’t given you my name.
RECEPTIONIST: Mr. Barnes isn’t it? John Barnes?
COLIN: No, my name’s Planter. Colin Planter.
The Receptionist looks confused and then gives him a knowing look.
RECEPTIONIST: I think I understand Mr Barnes. Let me check. Yes your room is ready, [with emphasis] Mr Planter. I’ll make sure you are not disturbed and no one knows you are here.
COLIN: [Baffled] Thank you.
She hands him a key. A PORTER approaches. He spots Colin and begins to talk excitedly to the Receptionist in Japanese, nodding towards Colin. The Receptionist talks to him sharply and he looks cowed. He takes Colin’s luggage and leaves.
RECEPTIONIST: Don’t worry Mr Barnes, no one else will bother you.
A confused Colin follows the porter.
EXT – STREET – DAY
Colin is sightseeing, taking photos of street scenes and local life in Japan. Suddenly two young GIRLS approach him coyly.
GIRL: [Shyly] Mr Barnes?
COLIN: No, no.
GIRL: Please?
One hands Colin a piece of paper, wanting him to sign it.
COLIN: I think you’ve got me mixed up with someone else.
The other girl approaches and hands him a magazine featuring a full page picture of the footballer John Barnes in his playing days. She hands him a pen, wishing him to sign. Colin looks at the magazine, mystified.
COLIN: You think I’m him? This John Barnes? Look…
He holds up the magazine to his face.
COLIN: Do you think I look like that?
The girls ignore this and just encourage him to sign. Colin sighs and reluctantly signs the picture then quickly walks away. The girls both giggle excitedly.
INT – HOTEL LOBBY – DAY
A beleaguered Colin enters the hotel. A REPORTER with a notepad approaches him.
REPORTER: Mr Barnes. Mr Barnes. Can I quickly ask you something?
COLIN: I’m not John Barnes. I’m Colin. Colin Planter.
REPORTER: Is it true that you are here in Japan in connection with the vacant national team job?
COLIN: I’m not John Barnes. I don’t know where this is coming from?
REPORTER: If you could just confirm or deny it?
COLIN: No. Yes. Please. Leave me alone.
He hurries off towards the lifts.
INT – HOTEL ROOM – DAY
Colin is sitting on the bed in his hotel trying to work out how to use the telephone. After extensive dialling he seems to have success.
COLIN: Hello…? Hello, mom. It’s Colin…Yes. Colin. [Pause] What? No, I am on holiday…I’m in Japan. [Pause] No, everything’s fine… [Pause] No, it’s fine, really… [Pause] No I’m just calling to see how you are… No there’s nothing wrong. Stop shouting, there’s nothing wrong… [Pause] It’s not…yes, yes. It’s lovely. Lovely country, nice people. [Pause] No, that’s Thailand. [Pause] I haven’t been out that much really… No, I’m not ill. Just haven’t been out of the hotel for a few days. No, its not my tummy… No, its not the water. They think I’m John Barnes… [Pause] John Barnes. John Barnes. John Barnes, the footballer. I don’t know. [Pause] Yes I know he is. No, everybody, all the Japanese think I’m him. [Pause] I can’t go anywhere. [Pause] I’ve told them that, they won’t listen. What? What are you saying? Maybe I’m John Barnes when I’m in Japan? How does that work? [Pause] Have you taken your pills…? [Pause] Have you taken too many pills?
There’s a knock on the door.
COLIN: [Shouting] Piss off, I’m not John Barnes. [Into phone] No, not you. How many have you had? [Pause] What colour were they? You can’t have had 40 you’d be dead. Call Dr Marsh…
Fade out.
INT – AIRPORT – DAY
A harassed looking Colin is dragging his suitcase through the airport as once more people stare and point at him. As he passes the bar a group of LADS spot him and start clapping and singing.
LADS: [Singing] We love you John Barnes, we do. We love you John Barnes we do.
Colin grins grimly and trudges on. Another fan runs up to him and wraps a Liverpool scarf around his neck and kisses his cheek. Someone else approaches and puts his arms around him as his friend takes his picture on a mobile phone. Photographers appears and start taking pictures, as the whole terminal turns to look at him and clap and cheer. Colin look thoroughly miserable.
Fade Out.
INT – OFFICE – DAY
Colin is standing at the same water cooler. Graham approaches him again.
