Monday, 31 May 2010

I've been thinking recently, if you class recently as the last three years, that I'm just not that popular any more. Or maybe I am, its quite subjective.

When I was younger, two or maybe three (judging by photographs) I was quite popular. But then, we were part of a baby boom. Every birthday my mother would bake a cake usually with a cartoon character on it or it would be the shape of a football, or other very manly straight thing. And people, some fat, some still in nappies, some people who I didn't even like, would come around and wish us happy birthday.And eat my cake and make a big deal out of me.

And during the summers, kids could come and play in our garden. Or my brother and I would go to the orchard, there were always people we knew there. We'd spend hours running across farmlands, shooting, fishing, playing cricket. As time went on, I can't say things changed much, nothing really does where my family are from. We discovered other towns and other people, but still remained popular. Perhaps because of our family status? After all we were in fathers jurisdiction.

At highschool there was a slump, perhaps for a year or two, but I was also tagged as the nice boy, the popular, yet not cocky boy. Which often resulted in my having the 'new kids' attached to me. Popular and successful, I guess is a win win situation. I remember my first fight, and how I sort out my brother, and how he turned around and told me to deal with it. Whilst I stood there, helpless, bleeding.

By the time I reached college, my brother and I has grown apart. He studied away from home and I did not. And for some reason, I remember filtering my way through the people at highschool stripping away all the fake things you're conditioned to do. Like stay in contact, pretend to care when someone has a child, meet people. Instead I kept a few close friends. There was one, Ethan. He got heavily involved in drugs, but I'd follow him to the ends of the earth. And I suppose at the time, he was a crush. And he'd tell me the horrible things people do for drugs, and the things he'd seen, and I'd give him money, and food, and we'd spend days trying to bring his work up to standard, or chatting about stuff that didn't matter. Eventually we grew apart. Our entire group did. We all went separate ways. I to Brighton, others to Bournemouth and Bristol. And we lost touch.

And when I moved here, in my mind I drew a picture. Friends coming and going, people always visiting, no need to create new relationships. And real life never turns out like that. And there must be about two of us left now. And even fewer who are in regular contact. And no one calls any more. Sometimes we look at each others facebook. It's all very distant.

Thursday, 27 May 2010

By the way, I'm looking for one of these:

Pictured: Mini Chaise Lounge Telephone Chair

I now live alone and need furniture and dare I say it, this would look darling under my bookcase. Find me one in a close geographical location to Bristol, and for a prince no more that £50, and you'll win a signed...technical drawing or something equally as shit.

...although rumour has it someone has just bought me one.

Tuesday, 25 May 2010

I've realised I don't really know you at all. And I don't really know anyone at all. Seven years ago, everyone knew everyone, and social circles demanded popularity, and prestige, but now that doesn't exist, and doesn't matter. But at least I knew people then. Now I'm distant with most, and those that I am not, I'm not sure I truly know.

And this year I'm not taking a summer vaccination at my parents, and I wonder if this is an excuse to drift away from those that are left. And I don't want it to be, but it might be. And there are friends, I've known for years, that I speak to perhaps, once a year, and it not because we've drifted apart, it's because we're living separate lives, in separate cities. And there are friends I've never met, that I feel closer too than anyone else, and that just ridiculous.

But you, I'm never really sure I knew you to begin with, and I'm defiantly sure I don't know, and don't care to know you now.

Sunday, 23 May 2010

I'm drinking some disgusting cocktail that they make in the slums of Rio. Whilst watching over weight, rouged, topless Bristolians as they watch their children playing in fountains at Millennium Square. And I'm thinking of the oxidisation of the bearings in the wheels of a small boys scooter, and I feel sick. And someone talks to me in Spanish, and I don't really understand, and my phone rings. And after I click off I recall the conversation in my head, and decide that an VIP invitation to a gig, even if it will be shit, must be accepted.

And several Bloody Mary's later, I'm at the gig, and as I thought, it's shit.

And to avoid problems like this, and because I'm feeling a little melancholy and angry at myself, because I can only sleep between the hours of 2am and 5am, I have decided that, despite the sun, today I am staying inside. Pale and English a classic combination.

So I'm watching re-runs of Grand Designs on More4, only I'm not, and calculating how many days I have left in this fucking city, and its only 547.5. And that number makes me quite happy, and I wonder what I'll be doing on that half of a day.

