Making the roads run on time

Yesterday morning, as I left the house to make my way to the bus stop to start my journey to Southend, the rain was absolutely hammering down (in much the same way as it is now, as it goes; in fact it's been thudding against my windows practically all day, hence the fact that I've spent most of the day here rather than going out and doing something slightly more invigorating). As the bus made its way to the station it splashed through vast puddles, throwing up sheets of water that would make a log flume enthusiast weep.

As I made my way home from the bus stop after making the return journey in the evening, the vast puddles of the morning had gone but there was still annoying fine rain in the air, the sort that you don't feel you can put your umbrella up to protect yourself from at the risk of looking unmanly but which will soak you if you're out in it for too long. Fortunately I was able to get across the road fairly quickly, and so managed to get back before I got too wet.

In between, I'd been horribly sunburnt.

I'm so annoyed about this. I'm usually quite assiduous when it comes to avoiding getting burnt. If there's even the slightest possibility that there might be warm sunshine I rub in sunscreen and take the bottle with me just in case; it's this, allied to my general dislike of hot days and tendency to stay in the shade, that makes me the pale and uninteresting fellow that I am during the summer months. The alternative would be to end up with a big red face, and while the big red face is not a desirable look at the best of times, the big red face on a short-ish tubby bloke is even worse. And yet I now have a big red face. And a big red neck as well, a big red painful neck.

The sun only came out for about half an hour or so. Which all goes to prove how dangerous its rays are; if only you could buy some sort of personal miniature Al Gore that could warn you of these things. Anyway, while I thoroughly commend the first track of my Muxtape, I'd advise anyone planning a cover version to append some sort of important message about not taking the title literally.

The half hour or so that the sun had come out for coincided with us sitting on a hill watching the Southend Air Show. I hadn't planned to see the Southend Air Show, not least because it was supposed to rain all day, but as the weather had held off and I like to go out somewhere when I visit my parents, that seemed the logical place to go. And, and I realise I risk throwing all my wet liberal credentials away here in one fell swoop, seeing the parachutists come down in formation, starting as little vapour trails in the sky before slowly coming into view, and then seeing the Red Arrows fly in tight formation before doing that thing where they fly towards each other and just miss, was really quite impressive. Yeah, I know, I'm basically Tony B. Liar's military lapdog.


(See, the black dots are the parachutists. Yes, all right, this is mostly a picture of the sky.)

Actually the bit where the Red Arrows fly towards each other before just missing was hugely improved by my mum, who presumably hadn't seen this sort of thing on television before and as such jumped several feet in the air every time that they did it, convinced that they were about to smack into each other. I could understand it the first time if you weren't expecting it, but it caught her out every time.


We also strolled along past the various stalls that had taken over the seafront. Many, as you might expect, were of a militaristic hue, but despite my sudden turn to the hawkish side I didn't feel tempted to sign up for any of the forces. I did eat an army cadets chocolate muffin though. I realise that this is probably exactly how Hitler got started. It was a good muffin as well. Back when I was at school we used to sneer at the kids who went to cadets; if I'd known that muffins were such an integral part of it I might have been a bit less dismissive.

She's leaving home

Making my way through the backstreets to avoid Oxford Street as much as possible, I came across some sort of protest. The road was lined by people in t-shirts emblazoned with a catchy phrase along the lines of "GIVE REAL TALKS A CHANCE" (not such a catchy phrase that I can remember what it was, obviously), and in the distance a line of police along the road suggested that a crowd was slowly making its way down towards where the t-shirt wearers stood.

A woman stood alongside me, and watched the approaching crowd for a bit. She asked me if I knew what was going on. "It's something to do with giving real talks a chance, but they're not being very clear on who they want to talk" I told her. She smiled, and moved on. Drat.


When the protest got a bit closer the people in t-shirts on the other side of the road began some sort of shaking hands routine that they'd got worked out, but other than that the crowd didn't do anything particular - no banners explaining who they wanted to talk to, no "What do we want? Real talks to be given a chance! When do we want it? Now!"-type chanting, nothing. It was a bit of a disappointment, as protests go. Eventually, by squinting at the t-shirt of someone who'd wandered off from the crowd, I ascertained that it was something to do with the Dalai Lama, which I probably should have guessed, and which inexplicably reminds me that I've been meaning to link to the inexplicably rejuvenated Tiny Horsey.

