thisiskeith

Burns

My resolution of blogging every day has taken a bit of a kicking recently. But I have an excuse, Mark Coverdale and I made our spoken-word debut on Wednesday at Rabbie Burns night 2012. It was actually my Rabbie Burns night debut, full-stop. We did a ten minute story that actually hovered obediently around the ten minute mark, surprisingly given we’d not rehearsed. 

I had wanted the occasion to be quite low-key, what with the story being quite sketchy and only just finished hours before the event. If we could get in there, get a chuckle or two and get out with our money-makers in one piece I’d have been happy. Mark, who has a relatively strong sense of occasion had other ideas. His painted illustrations arrived in stupidly large A1 form, in an ornate picture frame and sat atop a wooden easel. He revealed them one at a time (mostly) on cue to the story, dressed in a silver-buttoned jacket, with top hat and curators gloves. I wore a cardigan. 

We were immediately spotted as suitable headliners and given the post-haggis spot. That’s some pressure to pile on a story about a failing party that has barely been recited before. In the end it wasn’t all that bad. I tripped over a few lines that I must’ve dropped in there just to fuck myself. But there were genuinely lovely responses to a couple of bits - particularly when they married up well with Mark’s artwork. I think we’ve stumbled upon a nice word and image combo, we are toying with the idea of writing something else and taking it to other events under the touring moniker of Billy Ballsack and the Bukkake Brothers. Watch out for us.

The rest of the night unsurprisingly followed the event rules (that weren’t announced to me pre-event) that the content of the contributions should be about Rabbie Burns and no more than three minutes long. If it was absolutely necessary to be broader in content, then you could talk/dance/sing about the Scottish. Not the brief I’d been working to for the past fortnight if I’m honest. I had three minutes that were nothing to do with Burns or his tartany-clan. To make it worse I had another seven and a half minutes that if anything were even less Scottish. It was so non-Scottish that it was bordering on bigotry. 

I don’t think it’s anti-Scottish to not mention the Scottish at a Rabbie Burns spooken-word night. But there did seem to be audible shuffling of feet and mumblings from some people. I think some of my paragraphs might have implied they were leading up to me saying “shortbread”, but at the last minute veered of into something else entirely. Like a story-telling flirt. Had I known it would have this effect I would’ve deliberately written a whole set of passages that would tantalisingly skate around every Scottish cliche I could muster, getting the crowd infuriatingly hot and flustered but never actually delivering the money-shot of my using the word “kilt”.

Next year, definitely.

Slew

Two of my New Year resolutions came head to head today. Be more healthy, and lose a few pounds. I went to bed last night alive and well, and woke up at 2am filled by a toxic slew in a rush. I timed the journey to the toilet at around a second flat.  Myself and the toilet became quite close acquaintances for the next 6 hours. So, I have lost about 6 pounds today - result! By the smell of what poured out like a drain, it was doing very little positive inside me anyway. 

I felt a bit delirious by noon. I think that was the highlight of the day. I couldn’t sleep for wanting to pass out. That’s a fun game, nodding off every ten minutes. And waking up with a jolt, every ten minutes. I had to pull myself together and get to the shop because I’d ran out of toilet roll. I must’ve looked quite the treat in my lounge trousers, cardie, flip-flops and a leather jacket - in the rain. There’s a dotted-line where effortlessly cool crosses over into vagrant. I had crossed it. 

I think the worst thing today was losing all confidence in passing wind. I think it’s one of Man’s greatest achievements - separating gas from solid (or in my case today, eggy water) when we fart. Not me, I’d regressed back a few evolutionary steps. Fortunately I had the good sense to get on my porcelain plinth whenever I thought passing wind might be in order. If I get back somewhere close to 100% tomorrow I will spend the first hour showing off my re-discovered skill to colleagues.

Hopefully this is the last potty-mouth post of the year.

Fit

My neck still hurts and I feel generally unfit today. This probably isn’t my body playing an elaborate illusion on me, I most likely am genuinely unfit. It’s not like I’ve got high expectations of how fit I need to be. Jog for the bus fit. Carry the shopping home fit. Clean up after the cat fit. That’s about all I need. I don’t plan to scale any buildings any time soon, so what’s the point in achieving the physical condition required to do so.

