bored of excitement – the griefjunkie blog
Archive for March, 2010
Friday, March 26th, 2010
On a Saturday morning, Danny, who trades opposite me at Greenwich Market, usually likes to show me bleak iPhone footage of, I dunno, dogs shagging women, dwarves shagging ponies, the disabled shagging tennis rackets, stuff like that. Basically, things improbably shagging other things in ways that, later on when you are at home, make you want to cry in the bath.
Thankfully, there has been less time for these spirit-jading episodes recently as I am now running a double pitch, with the new prints and such, and it takes much longer to set up. At Camden, as I think I said before back in the Myspace days, setting up was easy: I would discuss the footie with Barry the Cakes over a custard doughnut, then have a second by the canal while chatting to a lady called Jenny, who used to run along the towpath every morning, and then wander back to the East Yard contemplating how advisable my breakfast choices really were for a diabetic, by which time Martin would have everything sorted out and ready to go.�
Wednesday, March 17th, 2010
Non violence never solved anything. It would, however, have prevented me playing unlikely mentor to a bunch of young nightbus stabbers from Stratford at Greenwich Market on Sunday, because if they hadn’t spent their GCSE revision time recording petty crimes on their phones, they a) wouldn’t have been caught and b) wouldn’t have found themselves selling daffodils from a market stall at seven thirty on a Mothers’ Day morning.
I find myself in these situations quite often, and the first thing to do is to de urbanise the retail experience. This is Mothers’ Day, I explained, not Baby Mothers’ Day. People tend to respond poorly to eight hoodies behind a six foot market stall saying yeah yeah buy a flower and sucking their teeth. Sucking their own teeth, I should like to point out – sucking a customer’s teeth is, if my experience is anything to go by, very tricky indeed. I further explained that as I’m not a social worker, it wasn’t my job to identify with them. It was, in fact, their job to identify with me, a process which could start immediately by fucking off to Greggs and getting me a large Americano and a Belgian bun.
Friday, March 5th, 2010
Wedding reception music is brilliant, and I refuse not to dance to it. For me, the genius of the genre is that even though I rarely own any of the tunes being played by DJ Barry or whatever, it’s like Phil Collins or Jive Bunny themselves have been placed inside me through a zip on my spine and are now trying to dance themselves to freedom.
I am at a difficult age, though, when it comes to social gatherings such as these, because I am too old to be dancing in my own right and not old enough to be sitting things out by the buffet. I therefore regularly find myself chaperoning Small Girls In Pretty Dresses or Lovely Old Aunties – the pre teens and pre Wars, as I have latterly taken to referring to them – and always, it seems, to You Can’t Hurry Love. I’d love DJ Barry to drop Straight Out Of Compton in – if only because I could then refer to my more senior partners as Knitters With Attitude – but this seems unlikely. Thinking about it though, I might have that at my own wedding, assuming I have one, and hand out semi automatic weaponry before the service which can be discharged into the ceiling as a salute to the radiant new Mrs Griefjunkie as we leave the church.
Monday, March 1st, 2010
I am by nature deeply mistrustful of people who signal the impending start of songs by clicking their fingers and counting in French. You’ll therefore understnd my nonplussed stance last week at the Duke of Wellington when I learned that Vinny not only has a twenty piece jazz band living upstairs but that they are doing live music nights every forth Sunday. This information was presented to me in ambush format when the air suddenly filled with clicked fingers and numbers en Francais as I was minding my own business at the bar. I just don’t know what possesses a person to do stuff like that – the bloke wasn’t even French – except an overwhelming desire to be thrashed across the face with a fire extinguisher again and again and again and again and again and again and again.
Jazz, in case you didn’t know, is a musical art form consisting of 1% genius and 99% please just fuck off. However, by eavesdropping on two jazz people at the bar, I did learn about a conversation one of them had recently had, in which someone who presumably wasn’t as uberjazzvolk as them had asked if they liked Kenny G. No, I don’t know who Kenny G is either, but the answer you give in this situation – and you might want to write this down in case you ever find yourself wanting to come across like someone who knows a lot about jazz – is ‘I haven’t heard any Kenny G for a while – but then again, I don’t get in many elevators these days!’ They both considered this simply splendid, and I really thought that, when they stopped laughing, they might catch each other’s eye, lean in together, and have a really long kiss.