londonmark searching for intelligent life in camden town (the search now continues in new york city)
Friday, August 29, 2003
Fifteen-to-One: 5 Five words that I overuse:
'Actually': how redundant. There's very little difference between saying "Is it?" and "Is it actually"? A possible influence for this may have been the Pet Shop Boys' second proper album. I am pleased to note, however, that it is not only my problem, but is even being celebrated in celluloid by Richard Curtis with his first film as a director being entitled Love, Actually.
'Well': the classic thought-pause when asked a question. It can also be said on its own to signify disapproval or indignance or with another word to communicate that something has been done, er, well. Vastly overused in my vocabulary and often used as a substitute for actually committing to anything. It is never, ever used by me in phrases such as "that was well lush", because such things are crimes against language. Also, it's not the early 90s any more, all you cool kids.
'Sorry': this appears to be one of the first and last words out of my mouth most of the time. Somewhere inside the gaping black hole where other people keep their brains is the notion that I have to apologise for my entire existence. Although even I occasionally subscribe to this point of view, there is really no need to apologise for absolutely everything ever. It's a very irritating habit, which I know annoys other people, and for which I would like to say 'sorry'.
'Quite': I use this in a similar way to saying 'well'. 'Quite' is one of the fantastically handy little words in that it is short, easily understood and can mean virtually anything depending on one's intonation. Also, I can say 'quite' to mean 'well, that's because you're a complete moron' whereas the other person will interpret my 'quite' as 'Mark is in complete and utter agreement with me here, on my very reasonable point of view'. How terribly handy.
'Ocelot': I think I may have made this one up. But it is a rather lovely word, isn't it?
Fifteen-to-One: 6 Six things which lead me to believe that today will be a very bad day:
I wake up late and then have to spend twenty minutes looking for my Travelcard. Twenty sodding minutes.
On my walk to Camden Town station, I am asked for spare change twice, offered a Big Issue once and strong-armed into the road because someone isn't looking where they are going once.
The Northern line is, of course, delayed. I am already late and this is making me even more late. The reason given is something to do with blah, blah, blah, we couldn't be bothered, we know we say we run a public transport service but in fact this is just someone's personal train set and they'll run it when they like, thank you very much.
I visualise hacking fellow commuters' limbs off with an axe due to their complete inability to "let passengers off the train first, please" and their utter selfishness with incredibly large and incredibly yellow rucksacks. This may be due to the fact I'm briefly re-reading American Psycho at the moment, a book ill-suited to someone irritated and on a tube train.
Victoria station is packed to the rafters with morons.
All the people at work want to stop me and talk to me while I'm trying to slip in unnoticed. I get a cheery "Good afternoon!" from one of my 'funny' colleagues. I visualise the axe again and decide that it's time for coffee: our coffee machine is out of order.
Fifteen-to-One: 7 Seven things I wish I had learned when I was younger:
Confidence: I wish I had a bit more confidence, particularly in social situations, ie meeting people for the first time. If there is a party where I don't know anyone, I'm likely to be close to the wall/wine, gently and very slowly introducing myself to a small number of people. It can't be genetic, as my sister and father both have the ability to walk into a roomful of strangers, announce their presence and – within 5 minutes – have the entire room loving them.
How to read a map: I've already expatiated about my lack of geographical knowledge, but it really is frustrating at times. Case study: while still at school, my (now) flatmate Mike was driving some friends and I to a house party in Watford. Not being on first-name terms with the Watford ring road one-way system, I sat in the front with the map: expedition navigator Mark. After about 10 minutes, I had no idea where we were but managed – with some small success – to hide this fact. Until we got to a T-junction with a queue of cars behind and Mike asking "Left or right?". After a few moments of "Hang on", "I can't hang on", he asked in all exasperation, "Mark. Left? Or. Right?". To which I replied in all sincerity, "Yes". I'm not entirely sure he's ever forgiven me.
Dealing with emotions: Although only half-English, I seem to have inherited/adopted/had instilled a 'stiff upper lip' mentality when it comes to dealing with annoyance, guilt, triumph or calamity. It's a hybrid between the coping attitude of making sandwiches for the funeral reception when you should be crying your eyes out and the 'not in front of the ranks' discipline of holding feelings tightly inside; the 'wait till I get you home' school of thought.