But, I think I have dropped beneath the level of fitness even I am comfortable with. I think it happened an hour ago when I had to hold down CTRL and scroll at the same time, and unexpectedly let out a wheeze. That’s not a good sign. So, I have a new year’s resolution coming at me from leftfield. Get fit. Or to be exact, get a little bit fitter. Not by much, just enough so that I can browse the internet without letting out noises.         

So, exercise options. Join a gym. Fuck that. Just, no. I hate gyms. I hate the people in gyms. I hate the funny words people give the machines that make you sweat in gyms. It’s a non-starter. The only way I want to spend time watching men in lycra sweat is if they are frantically zig-zagging down a back-street, trying to get out of my cross-hairs.

I could join a football team. Genuinely an option. I had quite a pedigree as a Sunday league footballer back in the day when I could hold down a left-back berth and my breakfast. But I fear that would mean having to join a gym and get fit first.

People say that doing exercise makes you feel great afterwards. Like a drug, endorphins or something. And I tell you what they are spot on. I went for a jog a year and a half ago and I am still on a bit of a high. Phew-wee that is still making me feel good after all these months. I might just have a Snickers as a little, belated reward.

Neck

Another weekend done. Pretty much without note. Partly because I had the sort of Friday night that casts a shadow over an entire weekend. Work drinks, followed by after-work drinks, followed by drinks that were not related to work at all. But by that point were certainly becoming a bit of an effort. 

I know I’ve had a particularly solid night out when I wake up on the couch the next day. Not because I was too drunk to make it the short distance to my bed, but because I’ve clearly had the stupid ambition to watch a film. Friday’s end of night feature-length was particularly ambitious - Doctor Zhivago. 3 hours, I didn’t stand a chance. I was in the land of nod before the kid got the balalaika. I did like waking up to the theme tune on menu-repeat though. I might make it my regular phone alarm. Certainly more soothing than the rasping siren I have now. Life comes as quite a shock on a Monday morning as it is, without it exploding into my ear-lobe at a million decibels.

The side-effect of having slept on the couch is that I now have a bit of a crooked neck. A trapped nerve or something. Or maybe something far more serious that’s been waiting for a moment to announce itself under the cover of coincidence. The good thing is that we can get free massages at work. The bad news is that I absolutely hate them. I’ve only ever had one, and it really bloody hurt. The woman was mental, and I very much doubt she’s changed. And now I’ve got to submit me and my jaunty neck to her.

She’ll do that thing where she bends my back till it makes crackling noises, which are supposed to be good news apparently. They definitely don’t sound like good news. To be fair to the crazy bitch, she did at least ask me to tell her when I had reached my ‘pain threshold’. What business was it of hers where my pain threshold is? I couldn’t help but think that my pain threshold should have no part in our time together. What would happen if I went beyond it? Would I snap? I already felt like crying - was that it? She probably physically drives men to tears in her spare time, happy the woman who’s job is also her hobby.

I probably will feel better after though, but I think that will mostly be utter relief.

Guildford

Yesterday brought my first ever trip to Guildford. Beaconsfield last year and now Guildford. I really am starting to happen. The taxi driver who drove me from the train station was stupidly proud of the town. He pointed out some local landmarks, castle, cathedral, the M25. He seemed overly paternal about the river. It’s not even their river, it belongs to lots of other towns. Water that passes Guildford on a Monday shimmies it’s curves down to Portsmouth for the Tuesday. The slippery tart.

I’ve never really understood local pride. It only really comes out when you are not actually in the place you are proud of. I’m not in lots of places, and I only seem to have nice words to say about them. The taxi driver seemed to be most proud of the fact that his local Guildford bar does a £3 roast. £3. That has to be some shit roast. A bar near me also does a shit roast. For £16. Which would probably come as quite a consolation to the good people of Guildford. Their Sunday afternoon despair comes £13 cheaper than mine. Maybe I should pop down to Guildford tomorrow and visit the pub. As they are pushing their equally terrible and affordable food around their plates, I can relay the good news that while clearly disgusting, the slop and gristle under their face is an economic victory for the commuter belt. They’ll be shovelling it into their smug faces as soon as I’m gone.  

