Archive for December 2002

What about this weather, eh?   Leave a comment

Damn! Hands almost too cold to type. Fuck this less than zero shit. Yesterday on the till was like some sort of survival training, which also involved selling lots of dried fruit just to mess with your head. This one customer (who doesn’t seem to have a sense of humour but stumbled across a piece of genius funniness in his brain by accident) suggested that now that the fireman were back at work the armed forces could take over the running of Arjuna over Christmas, so that the workers could have a break. I just have this image in my head of a guy in camouflage barking: “Corporal! Show this lady where the vegan fruitcake is!” Incidentally, I’m planning to write a short play about a vegetarian wholefood shop where people keep coming in and asking for vegan fruitcake (they don’t do this in Arjuna, but they will in the play).

Visions on Mill Road…

Rob had a vision this morning where Wasserman (“Wazzer…wazzer…”) was suddenly hit by a rocket launcher. That’s too many computer games, I reckon.

I had a vision where Aggressive Beggar Girl (I’m trying to be as offensive as possible in the context of this vision) is getting married in a perfect setting and is as happy as can be. White dress, summer’s day, lovely little church, proud parents…she’s so happy and in love…

You know the woman. Tall, ponytailed, acts a bit pathetic to start with and then gets visibly livid when you don’t cough up. I’m sure I saw her sucking from her can with a straw the other day in town…something wrong with her teeth? I used to actively dislike her because she tried to bully me into giving her some money once when I was on a payphone (trying to explain something very quickly to Sam, who was oblivious to my neurotic urgency, so the phone ate my money and I got fucked off with ABG).
I was like: (To Sam)
“Look…people are trying to get money off me…(dialling tone)…oh for fuck’s sake!”
ABG: “What did you call me? Don’t call me a fucking beggar!”
Me: “I didn’t…I called you…a person…”
ABG: “…”

So yeah, I went around hating her for a while and then I realized my hate had degenerated into pity, and I think that’s where my vision came from. They say that pity is worse than hatred and I think I see what that means now.

This next bit should really be in the little moments section but I’m sure nobody checks that anymore.

The other day I was staring out into the street from within the shop and I saw this busload of posh little schoolgirls who were probably older than 11 but younger than 15 go past in a school van that said something like “The Venerable Bede’s School For Girls”, and this street drinker dude with a blanket round his shoulders made a full-on obscene gesture at them. He had his back to me but you could tell what he was doing. I looked up at the girls and there was a uniform expression of delight on every face, and one of the older looking ones managed to give him the finger before they passed, looking as pleased as punch to have the opportunity to do so.

Yesterday was like:

Freeze arse of all day in shop.
Closing shop duties rushed through as fast as poss., in order to facilitate the creation of free time in order to sort out decks for the Rock Promoter Simon Baker, and be with small son.
Got home, delivered food to caned people at No.6 as is traditional.
Ecstasy of unplugging, untangling and hefting Technics about, also involving much tragic-comic slapstick with regards to the fact that everyone in the world and his brother, (plus my brother) needs to borrow my keys at the moment, so I am forever standing in front of my bike/ my room door, Sam’s backdoor, my backdoor, the Arjuna front door, livid because I am denied access or use or whatever. Also moving big boxes about through my house is like some sort of grown-up version of a toy designed to help child development that features lots of different shapes and lots of different holes because the stairwell is partially blocked by Rob’s Australia tat and my room is overflowing with any number and variety of pieces of random crap because I am insane or insecure or something.
Phoned Simon to tell him decks were ready and the small window of opportunity timewise about which we had previously spoke was now open. Got wrong number and spoke briefly to cretin who answers the phone by going: “Yi!” Then got messaging service and explained the whole lot and more very fast.
Then got call from Simon, who said: “It’s sorted…”. What? Didn’t you get my message?”
Then burst into tears of rage and experienced very strong desire to fall heavily off the wagon. Then did all the hefting and so on in reverse.

