On the bus last month I’d passed a sushi bar I’d never seen before minutes from my flat, I noted the name and checked it out online pleasantly surprised to read favourable reviews, some quite ecstatic. I booked a table for Friday and at 9pm following a quick pint in a god awful spit and sawdust pub (sprinkled with little inebriated middle-aged men stood up at the bar not taking to each other with country and western blaring out the jukebox) IC and I sat down and pondered the menu.
After locating a few of the classics, that is ‘stuff what we recognised,’ we also ordered ‘stuff that looked nice,’ and some Pinot Grigio. Within 10 minutes half of Tokyo was glistening on our plates and we began to eat, and eat, and eat. Whilst we were eating more stuff kept arriving, it was like the food was regenerating, after an hour of perpetual eating we were done, but asked for a doggy bag for the remaining pile. The bill, incidentally, was absurdly lean. The same amount of sushi (and far less appetising) would’ve been 3 times the cost in Soho.
We got home and resumed our depraved consumption of food; it was like we couldn’t stop. We were washing it all down with Cava and Prosecco (please don’t think us overindulgent, both purchases were made on the cheap, Lidl is God) and took it in turns to choose guilty pleasures on youtube, at one point someone put on Caribbean Blue by Enya. As it wasn’t IC it must have been me. Sweet Christ.
After kippers for lunch-ish we headed East to Hackney with vague hangovers. On the way we stopped at Borough Market and utterly failed to buy anything save carrot cake for Mary, though we did eat 2 giant dates. Back at IC’s we readied ourselves for the evening, which I did by reading the paper, then off to a boozer round the corner to meet some friends. The wine-thing happened jollied on by the prospect of falafel at home, the wine-thing forced us to make a detour to a new bar that’d recently opened a stone’s throw from IC’s gaff, I wandered in clutching a bit of tree after reassuring the bouncer it was decommissioned. Back at home Mary was entertaining a friend that called for some more wine, and so on. The hangover on Sunday was tremendous, a real stinker, despite this we still managed to make it on to the bus to get to Brick Lane.
It was a glorious day, best of the year so far bar none, so we were already expecting throngs of cunts, and weren’t to be disappointed. Our reasons for undertaking this horrific task do contain logic. IC needed to buy some clothes for her sister who is shortly to become a mother and she knew of this one stall in the Up Market. It was heaving with a viscous mix of knowing bohemian types, confused tourists and all out bastards but we were relatively successful in our mission. Getting out of the area was another matter, a part of Brick Lane is closed forcing a thousand people a minute into a sort of makeshift pipe. Put it this way, I wished I’d not started the brilliant article in yesterday’s Observer about Hillsborough (if you didn’t read it find it online.)
We wound up at the boozer we’d been to the previous evening for a sedentary pair of drinks before returning home and eating and finally, watching an engaging yet completely miserable French film called ‘The Secret Life of Angels’ which I tentatively recommend, though not on a Sunday.
I had to get up early this morning to get from East London to the South causing me to catch sight of The Metro, which, even by its own disgusting standards, managed to dig with its claws a new low in Journalism.
The article headlined ‘Will Anyone Sleep with my Down’s Son?’ has to be quite the most irresponsible bilge I’ve seen committed to words. ‘His room is stuffed full of condoms…and his collection of pornography is staggering,’ his gormless mother gushed of her son, Otto, a 21 sufferer of Down’s Syndrome.
In the article she laments that he’s not getting the same deal as (and I quote) ‘‘normal’ people’ even saying she’d have no problem if he went to a brothel in Amsterdam (we’ll ignore the casual condoning of prostitution for the sake of time.) I’m sure Otto has a sexual appetite like those of his peers but Lucy Baxter (the mother) must know by now that Otto isn’t ‘normal’ in certain respects; he’s got Down’s Syndrome, he needs 24 hour care on account of his disorder, which means that whilst he’s the facility to fuck, he’s a mental age of a five year old.
I accept this is somewhat of an unfortunate paradox, and I’ve no problem in discussing the pro’s and con’s therein, but to stick your son in the newspaper, photo and all and asked someone to fuck him is, at best, a cynical method of getting your mug into a national newspaper and, at worse, inviting abuse due to his vulnerability.
Right, off topic, more from M R James. This is a real corker, frightened the piss out of me it did. Watch alone in the dark…