On Staying the Same

I was at a bus stop yesterday, white headlights driving past in one direction, red brakelights in the other. The wind was so strong I had to lean into it just to stop myself being pushed back. And that there, that's my life. All of the people driving past had somewhere to go or something to do. I'm stood still, struggling to keep my head above water, waiting. For what? A lottery win? A new and exciting job to fall in my lap? A cure for my mum's illness? Well, a bus, actually. But you get my point; the world keeps turning, seasons come, seasons go. I stay the same.

It's Bonfire Night, so the sky is full of fireworks; pretty, sparkling, multicoloured fireworks. I'm watching them from my bedroom window, thinking about 5th November last year. The only difference that springs to mind is that I didn't have a blog then. I was probably on Facebook. I was probably here though. Broke, bored and hoping that in a year's time something would have changed for the better. It hasn't, not really.

I'm fed up, in short. Completely and utterly fucked off with everything. I hate talking like this - wallowing in self-pity - because I know that I'm fortunate, all things considered. Things could be worse. But they could be better, too, and I want them to be better. I'm not sure if you feel the same, but I feel like our generation wants everything, and wants everything now. Buy now, pay later, instalments and loans and store cards. Why save up? Why work for it? Why wait? It's incredibly impatient. I was incredibly impatient and, although I've managed to rein in my spending sprees, I still feel that same restlessness when it comes to my situation. I want to change, to progress, to enjoy. I don't want to have to wait.

I want to scream. Seriously, I'm in such a mood - the worst kind of mood. The kind that builds up slowly, over a few days. The kind you try to bury with fake smiles, small talk and early nights. The kind that leaves you wanting to tell colleagues to shut up and get out of your face, to cancel your weekend plans and stay in bed listening to Damien Rice forever.

I'll be ok tomorrow. Who knows, maybe just posting this will cheer me up. It will certainly embarrass me when I read it once I've managed to disperse the angry little rain clouds currently hovering over my head.

Man up, Tom, and put some more upbeat music on.

On the Old Days

My friend recently went to a Blitz Party. 1940s fancy dress was compulsory, the venue was a warehouse decked out like an air raid shelter and a swing band played on stage.


Predominantly, I love it. I think it's a great idea. I'm a massive fan of anything retro, vintage or slightly past its sell-by-date. My dream home, in fact, will need to incorporate the following:

• a phone with a dial instead of buttons,
• a door-knocker, not a bell.
• a hatstand
• a globe
  

[I'd also like a gramophone, but I understand that, sometimes, practicality must be considered.]

However, part of me felt that maybe it could be slightly bad taste. Is it wrong for people who have grown up in times of relative peace and plenty to go out on the lash dressed as 1940s Londoners who faced hunger, loss and even death?

I swiftly concluded that I was being ridiculous. Who would want to go to a party that accurately depicted the 1940s? An evening of rationing, blackouts and the threat of war does not sound like much of a laugh. But what these parties are doing, in a way, is highlighting the things we miss that their generation had in abundance. A sense of community, for example. Glamour. The ability to get by on what little was available rather than needing everything immediately and paying for it with borrowed money. The music; dancing in pairs rather than sweating out in groups to a bass line that makes your brain ache. They may have had less, and faced dangers that we don't, but they lived.

As I thought about this on my what home, I realised that's the way the world works. Each generation carries its good and its bad to the next. The new generation adapts its inheritance - the fashions, the lifestylyes, the opinions - to fit in with their situation. And I suppose it will be no different for us; our hopes and fears will be carried over and kept, changed or discared as the younger generation sees fit. Perhaps in 50 years they'll do the same for us; a Global Recession Party, dress like bankers and G20 protesters. We're all in it together, I suppose - the women who held the fort in WW2, the bankers who sent the world into economic meltdown and the hipsters of the future, whizzing around on their space bikes and jet packs. We're all involved in a massive struggle, centuries of trial and error, to make the world a better place. I'm off to book tickets for the next Blitz Party. It's not bad taste at all; bad taste would be forgetting.

On Leigh-on-Sea

My favourite Beatles song is probably In My Life. I think it perfectly captures the way it feels to look back and realise that the things around you have changed [forever, not for better], without you even realising it. And yet, at the same time, it reminds you of the importance of the things that have remained, and the things that are important now. It's a song that has struck a chord with me on numerous occasions, not least on Saturday afternoon.

