bored of excitement – the griefjunkie blog 

Archive for January, 2009

Jack Magnets, boredom in the Yards and, surprisingly, Motown

Wednesday, January 28th, 2009

Dear Rachel,

Yeah I dunno how Camden has a reputation for glamour when some of the specimens of womanhood that caught Jack’s eye as we traded together in the Cobbled Yard recently would have been more at home annoying the postman or catching frisbees in their teeth.

When ladying, Jack’s technique is, I assume, to go up to a girl and say ‘Yeah hi, I’ve been looking at you for some time and plucking up the courage to come over and say hello, but now I’m here I just want you to know that you look fantastic, your hair is amazing, and when you smile you light up the room. Anyway, I was just wondering if you have any considerably less attractive and much, much stupider sisters you could set me up with?’, because some of these lovelies look like they would have gone on Stars In Their Eyes back in the day and said ‘Tonight Matthew, I’m going to be Les Dawson.’

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Happily, the secret of civilisation

Friday, January 23rd, 2009

Dear Rachel,

 

I was catching a train at Slough last year, and for some reason it had been delayed, or hijacked, or cancelled, or they might just have not fancied running it at the actual correct time, or something. On the whole, the service from Slough, where my sainted mother lives, into London Paddington is pretty good. In any case, I find that trains are alright if you are not too bothered about what time you actually need to get to where you’re going. The trick is to travel off peak, get a good book and don’t be hungry when you get on, or you’ll get well stroppy once the signal failures, track side equipment problems and freight trains blocking the line kick in and you find yourself staring out of a window at a tiny bit of West Drayton for an hour, bored and hungry and wishing that slaughter was legal.

 

[Hitting Read More now will reveal suggestions for signage at Colchester station, and, remarkably, the secret of civilisation]

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Adventures of the kebably kind, and a new baby in the world.

Saturday, January 17th, 2009

Dear Rachel

I looked in the mirror this morning, and was disconcerted to find that I didn’t have a reflection. No one wants to find out that they are a vampire before breakfast, and I was relieved to find that actually, the mirror in question was the door of what I hadn’t previously realised was a cupboard, which had been opened slightly and was reflecting at a different angle than usual. Discovering that I had attained supernatural status during the night would have been particularly hard to bear, considering that I had spent most of it wrestling with Goliath 12, our griefjunkie mainframe computer, which appears to have melted. It certainly isn’t working anymore, however it isn’t the disaster it would have been once upon a time considering we are pretty much wrapping up our East Yard operation this weekend.

 

(You might want to click on Read More now, for baby and drugs news)

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Reluctant voyeur on the Central Line

Friday, January 9th, 2009

Dear Rachel

Yeah I was on London’s underground tube rail network this morning on the way to Convent Garden market when I found that, due to overcrowding on the Central Line, I was actually in someone’s kiss. Or, more correctly, two peoples’ kiss. Like, you would usually think yeah, get a room, however I very much got the impression that these two already had a room, and had spent a lot of time in it, probably immediately prior to getting on the network. I actually felt that I had inadvertently walked into their room, in fact. I mean, it’s nice to see and everything, two people sharing a nice moment in the midst of several hundred people sharing a horrible one, it’s just that I was right in the kiss, so close were we all packed together, and I hadn’t introduced myself or showered or anything.

 

[Hitting 'read more' now will reveal details of our combined efforts with the posh weirdo children from our East Yard compadres, Meaningless Slogan]

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Happy Everything! It’’s 2009 look!

Wednesday, January 7th, 2009

Dear Rachel,

Like many of us I’m sure, I get quite nostalgic when I imagine the smell of fried onions, fag smoke and piss, all mixed together and coming at me through freezing rain while trudging along the Barking Road. This is what going up the footie smelled like before it went all gay, and I spent an inordinate amount of my younger, better days buggering about watching my beloved yet profoundly annoying West Ham. Without wishing to be vulgar, I have always thought that being a West Ham fan is like looking at your genitals and discovering that you’ve contracted some horrible STD: despite being irritating, distressing and frequently embarrassing, you’d never be without them.

Traditionally suspicious of victory, West Ham have snared a massive haul of two trophies in my entire lifetime.  When I was was growing up, however, they were known as a ‘good cup side.’ This meant that, in theory, they were good at winning the FA Cup – and with three victories in only one hundred and fourteen attempts, the facts certainly bear this out. Despite the unlikeliness of West Ham actually getting to Wembley, FA Cup Final day was, for idiot urchin children like us, the summer solstice. Or maybe it was more like a little Christmas, but in May and without presents or joy.  In any case, it was certainly special: for a start, it was likely to be the only live footie you saw all year, which is strange to think about now. Also, this was before keyboards were invented, so you couldn’t just download stuff or whatever. It was unreal, you would look at this fantastic spectacle which was happening only about six miles from your street, and was happening live, now, at that very moment. It was wildly exciting.

Over the actual Christmas just gone, I finally watched the 1979 FA Cup Final, between Arsenal and Manchester United. It is regarded as one of the most dramatic Finals of all time, and, as I discovered while listening closely to commentary by Brian ‘Is There Something You Want To Tell Us?’ Moore, and a clearly drunken Brian Clough, one of the most homoerotic. Those of you who don’t want to know the final score should look away now.

[You'll be wanting to click 'read more' now, for a rambling account of a thirty year old football match]

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