Wednesday, September 28, 2005


I was having a bit of an off day yesterday, basically getting over yet another monster weekend, and noticing that summer has slunked out of the picture for yet another year, and feeling for the first time in ages a little homesick. Great. Not.

I caught the bus home to Brixton from London Bridge, climbed upstairs, found a perch to aimlessly gaze at the life going by. I was feeling quite mopey. Heading up towards Elephant and Castle there is a lot of University digs, with lots of lone people in lone rooms, maybe toiling with work, maybe not. It looked like a lonely life. It probably isn't, but that's what was going through my head. I thought to myself, I'm glad I'm not in those shoes. Further along the ride I saw some homeless guy begging. I thought to myself, how did he end up like that? Surely he has some family? Again I thought, I'm glad I'm not in those shoes. Next up I saw a lot of people in a checkout line in a cost-cutter. Everyone looked miserable, nearly all were buying booze, going home alone to wipe out their day, well that's what was going through my mind. They were probably not, but hey, I'm wallowing on my busride. Yet again I thought, I'm glad I'm not in those shoes.

By this stage I was feeling pretty glum, and for some fucked up reason quite enjoying it. The bus turned a corner, and so did I. I saw a man walking a puppy. The puppy was bouncing all over the show, constantly playing with his owner, the owner had such a huge grin, and was having a great time with his puppy. Next thing a small child started singing a song she must of learned to her mum on the bus. I caught the eye of what looked like the most proudest mum, and a really happy child. I started to feel better. The bus came up to my stop, I hopped off, crossed the road, and spied a few of my best mates in our local boozer. We had a few drinks and had a good laugh about the antics on the weekend.

I woke up this morning with a killer hangover, but I had been reminded again that if I'm feeling homesick, maybe feeling a bit crap, or that this huge city of London might be grinding me down, that there's a lot more people out there with a life that is 100 times worse than me, and that my mates mean a lot more than I might think sometimes.

It's funny, how sometimes it takes the simplest thing like a bus ride to give you a bit of perspective.

Isn't life great.

Tuesday, September 27, 2005

Random mindess violence

My weekend was going fantastic up until 9.00am on Sunday Morning. I had spent times with my best friends, frollicked on the river Thames on Friday, spent Saturday at new found friends places, went to another funny-ass party on Saturday night, and winded up at a friends studio on Brixton Hill. Pretty much par for the course.

It all started to go wrong, when we left my mate's studio. A few of the boys I was with we're keen to go up the road to a horrible pub called George the Fourth. For a bit of background, this pub attracts mainly white Eastern Europeans, Israeli and your typical white English yobs. Oh, the music is the shittest hard house music you have head ever. (Like any hard house is good?) I didn't want to go, and granted the place has a certain novelty value, but in general, has a seedy underbelly, that I really don't want to be exposed to.

We were walking up towards the pub, I was lagging back, basically not wanting to go in, and some guy caught my eye, swigging from a vodka bottle outside. He started to come towards me. He turned out to be Russian.

Russian: "What are you looking at?"
Me: "Err, Nothing"
Russian: "Stop spitting at me when you speak"
Me: "Err, what?"

At this point, my pals came over and some disjointed conversation started. I didn't catch most of this but it was going along the lines of "Go back to your own country" I can't remember who was saying what, because I had started to walk down the hill, away from it all. I then saw a couple of guys walk over to what must have been thier friends and join in in the conversation.

Next thing I saw was my mate Mikey getting smacked in the jaw, by one of the guys who had just joined the conversation. They we're just looking to start a fight. Mikey didn't retaliate, and in the space of maybe 10 seconds my other mate George was getting belted by the Russian guy and the English guy who had punched Mikey in the first place. The English guy was trying to smash a wine bottle over George's head. It didn't break, but George was bleeding and had copped a bit of a shiner. George bolted, and Scott, my other pal was closet to the gang now, walking down the hill after us. They started laying into him now. He kept on falling over and he got kicked in the ribs, and once in the head.