This weekend I went to a town called Leigh-on-Sea for the annual Regatta. Actually, when I say I went to Leigh for the Regatta, what I mean is that I went to Leigh to soak up the atmosphere of the Regatta while soaking up more than my fair share of alcohol. I used to go out in Leigh a lot more often than I do now. When I worked in Southend I'd go at least once a week, always to the same pub. It's a place with character, with a stone floor, nautical decor and a balcony that looks out over the Thames Estuary. Should you ever find youself in the area, you'll find it at the end of the cobbled street of cottages, fish n' chip shops and boozers that make up Old Leigh's high street, just before you get to the beach. Although the frequency of my visits has decreased, I still go there a for a few pints every now then, and usually spend at least part of the night wallowing in nostalgia.

Saturday was no different, only this time the nostalgia hit while I was having a wee, which it hasn't done before [please forgive my crassness]. In brief, for I wouldn't want to go into too much detail here, I used to have a favourite urinal in this pub. It was at the end of the row, in front of a broken window at head height that was most effective at clearing alcohol-fuelled fogginess. On the wooden window-frame, someone had scrawled "TOMMY P IS A SLAG" - there is nothing like an inspirational quote to ponder while...erm...otherwise engaged. The toilets have since been redecorated and, while the glass has been replaced and the woodwork given a new coat of paint, the memory doesn't fade. Tommy P's apparently promiscuous antics are yesterday's news, replaced with new graffitti for a new age [nowadays all the cool kids are writing about how Domenico and Miguel are wankers. Again, an inspiration]. The pub has changed, small changes over time that have slowly transformed the place so that it's no longer quite the same as it was.

I headed back to my table and looked at the people I was sitting with. Familiar faces; some of whom were there the first time I ever came to this pub. There were others who I've only recently met and am yet to get to know properly. And then I thought of the people who used to be there, and have since gone their separate ways. Like the pub, the group has gained, lost and retained. Things have changed, yet remained the same.

At that moment, just as I was ready to succumb to a wave of nostalgia, reach for my iPod and listen to the Beatles, N came back with a Jagerbomb and business returned to normal. It was only when I found a photo on my phone of the abuse directed at poor Domenico that I remembered that this chain of thought had even occurred. But the nostalgia isn't something I should be depressed by. I have had some amazing times with some amazing people in that pub, I had a fantastic time there on Saturday and I hereby swear to carry on doing so in future.

So despite everything that's changed, and as the Beatles say, I know I'll never lose affection for the people and things that went before. And for the people and things that are still around; in my life, I love you all.

On A Wake-up Call

I have a feeling I'm going to shoot myself in the foot here. You see, I've never written about what I'm going to write about today for a reason. That reason is that I'm very grateful to the people who read what I write, and I really don't want to depress the fuck out of you, or leave you thinking that I should man up and stop whining about my piddly little problems. But it's been a funny week - three nights out on the town have left me with little capacity for rational or creative thought so I'm left with nothing to work with but what's on my mind right now which isn't, unfortunately, particularly uplifting. Consider also the fact that for the last hour I've been listening to a good-mood-wrecking mixture of Damien Rice, Radiohead and a sprinkling of Slipknot and you'll realise that I am far from being a happy bunny.

On Wednesday, the mighty Fulham FC beat Port Vale 6 goals to 0 to advance into the third round of the Carling Cup. Money woes owing to the aforementioned string of late nights had prevented me from attending, so I spent the night in front of the telly, with my mother, living on the edge. My mum has multiple sclerosis which, as you may know, is pretty rough. Every week a physiotherapist visits to discuss how she's getting on and force her to do exercises. In an effort to tear my eyes from one of the gruesome hospital dramas that make up a large part of mum's staple TV viewing, I asked her how the physio went. She said she'd told the nurse, for the first time, about these shooting pains she gets in her face. They're completely unpredictable and, according to the physio, are on a list of warning signs that can lead to suicide among MS sufferers.

