Cocktails and Records

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.

Me and Christmas don’t get along very well:

1. It thinks it’s a Christian celebration. I’m not a Christian and think they stole it off the pagans anyway.
2. It thinks it’s a time for families to come together. I think it’s a sad society that needs an excuse to do this – what’s wrong with the rest of the year?
3. It thinks that giving one another gifts is a sign of love and appreciation. I think that if showing your love means giving your nearest and dearest a copy of today’s Amazon Christmas gift recommendation How to Fossilise Your Hamster: And 99 Other Experiments to Try at Home then you’re in trouble.

However, for the sake of harmony, I’m trying to offer an olive branch to Christmas.

For one, I am entering into the festive spirit by consuming lots of stilton and port.

But try as I might, boy is Christmas is annoying me today:
.

1. The streets are clogged with harassed and stressed shoppers getting in the way of me buying ordinary things like milk and newspapers.
2. Royal Mail managed to deliver the Christmas card I sent second class to the designers I work with before the slightly more important proofs which I sent first class a day earlier.
3. The banks festive tinsel fell on my head when I visited my local branch at lunchtime.

Has Christmas seen through my pretence, cottoned on to my true feelings for it and is now beginning to plot against me?