On Wordless Gestures

I used to blog fairly often about the books I read, but I haven't done so for a while. This one, however, I can't let pass; it's a book I feel I have to talk about. It's called Silence in October, by Jens Christian Grøndahl, and it's incredible. I think I've mentioned before how if I read a sentence or paragraph that I like, I underline it, or dog-ear the page. Well, I like so much of this book that it's now in very bad shape. One of my favourite parts is the following:

"People kiss each other because they don't know what else to do. You have nothing other than your silly lips, your silly hands that brave the same language while the world changes."

The reason I like this line is that it set me thinking - yes, the rusted cogs in my brain creaked back into action, at last - about body language and gestures. Not handshakes, or nods, or waving. They're all open to different interpretations based on the culture within which they take place, or so I believe. But kissing, and hugging. Things like that are universal, aren't they? They're almost primal. Spoken and written language changes as time passes; new words are created, old ones given new meanings, some disappear altogether. But physical signs of affection remain pretty much the same, don't they? I know that fifty years ago it would not have been wise to eat face in public, but I imagine that face was indeed eaten behind closed doors. And, even if it wasn't, if some pent-up Victorian woman was feeling a bit low, I'm sure her equally prudish friends would have given her a hug to cheer her up. It just makes me wonder how far back these things go. I mean, do monkeys cuddle?

My brain has been out of action for a while, as it's been under significant pressure from a procession of bad moods, so this unexpected activity was a welcome change. It was so welcome, it went one step further, dragging me off on a wild, hippyish tangent. Basically, as far as I'm aware, everyone loves a cuddle, regardless of their nationality or culture*. They are things that we all have in common; they transcend the social and cultural barriers that have grown between us over time. Somewhere, below the civility, the history and politics there's a bond that links us all. Don't get me wrong; I love cultural difference, I think it's fascinating, but it's also nice to be reminded that there is something more basic, something we share.

And as I walked through the City with this playing on my mind, I started to see it as a giant ant nest, home to the thousands who work and play here; linked to hundreds of other ant nests by trains, planes and unspoken methods of communication that predate the societies we know.

[Right...come back down to earth, Tom.]

What sparked this ridiculous post, besides the quote from Silence in October, was the way my Saturday night ended. I had been to a party and, true to form, I had drunk far more than was good for me. In fact, I went to the party knowing that this would be the case; lately I've been feeling like things are unravelling, starting to go wrong left, right and centre. The chances are these things will all pass, but I was desperate to push everything that was pissing me off out of my head and determined to have fun. And I did, until the walk home, during which a stream of drunken and nonsensical words poured forth from my silly lips and created an argument. But there came a point where words failed me, they weren't explaining what I wanted to say. And that's when a hug dragged me back from the brink of drunken despair, quelled my misplaced anger and forced the monster that is That-Drunk-Tom back into its cage.

Really, when you've had too much to drink, and your problems well up inside you so much that you start an argument for no good reason before collapsing into a puddle of misery - when you feel that low - it's the wordless gestures that help the most. Those silly hands and silly lips the book mentions help more than page upon page of beautiful words or hours of well-meant advice. And there's somebody, who may or may not be reading this, that should know that I'm grateful for their patience on Saturday night.

On A Resolution Already Broken

Once again I find myself returning to the blogosphere's warm embrace with my tail between my legs.

After months of worrying about my advancing age, my greying hair and increasingly severe hangovers, I began to consider growing up. I decided to draw a line under the excess of my youth and at least to grow old gracefully. I was happy with this decision, until Boxing Day - the day on which this new resolution came crashing to ground.

I blame myself. To be more precise, I blame this post. Did I really believe I could be that smug and escape unpunished? No; I should not have said that I've 'learnt from the past' because, quite clearly, I haven't. I'm still completely useless at handling my drink and shouldn't be allowed up past 10 o'clock.

I started early, you see. I noticed that my dad and my (younger) brother were nursing their pints slowly, savouring them and that mine seemed to be disappearing somewhat faster than everybody else's. I explained this by telling myself that they were drinking Guinness, which is very heavy, and therefore cannot be drunk as quickly as lager. And then back to the house, where I should have stayed up for a few hours to catch up with relatives I haven't seen in a few months before heading to bed.

Unfortunately, I did no such thing. I did catch up with everyone, I had many an enjoyable conversation. The problem is that these conversations tended to increase in volume and crassness with each rum and coke that passed my lips.

