bored of excitement – the griefjunkie blog 

Ahoy there, casual lovers

Anyone who has found themselves wandering up Camden High Street in the bleary hour before the casual pitches are allocated will doubtless have seen what appears to be a pile of hair and dirty clothing piled against the door of the Oxford Arms.

This is none other than Bob, or Old Bob, who is a familiar sight in Camden, if only for a kind of moonwalk he does which requires no particular dance floor prowess but instead the ability to walk so very slowly behind a barrow that you appear to be moving backwards.

Bob’s story is a simple one: many moons ago, he had a shop next to what
is now a storage area at the Interchange end of Market Place. By all
accounts, this was doing rather well until one night the entire stock
was burgled by a thief gang. This proved to be the catalyst for a
quarter century drinkathon, encompassing homelessness, poverty, wild
facial hair, and all the usual trappings of a life in tail spin.
Camden does, however, look after its’ own and Bob eeks out a living
selling horrible t shirts outside the Oxford Arms in return for a tiny
room with an oven in it, whilst also acting as unofficial night
watchman for the Lock Market.

Like all of us, Bob looks forward to the annual Camden Crawl. If you
are unfamiliar, this is essentially a sprawling lurch around every pub
from Mornington Crescent to Chalk Farm, with the certainty of finding
yourself at some point watching an unannounced gig by any of the usual
Camden suspects. It’s a brilliant couple of days, and probably the
only weekend of the year where Camden lives up to the hype about being
an exciting and edgy place to be. Imagine a festival, strung all the
way along the road between KoKo and the Roundhouse, with an uncertain
but excellent line up. That’s pretty much what Camden Crawl is.

It does inevitably attract groups of outsiders who, like many people
who have never been out of, I dunno, Peterborough before, and get a bit over excited – they do in fact turn into Camden Spastics, or ‘Casticks’. One such group of casticks were in the Oxford Arms when
Bob wandered in for an early evening snack, which would probably consist of
a large glass with a lot of brandy in it. Bob’s less than
Fauntleroyesque appearance drew loud and prolonged critical analysis
from a group of casticks – although to be more precise, they were more
like shirtboys – one of whom approached Bob as he waited at the bar to
be served.

I am not entirely sure what exactly was said, but the shirtboy in question was clearly having a bit of a jest at Bob’s expense. Things did look like they were going to get a bit out of hand, to be honest, and as
we in the market trading contingent prepared to defend our man, Bob
- who is 82 – turned, caught the bloke with a straight right, and broke his
jaw.

Later that night, I watched the Kaiser Chiefs perform a set consisting
entirely of Beatles and Stones and Kinks covers in the Monarch. However, even if the Beatles and the Stones and the Kinks had
turned up in person, it would still not have been the highlight of my
evening.