23 February 2004
Life note: Cecil Beaton
Art, puns and talons
In my annual concession to the arts I met Dan on Saturday afternoon to visit the National Portrait Gallery's Cecil Beaton exhibition. I gather Cecil Beaton was a photographer sometime in the 20th century, however I don't know for sure as the queue was far too long and it was eight quid to get in, whilst the Gerald Scarfe exhibition had no queue and was free, so we went to that instead.
If I had been Gerald Scarfe, and had been commissioned by the NPG to produce a series of portrait of Britain's greatest heroes and villains, I would be very disappointed to find them housed in a tiny box room in the NPG's basement. Mind, if I was the NPG and I'd commissioned Scarfe to produce such portraits, I'd be disappointed by the quality of his work. Scarfe's roving satricial eye was base at best: Margaret Thatcher naked with drooping breasts; John Logie Baird watching TV, covered in shit; Henry VIII very, very fat. Mostly just schoolboy doodles. It wasn't all bad: a weak pun about David Beckham flying too close to "The Sun" verged on the clever, and Dan and I enjoyed Edwina Curry - a long, bony talon caressing John Major's penis.
Sushi
Five minutes later, we were out of the exhibition and stuffing ourselves on all-you-can-eat sushi. Usually, infinite sushi means a few bits of dirty old fish passing the time on a conveyer belt before they get consigned in the bin at the end of the day. However, at Gili Gulu you pay £13 and get to choose from nothing but the finest and freshest sushi of many fun species, as they scroll by on their ridiculus fish travelators. We worked our way through the boundary of 'as much as you want', ploughed through the territory of 'as much as you can eat' and veered into the realm of 'as much as you can keep down', before conceeding we couldn't eat it all.
Hitler, movies and curry
Having thus rendered our bodyweight proportionately more fish than man, we wandered off to buy a Hitler moustache and find a laundry basket, and wound up in the Rocket where we celebrated Darien's birthday with a bout of rugby and a brand new movie game. The game involves doodling the title of a film until someone guesses what it is. I started with "The Pope Must Die", which Seamus got within four pen strokes. Gradually, we developed increasing cunning until - as always - our attempts were either very very clever (leaving the page completely blank for "Clueless"), or very very rude (a picture of three men with their pensies lying severed on the floor, for 'X-Men').
Then, off to the EuroTandoori, an annual tradition for Darien's birthday. As the food was over-salted, limp and dry, I can only thank Zeus the tradition comes round but once a year.
Art, puns and talons
In my annual concession to the arts I met Dan on Saturday afternoon to visit the National Portrait Gallery's Cecil Beaton exhibition. I gather Cecil Beaton was a photographer sometime in the 20th century, however I don't know for sure as the queue was far too long and it was eight quid to get in, whilst the Gerald Scarfe exhibition had no queue and was free, so we went to that instead.
If I had been Gerald Scarfe, and had been commissioned by the NPG to produce a series of portrait of Britain's greatest heroes and villains, I would be very disappointed to find them housed in a tiny box room in the NPG's basement. Mind, if I was the NPG and I'd commissioned Scarfe to produce such portraits, I'd be disappointed by the quality of his work. Scarfe's roving satricial eye was base at best: Margaret Thatcher naked with drooping breasts; John Logie Baird watching TV, covered in shit; Henry VIII very, very fat. Mostly just schoolboy doodles. It wasn't all bad: a weak pun about David Beckham flying too close to "The Sun" verged on the clever, and Dan and I enjoyed Edwina Curry - a long, bony talon caressing John Major's penis.
Sushi
Five minutes later, we were out of the exhibition and stuffing ourselves on all-you-can-eat sushi. Usually, infinite sushi means a few bits of dirty old fish passing the time on a conveyer belt before they get consigned in the bin at the end of the day. However, at Gili Gulu you pay £13 and get to choose from nothing but the finest and freshest sushi of many fun species, as they scroll by on their ridiculus fish travelators. We worked our way through the boundary of 'as much as you want', ploughed through the territory of 'as much as you can eat' and veered into the realm of 'as much as you can keep down', before conceeding we couldn't eat it all.