GRAHAM: Hey you’re back. You look well. So how was it, would you recommend it?
COLIN: [Angrily] No, its shit.
Colin storms off.
END
John Barnes
INT – OFFICE – DAY
COLIN is standing at a water cooler in an average looking office. His friend GRAHAM approaches.
GRAHAM: All right Colin?
COLIN: Hello mate.
GRAHAM: How are things?
COLIN: Couldn’t be better. I’m off on holiday tomorrow.
GRAHAM: Lucky sod. Where you off to?
COLIN: Japan.
GRAHAM: Blimey, really? Bit exotic for you isn’t it?
COLIN: Suppose so.
GRAHAM: Why Japan?
COLIN: Dunno. Just always fancied going there.
GRAHAM: Not after a mail-order bride then?
COLIN: That’s Thailand.
GRAHAM: Oh yeah. Well, have a great time anyway. Let me know how it goes.
COLIN: Cheers.
Fade Out.
INT – AIRPORT – DAY
In the Tokyo airport arrivals lounge, passengers emerge from a door. A bleary eyed Colin appears. As he walks across the airport, several Japanese people stare at him open mouthed. A few smile, point and speak conspiratorially behind their hands. Colin checks his appearance to make sure there’s nothing untoward happening with his clothing.
INT – BAGGAGE CAROUSEL – MOMENTS LATER
Colin is waiting for his luggage to arrive. Again a few Japanese people grin at him, nod and try to catch his eye. Colin politely smiles back, and looks confused.
INT – TAXI – MOMENTS LATER
Colin jumps into a waiting cab in front of the airport. The CABBIE looks uninterested then breaks out into a broad smile when he has a good look at Colin.
COLIN: [Speaking clearly] Hotel Ok-ura please.
CABBIE: Yes, yes. Of course Mr Barnes.
Again Colin looks confused.
COLIN: I’m not Barnes. Not Barnes. We’re you supposed to be picking up someone else?
The Cabbie smiles at him.
CABBIE: No problem Mr Barnes. I understand.
Colin grows more perplexed as the cab pulls away.
INT – HOTEL – LATER
Colin approaches the desk of his hotel. There is a RECEPIONIST behind the desk.
COLIN: Hello, I have a reservation.
The Receptionist looks up, sees him, and smiles broadly.
RECEPTIONIST: Oh yes, of course.
She looks at her register.
RECEPTIONIST: I don’t see your name here.
COLIN: I haven’t given you my name.
RECEPTIONIST: Mr. Barnes isn’t it? John Barnes?
COLIN: No, my name’s Planter. Colin Planter.
The Receptionist looks confused and then gives him a knowing look.
RECEPTIONIST: I think I understand Mr Barnes. Let me check. Yes your room is ready, [with emphasis] Mr Planter. I’ll make sure you are not disturbed and no one knows you are here.
COLIN: [Baffled] Thank you.
She hands him a key. A PORTER approaches. He spots Colin and begins to talk excitedly to the Receptionist in Japanese, nodding towards Colin. The Receptionist talks to him sharply and he looks cowed. He takes Colin’s luggage and leaves.
RECEPTIONIST: Don’t worry Mr Barnes, no one else will bother you.
A confused Colin follows the porter.
EXT – STREET – DAY
Colin is sightseeing, taking photos of street scenes and local life in Japan. Suddenly two young GIRLS approach him coyly.
GIRL: [Shyly] Mr Barnes?
COLIN: No, no.
GIRL: Please?
One hands Colin a piece of paper, wanting him to sign it.
COLIN: I think you’ve got me mixed up with someone else.
The other girl approaches and hands him a magazine featuring a full page picture of the footballer John Barnes in his playing days. She hands him a pen, wishing him to sign. Colin looks at the magazine, mystified.
COLIN: You think I’m him? This John Barnes? Look…
He holds up the magazine to his face.
COLIN: Do you think I look like that?
The girls ignore this and just encourage him to sign. Colin sighs and reluctantly signs the picture then quickly walks away. The girls both giggle excitedly.
INT – HOTEL LOBBY – DAY
A beleaguered Colin enters the hotel. A REPORTER with a notepad approaches him.
REPORTER: Mr Barnes. Mr Barnes. Can I quickly ask you something?
