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When you're having so much goddam fun all the time, weekend after weekend, it's easy to forget. Forget that we went to a fabulous Jazz Cafe picnic in the grounds of a beautiful stately home. Forget we made a delicious margarita mix and brought it along in a handy dispenser. Forget t
he jolly friends, the happy crowds, the monkey's wedding, the all encompassing goddam fun we had. I'm remembering it now, with a little prompting from GWonder (doll). Curiously enough, while the lady on the left, the lovely Melanie, has lingered long in my mind, I seem to have misplaced the lady on the right. Perhaps one needs to see a face. Ass recognition is a fine art I never quite mastered (Yes Spencer, that ass). Other things happened on this day. A gentleman called Dr.Syntax told us a salty tale of his encounters with humankind, he 'layed it down a cappella stylee' I think the kids might call it. We lay down on our picnic mat and chortled, our Waitrose packets whirling about our heads. Zero 7 made us all shake uncontrollably. Jose Gonzalez made us stop shaking and stroke our beards instead. Then we went home, a lot, home and home and by Christ are we still walking where's the fugging station, oh thank Gawd a bus, where are you, you're where? We wait for you, and wait and wait oh no I am going to cry I lie down on the ground just kick me please where are they now? Ah, here they are, super. Then we slept.B
There is an extremely inebriated man sitting opposite me on the train to Hove. He is at that amiably drunk potentially belligerent stage, chatting randomly to the terrified Chinese couple next to him until I turn up and they do a runner. He takes his time to engage, leering at the cover of my music magazine and making lip smacking noises. Eventually I'm forced to fix him with a gimlet eye. 'Sheza bitof awright' he mumbles, jabbing a pudgy digit at the Ibiza babe frolicking on the front of Mixmag. I manipulate some facial muscles so my lips turn up at the edges, but the utter insincerity of this grimace fails to put him off. God shines down on me when he begins a lengthy treatise on the unsung merits of Rod Stewart and the Faces, letting slip that he's got all their records at his squalid hovel in Hastings. I politely point out he is sitting in the wrong set of carriages for Hastings and is on his way to Hove if he remains in his seat. Eyes bulging, he frantically grabs his can of Tennants and salty KPs and dashes for the front of the train. I bathe in the tangible waves of good will directed at me from the rest of my fellow passengers, until Hove, er, hoves in sight.Girl Wonder (doll) waves from the balcony, and the titter and tinkle of Mr.Incredible's birthday party wafts down to me. The Zim factor is high at this event, as are most of the Zimmers. The blunt force trauma of being smashed in the face by so many 'flet' accents, sends me reeling into the arms of a large bowl of punch. This in turn sends me rolling onto the balcony. There, I find the b-day boy and, engaging hearty mode, discreetly try to shake off the (sucker) punch with jolly banter. The day gently dribbles into evening, all have supped of punch or the devil beer and merry appears to be the way forward. I have sensibly partaken in some wholesome stew action (cheers for that G-Wonder) and have partially returned to my senses, possibly around the same point certain hangers-on actively begin to leave theirs far behind. Herding cats madly, Mr.Incredible rustles up a fleet of taxis and we troop off into the Brighton night, destination Audio.
