Last night had started in typical Palace style. I was sitting on the fridge in the hall – don’t ask – just sitting there watching the world go by. Fag, glass, watch.
People come, people go, the fridge was a good place to hang out. The Palace equivalent of the water cooler.
A couple of characters came out of one of the rooms. Tonya and James. I love these two guys. They’re always on the look out, always game for it. Really I think the reason I liked them so much was cos I knew that they were a bit like me, part timers, not really part of the game. I don’t know how they ended up here, but they weren’t here for the long haul. Probably just hanging out till college starts or something.
Normally they play the club game, but tonight…. Tonight they looked special.
“How long have you been here?” I said to Tonya. I’d been there about six months and he’d been there longer than me. It’s funny. It sounded like I was asking about a prison sentence or something.
“Nah, I only came about a month or so before you. Sometimes it feels like forever but it feels like home, you know what I mean?”
“I know what you mean. You think you’ll know when enough is enough? When it’s time to stop the madness?”
“What are you talking about?”
“I think,” said James, “he means ‘What the fuck are we doing dressed up like this?’”
James had a point. Coming out of your room at The Palace was always a treat. You never quite knew what was going to happen. Tonya and James were sweet lads, an Aussie and a Brit. Both up for it, both nice boys on holiday. But James had a point.
They were trussed up in leather, in I don’t know, the sort of lederhosen you’d get in a sex shop if sex shops sold lederhosen. Maybe a Bavarian sex shop that catered for the S&M crowd. Actually, I wouldn’t be surprised if that was the only kind of sex shop you got in Bavaria.
Why? What? Did it matter? I asked and they started telling me about how they were going to check out the gay bars cos they’d met some bloke who told them it was an easy way to make some dosh and… and… and…
Sometimes I didn’t know whether we were on Candid Camera or whether it was for real. Maybe it was one of those Japanese game shows where you had to undergo strange acts of sadism. There was that Clive James used to present called Endurance, I think. I used to write about them, thought they were rubbish, laughing at the funny foreigners. Curiously, I went from writing about them to appearing on one of them once. No, but really.
Poppy
Tuesday 29 December 2009
CHAPTER FIVE
Around me in the cafe, people are sitting reading the papers. And the scene is the same as everywhere else in the world. They are turned to the sports pages, checking to see how their boys have done.
Another cigarette. Having another cigarette wasn’t so much a decision as a move designed to put off having to make a decision because you know any other decision will probably be wrong and definitely not really worth the effort.
Last night. About last night. There was an acronym - A.C.E. – we used which made us laugh anyway. We’re going to have an ace night. A night out with acid, cocaine and ecstasy. Ace. Last night was supposed to be ace. But then every night is supposed to be ace. It got blown out of the water when Mark came in with some smack. That added an ‘H’. We should have known then. That made it an ache. But, it’s getting better.
More coffee arrives. People carrying umbrellas walk past. I’m wearing a pink sweatshirt cut off just above the elbow. It is emblazoned with the legend “Chanel - Paris” but no one can see it because it’s inside out. On my legs are a pair of Thai fisherman’s trousers held up by a brown leather belt. My shoes are local specialities called Jika Tabi - black canvas boots which fasten at the back with maybe 15 hook and eye things and which the big toe separated like a foot mitten. They are very comfortable and, to your eyes, a little eccentric. The whole ensemble is what you might call ‘witty’. Last night was still here...
..." "Don't let me stop you." So I wrote "... waiting for another coffee" and put my pen down again. You know where you stand with creativity.
------------------
About last night. I remember the way I used to go out. Say, for example, I was supposed to go out at 10. I’d have a bath at 6, a long bath, wash my hair and spend the next two hours poodling around doing my hair and sorting out which clothes to wear.
Where were we going? What type of people were going to be there? What impression did I want to create? Did I want a friend for a night? A job? A serious friend? A serious job? I had a suit for each and knew exactly which one would do for each need. The fact that they were all black and baggy and double breasted and made by the same geezer mattered not a jot to anyone but me. I knew and I felt right in each one in a different way. That took me up to about 8ish. Then I’d spend some time on the phone, checking out what the score really was and then I’d spend the next 30 or 40 minutes changing the suit to meet the new requirement. Five minutes before leaving the house, I’d change back to the suit that I always wore. The black baggy one. Dependable and comfortable. Sometimes I’d lay three or four out on my bed, each with a tie and compare and go through different combinations.