COLIN: I’m not John Barnes. I’m Colin. Colin Planter.
REPORTER: Is it true that you are here in Japan in connection with the vacant national team job?
COLIN: I’m not John Barnes. I don’t know where this is coming from?
REPORTER: If you could just confirm or deny it?
COLIN: No. Yes. Please. Leave me alone.
He hurries off towards the lifts.
INT – HOTEL ROOM – DAY
Colin is sitting on the bed in his hotel trying to work out how to use the telephone. After extensive dialling he seems to have success.
COLIN: Hello…? Hello, mom. It’s Colin…Yes. Colin. [Pause] What? No, I am on holiday…I’m in Japan. [Pause] No, everything’s fine… [Pause] No, it’s fine, really… [Pause] No I’m just calling to see how you are… No there’s nothing wrong. Stop shouting, there’s nothing wrong… [Pause] It’s not…yes, yes. It’s lovely. Lovely country, nice people. [Pause] No, that’s Thailand. [Pause] I haven’t been out that much really… No, I’m not ill. Just haven’t been out of the hotel for a few days. No, its not my tummy… No, its not the water. They think I’m John Barnes… [Pause] John Barnes. John Barnes. John Barnes, the footballer. I don’t know. [Pause] Yes I know he is. No, everybody, all the Japanese think I’m him. [Pause] I can’t go anywhere. [Pause] I’ve told them that, they won’t listen. What? What are you saying? Maybe I’m John Barnes when I’m in Japan? How does that work? [Pause] Have you taken your pills…? [Pause] Have you taken too many pills?
There’s a knock on the door.
COLIN: [Shouting] Piss off, I’m not John Barnes. [Into phone] No, not you. How many have you had? [Pause] What colour were they? You can’t have had 40 you’d be dead. Call Dr Marsh…
Fade out.
INT – AIRPORT – DAY
A harassed looking Colin is dragging his suitcase through the airport as once more people stare and point at him. As he passes the bar a group of LADS spot him and start clapping and singing.
LADS: [Singing] We love you John Barnes, we do. We love you John Barnes we do.
Colin grins grimly and trudges on. Another fan runs up to him and wraps a Liverpool scarf around his neck and kisses his cheek. Someone else approaches and puts his arms around him as his friend takes his picture on a mobile phone. Photographers appears and start taking pictures, as the whole terminal turns to look at him and clap and cheer. Colin look thoroughly miserable.
Fade Out.
INT – OFFICE – DAY
Colin is standing at the same water cooler. Graham approaches him again.
GRAHAM: Hey you’re back. You look well. So how was it, would you recommend it?
COLIN: [Angrily] No, its shit.
Colin storms off.
END
Saturday, 3 May 2008
Service
Some things in life you can just take for granted. More often than not in this crazy, topsy-turvy world you'll wake to find the squirrels have picked the locks and been at your nuts, there's a rabid badger clawing its way up the chimney and Mouldy Old Dough has rocketed back to the top of the hit parade - nothing surprises me any more. But there are staples on which you can rely. If it's raining there won't be a bus, if I buy or I am given a watch - it will break or be lost within 24 hours and I never look good in a hat. These are the undeniable around which the rest of my life is constructed.
One of these unchanging, basic experiences is the pub. They couldn't be simpler and I applaud them for it. Though they have attempted to derail themselves in recent times by the introduction of jazz and exotic pies, in essence they remain the same.
So a surprise awaited when I entered a pub I've visited many times - not a pub which is high in my estimation, not a classic, but a decent fallback. It was relatively local, it showed the football and there was little chance of getting stabbed. I was in the area, I had time to kill and, as ever, I needed a drink. So in I went. I knew something was wrong immediately. A large section of the establishment had been taped off a sign told me 'This area for wine tasting people only'. Not one of the better signs to read.
But I wasn't staying long, so I headed to be bar. The few people sitting around and the staff behind the bar all looked on at me as if I'd begun goose-stepping to the Macarena. At the bar, the woman I expected to serve me looked scared. Then I felt a shadowy figure by my side. He wore an apron and had a pad.
'Can I help you?' He asked.
'I don't know?' I answered honestly, confused.
'It's table service only here'
'Right'
'Would you like something?'
'A large gin and tonic' I said, still confused.
'By large do you mean a double?' He asked me.