Electrics: I really would have liked some practical lessons on exactly how to sort out cables so that, for example, I can plug a TV into a video into a cable TV box into a DVD player without running the risk of (a) electrocuting myself, anyone around me, or the entire postcode, (b) ensuring that the only channel we will be able to receive is BBC Parliament, (c) the whole damn lot just packing up and refusing to work.
Self-control: this one speaks for itself and I'm not going to incriminate myself further.
Piano: I had piano lessons when I was much younger and I wish that I had continued with them, because the noises I manage to strangle out of a piano deserve to be prosecuted at a war crimes tribunal. I wasn't terribly good and that was probably because, although I practised, my piano teacher was absolutely rubbish at teaching. Great at piano, appalling at communicating that to me. By contrast, a few years later when I wanted to learn a few basic pieces, I went to my friend's mother who was a piano teacher. Within a few weeks, she had me playing these few pieces like a pro. Unfortunately, I've forgotten them now.
Latin: because I was given Winnie ille Pu ages ago by a very dear friend and it's a real pain reading through it with a dictionary. Even though certain parts of the translation are fairly obvious: Heffalumpus = Heffalump, Ior = Eeyore, Porcellus = Piglet, Pu = Pooh, etc.
Fifteen-to-One: 8 Eight things I think I'm alright at:
Tolerance: I don't really mean tolerance here, I think, perhaps instead I mean acceptance. You have a viewpoint. I have a viewpoint. That's good. We can debate. I'm not going to dismiss your argument simply because it doesn't correlate 100% with my own. That's difference. Which is interesting.
Crosswords: I'm just an addict here, I'm afraid. I don't know why I find them engaging, funny, curious and compelling, but I do. And fortunately, I seem to do fairly well at them. They're simply great fun.
Listening: In true Frasier Crane style, I'm listening. I get genuinely interested and concerned when other people are having problems and, truism of truisms, other people's problems are always (a) a relief from your own, and (b) easier to deal with than your own.
Pool: although some way off brilliant, I am slightly above average at playing pool and occasionally, just occasionally, I can play some good shots. Let's just say that I wouldn't disgrace anyone if I were playing pool in a doubles team with them. Unless it was Steve Davis.
Calmness: I very rarely get angry. I'm not really one for throwing plates, vases or hissy fits. Exasperated, yes. Irritated, yes. Towering-inferno-of-rage, no. And I think I know why, and you can try it at home if you like: repression.
Storytelling: I just really like telling funny stories, whether they are jokes or just situations from my past which people might be able to relate to. In the same way that giving presents is often better than receiving them, I think that although telling stories against yourself is often embarrassing, it can also be a stepping point for other people to open up.
Adaptability: like the frog in a pan of cold water which is heated to boiling point, I can get comfortable in most situations (even a hedge) and with a fairly wide group of people. I think this comes from my father and my godfather, both of whom can speak on terms with both paupers and princes. I hope that I do so half as well as they do.
Diplomacy: by this I don't mean negotiating peace treaties between implacable enemies. Or perhaps I do. Certainly negotiating expedient compromises between parties with separate viewpoints and axes to grind. A lot of the time it's about 'losing face', ie making sure that nobody has to. Besides which, it's a useful skill being able to talk someone who is about to start a fight into buying you a drink.
Fifteen-to-One: 9 Nine things where I "must try harder":
Keeping in touch: I am a sporadic correspondent, where the word 'sporadic' actually means 'crap'. I must note that keeping in touch with someone on an accurate basis means more than simply sending one email to China every three months or so.
Remembering accurately: as a bear of little brain, I am hopeless with names, birthdays, directions, times and all those other minutiae which make up life. I must start to listen to people when they introduce themselves, rather than focus on getting my own name right. Remembering my own age and birthday would be a beginning, also.
Moderating drinking: alright, this is a bit unlikely, but there are only so many headaches and blackouts that anyone is entitled to, and I think I've done more of my fair share. I must learn to say no, especially to the killer pint before last orders.
Being where I'm supposed to be: When people say 'Primrose Hill', they may well mean 'Regent's Park'. They may actually mean 'Primrose Hill'. It's a good idea to check beforehand rather than randomly turning up in a park in North London and hoping. I must remember to check with people where the hell they are, and take a map, before I leave the house and wander through leafy NW1.
Swearing less: apparently, the subsitution of curse words for normal adverbs and adjectives is the sign of a lazy mind. F**king right. I must think before I speak and only swear when it is absolutely, positively necessary, such as when describing traffic wardens, the Northern line or my annual bonus.