I was glad to get back to the train station, only to find that I was stranded - no trains for 40 minutes. And after that only the ‘slow train’, which is exactly as depressing as it sounds. I thought about going for a walk around the town. Take in a few of the sights that the taxi driver was so positively giddy about. But from the platform I could already see a nightclub called MAMBOS. Block Caps. So that was about all I needed to know. I can’t imagine what went on there last night, but I’m glad I wasn’t part of it. 

So I sat and waited for the train. Then I spotted that the platform vending machine had 75p credit, and everything in there was 80p. Ergo, 5p Mars bar. As I sat on the platform, pushing it rapidly into my face, I spared a thought for whoever got to within 5p of the sugary treat before either running out of money, having to jump on the train or expiring on the spot. Poor man. I wished him well as I polished off what was over 90% his chocolate bar.

Soap

The girl who came to see (and disparage) my flat has decided to take the spare room. This leaves me in something of a quandary (I think that’s the first time I’ve ever typed the word quandary, and having typed it once I realise I have already over-used it). Having written a post about installing webcams in the room on the day she viewed it, I might look a little strange to her if she were to have a read. On the other hand, I really do need the rent.

I could just tactfully edit or delete the post. But that doesn’t sit well with my rule of never changing anything I’ve written here. The whole idea of writing on this blog is just to record what I was/am thinking. If I can go back and change the posts then what I am thinking right now becomes pretty redundant. Most of the time what I am thinking is pretty redundant. But I don’t need to hammer that point home by editing my past thoughts.

I could just let her move in, but never make friends with her on Facebook. Then she’ll never see the offending words. I hope she doesn’t make a friend request on day one. That would be awkward. Weeks and months going buy when she can have pretty much full access to my clothes-horsed damp underpants, but still isn’t allowed to look at my Wall.

In time people I know might tell her about the post. So I better not make friends with her in real life either. Just to be safe. She can move in on the explicit understanding that it is a perfunctory arrangement, put in place so that I can afford to have a roof over my head and stil buy things like chocolate and comics. We’ll stay completely independent from each other, with nothing in common other than utility bills and the fact we use the same soap. (Typing that makes me realise that a lot of people probably don’t use the same soap, and I mean hand soap, not the stuff in the shower you use to lather yourself up with - that’s definiitely in the one per person category).

One thing I do need to do is stop writing about her and the awkward situation we are now bound into together. I need to do that, and I need to do that soon.

Kev

I had my third potential flatmate over to look around the place tonight. She was very judgemental. She didn’t like the new tiles for the kitchen I have almost got round to laying, she thought my new ivory coaster was very ‘a la mode’ (means modern apparently, and judging by her face, a bit shit too) and had reason to believe that my exclusively red and black living room decor felt a bit ‘bachelor’. Really? Bachelor? Well, if only these walls could talk! They could tell a few tales. Actually, they’d have very little to say as it happens. But wouldn’t it still be fun if walls could talk.

She probably won’t move in. Which means my whole spare-room webcam investment feels a little premature. If she does move in, and does read this, then that was clearly a joke. (And if you are reading this, having moved in, and don’t believe me - it’s my word against yours. My words are only on this blog and my facebook profile anyway, where I have people on my side and can edit whatever I want anyway, so there. I’ll pollyfiller the lot in, job done, all good).

After the viewing, I watched the awfully dreary Man City/Liverpool game at my local bar. Strange crowd, it looked like Shoreditch had turned up and been sick all over the place. Lots of people who were wrapped up for winter but still forgot to wear socks under their plimsoles. Good hint here. If you need scarves, gloves and bobble-hats - you need socks. It’s simple mathematics.

A guy who I’ve met a few times before spoke to me for a bit. I usually avoid him because he has overly-tapered trousers and a larger stock of cardigans than I think is necessary. But mainly because he doesn’t know my name. ‘Kevin’, he calls me. Or ‘Kev’. Even, on one depressingly humbling occasion, ‘Kevster’. Its pretty depressing to sit with someone who tries to demonstrate his familiarity to me by riffing on a name that’s not even mine.

