Archive for June, 2005
Last night’s dream:
I was in an airport, just waiting there for the ‘plane to be ready to start boarding and stuff. Tom Cruise came up to me and asked to see my passport. He said he thought I looked like “him”, and pointed to a picture on the wall of a criminal in a blurry surveillance-camera photo. I protested, Tom told me I had to stay there until the FBI had interviewed me. I made repeated attempts to make my flight but to no avail; every time I went to the desk they told me to wait for the FBI.
Fast forward, I’m “back” in the USA, talking to a guy who, it seems, was a former employer. I told him I would do half-price work for him (as some sort of scientist) in exchange for cash in hand.
I was living at a lodging house. My real-life ex-flatmate was the landlord and a real-life family I know were living in the attic. An guy I knew at college was my room mate. He was a DJ, (still is, it seems), and was playing me some records when, for want of a better word, snot came out of my nose. It wouldn’t stop. It came out as a solid tube, kind of like a very long icicle. It kept coming and coming and eventually, I laid it out flat along the skirting board and it went around two sides of the room. My scientist boss came by and got excited when he saw it. He got out a machine – like a geiger counter or something – and took some readings. Then held a microphone to the snot and we heard that it made a humming noise. Then he told me that it had low “ayan” content and high “bayan” content, and look, if he switched on this UV light you could see that it had neon in it.
Next thing, I’m sat on a balcony with my feet resting on a wheelie bin. My feet keep leaving black marks on the bin like a bicycle tyre does on a white-washed wall. My feet were hot. Just before I woke up, I realised my feet were melting.
Some of that makes sense. Last night I read an email from a friend about her boyfriend who’d been held by the immigration people in the UK and subsequently deported (a very sad story that makes me deeply ashamed of my country). “Bayan” is a word I saw a lot in Istanbul over the doors to ladies toilets. Tom Cruise? Well, you can’t move on the internet these days without seeing pics of him and her out of Dawson’s Creek, can you? And, okay, it’s possible I might’ve picked my nose in bed last night, but as for the rest: no idea at all.
Simple Minds after they were good (Once Upon A Time onwards) + James when they were a bit boring (Seven-era) + “make this sound like The Unforgettable Fire and The Joshau Tree without the specifics, just the melancholy washes of Eno-y synths” + awful lyrics + desire to fill a stadium with cigarette lighters + Computer Love ruined on a guitar + a few nice melodies = X
After my crappy Friday; a lovely, fun and relaxing Saturday at the Berlin Festival. This was the first year of this event, and there were only about a thousand-ish people there. But it was great for that reason. Plenty of room to wander around, sit down, drink a beer, and it was easy to find your mates. You could even get down the front with ease if you wanted to. Here’s some photos.
The main stage:
My favourites of the day, The Wedding Present:
A drunk man:
The blinding light next to the Portaloos:
Oh dear, what a day so far.
You know when in films or on TV shows they spin the camera around a character to indicate that he’s overwhelmed or losing it. That’s me today.
I had another dodgy night’s sleep: working til around 4am on the forthcoming FFF does Istanbul feature, so, rather than wake up Hanni by stumbling into the bedroom and fidgeting for half an hour, I decided to sleep on the sofa in my office. Fast forward through dreams of massive waves crashing onto Brighton beach and leaving coloured sand hillocks all over the sea front, and being in a plane that crashed into Helmholzplatz (just around the corner from my flat) – and putting up with sleeping with Billy hogging most of the sofa, and I’m awake and knackered and in a grumpy bastard mood.
Not made better by some hippy’s dog having a go at Billy as we walked to the coffee shop. Not made better by the woman in front of me in said shop yakking on and on and on.
And my memory today! Good Lord, I’m having trouble holding any thought in my head for more than a few minutes. I did have something that I really wanted to write about today, but because I didn’t make a note of it, it’s gone. And it’s one of those days where nothing seems right. Everything’s an inch away from being normal. Seeing four ticket inspectors on one train journey. Annoying phonecalls. Hearing a bunch of British tourists talking so loudly that they could teach American tourists a thing or two about volume. Finding The Coral’s new album in the Pop racks not the Indie section.