Exercising properly: to be honest, exercising at all would be great progress. I must look at an hour's worth of football every month as inadequate exercise rather than 'going mad on that whole health thing'.
Learning sincerity: one of the beauties of the English language is tonality – the word 'really' can be spoken so as to mean about twenty different opinions dependent on the previous sentence. I must begin to use words in an interested and sincere manner rather than treat the entirety of the language simply an opportunity for sarcasm.
Spending less: see point 3 for corroboration. I must learn to stop worrying and love my bank balance.
Dressing appropriately: at some point, my work place will decide that a tatty black t-shirt, some cords and a pair of Nike ACGs is not suitable dress for a grown-up to wear to the office. I must stay one step ahead of them and occasionally wear a proper shirt or something.
Fifteen-to-One: 10 Ten things I just don't understand (culled from a list of thousands):
Geography: I have no idea where anything in the world is, especially not in relation to where anything else belongs. Tanzania? Dean Street? They might be quite close, they might not; I have no idea.
Body: why is it that when I get four hours' sleep after (no surprises here to regular readers) having had a few drinks, I wake up early feeling great, but when I go to bed at a sensible time and get at least 10 hours' sleep, I then feel rotten? All that's aside from various limbs or muscles randomly hurting. I understand it when I've (shock, horror) done some exercise, but when I've done nothing at all?
Money: I know it's nice, I know it's helpful and I know that although a small amount pops into my account at the beginning of each month, it goes away very rapidly despite how little I have to show for it.
Reality TV: I have enough bitching, tension, underhand manoeuvring, mediocrity, intrigue and stupidity in my life already; I'd prefer not to watch it on television as well, thank you.
Sums: I'm not even going to legitimise my lack of knowledge in this area by calling it 'mathematics'. It's 'sums'. And I can't do them – that's why I live with an accountant. Don't even mention long division.
Mobile phones: my mobile phone is always running out of credit (see point 3) and battery life, the ringer is all wrong, the phone book bit is in a mess and goodness, but it's a pain. I resisted getting a mobile for ages and bloody hell it shows. I can text people (but not in txt), call people and that's about it.
Meetings: the very apex of time-wasting. In our company, we adore business meetings whereby everyone gets to chip in with their ridiculous ideas, chew the fat, spout endless garbage and generally annoy. The sum total of all this endeavour? Nil. Why bother? Why ruin my day with a two-hour pow-wow which achieves nothing. I could achieve nothing on my own, I don't need to be in a stuffy room with people I don't know to do that.
Hooligans: what's the point of going to a really important football match abroad and – rather than actually watch your team represent their club or country for 90 minutes through superior skill and elegant finesse – spend the entire time throwing punches and bottles at other people simply because their allegiance is to a different club or country? Is it really worth spending all the time and money getting to the football ground for the express purpose of not watching the game?
Science: what I know about physics, chemistry, biology, et al, could fill a postage stamp and there would still be enough space for the collected works of Ian Fleming. The one thing I do remember is that an apple dropped on Stephen Hawking's head and that's why we have electricity. Or something like that.
Women: I don't think this really needs explanation, my archive (god help me) speaks for itself.
Fifteen-to-one: 11 Eleven things I probably shouldn't have done:
Convinced a friend, who was 'coming up' in the pub at the time, that the pub cat sitting by his feet had been trained to sniff out drugs and indicate this to the bar staff by sitting next to the person who possessed narcotics. Due to his 'altered' state, he did actually believe me.
Responded to a (now ex-) girlfriend who asked "how do I look?" with the words "like a cheap f***ing tart". I was drunk.
Grappled with a mugger in the doorway of The Camden Tup until he gave up and ran off, rather than simply give him the £30 I had just taken out of the cashpoint. When I went back in, the two friends I had left there asked "Mark, why are you bleeding?".
'Liberated' a traffic cone, while driving to a schoolfriend's birthday party, at some traffic lights, to discover that the car behind us was, in actuality, a police car.
Attempted to climb up to my fourth floor flat from the outside, while drunk, when I'd left my house keys somewhere. It was a bit of a fall back to earth.
Convinced someone from the year below me at school, while at a reunion, that I worked in the label design department for Heinz baked beans. Due to his utter gullibility, he did actually believe me.
Reviewed a book for my student newspaper which I had not read. At all.