The clock strikes 6 in the morning. The house is asleep, or at least it would be if yours truly, his father and his cousin weren't belting out a rousing rendition of Band Aid's 'Do They Know It's Christmas'. My dad threw in the towel at half past 6 and climbed the stairs to bed. My cousin fell asleep on the sofa. I, true to form, did some washing up - smashing an apparently expensive wine glass in the process.

The next day I was the last one up. I had trouble looking people in the eye, that bad did I feel. In fact, I felt so bloody bad I also had trouble walking, staying awake, talking and sitting upright. A group of particularly bedraggled people gathered in the corner - Those Who Stayed Up Late. I went to join them, and glanced briefly at their hungover faces before a wave of nausea demanded that I close my eyes. With my dad, my brother and two of my cousins I sat and listened as they patched together the night before. Apparently my brother made my dad go round the circle and tell everyone that he loved them, which we all found terribly amusing after so many years of him being emotionally closed off.

Since then, the memories have crept back. I had a great deal of fun, it must be said. I did not learn from past mistakes and retire to bed without making a fool of myself. I did not remain cool, calm and collected. We spoke of football, of music and people who are no longer with us. I sang, I shouted and I laughed until it hurt.

And then, the next day, I was sick down the back of my dad's head from the back seat as he drove us home.

A fifteen-minute drive later, we reached a motorway service station. As I wiped the vomit from my lap, and tried my best to wring out my sleeves, I began to think that next year I'll have to take my decision to grow up a little more seriously, I'm not 18 anymore, and if I'm not careful I'll have to start making my own way there and back.

On The Great Outdoors

I am, and always will be, a townie. While I appreciate that the countryside can be beautiful, peaceful and calming, it's really not for me; I much prefer the bright lights and loud noises of the city. So when N decided to arrange a camping trip for his birthday, I was decidedly underawed.



It wasn't, forunately, as bad as I thought; I had a fantastic weekend and I think I managed quite well without the internet, TV and...walls. Actually, that's a complete lie, and I respect you too much to lie to you. I'm sorry. The truth: I was completely rubbish and should not be allowed out of the concrete jungle. Bear Grylls I am not. Setting up tents, for a start, is a chore - especially when the ground beneath is so muddy you can hardly stand. That's something I like about houses; they generally come pre-assembled, ready and fit for habitation. Not so the tent, which requires assembly then reveals a sizeable insect community that has somehow survived those long months in the garden shed.



The first night was rainy, cold and dark and I was incredibly, stupidly inebriated. Towards the end of the night, the end of my night anyway, the group realised that I'd been missing for 25 minutes, and a search party was sent forth. N found me in the toilet block, hugging the hand-drier for warmth and escorted me back to the tents. I went to bed - not to sleep, just to lie with eyes wide open wondering what exactly was walking around outside. I wasn't expecting a bear or anything, but when you're out of your comfort zone, even badgers start to seem menacing.


The second night was less rainy, less cold and less dark. This was mostly because we figured out how to turn the electricity on and so the 'get back to nature' element of our camping trip went straight out of the window. Electricity gave us light. It gave us heat. We stole a picnic bench and installed it in our gazebo. We even, in the true hunting and gathering spirit of our country-dwelling ancestors, ordered a Chinese takeaway. In short, we may as well have booked a hotel.



I'm not meant for the great outdoors. I'll never be able to do without walls, a bed, central heating. I'm too attached these creature comforts and little luxuries to find sleeping on the floor enjoyable. Give me supermarkets that don't close, a mind-boggling transport network and brick, glass and steel. I don't care if I can't see the stars or see through the exhaust fumes. Just don't make me sleep outside again; the badgers might get me.

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 Stars

When I was young, my nan used to come and visit from her house in Fulham. She would sit in the garden for half an hour each evening, looking up at stars, and tell me how many more there were here than she was used to. I thought this was probably bollocks, until a random road trip with N in Cagliari allowed me to see the night sky as it should be seen. It's incredible, really. Absolutely mental. There are so many more stars up there than I can ever see at home. I can see about two. Well, that's a slight exaggeration - I can always see Orion, and the constellation that looks like a saucepan, but that's about it.

There was a great deal of talk last week about a spetacular meteor shower that was supposed to have been visible all over the UK. As I'm normally unable to appreciate the Great Big Light Show In The Sky, I was really quite up for it. And I wasn't the only one; the Facebook status of one of my brother's friends read:
"Sitting in the garden watching the meteor shower with a glass of baileys."

I'll put my surprise at his choice of tipple to one side for now, and concentrate on the biggest issue I have with this here status. You see, we live under the flight path to London Stansted and I believe my brother's friend was talking rubbish. He was watching aeroplanes, not comets. That's the only explanation I can offer. I looked for the meteors myself and there was nothing there. Nothing at all.