Hitler, movies and curry
Having thus rendered our bodyweight proportionately more fish than man, we wandered off to buy a Hitler moustache and find a laundry basket, and wound up in the Rocket where we celebrated Darien's birthday with a bout of rugby and a brand new movie game. The game involves doodling the title of a film until someone guesses what it is. I started with "The Pope Must Die", which Seamus got within four pen strokes. Gradually, we developed increasing cunning until - as always - our attempts were either very very clever (leaving the page completely blank for "Clueless"), or very very rude (a picture of three men with their pensies lying severed on the floor, for 'X-Men').
Then, off to the EuroTandoori, an annual tradition for Darien's birthday. As the food was over-salted, limp and dry, I can only thank Zeus the tradition comes round but once a year.
18 February 2004
Gig review: Ju Ju Babies, et al - 14 February 2004
Abi has recently fallen in with tit-rock electro-trash novelty band the Ju Ju Babies, and so we resolved to go check them out at the Metro Club last Saturday. Abi introduced us to the improbably named Sylvia Lick-Wish and Reverend Jeremiah Hobb, both of whom seemed utterly ordinary to look at, and we settled down for drinks whilst dismal warm-up act Trademark droned its way through impenetrable lyrics.
Clearly Sylvia and Jeremiah know something about the proclivities of the twenty first century audience, as they slipped into special costumes (skimpy ruby-encrusted bikini and black cassock with leather mask, respectively) before the performance. As it turned out, neither actually played any instruments or sang, and were more scenery to the splendid music generated by the singer, drummer and a huge moustachioed guy with a synthesizer and feather boa.
The music itself was sort of watered-down 80s-punk, with strong overtones of trash-goth culture. Do you like what I’m doing with the genre names here? You just bolt together a series of nouns that skate around the subject, and bingo is your genre.
Abi has recently fallen in with tit-rock electro-trash novelty band the Ju Ju Babies, and so we resolved to go check them out at the Metro Club last Saturday. Abi introduced us to the improbably named Sylvia Lick-Wish and Reverend Jeremiah Hobb, both of whom seemed utterly ordinary to look at, and we settled down for drinks whilst dismal warm-up act Trademark droned its way through impenetrable lyrics.
Clearly Sylvia and Jeremiah know something about the proclivities of the twenty first century audience, as they slipped into special costumes (skimpy ruby-encrusted bikini and black cassock with leather mask, respectively) before the performance. As it turned out, neither actually played any instruments or sang, and were more scenery to the splendid music generated by the singer, drummer and a huge moustachioed guy with a synthesizer and feather boa.
The music itself was sort of watered-down 80s-punk, with strong overtones of trash-goth culture. Do you like what I’m doing with the genre names here? You just bolt together a series of nouns that skate around the subject, and bingo is your genre.
Update: Yeah, so
Yeah, so this "regular diary writing" thing really isn't working out too well. So here’s what I've been up to for the past month, spat onto the internet in one giant gob.
Yeah, so this "regular diary writing" thing really isn't working out too well. So here’s what I've been up to for the past month, spat onto the internet in one giant gob.
Life note: a battery of birthdays
Last Sunday's plan to celebrate Luke's birthday with a swift drink and a spot of dinner evaporated on the discovery Luke couldn't make it, and the pub we'd chanced to meet in was doing karaoke. Thus, six through eight o'clock was spent drinking and waiting for Luke, whilst eight o'clock through eleven thirty was spent drinking our way through endless bottles of wine, singing songs (badly), ceilidh dancing with strangers, eating no food at all, and falling into a deeply flawed argument with the barman, which resulted in a blow to my head. When I got to bed, I was not certain whether I was sinking into deep sleep or death.
Two days later, on Tuesday, I went to the pub to celebrate Darien’s birthday and found that just a mouthful of beer was enough to send shooting pains through my system. I took things very easy, perhaps two drinks the whole evening, and so was exposed to the rare pleasure of observing my friends at their drunkest. Nothing could be a better advert for the temperance movement.
Last Sunday's plan to celebrate Luke's birthday with a swift drink and a spot of dinner evaporated on the discovery Luke couldn't make it, and the pub we'd chanced to meet in was doing karaoke. Thus, six through eight o'clock was spent drinking and waiting for Luke, whilst eight o'clock through eleven thirty was spent drinking our way through endless bottles of wine, singing songs (badly), ceilidh dancing with strangers, eating no food at all, and falling into a deeply flawed argument with the barman, which resulted in a blow to my head. When I got to bed, I was not certain whether I was sinking into deep sleep or death.