Driven a drunk best friend to Enfield in his car without a driving licence or insurance or directions.
Drunk inexpensive local red wine in the south of France until I couldn't actually taste it, then continue drinking. Then be violently ill in the bathroom, then refuse to speak to my friends in any language other than in French, then have to lie in bed in searing summer heat with a pounding headache for two days with the Colossus of all hangovers.
Called my mother on New Year's Eve to wish her a happy new year just before my drunk best friend saw a police car and shouted loudly to me, "Mark, let's nick the cop car!".
Slept in a hedge in Radlett rather than walk the extra 100 yards to my friend's house. I was drunk.
Become Pope Mark I and immediately install all my friends as Cardinals and Archbishops, change loads of Catholic doctrine to make the church less, well, annoying, and immediately announce Prada as the official couturier to the Roman Catholic church ("really dig those tailored vestments, Your Holiness").
Captain a spaceship, taking it to strange new worlds, etc, etc.
Rebuild the library of Alexandria, staff it with librarians and then refuse to lend any of the books or manuscripts.
Win a Nobel prize. For what, I have no idea, but it's always nice to be appreciated.
Defeat Alexander the Great, Napoleon, Sun Tzu, Genghis Khan, Charlemagne and Marc Anthony in pitched battle.
Be a really evil Bond villain with an underground lair, sharks, henchmen and a diabolical plot to rule the world, mwah-ha-ha.
Entirely redesign the London Underground network so that it actually works.
Suddenly, and for no explicable reason, get up out of my chair at work and launch myself out of my fourth-floor window (parachute hidden under my jacket, naturellement). It might surprise my colleagues.
Track down and trade barbed jibes with Professor Moriarty before pursuing him through a series of adventures, intrigues and imbroglios until the day of reckoning between us.
Anything I've seen in films where I have immediately said "Wow!" afterwards; I want to do all that.
Fifteen-to-One: 13 Thirteen things that will bring you bad luck:
Breaking a mirror.
Walking under a ladder.
Spilling salt.
A black cat walking across your path.
Giving your credit card details to someone you met over email who purports to be from Nigeria and can give you a percentage of their wealth for only a small initial investment on your part.
Approaching Mike Tyson and claiming that he is one of the following:
a poor little stress bunny, who's a bunnikins, yes … you are, yes you are.
Fifteen-to-One: 14 Fourteen things I do but I don't know why:
Keep cufflinks in my bag even though I've worn short-sleeved shirts for the past two months.
Still expect my teddy bear, Edward, to respond one day when I'm talking to him.
Keep my Newcastle United shirt neatly on a hanger while my expensive Jermyn Street shirts lay all over the place.
Say 'thanks' to someone after I've done them a favour.
Forget that my sister isn't just a good mate, she's actually related to me.
Push the bridge of my glasses up, even though I'm not wearing them at the time.
Drink Guinness out of an Old Speckled Hen glass when this doesn't affect the taste, consistency or temperature of the drink in any way at all.
Say I'm rubbish at things even when I know I'm quite good at them.
Check the destination of the northbound Northern Line tube trains from Euston, despite the fact that all trains northbound from Euston go to Camden Town regardless of Edgware or High Barnet branch.
Add pepper to food before I taste it.
Chastise my computer although this has no discernible effect on its operations.
Ask "in what sense?" rather than reply to a question, even if I know what is meant by the question.
Check the time when I have the entire day free with nothing to do.
Things Mark thinks are stupid The third in an occasional series Heathrow Terminal 4. Because it's a massive pain in the arse to reach, they don't let you stop there for longer than twelve nanoseconds, the trolleys never work properly and driving there will result in you enduring traffic jams in Chiswick, the Hammersmith flyover, the flyover by Royal Oak, around Marylebone station as well as getting into work two hours late and grrr, it makes me mad.
The art of losing
Loss, like elation, desperation or euphoria, is one of the extremes of human emotion. The way in which a person deals with loss is often a good indication of their character. To follow a much-hackneyed quotation:
If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it all on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breath a word about your loss
… you'll be a man, my son.
'If' – Rudyard Kipling (1865-1936)
There many different types of loss, some more serious than others, and our reactions to those different kinds of loss take different shapes and forms but all contribute to others' perceptions of us, and often our perceptions of ourselves. How we believe that we respond to events fashions our furthering attitudes and informs our future actions. And sometimes – only sometimes – we actually learn something about ourselves.
