londonmark searching for intelligent life in camden town (the search now continues in new york city)
Tuesday, April 29, 2003
The 100 Yards Club
To the Dublin Castle venue,
I went without a clue.
Which is why I have decided to review
This band and their gig in clerihew.
They sounded quite like Suede.
Thank god, not at all like Slade.
They played seven songs of which the sixth was a rocker,
They played pretty well, no-one had a shocker.
I really liked the drummer,
But not the bass strummer.
The lead guitar was crunchy and loud,
And the front man – the singer – was loved by the crowd.
The 'Asking for Trouble' Department For all those stalkers out there, you will be pleased to note that tonight I will be listening to the melodious strains of a friend's band at the Dublin Castle. I pay so much attention that I don't even know the name of the band but through careful deduction (thank you, camdenlock.net), I have worked out that it is one of The Morning After, Solar or The 100 Yards Club. Even further and more rigorous research (ahem) has led me to believe that he is in The 100 Yards Club. In fact, I'm positive it's them because I've just seen my friend's photo there.
So, if you happen to be passing Parkway, and are looking for some good music / wishing to scare me / wishing to do me actual bodily harm, why not go to the Dublin Castle (flyer downloadable from the band's site)?
PS. The scaring thing is fine, but the ABH might result in you going to prison. You have been warned.
St. Mark Today is the feast day of St. Mark. Yes, my patron saint and, in my opinion, the best damned saint in the whole choir of angels, seraphs and those funny ones with loads of wings (oh yes, I'm a brilliantly lapsed Catholic, me).
Not only the author of the oldest of the canonical gospels, St. Mark is credited as being the founder and first martyr of the Christian Church in Egypt. As well as being my name saint, he is also the patron saint of barristers, captives, glaziers, imprisoned people, insect bites, lawyers, lions, notaries, and prisoners. He is also the patron of Venice, where the cathedral that bears his name has his relics on display.
His symbol is the lion (excellent), although sometimes it's a winged lion (even better). He was a good mate of St. Peter, so much so that when he wrote his gospel it was so clearly influenced by the first Pope that the Church Fathers nicknamed it 'Peter's Gospel'.
There is a tradition in Venice that on this day, every man gives a single rosebud (a bòcolo) to his beloved lady. So, to you and yours, happy St. Mark's Day.
Replacement bus service V An apology. I didn't think before I posted it. Sorry.
Replacement coach service There once was a blogger named Mark Whose haikus had created a spark In five-seven-five form They went down a storm He'd only started them off for a lark.
Breaking with haikus (temporary) Just a few little quick bits and pieces:
Overheard while buying my coffee a little while ago, said by an American businessman to his colleague: "Well, we don't just wanna peel back the onion to find a can of worms."
Alphabet soup Story time. A (who goes out with E) went out drinking with B, C and D. They all went back to B's place (she goes out with F) and they drink there for a bit. B stays in, while A, C and D go off. Later that night, a guy called G gets a text message from one of A, C and D, saying that they've all been out drinking and that they'll see him tomorrow. He thinks nothing of this and goes back to bed. Apparently, B got this text message as well. The next morning, E rings up his friend H (who lives with I) and says that D has been spreading some rumours about A to the effect that A slept with someone other than E, and that E would cheat on A if he could. E is livid. H attempts consolation. E rings off, and H tells I.
H and I go out for some food, a wander around Camden and a drink. They meet in their regular pub. They see G there and ask him what the hell is going on with what D has apparently said to everyone. He, wisely, demurs and states that he doesn't want to get into it. They chat about other things. B comes into the pub, looking tearful. She has just split up with her boyfriend F. A, C and E turn up and while A and E quiz G about what D has said, C goes to console B, who is also being consoled by J, even though her boyfriend K has left early and they appear to have had an argument. Later on, J is seen crying a little to herself.
A, E and G all sort out what D has said. D is not there, and they hear that she is planning to go away for a while. C then sees her ex-boyfriend L there. L is a good friend of F, B's newly ex-boyfriend. C has heard that L is going out with a new girl, M. She goes over to say hello to M, who is immensely rude and condescending to C. This upsets C. It is now B's turn to console C. C is also consoled by I, who secretly quite likes her and wonders why she ever went out with L in the first place. H knows that I likes C but hasn't told anyone. A and E leave early. Everyone else gets drunk, the pub closes and everyone is left to sort things out in the morning. Again.
Names have been changed to protect the guilty, but otherwise it is all, sadly, true.
I did warn you First comment deleted. As discussed below, I've taken on board people's (legitimate) opinions and decided to delete offensive comments. If you're thinking about posting unnecessarily rude comments, and you know who you are, don't bother, because they won't stay up. I can't believe that it's come to this.
Pause granted Well, that was even quicker than expected. Diane, the agency rep, came in, told us about her plans for the weekend, moaned about how messy her son is, ticked all the boxes, got us to sign the form and then wandered off. She clearly had even less interest in the whole thing than we did, albeit after we had frantically cleared and cleaned the place in about 2 hours this morning.
Now, we have a choice. Mike is going to the pub to watch the Tottenham game (versus Manchester City) whereas I have the option of joining him or joining other friends who are planning a Camden pub crawl. Oh, the pressures of bank holiday life.
Must give us pause I'm going to take a break from baring my soul, revealing embarrassments and idiocies from my past and generally making this place available for anyone who's ever met me to find. I shall be planning some more at some point, but I think I need to back off from the ultra-personal for a couple of days. In the meantime, why not pop outside and enjoy the lovely weather?
I will be unable to do this today, even though I only have a half-day at work before the long Easter weekend, because I have to tidy my flat which is being inspected by our letting agent tomorrow. They want to do the usual checks for broken windows, sacrificed virgins, young wolf hounds, the cleanliness of the bathroom, my dead wives. You know, the normal things. Once that is over, at approximately 2.15pm tomorrow, I shall be wandering the streets of Camden with a vacant smile on my face, in search of drinks, sandwiches and sunshine. If you're in the Camden area, the guy in the grey t-shirt with the idiotic grin is me. Resist the urge to hit me. Please.