Two days later, on Tuesday, I went to the pub to celebrate Darien’s birthday and found that just a mouthful of beer was enough to send shooting pains through my system. I took things very easy, perhaps two drinks the whole evening, and so was exposed to the rare pleasure of observing my friends at their drunkest. Nothing could be a better advert for the temperance movement.
DIY note: Tiling - 14 February 2004
Arriving home late in the morning on Saturday, I resolved to put up the last four tiles in my kitchen, after which it would all be complete. I gathered together the tools and adhesive, wiped down the wall, and within just two hours had ripped out my kitchen floor and deposited it outside on the front steps.
When it comes to DIY, I find it hard to focus.
Arriving home late in the morning on Saturday, I resolved to put up the last four tiles in my kitchen, after which it would all be complete. I gathered together the tools and adhesive, wiped down the wall, and within just two hours had ripped out my kitchen floor and deposited it outside on the front steps.
When it comes to DIY, I find it hard to focus.
Life note: Baby dinner - 13 February 2004
I went to a dinner party at Viara and Andy's house on Friday. In the old days, the four of us would have drunk far too much wine, sung Elvis songs until 4am, and then collapsed into our beds, spending the following morning recovering from our hangovers with coffee and croissants in the garden.
However, Viara was this time moments from giving birth (the dinner strangely scheduled on her due date), and so we pretty much kept off the sauce, despite her insistence that a need for teetotalism was “bullshit”. Instead of singing Elvis songs and dancing we talked about hormonal imbalances, food cravings (also “bullshit”, it turns out) and the details of the birth process – and I spent a lot of time trying not to think about ladies bits splitting.
I went to a dinner party at Viara and Andy's house on Friday. In the old days, the four of us would have drunk far too much wine, sung Elvis songs until 4am, and then collapsed into our beds, spending the following morning recovering from our hangovers with coffee and croissants in the garden.
However, Viara was this time moments from giving birth (the dinner strangely scheduled on her due date), and so we pretty much kept off the sauce, despite her insistence that a need for teetotalism was “bullshit”. Instead of singing Elvis songs and dancing we talked about hormonal imbalances, food cravings (also “bullshit”, it turns out) and the details of the birth process – and I spent a lot of time trying not to think about ladies bits splitting.
Life note: Niece’s birthday - 9 February 2004
I called up my three year old niece to wish her a happy birthday - she said “Thank you uncle Rick for book.” When I tried to respond, I found she’d hung up.
I called up my three year old niece to wish her a happy birthday - she said “Thank you uncle Rick for book.” When I tried to respond, I found she’d hung up.
Life note: Green Man - 5 February 2004
I was abducted by aliens on the way to the Green Man, where I was supposed to meet Darien, Emily and Ralex for drinks. These aliens conducted a series of invasive biological experiments on my body, wiped my memory, and dumped me in my bed when they had finished.
At least I assume this is what happened, from what little I can remember of the evening.
I was abducted by aliens on the way to the Green Man, where I was supposed to meet Darien, Emily and Ralex for drinks. These aliens conducted a series of invasive biological experiments on my body, wiped my memory, and dumped me in my bed when they had finished.
At least I assume this is what happened, from what little I can remember of the evening.
Movie review: Lost in Translation - 1 February 2004
Everyone I have spoken to has nothing but good things to say about this movie, however the three of us who saw it together absolutely hated it. Perhaps scientists were piping in ultrasonic sounds to measure the effect this has on human perception, or else perhaps the two or three bottles of wine we’d had had effected our judgment. Anyway, what others have told me was clever satire, I took for sneering, racist jokes; what others told me was the a subtle story told through action rather than narrative, I took for a barren waste of my life; and what others have told me was about the charming interactions of two lost and lonely people, I couldn’t identify with at all, finding the two main characters hollow and empty.
In other news, a lazy Sunday lunch was had at the Elk in the Woods in Camden. If there were sofas and Sunday papers too it would have been perfect (I dream here of the now woefully inconvenient St Johns Tavern in Archway).
Everyone I have spoken to has nothing but good things to say about this movie, however the three of us who saw it together absolutely hated it. Perhaps scientists were piping in ultrasonic sounds to measure the effect this has on human perception, or else perhaps the two or three bottles of wine we’d had had effected our judgment. Anyway, what others have told me was clever satire, I took for sneering, racist jokes; what others told me was the a subtle story told through action rather than narrative, I took for a barren waste of my life; and what others have told me was about the charming interactions of two lost and lonely people, I couldn’t identify with at all, finding the two main characters hollow and empty.