Anyway, if I don’t get a chance to do some UM shit soon I’m going to go properly mental, d’ya hear?

Posted December 11, 2002 by peteum2013 in Uncategorized

The various types of fear   Leave a comment

Received email from Simon Beard-Harvest Time telling me I’d left my minidisks up at the Portland. Shit. Disasters 1, Triumphs 0.
Devised plan where I would utilise the ludicrously small amount of free personal time available to me before my next gig to my best advantage. I’d pick up Syd from nursery with a bottle of milk ready in the hope that he would be asleep by the time we got to the pub.
Forgot bottle. Disasters 2, Triumphs 0.
Borrowed bottle off nursery. Syd asleep by Midsomer Common. Triumphs equalised. Get to Portland to discover that the minidisks that are there have nothing to do with me whatsoever. Disasters win again.

Night before last I dreamt I owned an answering machine.
Last night I dreamt I was in some decidedly David Lynchian world where Romanian people kept turning into vampire owls. Last image I remember was that of a bearded man flying at high speed over a Canadian-type landscape flames trailing from his feet. He then seemed to crash land into a woodland area, only to be immediately buried beneath a wooden cottage that was erected with supernatural speed, as though it was some sort of purpose built miracle to counteract the evil airborne vampire. You could see his limbs poking out the edges of the house. It sounds a bit silly now but it was so vivid and horrifying that when I awoke it took me at least a minute to stop feeling scared. There was something about rings too, rings that protected you…

Went back to The Glitches after Bad Timing to chill with my fellow art-terrorists V/VM. Discovered that the only tobacco we had in the house was in the ready-rolled that I’d brought with me, so after a bit of pleasant banter about the pointlessness of Carling Black Label I ignited and sucked deep. After all, it was mine. Of course about three minutes later I couldn’t do eye contact or speech and I thought that this time I really might just be having a heart attack. Saying goodbye was out of the question so I tried to concentrate on putting my coat on in the hope that someone would initiate the farewells nightmare for me. Unfortunately getting my coat on was only just within the perimeter of the question, and my tracksuit top ended up all bunched up at the sleeves and hood inside the jacket, and my arms weren’t really working to rectify the situation, like a granddad in hospital. I sort of slid out the door sideways like some sort of confused criminal while people said goodbye in nice, normal, non-fucked ways. Unfortunately I still had to get home (past the cops!) on my severely broken and supremely unserviced bike without having the heart-rupture and/or blackout I expected at any second. I got off my bike at the cycle bridge to minimise the risks of a major medical episode and then got on again when I thought that somebody was following me in order to rob and kill me. Finally I got home but as I crept round to Sam’s I heard Syd in the full throes of his latest infant malfunction (common to the majority of tykes his age): FEAR OF BED/NIGHT/BEING ALONE. He basically stands in his cot and screams and there’s a lot of tears and snot and you have to sit in the other room with your temples pounding and physically stop each other from going in to get him, because apparently that’s bad. I was in similar mental and physical trouble on Friday when I returned from the webcast (which, incidentally, in a very punk way wasn’t actually broadcast on the web) and Syd was at it again. Even Sam said I was unlucky.
We don’t whether it’s got anything to do with the e-numbers in the antibiotics he was on, or the fact that one of the carers at his nursery has left, or what the fuck, but apparently a few of his contemporaries are doing it too.

Christmas is slowly covering the surface of the national consciousness and I’ve done arse-all about it. Normally I begin scoping the chazzers at the end of October for a budget Yule (I remember working out that I’d spent £15 in total on everybody one year), but I’ve had so little time and energy that I’m just going to do it executive-style this year, and either get the wife to do it all, or buy things randomly in the final couple of days. This morning Syd was pointing through the window at nursery at a little nativity scene in the green room, going “Sat?” (I.e. explain, please, Dad). It was 8:30AM and I didn’t really want to be doing with the Baby Jesus so I was like “Oh, farm stuff”.

Posted December 9, 2002 by peteum2013 in Uncategorized