I left early because I felt a bit fake for not correcting him on my name, again.  

Flattie

It’s flat-mate hunting time. Again. I’ve got to get somebody in before the end of the month. Ads have gone out, and my second potential flat-mate turned up today. It’s like extreme dating seeing a potential flat-mate, particularly when it’s a two-bedroom place. “Sure, pop round. Let’s hang out. See each other again? Why not. Go for a film and a meal next time? Fuck that, get your stuff in and give me half the rent”.  

I was quite hopeful (because I’m hopelessly and naively positive as a person) as his profile on spareroom.co.uk looked fine. He had a name, a face, and a well populated “Intersted in” section. He is interested in stuff, I thought, how bad can he be? He is interested in stuff. Hobbies are definitely good signs. It could be Andrew Lloyd Webber and beastiality for all I care. Keeps him in his room and out of my way. 

He was due at 7. And turned up on time. Good sign. He was a Romanian fella, called Dave (didn’t make sense to me either) and arrived with his wife, Mari (nice name, and a very good-looking woman) along with their little baby girl (didn’t catch her name, hard to catch names, or anything else, when you are in utter shock).

They walked round the place like it was a B’n’B they were decidedly unimpressed with (join the club), roaming through the kitchen checking for dust on the surfaces. Of which there was none (ha!). Then they went into my room and complained at the size. Turns out they thought it was the whole place that was for rent. Not just the small single room, next door to mine, which is actually for rent. So, they didn’t take anything in the end. Which is a shame, I could’ve done with a ready-made family to live with. Particularly a Romanian one who left because they couldn’t afford the rent for less than half the flat they would’ve got had they decided to take the place. I should’ve offered to throw myself in to sweeten the deal.

Nostalgia

I found myself reflecting quite a bit last night. I mean that I spent time looking back at the past, not that I found a way to repel light. I spent an hour clearing out my cupboard of clothes I either don’t wear or have never worn. Some of which were apparently bought under the influence of magic mushrooms. A pair of achingly tight purple pantaloons that I have no recollection of buying went straight in the bin liner. I think they would’ve looked quite good on a nemesis of Batman’s, but just not for me at this point.

But the whole experience had me looking back at the past and pining for things. I became quite nostalgic. I’ve never been nostalgic. And now I miss that. I’ve always pitied people who are overly sentimental for a framed photograph or that particular pair of socks. Like they have enhanced meaning or value. It doesn’t matter that you wore the socks the fateful day you first met (or fingered, depending on how you rank life’s events) your ex-girlfriend. They were just keeping the cold out and smell in as best they could, same as any other day.    

But now apparently I am one of this sorry crew. I threw out a cardigan I could barely look at for sobbing about the good times I’d had in it. It was pathetic. I’d genuinely got this far thinking I had a heart of dust, then I find out my chin goes all wobbly when I look at something woollen I wore on a day when quite probably very little happened to me. If it’s so special then why isn’t hanging in a cupboard made of ornate golden pillars and sheets of ruby, that I bought with all my Euromillions cash I won the day I wore it to buy a lucky dip. Why? Cause it’s not magic. It’s a cardigan. To be exact, it’s a dis-guarded cardigan. It’s sitting at the bottom of a bin-liner outside Upper Street Oxfam, waiting to be bought by a person it will have exactly bugger-all of a positive effect on. Having said that, despite a couple of slight holes, it was quality knitwear. I miss it.

Frank

The first of Coverdale’s contributions to our Burn’s night story arrived yesterday, it excited and petrified me in equal measure. It looks great, and is perfect for the story in style. But it’s very very real. This is actually happening and I need to ramp up the writing pronto. 

I got a page of A4 out yesterday. It needs work, but there’s a couple of lines I’m pretty happy with. I don’t know if it’s actually going to be funny. But it makes me smile. Either way. With stand-up you can tell if it’s going to work, or at least be confident that it will. But this is a bit different and daunting in a new and terrifying way.

Here he is.