Walking with Mark 9: Trouble
Regular readers of the previous episodes in the Walking with Mark series may now be aware that I am an emotional fuckwit. Herein lies a tale where several lessons can be learned and several mistakes can be identified. A while ago, I met a rather attractive girl from a non-UK but English-speaking country, who we'll call L (you see how hard I strive to anonymise this?). I'm pretty sure that the attraction was mutual, only there was one problem: she had a boyfriend. They had gone travelling together but things had turned a bit sour. Unfortunately for her, while she was staying in London, she had nowhere else to go and so was forced, for reasons of accommodation, to stay with him (in the geographic sense, if not the emotional). And then it gets complicated.
Mistake 1: I got involved. Once we had established that she was seeing someone else, although my interest waned, it didn't die completely. Which it should have. Also, I entered into text/email messaging with her and met her for lunches, walks, drinks, etc. Although we had 'engaged in primary intimacy' before I found out that she was attached, everything was then kept on a platonic level. We discussed books, mutual likes and dislikes and it seemed as though it was just going to be a good friendship. Wrong.
Mistake 2: I really got involved. Because she was in her semi-relationship with the other chap, she was free to meet whenever and wherever, although usually with the proviso that she could get back to her/his flat. At one point we were out near where I was living at the time and we agreed to pop back to mine for a cup of tea before she went back home. Needless to say, this was not simply a cup of tea. We slept together and then – straight out of the 'clichéd affair behaviour' manual, there was the awkwardness while we dressed and I smuggled her out of the house, so that my flatmate wouldn't know we had slept together (although he was no prude, L and I agreed that it was probably best not to broadcast this to the entire world at the time). I walked her back to the station. I then walked back home.
Mistake 3: I offered to let her stay. She was having problems with the other chap and telephoned me and my flatmate at one point saying that she simply had to get out of her flat. Mike and I discussed this and we drove to her place, picked up her things and drove her back to ours, where I agreed that she would be able to stay for a while before she started a mini-trip around Europe. This is really when warning bells should have sounded. However, all was sweetness and light for a few days before she went away. She went away, came back and then helped us pack all our things, as we were moving house and, of course, she was moving with us until she decided whether she would be travelling more permanently around Europe or getting a job and looking for a flat of her own. The indecision there should have been a warning, but wasn't.
Mistake 4: I let her get her own way. She stayed in our new place for a few weeks and relations between the two of us deteriorated. Pretty badly. Initially, we both made the most of what was a fairly awkward situation. Mike and I were out at work all day, she sat in the house. She didn't have too much money and was ostensibly looking for a job, although mysteriously never went on any interviews or sent away letters. Neither did she arrange any definite travel plans. She did, however, become a minor expert on daytime television quiz shows.
I assumed that, in some way, we were a couple. However, she still professed to have feelings for her ex- and as such needed time and space to think. I agreed to this and spent a few nights on the sofa in our new flat. This feeling of uncertainty also manifested itself when we went out. I assumed that we would go out together, with other people, whereas her attitude was a lot more focused on going where she felt regardless of where I was. Again, a disconnect between our expectations. But, I thought that as she was still thinking through what she wanted, it would be best not to push things.
Mistake 5: I repressed. An atmosphere of hostility arose between the two of us. Looking back, I feel sorry for Mike because he had to tolerate a lot of this, and I hope I've made it up to him since. Although there were no primary or overt stand-up shouts and rows at the beginning, there was some resentment on her side and certainly some on mine. She felt that I was trying to stifle her. She was away from home, dependent on others for accommodation, she didn't have much money and knew only a few people independent of either my group or her ex-'s group. I, in turn, felt resentment that she seemed quite happy to do nothing all the time, that she was keeping me at arm's length, and speaking to me less and less frequently. So what did I do? I tried to talk to her about it. This ended up in a shouting row between the two of us. Whenever I tried to speak to her again, she would simply not engage in the conversation. Eventually, we barely spoke unless there was a third party in the same room. Instead of actually taking the initiative and forcing a discussion, I simply repressed it all from that point.
There had been one small glimmer of hope. One afternoon, we had both been in the flat without Mike and for some reason started talking. I didn't even try to broach the subject of the relationship, we just talked as we had done at the beginning: music, art, books, films, personal histories, stories. We had nearly reached a detente when Mike returned to the flat and her mask went back up. From then on, everything remained as it had been before that afternoon.
Mistake 6: I lost control. The situation had been depressing me. I recall that some of my friends had been wondering exactly what was going on, some of them already knew through Mike, and I couldn't see a full resolution. Almost incidentally, I had been made aware that (on one of the nights where we had all gone out and she and I had left each other to our own devices) she had been involved, in a physical sense, with one of my good friends. In a way, this made virtually no difference, because there was a significant distance between us by then.
I am very slow to anger. This is not just my own opinion, but one that is common held by family and friends. I do not fly off the handle at the slightest little thing; I have a long fuse. However, I think that my patience in this instance had finally worn down to nothing. I came home one night and engaged her in conversation about when she was leaving. We had spoken once or twice about this, very briefly, with very little result. For some reason that night, I needed something more definite. This escalated into a full-scale shouting argument, with the end product being that she packed her things, called a taxi and left immediately. Mike, who had been sitting in the living room when this kicked off, had gone into his room after about five minutes, wanting to dodge the flak, and eventually reappeared, and commented that although he had known me for years, he had "never seen that side of [me]". He didn't like it much and I can't say that I did either.
Perspective: Looking back, I realise now that there several people were to blame, principally me. The long deterioration of our relationship was, however, a shared blame between me and her. She seemed to want something I could not give, and never quite explained what it was. Perhaps it was simply a sense of freedom. I tried to make this happen, but was only resented even more for it. However, she got her accommodation and a social placing through Mike and I for nothing and gave me nothing in return. The harshness of her departure which I caused can only be balanced by the emotional worthlessness I felt throughout that period. Lessons have been learned.
Postscript: I have not heard from her since, although I understand that the good friend with whom she was intimate heard from her a while back. He is still a good friend, and we don't talk about this episode.
Walking with Mark 8: Bus
During my first year of university, I was introduced to Suede by my friend Stephen. I had one or two preferred bands, but Stephen made me a compilation tape of tracks from Suede, Dog Man Star and b-sides from the CD singles. It was brilliant. I immediately rushed out and bought the first two albums and played them over and over again.