Games
Some of us are good at games, some of us aren't. In England there is very much the culture of the dignified loser. We seem better equipped to laud a player or team who have striven to reach the apex of their sport but have failed at the last hurdle than we are able to celebrate outright success. Think Tim "Choker" Henman. Would the general population be quite so endeared to him if he actually won Wimbledon one day? I'm not sure.
I think this is something to do with the culture of amateurism which has traditionally been key to English life. The notion of the 'gentleman amateur' has persisted from the days of Empire, since chinless wonder blue-bloods were shipped through their public schools, Oxbridge and then sent out to rule the natives in some far-flung country which they had probably never heard of before.
Kazuo Ishiguro sums up the mentality perfectly in The Remains of the Day, through the character of the noble diplomat, Lord Darlington, addressing the professional American congressman:
"Let me say this. What you describe as 'amateurism', sir, is what I think most of us here still prefer to call 'honour'."
And so in sports and games, we must be prepared to lose. Indeed, we are almost coached not only to lose but, if we win, to take as little pleasure as possible from it; we simply mustn't be a bad winner. No gloating, no exultation and certainly no baiting those whom you have defeated. Take the plaudits quietly, mumble something about luck, pay tribute to all competitors and then beat a hasty retreat.
Likewise, we should never be a bad loser. The posture is common: head slightly down, arms either folded high across the chest or hands clasped and held by the waist, face showing disappointment but in a good-natured way. We compliment the winner on his/her triumph, rue our own shortcomings, and then stand to one side while the laurels are distributed. Not for us the hair-wrenching or berserker rampages of other sporty types, no sir. Quiet, pathetic defeat on the sidelines; far more dignified, you know.
Objects
At school, we had a lost property office. By the end of my first term, they had come to know me very, very well, due to my inability to keep any personal items with me for longer than approximately two weeks. It was merciful that we were required to sew name-tags into all our sports kits and school uniform otherwise I could have got through an entire haberdashery within the space of twelve weeks.
Postcards and letters, t-shirts and sweaters, passports and parkas, mobiles and chargers
Two tennis racquets, blue Rizla packets, a new sheepskin jacket, I lost it all
Through my life, there have been many rare and precious things I have tried to call mine
But I just cannot seem to keep hold of anything for more than a short time
Possessions of a sentimental kind: they were mine, now they're not.
'Lost Property' – The Divine Comedy, Regeneration (2001)
Each year in London, 60,000 items of lost property are recovered by passengers and visitors to the capital who have lost their umbrellas, watches, wallets, briefcases and the suchlike. 135,000 items were handed in across the tube network last year to the Lost Property Office in Baker Street, where they keep all the little items that careless people like me lose. Except not all the lost property is exactly run-of-the-mill: a bag full of Australian Aboriginal grubs, a kitchen sink (yes, literally), two funeral urns and a wedding dress feature as some of the more exotic objets manqués.
As a past master of being able to lose things even when they have been surgically grafted onto me, there are several tips I can offer to minimise the danger of being parted from your most valuable keepsakes and chattels:
Keep your bag tidy; that way you'll realise instantly where everything belongs and when something is missing
Run through a mental checklist of what you are carrying when you leave your house or workplace, as this helps you to remember what you're carrying
Keep the same things in the same pockets; you'll familiarise yourself with having certain things in certain places and come to expect them to be there
If possible, put things in pockets where you will be able to feel their presence, ie a mobile in a trouser pocket or a wallet in an inside jacket pocket; you will be instantly aware when they are not there
Stop being such a slovenly, careless, featherbrained, slipshod moron.
I hope that these tips will help you become as organised and efficient as I am. In which case, God help you.
Relationships
Breaking up with your partner is one of the most intimate losses than an individual can experience, made all the worse because often you not only lose the other person but their family, their friends, places you've been together, books you've read out to each other on sunny days in the garden, the smell of their hair first thing in the morning while they are still asleep, the feel of their skin when they've stepped out of the shower, the shared jokes and comments which were whispered laughingly behind cupped hands, and all the little details which make a relationship so much more than a friendship.
On the face of it, you have lost your partner. A shared unit is now a solitary unit. A single bed which seemed as cramped as a matchbox now feels the size of an aircraft carrier. A ready meal for two is now slightly too much rather than not quite enough, and they don't steal scraps from your plate while you're not looking any more. The loss you feel in your mind and your heart is made more concrete by the everyday routines which were previously set for two, but which must now adapt back to one.