Fear not, there's no danger of that happening and that's not where this post is going, but finding out how bad these pains can be did come as a shock. My mum has had them for years and years and as much as I hate saying this, I'd become almost completely desensitised. I'd grown so used to seeing it happen that I didn't react to it like I once did - in fact, I barely reacted at all. But hearing what the physio said knocked me for six. The fact is, I'm able to detach myself, while my mum is stuck with it and I feel incredibly guilty for letting myself get to the point where I'd just stopped paying attention. So while she has been putting up with something that can be bad enough to push people over the edge, I was, basically, ignoring it. I'm not a complete bastard though, I promise. It just became normal. As normal as hearing someone sneeze, or something like that.

It's a difficult situation; to an extent you have to build up some sort of resistance. If the poor cow burst into tears every time she was affected by one of the many symptoms of the MS, she'd flood the house. And it's the same for me, my dad and my brother; it wouldn't be right for us to cause a massive fuss every time something happened, either. I do feel, however, that I'd taken my eye off the ball of late, I'd got a bit too relaxed. As it turns out, I suppose the lightning bolt from the physio was just what I needed. I should thank her - thank her for scaring the living shit out of me and reminding me of the seriousness of my mum's condition. My mum is strong, and she's brave and there's not much I can do to help her. I can, however, make sure I'm actually paying attention. I can make sure I don't forget how tough things can be for her. And I can make sure she knows that.

I can also turn Radiohead off, as I feel less miserable now. I believe that's called catharsis?

On TbR & The Why-Won't-You-Die-Pod

Ladies and gentlemen, please be introduced to my arch-nemesis; the Why-Won't-You-Die-Pod. We've been locked in a battle for supremacy for a while, and only now can I see the light at the end of the tunnel.

I fell in love with the little red I-Pod Nano at first sight. I took it home and introduced it to a range of music so eclectic it blew the little Pod's mind. Perhaps I should have been more careful, adding a few songs at a time rather than drowning it in tunage for (alas!) less than a month later it was in a bad way. I took it to the Apple Store where a kindly young fellow (who N fancied, incidentally) took the little Pod 'into the back' to fix it. Now, I'm not sure what happened 'in the back' but something definitely went awry for the I-Pod I received was not the same one I gave in! It did have the same scratches from my keys, my grubby fingerprints on the screen and that same piece of receipt wedged into the headphone socket. It was physically the same machine - but something had changed.

I've since come to the conclusion that while 'in the back', the little Pod was possessed by some kind of evil Pod spirit, which altered its personality in such a way that we no longer saw eye to eye. It would turn itself off in my pocket, purposely choose songs I didn't really like OVER and OVER, and run away and hide when I turned my back. All of a sudden my least favourite songs appeared in three or four different guises in My Music folder, with just one letter, number or space different between them. I couldn't escape them. They played ALL THE TIME. My thumb ached with the skipping of tracks. Why-Won't-You-Die-Pod nearly had me defeated.

But no! I'm too clever for it! I have spent the WHOLE WEEKEND sorting out My Music folder.

There has been a veritable cull of songs - I've been really quite ruthless. I've arranged them into alphabetical order (by artist) and ensured that all duplicates are deleted. The folder is perfection - a monument to my tidying skills. I've also uninstalled and reinstalled I-Tunes. And, finally, I RESTORED THE EVIL POD TO FACTORY SETTINGS. Mwah ha ha! I'm hoping this will cure its evil ways and return it to the perfect Pod I had before - before the strops, and the unscheduled song changes and the running away. Back to the good old days...

However...I am now worried for my sanity. Perhaps it has beaten me after all...I mean I've just lost a whole weekend...do I really feel proud of that? Perhaps this was what it wanted all along...yes...to make me scared...to make me compromise my good nature by taking such reckless action...why...why you little...

Have a good week everyone!

*mad eye twitch*

On Paloma Faith

Paloma Faith @ the Shepherd's Bush Empire

Last night I went to see Paloma Faith. She was bloody brilliant, and I heartily recommend her gigs - she's quite the entertainer on top of having an amazing voice. Even N enjoyed himself, despite having spent most of yesterday trying to wriggle out of it. Although, he did buy me the tickets, so I'll let him off of his lame attempts to make me go on my own.