He’s an old curmudgeon who sits, smokes and responds to his newspaper articles by writing profanities under them. This person actually exists, he’s not as old, but I saw his newspaper last week when he left my local bar. Under a football feature discussing the merits and otherwise of defences playing a high-line, he’d simply written ‘Bollocks’. Simple, un-punctuated and concise. I imagined him screwing shut the nib of his pen. Sliding it back in to his pocket. And sitting back to enjoy the newspaper’s silence. Another debate well and truly in the bag.

It’s almost one down. With 16 days left to find 9 more. 

Bus

A short ride on he bus around noon has been the highlight of my day. To be fair it hasn’t been a very productive day. I had to go and register at a vet, not me personally obviously. Though my Holloway Road quack is not exactly God’s gift to medicine. I am pretty sure he turns to leaches as a last resort for anything less mainstream than a migraine. 

I don’t like public transport. Not being a fan of the public, I don’t see why I should look forward to getting on a stinking great vehicle with them.  Today was a particularly bad trip though. One mile and a half of utter horror. A single-mum (I am presuming here, she might have a husband or partner at home, or at least in the Pentonville nick - who am I to judge) got on the bus with her little cherub. A spotty little terror with more street-smarts than I have. He ran to the seat right behind me, jumped in it, and kicked the back of my seat for the entire journey.

She did nothing. She was too busy listening to something without any treble on her ipod. To be fair to the little degenerate, his foot kept pretty good rhythm with the bass. I am pretty sure there was an off-beat that he totally nailed by Essex Road.

There’s two things you can do in a situation like this. I could’ve turned on the pair of them and given them a mouthful. Not a well-considered dressing down suggesting their behaviour was not quite appropriate, that’d be a complete waste. I mean a stream of utter abuse, so front-loaded with profanity it would barely hold itself up as genuine dialogue. Or. I could, and I did, sit there and stare miserably into the middle-distance while working out if its the world or myself that I hate more.

The total sucker-punch is that when I pop my cloggs I have to bequeath a small share of my oxygen to this little shit. I can’t take it with me. He’ll get it. And I’m not saying he’ll definitely do nothing of any worth in his life and therefore shouldn’t get his fair share of the atmosphere’s oxygen. That his lungs shouldn’t be allowed to gulp down the sweet O2 that the rest of us can. I’m not saying that at all. I’m just saying maybe an independent panel would do worse than look into it. Yes, we are all born equal. But kick the back of my seat and I take the lead.

Maybe today will pick up tonight. 

Burns

I didn’t post yesterday as I was too busy being in an utter and blind panic. Mark Coverdale (find him on Facebook, he loves it when people do that) are performing a ten minute story at a local Burns night – that’s Robbie Burns, not some sort of first-degree Fireworks night support group.

I think we were asked to do it because I run a comedy night and he is friends with someone who runs a comedy night. The coincidence is uncanny. But that’s because I believe most things happen because of me. Wind, sun, the weekly shop - that sort of thing.

I’ve got no idea about Robbie Burns, which is less of an issue than having no idea about what constitutes a good ten minute short story. Mark gets the easier job of drawing pictures that illustrate (illustrations if you will) the words I am saying. I have to write a ten minute story (that’ll take about a month) and read a ten-minute story (that’ll take about 6 minutes). And I have to do this on Burns night, on the 25^th.

This is all ridiculous. I know Robbie was a right slag, according to Wikipedia, but that only gets me 30 seconds in. I need another 9 minutes 30. When I’m usually asked to do a 10 minute stand-up spot I can easily fill it up with poorly-received audience banter, long period of silence or curling up in the foetal position and sobbing like a baby. Not on the 25^th, this shit had to be loaded with narrative.

So blind panic for the rest of the weekend it is then. For now, I am going to an event in my Google calendar that has appeared as a reminder named ‘Friday night fuck-fest’. And I am 15 minutes overdue.

Abstinence

January is turning out to be a very puritan month. A worrying amount of people have announced some form of abstinence in the past two days. But I have a very busy work and social life, what with me being decidedly important and popular. My calendar is like a pyramid, blocks of activity, piled up, piled up again, and reaching a pointy crescendo at the top, but (as far as I know) without a moth-eaten corpse at the bottom. Therefore, I have little time available to abstain from stuff. Other than going to the gym or eating greens, Abstinences from which I have turned into an art form. 