In many ways, the first two Suede albums provided a soundtrack to my first terms at university. I had been semi-interested in music (a few bands that I had paid particular attention to, most of which I don't really listen to now) when I was at school, but being surrounded by fervent musos at college opened up a slightly belated but passionate love for indie music, with particular reference to the phenomenon known to the music press as BritPop. The obvious candidates were all there: Suede, Blur, Oasis, Pulp, Elastica, Radiohead, Supergrass, The Verve, Stone Roses, even people like Bennet, Sleeper and Geneva. But not Menswe@r. Never Menswe@r.
So, after a long wait for the Suede faithful (of which I did not really class myself at the time, being a coattails fan), we read with eager anticipation that Suede were set to release a new album, sans Bernard Butler but avec Richard Oakes and Neil Codling, at the beginning of September 1996. Throughout that summer, I was working in London and so I read with some excitement in the NME that Suede would be performing a short set, free of charge, at the Virgin Megastore on Tottenham Court Road at midnight on the day of Coming Up's (their third album) release.
I went to work that morning and at lunchtime barrelled over to the Virgin Megastore to see if I could get some tickets. They were restricted to two per person and so I grabbed my allocation and made a mental note to ring my friend Stephen who I knew would want to come along. I walked out of the store and looked to cross Oxford Street so I could head back to work. There was a rather large lorry outside the Megastore and my view of the road was partially obscured by it but I checked both ways, à la Green Cross Code and, seeing that the road was clear, began to cross. Smack!
I supposed I was thrown a good ten feet from the bus, which had managed to catch me perfectly side-on. I landed fairly hard, ripping some of my jacket but fortunately I didn't hit my head and was vaguely conscious of what had happened. I recall trying to get back onto my feet slightly shakily, only to have my legs go out from under me and thus drop back to the floor. I was helped up by a passer-by who got me out of the road and onto – irony alert – the bus which had hit me. The bus, a single-decker, had shattered its front windscreen when it hit me and the driver didn't look too happy, but a lot more relieved when he saw that I could actually move, though only in a very dazed fashion.
The passer-by who had helped me was, luckily enough, a medical student at University College Hospital, and had telephoned for an ambulance to take me there. The ambulance arrived and immediately I was strapped onto a spinal injury board and carted off to the A&E department there. They took me in, called my work to say that no, I would not be coming back from lunch as I had just been hit by a bus, they did various reflex tests and then left me strapped to the board for what I later determined was approximately three hours with only one doctor visiting me in that time. During those hours staring at the cubicle ceiling, I was gathering my wits and eventually decided to discharge myself.
I very gingerly made my way back home, ran an incredibly hot bath and soaked for a while. Although I had not broken anything, there were quite a few cuts, bruises and grazes and my entire body ached like never before. I went to bed incredibly early, woke up for work the next morning and went in as usual. When I got in, I explained the story and there were alternating comments of "You idiot" and "Really? A bus?". Most of the time I managed to get away with the old line, "You should have seen the other fella". The most trenchant comment came from a (non-work) friend who said simply: "You must really like them if you're prepared to get hit by a bus for free tickets".
Postscript: For inveterate list makers, the set list was Beautiful Ones, Trash, Lazy, She, By The Sea, Together, Europe Is Our Playground, and Saturday Night. Stephen and I got our copies signed afterwards, I got a cab home and immediately recorded it to tape for my Walkman. I suffer no discernible side-effects from my tangle with the bus.
Walking with Mark 7: Not
As most stories begin, there's a boy and there's a girl. Let's call the boy 'Mark' and call the girl 'X'. It's the end of an evening out with everybody and he's walking her home because it's quite late. They stop to get food and agree to go back to hers. They smoke cigarettes and chat generally about the evening while they're walking. It's cold, so she hooks her arm into his. They walk.
We're back in the flat and have eaten now. Conversation. The poor quality of sandwiches. Mutual friends. Travel. The weather. We start chatting about relationships and about how she has slept with her ex- again, and about my ex-s and what they're doing, and about other people's love lives. I can see that this is angling somewhere and don't mind at all. I am interested in her, I think she knows it, and I think she might be just a little bit interested as well. And then, the real conversation:
X: "I'm interested in someone."
M: "Oh, right. Who? Do I know them?"
X: "Why are you interested?"
M: "Well, I am."
X: "Are you sure you want to know?"
After hearing something like that, then the answer is probably 'No', but you can hardly back out now. It's around this point that my stomach begins to tighten ever so slightly.
M: "Yes, of course. Why?"
X: "Well, this is awkward. Who do you think it is?"
M: "I guess it's one of two options"
Theoretically, it can be anyone. But, it really boils down to two options: me or not me. That's how the world divides right now. We're both feeling a bit awkward, though probably for different reasons. I'm trying to second-guess everything she says just a few seconds before she says it, so I can prepare some kind of response. I'm not having much luck with this.
X: "Yeah, I see. Erm, what's the easiest way to say this? It's not you. It's [let's call him] Z."
M: "Right, okay."
Rapid reappraisal of the situation. I do my best to hide what is not a crushing blow, but a disappointment nonetheless. Although I am very attracted to her, and believe that we might be able to sustain a relationship rather than just be a one-night-stand, I know some of her relationship history, as she knows some of mine. There is a friendship history here as well.
X: "But it's complicated. I arranged to meet Z and he stood me up"
M: "Stood you up? Why? I mean, what happened?"
X: "Well, you know these things are important for girls. I arrived dressed up and he just didn't show. I felt a bit of a fool sitting there with friends asking me 'Why are you all dressed to kill?' when I supposed to be going out for a drink with Z but don't want everyone to know about it, and especially not that he's stood me up."
M: "Have you spoken to him about it?"
X: "I tried a sort of jokey thing: 'did you have a good time the other night' about when he was supposed to meet me, but he just laughed it off and I don't think he fully got it. Why is it always complicated?"
M: "Oh. Well, I'm sure he had a really good reason. Maybe it was just a bad time for him to talk to you about it. I don't think it means anything."
I have gone from being rejected to offering relationship advice in the space of a few minutes. I only find this funny later. At the time, I am wondering why I am doing this. Is it because I now have the urge to prove that I am a good friend and that I will not let earlier hopes ruin this friendship? Is it because I am trying to seem caring, hence contrasting myself with Z and making myself look better? Or is it, and this seems most likely, that my mouth is simply on autopilot while my brain tries to sift through all the thoughts jostling with each other?
