Cocktails and Records

Something  seemed a little amiss when I entered the changing room at my gym this morning.  Puddles of wet towels lay all over the floor, make-up soiled tissues littered the tops of the vanity areas, a sink was clogged with hair and paper hand towels. It was really quite disgusting.

As I was picking my way through to a locker, one of the gym staff frantically rushed in to put the place back together again. She apologised, explaining that the usual changing room cleaner was sick and hadn’t been able to make it in today.

The minute she said that I realised what I was looking at - the results of one hour of people in a changing room without a cleaner to pick up after them. 

This was almost 12 hours ago and I’m still disgusted about what it says about my fellow gym-users. Grrr.

You may remember that some months ago I encountered a big fan of the humble banana on a train journey. Well, yesterday I had the (mis)fortune to meet his evil twin.

Again, I had innocently boarded the tube and settled in for a quiet journey in the company of a book. There was only one other person in the carriage. He was sitting diagonally opposite me with a plastic supermarket carrier bag on his lap and a bread knife in his hand.

Needless to say, my interest was piqued.

My fellow tube traveller reached into his bag and casually pulled out a slice of loose white bread and a jar of Colman’s English Mustard. Evenly, thickly and smoothly, he carefully spread the mustard across the bread before proceeding to eat this mustardy morsel in a couple of happy bites.

Not being a huge fan of mustard myself, I struggled to stay immersed in my book. I desperately tried to ignore him as he smacked his lips and reached into the bag for another slice. But try as I might, my nose wrinkled and my stomach clenched as he smothered an even thicker layer of mustard onto this next piece of bread.

As the carriage filled though, fortunately so did his belly. After two more slices of mustard bread and a quick lick of the mustardy knife, he put the remains of the Colman’s jar back into the carrier bag, got off the train, and left me in mustard-free peace.

So this really begs two questions:

1. Is the solo mustard sandwich a frequent occurrence that I just haven’t met until now?
2. Why do these things happen to me?

You mightn’t believe it, but I can be very sensitive about my music taste. Or more accurately, unjustified criticism of it (which as we all know, is pretty much all criticism).

For example some time ago (well, 1996 to be precise) I cautiously lent a new friend two of my favourite albums of all time, thinking that since he liked that style of music, he might share my enjoyment of these too.

But no, he returned them saying that they were quite possibly the worst records he’d heard in a very long time, that the respective singers couldn’t sing to save themselves, and how could I possibly listen to this godawful rubbish. I bit my lip; I tried to be brave and indignantly defend my taste but it was too late – I was over-sensitive, he had revealed his ears of cloth and our friendship wasn’t ever going to be quite the same.

That old feeling of musical rejection has emerged again over the past couple of weeks. This time a friend asked me to suggest some ‘nice, subtle but different’ background music for an event he was putting on, stuff that he might enjoy as well. I dutifully (read stupidly, gullibly, naively...) handed over a pile of handpicked CDs from a range of different musical genres, all of which I personally would be delighted to hear filling up the embarrassing silences at any occasion.

But no, back they all came. Everything from Michael Nyman, Davy Graham, Jackie Mittoo and Mr Scruff to the Cocteau Twins, Toumani Diabate, Candi Staton and a lot of jazz albums. Rejected. ‘They’re all a bit… inappropriate’ he explained, ‘couldn’t you have given me something more obvious, a bit less weird? I want to play something that people will actually like you know.’

I thought I had. I had resisted The Fugs, the KLF, Messiaen, Eric Dolphy and that Japanese psych compilation – all of which would have been truly different to hear as background music.

So once again, I’m feeling musically rejected. But this time I’m not letting the rejection get to me. No, I’m going to plant someone at the event to go up and complain that the music is too boring, and to request The Fugs and Eric Dolphy.

Regular readers will know that I like a good gripe about the state of the world’s manners. Well, you’ll be pleased to know that I have come across a new, impressive level of disrespect to share with you.

Picture this:

It’s Wednesday morning. I am in Paris. For some bizarre reason I decide to go into Notre Dame Cathedral, rather just walking past it as usual. I am surprised to see that 1. it is free entry, 2. there isn’t much of a queue and 3. that there is a short service going on.

I slip into one of the empty back rows, let the sound of the priest’s voice lull over me and actually enjoy the opportunity to look around the massive nave and soak up the historic ambiance. Tourists still continue to amble in and wander around. It’s a bit distracting, but most people are quiet and behave themselves.