Later on I bought the most recent Young Knives album at what I thought was quite a good price, only to discover that it costs a couple of quid less on Amazon. This is an important lesson about bargains that all would do well to heed.

Bobby Charlton is sitting in a Chinese takeaway

Over lunch, in discussion with someone involved with recruiting future employees to replace the one whose final day we were marking, I was given a cheery look and told "We've got two young ladies for you".

I know that I must stink of lust and desperation at all times, but, really, there's no need to bring it up when I'm eating. That's just unfair.

No infidels in Virginia

An in-depth review of the first episode of the new series of Peep Show

Hmm.

(Maybe hmmm. Not sure.)

I do think my opinion on this may have been influenced by the 'massive whackers' conversation, which has preyed on my mind more than once this long weekend. I've never been a one for engaging in laddish badinage; I'm always worried that I might give too much away, that some inner tragedy that would be better kept hidden might be revealed, and so getting involved in such and possibly revealing more information that I ought may be why I wasn't feeling particularly receptive to internal monologue-based sitcom. Or possibly it just wasn't that good. I particularly disliked the callback to the kids from the first episode, which reminded me of later Simpsons episodes where one-off characters from earlier programmes reappeared in lieu of having any new ideas. But maybe that's just me.

Edit until funny/coherent

B. Johnston
City Hall
London


3 May 2008

Dear B.,

I'll be honest, B.; I didn't vote for you. As I said when I was discussing this with someone the other day, "I don't think Livingstone's done that good a job, but at least he's not a complete arsehole". However, I've always respected the traditional Tory trait of pragmatism, and as I'm sure you're keen to win over those of us who regard you as a loathsome oafish twat, I hope you won't mind me taking a few moments of your time.

(I was wondering exactly what sort of person would actually vote for you while I was wandering about the West End yesterday evening. (I was trying to buy a bag, as I'd managed to destroy my admittedly already fraying satchel in a washing-up liquid incident earlier in the week.) I became fascinated by people crossing the road - watching the light turn green and then stepping out in front of cars just as they pulled away, nipping out between cars and thus risking getting hit for the sake of crossing the road three seconds earlier than they might have done if they'd waited, the sheer number of people who can't tell the difference between the little red man and the little green man. And then I realised that it's a miracle that any of the other candidates got any votes at all.)

(Incidentally, I did buy a bag. A bag. Not a fucking manbag, alright. I've seen The Thick Of It, B., I know you keep up with all of these things.)

(If this all seems somewhat lacking in generosity, not only was I pissed off at your imminent victory but I was still suffering from the last knockings of a hangover, not being helped by the previous evening culminating in a conversation which featured the phrase "massive whackers" disturbingly often. (Admittedly I only used the phrase with a certain amount of irony, but I still feel slightly ashamed of myself, and will be unable to look several of my workmates in the eye for quite some time.) I realise that you probably use phrases like 'massive whackers' all the time, B., and probably with very little shame, as you seem the type somehow.)

Anyway, B., what I wanted to talk about was flashmobs. Now, you may recall the unpleasant Rick Astley business the other week - you probably had a leaflet about it or something. Fortunately I managed to avoid all of that, but on Wednesday evening as I crossed Liverpool Street station I ran into something equally invidious. I was suspicious as soon as I entered the station and noted that there were lots of people standing around looking gormless; it took a while to realise that actually that was the point.

Now, all my previous objections to this sort of thing apply, but even moreso here as I was in a really cheerful mood before I came across these people, and was left with an urge to go on a murderous rampage in the matter of seconds that it took me to walk past them. Watching that video has my hackles rising again; honestly, B., when that bloke at the end claims that this is 'art' I want to beat his face in with something blunt and heavy. I'm no philistine, B., I'm open to all sorts of ideas and notions, but there is no way that standing around a station getting in the way of people who want to go home before you fuck off back to Shoreditch can be classified as 'art'.

So, what I'm asking, B., is that you do something about it. Maybe you could get some of those people who drive huge polluting cars about the place who turned out for you en masse and get them to drive over them, so that if they're going to choke us to death they may as well do something worthwhile while they're at it. Or something like that, I don't know. I'm not the one with the large political party telling me what to do.

Yours etc,
M.S, BSoI, TAoF, TUoNG (Hons)