Carling evil   Leave a comment

Hangover so nasty I feel like someone has removed each cell in my body during the night and punched it. Drank lots of Carling Black Label (one of Britain’s most popular beers, I understand), which is a cunt’s drink. Weak-ass chemical fizz. Had about 6 pints at the wedding. Then went to Steve & Charlie’s party and poured myself a vodka and orange that was about half and half. Then I drank some of this weird shit that came in a straw-covered bottle, and was 50% vol. And tasted hideous, hideous, horrible. Have spent the day carrying Syd up flights of stairs, wiping shitty arses and collecting my hilariously heavy gear from the hotel. Thank fuck it wasn’t nicked. I’ve been worrying through the pain.
A challenging evening’s DJ-ing, as you might expect. Spent a lot of time disappointing a small girl with my lack of Steps, S Club 7, Robbie Williams etc. I held back my Kylie as a trump card for as long as I could. Finally she was requested and every fucker got up as though by remote control, danced, and then sat down again. I am a man of compromise, and Kylie is an international treasure, but it was depressing. “D.M.S.R” passed unnoticed by the throng too, although I expect that when Jesus addressed the crowd there was still going to be somebody at the back going “What you having for your tea tonight?” “Tainted” Love didn’t work even. I dunno, people danced and stuff, but I like to see wildness and serious pleasure.
And then it was morning and I felt like shit. Pushing the sleeping Syd along in the park, I notice that I will pass several clumps of people on my journey around the perimeter. Suddenly this seems too much for my fragile consciousness to bear, especially as people tend to look you in the eye when you’ve got a kid. I almost turn to leave the park but then realise I am being ridiculous. I then have several fractional encounters with the aforementioned human beings:
1) A middle-aged couple with an adorably youthful dog, a terrier of some kind. Seemed to be named “Ulla” or “Ole.” Scandinavian dog?
2) A woman with toddler who goes “baby!” as they invariably do. “Yes, baby,” say the mums.
3) An old man who is dressed accordingly in shirtsleeves, hoeing his garden in the council allotments that run alongside the park. He stares at his watch for at least thirty seconds. Is it because the clocks have just gone back?
4) A really old man with a stick who is making slow progress ahead of me, dead centre of the path. I start to worry that he will not hear my approach, and be startled if I veer off the path onto the grass to pass him, or be offended or saddened by the fact that I treat him as an obstacle rather than a fellow human being who could simply be asked to move aside. I begin to slow down in the vain hope that this will help my dilemma somehow. Then I hear someone coming up behind me! Grim-faced, I plunge into the situation, bearing down on the hapless geriatric with some determination. I then realise that complexities are lining up to thwart my paranoid progress, because the person behind will be passing the old man at the same time as me and Syd! He is bound to assume that he is about to be jumped on by some gang that prey on the elderly the second his decayed hearing picks up our massed presences crowding up behind him. Nothing to be done though. I scoof the pushchair onto the turf to the man’s left just as the young woman who was behind us passes him on his right. She is wearing a baseball cap and moving with confidence and womanly authority, the synthetic material of her trousers rustling regimentally as she strides past us all. The old man suddenly hears her and then stands dumbstruck and motionless as she marches past him. Syd and I glide through his personal space in silent dread, knowing that he still isn’t aware of us. I don’t get to clock his reaction but I trust that he didn’t have a coronary and crumple noiselessly to the ground. For a second as we move back onto the path in front of the old man it strikes me that we are like the three ages of man: Syd asleep in his pushchair, me tormented by countless irksome stimuli, and the doddering confusion of the decrepit old geezer. I note that the young woman is now some distance ahead.

On the way to the park I see this addict chap involved in some activity, partially hidden by trees and bushes. On the way back I see him again. This time he is on the other side of the path, underneath a different tree, scuffing the leaves with his shoe, seemingly looking for something. In one hand he holds a plastic bag.

Posted October 28, 2001 by peteum2013 in Uncategorized

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