But I feel left out – when everyone else gets to the end of the month and reward themselves with that vodka/cigarette/cake/fondle they have cut out of their lives for the prior 31 days, what am I going to do? I could just double my vice intake? Take one for the team, and toast them while I do. Or, maybe I could just find new ones? Indulging in sillier and more mortally dangerous vices as the months roll-on. To the point that by Spring I’ll be naked and out of my mind, teetering somewhere between a stool and a light-shade?  

I’ll probably do neither, and just carry on with the service that saw me through 2011. Ignoring the smugness of abstainers that is scarcely bearable. What’s to be impressed with? They’ve drank/smoked/snorted themselves into a mess so silly that now they are starving themselves of it. 

There is of course the option of abstaining myself of the abstainers, till February 1st. When no doubt they’ll be so smug that they’ll be only be capable of talking to me when standing on a plinth whilst being echoed by a choir. 

Monday

I’m certainly not going to say that some days are actually longer than others. But if they are, the first day at work of the year has to be a fair contender as the longest. Today couldn’t have dragged more if someone had piped the hits of Snow Patrol directly into my skull.

The Mother of all Mondays. And not even technically a Monday. Never has a day lived up to its billing so emphatically. London looked post-apocalyptic this morning. Swirling rain. Gale force winds. People staggering to and fro. All desperately coming to terms with the fact that a long bout of alcoholic excess - punctuated only by regular and shorter periods of utter binge-drinking - was finally over.

I got to work. Where were the mince pies? Where was the mulled wine? The most exciting thing I unwrapped all day was my lunch. I wanted reindeer jumpers and Cliff Richard. All I got was a complaint about my Secret Santa. And I had to work beyond mid-afternoon. 

My walk to the bus-stop was a trail of ex-Xmas trees. Each one previously a fifty pound focal-point of festive fun, newly reinvented as irrigation for dog piss. People looked miserable. I sat across from a couple on the number 19. They didn’t share a word. I found it difficult to work out which of them was actually clinically depressed. The girl seemed more likely. A vague sign of a nervous tick, and her complexion gave the impression that a slew of Valium was only a repeat prescription away. He was much harder to read. What with his sobbing and wringing of hands.

The shame is, this isn’t a one-day hangover. London will be this way for the month. It’s here for keeps. I will do my bit to lift the general mood. Definitely starting tomorrow.

Resolve

I am a brazen-tart for new year resolutions. Last year I had a list on my phone. 2011: A Keith Odyessy. Contributions included slouching less and trying to be a bit more punctual. This year I want to be more productive, so I am going to write on this blog every day (other than yesterday, I wrote my list late - 2011 was an abject failure resolutions-wise). 

After I wrote my little list of resolutions (working title 2012: Year of Keith) I went and threw eleven (relatively) hard-earned quid at a roast chicken that looked equally ashamed by her price-tag as defeated in her last remaining function of living up to it. This thing looked like it had spent the winter marching across a desert weighed down by mini ankle weights. I very rarely use my hands when eating in public, but I was reduced to picking every morsel of poultry from this poor unfortunate’s emaciated thigh and eating it back from under my finger nails. I arrived and left with starvation-rating almost completely intact.

It’s handy that the second resolution on my list is to cook more. Partly inspired by getting a Jamie Oliver cook-book for Xmas. Jamie describes a great number of dishes as pucka, I’ll let that (and the fact that he is everything that is wrong with the world) pass. I’ll just concentrate on improving beyond the portly quail that was shoved under me in the mistaken guise of a chicken earlier.

The third and final resolution is to be slower to judge people. Apparently people deserve a chance and I’ve been reliably informed that I judge too harshly and too quickly. I didn’t listen at first as the person reliably informing me was clearly an utter idiot, and is as much use to our planet as famine. But maybe he did have a point. From this point in I am going to let people express themselves before I judge them. I will do this by starting the conversation with an open-ended question then counting down from 10 before dismissing them as utterly undeserving of another second of my time. With this technique I hope to win many more friends in 2012.