The Post Before Christmas

I piss and moan on this blog. Piss and moan. Sometimes I moan and piss, just to spice things up.

I don’t think it is healthy to keep negative thoughts to yourself, you have to set them free like little angry sparrows. The Shaolin Monks keep their negativity to themselves, and live in some kind of inner calm world. But unbeknownst to most people they release all of their inner angers and anxieties through the ancient art of midnight tree raping. I saw it on a documentary once, frightful stuff. I guess what I’m trying to say is that People need to vent their frustrations.

Case in point: I was sitting with a mate outside his house one lazy Saturday and we were working our way through a cartoon of Tooheys (beer, n00bs). We had been spending our time watching this woman who was standing outside the Supermarket across the road. To be more exact, we were watching the woman’s baby, who had been screaming and squawking non stop for a good half hour. It was at about the 31st minute mark that my mate stood up, and with no warning at all, screamed at the top of his mildly drunk lungs: “SHUT THAT KID UP, OR I’LL DROWN IT!!”. The woman looked at us in shock, then wheeled the baby away to loiter somewhere else.

Was it an appropriate reaction? Probably not, but it amused me for the whole rest of that day. Fuck, it was four years ago and I’m still enjoying the moment.

The catharsis of an outburst is undeniable, but now I’m going to flip this post on it’s ear and go in the opposite direction. You have to acknowledge the bright side too. As much as I’d love to rant how the entire world’s fucked and the Apocalypse is less than a decade away (it is), I’m going to embrace the festive Spirit and make my last post before Christmas an uplifting and positive one. Allow me to soften your hearts with some life affirming information, read on gentle readers…

I’ve been told two mottos in my life of such uplifting value that the result were nothing short of epiphanic (cheers dictionary.com).

The first one I heard when I was just a young girl living on the streets of New York. It was around the Halloween Season, and I was standing on a street corner in the miserable weather holding onto my skateboard. I was feeling lonely, because the season marked the anniversary of my two closest friend’s murders. It was here when I was at my lowest that Brandon Lee appeared behind me and whispered the words that will stay with me forever:

“It can’t rain all the time.”

The second time occurred just over a week ago at a pub in Balham (now pay attention because this one’s actually true). I was sitting by myself at the bar sipping a Guiness and scowling (I am the fucking Pontiff of scowling these days - even for London, I’m good), dwelling on the various nut-kicks I had endured in the last few months. These included my obliterating job, my new exhausting travel schedule and my whore beast ex-landlady raping us on our bond money. Had I mentioned that our whore beast ex-landlady had raped us on our bond? No? Well, our whore beast ex-landlady has raped us on our bond. The bartender had noticed my scowl-face (I can’t blame him, it’s superb) and commented on my gloomy disposition. I told him I was having a rough week. He told me he also was having a rough week. Then he told me lots of things:

He told me it was his birthday last Friday, and that he had spent it at a bar run by his best mate. He told me he was asked to leave, because his girlfriend was too drunk. And then on the way out, and for no apparent reason, the girlfriend glassed the bouncer in the face. And then the bouncer, bloodied and infuriated, didn’t like the idea of accosting a female so threw my Balham bartender on the ground and stomped on his testicles. Six times. The Bartender made his way home to find his mother waiting for him furious (she had heard what had happened) and started abusing the girlfriend. So the girlfriend punched the Bartender’s Mother in the face. And knocked her out.

His story left me wide eyed (wide eyed and scowling), and he told me that the worst part of the whole ordeal was that he had to work five 16 hour days in a row this week - and his nuts were still black from the stomping (he referred to them as bollocks, coz he’s British) so the only way to move about was to walk as if he was riding a horse. He finished telling me this, then moved off to serve another customer. But before he left, he turned to me and said

“But you know what? It could be worse.”

Then limped away with a smile on his face. I was left sitting there with two bombshells in my lap:

1. London Pubs are hiring friendly chatty staff? When did this start happening??
2. His philosophy was entirely true.

I left the pub wiser, though still scowling (my scowl is damn near close to being perfected, I can’t turn my back on it now) and had found a new perspective on life. Who am I to complain about my problems when my local bartender has a ruptured nut-sack and a girlfriend hell bent on beating half of London to death?

And why should this bartender complain, when somewhere in Egypt there’s a bartender with no arms who has to stir the cocktails with his tongue and works 200 hours a week with his underpants full of Scorpions.

And surely he can’t complain, when there’s a small boy in the Sudan with no arms and legs whose only source of income is a local stage show where he’s raped in the mouth by a Doberman twice a day.

Nah kids, as bad as your life if is it could always be worse. So treat each problem as a character building exercise, and rise to the occasion each day.

And if you can’t be arsed doing that, piss and moan. That’s always worked for me.

MERRY CHRISTMAS FUCKERS.

All Aboard! FUCKERS

Picture a shadowy figure waiting on a European train platform with rain spraying in his face.