'No I mean I'd like it in an oversized novelty vase. Yes a double.'
'A double gin and tonic' the man said to the woman behind the bar, who had heard the whole conversation and was actually closer to me than him.
'Right' I said. 'What happens now?'
'Where are you sitting?' He asked.
'I'm not. I'm standing here.'
'Where will you be sitting?'
I hadn't considered this. I hadn't really planned on sitting, I was going at stand at the bar. But this seemed verboten.
'There?' I half told, half asked him, pointing to a lonely table by the door.
'I'll bring it right over'
The drink was being made. It would have been completed in about 20 seconds. I’d have been happy to take the drink and transport it myself. But this would have obviously declared this man's life as pointless. So, with his silent encouragement, I moved to my table. My drink was now ready at the bar, I was at a table, drinkless, about 6 feet away, while the man employed to bring my drink to me, began swanning about the pub, taking orders, collecting empties and making genial conversation with the idiots who accepted this situation.
I looked at my drink longingly as it became increasingly warm, and to the bar-lady who looked slightly guilty and ashamed. The man seemed to be deliberately avoiding my beverage, taking extravagant routes around the building, anyway possibly to miss passing my order. Eventually the man brought me my gin and tonic. I reached into my pocket to pay.
'No, no, no' he chided. 'Pay when you leave. Just summon me and I'll bring your bill over'
'Oh right' I stammered, hanging onto my G&T as if it was the only thing preventing me from entering another dimension. I looked around and noticed that the bill, when summoned, was presented on a small silver platter. In a pub!
I'd finished my drink. I now had to leave, I had an appointment. Usually in a pub, when its time to go, you just tend to go, with a possible trip to the bogs as your only distraction. But now I was expected to begin a whole series of manoeuvres. I had to summon the apron man, who would waddle off and get my bill present it on a silver platter, waddle off again, I'd put money on the platter, he'd waddle by again, take my platter, then return with the change, probably expecting a tip. I'll remind you at this stage I WAS IN A PUB. A PUB. Not the fucking Ritz. A shitty pub, by a main road, expected to wait for a silver platter.
I couldn't face this, so when the man's back was turned I darted to the bar.
'Can I pay?' I asked the startled lady.
She didn't say anything, she didn't know if I could pay. Then I was rumbled.
'Is there a problem?'
The apron man had spotted me.
'Just paying' I said, as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world and not a disgusting, disgraceful perversion of nature.
'I'll bring the bill over' he told me.
'No' I said, grasping the bar, white-knuckled. 'I'm in a bit of a rush'
He looked down at me with disgust.
'Table six' he told the lady with venom. She went to the till, produced a receipt, handed the receipt to him, who handed it to me, I looked at it, produced the money, looked at the lady, who gave me a terrified glance and indicated her colleague, I turned to him and gave him the money who gave it to the woman, who went to the till, got the change gave it to him and gave it to me.
'Have a nice day' he said to me, with irony.
It was if the very firmament had shifted somehow. Entering a pub and being made to jump through hoops to the advantage of no one, especially stone cold sober, is the kind of thing to make a rational man quite insane. Now I have to second-guess every boozer I enter for fear of the silver platter. My life is over.
One of these unchanging, basic experiences is the pub. They couldn't be simpler and I applaud them for it. Though they have attempted to derail themselves in recent times by the introduction of jazz and exotic pies, in essence they remain the same.
So a surprise awaited when I entered a pub I've visited many times - not a pub which is high in my estimation, not a classic, but a decent fallback. It was relatively local, it showed the football and there was little chance of getting stabbed. I was in the area, I had time to kill and, as ever, I needed a drink. So in I went. I knew something was wrong immediately. A large section of the establishment had been taped off a sign told me 'This area for wine tasting people only'. Not one of the better signs to read.
But I wasn't staying long, so I headed to be bar. The few people sitting around and the staff behind the bar all looked on at me as if I'd begun goose-stepping to the Macarena. At the bar, the woman I expected to serve me looked scared. Then I felt a shadowy figure by my side. He wore an apron and had a pad.
'Can I help you?' He asked.
'I don't know?' I answered honestly, confused.
'It's table service only here'
'Right'
'Would you like something?'
'A large gin and tonic' I said, still confused.
'By large do you mean a double?' He asked me.