In other news, a lazy Sunday lunch was had at the Elk in the Woods in Camden. If there were sofas and Sunday papers too it would have been perfect (I dream here of the now woefully inconvenient St Johns Tavern in Archway).
Pantomime Review: Aladdin - 30 January 2004
Having looked forward to attending the PWC pantomime for around four months, it was a disappointment to find myself horribly ill and sent home from work. Still, it takes more than that to keep me from my destiny, and I hauled myself from my sick bed and travelled into Central London, horrifying the commuters with my hacking cough and seemingly endless supply of phlegm and mucus products. I arrived late and the usher seated me next to Celene, who was thrown into paradox: her infinite capacity to gossip conflicted directly with her revulsion at the state of my illness.
I was astonished by the production values of the show: huge, detailed sets; vast, sprawling costumes; an enormous orchestra. However, it was still a bloody pantomime, and by the time the accountants were sprinting up and down the theatre dressed in Arabian costumes, urging us to sing a song that went “Oh Pizza Hut, Pizza Hut! Mcdonald’s and Kentucky fried chicken!” along with YMCA-style moves, Celene had to excuse herself from the room, and I allowed a coughing fit to break out and fill the time. The camel was splendid, however.
Afterwards, the thought of staying conscious for another hour horrified me, so I ditched the post-show cast pub fun, and headed home in the rain for my bed.
Having looked forward to attending the PWC pantomime for around four months, it was a disappointment to find myself horribly ill and sent home from work. Still, it takes more than that to keep me from my destiny, and I hauled myself from my sick bed and travelled into Central London, horrifying the commuters with my hacking cough and seemingly endless supply of phlegm and mucus products. I arrived late and the usher seated me next to Celene, who was thrown into paradox: her infinite capacity to gossip conflicted directly with her revulsion at the state of my illness.
I was astonished by the production values of the show: huge, detailed sets; vast, sprawling costumes; an enormous orchestra. However, it was still a bloody pantomime, and by the time the accountants were sprinting up and down the theatre dressed in Arabian costumes, urging us to sing a song that went “Oh Pizza Hut, Pizza Hut! Mcdonald’s and Kentucky fried chicken!” along with YMCA-style moves, Celene had to excuse herself from the room, and I allowed a coughing fit to break out and fill the time. The camel was splendid, however.
Afterwards, the thought of staying conscious for another hour horrified me, so I ditched the post-show cast pub fun, and headed home in the rain for my bed.
Life note: Novels - 28 January 2004-02-18
Met for drinks and dinner with old university friend M, who is presented here as initial thanks to the effectiveness of Google. M is writing a new kids book which sounds absolutely awesome, so as we worked our way through bottles of wine, sashimi and miso soup he explained in fabulous detail the characters, plot and kick-ass ending.
I remember Zadie Smith, or some bitch like that, saying that she hates it when people say they “want” to be a writer, since the only step you need take to achieve that goal is actually write something. Having been motivated by M, and inspired by the wonderful short stories in this quarter’s McSweenys, I regret that I’m only going to disappoint myself yet again by writing absolutely nothing.
Met for drinks and dinner with old university friend M, who is presented here as initial thanks to the effectiveness of Google. M is writing a new kids book which sounds absolutely awesome, so as we worked our way through bottles of wine, sashimi and miso soup he explained in fabulous detail the characters, plot and kick-ass ending.
I remember Zadie Smith, or some bitch like that, saying that she hates it when people say they “want” to be a writer, since the only step you need take to achieve that goal is actually write something. Having been motivated by M, and inspired by the wonderful short stories in this quarter’s McSweenys, I regret that I’m only going to disappoint myself yet again by writing absolutely nothing.
Movie Review: Big Fish - 27 January 2004
Big Fish falls between two rather widely placed stools: as a series of quirky, surreal stories about witches and giants, it wasn’t sufficiently original or engaging to inspire me; and as a drama about the failed relationship between a man and his son, it wasn’t sufficiently human to make me care. Like many Burton movies, it's a triumph of visual imagery over weak narrative. Perhaps we should get Terry Gilliam to have the ideas, and Burton to make the movies.
