bored of excitement – the griefjunkie blog 

Dear Rachel

Thick people being bullied by the menopausal – either about the state of their house, their appearance, their cooking skills, their diet, their children, just something – is the entertainment format for which our culture will be remembered.  With this in mind, the possession of Dragon’s Den’s own Theo Pathetis’ phone number is quite a coup, and I sort of have it.

It was quoted to me by a bloke called Dave, who wanders around Greenwich blowing raspberries into ladies’ shopping bags.  It is as follows: 07956 775885665681184509078854001, and I quote Dave, who is considerably mental, directly, as I wrote the numbers down in my notebook.  After the dialling code, he said the rest of the number in groups of three digits.  As ‘07956 775 885′ is an entirely plausible number, I was midway through saying ‘Yeah nice, cheers, I’ll bell him on Monday’ when he said ‘665′.  I then thanked him for that, and midway through doing so he said ‘681′.  I waited a few seconds, with my agile mind ablaze with the possibility that this may not, after all, be a real phone number, then started saying ‘Right, well yeah thanks for that, nice one’.  I got as far as ‘Ri’ when he said ‘184′.  The rest of the number was given via a series of increasingly long pauses on my part during which we would be mentally circling each other, then he’d say three random numbers at high speed as soon as I drew breath.  It felt very much like being in a duel where only your opponent has a pistol.  I’ve just reenacted the scenario, actually, and I estimate it took 57.21 seconds from start to finish, and drew rising amusement levels from my small band of browsers – which come to think of it, would be a good name for a World War Two epic set in a market – before Dave rushed off to outrage an Italian woman.  He popped back later, though, promising to ‘have a word’ about the twenty trillion pound loan I said I required, so fingers crossed.

Later that day as I left the market, a couple approached me and asked if I knew the way to the Hill Bar.  I get this a lot.  Like the Statue of Liberty, my face – despite its trademark resigned scowl – has always been something of a beacon to those in need of fags, change, nearby hostelries, dealers or raves, and directions to London Bridge.  The latter almost always happens when I am at Barry and Sally’s excellent kebab emporium under the railway arch at the end of Borough High street, essentially on London Bridge.    My largely beardless stance this year was, now I come to think of it, due to Barry, who was kind enough to point out that I looked ‘less of a prick’ without it.

Anyway.  I was reasonably sure that the Hill Bar was, as I explained to the couple, at the top of the hill, opposite Greenwich station.  They seemed very nice, and it dawned on me that, as I was going in exactly the same way, it would be weird to walk along a few paces behind them, and rude to stride off purposefully quickly in order to get some distance between us, and that therefore we were bound to have a bit of a ‘So – you work in the market do you? / So – you like bars on hills do you?’ type conversation on the way up.  This is no bad thing, of course, but did hold the possibility that, if the Hill Bar was not actually opposite the train station, there would be a bit of a moment as it occurred to all three of us that I had entirely wasted their time.  Being that they were nice, and I would’ve felt bad, the only honourable solution would be to actually buy them dinner at the nearest restaurant to Greenwich Station.  As they crossed the road and wandered off, I avoided the scenario by going instead to Cutty Sark station and caught the Docklands Light ‘Are we fucking there yet?’ Railway – which I’m sorry has never impressed me – to Bank and walked through the City to the Duke of Wellington public house, arriving in a very grumpy mood indeed.

Photards: yes, it’s a return to the publicgriefjunkie photographic archive.  Top: some glass table adornments, romantically featuring details of crime and disorder on the Jubilee and Victoria Lines.  Might redo them for Christmas, although Mike will probably fuck them up again several times before finally sorting it out.

Middle: the Thames tidal waterway, with London Bridge in the background.

Lower:  excited self on a roundabout in Victorian times, waving my hand to a blur. 

Twitter.  It’s a chat room.  Don’t flatter yourself.

publicgriefjunkie reluctant facebook group.   Up to 117 members at one point, but someone left, so back down to 116 again.   There was some fella with the initials of Liverpool Football Club as part of his profile name, I think it might have been him.  Erica TV Paris is still with us, though, as is Abigayle Sandypants Paris – probably related.