'No I mean I'd like it in an oversized novelty vase. Yes a double.'
'A double gin and tonic' the man said to the woman behind the bar, who had heard the whole conversation and was actually closer to me than him.
'Right' I said. 'What happens now?'
'Where are you sitting?' He asked.
'I'm not. I'm standing here.'
'Where will you be sitting?'
I hadn't considered this. I hadn't really planned on sitting, I was going at stand at the bar. But this seemed verboten.
'There?' I half told, half asked him, pointing to a lonely table by the door.
'I'll bring it right over'
The drink was being made. It would have been completed in about 20 seconds. I’d have been happy to take the drink and transport it myself. But this would have obviously declared this man's life as pointless. So, with his silent encouragement, I moved to my table. My drink was now ready at the bar, I was at a table, drinkless, about 6 feet away, while the man employed to bring my drink to me, began swanning about the pub, taking orders, collecting empties and making genial conversation with the idiots who accepted this situation.
I looked at my drink longingly as it became increasingly warm, and to the bar-lady who looked slightly guilty and ashamed. The man seemed to be deliberately avoiding my beverage, taking extravagant routes around the building, anyway possibly to miss passing my order. Eventually the man brought me my gin and tonic. I reached into my pocket to pay.
'No, no, no' he chided. 'Pay when you leave. Just summon me and I'll bring your bill over'
'Oh right' I stammered, hanging onto my G&T as if it was the only thing preventing me from entering another dimension. I looked around and noticed that the bill, when summoned, was presented on a small silver platter. In a pub!
I'd finished my drink. I now had to leave, I had an appointment. Usually in a pub, when its time to go, you just tend to go, with a possible trip to the bogs as your only distraction. But now I was expected to begin a whole series of manoeuvres. I had to summon the apron man, who would waddle off and get my bill present it on a silver platter, waddle off again, I'd put money on the platter, he'd waddle by again, take my platter, then return with the change, probably expecting a tip. I'll remind you at this stage I WAS IN A PUB. A PUB. Not the fucking Ritz. A shitty pub, by a main road, expected to wait for a silver platter.
I couldn't face this, so when the man's back was turned I darted to the bar.
'Can I pay?' I asked the startled lady.
She didn't say anything, she didn't know if I could pay. Then I was rumbled.
'Is there a problem?'
The apron man had spotted me.
'Just paying' I said, as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world and not a disgusting, disgraceful perversion of nature.
'I'll bring the bill over' he told me.
'No' I said, grasping the bar, white-knuckled. 'I'm in a bit of a rush'
He looked down at me with disgust.
'Table six' he told the lady with venom. She went to the till, produced a receipt, handed the receipt to him, who handed it to me, I looked at it, produced the money, looked at the lady, who gave me a terrified glance and indicated her colleague, I turned to him and gave him the money who gave it to the woman, who went to the till, got the change gave it to him and gave it to me.
'Have a nice day' he said to me, with irony.
It was if the very firmament had shifted somehow. Entering a pub and being made to jump through hoops to the advantage of no one, especially stone cold sober, is the kind of thing to make a rational man quite insane. Now I have to second-guess every boozer I enter for fear of the silver platter. My life is over.
Tuesday, 15 April 2008
Pedestrian
Now, most people are pedestrians most of the time. Despite the attractiveness of it, driving directly into your home and then around it, is simply impractical, as is cycling into work and up to your desk or helicoptering into Londis for some Bisto Best. Despite the utter shame of it, we all have to walk on a pavement at some point in the day. The only dispensation is to those lucky types with Shopability type scooter things who cause wondrous mayhem by travelling very slowly along the inside lane of the North Circular in some form of befuddled rebellion.
However, some of us are professional pedestrians. I count myself as one of these. My attempts to drive have been hilarious and highly dangerous. One driving instructor always commented ‘have you been on the voddies?’ which I didn’t appreciate, while another insisted on telling me at length about the tragic circumstances surrounding the death of his brother-in-law. I wasn’t really a pupil, more of a counsellor. Both these experiences have kept me firmly glued to the pavement.
So the horrendous rage suffered by all who make the mistake of crossing the threshold and stepping outside is transposed from being in a car to being outside of one. Anger is generated by poor foot trafficking skills, appalling pushchair manoeuvres, the complete breakdown of cycling proficiency and cars in general, especially the attitude towards zebra crossings.