Here, things are a bit different. No, maybe that’s misleading. They’re not really different. There isn’t the clothing dilemma, largely because there are no clothes to speak of. How can you deliberate about which suit to wear when you’ve only got one suit? So what do you do? You end up trying to change your inside because you can’t change your outside. Drugs is the new deal. The questions are the old questions. Where were we going? What type of people were going to be there? What impression did I want to create? Did I want a friend for a night, a job, a serious friend? A tab of acid? Maybe a speed cap and half a tab? And a line of coke. A little bit of ketamine. Take half a tab now and half when you get there. And more speed. What the point? The result was always the same - to fuck up your mind. What do you want to do? Become someone else? Altered states. Jump around like a monkey. More or less the same as altered suits. More or less.
Another cigarette. Having another cigarette wasn’t so much a decision as a move designed to put off having to make a decision because you know any other decision will probably be wrong and definitely not really worth the effort.
Last night. About last night. There was an acronym - A.C.E. – we used which made us laugh anyway. We’re going to have an ace night. A night out with acid, cocaine and ecstasy. Ace. Last night was supposed to be ace. But then every night is supposed to be ace. It got blown out of the water when Mark came in with some smack. That added an ‘H’. We should have known then. That made it an ache. But, it’s getting better.
More coffee arrives. People carrying umbrellas walk past. I’m wearing a pink sweatshirt cut off just above the elbow. It is emblazoned with the legend “Chanel - Paris” but no one can see it because it’s inside out. On my legs are a pair of Thai fisherman’s trousers held up by a brown leather belt. My shoes are local specialities called Jika Tabi - black canvas boots which fasten at the back with maybe 15 hook and eye things and which the big toe separated like a foot mitten. They are very comfortable and, to your eyes, a little eccentric. The whole ensemble is what you might call ‘witty’. Last night was still here...
..." "Don't let me stop you." So I wrote "... waiting for another coffee" and put my pen down again. You know where you stand with creativity.
------------------
About last night. I remember the way I used to go out. Say, for example, I was supposed to go out at 10. I’d have a bath at 6, a long bath, wash my hair and spend the next two hours poodling around doing my hair and sorting out which clothes to wear.
Where were we going? What type of people were going to be there? What impression did I want to create? Did I want a friend for a night? A job? A serious friend? A serious job? I had a suit for each and knew exactly which one would do for each need. The fact that they were all black and baggy and double breasted and made by the same geezer mattered not a jot to anyone but me. I knew and I felt right in each one in a different way. That took me up to about 8ish. Then I’d spend some time on the phone, checking out what the score really was and then I’d spend the next 30 or 40 minutes changing the suit to meet the new requirement. Five minutes before leaving the house, I’d change back to the suit that I always wore. The black baggy one. Dependable and comfortable. Sometimes I’d lay three or four out on my bed, each with a tie and compare and go through different combinations.
Here, things are a bit different. No, maybe that’s misleading. They’re not really different. There isn’t the clothing dilemma, largely because there are no clothes to speak of. How can you deliberate about which suit to wear when you’ve only got one suit? So what do you do? You end up trying to change your inside because you can’t change your outside. Drugs is the new deal. The questions are the old questions. Where were we going? What type of people were going to be there? What impression did I want to create? Did I want a friend for a night, a job, a serious friend? A tab of acid? Maybe a speed cap and half a tab? And a line of coke. A little bit of ketamine. Take half a tab now and half when you get there. And more speed. What the point? The result was always the same - to fuck up your mind. What do you want to do? Become someone else? Altered states. Jump around like a monkey. More or less the same as altered suits. More or less.
Tuesday 1 December 2009
A fantastic idea
It’s a fantastic idea. I’m going to write a book where all the lead characters have the same names as the literary critics of the major papers and magazines. They’ll all be fantastically good looking, rich, charismatic… the beautiful people. Journalists – critics especially – are all ego monsters. All that “I think this” and “I think that.” The idea that they are paid to give their opinions, how could they not be? I’m going to call it “The X Factor: My Story”. It’s a belt-and-braces thing here. You have a look in any bookshop and that’s all there is: books by The X Factor, books about The X Factor, books by The X Factor about The X Factor. Bless it and all, but all you’ve got to do is put his name on the cover and… well, he’s not going to complain is she? Max Clifford might but I figure as long as you don’t put a surname to it… could be any old X Factor.
I’m growing to love my new phone. Very touchy feely, all that fingers across the screen stuff. I can’t actually make any calls on it yet but I think sometimes we ask too much of technology. I’m sitting here on the train, we’re flying through the beautiful countryside and I’m listening to The Bays – my still new favourite band. What could be finer? I had been feeling a little jaded but a bit of The Bays….
Jaded. That’s it. The title of my new book. Jaded. Actually, I’ve been thinking. By the time I’ve finished the book – about 320 years time at the current rate. No, by the time I’ve finished the book and the thing comes out we’re talking about what? 18 months? Easy. No one will have a clue who Jade is, sorry was. It’ll be lost. She, bless her and all, won’t even be a footnote. What I need to do is think of the next Jade – or maybe the Jade of about three Jade’s time. 18 months? That’s about three Jades, no? Six months is possibly a bit generous, but hey, let’s go easy one her.
