1
I am watching an episode of X Factor were one of the contestants was a 12 year old boy. He was being bullied by the other finalists throughout the entire competition. They would tease him and tickle his feet while he slept. Depressed, he devised a plan of action. On the night of the big show he went to bed, covered himself with the blankets and did not stir. The other contestants came into his room jeering, shaking his bed covers and tickling his jutting feet. The boy did not move. They left laughing, thinking they had broken him, that he would resign from the competition or that if he did perform it would go horribly wrong and the British public would destroy him. When it was the boys turn to perform a concerned Dermot O' Leary made his way to the dressing room. Dermot was delicate and respected the boys fragile feelings. And so did the three cameramen, numerous lighting and sound technicians, editors, producers, assistants, 4 runners, 10 million viewers and the other tens of millions streaming it over the internet. Dermot gingerly approached the bed, looking for signs of life. Suddenly the boy threw the covers off and sprang from the bed, dressed in a glorious tuxedo with his luscious youthful hair perfectly gelled. A phoenix from the flames, a James Brown from the grave, a butterfly from its sleeping bag. And in the boys triumphant hands were a pair of fake legs. A clever antidote to subterranean tickling. The boy had exposed the bullying and gained the attention and sympathy of the whole world. It was an incredible moment. The boy had been plotting his revenge for weeks. Even faking the death and cremation of his 93 year old grandmother. Who says are generation lacks determination and focus?
2
I see an early 70's Banana's era Woody Allen and Diane Keaton in a vast, hilly field. Keaton asks him to drive a strange car that seems to lack an engine. Woody inspects the vehicle. It looks like a hollowed out, childlike cartoon stick drawing of a car. He is pacing up and down nervously, his usual self. Finally he gets into the driving seat and the car miraculously takes off. He is flying over the hills as if he is in a dune buggy, soaring into the air and coming down with a thump. He takes a sharp turn and hits a stump and goes flying out of the empty windscreen. Diane comes rushing over to see if he is still alive. Woody finds his glasses and mumbles "I think I finally managed to work out the knot in my back". She laughed. Next the pair were at a party on a rooftop and were talking to a pretty girl. Woody was smitten and was trying eagerly to impress her. They looked down into the street and saw a man carrying a squid and crying on it. The girls asked what was he doing? Woody said the teardrops make the squid feel like it is under water and that fish make perfect pets for people with emotional problems. Fair enough.
DAY: 18th November 2011
Awoken again at 8 am by the Substitute for Grief dog. How long can his little heart take all this displacement?
Every time I hear a hair dryer I feel irrational.
My cousin Andrew asks me do I want to go into town with him and look around. He is going to supervise a voice over session at a studio. I don't have enough time to do yoga or have a shower or eat breakfast because you are only supposed to do yoga on an empty stomach. Very first moral dilemma of the day.
We walk to Drayton Park station and I check my oyster card balance. I have enough credit for the journey. Andrew shouts and tells me the train is nearly leaving the station. I frantically run down the wet steps expecting any minute to slip, hallucinating liquidised steaks for eternity. I just about make it into the train and the doors shut. Its like a scene out of a romantic film. Except I'm not running after a girl. Just a sense of personal duty. So a romantic film about a priest.
We got the the tube to Oxford Circus. I was writing in my notebook and failed to see a pregnant woman needing to sit down. The girl beside me got up and offered her seat. I can't spin plates that are hidden.
Sat beside Andrew. Saw an advertisement for hair loss. We spoke about how its just nature and not a gypsy curse. I knew this but needed to hear it out loud. We discussed whether black man care about being bald as much as white and would they ever get a hair transplant?
Two people wearing sunglasses. Neurosis or laziness?
We get out at Oxford Circus and we let a long white haired man with a white beard take our seats. He looks like a shell shocked Richard Branson.
We walked to a trendy cafe in Soho were Andrew bought me a latte and a mushroom sandwich. I pissed all over my moral dilemma.
We spoke about creative ideas and finding the right people to work with in order to complete them. I told him that George Martin quote about John Lennon, about how Lennon could come up with all these incredible and complex ideas but he couldn't change a light bulb. We talked about how one person needed to be the soaring, adventurous kite and the other member needed to be grounded, disciplined and holding the string.
The song Palaces of Montezuma by Nick Cave's Grinderman poured out of the speakers with hypnotic purpose. Incredible lyrics. "The spinal column of JFK wrapped in Marilyn Monroe's negligee I give to you."
We walk to the voice over studio on Great Putney street. We see a crowd of smiley, giddy employees standing outside a building as the fire engines approach.