Bad pavement walking is the worst and has increased a thousand-fold since the growth in popularity of the cellular phone. Where in the past people strode manfully along a street with purpose and military precision, now idiots stand in your way and either twirl pointlessly while engrossed in conversation or veer violently as they come to terms with the vagaries of predictive text. And they are completely immune. If you give them a firm tut at their repellent behaviour, they stare at you with a look of, ‘can’t you see I am talking on a phone’ as their defence.
Pushchairs are fine, I can understand their practical application. It’s when they are used as a weapon that I become upset. In the same way that zig-zagging along a street is completely justified if the zig-zagger is using a phone, so ramming a pushchair into your shins in the produce section of a supermarket is fine as there is a child involved. While they certainly help in the transportation of children, they also double as an effective cow-catcher, ploughing a lane through any congested street at the expense of your ankles.
Cyclists have lost the plot completely. When did the entente cordiale between the walker and the biker end? There used to be an understanding. It was us against them. The cyclist and the pedestrian united against the tyranny of cars. And then one morning I was happily and legally crossing a road when someone on a pushbike nearly ran me down and then screamed abuse at me for getting in their way. And I knew the world had changed. No more allegiances, the cyclists had left us behind and decided to take on the battle single-handedly and jettison us in the process. Recently I saw a bike messenger run over someone’s feet. It was quite extraordinary. They were standing, waiting to cross, in the road but behind a parked car so they were safe, and a cyclist went out of their way to run over their shoes. The poor man was dumbstruck as he stared at the tyre marks on his loafers and a passing Mad Max style messenger swore at him. It will end in tears, I warn you.
My hatred of drivers and their knowledge of zebra crossings is something that is strengthened every day. I don’t quite understand, because as a failed driving pupil, it was beaten into me every lesson to slow down when approaching a crossing and if you see someone even possibly, vaguely thinking about approaching the zebra or even looking at the crossing in a suggestive way, then you had to stop. So why, every morning, does some tit in a BMW accelerate when they see me ON the zebra crossing. I have now been reduced to screaming at them. I’m not known as a public screamer, but in this case I’ve been driven to it. ‘Prick’ is my screaming epithet of choice, as its short, concise and hopefully bears enough harsh constantan sounds to penetrate the back window of a standard saloon. I also find myself having extended sarcastic conversations with the drivers along the lines of, ‘Oh yes, just keep going, don’t check to see if there’s anyone crossing, I could have been a small child or a confused young mum trying to juggle my childcare arrangements with a part-time job at a local dentists office. There’s a school there you know and a library, so you have young people and the infirm using this crossing on a regular basis. And what’s so important that you have to drive so quickly and ignore the basic principles of the Highway Code…’ etc etc. Sometimes I’m back home and in the kitchen before the dialogue finishes.
So my advice? Never leave the house. Or if you do, try and pick up one of those Shopability scooters. They are the ultimate weapon in the covert war against all.
However, some of us are professional pedestrians. I count myself as one of these. My attempts to drive have been hilarious and highly dangerous. One driving instructor always commented ‘have you been on the voddies?’ which I didn’t appreciate, while another insisted on telling me at length about the tragic circumstances surrounding the death of his brother-in-law. I wasn’t really a pupil, more of a counsellor. Both these experiences have kept me firmly glued to the pavement.
So the horrendous rage suffered by all who make the mistake of crossing the threshold and stepping outside is transposed from being in a car to being outside of one. Anger is generated by poor foot trafficking skills, appalling pushchair manoeuvres, the complete breakdown of cycling proficiency and cars in general, especially the attitude towards zebra crossings.
Bad pavement walking is the worst and has increased a thousand-fold since the growth in popularity of the cellular phone. Where in the past people strode manfully along a street with purpose and military precision, now idiots stand in your way and either twirl pointlessly while engrossed in conversation or veer violently as they come to terms with the vagaries of predictive text. And they are completely immune. If you give them a firm tut at their repellent behaviour, they stare at you with a look of, ‘can’t you see I am talking on a phone’ as their defence.