Five hundred and fourth seven point five.

Wednesday, 12 May 2010

I'm standing in a basement vault. A sound system hung by tension wires from the exposed brickwork. Red. Staring at a television monitor which is playing some music channel, possibly VIVA, slurping at a Wyborowa Blue Redbull through a straw. And I'm dragged by the arm, through a passage away from a bouncer, and pressed against the wall by her hips.

Leaning, long hair brushing my cheek, soft in my ear
'You're other half is waiting for you' and as I forge a reply, a pill is pushed between my lips and pressed with a kiss.

And we're running down the street, jackets flaying, half chased. Through parkland, and on to a boat. The hull surging, the internal sea of the dance floor. Bodies grinding like gulls in the wake. A waitress, guided by my hand, opens a bottle of Zybrowka as I hand her my a copy of my fathers Visa. And before I realise I've taken the card I'm topside. A lipstick stained cigarette shared between our aching jaws. Eye liner, smeared on my white polo, dirt on my Fred Perry canvas tennis shoes.

And under a heat lamp a blazered figure. Royal blue, white flashing. Grey chinos, possibly jeans, black tie. A conversation, fragmented, and as dignified as my state...

“I’m fine.”
..You ... "look" fine
join me “...inside?
"Give me a minute"

And as I look up from the cherry of the cigarrette, my phone dead, the rain rolling from an umbrella across my left temple. I realise I'm stood amongst strangers, the sillohette of a girl, company, walking to shore, and I'm really just another face in the crowd.

Wednesday, 5 May 2010

So it's Wednesday. And I'm thinking about London, and what might have happened if I hadn't have left. And I feel like I'm over this city. There's nothing here that really interest me any more, not the blossoming streets, the cider boats, the vodka bars, the neighbourhoods. Nothing. And I'm quite honestly stuck in a fucking rut.

And after I've eaten three frankfurters from a jar, that I've no idea how reached my kitchen, the intercom buzzes, and I watch my reflection in the glossy paint of the door as I pull it open, and then I catch my eye in the window of the buildings opposite, and I'm handed a T-shirt. And this is the first time I notice that its dusk, and the orange glow of the street lamps fuse the air with a hum. And the shirt reads DC 10 and has a picture of a tree, and I take it, and god I wish tomorrow would be over. And I start making plans for two years time, and I'm listening to Dizzy by Jimmy Eat World, and that's when I realise what is missing.You. You're not here. At least, not in this city.

Tuesday, 4 May 2010

And it's Friday of last week, and I'm listening to The Smiths and staring at myself in wall length mirrors whilst I'm having a shower. And my apartment intercom buzzes. And I'm getting out of the shower to have a look who's there, and I can't really see anyone, so I just press the door release and get on with my life.

And I'm drinking a cider, cos that's what people in Bristol do, and someone actually knocks on my door. And eventually after I've finished pouring I answer it. And some guy hands me a clip board and asks for my signature and I don't really understand what's happening so I just sign, and he hands me a box, possibly a new pair of custom designed shoes? And pretty soon I'm having dinner in Browns, and it used to be quite the place, but has since gone down hill. The house pour is Smirnoff, and the house gin is Gordon's. And the Kir Royale that I'm necking tastes like it's made with Chateaux Chaumet, and the fishcakes I find myself eating are pretty...average, and the Maitre d' can't even tell me what fish it is. And a chavy group of balding men are disregarding the establishment with which I hold an account. And I ask to move tables, and I'm shot a terrible look. And money really does talk. And long story short, it's a shit dinner. And so we skip desert and head to a Goldbrick House.

And, let me just say, it defiantly isn't made with gold bricks, it's actually pretty average, and the Mijoto's are disgusting, made with Gomme, pre-prepped juice and clapped mint (?). After an argument with the Waiter,who has one tooth missing and terrible hair, which I win, we head to the 'sun terrace'. Where it looks as if someone has dumped an Argos gazebo, and it's all pretty scummy, so I accidental knock my overly iced, glass of shit onto the street below, and watch as it smashes into a thou' tiny pieces narrowly missing a woman. And I'm pretty bored, so I leave and 'forget' to pay my tab. And I'm thinking Hey baby, this is real life.