X: "I mean, I do like you and we're good friends, so this won't affect anything."
M: "No, of course not."
I hear myself saying this, while my brain registers a silent 'Yeah, right'. Moments like these always affect the situation. There are several options. We may not speak as openly now as previously. We may simply not discuss affairs of the heart. Or we may pretend that this has never happened, even though we both know it did. Regardless of which option we end up taking, or even which option simply happens without our consciously deciding it, things have already been affected.
M: "So," to break a silence, "this is awkward."
X: "Not really."
Not for you, X, not for you.
Postscript: X and I are still genuinely good friends.
Censor I'm giving serious thought to deleting comments where people don't even leave their name. Is there some rule of etiquette that prevents me from doing this or am I free to censure people who write things in comments without owning up to their identity? Any advice would be welcomed.
The Further Sound of Radio Free Londonmark
Good morning, evening, afternoon and goodness. It's forty past thirteen, and here's what's coming up in the next hour on oh-one-oh-one-oh-one FM:
You Make It Easy / Air
If Everybody Looked The Same / Groove Armada
Here [PSB New Extended Mix] / Pet Shop Boys
Love Foolosophy / Jamiroquai
Sex and Candy / Marcy Playground
Move Your Feet / Junior Senior
Outerspace Girl / The Beloved
Slave To The Wage / Placebo
There By The Grace Of God / Manic Street Preachers
Lost Property / The Divine Comedy
Remember that, as always, we're waiting for your calls for the all-requests show. Stay tuned, kids.
Walking with Mark 6: Promenade
During my summer between my lower- and upper-sixth years, I was working in Oxford Circus and a friend invited me one evening to go to a Prom. For those unfamiliar with the Proms, here's a quick guide. The Proms, or Promenade Concerts, began in 1895 and have run every year since then. They are a series of classical music concerts, held at the Royal Albert Hall from July to September with one concert each evening and one extra concert in the afternoon at weekends. Tickets for the concert are fairly standard prices, if you want to sit down. There is, however, another way. For the princely sum of £4.00, you can stand in the main section of the auditorium and watch the entire concert (to stand in the gallery area costs £3.00, but unless your vision is naturally like a pair of binoculars, you might find it hard to see the performers). In order to get these tickets, you have to queue outside the Royal Albert Hall, sometimes for quite a while.
I went along with my friend, can't remember who, to one of the concerts, can't remember which, and really enjoyed it. We agreed to go again, this time at a weekend, so that we could bring a small picnic and sit outside on the grass and soak up some rare English summer sunshine before heading in to hear beautiful music. All agreed, all set, let's go. However, he phoned me on Friday night to say that he had to cancel. I thought, well, I might as well go anyway and so I did, armed with picnic, bottle of wine and very large Saturday newspaper.
I took my place in the queue, perched on one of the low stone walls around the lawn areas and started to read the paper. After a while, I felt peckish and decided to kick off the picnic and open my bottle of wine. Ah. I had remembered to bring plastic cups, I had remembered the actual bottle of wine, but I had completely forgotten a corkscrew. So, I looked over at the lawn to see if I could borrow one. My eyes alighted on a medium-sized group of people sharing a (much nicer) picnic and some wine, and I went over to ask if I could borrow the corkscrew. They agreed and then asked if I wanted to join them. Considering the differences between (a) lounging on the grass with a bunch of new friends getting mildly tipsy and joking about, or (b) drinking on my own with a horrible sandwich, I gratefully said yes and went over. And met a beautiful girl with long brown hair, captivating eyes and a wonderful laugh: Hilary.
Well, I didn't just meet her. She was there with her brother and loads of his friends and, for reasons that I still can't quite explain, I thought that her brother was actually her boyfriend. The two of us started chatting with the group, and then chatting without the group and before I realised the time, we had to get back in the queue to get tickets and watch the concert. Of the concert, I remember very little. Afterwards, I asked them all when they were next coming to a prom and they sort of laughed and said it was more likely that they would be here than they would be elsewhere. They were, for example, going to the afternoon concert again the next day. I said I'd see them then.
And so over the course of the summer, I went to about twenty-odd proms, about half of them on my own because there was a particular piece I wanted to hear and no-one else was free to go with me, the remaining ones with Hilary and her group, which became my group too, in a way. And, as the summer went on, Hilary and I got to know each other a lot better and found that we sort of liked each other's company, more so after the whole brother/boyfriend confusion had been cleared up. I decided I would pluck up the courage to ask her out.
The last night of the Proms is something of an event, though probably for the wrong reasons. Everyone gets dressed up (gowns for ladies, white tie and tails for gentlemen), waves flags and gets terribly jingoistic. Also, the music is a selection of songs (mostly awful) rather than, say, one particular piece, invariably including the National Anthem and Rule Britannia. However, for us prommers, the procedure for getting a last night ticket was byzantine. You have to keep all your ticket stubs and, when you have five stubs to qualify, wait for one of the regular releases of last night tickets, then queue at the box office. Readers may note the common thread of queueing; well, this is England. These also cost £4.00 and are the prommer equivalent of gold dust.
Once you have your ticket, you have to decide how long you are going to queue for your place. Some people wait outside the Albert Hall for a week before the last night, with camp stoves and sleeping bags. I, slightly more sensibly, though fairly insanely, decided that I would only sleep on a London street for one night, the night beforehand. I spoke with Hilary and she agreed that, if her parents allowed it, she too would bring her sleeping bag and queue overnight.
As the evening wore on and we all got colder, fellow prommers 'retired to their rooms', ie grabbed their sleeping bags and tried to find somewhere to sleep. Hilary and I collected our stuff and, very luckily, managed to find a doorway of the Albert Hall where we could shelter, in case it rained. She put her sleeping bag on the top step, mine was on the step below, and we lay there chatting. I then decided that, as we were both looking up at the night sky, I really wasn't going to get a better chance than this, and I asked her out. She said yes, we kissed and we fell asleep holding each other's hand through our sleeping bags, on a cold but clear London night underneath the stars.