Pushchairs are fine, I can understand their practical application. It’s when they are used as a weapon that I become upset. In the same way that zig-zagging along a street is completely justified if the zig-zagger is using a phone, so ramming a pushchair into your shins in the produce section of a supermarket is fine as there is a child involved. While they certainly help in the transportation of children, they also double as an effective cow-catcher, ploughing a lane through any congested street at the expense of your ankles.
Cyclists have lost the plot completely. When did the entente cordiale between the walker and the biker end? There used to be an understanding. It was us against them. The cyclist and the pedestrian united against the tyranny of cars. And then one morning I was happily and legally crossing a road when someone on a pushbike nearly ran me down and then screamed abuse at me for getting in their way. And I knew the world had changed. No more allegiances, the cyclists had left us behind and decided to take on the battle single-handedly and jettison us in the process. Recently I saw a bike messenger run over someone’s feet. It was quite extraordinary. They were standing, waiting to cross, in the road but behind a parked car so they were safe, and a cyclist went out of their way to run over their shoes. The poor man was dumbstruck as he stared at the tyre marks on his loafers and a passing Mad Max style messenger swore at him. It will end in tears, I warn you.
My hatred of drivers and their knowledge of zebra crossings is something that is strengthened every day. I don’t quite understand, because as a failed driving pupil, it was beaten into me every lesson to slow down when approaching a crossing and if you see someone even possibly, vaguely thinking about approaching the zebra or even looking at the crossing in a suggestive way, then you had to stop. So why, every morning, does some tit in a BMW accelerate when they see me ON the zebra crossing. I have now been reduced to screaming at them. I’m not known as a public screamer, but in this case I’ve been driven to it. ‘Prick’ is my screaming epithet of choice, as its short, concise and hopefully bears enough harsh constantan sounds to penetrate the back window of a standard saloon. I also find myself having extended sarcastic conversations with the drivers along the lines of, ‘Oh yes, just keep going, don’t check to see if there’s anyone crossing, I could have been a small child or a confused young mum trying to juggle my childcare arrangements with a part-time job at a local dentists office. There’s a school there you know and a library, so you have young people and the infirm using this crossing on a regular basis. And what’s so important that you have to drive so quickly and ignore the basic principles of the Highway Code…’ etc etc. Sometimes I’m back home and in the kitchen before the dialogue finishes.
So my advice? Never leave the house. Or if you do, try and pick up one of those Shopability scooters. They are the ultimate weapon in the covert war against all.
Wednesday, 2 April 2008
The Shop
My loyalties are torn between the three local shops that sit on my doorstep. Each has its own charms, detriments and complications. This wasn't a problem at my old flat. There we had only one shop. My relationship with them was occasionally fraught, sometimes pleasant - but always safe in the knowledge that I had no choice. It was the only shop and to boycott them over some trivial discretion would be destructive to my own life with barely a blemish on theirs. This entire reliance offered me a certain amount of satisfaction.
Now I have three shops. All pretty much selling the same things and all very close to each other. In one case inches apart. My preference usually falls on the one that is furthest away. I don't know why. The utter disdain offered to me by the usual shopkeeper provides me with comfort. I know I will never be drawn into a conversation about the poor quality of local teens or the relative merits of a local footballing team. 'Would you like a bag?' is his only query. I never do want a bag, due to environmental guilt. But I also never remember to bring a bag, so always try to cradle my groceries in my arms in an unlikely tribute to popular children's variety show Crackerjack (Crackerjack!). My character is further lessened in the shopkeepers’ eyes at this display.
The problem with this shop is two-fold. Firstly its hours. It seems to open at 4 in the morning and close by early afternoon. I'm not sure why. There aren't any local mines or dairies that need to be sold comestibles at that early hour. But those are its terms and we have to abide. Also, it doesn't sell booze. There is an off-licence next door, but this is also in my bad books as I once found the door locked and the clerk standing outside smoking a fag. 'I'll just be a few minutes' she told me, preferring to smoke than serve.
Then there are the two shops that are next to each other. There must be a history between the two, each seems to ignore the other, there is never a mention, but animosity reigns. There is a large one and a small one. I am not a fan of the large one. This is because I was shortchanged there on New Years Day when, in the throes of a massive hangover, I bought a Lucozade and a chocolate bar of some description. Noticing my poor condition, they decided, correctly, that this idiot would never check his change, which of course I didn't. Once the aberration was discovered, I was too damaged to do anything about it.
