My journey was severely disrupted this morning. I travelled back from Hackney to Tooting no problem but getting out of the tube there was a cordon blocking my route to the flat. Behind that was once a car, though a third of its usual car size, with a vast quantity of wadding stuffed into what remained of the rear. Under this was a noticeable quantity of blood. Facing it was a small van with its front end all smashed off. If anyone walked away from this, I surmised, then I’m an actual fairy with pink little wings and a fucking wand.
What was more pressing was the fact someone had selfishly decided to get all gory and stop me from going about my business. And I needed a poo. I approached a copper who was probably very upset by what he’d seen twenty minutes earlier and demanded I get through. ‘No son’, he said softly looking forlornly at the pulverised remains of a car and, I shouldn’t wonder, some guts. ‘For fucks sake’ I said loudly and I gave him a glare of epic proportions that, if he wasn’t so upset, should’ve resulted in me being taken down any alley way and beaten over the head with a steel truncheon until my mouth was full of brain matter.
So I had to make a deviation along with all the other innocent commuters and school children inconvenienced by some tit who couldn’t drive properly. Oh, just found out his head was lopped off. Cool.
I had a lovely weekend; I was in Hackney with IC on Friday night where I finally saw No Country for Old Men (I wanted to read the book before I saw the film, I achieved this only because I’m great) which is oddly identical to the way I pictured it in my minds eye. On Saturday morning IC and I went off for breakfast in Broadway Market, we selected a lovely little café that doubled as a bicycle repair shop and sat out in the sunshine sipping tea and waiting for our orders. Suddenly the sky was filled with wave after wave of military craft, from the 2nd world war to the present. I’m no fan of war or army shit but there is something about fighter planes that makes my willie go all funny. It was fucking ace.
After brunch IC and I headed off to the West End, we stopped along the way for me to take in a haircut, then to a pub in Piccadilly with the hairdresser in tow. We had a couple there then we were off to Central St. Martins to take in the graduate show and meet another friend. There was some bloody good stuff on show but as usual the place was populated by pretentious little pillocks preening and posing as if they’d just invented clothing. We stayed for a bit after being genuinely impressed by some of the work and popped off to The Japan Centre to buy some sushi and on to The Princess Louise for a pints before IC and I took the fucking tube back to my place to watch Withnail and I and drink wine with the delicious food we’d acquired.
Sunday lunchtime we got into bike gear and headed off to my folks. IC hadn’t been on the back of the black bitch and was a little nervous. Fortunately I calmed her fears and worries by hitting 110 mph within 5 minutes of her getting on board (she fucking loved it). My mum had excelled herself with a fisherman’s pie (mum isn’t much of a cook which may have something to do with my perpetual surprise that I am) and the whole family sat down to eat a fathers day meal amid the usual volley of swearing and laughing. My niece, 10 months old and getting into making words, farted and tottered about the lounge like she owned the gaff, a few splendid hours passed before IC and I were off back to town then back on the fucking tube to the East end to attend a party.
I think ‘incertitude’ is entirely the wrong word to describe my feelings about attending a party hosted by and attended by gay men. It was just something I’d not had experience of. Whilst I spent a great deal of time a few years back on a film set with lots of queer sorts I never really socialised with them outside of a few beers following a days shooting. I’m being brutally honest here, I’m about as bigoted as Ghandi but one can’t help mentally defaulting to ludicrous stereotyping in the face of the unknown can one.
One thing I will say about homosexual men is this. They share in common something that us ‘straight’ types will never understand, that is, growing up in a society that isn’t really adjusted for anything outside of heterosexuality. I daresay it was worse before the 60’s but either way; there is a bond among them that I found rather moving. Possibly because of my friendship with IC who knows a lot of these chaps very well I was made to feel properly welcome, even fussed over. After many introductions and protracted conversations about art and music IC and I had to go, it was getting late and Monday was looming. After kissing loads of blokes we left to home, to eat, to bed. Knackered and chuffed.
One of the guests at the party was a partial to screaming guitars, he recommended the following band. The sound quality is at least okay… this is ace.