We discussed the move afterwards over dinner at the Gay Hussar. To use the triumph-of-x-over-y meme again, it was a triumph of atmosphere over pretty substandard food. The liver was as liver is, the cherry soup was utterly vile, and Seamus ordered something exciting, and it arrived looking pretty dull. Yuk. Good place to go just for drinks (which, now I think of it, half the party did).
Big Fish falls between two rather widely placed stools: as a series of quirky, surreal stories about witches and giants, it wasn’t sufficiently original or engaging to inspire me; and as a drama about the failed relationship between a man and his son, it wasn’t sufficiently human to make me care. Like many Burton movies, it's a triumph of visual imagery over weak narrative. Perhaps we should get Terry Gilliam to have the ideas, and Burton to make the movies.
We discussed the move afterwards over dinner at the Gay Hussar. To use the triumph-of-x-over-y meme again, it was a triumph of atmosphere over pretty substandard food. The liver was as liver is, the cherry soup was utterly vile, and Seamus ordered something exciting, and it arrived looking pretty dull. Yuk. Good place to go just for drinks (which, now I think of it, half the party did).
Life note: Saving Private Spimcoot - 23-26 February
I’m afraid I may have written this adventure up in rather more detail than was necessary. However, it’s something I’m keen for my 81 year old self to remember:
Day 1… The Journey South
There's a bit in the movie Road Trip where Seann William Scott squarks "Guys! I thought we were going on a road trip?! Instead we're just doing loads of driving!" And it's true, road trips really are just loads and loads of driving. However, in our road trip to France in late January we also met with a strangulation, a defenestration, a screaming mad woman, and stupefying quantities of cat shit.
Ferg and I had been commissioned to drive the largest van in the world down to Angouleme in France to save friend Spim, who was trapped there penniless with his furniture, his books and his insane ex-girlfriend.
The journey there was far from boring - having not driven in years, it was some amusing novelty to find myself dropped in central London’s Friday rush hour traffic in an enormous transit van. Still a greater novelty was using the chunnel to get to France - I couldn't stop laughing at the absurdity of a juggernaut climbing dinosaur-like onto the train, and when it was my own turn I couldn’t resist going into fourth gear and squealing “I’m in fourth gear … driving through a train!.” Fortunately, Ferg has a lot of patience.
Driving in France was dull dull dull - just seven hours of sitting looking at long empty roads, stopping every so often for cups of coffee and a sly look at French porn. By four or five am we were so bitterly tired we had to stop and nap, so we rolled into a friendly-looking truck stop and found a peaceful place at the back. Unfortunately, this so-called quiet spot was on the main slip-road back onto the autoroute, so my sleep was interrupted every five minutes by a juggernaut thundering by and the van rocking wildly on its axis. This was fine, as my "sleep" was just painful unconsciousness triggered by the freezing cold. At about 7am I gave up the attempt and went to the Jardin de Boef, a charming local bistro where I tucked into coffee and read a book.
Day 2… Enter Cartoonland
At 8am, I shook Fergal awake and we continued to Angouleme. Having had no sleep in thirty hours, and high on caffeine overdose, I had only one thought in my head: meet Spim, tell him to come with us if he wants to live, and then drive somewhere quiet to sleep. Unfortunately, Spim was busy and he’d arranged for his ex, Terri, to meet us instead. Rather than take us to meet Spim she dragged us round her other ex boyfriend’s flat and ordered us to transport a freezer, which was streaked with cat shit, to her own apartment, and then to rearrange the appliances in her own kitchen. I developed a fairly intuitive sense that this was a creature for whom no favour is too great unless it is asked of her, and for whom giving thanks is an unnecessary weakness.
After a couple of hours in her tiny flat, which was formally condemned by the authorities a couple of days later, Terri agreed to take us up into the town to meet Spim, who was manning a desk at the international cartooning festival. Things seemed to go quite well, and Terri was in a jovial mood. She went off to beg on the streets whilst we admired Spim’s artwork, wandered around the festival, and Ferg had a go at drawing a few pictures himself, which drew big crowds.
After a while we took Spim for a slap up lunch with beer. Something evidently happened to Terri in between leaving her and meeting up an hour or so later at a bar as she came storming at Spim screaming abuse about his insensitivity (an allegation you can’t justifiably level against Spim). I was glad to see Terri go as I found her to be rather tedious company - she only had two things to talk about: how great she is, and how shit the rest of the world is.