As I drunkenly made my way home on Thursday night, beered up and ready for bed, I stopped and had a look. Nothing. 'Perhaps it's a quiet period,' I thought, 'A dry spell.' I was torn between my desire to get home and the hope of seeing a shooting star. Anyone in possession of common sense would have made a choice; either keep walking or keep staring at the stars. I, on the other hand, decided on a compromise: I strode forward with my head bent right back looking up at the sky. In this way I could ensure that I would reach home at a decent hour without having to miss out. Looking back, it's nothing short of a miracle that I made it home in one piece, as I had no idea what was in front of me; I could only be sure that there was absolutely sod all above me. It's so unreasonable; I risked my life for those bloody comets and they didn't even have the decency to show up. That's it, Night Sky, we're done.

On Beer

Dearest Beer,

We've known each other for longer than I care to remember. You've stuck by me through thick and thin, through good times and bad - and I'll never forget that. You might not like what I'm about to say, but what sort of friend would I be if I only ever told you things that you want to hear? No, I have to get this off my chest.

I often find myself thinking about the good times we've shared - all the beer gardens, gigs and parties. But lately, Beer, you've changed. It's hard to put my finger on exactly how, but I'm starting to get the impression that you really don't like me. Take last night for example, I thought we were getting on well. I was enjoying myself and thought you were too. So why have you landed me with this god-awful headache? Are you happy that I spent this morning either wrapped around the toilet bowl or hanging my head out of the car window? Was it your intention to render me unable to stand up without feeling an urgent need to vomit? What did I do to you to deserve this? You were never this bad, before. We used to be so happy, but this vengefulness and spite you have exhibited of late is getting too much for me to bear.

I'll be brutally honest, else what's the point in even writing this. I'm thinking of leaving you. There was a time, not so long ago, in which I couldn't have lived without you - but you're not the only one in my life now. I could spend more time with Wine, perhaps. We've met a few occasions and get on well enough - though it is generally quieter, restrained and more sophisticated than when you and I are together. Or Whisky, although I'm not sure I could handle the aggression all the time. Whisky is mad. This is what upsets me most; we're pretty much perfect for each other, you and I. I don't want to abandon you but you're pushing me away and I just don't have the energy to fight back.

Please - I beg you - let me know whether there's any chance we can return to the fun-filled, carefree days of my youth. Perhaps we can still make this work? I'm willing to try, if you are.

With love,

T

PS As I'm already writing to you, I wonder if you could stop doing that thing where you make me forget everything. It's not on. I would have liked a few memories of my cousin's wedding reception to cherish but you wouldn't even give me that, would you? Selfish bastard.

On Centaurs Only Being Able To Use Wheelchair Accessible Stations

Oh hello sweet, sweet bed! How my heart has yearned for your warm embrace today! I have been suffering you see. Suffering with a hangover. Despite being snowed under at work, I couldn't really do anything this morning except feel sorry for myself (which I do very well). Last night, you see, saw a reunion of sorts.

There were once three friends who started a quiz team in a pub that was due to close down. Every Monday night they would meet, chat, drink and ponder over ridiculously difficult trivia questions. This continued for months; the team grew week after week, new teams formed as offshoots, it was a golden age of hushed conferring, booze-fuelled banter and Tuesday morning headaches. Then tragedy struck (I used the term tragedy in the loosest possible sense). Two of the three decided to return to the world of higher education, leaving poor TbR at home alone! Without them, his quiz attendance fizzled out - the weekly quiz was cancelled and he returned no more to pub in question (though it is still open, a year on, with more customers than ever apparently - I'm taking credit for that).

But they're home for Easter so a few of us headed to the pub for a catch-up drink last night. I arrived late, fashionably, having nipped out for a couple after work, and the banter commenced. Now, I don't want you to think that I don't have any other friends, I do. Honest. But this is a group where conversation wanders into uniquely unpredictable places. Take this excerpt, from last night's meeting, for instance:

D: "Can you imagine having hands where your feet are? Do you think that would work?"
T: "Like a chimp? They have elongated toes."
S: "I don't think it would work - would you be able to stand up straight?"
D: "I don't think so. I'd probably prefer hooves anyway, like Mr Tumnus."
TBR: "Mr Tumnus was a faun though. I'd prefer horse's hooves to goat's hooves."
D: "True. But again, I'm not sure you'd be able to stand up straight."
T: "What about a centaur then? Have all four legs. You'd be really fast then."
D: "True."
TBR: "It would be a logistical nightmare though. I mean if centaurs did exist, their ability to travel would be quite limited - they couldn't get the tube, for example."
S: "No - especially in rush hour."
TBR: "Not just that - what about stairs? I think you'd just have to say 'Sorry, centaurs, but you can only use wheelchair accessible stations."
T: "They'd be alright on the Jubilee Line - 18 of 28 stations are wheelchair accessible.*"

And this is what I miss - the ability to get lost in a conversation about absolute crap and forget how it started. I shall have to make the most of their return - nights out with the Former Quiz Team of Dreams are guaranteed to be good ones.