To the casual observer that sentence must conjure up a romantic scene. Maybe Humphrey Bogart waiting for his long lost love who may or may not show, or a soldier who has finished fighting and is waiting to catch the train home to his Fiancée. Or it may conjure up a scene of a sullen man standing in the pissing rain, waiting for that bastard delayed-again South West train service so he can board it and ride it to his shitty job on the other side of town.

If you want to indulge in the first and second scenarios, then I suggest you visit your local DVD store. The third scenario can be caught at Clapham Junction Weekday mornings and Feltham Station Weeknights. The first two scenarios will have tonnes of romance, the only way you will find romance in the third scenario is if you head to the near by park and watch the Squirrels fornicate.

You see, now that my travel times have expanded like a pregnant Dog’s guts, I am finding myself becoming very familiar with various train stations around town (well, two in particular). I did mention that the overland train is more comfortable than the Tube (you are almost always guaranteed a seat), but what it lacks in discomfort it more than makes up for in unreliability.

I spend every morning listening to the Station’s PA system, as some bored fucker reads out today’s excuse why the train has been delayed. Poor visibility, Train fault, Signal fault, Driver fell ill, somebody threw themselves in front of the Gatwick Express (though that last one was pretty cool).

On Monday the South West train was on time, running like clockwork. I watched it pull up from the platform stair case - but couldn’t jump on board. There was three old hags in front of me, waddling up the stairs like a flock of stoned Penguins. I didn’t have enough room to overtake the ancient turds, and had to sit teary eyed and watch the other passengers board. I got to the platform in time for the doors to shut right in front of my angry fucking face.

The next train was due in four minutes, and arrived 25 minutes later.

I passed the time by scowling.

Seriously, London has sculptured my scowling techniques into masterful levels. A small dog strolled in front of me the other day, I glared at it so hard it burst into flames.

I finally boarded the train with a mob of fellow disgruntled travellers, and rode the Metal Beast through the first two stops. It was between stops 2 and 3 (Twickenham and my beloved Feltham) that a new twist to our journey was revealed. A stressed voice croaked through the train PA system, letting us know that due to the extreme delays, the train would not be stopping in Feltham it was going to fly straight-the-fuck-through. We were told to get off at the next station (Staines), and catch another train back if we wanted Feltham. Everybody looked at each other kind of shocked, and a middle aged woman sitting next to me asked the Ticket Collector if the Driver was serious. The Collector gave her a look of such extreme Apathy that even I was impressed with his nonchalance, shrugged his shoulders, and walked off down the train.

The Cougar (which I named her after the following violent outburst) leapt to her feet, grabbed the Collector by the shirt and let loose with an almighty tirade. I only just got the gist of her rant (this was about 9:30 so I hadn’t fully woken up for at least another few hours) but the basic points were – How could the driver skip a Station? Everybody was already half an hour late! How dare you walk away from me when I’m talking to you!? And then The Cougar turned to everybody on the carriage and angrily demanded “How many people on this train need to stop at Feltham? Give me a show of hands!”

Half the people put their hands up because they needed to get off at Feltham, the other half put their hands up too – because they were terrified of The Cougar. She was a White-Collar Tornado letting loose with unbridled fury, and I found her naked aggression arousing. Though to be fair it was 9:30 am (early), so my morning erection hadn’t completely gone down anyway. The end result was that the Ticket Collector (now wearing an expression like a castrated Sheep) called the Driver and requested he stop the train at Feltham. The Driver sighed through the PA, and asked us to all get off as quickly as possible. The passengers got off chuckling at what a completely fucking absurd journey to work it had been, and I ended up fucking The Cougar in the Station Car park.

(Like I said - early morning so my memory is a bit hazy, that last part might not have happened).

The irony of my situation does not escape me, as only six weeks ago I was walking to work, and three years ago it used to be a fucking ten minute drive. Now I’m spending half my life loitering around train stations like a mutha fucka. The problem with Clapham Junction is there’s nothing to look at while you’re waiting, save for the rats running over the tracks. At least at Feltham Station I can amuse myself by watching the pregnant 14 year olds squawk at each other, or the local boys head butt the coke machine trying to get free drinks. I did strike up a conversation with a toothless recovering Heroin Addict whom I provided with money to catch the bus. She told me she was on the Methadone program, and also that she had received a Christmas Card from her Ex boyfriend whom she had broken up with nearly thirty years ago. The Ex had written her a Merry Christmas, and also begged her to take him back.

Christ, maybe there’s romance in the third scenario after all.

Peace and Goodwill to all Cougars.

Its Christmas time in the city

We had our work Christmas party last night at a restaurant in Piccadilly Circus. Decent food, Open bar, was a fun time for all. I’d love to report that there were a dozen punch ups and one of the Secretaries got caught blowing a waiter – but unfortunately it was a well behaved crowd. It wasn’t like the Christmas parties we used to have at the Adelaide Convention Centre where every year a third of the staff would get fired due to “inappropriate behaviour”.