I say most, because at least five people during the 10 minutes I lasted walked straight down the front and took photos of the priest reading at the altar. Another two turned around and took a few action shots of the congregation at prayer.

The priest didn’t bat an eyelid. He’s probably used to it. But I’m an anti-religion, severely agnostic cynic and I’m appalled. What were these people thinking? Did they mistake religion for theatre? Did they not care at all about other people’s beliefs? Or couldn’t they resist a good photo opportunity?

Lots of people are of the mistaken opinion that I am a chilled, laid-back and accepting kind of person. This is completely and utterly not true, and here is the proof.

I recently had to take a 40-minute journey on the tube. This did not bother me. Although the tube is not the most pleasant place to pass time,  it is a good opportunity to immerse oneself  in ‘a good book’.

So I settled down and all was well for a while. Well, until precisely the next stop where a man, a deceptively ordinary-looking man, got on and sat opposite me. He had an old supermarket bag which he placed on his lap. This should have warned me – ever since I witnessed a seatside fight between a cinema-goer and a rustler at the National Film Theatre, I have been weary of men and plastic supermarket bags.

But I digress. This supermarket bag was full of bananas. And the man proceeded to take one out, peel it and eat it, all the time gazing straight ahead into the middle distance behind me. This was fine. He wasn’t staring at me. And he was after all, just a man eating a banana.

Then he ate another. It was at this point that I noticed his Keith from Nuts in May eating style – that kind of slow, methodical, thoughtful chewing where you just know that he is carefully counting the correct number of chews in his head. And still he stared straight-ahead at that mysterious point just behind my right ear.

By the third banana, my skin was beginning to creep and by the fourth, all attempts to concentrate on my book were drowned out by an intense desire to shove it down his throat and choke him with it.

I didn’t wait around to see the fifth banana. As he pulled it from his bag, I leaped to the door and defiantly turned my back on him and his stupid, bloody bananas.

Later, I told my sorry tale to a friend. ‘But’ she said reasonably ‘he was just eating bananas. What’s wrong with that?’. ‘It was the way he was eating them’ I explained. ‘I thought that you Australians were meant to be laid-back.’ was her puzzled, yet completely irritating reply.

She is lucky that I didn’t have a banana on me as I know where I would have placed it.

A recurring theme in this blog as well as many others  (yes, I mean some of you listed over there on the right hand side) is fretting about the state of manners in the world today. People are just so rude we complain, wringing our hands and feeling generally exasperated.

Well, I’ve had my comeuppance this week.

Our mailing house at work has screwed up royally, sending out our latest missive to the wrong names at the right addresses. Now because all the recipients on this list have signed up to receive the mailing, are expecting it, have received it for years and could probably guess what it was from the envelope, I hoped that most of them would recognise that there had simply been a stuff up and open it anyway.

But no.

We’ve been besieged by calls from people asking what they should do. In response, I carefully explain the problem to them, stress that as usual there is nothing personal inside and that they should feel free to open it anyway. ‘But it’s not addressed to me!’ they say, ‘It’s not right, it’s impolite to open someone else’s mail’.

Grrr.

Just when I want people to rude and impolite, they’re not.

Typical.

Spotted over the past five days:

1. A young man roller-skating down a main street near our house, loaf of bread in one hand, shopping bag of groceries in the other.
2. A young woman roller-skating down Bethnal Green High Street clutching a briefcase.
3. A middle aged man inspecting the different ranges of compost available at our local Homebase – yes, on roller-skates.

Although I proudly passed my level 1 roller-skating certificate at age 9 (ripping round the rink to our local roller-skating classic ‘(Are You Ready) Do the Bus-stop’ by the Fatback Band without crashing even once), I cannot possibly conceive roller-skating down a busy London street with both hands full not expecting to die.

So what’s going on? Are we in the midst of some kind of roller-skating revival at the moment? Is this the new, trendy alternative to bicycles? Do people just like dicing with death? And more importantly, are any of you closet roller-skaters?

I am not a huge fan of festivals. Standing in a field of mud, getting wet, getting sunburnt, queuing for hours for a drink, queuing for hours for the loo, your favourite band playing a remarkably average set somewhere in the middle distance, getting bored and leaving before the headlining act comes on… no, music festivals were never my cup of tea to begin with.