Hayward’s Heath. Home of the good idea. And I’ve got the good idea. We’ll call the book “Gordon Brown: My Story”. About as much chance as Spurs winning the Champions League.
I’m growing to love my new phone. Very touchy feely, all that fingers across the screen stuff. I can’t actually make any calls on it yet but I think sometimes we ask too much of technology. I’m sitting here on the train, we’re flying through the beautiful countryside and I’m listening to The Bays – my still new favourite band. What could be finer? I had been feeling a little jaded but a bit of The Bays….
Jaded. That’s it. The title of my new book. Jaded. Actually, I’ve been thinking. By the time I’ve finished the book – about 320 years time at the current rate. No, by the time I’ve finished the book and the thing comes out we’re talking about what? 18 months? Easy. No one will have a clue who Jade is, sorry was. It’ll be lost. She, bless her and all, won’t even be a footnote. What I need to do is think of the next Jade – or maybe the Jade of about three Jade’s time. 18 months? That’s about three Jades, no? Six months is possibly a bit generous, but hey, let’s go easy one her.
Hayward’s Heath. Home of the good idea. And I’ve got the good idea. We’ll call the book “Gordon Brown: My Story”. About as much chance as Spurs winning the Champions League.
So here we are
So here we are, sitting in a People-Like-Us café in Seven Dials. This so easily could have been our world. I’m not quite sure why it isn’t. I’m really happy that it isn’t, but still I’m not quite sure why it isn’t.
Four women, they all look like Gill or maybe Vicky – not as good-looking obviously – sit around having coffee. One is tapping at a laptop. A bloke walks in with a young child. He’s wearing slovenly jeans with stitching that’s probably most posh and a thick knit zip up cardigan. The jeans cost more than my entire get up, but that’s always the way.
I feel a mixture of deep frustration and sweet contentment. It’s a curious mix, each keeps the other in check. I’m comfortable in the café – the coffee is good, the people are nice to look at, one of the women – the one sitting nearest me – is kinda sexy. There’s a tantalising glimpse, a slither of skin showing between her slovenly jeans and thick knit zip up cardigan and I have a fleeting fantasy – also a slither – about her. But the slovenly jeans and thick knit zip up cardigan get in the way, and my fantasy gives way to a thought-stream about this People-Like-Us uniform.
The comfort of the café and the comfort of my situation here never quite gets carried away with itself because every time it does… the anger about college rises to the surface. It’s a bore. I’ve been trying to invoke the Roy Keane/Thierry Henry framework – it’s happened, that’s the situation, get over it – but it’s hard. I’d leave in a jiff – or at least I think I would. I said last night that the glow I got from Joe doing well far outweighed the anger I feel about being dumped on and it’s largely true. Largely.
I’m also angry about what Gill told me about her evening last night. What sort of strange people are these? How can they disassociate themselves from life so entirely? And Ellie? It’s so hard to remember that she’s still so young. We demand so much from her yet she’s so young, so… unbaked.
Four women, they all look like Gill or maybe Vicky – not as good-looking obviously – sit around having coffee. One is tapping at a laptop. A bloke walks in with a young child. He’s wearing slovenly jeans with stitching that’s probably most posh and a thick knit zip up cardigan. The jeans cost more than my entire get up, but that’s always the way.
I feel a mixture of deep frustration and sweet contentment. It’s a curious mix, each keeps the other in check. I’m comfortable in the café – the coffee is good, the people are nice to look at, one of the women – the one sitting nearest me – is kinda sexy. There’s a tantalising glimpse, a slither of skin showing between her slovenly jeans and thick knit zip up cardigan and I have a fleeting fantasy – also a slither – about her. But the slovenly jeans and thick knit zip up cardigan get in the way, and my fantasy gives way to a thought-stream about this People-Like-Us uniform.
The comfort of the café and the comfort of my situation here never quite gets carried away with itself because every time it does… the anger about college rises to the surface. It’s a bore. I’ve been trying to invoke the Roy Keane/Thierry Henry framework – it’s happened, that’s the situation, get over it – but it’s hard. I’d leave in a jiff – or at least I think I would. I said last night that the glow I got from Joe doing well far outweighed the anger I feel about being dumped on and it’s largely true. Largely.
I’m also angry about what Gill told me about her evening last night. What sort of strange people are these? How can they disassociate themselves from life so entirely? And Ellie? It’s so hard to remember that she’s still so young. We demand so much from her yet she’s so young, so… unbaked.
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