bored of excitement – the griefjunkie blog
Archive for March, 2012
Wednesday, March 21st, 2012
I spend a lot of time near fish and water, but this is because I often wander along piers eating cod and chips. I suppose I spend time among fish and their natural habitat, rather than fish in their natural habitat. Anyway. I have no interest in fishing itself, and had therefore not heard of what are known as the Fishing Tackle Wars until very recently. These have apparently broken out between anglers and the costume jewelery industry, two factions which at first glance would not appear to be natural antagonists, and I learned about them while having my eyebrows threaded. The threading, while not painful, was distraction enough to make it difficult for me to understand how the Fishing Tackle Wars had come about. It wasn’t that I doubted the credibility of my source – she is, as a sideline, involved in the retail of costume jewelery – but that I am suspicious of things that sound incredible because of what happened when I was 13, in love, and told by Sam Banks that her old man was Bungle from Rainbow.
Thursday, March 15th, 2012
No one enjoys being the focus of attention for the demonically possessed, but I’m pretty sure that’s what happened to me on the Northern Line at London Bridge last Sunday week. I found a seat and got comfy, but found myself unable to concentrate on Louis Barfe’s The Trials and Triumphs of Les Dawson because of a sinister woman who gave the impression that if she were to speak, she would have the voice of a raven, or of two massive stone blocks scraping against each other. She probably didn’t, but imagine the kind of person who can convey that kind of thing across a tube carriage: it’s quite a trick. She was sitting perhaps six foot away and glaring and glaring and glaring, at one point standing up to have an even better glare. She had a creepy way of standing up too, as if she was a puppet being pulled vertically upright with no muscular effort of her own.
As she sat back down, again with no apparent muscular effort, she leaned forward – effectively across the man sitting next to her – in order to further scrutinise me. As we got to Kennington, I acknowledged her by raising my eyebrows and smiling slightly. I honestly thought she was about to scream angrily, perhaps with bats flying out of her mouth. She was, as I think I pointed out on Twitter at the time, well diabolical. Had it not been for the smoking ban on the tube I’d have tied her to a stake and burnt her. Unnerved, I changed carriages at Oval, and spent the evening getting wrecked at the Wheatsheaf at Tooting Bec. This gave me time to reflect upon my Chevvy Chase, which does a sterling job under difficult circumstances, and which had already been the subject of unwarranted fascination that weekend, as we shall see.
Wednesday, March 7th, 2012
Physical violence has a terrible reputation, although mainly among people who aren’t very good at it. There is a time and a place for it, however, although I didn’t expect the place to be Balham High Road and the time to be six weeks before my fortieth birthday, which is an undignified age for this sort of thing. I should probably explain further.
What happened was this: I was leaving Tooting Bec tube station last Friday, when a man walked very quickly and deliberately in front of me, looked back, and slowly shook his head in a disappointed manner. As confrontational behaviour goes, it wasn’t very confrontational, so I ignored it. The thing was, he wouldn’t stop doing it, to the extent that after about ten seconds he turned completely around and was walking backwards along Balham High Road, still shaking his head, still looking disappointed, and maintaining a distance of about four foot, which isn’t really the done thing.