The Demonic 73 Taunts Me

Every morning -- EVERY MORNING -- as I approach Albion Road a practically empty 73 speeds by.

The bus stop is only around the corner, but even if I run, I'll never catch it.

It matters not if I leave 5 or 10 minutes early. The pesky bus speeds by just as I approach.

It knows. It senses my contempt and grudging need. It waits. It times its acceleration. It taunts me.

It hates me as much as I hate it.

At least now we both know where we stand.

..Well, I'm standing anyway -- every day in the same place waiting for the invariably overcrowded next one.

What's A Few Fleas Between Friends..?

..Well quite a bit it would seem.

Ems is scratching. It can only mean one thing -- fleas.

Nastly little critters fleas, but I thought all the scratching was rather entertaining and she did seem to enjoy it with contented accompanying groans. Heck, I like to scratch too and thought little of it.

And that's the thing -- we felt nothing and haven't suffered any bites.

Ems' dire condition was brought to our attention by Lana & Jon who were supposed to be looking after her last weekend while we were away.

So, we pitch-up home on Sunday afternoon only to find Ems already in the house -- in addition to assorted flea sprays, disinfectants and potions.

They claim that she worried their kitten who took-off and hid up a tree all weekend, but I know differently..

Fearful that they would never see little Moustache (yes, that really is the poor cat's name) again, they shunted Ems out to our mutual dog-walker's care asap to head-off infection in the House of Dudding.

Well, we're due to cook them lunch this Sunday.

Let's just see if they demand a vet's declaration of clean-bill-of-health before crossing the threashold.

Bring out your dead, indeed..

A Woman Of Infinite Taste

My little editor tells me that this is 'Post 69,' which sounds like an ultra-hip, skinny-legged guitar band from Dalston..

Anyway, I digress.

..Just been checking-out Chooch's latest reporage of dirty deedes done desert-ward and am a little crest-fallen at the abscence of whining about the injustices heaped upon La Terry Henry. However, I did link to this insightful comment from the intriguingly 'anonymous Mirri x'.

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Anonymous said...
Who is Clive?

"This means that I can honestly and without equivocation say that my (albeit trousered) arse is featured in a porno flick.

Yeah baby!"

His blog is brilliant!
Mirri x

And Again, Cheeky..

Give this man a knighthood!

Reasons To Be Chilled Part 1

"Drive, she said." Well, she didn't, I did, but she appreciated the lift.

After four weeks, yesterday evening I cracked -- somewhere between King's Cross and Upper Street.

Ken, mate. Your 'bendy buses' suck and the #73 is, frankly, an indignation.

Like a well-intentioned quitting smoker faced with either a heap of stress or out drinking beer with smoking friends, this morning I was running late and in a tizz. (I HATE being late).

In this black mood the prospect of the 73 was too much to bear, so I thought 'sod it' and reached for the car keys. It'll only be this once I promised myself. No real harm..

I muscled-into the work car park on a ruse and all was well. Ah. Sated.

Moreover, the return journey was a breeze. A clogged Euston underpass was a luxury by comparison and door-to-door only took 30 minutes.

I know that this isn't terribly public or environmentally-spirited, but heck, it's all about me.

I leave at 5:00p.m. and arrive home at 5:30p.m., drag dog 'round park and am back online work-wise for an hour or so at 6:00p.m. Bliss..

Also, I found out today that all I have to do is book my parking space a day in advance, so guess who's booked everyday through the end of this millennium?

My Arse In A Porno

Really, it is!

I've just popped out of the office to get some cash and a bite and while idling with a cigarette at Marylebone Station's main gate (the office is across the road from the terminus) I saw something really unusual.

Amid the general flow of people coming in and out of the station and nearby office-types picking up lunch and laundry I noted a woman being greeted by a man.

Nothing unusual in that. It's a station after all and a perfectly natural place for people to meet and greet.

But this 'greeting' was very staged and was clearly a scene for a porn film.

I'll explain..

Our gallant gentleman waiting for his lady is a sleazy trendy-type - with teased hair, jaunty hipsters and what my old Amsterdam mate Jay would call 'porno shades.' Let's call him Chad.

Chad's holding a photo, sort-of a model's portfolio shot. But sans clothes and in provocative pose, he's clearly here to meet a very particular kind of model to perform a rather specialised, ehem, 'assignment.'

The woman's not striking, but long-limbed and slim, kinda slutty-looking in cheap high street fashions and with a bad ratty dye-job. Let's call her Mitzy.

OK, nothing too unusual here, I hear you cry. It's just old CSS being disparaging about the appearance of the chavvy populace again.

Au contraire, au contraire..

What's really different is that our gigolo Chad is holding a digital video recorder and films Mitzy as she walks (in an exaggerated hip-swinging manner) toward him and greets him with hug a kiss on each cheek.

He then gestures to a parked Merc and feigns waved introduction to another fella waiting, this time an oily business-type of indeterminate middle-eastern origin. Let's call this chappie Tony.

And as Mitzy turns to wave at Tony in this bizarre scene, Chad pans his camera the length of our heroine's body, lingering particularly long on her bust and rear.

They then walk together to Tony and the car.

I'll admit, I'm intrigued so light another smoke and see what happens.

Instead of driving off, Chad and Mitzy get out of the car and set-up to do it all over again. Take 2, if you like..