And damn motherfucking Mac OSX Tiger being the worst thing I’ve ever experienced on a computer. Honestly, in the month that I’ve had it installed, and after ooh-ing and aah-ing at the Dashboard Widgets, it’s almost as bad as the dying days of my 1998 iMac. It’s so bad that I’m not even gonna bother with making some stupid joke about the stupid Mac feline naming system (oh, alright then, I will: Mac OSX Tiger? Mac OSX Fat, blind, Ginger Tom, more like!). Safari is really slow; things keep “unexpectedly quitting”; I can’t double click a Photoshop document anymore to open it, I have to go via the Open thing in the drop down menu; iPhoto… well, that’s always been ultra slow; my whole working day slows down to a crawl sometimes.
But, of course, it could be worse. At least I didn’t step in dog poo this morning like someone I know.
(PS. I’ve not bothered to proof-read the above rant, any mistakes will simply enhance the feeling of confusion I’m trying to portray.)
I’ve been waiting a long time for this. In February 2002 I went bowling and scored my personal best, 201.
Last night, I finally beat my record and scored 222. Yay!
(You can just about make out the 222 in the top right corner of the photo. I was a bit excited, and the photo was taken with my phone, that’s why it’s blurry.)
There’s too many things pointing to some higher power wanting this to happen for me to ignore the following:
1. My previous record was made when I was wearing a Liverpool FC shirt, my new record came exactly one week after the Champions League victory.
2. I scored six strikes in a row – a double turkey. Where was I exactly one week ago? Turkey!
3. In the first game we played, I was playing as badly as LFC were in the first half against AC Milan. This new personal best came in the second game, and, I kid you not, just before I got the first of those six strikes, I mentioned to Derick that at this exact time last week, Steven Gerrard had just scored LFC’s first goal.
It’s been a while coming, but here’s the seventh episode of Pete and Bob. You’ll remember that Bob stopped dancing a couple of episodes ago. Well today, you’ll see what he’s been up to since he stopped dancing.
I had a bad night’s sleep last night. A sweaty night, waking up with a mouth as dry as sawdust. I dreamt of blogging, too. I was sat here at my desk, typing about very specific things: the post office, Oasis, Dire Straits and the new restaurant that is set to open a couple of doors down from my flat. (Notice I didn’t dream about L******** F******* C***.)
So, I figure I should write something about all of those things today.
1. The post office
I don’t like going there at the best of times. The bad service and the seemingly random pricing policy being my main gripes. But yesterday when I was there, I had to pick up a letter that needed signing for. They’d tried to deliver it while I was in Istanbul, so I traipsed along to pick it up. They asked to see my ID before I could get my letter, and the woman wrote down my passport number before giving me the letter. Am I alone in worrying about this? Why do they need my passport number when I’m just picking up a letter? Am I being paranoid? This all ties in, really, with my hatred of the idea of the British government planning ID cards for all her citizens, treating everyone like criminals rather than human beings who just happen to have been born on an island just off the coast of continental Europe.
Not their music, but their artwork. You’d think the law of averages would mean that one day they’d put out a record which had good artwork. Not happened yet, though, has it? One day, Noel Gallagher’s gonna open Photoshop on his computer, play around with the filters for a few minutes, and realise that some graphic designers have been ripping him off.
3. Dire Straits
I saw something in Mojo magazine that there’s a 20th anniversary edition of Brothers In Arms coming out. My God, this makes me feel old. I was 14 when my Dad bought the tape and we had it on constant rotation (alternating with Queen’s Greatest Hits) in the car. It’s an album that I still listen to occasionally, and an album I still enjoy a lot.
That’s the name of the new restaurant that has been worked on for a while now. The last couple of days, they’ve put up signs and re-painted the ooutside of the building. And, amazingly, for two days it has managed to stay graffiti free. I’m sure that’ll change soon, though, and slide back into line with the rest of the spray-paint scarred street. Still not sure, though, what type of food they’ll be serving…