For those of you that don't know, Paloma Faith is a British singer. She's been compared to Amy Winehouse, only with less drugs and more likely to perform without being sick down her top. That's not the only difference; her songs are a lot more layered and theatrical, and she has an eccentric style and visual presence that mark her out from the crowd. Some of her songs, particularly the ones she's released as singles, are a bit too pop for my liking, but the mellower, darker ones I think are fantastic. Her covers of songs by Etta James and Billie Holiday last night were unbelievably good... What I also like is that she has such a laugh doing what she does; she looks like she's having a great time, which is important. Watching someone who's really talented but miserable as sin can be quite a chore in my humble opinion, so watching someone who can sing while having a giggle was much fun. She doesn't take herself too seriously, which is quite refreshing to see. Her music shall be gracing the Pod for a while methinks.

The only problem was caused by my laziness. I decided not to put my bag in the cloak room. Once a gig is finished, I have an almost irresistible urge to flee the building as soon as possible. I hate queues for cloakrooms, not least because just by being in said queue you are accepting that the fun has been had, and now it's time for bed. So I kept my things with me, and N capitalised on this by shoving his massive coat in my man bag. [Haha, that sounds a bit like innuendo; it's not. Grow up T.] This meant I couldn't really relax; I spent a lot of time wedging my bag in between my feet, or resting it on my shoes, or moving it to the side, all while holding onto the strap so no-one could steal it. I'm not sure how, but I seem to have pulled a muscle while doing this. I think I must have kept my right leg tensed for the duration of the gig, because this morning I noticed I'd developed a limp and can no longer walk down stairs. Up is fine, but not down (I believe cows also have this problem? Perhaps I'm becoming a cow - watch this space).

Anyway, happy April everyone - I hope we all have a great month, and I'll write again soon unless my fingers turn to hooves.

tbr

On The Week That Just Was

An Evening At The Scala

I'm so pleased it's the weekend - it's been a week with more ups and downs than the Big One at Blackpool.

After my Night of Shame last Saturday, I couldn't shake the hangover until Monday evening. Oh, how I struggled at the office. I drank so much water in an attempt to end the misery than I spent most of my working day in the toilet.

Tuesday was marginally better; I went for a few drinks after work (I know - I never learn!) which were rather funny. We've started recording the funny things we say in a quote book, which makes great reading, but is not for the faint hearted.

Wednesday, however, was very good. I met N after work and we went to see Tom McRae at the Scala. I don't know his music at all - it was N's birthday present - but it was bloody brilliant. I think also, because he's not as well-known as he could be, he's developed a scarily devoted fan base. I'm not joking - it's like they all know each other - they know when to sing along and when not to, they have little jokes with him and all sorts. The only downer was that we went for an all-you-can-eat buffet meal at Kitchin beforehand, which limited movement later. Luckily, we found a perfect spot right at the front of the top balcony - meaning we could see everything. I felt like Prince William, looking down on the paupers squashed in below. I really like the Scala for that reason; it's full of corridors and stairs and balconies, it's quite easy to get lost in. One of my favourite gig venues I think. Especially the mosaic floors in the stairwells.

Thursday was a lowpoint - despite not drinking on Wednesday, I felt bloody awful all morning. I was struggling so much I went home from work, and missed the Fulham vs Juventus game that everyone's talking about. My dad says it was the "best atmosphere he's ever seen at Craven Cottage". N was 'so happy he felt dizzy'. I was at home alone. HOW IS THIS FAIR? I am so full of regret. And woe, I am also full of WOE. Still, well done Fulham for reaching the quarter finals. C'mon you whites!

I ended up taking Friday off too (although this was less because of my cold and more because of the intense depression missing Thursday's game put me in).

So it's been a week of highs and lows. I'm in Italy next week, with work, so I'm off to buy some new stuff to wear now.

I hope everyone has a great weekend!

tbr

On A Series of (Un)Events

It's been such a weird week. Not in a bad, or particularly interesting way - it just hasn't felt normal. Perhaps I have a psychic gift and there's some trouble brewing. Let's hope not. I don't think I have a family history of superhuman skills, but after this I think it could be a distinct possibility.

It all started on Monday morning when I saw four parrots in the tree by my bus stop (picture above - they're there, honest, you just can't see them). They weren't the big red macaws with killer beaks though, I think they were parakeets. Still, it's unusual to one used to sparrows and the greasiest of all birds, the starling. [I think starlings look like they've been drenched in petrol - you know when petrol on the road reflects different colours in the light?] Anyway...I looked up these parrots and apparently they're quite common. So common in fact, that they might be culled! Culled! Poor blighters.