Everybody here carries a take away cup of coffee. It likes a test or an initiation to join a trendy gang. Next test: laugh at a tramp or drive by pollination.
See a bunch of trendy people standing outside a rustic art gallery. I would love to get paid to work in a place like that. Spend the whole day lounging around and acting like I'm a work of art. If I sold myself would I get a commission?
I see two homeless men in the distance. Here is my chance. I bottled it. I will never play the synthesiser again.
Walk to Oxford Circus tube. See a Hare Krishna talking to a man. With my baldness I could be a Hare Krishna or be in the BNP. Whichever has the best pension plan.
I descend the steps and take a chewing gum out of my coat pocket. The same pocket as my phone. Am I chewing radiation?
On the escalator. See all the posters advertising comedians. One says " A real crowd pleaser. Gives the public what they want." I prefer the Dylan quote "I gave them what they didn't know they wanted yet."
Lenny Henry doing Shakespeare? Judith Dench doing a colonoscopy.
I see an old Irishman. Every time I see one I always think it's the writer John Healy. I would say hello but he'd probably punch me.
I get the Victoria line to Green Park which will bring me to Arsenal station.
I see a middle aged, short woman carry a bouquet of flowers. For some reason I am taken with a notion that she bought them for herself. I then started thinking about an idea for a film were the protagonist suffers from amnesia. He buys himself lavish romantic gifts and forgets and then tries to piece together who is his secret admirer. Basically Memento but directed by Mel Brooks.
More advertisements for the Kindle electronic book thing. 89 quid. I could join a library for a year and supplement this by buying the books they don't have from secondhand shops and still have money to spare.
See a headline in a man's paper. 'Sepp Blatter involved in race row.'
To my left a group of Russian women are shouting.
An elderly Japanese man sits opposite me. He is wearing a suit that has clashing lines and shapes.
"Reads like real paper," such a selling point.
See a poster calling Lee Evans the Elvis of comedy. I love Elvis but wasn't he an obsolete, washed up novelty act after about 20 years? I don't love Lee Evans.
I leave the Arsenal station and feel like taking a day off. But a day off from what?
A middle aged man wearing trendy Tom Ford sunglasses walks past me. He swaggers and has the air of a powerful Hollywood executive. He is carrying a bag of croissants. Bread for ducks. Croissants for swans.
Back in the house and listening to a terrible indie band. How do these people get signed? They always have stupid names that incorporate kitsch pop culture and violence. Names like Hannibal Spector or An Eye Elated. I wanted to start a band in Montreal called the Existentacles but my friend thought it was a stupid name. I also wanted to start a dark performance poetry band called Howling at the Moan but no.
Sarah from Montreal messages me on gmail chat and tells me about all the recent riots at McGill college. Tear gas. Professors roughed up. Great news. She leaves on an errand and my connection plays up. I say my goodbyes and log out.
Trying to think of ways of making money out of nothing. Alchemists tried to make gold out of materials. 25 year old man in 2011 use the internet to cover up the fact that they have nothing and then still wonder why they don't have any gold.
Philosophers. Yeats. They were rich so they didn't need to work. They could potter around and ponder all the big questions. Aldous Huxley takes mescaline and spends four hours contemplating the wonder of his trousers and a pot of flowers. Try and get time off work at McDonald's or ask the Social Welfare department for a 'Metaphysical Allowance' and see what happens.
Walking to Health Food shop off Holloway road. Old frail women, by law, should not be allowed to walk large, muscular guard dogs. And you shouldn't be allowed to get a tattoo on your face unless you have a note from your therapist.
Walk back to the house. Man shouting on his hands free phone. It may be a convenient, easy way of life for him but for everybody else it is disruptive and irritating. Like Catholicism.
My friend Kevin tells me that his girlfriend asked would he be interested in having a threesome. She said it would be ok with her but that he cannot have intercourse with the other woman. I asked could that be called a proper threesome? He said he wouldn't complain. We joked about if he did want to complain who would he complain too? His local councilor? Anne Robinson on Watchdog? Jimmy Salville? We both laughed and high five'd, thanking God we were men and would never die or get diseases or male pattern baldness.
I walk to the Film Shop on Liverpool Street and return dvd's. I walk past an empty cafe and see David Cameron giving a speech on the tv with subtitles underneath.
I overtake a slow elderly man. I feel bad and slow down incase he feels obsolete or my agility depressed him.
I nearly stand on a tiny dog as I leave Tesco.
I cross the street after having spent a good 20 minutes getting to and buying my shopping in Tesco. I walk home and meet the crawling elderly man. It's all ahead of us like a wheelbarrow.
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