The Christmas Unrest.   6 comments

Was just walking back from the school listening to this great Sino-Grime mix. It’s the first thing that’s made me want to soundtrack the world with headphones for ages, as extra stimulus hasn’t felt like it would be a pleasure. Kind of sad that it takes a mix this old to do that, and it kind of makes me think that it shows that it isn’t just me being too out-of-touch/jaded/raw and otherwise engaged, because I just feel such purity in this form. Sino-Grime too. What kind of a dumb idea is that? Why should that work? Anyway I was telling Syd about the Weather Lady the other day and how she always comments on the climactic conditions to bemused passing strangers and as I’m rolling along in a kind of martial rush to the stiff-but-loose funk machismo of the mix I spot her on the other side of the road. ‘Nice weather, isn’t it?’ I see her mouth saying.
The other day on Gwydir Street I saw a well-turned-out-but-not-obviously-posh old lady outside her tidy-but-not-done-up house smoking a roll-up at about AM. She was definitely in her 70s, possibly 80s. I know it shouldn’t, but the sight of old ladies smoking always gives me such cheer. It’s like ‘Go on Love, have a fucking fag. Fuck ’em all. Fuck ’em!’ Other things that have struck me as ever so mildly incongruous or amusing in a very faint way:

A driving instructor stalling at a junction.
A man sprinting at full pelt out of the jobcentre and into a waiting transit van that was literally pulling away.
Four Asian men getting fishing rods and other angling equipment from the back of a car.
A pumpkinhead caught on the weir in early November.

It strikes me that if the British ever revolted, it could well be at Christmas, or nearabouts. I was walking past John Lewis yesterday and looking at the horrifying, gaping abyss of naffness that the displays represented and it all felt like the most monstrously obvious insult to the soul. I think this means that I am a sort of cross between Scrooge and Brian Sewell. I say Brian Sewell because Sas has just accused me on Facebook of having the writing style of Brian Sewell

So, funnily enough, whenever I drink mint tea and go to bed early I get all these crazy vivid dreams, almost like my brain chemistry is suddenly like Whiskey. Tango. Foxtrot. This morning I woke with a start because seconds before I’d been in a scenario where I was in a massive all-male queue outside a Little Chef-type place where for some reason everybody was keen to buy tickets in advance for some sort of Christmas celebratory eventl or something. People seemed to want to get these tickets early in order to avoid a queue on the day, but, as I say, this was a very large queue. There was also a cashpoint next to a toilet near the doors, and you could feel people bristling with unspoken awkwardness about which queue they belonged in. At one point a man roughly in his late 50s with an unmistakably simple-minded expression appeared at the doorway of the restaurant and tried to clear up some of the confusion, but for the most part his efforts were met with silent resentment or a series of gruff sounds and quick, uncommunicative gestures. This caused the slightly self-satisfied smile at his own perceived usefulness to fade into one of faint dismay by degrees. As I neared the head of the line I turned round to gauge my relative progress, and as I turned back a pudgy blond teenage boy in front of me pushed me hard on the chest with both hands. Shocked, I began to remonstrate with him but then immediately became aware that someone was also crowding into me from behind. Indeed, they were rubbing up against me at the same time the crowd had become agitated and I was being jostled from several directions at once. Then I realized I was wearing loose, lightweight shorts, and then apprehended with horror that the tall man with the very thick lensed glasses that looked like a bloke I saw on a train about six months ago had invaded my personal space to the ludicrous point of placing his hand on my scrotum. At this, the very apex of my fight-or-flight adrenaline surge, I woke up.

6 responses to “The Christmas Unrest.

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  1. I know the Weather Lady, never thought of her as that, but it does make sense and I do agree.

  2. man, yooz havin some dreams. same over here. If I wrote about mine I’d be locked up.

    the anuxz is so big now
  3. Actually I want to hang out with this weather lady. have lunch with her in the kebab shop and just talk cummulous clouds for an hour

    the anuxz is so big now
  4. Last night I dreamt I was inside the body of a man who had elected to die by paddling a punt-style craft through shark-infested waters. Guess these water dreams are in equal parts lack of Stella Artois and the Copenhagen summit.

  5. Not sure how deep into meteorology she goes, although I would fascinated to know what would happen if you did stop and chat. It seems that remarking on the weather to strangers is the epitome of a particularly British cry for help, although she doesn’t look like she is in the last stages of despair. Possibly I’ve got her all wrong and she’s trying to help me out!

  6. Yeah, I always think theyre trying to send me a message about something Im not getting because Im a TV trained Capitalist.
    But then again, Ive been up and down mill rd and Ive nver been offered the weather report so maybe Im allright.

    the anuxz is so big now

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