Tuesday, October 25, 2005

What's the point?

Not much has been going on, except the usual.

Which is... Working for the advertising man, creating ads for shit you you don't want or need, dealing with idiots the whole way home, queing for food, money, whatever. Then finally getting home, try to hopelessly to connect to your flatmates. Then manage to cook some food, watch some bullshit on the box and then collapse into bed and do it all again the next day. In the rain.

Until the weekend, where you have high hopes of getting out of town, seeing art, eating nice food, or basically anything that doesn't involve getting absolutely, totally off your head on what ever you can find. But most of the time you buckle and get absolutely, totally off your head, and while this is happening, it's great. Come Tuesday, you are feeling in a "What's the point in Anything" mood. I found some song lyrics that totally sum me up today, which so happens to be a Tuesday.

Normal transmission will return soon.

Cigarettes & Alcohol by Oasis

Is it my imagination
Or have I finally found something worth living for?
I was looking for some action
But all I found was cigarettes and alcohol

You could wait for a lifetime
To spend your days in the sunshine
You might as well do the white line
Cos when it comes on top . . .

You gotta make it happen!

Is it worth the aggravation
To find yourself a job when there's nothing worth working for?
It's a crazy situation
But all I need are cigarettes and alcohol!

You could wait for a lifetime
To spend your days in the sunshine
You might as well do the white line
Cos when it comes on top . . .

You gotta make it happen!

Wednesday, October 19, 2005


I'm in the process of moving house, and I'm looking at places in Dulwich at the moment. I decided to ride there on my bike to check it out. The place is up a gated road, and the whole place is surrounded by parks. It's very, very quiet and quite a steal at £300 a week. It is a nice bike ride to get there.

I like to cycle in the Autumn. It's a short time, with the leaves all changing colour, but I dig how you can see the seasons change almost in front of your eyes. Also a bit of exercise and fresh air is a welcome change from loitering around dirty Brixton Hill, so the ride was a welcome change.

On the way back from viewing the place, I was flying down a road, and tried to foolishly bunnyhop up onto a curb, and in the process got a back flat tyre. Bastard.

There is nothing worse that being stranded, with a dead bike. I made the most of it, determind not to get grumpy and started strolling back to Brixton, my bike in tow. God knows the walk will do me good.

Anyway I spied a gas station and a air pump. Sweet, I'll see if the inner tube is the problem. I went to pump up the offending tyre, and saw this sign.


I thought, what a joke. Even air isn't free in this town. I muttered to myself and kept walking.

London was grinding me down yet again, and looked like the sky was going to open up to piss all over me. Yay. By the time I got to Herne Hill I was in a bad mood. I turned a corner, and literally a bicycle shop fell into view. This blew me away. I've never noticed it before. They were open as well. I checked the bike in, to get the tyre done, and walked home, with a spring in my step through Brocky Park. I swear the clouds parted too, and the sun shined on me.

Thanks London, you suprised me today. Keep up the good work.

Friday, October 14, 2005

Top tips.

Today I used my sure fire way of getting on the bus. And you know what, I'm going to share this top tip with you. As most of you may know, getting on a bus can be a crash course in urban warfare. Apart from elbowing people in the face, I have a more subliminal way of making sure I get on the bus. Honestly this works maybe 80% of the time.

Step 1: Just hang out, looking for your bus to come along the road.
Step 2: Spy your packed bus hurtling towards you.
Step 3: Quickly move to the curb
Step 4: This is the most important part!
Step 5: Make sure you get eye contact with the driver
Step 6: Flag down the bus
Step 7: Smugly get on the bus.

People look at me when I do this, and usually think, What an idiot, the bus is going to stop here, look at all the people that need to get on the bus. The thing is that, the bus driver sees your hand, and unconsciously will stop the bus where your hand is. Thus making me the first to get on the bus, with the hordes of minions behind me. So they should be as well. Try it, fair readers.

As you can tell from my inane babble above, not much has been going on round these parts lately. Well quite a lot has really, but I'm not too sure if I should even bother commiting it to here. It's just the usual really.

Benders of epic proportions, locking myself out of my house for days, somehow managing to get a busted nose from myself and a pal having a slapping competition, passing out, people drawing on me, a mate trying to turn me into Adam Ant with a bottle of tippex. And that was just one night. What a great bunch of mates I have eh?

All that and I'm insanely tired all the time. It must be the onset of winter. I'm positive I need to hibernate.

Tuesday, October 04, 2005

Pleasures of the Flesh

Now, those lucky people who have graced these pages before might have been aware of my sudden enlightenment in the area of vegetarianism. It’s been a flash in the pan my friends, and that pan is now rapidly filling up with bacon, beef and chicken. Yum.

The first aromas of change came about with my drunken late night flirting with fried chicken. The late night drunken drumsticks and I have been casually seeing each other for a few months now, and this are going well I suppose. We have our little spats, but after a few beers I’m always back, gracing her doorway, a few gold coins in my hand.

Whoa there! I’m going off on some weird chicken love shenanagins. Back to the story at hand. Soon after eating the late night chook, I decided to at least get a little more healthy and buy the chicken myself and cook it. This resulted in simply the best roast chickens, and the best chicken soups... ever.

The rest was down hill. The pork and beef got re-introduced in Poland in glorious fashion. Pierogis, Polish sausage, and other weird delights. Infact I have a large weak spot for Eastern European food at the moment, which has only been compounded by my local shop selling a ton of Polish food. None of the packaging I can read, but I’m slowly making my way through the aisles, much to the delight of the shopkeepers, who I assume think I’m a Polish guy with an incredibly good New Zealand accent.

The latest craving, which I blame squarely on the weather is pies. Back in New Zealand, the humble pie was almost a delicacy. A gas station staple, in some areas of town filled with some gourmet fillings. In some nice pubs, even promoted up to the ladder as a main course. It was all good. The great combonation of fluffy pastry, some steak and gravy, and if you were game, maybe some cheese through it. Still to this day the best steak and cheese pies we’re the little $1 ones you got from Georgie Pie. (Those readers not from New Zealand, will have no idea what I’m on about, but those who are well... you know I’m right.)

Trying to find a decent pie over here is well, like nigh on impossible. The closet I have found (to be honest, I haven’t looked that hard) is the classic pie and mash shop. For a kick off, the pies are tiny, and you eat them upside down. Weirdos. Next is the extras you can get. What is up with jellied eels man! Fuck that, that’s one English tradition I won’t be throwing down my gullet in the future.

The next in line is a little canned treasure that a workmate put me onto. It’s Frey Bentos, pie in a can thingy. (by the way the neither of those subhumans in the Frey Bentos picture is me. Not by a long shot.) To be honest it could use a lot more filling, but, the pastry lid on the filling, when you open the tin, well is nothing short of a stoke of genius, I actually had great pleasure watching that puff pastry rise in the oven, and even more pleasure demolishing it. It’s all good, and a steal at £1.69. I might however start making my own pies, which are to be reckoned with, and have been known to be a handy door stop, a makeshift discus and will make you feel like you are digesting a bowling ball. Funnily enough my pie making days started when I lived in a cold climate for a few years, not dissimilar to London, England. Good old Christchurch, New Zealand.

Tomorrow I will put foward my case for hibernation.