So there was just us the three of us and Mickey. Mickey is also Terri’s ex, and Terri had forewarned us that he is a self-seeking, insensitive layabout. Since she had told us the exact same thing about Spim, we figured this to be a good thing, and sure enough Mickey turned out to be a charming, sweet and thoughtful man.
Mickey took us to his local bar. After a couple of drinks, Mickey made asked the barman where we might get food in the area. The barman shook his head and said he’d see what he could rustle up for us in the back room. Anticipating a cheese sandwich and a packet of crisps, we were delighted for him to return with hunks of fresh French bread, bowls of pickles, two huge platters of succulent meats and salads, and a bottle of wine. Such rustling-up made the world feel like a magical place.
Since Terri had chucked Spim out of her condemned flat that stank of cat piss, we bundled him into our van and drove half an hour north to a farmhouse I’d found. There, a friendly English couple greeted us with warm smiles, bottles of beer and clean beds. Feeling like I hadn’t slept or washed in a decade, I hosed myself down, crawled into bed, and drank beer into the wee hours.
Day 3… Crisis point
Awaking to breakfast in the farmhouse, washed down with endless coffee, I felt somewhat how Luke Skywalker must have felt prior to leading the attack on the Death Star. Did we really have to go there? Couldn’t be just enjoy breakfast, perhaps find a bar?
However, just as with Luke Skywalker, this was not an option. We had to face the enemy. So we drove back to Terri’s flat in Angouleme to pack the van up with Spim’s things. It seemed no matter how hard we tried, Terri invented excuses to get in our way. First she insisted that all of the doors had to be kept shut to keep out the draught, which meant we had to open and close four separate doors with each journey to the van, juggling boxes of books and pieces of furniture as we did so. Next, the cat was apparently catching a cold and would become very ill if we didn’t keep the front door locked, so we had the charade of her locking the front door behind us as we made our trips. She also claimed at some points to be washing herself in the kitchen sink, and thus in need of privacy, however she seemed to be doing so fully clothed, and nothinng had previously indicated she was used to washing. We should have given her ten euros to piss off to the pub for half an hour, but I really didn’t want to give her anything.
Most critical of the problems she invented was that – despite the knowledge Spim intended to transport his bookcase and desk back to England with him (essentially the only reason we hired a van) – she had used these two pieces of furniture, plus some coffee tins and planks, to construct an enormous series of inter-connecting shelves in the corner of the room. On these shelves she had then arranged row after row of trays full of crap – bird feathers, shells, dead lizards, spider skins, bits of leaf – which were apparently all carefully organised. We could not remove Spim’s furniture without the whole lot collapsing, and she informed us we could not dismantle the shelves without then rebuilding her a new set of shelves. The motivation was clear: she wanted to keep the furniture.
Ferg and I made a secret pact just to get all of Spim’s stuff out of there asap, and then if things got hairy we could just flee. This showed good insight, but we're decent kids and we didn’t want to just blow her off, so once the shelves were dismantled I went crawling around in an old wood pile near the house and pulled out a number of pallets, which were perfect for stretching planks across for shelves. This I duly did, and it made a pretty good substitute for what we’d taken away.
Then, Terri upped the ante. We now had to restock the shelves with all her trays full of dead crap. Again, Ferg and I were not terribly keen to have to do this but, since we didn’t wish to rock the boat, we set about doing so. About half way through this task, the ante was upped beyond our limit. “Now, one of you has to go get me lemonade,” she said, as though this were always the third logical step in constructing a bookcase. She explained that either one of us could go, whilst the other two helped with the shelves, or else she would go and we’d have to wait outside for half an hour whilst she was gone.
Frankly, in an ideal world we would have agreed to wait outside and – once she was gone – just hightailed it out of there. Instead I chose to argue, and suggested that she get the lemonade whilst we finish off the shelves. Terri began to get angry, “it doesn’t work that way any more,” she said, “Spim doesn’t live here.” When I suggested it again, she threatened to call the police. And… um… do what? Tell them she had three English men in her house building her a bookcase?
And so she began with the shouting, and Spim announced that we were done here. And her shouting got louder and louder still, and Ferg and I calmly left the room and got the van’s engine running in anticipation of what would follow.