For some reason they stopped and dissappeared behind a van. We kept on walking down the hill. They had gone. Thank God. We we're all dumbfounded, confused and generally freaked out. George was looking quite bad, so we all scarped back to my house and got him cleaned up. He's going to be ok. Bit of a shiner and a sore arm. Mikey may have lost a tooth, and has a very sore jaw. Scott has bruised ribs I think. I escaped unharmed.

What freaks me out about this is, well speaking for myself, I tend to live in a bubble, with all my close friends. The outside world doesn't really come in that much. You hear about muggings, and random violence all the time, people getting stabbed and raped. The news is filled with it. And to some extent, that's all it is to me, just news. But when it comes right to your doorstep and bursts your bubble, well that's a different story.

I'm not a violent person, and I'm pretty sure none of my friends are, but as we found out on the weekend, there's a few members of society who are. I've been thinking a lot, since then what drives violent people to be the way they are? In the end I have given up counting the possible reasons. There are too many. Where do you begin? Shit job, Shit upbringing, Parents beat them up, Can't make it with the ladies, Drink too much, Dead end life, They actually like the buzz? The list goes on and on.

It pisses me off that I'm even giving these wankers on the weekend some of my time, by actually thinking about what their life must be like?

Why am I bothering? I don't really know. All that I do know, is that I don't want any thing like what happened on Sunday morning come into my life, or any of my friends lifes ever again.

Rainbows and lollypops will resume tomorrow.

Thursday, September 22, 2005

Open letter to Mr. Bush

Originally uploaded by LIFE OF REILLY.

Look at this photo George. It's hurricane Rita, which is on it's way to Texas. Look at the size of that thing. Fucking hell. I hope that your nation, laughably run by you and your moronic buddies, has all it's emergency services sorted out. Maybe you have, considering it's your old stomping ground, and that your government totally fucked up with hurricane Katrina.

I wonder how these current "acts of God" go down with Christian America, who coincidently got you into power? The Book of Revelation, perhaps? End of the world? Maybe you should think (if that's possible) how your country is contributing towards Global warming. Maybe considering signing The Kyoto Protocol perhaps?

Funny how your addiction to oil is going to be thwarted for a while in the Gulf of Mexico, and the reason possibly is linked to your actions of a nation, burning those fossil fuels. Ironic huh?

Again funny, how, because of these "acts of God" is going to make the price of oil sky high, impacting on the worlds economy? I'm sure you'll be ok, eh? And all your mates. You'll probably make a bit of cash out of it right?

Funny also, that your welfare state has bubbled up to the media surface, being the richest country in the world. You can't even provide for your own people Mr. Bush. Sorry that's not totally true. You can't provide for the poor, sick and ethnic people of your nation.

Your's sincerely,

Mr. Reilly

P.S: How's the war in Iraq going? Quite "civil" I'm sure.

P.P.S: Go fuck yourself, c**t.

P.P.P.S: Sorry for all the language, but I hate you with a passion. Do us all a favour George, go have a hunting accident, or walk out in front of a bus, please.

Monday, September 19, 2005

Kate Moss, whatever.

So Kate Moss is a cokehead. Who would of guessed that one eh? Whoop-de-fucking-do. She also sneaks away at a dinner with Nelson Mandela to "powder her nose"? Again, big deal. She's a fashion model for god's sake. She isn't some political figurehead, big corporate bigwig or scientist. She's a girl from Croydon right? With a questionably pretty face? She's got rodent features if you ask me.

Anyone with half a brain could figure out that almost everyone in the fashion industry, or most entertainment industries to be honest, does some kind of drug at some point of their career. It goes with the territory. It probably don't stop at the entertainment industry either. If you are rich, like to party, odds on you might have a cheeky line from time to time. Or a lot, as this case may be.

I picked up a News of the World on Sunday morning. What a great paper that one is eh? Proper journalism eh? Anyway it turns out that Naomi Campbell's old personal assistant who ironically was sorting out some gear for Ms.Moss at the Mandela party, spilled the beans and sold the story to the papers, after the photo of Kate hoovering up some gak appeared in some tabloid last week. For a good wedge of dough I bet. I wonder if anyone else's PA will follow suit and shop their old employees? Imagine it. I'd buy that paper. For talkings sake, imagine the headlines if say for instance, someone close to Tony Blair decided to do the same? Blair on the bugle! Cherie's on Crack! Downing Street Druggies!

