Lost Blog: Live From London

A year ago, I attended a book launch for the fabulous Boys & Girls collection. My friend Kristian had a story included in the collection and was going to be doing a reading, which was all very exciting. The plan was thus: go into London, meet the lovely Dombo (K’s sister and all round fab and gorge bestest type friend of mine), have a quick drink and then go along to launch, mix with fabulous literary types, etc, etc.


Now, I’ve usually got a notepad near me. This helps with my incessant list making and also enables me to make sense of the random thought explosions that occur within my head. On the way in, I decided that I’d make notes about my evening and blog them the following day. Then I got caught up in all the drama (ie. a bit drunk) and forgot all about the blog, until I came across my pad today. Hurrah!


3.30pm: Arrive at Stanmore tube station courtesy of Peasant Wagon (driven by insane bus driver harbouring vicious, burning hatred for bus riding section of humanity if errant, care-free "driving" is anything to go by.) Take in the view of fancy houses to the left of the station and instantly remember the time I got left behind on school trip (aged 15) to London and actually wandered past these houses in middle of the night looking for a police station as thought I was going to raped/pillaged/generally slayed. Smile to self that I am still alive (no thanks to negligent teacher who spent the rest of the term attempting to bore me to death) and ponder at smallness of world that I would one day come to live in these parts even though suffered trauma/drama. Buy ticket whilst looking (or least trying to look) wistful.


3.40pm: Am oddly worried by insane man standing on platform saying to self: ‘John. John. John.’ Platform is empty save for me and insane man. Does he know who I am? I do the typical London thing and ignore him. He is far too twitchy, dirty and I can smell him from 10 metres away. He smells of sweaty cheese and UHT milk.


3.41: Clamber aboard stationary train. Find empty carriage, which means I can sing for a few stops and pretend that I am in a music video. Yes, really. (NOTE FROM THE FUTURE: I still do this. Hoooray!) Decide to select seat near door, next to glass panel so only one mad person can sit next to me.


3.43: Doors close. Am still only person in carriage. I can sing! Hurrah!!! Thumb through iPod playlist. Tonight Matthew, I am going to be all five of Westlife. At the same time, yes.


3.45. Hark at me! Am really going for it! Am flying without wings! Am doing the wibble and everything. Even manage lovely key change that, if I were to reproduce on, say, X-Factor, my mentor (Danni Minogue, please) would weep at. In a good way. Even Simon Cowell would say that I’d ‘smashed it’ and I’d cattily reply that I’d like to smash him in the chops. Which I would. Can’t stand the man. All that money and hair like a loo brush. And what’s with his overuse of the word ‘relevant’? Shit off, Simon.


3.46: Arrive at Canons Park. Send ‘DO NOT ENTER THIS CARRIAGE’ vibes to the people on the platform. Man gets on. Looks like he has escaped from the laughing house. I watch him scan the empty seats before deciding to sit his considerable rump next to mine. I curse ye Gods. Realise that man is talking to self. Am concerned that people will think we are together. That’s if he doesn’t stab me first.


3.58: Tube inexplicably stops underground. Is packed now. Lots of people sigh dramatically, including me. Man next to me is still chatting away to self. He is the only one talking. Everyone else is being far too polite/rude to join in. Is too hot. Am starting to a) sweat b) have dark thoughts.


4.00: I fucking hate wanky bastard shitting bollocking filthy nutter filled public transport.


4.20: Hurrah! Am off the tube. Spirits lifted. Receive text from Dombo saying she can’t leave work early, after all. I text her back, encouraging her to feign illness but she is too much of a professional goody two shoes. I elect to have a stroll around.


4.50: Walk down Carnaby Street. See Alan Carr! Much excite and bum sweat! Grin at him as though am maniac from tube. Resist urge to stop him / hug him / declare love for him / hump his leg like an enthusiastic dog. Continue to grin in a fashion that exposes all 32 teeth. Alan makes eye contact, looks mildly terrified and scuttles off. I ring Mr Blokey to share celebrity spot boast.


5.15: Enter Soho. Find self breathing in as everyone seems handsome, trendy and muscular. Feel like fat knacker. Decide to treat self to calorific beer in self defeatist, drown-sorrows type effort.


5.45: 2nd Pint. People watching. There seems to be an abundance of painful looking tattoos. People aren’t wearing much in the way of clothes. Outside it has decided to rain. Rather heavily. Am without a jacket/coat/brolly. Silly me. It is August in Britain. Mid Summer. I should’ve known. When I get rained on, it gives me the rage. Realise that there is no way I can turn up for book hurrah wet as feel minging enough as it is. I can turn up slightly tipsy-wipsy though. Order another pint and contemplate McDonalds. Big Mac Meal. Large? Of course. Don’t ask silly questions, etc.


5.51: Am sick of looking at thin people. Realise that I am luminous green (think rave glow stick) with envy. Decide to pioneer diet based on unlimited consumption of alcohol, kitchen and self loathing. Am surprised that no one has done this before.


5.53: This beer is going down ever so well. Compliments to the bartender. Another! Kronenbourg for EVERYONE! (NOTE FROM FUTURE: Handwriting is becoming increasingly erratic.)


6.00: More people watching. Have positioned self next to two ‘plus sized’ gents who have wandered in out of the howling rain. Other patrons include an old man (possibly deaf) who keeps shouting; shifty/nervous looking man, (possibly married); young man, handsome, (possibly rent boy) and me (possibly presumptuous/bitter.)


6.05: Can’t decide if am getting glad eye from old man (possibly deaf.)


6.07: Fears subside. Old man (possibly also blind) is owner of white stick.


6.10: Discover spot on face.


6.11: Tell self not to pick spot.


6.12: Pick spot.


6.13: Blood. Pain. Self hatred.


6.16: Random thought: I would like to be carried away by a moonlight shadow. Decide that I am suddenly inspired. Decide to write poem.


6.18: Abandon poem. Awful. Just awful.


6.29: Text from Dombo. She is free from work. Arrange to meet her in a bar near her work. Salvation.


6.34: Arrive at bar. Hugs, kisses and general fabulousness. Both of us stand in corner and try and look nonchalant and mysterious. Fail.


7.00: Taxi ride to bar where launch takes place. More fabulousness. Am pissed though. Dombo on her way also. Drinks are expensive, but that fails to stop us. Book is launched! Woop!


11.43: About to get on train home. Chooo! Choooo! So pissed am surprised am not bleeding from eyes. Purchase customary drunk dirt burger meal from Burger King. Service did not come with smile. More of a withering look. I care not.


11.44: Drop half my chips during disaster that comprised getting through ticket barrier. Am always VERY scared going through ticket barrier thing. Always think that I will be too slow and barriers will slam shut, smashing ribcage, causing instant double lung collapse, much pain and undignified death. On dirty floor . Groo.


11.46: Get on empty carriage, muttering to self. Notice that carriage is not empty after all. There is one person sat near far door. Decide to sit next to them and talk to self. They probably want to sing. I can do that too.