JG Ballard has gone and left us. The shit. There seems to be a reaping, killing wind at present harvesting the great and the good, and it’s not on, frankly. I didn’t subscribe to this nonsense when I was happily eating baked beans in front of Trumpton, I should’ve realised this business of existing was a rum deal when my little pal from down the road had a week off school after the poor little bugger witnessed the postman having a bloody, fatal seizure outside his house one morning from his bedroom.
Still, life has its plus points, one them being cocktails, over-priced drinking pudding for adults, and that is just how my weekend began. IC and I didn’t stay long though; we were hoping to get a table at this Turkish Restaurant down the road and didn’t want to miss our chance. Fortunately we got in by the skin of out teeth, place was rammed which is both a good sign and pain in the fucking arse. The food was cheap, delicious and plentiful; so much so that we didn’t require a main course and we left bloated an hour and half later with change to spare, so we returned home and had some wines to celebrate.
I got up late on Saturday feeling remarkably well, ate breakfast and watched the F1qualifying repeat on BBC1. IC had nipped off to meet Mary on Broadway market so I read the paper for while then met them both in a sun-drenched London Fields in which we lazed about for an hour. For some reason, during a conversation about suchlike, I remembered that when I was about 8 I told my sister, 5 at the time, that mum was mentally handicapped. It was only when she was about 9 (we were waiting for Dukes of Hazard and caught the end of something on TV about a group of youngsters with Downs Syndrome) my sister said to me loudly, ‘is that what mum has?’ as mum walked in. Needless to say, after establishing that yours truly was responsible for this pack of lies, she royally hit the roof and I was sent to my room without my weekly fix of Daisy Duke’s arse.
IC and I popped home via Tesco and readied ourselves for the evening. Swineshead’s missus had invited us over for a few drinks and some food to celebrate her birthday. She’d made some fantastic Thai food which helped us see off the booze a little more rapidly that I anticipated. After retrieving another bottle from the local shop the night past in a splendid fug chatter, though unfortunately we had to leave a little earlier than we desired due to a non-booze related malaise. Back at home IC slipped off to bed while I retreated into the kitchen to continue the evening with the paper and a bit of Port.
Sunday, another sunny day. I watched the F1 with breakfast, IC pottered about, we took it easy until 4-ish until we took the 55 bus to Clerkenwell to meet some friends, one of whom had turned 30. Paul, the birthday boy, was already arseholed when we arrived. Initially there was only a handful of us, an hour later 30 strong had taken over one side of the pub, by now Paul was on the coffees looking like a poached egg. A pub quiz started, I lazily gave it a shot with Alan who was sat opposite and lo and behold, we fucking won. I collected a bottle of Prosecco to subdued applause.
Following an embarrassing incident with the spoils (I gave it to the by now inebriated Paul after first promising it to Alan to celebrate the birth of soon-to-be son. God it was toe-curling) we got home exhausted and hungry and watched Wild Hogs, utter fucking drivel but saved by, well, lots of motorcycles and not much else.
It’s another sunny day, I’m bored stupid already and business is crap.
This is without doubt the best tune AC/DC recorded.