Dear Octopus,
At the ferociously busy intersection of Shaftesbury Avenue, St Giles High Street, High Holborn and Endell Street is a gaudy orange, green, red and yellow building visible from many a stone's throw. On the seventh floor of this super-sleek, Renzo Piano-designed behemoth, my new desk looks out over a veritable metropolitan vista; thriving with commerce, cockroach-like simpletons scurrying along in their meaningless lives, and of course the high, regal architecture of our nation's capital. Well, the British Museum and BT Tower. (Actually feel somewhat aggrieved that those facing south, by contrast, have the London Eye and Houses of Parliament.)
Becca and I went for a burrito at lunch and meditated sagely on the notion of ownership, and the sense of belonging that comes with working in an area for nearly four years. The Strand was our home. Yes it was dirty, and busy, and often busy with dirty students protesting inanely about concepts they aren't intelligent enough to understand. But it was our home. What can Covent Garden bring for us? Not much, by the current feel of things, even if there are thousands of interesting shops, and bars, and theatres, and restaurants. Everything is new, and alien, and difficult to navigate.
After new burritos from a new burrito emporium (more expensive than our beloved Mas Burrito, not enough chipotle salsa compared to our lovely old Benito's Hat), we stood in the doorway of a guitar shop to hide from the rain, while I smoked a cigarette. A row of fearsome Les Paul imitations glared back at us, as if to sing in harmonious unison, 'who the fuck are you two? This is our town. You don't belong here. The streets here are reserved for the brave and the righteous. You bring no credentials. So you have no pedigree. Pick up your tatty satchels and fuck off.'
Becca and I looked at each other, and gulped.
This new manor might be tough.
Your loving friend,
Action Squid
Monday, 28 February 2011
Tuesday, 22 February 2011
Four Kicks (or: Cycloptic Gutter Wenches Strike Back With Mardy Vengeance)
Dear Octopus,
On Saturday night my camera died during dinner in a Chinese restaurant on Blackpool's Clifton Street. As wholly awful as this occurrence was for any insurance auditor looking to value my personal wealth (due to camera's death: now down 70%), it was probably the best thing that happened to me all night. Sometimes the path to self-denial is easiest achieved through locking painful memories away in the safe at the back of our minds.....even if the key to which it opens will forever be the smell of Aftershock Red mixed with Katie Price's most recently discounted fragrance.
Pictures or not, that night will forever haunt me.
Due to the camera's untimely demise I thought it prudent to note down my alcohol intake in the red diary given to me by the deputy editor of FHM. Trawling over those disinfectant splattered pages now, crumpled and torn at their edges by a local prize fighter called 'Walter', I shudder with a revulsion only akin to my recollection of 'the incident,' circa 2009.
Over the course of the evening, I drank the following:
- Tsing Tsao bottled lager, to start dinner
- Bottle of white wine (cabernet sauvignon, apparently), with dinner
- Jack Daniel's and Coke, in pub called - so I've handily jotted down - The Counting House. May have made an error with spelling. Remember watching test match highlights on big screen over the bar though, so maybe not
- Pimm's and lemonade x2, in bar populated by cast of Last Of The Summer Wine on annual field trip to Amsterdam
- Jager Bomb, to numb myself to the fact that I was in a bar that resembled the cast of Last Of The Summer Wine's annual field trip to Amsterdam
- Another Jack Daniels and Coke, in 1930's drag queen dancehall called Roxy's. Had a shot of vodka added to my drink because I was 'enjoying the music too much'
- Pint of Snakebite (half lager, half cider, topped up with Ribena: to those who skipped university) in Walkabout, whilst winning third test of epic table football five-stage tournament
- Second pint of Snakebite, whilst chatting to girl with one ear about eventual defeat in epic table football twelve-stage tournament
- Third pint of Snakebite, to recover from having to retrieve my wallet from boyfriend / brother of girl with one ear, who said I was 'one of them southernings' and who offered to 'punch me back to London with his fist'
- Bottle of WKD Orange, strawpedoed, as a racing style drinking game
- Bottle of Orange Reef, strawpedoed, as fine for losing previous drinking game
- Fourth pint of Snakebite, whilst having a discussion about how my personal failures are similar to those of the Egyptian national infrastructure
- Second Jager Bomb, because they were £2
- Third Jager Bomb, because the last one was £2 and it seemed cheaper than the last one
- Bottled beer in strip club, so that I could use the line 'I'm busy drinking this beer,' to fend away horrid local strippers
- Second bottled beer in strip club, so I could use the bottle itself as a weapon to fend away horrid local strippers
- Third bottled beer in strip club, to celebrate being in a Blackpool strip club above a kebab shop
- Fourth bottled beer in strip club, to mourn being in a Blackpool strip club above a kebab shop
I'm ashamed to say that I spent most of the train journey home on Sunday throwing up in the first class toilet. I'll admit: partly because of the alcohol. But also partly because a one-eyed stripper with facial bandages and a horribly ruthless rhetoric spewed some insults so cutting in their intellectual scope, and so humiliating in their profanity-addled delivery, that as a result I have endeavoured to change forever. And by that I mean become the type of person who will never return to the north-west, under any circumstances.