Terri locked the front door to keep Spim in, and started to strangle him. It transpired her demands weren’t going to end with moving her freezer, building her shelves and buying her lemonade. “What about my electricity bill?” she squealed, “What about my wardrobe pole?”, “What about the phone bill?” Unwitnessed, Spim shook himself free and – facing death by wailing banshee or freedom with the Tongs – he took the leap through the window and strode confidently to the van, Terri screaming abuse at him through the window.
And we drove away.
And finally…
And the rest of the trip is a tale of walks around ancient towns and chateaus, beer in bed, foie gras on toast, slap up meals by the river, and delivering Spim and his possessions safely back to the bosom of his family. In other words: A happy ending.
I’m afraid I may have written this adventure up in rather more detail than was necessary. However, it’s something I’m keen for my 81 year old self to remember:
Day 1… The Journey South
There's a bit in the movie Road Trip where Seann William Scott squarks "Guys! I thought we were going on a road trip?! Instead we're just doing loads of driving!" And it's true, road trips really are just loads and loads of driving. However, in our road trip to France in late January we also met with a strangulation, a defenestration, a screaming mad woman, and stupefying quantities of cat shit.
Ferg and I had been commissioned to drive the largest van in the world down to Angouleme in France to save friend Spim, who was trapped there penniless with his furniture, his books and his insane ex-girlfriend.
The journey there was far from boring - having not driven in years, it was some amusing novelty to find myself dropped in central London’s Friday rush hour traffic in an enormous transit van. Still a greater novelty was using the chunnel to get to France - I couldn't stop laughing at the absurdity of a juggernaut climbing dinosaur-like onto the train, and when it was my own turn I couldn’t resist going into fourth gear and squealing “I’m in fourth gear … driving through a train!.” Fortunately, Ferg has a lot of patience.
Driving in France was dull dull dull - just seven hours of sitting looking at long empty roads, stopping every so often for cups of coffee and a sly look at French porn. By four or five am we were so bitterly tired we had to stop and nap, so we rolled into a friendly-looking truck stop and found a peaceful place at the back. Unfortunately, this so-called quiet spot was on the main slip-road back onto the autoroute, so my sleep was interrupted every five minutes by a juggernaut thundering by and the van rocking wildly on its axis. This was fine, as my "sleep" was just painful unconsciousness triggered by the freezing cold. At about 7am I gave up the attempt and went to the Jardin de Boef, a charming local bistro where I tucked into coffee and read a book.
Day 2… Enter Cartoonland
At 8am, I shook Fergal awake and we continued to Angouleme. Having had no sleep in thirty hours, and high on caffeine overdose, I had only one thought in my head: meet Spim, tell him to come with us if he wants to live, and then drive somewhere quiet to sleep. Unfortunately, Spim was busy and he’d arranged for his ex, Terri, to meet us instead. Rather than take us to meet Spim she dragged us round her other ex boyfriend’s flat and ordered us to transport a freezer, which was streaked with cat shit, to her own apartment, and then to rearrange the appliances in her own kitchen. I developed a fairly intuitive sense that this was a creature for whom no favour is too great unless it is asked of her, and for whom giving thanks is an unnecessary weakness.
After a couple of hours in her tiny flat, which was formally condemned by the authorities a couple of days later, Terri agreed to take us up into the town to meet Spim, who was manning a desk at the international cartooning festival. Things seemed to go quite well, and Terri was in a jovial mood. She went off to beg on the streets whilst we admired Spim’s artwork, wandered around the festival, and Ferg had a go at drawing a few pictures himself, which drew big crowds.
After a while we took Spim for a slap up lunch with beer. Something evidently happened to Terri in between leaving her and meeting up an hour or so later at a bar as she came storming at Spim screaming abuse about his insensitivity (an allegation you can’t justifiably level against Spim). I was glad to see Terri go as I found her to be rather tedious company - she only had two things to talk about: how great she is, and how shit the rest of the world is.
So there was just us the three of us and Mickey. Mickey is also Terri’s ex, and Terri had forewarned us that he is a self-seeking, insensitive layabout. Since she had told us the exact same thing about Spim, we figured this to be a good thing, and sure enough Mickey turned out to be a charming, sweet and thoughtful man.
Mickey took us to his local bar. After a couple of drinks, Mickey made asked the barman where we might get food in the area. The barman shook his head and said he’d see what he could rustle up for us in the back room. Anticipating a cheese sandwich and a packet of crisps, we were delighted for him to return with hunks of fresh French bread, bowls of pickles, two huge platters of succulent meats and salads, and a bottle of wine. Such rustling-up made the world feel like a magical place.