In other news, I saw the parrots again this evening. Down my road this time. Exciting stuff.

Happy Friday to you all and enjoy the weekend, I'm off to bed!

TbR

*I have checked this and it's incorrect. Poor effort.

On Not Having a Clue

"I'll have another mojito please Bovary"

"Coming right up Chatterley."

I woke up this morning covered in mud. My head was throbbing and I appear to have bruised my rib. A morning of toilet hugging began.

I'm no stranger to hangovers, but this one's a bit of a brute. What makes it worse is that I remember very little. Most of the night is a complete blank. In the few episodes I do recall I'm sitting on the sofa, making pleasant small talk with one of N's friends. However, it's unlikely that I continued in this vein for the rest of the night - in fact I know I didn't. I know this because I woke up to three texts telling me how 'awesome', 'on form' and 'sweaty' I was. These aren't adjectives you'd use to describe my usual, softly-spoken, 'I'm going to chat in the kitchen' party persona, so I imagine I was making a massive arse out of myself. N explained why I was covered in mud - in the 20 second walk from a cab to his front door I managed to fall in a ditch. This could also explain the rib. The Jack Daniels is accountable for the headache and toilet-hugging.

It's a horribly uncomfortable feeling this - I have absolutely no idea what I was doing and I know that in a few hours the photos will start appearing on Facebook. I'll have to wait until then to find out what level of foolishness my behaviour reached, and swiftly detag.

On The End Being Nigh

Alas yes, my Christmas holiday is drawing to a close and my nose shall be forced back to the grindstone on Monday. Boo! Hiss! I've had far too long off and have accustomed myself to this glorious inactivity.

Well, what have the first few days of 2010 brought?

NYE passed without incident. By 'without incident' I mean 'without drunken, violent, monster incident', for much drunken fun was had. It's been noticed that I have developed a tendency to wash up when drunk at someone else's house. I'm not sure why this is but I'm not sure it's such a bad trait to have? I'm ever so careful to avoid breakages...

I also saved the following note on my phone at 10 o'clock - I must have thought it was poetic, or at least have been very moved by the situation I found myself in:

"I'm staring at the moon through the clouds. A snowflake lands on my cheek. The clouds part and four birds fly across the moon. A chav walks past and a firework bursts. My concentration is broken."

Right. Good one. It reminds me of a book I bought from a school fete when I was a wee lad - all set in the first person with questions at the end of each page telling you which page to go to next, depending on what decision you make. For example, my drunken rambling could be followed by:

a) I shout at the chav for interrupting my meditation. Go to page 13.
b) I shoot the birds. Go to page 14.
c) I say 'Aaaah' at the pretty firework. Go to page 15.

Come to think of it, I'm so wrong - it was written in the second person not the first, so all of the above was bollocks, but I've written it now. It's the sort of book that makes me feel uncomfortable anyway, a bit dirty if you will.

The concept's been taken to new levels now though - have a look at the video below and tell me that the world of games has not sunk into a moral abyss;

"That's an abomination, no way that's natural."

An adventurer is offered an array of male prostitutes of various species (human, dwarf, elf) to have his wicked way with. What is this? A Middle Earth brothel? If so, I want Sean Bean.

New Year's Day was spent in a drunken heap, hugging the toilet like we were lovers reunited after a long separation. Suffice it to say that we're now fully reacquainted and hopefully won't need to bond again for a very long time. I did however, manage to watch an entire series of Blackadder (the third one, set in the Regency period). I love that programme, almost too much for words, but my hangover turned my laugh into an embarrassing high-pitched squeak and sent my tear ducts into overdrive.

Well, I'm off. Back to watching N play Call of Duty while making unecessary amounts of noise chomping on a biscuit, and listening to my dad wrestling with a bottle of brandy in the kitchen...must...open...bottle...need...drink...now!