Postscript: our first date was the last night of the Proms when we both got very dressed up, a little bit drunk, and had a great time. Apparently, all the rest of our group had been laying bets on how long it would take for us to start a relationship and were amazed at how hopeless we had both been. The relationship lasted for over a year. In a strange twist, and some nine years on, Hilary is currently going out with one of my best friends from school.
Walking with Mark 5: America
New York: so good, they named it twice. I, however, have only been there once, in 1994. Most schools arrange exchange trips to countries such as France, Germany or Spain, however ours arranged one to New York or, more accurately, New Jersey. Five members of the boys school (including two of my best friends at the time, Mike and Richard) and three members of the girls school went over to a school in Paterson, New Jersey for three weeks around Easter time, and then our exchanges would come to England for three weeks over that summer. When they first announced that the school was to arrange an American Exchange, I immediately entered into negotiations with my parents as to whether I could go. After much cajoling, and the proviso that I worked during my holidays and paid them back the money, the deal was on.
I am terrified of flying. Actually, let me be more precise: I am terrified of the take-off and landing elements of flight. The middle bit in the air is fine (except for turbulence) because I am self-deluded enough to convince myself that it's a train journey, only a bit higher up. Despite this fear, and the consequent mockery from my fellow passengers who evidently considered themselves as direct descendants of the Wright brothers, the flight over to the US went fine and we touched down (note use of American terminology) at Newark.
We were all driven to the school, where we were met by our exchanges. Mine was a chap who we'll call H, a athletic and friendly-looking bloke whose grandparents had emigrated from somewhere in South America. He seemed nice enough so we chatted and got into the van being driven by his grandfather. Who spoke no English. Cue much sign language conversation between me and the granddad, H translating at intervals, and me occasionally venturing into faltering Spanish which had little to no effect (GCSE Spanish is hardly the ideal preparation for a proper conversation).
The house where H lived was occupied by his parents, him and his sister and their grandfather. My 'room' was in fact his sister's room and we quickly worked out an arrangement whereby we would rotate who got which bed, thus allowing his sister her privacy but ensuring that I didn't have to sleep on the floor for three weeks. The area in which they lived was the equivalent of a council estate except much (a) cleaner, (b) quieter and (c) smaller. Pretty much one of the first things we did was go out onto the street and meet up with his mates, whose names I have forgotten completely. And so began the exchange.
School life seemed very different, with a much greater focus on US-centric issues and less of a wider world-view, or weltanschauung as our school's pretentious teacher and trip supervisor, Mr Simm, insisted on calling it. The English teacher seemed positively ecstatic that he would be able to teach Shakespeare with two live English blokes in the room, so that his students could hear it in RSC, received pronunciation, Queen's English, BBC accents. Richard, being the drama queen he was, seemed terribly keen on this as well and, I have to admit, I did warm to my varying roles including, because Richard wimped out, the 'to be or not to be' soliloquy from Hamlet. And goodness, did we camp it up. I think I was trying to impersonate Olivier, whereas Richard was doing his best Gielgud. We must have sounded like tossers.
Life outside school was particularly enjoyable when I discovered that H not only understood sarcasm, but was an ardent proponent himself. Note: this is not the standard English whinge about how Americans don't get sarcasm. Mike and Richard both complained that their exchanges seemed to take everything they said as being serious and, being fundamentally incapable myself of answering questions seriously, I thanked the appropriate deities that H was equally cutting. Also, H was a basketball fan. I, in turn, had no idea about basketball, so he showed me. We went to the communal court in his estate with some of his friends and a ball and started a game. I was told the basic rules and then told to go stand by the hoop and block things. I stood by the hoop and I blocked the ball, which is, apparently, 'playing defense'. Although I was the only Brit, an absolute beginner and the token white guy on court, they reassured me that they held none of these things against me and that I was okay.
As well as daily trips into New York, we had weekend visits to Boston and Washington, DC. I preferred the Washington trip, mainly because we were part of a school-wide visit to the nation's capital where they would be required to troop around the Capitol building and learn loads about national politics. Mike, Richard and I contented ourselves with wearing dark-coloured suits and shades and trying to re-enact scenes from films like A Few Good Men and In The Line Of Fire. We also managed, cunningly, to wander slightly off-route. We had a few hours to kill and were allowed to just meander around the place, with the proviso that we were, under no circumstances, to enter an area of the capital known as the combat zone. Naturally, being the navigational morons that we were, we walked around and suddenly realised that the street we were on had no other people, a few burned-out cars and all the windows were boarded up. Hmmm. Combat zone, we all thought simultaneously. Cue rapid exit, fortunately unmugged and uninjured.
There was also, naturally enough, the situation that I knew would occur at some point: the accent demonstration. I was in a sports shop buying some trainers, selected the ones I wanted and then wandered over to the counter. As I generally do, I said hello to the checkout girl and asked if I could buy the trainers, please. All fine so far. Then:
"Are you from England?"
"Well, um, yes I am"
"I love your accent. Can you say something? Anything?"
"Ermm. Er. Ah. Well. [pause] Right. Hello. Crikey."
Yes, that's right, I went into full-on Hugh Grant Four Weddings And A Funeral mode to the undisguised and barely containable laughter of my companions. They didn't let me live that one down for a while, especially revelling in humming bars of Englishman in New York at me, given any possible opportunity. I was hardly able to deny it, though.
Extended intermission Feeling better now. Eeeksh. Lots of work. Not enough time to complete Walking with Mark. Instead, why not look at some spiderous treachery? Or, alternatively, suggest some topics or areas of life which you feel might be appropriate for upcoming Walking with Mark entries? The comments box is in the usual place.
Intermission I'm taking a quick break away from the Walking with Mark series, if you don't mind. Right now, I'm at home, feeling rather unwell due to a horrible stomach and don't feel like writing the next episode. The series will, like James Bond, return. If, however, this has caused to you to go "Pshaw, I shall never read this ever again" then may I recommend troubled-diva's competition to win some fine, fine merchandise?
Walking with Mark 4: Anxiety
My dad loves to wind me up, and whenever we get into an argument, he immediately accuses me of being "highly strung" and starts telling to me calm down and think of my blood pressure. Needless to say, it pretty much never works, especially because I am generally calm to the point of passive to the point of comatose. But life was not always so placid.