One things for sure, the city is infested with Christmas Social Events at the moment, and the unoccupied Taxis are few and far between. I left the party at 1:30 am and could not find a cab for the life of me. So I got on a bus I thought was heading to Fulham (South West) to get closer to my suburb. I fell asleep on the bus, and woke up as it pulled into its final stop of Liverpool Street (North West). More fruitless cab searching for an hour, then I sat at a bus stop and waited for a bus to Clapham Common. I helped a Japanese tourist with directions, which I probably shouldn’t have done because I had no idea where I was, then got to Clapham Common and got some random guy to drive me home for seven quid (illegal taxi touters – the most reliable form of British Transport, if you don’t mind the occasional rape or mugging). Made it to my front door at 4:20am. Bah.

I’ll conclude this brief post with this: I’d rather have two broken legs then this hangover I’m currently working through.

Metro Ramblings

There’s a Free Newspaper available to Tube and train travellers in London called the Metro, which you can grab on your way to work Monday to Friday. It is used more as a device to bury your face in rather than a News source, as talking, eye contact, and smiling are all fineable offences on London transport.

Traditionally I haven’t been able to plunder the literary depths of this editorial masterpiece as I only had an 11 minute train ride to work. Now that it takes two trains, three buses and a Hovercraft to get to my place of vocation I have more than enough time to fully emerge myself in the allegorical soup of British Journalism. So what did I find in Friday’s Metro?

Front page headline:

Tornado tears through London

"Millions of pounds of damage was caused to dozens of houses as a tornado swept through North London yesterday"

Blah, blah, blah I live in South London so who gives a fuck. The sports section consisted of one full page on Manchester United, one page on Chelsea, and one on Arsenal. Information on the other 17 football teams could be found in a paragraph under the Lotto results.

There was an article on Pete Doherty, because there is always an article on Pete Doherty. Every single fucking day. This time it wasn’t about Pete getting fucked up on drugs and doing something stupid, but about his actor mate Mark Blanco. Who got fucked up on drugs and fell out of a third story balcony and died. He’s only a stage actor (if that) so you probably have never heard of him. And unless he gets cast in the lead role of the Weekend at Bernie’s musical, you won’t be hearing from him anytime soon.

Here’s an excellent Metro snippet:

"A Woman coughed up an air rifle pellet – 21 years after her brother shot her in the face."

Also: Britain’s youngest publican has had his inn keeping licence taken away because, well, he is too young. Council officials have said that Chris Hardacre, 12, cannot serve at the pub because of child employment laws. He is eligible to regain the licence next year when he turns 13. Duh. I might go drink at his pub when he hits the big one three next year. I’m going to get liquored up and tease him about his braces, then leave in tears when he beats me at arm wrestling. I’m so jealous of his last name. “Hardacre”, little bastard should have grown up and become a tough-arse detective.

And finally, Friday’s interview of the day was with Dave "Death Wish" Legeno, professional Cage Fighter. When questioned about his early days when flashy entrances were all the rage, Death Wish (as he is more affectionately known) had this to say:

"I’d come on dressed as a priest with two sexy nuns carrying a Samurai’s head."

Easily one of the best quotes of the year. Merry Christmas "Death Wish", and a Happy New Year to you too.

Moving on up to the West Side

On MSN messenger Friday morning:

Mac says:
has it been over 2 weeks since you have blogged?
Beef says:
it certainly has
Mac says:
Jackass

Yeah, I‘ve gotten a little lax with the updates lately. I haven’t lost interest in blogging, I’d do it every day if I had the time. But my only real access to the web is at work, and it was a great lunch time hobby for a while there. But work has transformed into some kind of Whore Beast Endurance Test over the last few weeks and the lunch breaks have all but disappeared. If I can manage to get home before 10 at night I should try to find a local Internet Café and start doing the updates from there. Even better, if everybody can provide me with their phone numbers I’ll ring each of you every Friday after I’ve left the Pub and drunkenly squeal my article ideas down the line like some insane Telemarketer.

To quickly bring you up to speed on the surreal excursion that is my life: in less than a month I have had to relocate both my living environment and my work environment. The former came about because our house was falling apart, the latter because we needed a bigger office space and warehouse. The home has relocated to a couple of train stops from the last one. The office has relocated to fucking miles away. I used to work in Victoria in Zone One, I’m now working in Feltham in Zone Six.

For those familiar with the Geography of London, Feltham is located South of Heathrow, near Hounslow. For those not so familiar - it’s halfway between Big Ben and the English Channel.

My travel times have expanded some what, but the overland trains are at least comfortable. I have been fortunate in that respect; I have managed to avoid the Morning tube for most of my working days in London. Don't get me wrong, The London Underground is great fun to ride on a Saturday night or a lazy Sunday afternoon. It's a different story on Weekday mornings between 7 and 9. Rammed full of sweating angry faced commuters, it’s fucking awful.

I rode the Northern Line to Victoria Station during peak hour one day last week and had almost forgotten what a truly God awful experience it is. I liken it to climbing into a sleeping bag full of dead babies, doing the zip up, and rolling into an active Volcano. Brutal.

Anyway, I'm working on updates relating to travel and my new home and will hopefully make December a more prolific month than November was.

I heard that you kids like to cut yourselves if I go to long without posting, and I truly don't want that on my conscience.