Be under no illusions Octopus. It's a depressing thing to drink yourself to oblivion to blind yourself to the fact that you're in Blackpool. But it's even more depressing to be in Blackpool.
Your loving friend,
Action Squid
Wednesday, 16 February 2011
Zlatan Ibrahimovic Gets A Smacked Bottom
Dear Octopus,
Life takes us in strange directions. I spent the whole day yesterday ruminating morosely on the fact that as I've been out-voted on the retention of our Sky Sports Package (those against: 3, those for: 1), I would have to suffer watching Tottenham Hotspur's crushing Champions' League defeat away at AC Milan from the confines of the back room at the Pig, the impoverished local public house at the end of our road. A friendless, joyless experience nursing a pint and bemoaning Benoit Assou-Ekotto's meagre passing ability in a grim corner of a grim tavern. Alone.
I got home to find Pongo preparing dinner and Honksy ill-equipped to sympathise with the intrinsic and insurmountable miseries of my adult life.
Strange then, that Pongo agreed to come with me. Stranger that Honksy then agreed to come too. Infinitely strange that the Pig has been secretly refurbished, and is now a delightful, idyllic little local watering hole with a roaring hearth, leather armchairs and a very reasonably priced menu. Even stranger that Tottenham actually won.
The strangest thing though was how secondary the victory (masterful though it was) became to the enjoyment of my evening. Honksy took to the game with relish, even cheering for my team when spirits were low. Entertaining at the best of times, Pongo was hilarious in his tolerance of 'the working man's game,' perhaps only betrayed by his reference to half-time as 'the interval.' Honksy paused applying her lipstick and replied like a true fan, 'this is a football match mate, you're not at La Traviata now.' Pongo didn't redeem himself when I asked if he ever played for his school, in a sporting capacity.
He represented his house at bridge.
Who would have thought that for all the high-jinks, the humbling heroes and pantomime villains (Gennaro Gattuso), the greatest antidote to a shit day came not in the form of a win, but a night in the pub with my friends. We walked home in the style of the Monkees.
Like I said; life takes us in strange directions.
Your loving friend,
Action Squid
Life takes us in strange directions. I spent the whole day yesterday ruminating morosely on the fact that as I've been out-voted on the retention of our Sky Sports Package (those against: 3, those for: 1), I would have to suffer watching Tottenham Hotspur's crushing Champions' League defeat away at AC Milan from the confines of the back room at the Pig, the impoverished local public house at the end of our road. A friendless, joyless experience nursing a pint and bemoaning Benoit Assou-Ekotto's meagre passing ability in a grim corner of a grim tavern. Alone.
I got home to find Pongo preparing dinner and Honksy ill-equipped to sympathise with the intrinsic and insurmountable miseries of my adult life.
Strange then, that Pongo agreed to come with me. Stranger that Honksy then agreed to come too. Infinitely strange that the Pig has been secretly refurbished, and is now a delightful, idyllic little local watering hole with a roaring hearth, leather armchairs and a very reasonably priced menu. Even stranger that Tottenham actually won.
The strangest thing though was how secondary the victory (masterful though it was) became to the enjoyment of my evening. Honksy took to the game with relish, even cheering for my team when spirits were low. Entertaining at the best of times, Pongo was hilarious in his tolerance of 'the working man's game,' perhaps only betrayed by his reference to half-time as 'the interval.' Honksy paused applying her lipstick and replied like a true fan, 'this is a football match mate, you're not at La Traviata now.' Pongo didn't redeem himself when I asked if he ever played for his school, in a sporting capacity.
He represented his house at bridge.
Who would have thought that for all the high-jinks, the humbling heroes and pantomime villains (Gennaro Gattuso), the greatest antidote to a shit day came not in the form of a win, but a night in the pub with my friends. We walked home in the style of the Monkees.
Like I said; life takes us in strange directions.
Your loving friend,
Action Squid
Monday, 14 February 2011
All I Do Is Keep The Beat, And Bad Company
Dear Octopus,
Today I noticed that my left hand fits inside my rainbow slinky far more smoothly than my right. Now I'm not one to dwell on the meaningless minutiae of an increasingly pointless existence.....but then again I do enjoy minutiae, and surely all existence is on the side of lacking point, if not totally without. So, I figured, perhaps this anatomical phenomena was worthy of further detailed study.