Since Terri had chucked Spim out of her condemned flat that stank of cat piss, we bundled him into our van and drove half an hour north to a farmhouse I’d found. There, a friendly English couple greeted us with warm smiles, bottles of beer and clean beds. Feeling like I hadn’t slept or washed in a decade, I hosed myself down, crawled into bed, and drank beer into the wee hours.
Day 3… Crisis point
Awaking to breakfast in the farmhouse, washed down with endless coffee, I felt somewhat how Luke Skywalker must have felt prior to leading the attack on the Death Star. Did we really have to go there? Couldn’t be just enjoy breakfast, perhaps find a bar?
However, just as with Luke Skywalker, this was not an option. We had to face the enemy. So we drove back to Terri’s flat in Angouleme to pack the van up with Spim’s things. It seemed no matter how hard we tried, Terri invented excuses to get in our way. First she insisted that all of the doors had to be kept shut to keep out the draught, which meant we had to open and close four separate doors with each journey to the van, juggling boxes of books and pieces of furniture as we did so. Next, the cat was apparently catching a cold and would become very ill if we didn’t keep the front door locked, so we had the charade of her locking the front door behind us as we made our trips. She also claimed at some points to be washing herself in the kitchen sink, and thus in need of privacy, however she seemed to be doing so fully clothed, and nothinng had previously indicated she was used to washing. We should have given her ten euros to piss off to the pub for half an hour, but I really didn’t want to give her anything.
Most critical of the problems she invented was that – despite the knowledge Spim intended to transport his bookcase and desk back to England with him (essentially the only reason we hired a van) – she had used these two pieces of furniture, plus some coffee tins and planks, to construct an enormous series of inter-connecting shelves in the corner of the room. On these shelves she had then arranged row after row of trays full of crap – bird feathers, shells, dead lizards, spider skins, bits of leaf – which were apparently all carefully organised. We could not remove Spim’s furniture without the whole lot collapsing, and she informed us we could not dismantle the shelves without then rebuilding her a new set of shelves. The motivation was clear: she wanted to keep the furniture.
Ferg and I made a secret pact just to get all of Spim’s stuff out of there asap, and then if things got hairy we could just flee. This showed good insight, but we're decent kids and we didn’t want to just blow her off, so once the shelves were dismantled I went crawling around in an old wood pile near the house and pulled out a number of pallets, which were perfect for stretching planks across for shelves. This I duly did, and it made a pretty good substitute for what we’d taken away.
Then, Terri upped the ante. We now had to restock the shelves with all her trays full of dead crap. Again, Ferg and I were not terribly keen to have to do this but, since we didn’t wish to rock the boat, we set about doing so. About half way through this task, the ante was upped beyond our limit. “Now, one of you has to go get me lemonade,” she said, as though this were always the third logical step in constructing a bookcase. She explained that either one of us could go, whilst the other two helped with the shelves, or else she would go and we’d have to wait outside for half an hour whilst she was gone.
Frankly, in an ideal world we would have agreed to wait outside and – once she was gone – just hightailed it out of there. Instead I chose to argue, and suggested that she get the lemonade whilst we finish off the shelves. Terri began to get angry, “it doesn’t work that way any more,” she said, “Spim doesn’t live here.” When I suggested it again, she threatened to call the police. And… um… do what? Tell them she had three English men in her house building her a bookcase?
And so she began with the shouting, and Spim announced that we were done here. And her shouting got louder and louder still, and Ferg and I calmly left the room and got the van’s engine running in anticipation of what would follow.
Terri locked the front door to keep Spim in, and started to strangle him. It transpired her demands weren’t going to end with moving her freezer, building her shelves and buying her lemonade. “What about my electricity bill?” she squealed, “What about my wardrobe pole?”, “What about the phone bill?” Unwitnessed, Spim shook himself free and – facing death by wailing banshee or freedom with the Tongs – he took the leap through the window and strode confidently to the van, Terri screaming abuse at him through the window.
And we drove away.
And finally…
And the rest of the trip is a tale of walks around ancient towns and chateaus, beer in bed, foie gras on toast, slap up meals by the river, and delivering Spim and his possessions safely back to the bosom of his family. In other words: A happy ending.