At college, I felt under a little bit of pressure. I should have had a gap year between school and degree but didn't, so when I arrived at university, I was only 17 and had not exactly seen much of the world. Although initially I took to things well, I think that I revelled in the independence and lack of supervision a little too much. There was one particular philosophy tutorial where not only did my tutor completely destroy me but also another student decided to join in on the action and start asking me exactly what I meant by the rubbish I had written in my essay about Descartes. I had no idea and my regular tutorial partner (who understood that you cover for each other) was not there, so I was fairly stranded.
I hung on after the tutorial had finished, so I could speak to my tutor about this. We discussed things for a bit and then things go a bit hazy. I recall walking out of her room partway through our discussion, and I remember being in my friend Lynda's room (she was a third year at the time). And then I remember, well, not much. I found myself in my bed and it was dark and I didn't exactly feel wonderful.
The later reconstruction of events worked out that I had left my tutor's room, telling her that I didn't feel well, and went up to Lynda's room, where there was some other people sitting around, chatting and smoking, munching biscuits and drinking tea. I had sat down in her armchair and not said anything for about 10 minutes before somebody asked what was up. I said to her, "I don't know". Apparently, those were the only words that I could say to any question. At one point, I fell onto the floor and began to writhe around, shouting "I don't know" before starting to cry. I must have tired myself out or been calmed down by Lynda or Susie, because they managed to get me down the stairs and into my bed, and then they called the doctor. I was back in the land of the living by the time he turned up but he couldn't work out what was wrong with me and so gave me some tablets to take, god knows what they were. I stayed in bed for a while, but then felt okay, if tired.
For a while after that, I was fine. No major weirdnesses, or at least no more weird than I was usually. Then I zoned out again, this time in my room during another of our tea, toast and cigarette afternoons (which was, admittedly, most afternoons). No screaming or shouting, but simply sitting there blankly, apparently. I didn't remember this one any more than previously. I went to see the regular college doctor, who basically accused me of trying to dodge my way out of exams (even though I didn't have any exams at that point) and refused to take me seriously. I persisted, and managed to get an appointment for a CAT scan at the John Radcliffe. I duly went up there and had the scan performed.
Apparently there was nothing wrong inside my skull, and we managed to pretty much rule out full-on epilepsy (which my useless doctor had suggested to me, such was his reassuring bedside manner), though the incidents sounded similar to petit mal fits. Instead, I was given beta-blockers to take when I could feel myself getting stressed. Beta-blockers are ideal for 'anxiety' patients as they slow down the pulse and lower blood pressure, helping the heart to work, despite the high level of adrenalin which causes the coronary arteries to narrow and restrict blood flow. They defintely helped me. A lot. The 'zone-outs' did happen once or twice again, but not seriously, and the beta-blockers were fairly useful.
I also immediately signed on with the university counselling service, where I had one hour meetings once a week with a psych guy. He was incredibly nice, friendly and had an almost superhuman way of listening to me drone for about 45 minutes before summing up what I had been saying in about three sentences. I found myself able to tell him things that I felt unable to talk about with friends, and sometimes even the way I phrased sentences was different, because I wasn't trying to hide anything, or impress somebody or sound better than I was. Gordon, in turn, was utterly non-judgemental but his advice (although he claimed not to be giving advice, rather he was simply clarifying what I knew I should do already) invariably helped me. I still made mistakes in life, and I still do and would defy anyone who claims not to, but I was able to deal with situations in a more reflective and considered way.
When I moved back to London, I considered continuing with therapy, but decided to try and go it alone, even though every now and again I think about signing up with someone, though I wonder if I'll be lucky enough to find someone as insightful as Gordon. And now I hardly ever become a stress-puppy, being able to deal with most forms of tension or hassle, I don't feel the need to escape into alcohol-fuelled bingeing, and at times – only at times, mind – I can even deal with my dad's wind-ups. Which must mean progress.
Walking with Mark 3: Bill
Very few things make me cry. I find that, in true repressed English fashion, I deal very badly with other people crying and don't really know what to do when I cry myself. As with virtually everyone, I've lost a few people in my adult life: my paternal grandmother, my friends Sam and Margaret, but the one that always hurts the most is my godfather Bill. Bill has probably been the single greatest influence on my life thus far, on who I am and on who I would like to be.
His parents died when he was young and he was adopted. He went to a boarding school and then to Trinity College, Oxford, where he read History. He got a II:i, then served for a while in the RAF, participating in the Berlin Airlift in 1948. After leaving the RAF, he joined Britannia Royal Naval College as a tutor in History. He then became a tutor at Eton College, teaching Classics, History and History of Art. Two years after he retired, and despite the warnings from his doctor that he had to curtail his gourmet lifestyle of fine meals and fine wines, he died.
He had met my father through a programme which Eton ran whereby Etonian sports teams would take on inner city sports teams. One year they took on some East End kids whose captain was my father and, as such, the school's representative. He and Bill got on well, and maintained their friendship. They dined fairly regularly, often to the terror of Dad's girlfriends who were often intimidated by this large and grandly-spoken, but kindly, man. Apparently, the first girlfriend who Bill really liked, and who was not in the least intimidated by him, was the woman who was eventually to become my mother.
In due course, I was born and at my christening, my two godfathers were friends of my father: a chap who I never knew because he died while I was still young, whose first name I share, and Bill, whom I commemorate through my first middle name. Most of my memories from childhood, the things that really stick out from the humdrum of school and holidays, involve Bill. A scene in his flat in Eton where he was having a drinks party, when I was allowed a miniature glass of champagne so that I wouldn't feel left out from the adults when they were toasting the occasion. A scene at home when I would be allowed to stay up late to share the first course of a meal with Bill and my parents before going to bed then being reassured by the promise that they would leave some of the raspberry crème brulée for me. A scene on holiday in Devon where I was feeding bread to the swans and Bill and I were giving them all names and personalities. Receiving a box-set of Winnie-the-Pooh books as a birthday present, a box-set of Narnia books was another year's present.