But what really stops me from going to festivals is other people. As a time-honoured music snob, I’ve been long convinced that most people who go to festivals do not actually like music. Festivals are just another item on the social calendar, another ‘experience’ that needs to be ticked off by the cool and the trendy. Why else would someone pay ££££ to see a load of great bands, then just proceed to talk/pass-out/take endless photos of themselves and their designer wellies through the gig? Basically, the kind of people who go to festivals are the kind of people I would prefer to avoid.*

So you’ll understand how delighted I was to see a new shop open in Spitalfields recently which is entirely dedicated to making the festival experience even easier for this kind of person. It is called the Marsh-mallow Festival Boutique.

This clearly much-needed addition to the cultural life of East London not only sells tickets to festivals, but all the festival accessories you could ever need – designer wellies and waterbottles, cool sleeping bags (as seen on The Apprentice apparently), ’stylish’ hats, ‘in’ umbrellas, eco-friendly plastic macs and limited edition Raybans – everything the cool, trendy person could possibly need to make their summer festival experience one to remember.

Except liking music perhaps.

* with apologies to all the people reading this who um, like going to festivals – I’m sure you’re all very nice really and didn’t buy a £129 pair of wellies especially for the occasion.

Our local tube station has been home to a lot of tutting about an attempted robbery that took place there the previous weekend. The scandal is that it happened in the middle of the day. Convention dictates that crime is only meant to lurk amongst us at night.

Not in my world it doesn’t. The midday tube station robbery, like Prousts Madeleine, instantly took me back to one of my favourite crime moments, one which I still can’t believe actually happened to me.

It was a normal week day morning in the inner city Sydney suburb where I used to live when I was a student. I had gotten up disgustingly early at around 10am and found myself in the dire situation of not having any milk or coffee in the house. So, without a second thought, I headed out the door to buy some. It was a glorious morning I recall: clear blue skies, warm with a slight breeze and the streets of terraced cottages were ringing with birdsong (or squarwking as it tends to be in Sydney). Despite the lack of caffeine in my bloodstream, I felt happy and at peace with the world.

Suddenly I was rudely awoken from my reverie by a young man rushing up to me shouting and waving something. ‘Give me all your money’ he seemed be saying. I was kind of annoyed that he was interfering in my ‘moment’ and my quest for coffee and must have just looked at him in disbelief.

‘Give me all your money or I’ll kill you’ he continued. I looked down and realised that he was pointing a syringe disturbingly close to my chest. ‘It’s full of AIDs. I’ve got AIDS and I’ll stab you with this and kill you’ he added usefully.

I don’t know what came over me, but I was just really irritated. I told him that I didn’t have any money, that I was a broke student and just had a couple of bucks that I was going to buy coffee with. He could have that but it probably wouldn’t go very far now would it?

He just looked dumbfounded and said lamely ‘But I’ll stab you with the needle’.

Frustrated I shouted ‘And I’ve only got $5!!!’

At that he just turned and ran away, telling me to forget that this ever happened. I went and bought milk and coffee, and it was only when I was back home at the kitchen table that the reality of what had just happened really hit me and that my behaviour may have been a bit risky. Still, I was fine and I called the police who dutifully took pages of notes. Nothing else happened. And that’s the end of the story.

Wonder what ever happened to him though.

We went to see Alfred Hitchcock’s last British film The Lady Vanishes over the weekend. It was great, quite possibly the funniest Hitchcock film I’ve ever seen. I particularly liked the way it gently poked fun at the English abroad, as well as at traditional ‘English reserve’.

Ironically, in the packed cinema where I saw it, one man in our row showed no sign of any reserve whatsoever. He was a proud father taking his young daughter to the cinema to share with her what was clearly a favourite film. It started off well. Briefly. Then about 10 seconds into the opening credits his excitement at the occasion started to overwhelm him:

‘Alfred Hitchcock!! See, he’s the director. I love Alfred Hitchcock!’
‘I know Dad….’

This set him off for the next 90 minutes, meaning that the rest of the film was punctuated by his exclamations and her writhing in her seat, trying to ignore him.

‘The next scene has the lady who vanishes… that’s her!’
‘Don’t worry, she vanishes soon.’
‘She vanishes in this sequence, I think…’
‘Yes, it’s this one.’
‘Ooooh, this bit’s good.’
‘No, this scene’s better. This one’s my favourite.’
‘He doesn’t actually kill the lady you know…’
‘Isn’t this bit just great?!’
‘Did you see that? Genius!’
etc. etc. etc.

Unfortunately, I was overcome by my reserve and didn’t tell him to shut up. Let’s hope it was all worth it in the end though, and father and daughter successfully bonded. At least she’ll have some memories (fond or otherwise) of going to the movies with her Dad, and she’ll probably always remember his love of The Lady Vanishes. As will I.