Two giant peroxide bouncers man the door and are remarkably friendly to this dubious rabble that staggers out of the darkness. I'm assured by Mr.I that the DJ is known for sending his acolytes on a Journey of Uplifting Musical Joy(TM) and I'm eager to experience this first hand. Sadly, said DJ appears to have not received the uplifting journey memo and decides instead to lead us in a giant samba via the grimy juke joints of the West Coast. This Latino/hiphop hybrid is a journey to the forth tier of Hell, presided over by a giant set of demonic congas. Knowing he can't sustain this diabolical tedium all night, our DJ let's his flunkey bosh out the odd OK tune. Tis' but a ruse to punish the unwary reveller who has stumbled hopefully back onto the dancefloor, with a fresh bombardment of whistle/conga horror. 4.00pm brings merciful release from this damnation, and we return to the sanctuary of the balcony, an unwelcome demon trailing after us. It's remarkable how far an individual has to go before polite middle class constraints snap. Here's a few top 'getting thrown out' tips. Consume all the consumables, do not offer any of your own. Ask people meaningless questions. Don't bother listening as they struggle to answer. Carry on talking over them about an exam you wrote. Consume more. Fall on people. Scream incomprehensibly in their ears at the club. Hang on people, sit on people, grope people. Return to after party despite palpable air of hostility. Talk incoherently yet again about self. Burst into tears for no apparent reason and flounce off to the loo to no doubt hoover secret drug stash. Upset old friend of the host in the process. Throw bottle off balcony. Yes! Finally, an act so stupid and unnecessary, even I am appalled. He is summarily ejected and all breathe an enormous sigh of relief. I immediately play an exuberant samba tune and everyone shoots themselves. (Ha jokes, not really hey Boet)
Happy Joy Mr.Incredible. May your jaw forever be chiselled and all your demons thrown over the balcony (preferably at the beginning of the evening)
B
These are collaborative works produced by my child and his mother. They are part of a future exhibition, revolving around the worldview of a child and how their perceptions evolve and are influenced by parental opinions of the the same symbols and mythic representions they both encounter in their daily lives. Fairy tales, religious iconography, pop culture, the detritus of a 1st world society. I'm opening this event. I'm going have to be a bit more coherent than this.
B
Peeping Tom the film that destroyed the career of respected British Director, Michael Powell, was compulsory viewing in our film course at Uni. This image instantly transports me back to the icy cold projector room of the journ department at Rhodes. Our breath solidifying before our us, we huddled together for warmth while creepy Carl Boehm roamed the seedy underbelly of Sixties Soho (can I say 'Boehm roamed'? guess I just did) The subjects of his perverted desires? Disfigured prostitutes. His depraved quest? To capture on film the purest moment of abject fear as his victim realised they were about to be skewered on one of the sharpened legs of his tripod (no Spencer, not that tripod, though no doubt the comparison was intentional) Perhaps it was the combination of sub-zero tempratures and smuggled-in Tassenburg Red, but this film scared the living shies out of us. So now I go and take this weird picture and it all comes flooding back, aaaaaaahh, I hate Tassies!
B
Gawd, tempis really fugits when you're having fun, seems like seconds ago I was sweating my ass off in Orlando. This place is a shies-hole of epic proportions. It's reclaimed swampland, overrun with cheap housing and toytown municipal buildings. It exists to serve the multiple evils of Disneyworld, Universal Studios, Seaworld and various other lesser but still diabolical theme parks. It is also one of the leading convention areas in the US, which is why I was standing around with Mz.P for three days, smiling and nodding at corporate Amerikakaka. I was most happy to return home from this chore, content in the nollige that the automotive industry now has a clear understanding of what my mobile phone operating system company does. OK, perhaps 'clear' is pushing it a bit.
B
When you're having so much goddam fun all the time, weekend after weekend, it's easy to forget. Forget that we went to a fabulous Jazz Cafe picnic in the grounds of a beautiful stately home. Forget we made a delicious margarita mix and brought it along in a handy dispenser. Forget the jolly friends, the happy crowds, the monkey's wedding, the all encompassing goddam fun we had. I'm remembering it now, with a little prompting from GWonder (doll). Curiously enough, while the lady on the left, the lovely Melanie, has lingered long in my mind, I seem to have misplaced the lady on the right. Perhaps one needs to see a face. Ass recognition is a fine art I never quite mastered (Yes Spencer, that ass). Other things happened on this day. A gentleman called Dr.Syntax told us a salty tale of his encounters with humankind, he 'layed it down a cappella stylee' I think the kids might call it. We lay down on our picnic mat and chortled, our Waitrose packets whirling about our heads. Zero 7 made us all shake uncontrollably. Jose Gonzalez made us stop shaking and stroke our beards instead. Then we went home, a lot, home and home and by Christ are we still walking where's the fugging station, oh thank Gawd a bus, where are you, you're where? We wait for you, and wait and wait oh no I am going to cry I lie down on the ground just kick me please where are they now? Ah, here they are, super. Then we slept.