:)

tbr

On New Year's Eve and Why It Feels Me With Fear

Ah. Here we are again. New Year's fucking Eve. Excuse my bad language, but tonight is the one night of the year that I hate more than any other. Much like a werewolf only changes on nights with a full moon, I turn into a monster on New Year's Eve.

On any other night of the year I can be counted on to be a quite a decent sort of drunk. A happy one, a funny one, a bitchy one - but never a MONSTROUS one. Let me take you through a brief history of my New Year's Eve woes:

2002: my first legal drunken NYE saw me crying in the toilets. I don't remember why.

2005: a massive row with my then girlfriend lead to me flirting outrageously with someone else, alienating both the girlfriend and most of my friendship group.

2006: first NYE with current boyfriend - this should have been a perfect opportunity to impress his mates I'd not met before. Which I did. I impressed them with my Incredible Hulk impression as I stomped off shouting into the dark. When N finally caught up with me I delivered what can only be described as a bitch slap, followed by two woefully off-target kicks at which point he called the police. They rang him back, at which point I'd sunken into a pathetic blob on the pavement and asked if he was ok. Ever the gentleman, he apologised for wasting their time and said he was fine - to which they responded "Is this true or are you being made to say that?" OH THE SHAME.

2007: The shame was obviously not enough, for I repeated my performance on NYE 2007 (there were, however, underlying reasons for this one, but that's a story for another time). I believe the catalyst for my metamorphosis from Dr Drunk into Mr Mental was N's decision not to buy a kebab, which sent me into a downward spiral of rage and depression. The embarrassment doesn't stop there: N's patience (which is near limitless) snapped, and he called my dad to pick me up. Oh. My. God.

2008: In the early hours of the morning, the party was rocking and I was hiding behind a camper van. I had stormed out, before realising that I had no fucking clue where I was, so decided to hide from the well-meaning people searching for me. However, hearing N say "Leave him alone, he'll come back" put things in perspective. I'd become a joke. A walking caricature of everything that's bad about being drunk on NYE - so I left my hiding place and walked, tail between legs, back into the party. At which point I went about apologising to everybody profusely, including a bloke who was going to the toilet at the time. Apparently my heartfelt apology through the door gave him stage fright. Good. 'Cos he started it.

And this brings us up to date. I hasten to add that I am not a bad person. I am never violent, although I am frequently angry. NYE just messes me up in a way that other nights don't. I think it's because I drink to be drunk for midnight. I drink as much as I can before Big Ben chimes so that I won't feel like a prick singing Auld Lang Syne. Then the clock chimes, and I continue in the pace I'd set beforehand.

Tonight things will be different. Of course I will be drunk, but I will also be drink a glass of water between each drink. Hopefully, the monster will stay in its cage and I'll be able to have a nice night out like a normal person, and put all this silliness behind me!

Happy New Year 2010!

tbr

On Peaks & Troughs

The view from my seat at Fulham FC's Craven Cottage as Man Utd begin the long journey back up north with their tails between their legs - 3-0 to FFC! Who saw that coming? I certainly didn't. Don't worry, I'm not going to rant about Fulham's mesmering football skills or how Roy Hodgson's black & white army eased to victory over last season's league champions, but it does deserve a mention.

Not least because yesterday morning we had some bad news. Although I had convinced myself that the recession was over and that everything was on its way back to normal (ostrich-head-sand?) it is still claiming its victims. My dad lost his job, which is never good news, but hearing the news while surrounded by piles of Christmas presents was surreal. Still, it's not all bad - my mum is quite ill so it may be that this is a good thing. It will be nice to know there's always someone with her, keeping an eye out. It will be tough, of course, but we're all being very stiff upper lip about it - no wailing, weeping or gnashings of teeth in here, just some crossed fingers and furrowed brows.

That's why yesterday's STUNNING victory was extra special - it's not often Fulham can be relied upon to offer a completely relaxed experience to their spectators, but yesterday it ran like a dream! It was just what the doctor ordered in a way - a distraction, an entertainment. I followed the game with a copious amount of alcohol at a friend's flat. I would fascinate you with amusing anecdotes, extracts from our witty conversations or moments of note, but so much was consumed that I don't remember a thing. All I have to show for it is a killer hangover, about 40 photos of myself taken in front of the bathroom mirror and a missing watch. I fear my watch may have fallen off on the journey home - a victim of my graceless clamber over the fence separating the lanes of the A127.

And that just about brings me up-to-date. Best get to bed as it's my last day at work tomorrow (until 2010!), so I want to avoid my usual 8 o'clock sprint to the station and get in early...HA.

Take it easy,

tbr