So the scene is re-shot, but mid-way through, I think that there's been too much idling and excitement for one lunchtime and head back to work.

But as I walk back across the front of the station, Chad and Mitzy are walking behind me toward Tony and the car. The camera's still rolling.

So if this take is the one they use, then my rear is clearly in shot.

This means that I can honestly and without equivocation say that my (albeit trousered) arse is featured in a porno flick.

Yeah baby!

A Funny Thing Happened On The Tube Today..

Well actually it didn't.

Nothing ever amusing happens on the tube. The tube is inhuman and shit.

The end.

Caught By The Fuzz

No not me.

I'll explain..

Butterfield Green -- as its name suggests -- is a delightful spot in this north London neighbourhood undergoing fairly rapid economic and its attendant social change.

Stokie is the 'nappy valley' of the north -- counterpoint, say, to Clapham in the south. The two and three-storey victorian properties are increasingly being returned from flats to houses and it's where career-minded coupled-up folk of a northern persuasion migrate to from N1 for more space and to breed.

It has the sometimes chic, sometimes funky Church Street at its centre. It has a number of good and excellent gastropubs and restaurants in the vicinity. It has authentic toy shops and designer boutiques. In many ways a middle class area on the 'up.'

But it also has a legacy -- that of enclaves of ethnic communities, equal-opportunities poverty cutting across nationality and origin and a lot of social housing. This is Hackney, after all.

But somehow the haves and have-nots and those in-between seem to co-exist pretty well. I think a lot of that is to do with the community-mindedness of the various cultural groups here and also to hands-off, low-key approach of the police who usually do their rounds on mountain bikes.

So back to the green..

The green is where Ems and I spend a lot of time. It's handier in the morning and evening than the much bigger Clissold Park.

We share it with all types. Other dog walkers, mums and dads with prams, buggies and kiddies. And of course, drunks, druggies and the human flotsam damaged by the aforementioned vices and mental illness.

Ems loves it because she can run and sniff and chase squirrels. Also, city people don't really understand wild-(and no-so)-life too well so think they're doing their 'bit' by leaving all manner of leftover delicacies scattered liberally to support foxes, pigeons, badgers, squirrels and -- ehem -- greedy springers.

So this evening we do our usual thing, Ems and I. We hit the green. OK, the area might be some kind of 'can't we all just get along' social shangri-la poster child for New Labour.. most of the time. But this is London so I always scope the place for lurkers and n'ere-do-wells -- which is especially important as it's usually dark at this time of the year when we're there.

Tonight in addition to mums and cyclists there are three guys -- one 'Swampy'-type and two chavs -- just sitting on a bench and in clear view. My in-built metropolitan radar clocks them, assesses the threat-level and deems them low risk. So we continue. Ems, nose-down sniffing, me head-down paying actively no attention.

Then out of nowhere four policemen appear and apprehend our companions. Questioning, 'direct' language and body searches. Heck, drama.

Ems gets interested and she gets excited. Stuff's happening and she wants to be part of the action. She sidles-up and sniffs a lot which only makes the police officers even keener to continue with their line of questioning and body searchng. She starts barking and the police really start getting interested in our dopers. Then she starts wagging her tail -- a lot -- as well as sniffing and barking. She's caught hold of a really interesting smell and is greatly intrigued.

The police are now taking her name and address and have her in their sights as a key witness.

Frankly, I'm thinking witness protection.

Anyway, the 'frighteners' duly applied and names and pack-drill done with, the police depart and our 'neighbours' are left to their idlng and shooting daggers in our direction.

Ems is only a dog and thinks everyone's her friend and these chaps are really good fun, so she wanders back over, barks, wags and lies on her back for a tummy tickle.

This overture of friendliness from her is not well received and she's roundly told to 'gercha' if she knows what's good for her.

I know what's good for me so I'm moving out to the country and she's going to Battersea.

Snitch.

(Don't Let Me Be) Misunderstood

Interestingly, a post of a couple of weeks ago where I waxed (almost, sic.) lyrical about the new job has done the rounds at the 'old firm' and has been interpreted as some kind of 'screw you' parting shot. Which, if the truth were told, is patently untrue.

Much of that post -- to my mind at least -- was an acknowledgement of my now having the kind of role that better suits me and an admission of my agency-life shortcomings. Well, at least that's how it was intended.

OK, there was a nod to the occasional shenannigan and disquiet at some -- notably uncatalogued -- instances, but that happens everywhere and hey, life's too short.

A few sailent points:
1. I see no point in 'sticking the knife in' here on this humble blog. If there were things to say, then I would have said them at the right time. Ref: life being short
2. I moved for a lot of very good reasons, and not an inconsiderable number of monthly and annual noughts
3. And if I hated the place so much, why then would I now give them a brief for good business and potentially good £££s?

All-in-all I'm rather touched that folk are actually reading all this. I thought it was merely a channel of communication with my ex-pat mates Norfolk Dumpling and The Gooner Of Ill-Repute.

But maybe I'm wrong. Maybe 'they' hate me. Afterall, I've still not received my severance cheque from the old firm after many assurances that it's 'in the post.' (Oh, it's OK. It's only the mortgage..)

Ambiguity's bad. Mmm-kay? Misinterpretation's worse. Mmm-kay? And, ehem, 'frick' is the worst word you can say.. ;-)