So I boycotted it. But sometimes I have to go in there as it has items not stocked by the small shop. I also have my problems with the small shop. The shop is run by a couple. The lady is perfectly fine. It’s her husband. He's a nervous sort and freakishly nice. Nice to the point of sarcasm. I really can't decide is his over-reaching obsequiousness is sincere or part of a long-running, inter-marital joke with myself as the stooge. Sometimes I dart back in there immediately after my purchase, to see if I can catch them laughing. But this just makes me appear slightly deranged.
It really is over the top. He once thanked me when I handed him some bananas to be weighed. Why thank me? What did I do? Not hurl them at his face? Not do a comedy dance with them before thrusting them up each of his nostrils? There followed a volley of 'thank yous'. He thanked me after each stage of the purchase, handing him the item, the bag request, taking the money, returning the change, leaving. Each step of the journey punctuated by a thank you. He always seems to be on the point of nervous collapse.
This display puts me on edge. So I avoid it if I can. But then I feel guilty. If I visit one of the other shops, I feel guilty about deserting the small one. I even feel guilty when walking by, on some purely innocent venture, just in case they spot me and think I'm shopping elsewhere. And if I do shop elsewhere, I have to somehow attempt to disguise or secrete the purchases about my person, while in their view.
If it all gets too much, I go to the garage. This is quite a trek away, but offers little emotional strain. And I like the smell of petrol.
Now I have three shops. All pretty much selling the same things and all very close to each other. In one case inches apart. My preference usually falls on the one that is furthest away. I don't know why. The utter disdain offered to me by the usual shopkeeper provides me with comfort. I know I will never be drawn into a conversation about the poor quality of local teens or the relative merits of a local footballing team. 'Would you like a bag?' is his only query. I never do want a bag, due to environmental guilt. But I also never remember to bring a bag, so always try to cradle my groceries in my arms in an unlikely tribute to popular children's variety show Crackerjack (Crackerjack!). My character is further lessened in the shopkeepers’ eyes at this display.
The problem with this shop is two-fold. Firstly its hours. It seems to open at 4 in the morning and close by early afternoon. I'm not sure why. There aren't any local mines or dairies that need to be sold comestibles at that early hour. But those are its terms and we have to abide. Also, it doesn't sell booze. There is an off-licence next door, but this is also in my bad books as I once found the door locked and the clerk standing outside smoking a fag. 'I'll just be a few minutes' she told me, preferring to smoke than serve.
Then there are the two shops that are next to each other. There must be a history between the two, each seems to ignore the other, there is never a mention, but animosity reigns. There is a large one and a small one. I am not a fan of the large one. This is because I was shortchanged there on New Years Day when, in the throes of a massive hangover, I bought a Lucozade and a chocolate bar of some description. Noticing my poor condition, they decided, correctly, that this idiot would never check his change, which of course I didn't. Once the aberration was discovered, I was too damaged to do anything about it.
So I boycotted it. But sometimes I have to go in there as it has items not stocked by the small shop. I also have my problems with the small shop. The shop is run by a couple. The lady is perfectly fine. It’s her husband. He's a nervous sort and freakishly nice. Nice to the point of sarcasm. I really can't decide is his over-reaching obsequiousness is sincere or part of a long-running, inter-marital joke with myself as the stooge. Sometimes I dart back in there immediately after my purchase, to see if I can catch them laughing. But this just makes me appear slightly deranged.
It really is over the top. He once thanked me when I handed him some bananas to be weighed. Why thank me? What did I do? Not hurl them at his face? Not do a comedy dance with them before thrusting them up each of his nostrils? There followed a volley of 'thank yous'. He thanked me after each stage of the purchase, handing him the item, the bag request, taking the money, returning the change, leaving. Each step of the journey punctuated by a thank you. He always seems to be on the point of nervous collapse.
This display puts me on edge. So I avoid it if I can. But then I feel guilty. If I visit one of the other shops, I feel guilty about deserting the small one. I even feel guilty when walking by, on some purely innocent venture, just in case they spot me and think I'm shopping elsewhere. And if I do shop elsewhere, I have to somehow attempt to disguise or secrete the purchases about my person, while in their view.
If it all gets too much, I go to the garage. This is quite a trek away, but offers little emotional strain. And I like the smell of petrol.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)