Oh well I suppose this will blow over soon enough (Sorry I couldn't resist), unless she decides to get serious and go harder like her boyfriend, King of the crackheads, Pete Doherty. Let's see how long those looks of hers will last then? She'll be another Roseanne Holland. Good God, what a poster campaign that will be!

Thursday, September 15, 2005

Mob Rules.

Since my lovely holiday has somewhat came to an grinding halt, I've been forced to travel on that wondrous beast that is London public transport. I'm starting work at roughly 9.00am in London Bridge and I have a few options open to get there.

The easiest, but longest option is the number 133 bus. The quickest, but painful option is the tube. I lazily got out of bed this morning, so today I was going to be a tube bitch. Getting closer to Brixton I saw a huge mob outside the station. Ohh I wonder what's going on? In Brixton it could be anything. Wackos on a rampage, little old ladies falling down the stairs, terrorists, whatever. This time it was 2 tube dudes not letting people in.

Turns out there was a signal failure down the line. Surprise! I managed to squeeze through and get down the stairs. I looked back and saw 2 guys in fluro jackets holding all these people back like a huge bunch of sheep. This blew me away. Two "officials" wielding so much power over the people. English people strike me as having so much respect for authority. All it would take is a rowdy person at the back (ie: me) to push forward a little to send the front row of people cascading down the stairs. A bit like that game in arcades with all the 10p pieces on sliding terraces. But no. All the docile humans waited for the fluro jacketed gatekeepers to let them down the stairs. How cute.

Due to the masses of people, the tube was rammed. Lucky for me, I was only going to Stockwell to jump onto the Northern Line to take me to work. I hopped off a rammed tube only to get on a moving cannery full of sardines. Ha! It couldn't be more packed.

This is where I noticed the second trait of English people. No one dared to look another in the eye. Sure, you could be wedged in someone's armpit, a briefcase up your arse, one hand on a railing, and another trying to shuffle an ipod with the other. But catch someones eye! Jesus Christ, stop the train. Full scale security alert! I spent the whole time trying to catch peoples eye, and giving them a smile. It didn't happen once. Sad eh?

The funny thing was, when people moved, due to being in some 3d version of twister and touched skin on skin, almost immediately the word "sorry" would come spilling out. Sorry? What the fuck? For what? Being in a crammed environment? Being English? Accidently touching someone? Saying "sorry" so flippantly but not looking another human in the eye and smiling? What a weird bunch of folk. Any way I hopped off at London Bridge, made a hasty exit out to the wet concrete world and scurried off to the relative safety of work.

PS: I'm getting the bus tomorrow.

Thursday, September 08, 2005

Six weeks and back to square one.

Well, it's been quite a while since I've posted, and I can tell you I have had a pretty darn good time of late. Infact 6 weeks of insanity, and wouldn't ya know it I've blown ALL my money. Needless to say I'm working again. (Like right now, waiting for a job to come in at my first freelance job.) So I'll tell you about my holiday. I did manage to do both things I outlined in my previous post. I went overseas and I went and saw my family.

Righto then, the overseas bit. I went with a couple of good mates, Tom and Asad from Reverberations to Krakow in Poland for a four vodka packed days. And packed full of vodka they were.

We arrived and were greeted by Oscar the promoter guy. He was well cool, and took us back, through the soviet style streets back to his gaff. Of course the first thing after the introductions to the housemates, dog and cat was the first of many vodkas. In Poland vodka is drunk neat with usually a little chaser. The chaser usually is apple juice, but this time it was apple with cinnamon, which quickly became known as "Strudel Juice". Boy o boy does that make vodka really easy to drink! We (polish)ed, (sorry couldn't help myself there) off what was in the house and and went to into the main square to check out the gig where the boys were playing.

It turned out to be a place called Prozac. It was kitted out really well and it looked like the gig the next night was going to be fun.