The day he died was the day when I was due to go with him to the Science Museum. I was around 12 years old and had gone with mother to her workplace to wait for Bill to collect me. My mother received a phone call and then told me that Bill wouldn't be able to meet me that day. I remember being disappointed. We went home after work and when I got home, Dad was already there. They sat me down and explained what had happened, and then my father started crying. I remember crying as well, both from grief about Bill and also that something so bad had happened to my father. At the time, my sister was too young to understand this and so sat quietly, realising too that something incredibly bad had happened. For most of the evening, there were either tears or the residue of tears.
Now, as I type this approximately 14 years later, I can still feel the tears starting in my eyes, prompted by the thought of him. I think of him every single day. I regret that he was not around to see some of the things in my life which might have made him proud, I regret that so many of the paths I've taken would have been immeasurably helped by the advice which he could have provided. I missed him at my 18th birthday and my 21st birthday. He unfortunately never got to taste his godfatherly present to me, some bottles of port which he had laid down to mature for twenty-one years before they should be drunk.
The day I was born, Bill visited my mother in hospital and was one of the first people to see me, after my father. He brought me a gift, what was to be the first of very many gifts. He brought me Edward, a teddy bear which is now a little bit tattered, quite worn but looking rather distinguished. It was my very first birthday present, a little 'welcome to the world' gift. Right now, Edward is sitting, propped up on pillows on my bed in my flat. He has lived in every house I've lived in, and was often brought on holiday with me. On Mother's Day last weekend, I visited my grandmother where my uncle's son, Daniel, had been brought to visit too. He's seventeen months old, as bright as a button, very inquisitive, and he too has a little bear, which is the first of what will be many gifts from his godfather. Me.
Walking with Mark 2: Cameo
Our school drama department was one man: Mr Wilkins. Our English department comprised about ten teachers, pretty much all from Oxbridge and while they all contributed to school drama in a way, Mr Wilkins was the Head of Drama, as well as being the entire Drama Department. Throughout my time at school, I was involved in the various productions, usually doing Props. Not being techie enough to do sound or lighting, not being luvvie enough to act, and not being arty enough to do set design, I did props. This generally had something to do with my ability to get hold of things; Mark the spiv.
"We need a 16th century sword, a dachshund named Nigel and the Turin Shroud," would be the request, and my response would inevitably be: "Right, no problem. I'll have them here Monday." Although spivviness is not necessarily an attractive trait, it certainly served me well and I became (pardon the pun) part of the furniture on set, liked by the actors because I didn't play Dungeons and Dragons or wear Star Trek t-shirts (ie the tech crew) and liked by the techs because I didn't flounce about the place prima donna-style and I didn't just treat them as moron-grade button pushers (ie the cast).
It was good, enjoyable fun. There wasn't the pressure of learning lines and wondering what my motivation was, neither was there the stress of programming endless cues into the lighting rig, only to find that a cast member had tripped on a cable and reset the whole damn thing. I got the objects needed, got them to the right people at the right time in the right place, got them away from the right people afterwards and ensured that all was calmness and light in at least one department of the production. I even helped out on the costumes at times, revealing myself to be a pretty good seamster (a cross between a teamster and a seamstress).
Some of the people involved in these productions went on to study drama. Our sixth form allowed for three main 'A' levels and a subsidiary subject. This subsidiary could be a GCSE, AS level or, in the case of one subject, a full A level, and some of the classes included students from the girls school next door, our sister school. Drama was offered as a GCSE and my friend Richard took up this option, along with some other people who I knew vaguely and would get to know better, Jon, Sarah and Claire.
In my lower-sixth year (ie first year of 'A' levels), Mr Wilkins thought it would be a good idea to do a joint production between the Boys School and the Girls School, as well as simultaneously having the bright idea that we should do a musical. He chose Into The Woods by Stephen Sondheim. As this would be the last time that I would be able to help out on a production, and as I was a part of the joint schools' chamber choir, I auditioned for an acting part for the first and last time in my school career. After umming and ahhing and a second audition, I got a part. A tiny role. Miniscule. I was to be Rapunzel's Prince.
The amount of stage time I took up was minimal and thus rehearsing was minimal, although I still managed to screw up a lot. My companion in virtually every scene was Cinderella's Prince, played by a chap in the year below me who had a fantastic voice but who couldn't act for toffee. I was later told that the reason I had got the part was because I could act (a great surprise to me to be told this) but I couldn't sing for toffee, so at least the two princes would complement each other. When we rehearsed our scenes initially, we were disastrous. We had two duets, and whenever I got my singing on track, he would lose all movement or acting ability. Just as he discovered some natural stage presence, I would sing a bum note. Eventually, we improved to the stage whereby he no longer resembled cardboard, and glass no longer shattered when I sung a high note. All seemed to be going fine. One rehearsal, however, turned out a little jinxed for me.
At one point during the musical, Rapunzel's Prince has been blinded by the witch guarding Rapunzel. While there is the principal action elsewhere, he has to fall onstage from the wings, crawl halfway across the stage then tentatively get up, stumble across further, then slam into a tree and collapse offstage. During a rehearsal, one of the power or lighting cables had not been fully secured, so when I prepared to fall onstage, I really did trip and landed onstage on my chin. I did the requisite crawling, getting up, stumbling and collapsing and then really did collapse offstage. Blood was pouring out of my chin and I had to go to hospital for stitches. Not a good omen.
After a dress rehearsal the next weekend, I had to leave immediately for my Oxford interviews. On stage singing in a silly blue tunic at one moment, sitting alone in a cold room in Trinity College three hours later. I had two days of interview there, came back and immediately succumbed to a cold. That wrote off most of the rest of the week. By Saturday, I was back in school for the penultimate dress rehearsal, and the next weekend was the full, final dress rehearsal. Which was a shambles. 'Bad dress, good performance' is how the saying goes. We commented on how that had better bloody well be true.
And so the first night came along. Never having acted before, I was nervousness personified. This increased when my parents came to see me backstage fifteen minutes before the start. They carried an envelope with an Oxford college crest on it. Should I open it now, or later? Should they open it? Should it remain unopened forever? Could I get any more nervous? Now, no, no and no were the respective answers and so, throwing sense to one side, I opened it to discover that I had been admitted to the hallowed Oxonian groves of academe for three years to study. Quick hugs, dispatching parents back to seats, furtive half-cigarette and then lights down, curtains open and kick into the opening number.
