londonmark searching for intelligent life in camden town (the search now continues in new york city)
Friday, May 02, 2003
Your wish… Well, thank you to one and all for your refreshment orders. Here we go:
'bel gets her iced coffee and, of course, a little mojito to follow, as well as one for Mike. I have to confess I sneaked a little sip before I poured them, and it is quite tasty stuff.
Some tea for Aquarion, and a slice of delicious cream cake. A wonderful combination, and a very good choice by him.
One White Russian coming up directly for Señor Pete (though he might prefer this one), as well as a paper napkin and some instructions on café etiquette. Honestly, man, were you brought up or dragged up? Also, a bakewell tart, and I will refrain from the obvious joke.
D is presented with an almond slice on a plate, a small dessert fork and, of course, a linen napkin. Got to show a bit of a class for a fellow Camdenite, you see.
Well, I hope you all enjoy your drinks and snacks, and may I take this opportunity to wish you all a very enjoyable May Bank Holiday, and thank you for stopping by Café Londonmark. Mind how you go, and see you over at Café 'Bel soon.
Oops, nearly forgot to mention this (click for more details):
Afternoon refreshment As Café 'Bel is having a few problems at the moment, I will stand in as locum. I am now taking orders for afternoon tea. Tea, coffee, hot chocolate (with sprinkles, oh yes) or perhaps something a bit stronger for you risqués out there; all are welcome at Camden's premier drinkery, Café Londonmark, which is fully licensed to serve alcoholic beverages, bar snacks and an excellent 30 yard curved dipping free-kick. Simply scribble in the comments what you'd like and I will serve them to your table as soon as I can. Tipping is optional.
Next time you feel like showing off… don't So, X2, X-Men 2, X-Men 2: X-Men United, whatever the hell you want to call it, was showing at the Camden, Odeon Town last night (shamelessly ripping off gag from Sashinka). Eight of us went, I bought all the tickets and, yes, you've guessed it, only four people have paid thus far (including me). I hate organising these things because I always feel bad asking for the money, but then some people just forget to hand it over. Argle.
[Begin summary] There is an attack on the President of the United States by a mutant (homo superior, a person identical to a human in virtually every way, apart from a unique gift such as telekinesis or teleportation) in the Oval Office. This leads Colonel Stryker, a mutant expert in the US military, to propose an attack on Professor Charles Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters (aka 'Mutant High') to safeguard the nation from this threat.
Professor X (gift: extraordinary telepathy) locates the mutant responsible for the attempt on the President's life, Nightcrawler (gift: teleportation), and sends two of his X-Men team, Storm (gift: weather manipulation) and Dr Jean Grey (gift: extraordinary telepathy and telekinesis) to recover him. And then the attack on the school begins, forcing the X-Men to split up and try to prevent Stryker from carrying out his dastardly plan. [End summary]
If you're not into X-Men, and one or two of those attending last night were not, then it may seem a little bit confusing. It is. In a good way. The first film was a gentle introduction into the characters of the main X-Men as well as gently shooing some of the 'X-kids' (Pyro, Iceman) into the scene. This film is a lot harder and takes up pretty much where the first left off, focusing on Wolverine's desire to find out about his past, the development of his relationship with Dr Jean Grey, the need for Professor X to unite with Magneto to prevent Stryker's plan, the adolescent urges of Rogue, Iceman and Pyro.
Bryan Singer handles the multiple plot-lines well, especially bearing in mind that with Professor X, Col. Stryker, Magneto, Wolverine, Dr Jean Grey, Cyclops, Storm, Iceman, Rogue, Mystique, Nightcrawler, Pyro and Lady Deathstrike, there are quite a few characters to accommodate.
Inevitably, some of these characters have to sacrifice some screen time to progress the multi-plotline and, unfortunately, it's Cyclops. He is really only needed to highlight the tensions between Dr Jean Grey and Wolverine and is given precious little to do, which is a shame. Also, a bit more Lady Deathstrike wouldn't have gone amiss, as she is really only active in her sequence with Wolverine.