Highlights from Friday include; having a drunken laugh, possibly eating the most well made, tasty kebab ever and not breaking my cheek bone from been tripped up by a new Polish friend while giving Tom a piggy back in the main square, and subsequently falling face first on some ancient cobblestones.

Saturday morning was not so bad considering that our hangovers were not as monstorous as I was expecting. We went out to lunch, ate far too much mexican and moved our base towards a rather nice little apartment (thanks Oscar) that was directly above the club. After so much tucker at lunch, we all had snoozy afternoon kips and went out for a light dinner before the onslaught that lay ahead.

To be honest the night went rather quickly and I have quite a lot of photos, which most of are no way fit for public viewing. In general I thought we all acted rather responsibly and had a good time. Only when I woke the next day was I informed that we had well err... acted rather like a bunch of twats on a stag do. Here's what was relayed to me. Obviously I can't remember this I was passed out. After leaving the club, where Tom and I were supposedly extremely drunk I dropped a full drink on the stairs and had to be helped out of the club. I passed out on a bed, and then the fun began. Tom got into a drunken caveman style fight and started lunging at one of our new friends, Gregor. Asad was offering some groupie that came back to the apartment a line, and then started racking up some hefty chunks of leftover paella. Didn't think she got the rather quirky English humour.

Tom passed out, half on a bed, and Asad decided to exact some revenge. First was 2 full pints of water over him, a towel soaked in stale beer, placed near his face, an ashtray also placed near his face and a now well minging paella also right near his face. Well, what are friends for eh?

Sunday was a slow start as to be expected and it's a bit of a blur, nursing beers in beautiful surroundings. We were taken to a traditional Polish restaurant for dinner. What a experience that was. Some breads and dips came out. Sweet, until I spied what looked like a mug of soft lard with chunks. It was called smalec. It turned out to be double fried pork fat with bits of pork rinds through it. You spread this on your bread and douse it with salt, and tuck in. Well when in Rome they say. I didn't manage to rid my palate of that taste for well over 5 hours. The next course was a selection of soups, which all of them turned out to be very, very, tasty, my favourite being Barszcz czerwony. Which is a hot beetroot soup. The last course was a big wooden plate full of dumplings called pierogi. And to be quite frank, they tasted delicious. I was well chuffed, and to end the meal it was decided to go back to the club for a couple of quiet drinks. To cleanse the mouth of pork fat... of course. (By the way my veggie lifestyle seems to be on hold whenever i leave the country.)

The first shot of vodka nearly killed me. It was a layered concoction of vodka, cherry syrup and tabasco. My palate was well and truely cleansed, if not stripped. The second shot was a small shot of what looked like vodka. I thought I was going to be sick. It was like someone had slipped me a shot of aftershave. Turned out to be 80% proof vodka. The rest of the night was again a blur, but from what I can remember we invited half the bar back to the apartment, started wearing boxer shorts on our heads and started acting like general fools. I think I had a broom out at one stage and was trying to find 101 use for it. None of which was sweeping of course. By this time, I vaguely recall it was round about 4am and we had managed to dial-a-bottle-of-vodka. (Don't you just love Poland!)

Tom had to fly out at 7am that morning and was trying to figure out how to get a cab for 4.30am to get to the airport for his check in at 5am. I was trying to convince him to try and get a later flight. I was determind for him to stay. I got hold of his ticket and held it, looking for some number on the ticket I couls maybe ring and try and change the flight. Suddenly in a stroke of genius/insanity I whipped out a lighter and burned his ticket. Problem solved.

He now had to get a later flight. Everyone was in stiches, including myself, and the party got back into full swing, until everyone passed out. We eventually went back to Oscars place, spent a hour trying to book a flight for Tom and eventually had to go to the airport. Turns out Asad and myself were on the same flight. I managed to get Tom on an Easyjet flight, an hour after ours, all for a price of £200. It's probably one of the most stupid things I've ever done, basically burning 200 quid, which kind of partly explains why I'm chained to a keyboard now, instead of still living the Life of Reilly.

Next episode includes: Glasgow, and Secret Garden frolics, and a mind bending going away bash for ol' Smacked Face (sniff).