We did four performances of Into The Woods in four nights. Saturday's performance was a sell-out, and the patented Mark 'fall, get up, stumble and collapse' physical comedy routine got a big laugh every night, with a smattering of applause on the Saturday. Clearly, pratfalls are my speciality. At the end of that term, in the section of my school report marked 'Other Activities', Mr Wilkins wrote simply: "An impressive cameo".
Walking with Mark 1: Maddie
I went up to university in October 1995, directly after 'A' levels and a summer working at Sotheby's doing mainly menial work. I distinctly remember the day, because I packed all my bags in my dad's car, we drove to Mill Hill Broadway and while Dad kept the engine running, I ran into Woolworth's and bought (What's The Story) Morning Glory on CD on its first day of release, then ran back out to the car, whereupon we drove to Oxford. It was the first album that I played while unpacking all my stuff in my room in college, room C2. C1 was occupied by a geographer named Ed, C3 by a geographer named James, and C4 by a English student named Ben. We were all brand new freshers and fell in together during the first few days of Nought Week (all Oxford weeks are numbered: First Week through to Eighth Week; with relentless logic, the week before First Week is therefore known as Nought Week).
Ed seemed keen to stick mainly with other geographers (a habit amongst them which led to my christening them as 'the Borg', a name which quickly caught on) whereas James, Ben and I formed a quick friendship and began to form a little gang along with James' girlfriend Natalie (studying teacher training in Reading and thus only around at weekends) and two of the girls on Ben's English course in college, Tanja and Maddie.
Maddie was, shall we say, quite different from me. I don't think she had got a grade lower than an A throughout her school years, she was from a little village/hamlet outside Bath, she was immensely gregarious and a lot of fun. The first time I met her, I hated her. James, Ben and I had wandered to Oddbins on High Street to buy a crate of Lowenbrau Blue bottled lager and then took turns carrying this back to college, where we had booked the snooker room for the entire night. We proceeded to get very drunk (and, in my case, smoke far too many cigarettes) and play snooker of varying quality. Ben had invited along Tanja and Maddie (whom I only knew as the dark-haired one and the blonde one at that point) to play/watch/chat with. When I met her, she struck me as brash, dumb and very, very girly. She also managed to wreck several games of snooker by sitting on the table or just randomly moving the balls around.
However, I got to know her better and the little gang began. And Maddie and I got closer and closer. Until one night where loads of people had come round to my room for a party. Well, not so much a party, more a whole group of people with beers/wines/vodka, a stereo playing indie music far too loud and an awful lot of cans as ashtrays. Students being students, the inebriation eventually led to the beginnings of mating rituals until the room looked more like a set from Boogie Nights than Brideshead Revisited. The boy being the child of the man, I was boring even then and did not cop off with anyone, but instead got drunk and went into a silent huff about how everyone was destroying my room. One person stayed until the small hours to help me clear up: Maddie. We both then fell asleep, fully clothed, on top of my bed. Where we then woke up the next morning and thought that we might be able to make it work.
Our first 'official' date was, romantically enough, the college bar (the place we went every night; indeed the place where we could often be observed keening at the door a few moments before 6.30pm, the official opening time). She invited me back to her room after closing time. Wiser heads than mine would have indicated that this was a good omen and yet my unerring ability to self-destruct nearly ruined the day. We arrived in her room, whereupon I sat on the corner of the bed while she went to the bathroom. So far, so good. Both a little bit drunk, both quite keen. Fine. Except I was substantially more than a little bit drunk and, demonstrating this, threw up into her wastepaper basket. Just as I was cleaning this up, she came out of the bathroom and enquired exactly what the hell was I doing. With the simple lucidity of the drunk and forlorn, I explained that I had just thrown up into her bin, I was just clearing it up, and then I would leave and never, ever darken her door again. She told me to shut up, clean up and then come to bed. I did what I was told.
And so began our year-long relationship.
Undoubtedly, there were a few blips. Certainly, us getting together in the first place had to overcome one major blip: the fact that I already had a long-term girlfriend who studied in Birmingham. A bit of a problem. The fact that when said girlfriend came to Oxford to visit me, Maddie (in a fit of pique or drunkenness or equality) decided to sleep with my tutorial partner. The fact that during the time we went out, I cheated on her twice (once which she knew about). The fact that she never on cheated on me (that I know about). The fact that I have an unerring ability to be a senseless, emotionally crippled, thoughtless shit. However, she put up with these blips. God alone knows why.
In many ways, she was my perfect companion. Where I was quiet, she was outgoing. Where I was ignorant or pig-headed, she would respond with intelligence or equal pig-headedness to jolt me out of my own complacency. Where I was skinny, pale and late-teen-awkward, she was simply beautiful. And above all, we argued. Yes, some of the arguments were petty but mostly we argued about our courses, the news, books we'd read, music we liked, whatever topic there was that one of us held an opinion on. We even looked good together (I say this as someone who hates 99% of photos where I appear). Her parents liked me. My parents liked her. We didn't need to be excessively couply or touchy-feely because we felt secure with each other. And the sex was fantastic.
So how did it all go wrong? Well, we moved in together. Not just the two of us, but with James and Ben. Our college was neither rich enough or big enough to allow second years to live in, so the four of us rented a house about 15 minutes' walk from the town centre. It was a horrible house and we went through trauma just to move in on time. Within a few days of moving in, Maddie said that she didn't want to be in the relationship any more. Crash, bang, single – with the entire year remaining living together. Still, you don't throw away a friendship that easily (at least, neither of us did), so it worked out that we stayed friends throughout the rest of our time there, despite the number of boyfriends/girlfriends that we each went through. Although she was something like my fifth girlfriend, she was probably the first one to actually break my heart. Whether that's because I was finally old enough and independent enough to be spending serious time with someone so close, whether I was finally mature enough to realise that attractive, intelligent girls who actually like me don't grow on trees, or whether it was just that effect that she had on me, doesn't matter in a way.
25 things
i was born in 1977 and lived in mill hill until the tender age of 17, whereupon I went up to oxford for my degree. two years of varying success later, i left (degreeless) and wandered the tide of mediocre jobs while living in, variously, new marston, brixton, finsbury park, camden town, notting hill and greenwich village. i'm six foot tall, thin, i wear glasses, i work in an office, i drink in nyc and i live in hope.