The action sequences have been beefed up compared to the first movie. Wolverine is seen in full berserker mode in the mansion, which is excellent, and he gets to fight Lady Deathstrike in a sequence which one of our group last night could only describe as 'harsh'.
The best set piece, however, is the opening sequence where Nightcrawler infiltrates the White House. It is, quite simply, breathtaking and immediately sets out the film's intention to be bigger, better and faster than the first.
It's a shame in a way that this intention is not completely fulfilled throughout the film. Some moments lag and it seems as though the humour of the first has also been sacrificed. Certainly, there are funny moments but many seem an afterthought. There is, however, a tenderness about this film. Moments between Iceman and Rogue, Wolverine and Dr Jean Grey, Storm and Nightcrawler, even Mystique and Magneto, show a more reflective side than simply bam, bam, action.
And, oh, the joy of cameos: you get Siryn wailing when the attack on the mansion is in full flow, Shadowcat running through walls to escape Stryker's forces, Colossus being just one big guy, and you see glimpses of Beast and Jubilee – all of which contribute to the enjoyment of the film and the belief that Singer really is a huge fan. There are a few more little touches, such as diagram of Archangel's wing in the Weapon X facility, which really prove this to be a labour of love on Singer's part.
Ian McKellen and Alan Cumming, in my opinion, pretty much steal the show. In every scene they are in, they are the most compelling to watch and listen to. Cumming, in particular, combines emotional uncertainty and vulnerability with a twistedly dark humour in the role. It's hard to imagine anyone else playing the part. Brian Cox is convincingly malevolent and fanatical, particularly in his scenes with Patrick Stewart who radiates calm authority and gravitas as per usual.
Another revelation in the sequel is Rebecca Romijn-Stamos who gets much more to do than in the first film, and is genuinely compelling. Her interplay with McKellen is deliciously wicked and smacks of an old married couple. Definitely an improvement. Hugh Jackman does what he's told, which is to prowl around, growl and show them claws. This he does, and competently, but its not exactly the toughest acting gig he'll ever get.
The kids get a good outing and Shawn Ashmore and Anna Paquin capture the tensions and yearnings of adolescence very well, as does Aaron Stanford with his disaffected, rebellious teen routine.
James Marsden, as stated, doesn't have too much to do, Halle Berry turns up again, and Kelly Hu just stands around a bit until she's called upon to display those martial arts skills. Famke Janssen finds that's she not just the window dressing she was in first film, and portrays the far more intriguing Dr Grey perfectly.
All in all, great fun if you're into the comics, pretty good fun if you're not, and definitely left open for X3, so don't be too surprised.
X2.1 As I write this, my esteemed flatmate Mike should be buying tickets to see X2. So, in the spirit of collaboration, I call upon all persons here present to tell me which X-Man you are and why. If several of you pick the same one, we go to a tie-breaker. I will begin.
I am… Cyclops. I can project a beam of concussive force from my eyes (aka I can stare at you. A lot.). However, due to a brain injury, I am unable to shut off my optic blasts at will and must therefore wear a visor or glasses with ruby quartz lenses that block the beams (aka I wear glasses. This may reduce the intensity of my staring at you in a semi-nasty way. It may not.). I am married to Dr Jean Grey (aka I find Famke Janssen quite attractive, especially in GoldenEye.).
So there you have it, I am quite clearly Cyclops. Who are you?
Dammit Well, I can't get bloody audblog to work, so I can't do my performance art piece. It wasn't going to be terrific, so you're not missing out on much. May I recommend little.red.boat, troubled-diva, acerbia, wherever you are or not so soft instead, because they are obviously far more technologically capable than I. Dammit.
Instead, I shall be casting balletic moves throughout my day in the office with the inevitable inquiring glances from co-workers which this will bring. And pas de deux. And plié. Performance art? Maybe. Making colleagues question my sanity? Most assuredly.
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?
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.