Firstly, it's worth pointing out that there is no noticeable difference in size. Possible reasons though are as follows:
Shit.......as I was writing that final point I think I've solved it. It's that one. Thumb isn't necessarily double-jointed, but certainly bends in towards palm much more easily. It's also worth me saying that Clare's (totally unhelpful) reason was that, 'all those years of hideously barbaric self abuse have obviously given you very strong muscle definition.'
I'm genuinely beginning to think that suffrage was a mistake.
Today is Valentine's Day. Aside from all the (pretty legitimate) cynicism regarding its status as a cash cow for the greetings card industry, I've always scorned this occasion since its corresponding fixture in 2006, 'The Day Of Unalienable Catastrophe.' If you'll indulge me, I'll enlighten you.
Being young (21), free (from meaningful responsibility at least) and single (ditto), I was offered a night's work in one of Norwich's least lauded and most avoided Italian restaurants. Having absolutely nothing better to do, I accepted. It being Valentine's Day, every table was for two, with confetti hearts strewn over them and a themed set menu whose content, both in food and bad metaphors, made my stomach twist into gruesome intestinal knots. The restaurant was rammed, and we had a busy night on our hands.
Twenty minutes into service, the chef - with whom I'd exchanged barely ten words - was found slumped on the men's toilet with a belt around his arm and a syringe hanging from it. I tried to be helpful by telling the manager, 'he could just be diabetic,' at which point the chef awoke from his grim, opium-induced catatonia just to say that he wasn't. He was fired on the spot and removed from the kitchen on a stretcher, and I was lambasted for being a liar. If the manager had had any sense, she would have closed the restaurant down. But seeing it full she panicked, and enlisted the help of the seventeen year-old sous chef, who made up for in youthful pluck what he lacked in ability, expertise, skills, training and experience.
Result: absolutely unmitigated disaster.
Spent the next five hours essentially apologising profusely for every possible mistake that can be made in any kind of social establishment, restaurant or otherwise. Including to my smug ex-girlfriend, who was there with her new, even-more-smug boyfriend. A little part of my soul died forever when I had to call him 'sir.'
Then had to apologise to a girl I was seeing after I broke up with the ex-girlfriend just two tables away, and her new boyfriend. A big part of my soul died forever when I had to call him 'sir' too.
After the last furious patron had been wearily lead to the door, I slumped against it with a moan of anguish akin to that of a dying horse. At this point the manager approached me and told me that I wouldn't be paid for the evening's work, seeing as so many customers had refused to pay and technically it was only my first shift, so could be construed as a 'trial.' Lacking my usual articulacy I told her to go fuck herself and walked out. It was raining.
By this point, the knots in my intestines actually spelled out the word: SURRENDER.
When I got home I was jilted by the girl I liked.
Happy Valentine's Day.
Your loving friend,
Action Squid
Today I noticed that my left hand fits inside my rainbow slinky far more smoothly than my right. Now I'm not one to dwell on the meaningless minutiae of an increasingly pointless existence.....but then again I do enjoy minutiae, and surely all existence is on the side of lacking point, if not totally without. So, I figured, perhaps this anatomical phenomena was worthy of further detailed study.
Firstly, it's worth pointing out that there is no noticeable difference in size. Possible reasons though are as follows:
- My right hand is bigger because I write, type and (occasionally) throw cricket balls with it
- Some way I'm holding it makes the slinky bend less / more when inserting my left hand
- Left hand could be double-jointed in thumb, giving it smaller overall radius
Shit.......as I was writing that final point I think I've solved it. It's that one. Thumb isn't necessarily double-jointed, but certainly bends in towards palm much more easily. It's also worth me saying that Clare's (totally unhelpful) reason was that, 'all those years of hideously barbaric self abuse have obviously given you very strong muscle definition.'
I'm genuinely beginning to think that suffrage was a mistake.
Today is Valentine's Day. Aside from all the (pretty legitimate) cynicism regarding its status as a cash cow for the greetings card industry, I've always scorned this occasion since its corresponding fixture in 2006, 'The Day Of Unalienable Catastrophe.' If you'll indulge me, I'll enlighten you.
Being young (21), free (from meaningful responsibility at least) and single (ditto), I was offered a night's work in one of Norwich's least lauded and most avoided Italian restaurants. Having absolutely nothing better to do, I accepted. It being Valentine's Day, every table was for two, with confetti hearts strewn over them and a themed set menu whose content, both in food and bad metaphors, made my stomach twist into gruesome intestinal knots. The restaurant was rammed, and we had a busy night on our hands.