On Monday afternoon I had a meeting with a lady who works for a wildlife charity. She said, interestingly, that the charity is often criticised for devoting itself to animals in areas of the world where whole families go without food. Her response to this, which is also interesting, was that they often help animals indirectly, through improving the living standards of the people around them. For example, to help combat the abuse of horses and donkeys in east Africa, the charity has built a school, a medical centre and working facilities for the villages around the sanctuary, all in the hope of improving the lives of the animals they care for. Very admirable stuff I must say. I came away however, feeling slightly shallow and a bit jealous of her job. She must go home feeling like she's actually helping, making a difference. I won't moan though, my job might not be the most life-changing role a person could play, but it suits me just fine. It was a mere blip, a moment of 'maybe I should do something really meaningful' before I lapsed back into reality.


Yesterday also passed in a blur - not a drunken haze but a cloudy, flouncy blur of nothingness. Thanks to my manager, a founding member of the Fellowship of the Moan, I had Dean Martin's "How Do You Like Your Eggs In the Morning" stuck in my head all day long. And this wasn't all that was troubling me. Earlier in the month, in a fit of I'm-so-busy-woe-is-me that I swiftly recovered from, I told everyone I couldn't go to my boss' birthday do. I can go now, but it's all booked. So now I just look all miserable and antisocial. Alas, it's another lesson I must learn - I have made my bed, and now I must lie in it. At home yesterday night, I found myself sucked into a BBC documentary following all sorts of people as they plough their way through London traffic - this ranged from ambulance crews to a stripper who had to perform in a limo. The most infuriating was an estate agent who claimed all the driving was making him ill so he had to keep going home early. I've always thought that if my job was making me ill (and I doubt it actually was), I'd do something else.


And that brings me to today. Another odd little day. My commute was spent in a paranoid panic. I never get like that but there were police EVERYWHERE this morning. So many I thought I was either being followed or something big was on the way. So I spent the majority of my journey looking over my shoulder and turning my IPod on and off. This was nothing to do with the police - this is because every now and then my IPod decides to go on standby every five minutes or so. This happens maybe once a month. The battery was charged, the keys were locked, so why does it keep turning off? Can anyone help me with this, please? It's infuriating. How am I supposed to time my walk to the music if it keeps going quiet?


I appreciate this post has probably been as dull as dishwater, but thanks for giving me the opportunity to vent my confusion, paranoia and frustration. Tis much appreciated.


tbr

On Kids These Days

I'd known for a while that last week was going to be really busy, but I hadn't expected it to leave me feeling middle aged. Read on for an insight into why I feel old before my time...

1) Last Tuesday I was one of the lucky people who were sad enough to be on gigsandtours the moment Prodigy tickets went on sale back in November. The gig was at the Cliffs Pavillion in Southend - it was basically like watching them in a school hall, which would have been fantastic, but the majority of the people around me could also have fitted in at school disco. It's now been 12 years since Firestarter was released. TWELVE. That means that children born this year will view them the same way that I think of...erm...the Beegees. That's incredible. However, the gig was fantastic, and deep down I really quite enjoyed being surrounded by people young and cool enough to look like they should be in Skins. Which brings me to my next point:

2) The new series of Skins. Is school really like that now? Really? Kids these days...they don't know how good they've got it! My school life pales in comparison...

3) On Wednesday, I went to see Billy Connolly at the Hammersmith Apollo. I've watched DVDs of his stuff in the past and laughed until I cried, but now (and it's probably just me) he comes across bitter, and angry at the world. So much of his set revolved around the evils of modernisation and political correctness and technology; much of which I agree with, but it wasn't funny. Just a bloke on a stage ranting, and laughing at himself. This made me sad.

4) E-BOOKS. I don't like them. I think I'm alone in this - maybe a book snob - but I stare at computer screens for too long already, there's no way I'm swapping a book, those most wondrous of things, for another screen. I'm dead against them, and rooting for Macmillan in its war with Amazon. I think I'm alone in my allergy to e-readers though, as most people seem to rave about them. I however will cling to books for all I'm worth - I won't let them go the same way as VHS and cassette tapes!

So February begins with me feeling old and as grey as the sky.

tbr