Twenty minutes into service, the chef - with whom I'd exchanged barely ten words - was found slumped on the men's toilet with a belt around his arm and a syringe hanging from it. I tried to be helpful by telling the manager, 'he could just be diabetic,' at which point the chef awoke from his grim, opium-induced catatonia just to say that he wasn't. He was fired on the spot and removed from the kitchen on a stretcher, and I was lambasted for being a liar. If the manager had had any sense, she would have closed the restaurant down. But seeing it full she panicked, and enlisted the help of the seventeen year-old sous chef, who made up for in youthful pluck what he lacked in ability, expertise, skills, training and experience.
Result: absolutely unmitigated disaster.
Spent the next five hours essentially apologising profusely for every possible mistake that can be made in any kind of social establishment, restaurant or otherwise. Including to my smug ex-girlfriend, who was there with her new, even-more-smug boyfriend. A little part of my soul died forever when I had to call him 'sir.'
Then had to apologise to a girl I was seeing after I broke up with the ex-girlfriend just two tables away, and her new boyfriend. A big part of my soul died forever when I had to call him 'sir' too.
After the last furious patron had been wearily lead to the door, I slumped against it with a moan of anguish akin to that of a dying horse. At this point the manager approached me and told me that I wouldn't be paid for the evening's work, seeing as so many customers had refused to pay and technically it was only my first shift, so could be construed as a 'trial.' Lacking my usual articulacy I told her to go fuck herself and walked out. It was raining.
By this point, the knots in my intestines actually spelled out the word: SURRENDER.
When I got home I was jilted by the girl I liked.
Happy Valentine's Day.
Your loving friend,
Action Squid
Friday, 11 February 2011
The Horrid Face Of Tomorrow
Dear Octopus,
The following just occurred in the Strand branch of a well-known American coffee chain:
ME: Can I have a coffee please?
HER: What size?
ME: What are the options?
The following just occurred in the Strand branch of a well-known American coffee chain:
ME: Can I have a coffee please?
HER: What size?
ME: What are the options?
HER: What do you mean?
ME: I......hmmm.....you know what: I literally can't say it any simpler than that. I just want to know the options. I'm assuming there are options.
HER: I don't really see what you mean
ME: I just don't want to end up with a gallon of coffee that I roll out of here in a fucking barrel
HER: Well we have tall, grande or venti
ME: Well I'm guessing tall is the biggest....
HER: ....no, it's actually the smallest
ME: How can it be the smallest?
HER: What do you mean?
ME: Well it's not 'tall' is it?
HER: I don't know, I'd say it's pretty tall
ME: Not in comparison to the two other coffees that are fucking larger
HER: So do you want tall?
ME: No, I want grande
HER: So a medium
ME: Grande is medium?
HER: Yes
ME: I think the same observations apply to this as to 'tall'
HER: Well what size do you want?
ME: I want a big coffee. Simon specifically asked for a 'big coffee'
HER: I'm not seeing 'big coffee' on the till
ME: Try the opposite of tall
HER: Okay got it. What type of coffee?
ME: Oh Jesus....
HER: We have cappucino, espresso, mocha, mocha latte...
ME: I'll be honest with you, the phrase 'big coffee' is the sum of all the information I have
HER: Well what does Simon like?
ME: He likes the marching band of the Grenadier Guards
HER: No, what coffee does he like?
ME: Why would I know that?
HER: You don't talk about this?
ME: The nicest thing I can say about coffee is that I find it irrelevant
HER: So a cappucino then?
ME: Why would that mean a cappucino?
HER: Just a coffee hunch
ME: How long have you worked here?
HER: Five days. Do you think I'm doing a good job?
ME: I wouldn't start renting around here just yet
HER: So a venti cappucino, yes?
ME: I'll be honest....at this point if you offered me a plastic cup full of warm acid I would happily drink it
HER: I thought this was for Simon?
ME: The coffee was for Simon, the acid was for me
HER: We don't actually sell acid
ME: And this place is definitely the poorer for it
HER: Anything else?
ME: Becca wanted a green smoothie
HER: We don't have 'green.' We have papaya and kiwi or strawberry and dragonfruit
ME: What colours are they?
HER: The papaya and kiwi is green, the strawberry and dragonfruit is orange
ME: [Long pause]
HER: The papaya and kiwi?
ME: Yes, the papaya and kiwi
HER: That'll be £9
ME: You know what, I can believe that
The world is frustrated and decadent.
Your loving friend,
Action Squid
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)