Everyone deals with such losses in different ways, such as lapsing into solitude and feeling self-pitying by shutting themselves away from the world. Alternatively, others choose to go to the other extreme by becoming the social dervish of their group of friends, always the first for a drink, always at the centre of the dancing. Some swear off relationships for life, unwilling or unable at that time to expose themselves to the emotional pain again. Others, more in need of validation than companionship, immediately seek out a new, replacement partner to rekindle the embers of being in a couple.
Although the memories of relationships past stay in most of our minds and, with time, crystallise into snapshots in our inner photo album, breaking up with someone often makes us lose our affections for other things as well: the restaurant of the first date, the favourite park bench for reading the Sunday newspapers, the rendezvous point outside the tube station after work. All these are lost also, occasionally to flicker back into life when in some years to come, you walk past that restaurant and smile gently to yourself.
And I suppose that's the real art of losing. You can lose anything between a game of chess, a satchel or your girlfriend and you will feel annoyance, irritation, anger, fear, betrayal, jealousy, resentment or heartbreak. But, and there is always a 'but', for the really important things in life, you know that later on down your road, you'll catch a glimpse of the jacket she always wore, or smell his favourite aftershave, or notice the way in which someone moves their hair exactly the way your former partner did, and you'll transport back to your memories. And they are a lot harder to lose than anything else in the world.
The art of laughing
Laughter is apparently the best medicine; personally, I prefer paracetamol and a shot of Jamesons, but maybe that's just me. In most social gatherings, there is a premium placed on laughter, except of course at funerals, the memorial services of loved ones and stand-up comedy shows featuring Jo Brand.
An afternoon spent at a friend's house, going out to the pub in the evening, or a Sunday lunch – if you're out with friends at any of these or other relaxed, sociable situations, then there will probably be laughter. It's important to be funny, or at least to appreciate funny things and demonstrate that appreciation vocally, by laughing.
Most people tend to divide into one of two categories: they're either the peacock or the hyena:
The peacock
Do you have a compulsive urge to wisecrack in any given situation? Are you powerless before the god of puns? Can you remember jokes easily and tell them well? Can you perform a complete 15 minute stand-up routine about a colander? Is wordplay a close personal friend who comes round to your place often and never forgets your birthday? If your answers to these questions are 'yes', then you are a peacock.
You enjoy showing off to others and getting them to laugh, you are persistent in your dedication to the perfect punchline and relentless in your pursuit of absurdist gaggery. You are the life and soul of the party. You may need to get out more and stop watching all those Eddie Izzard videos on sunny days in your living room with the curtains closed.
The hyena
Do you enjoy listening to other people tell stories? Do you like to be amused? I make you laugh, huh? Do I? What am I, a clown to you? Am I here to amuse you? Do you show your enjoyment of a well-told shaggy dog story or pithy one-liner very loudly? If your answers to these questions (or at least the ones not directly stolen from Goodfellas) are 'yes', then you are a hyena.
Although you are not a joker yourself, you love nothing better than sitting back and listening to a good raconteur tell a funny anecdote. Like as not, you'll be laughing in between the various elements of the joke, setting yourself up for a huge guffaw at the end when the punchline hits. Your laughter scares children and small animals within a radius of five miles from your person.
Whether you are the peacock or the hyena, you will encounter many different forms of laughter upon hearing a joke, seeing some particularly amusing sight gag, or simply watching somebody trying to get out of a canoe and ending up capsizing into the water, losing one of their shoes, grazing their thigh and catching Weil's Disease.
Smirking
Not really a laugh, because the smirk is silent, but it is a stepping stone on the way to real, audible laughter. Smirking is often considered to be related to smutty stories, anecdotes or jokes. Failed chat-up lines are often the most common cause of smirks:
If I said you had a great body, would you hold it against me?
How you doin'?
Is there a mirror in your underwear? Why? Because I can see myself in them.
How do you like your eggs in the morning?
Are you legal?
None of these are, per se, funny, so there's no need to laugh. It is only when you discover that someone has tried any of these in real life (with the inevitable crash-and-burn result, one would hope) that you feel the need to laugh, and so the smirking begins. A smirk is often also an indication that you have told a joke and, though not funny, there is a need to acknowledge the fact that something nearly funny nearly occurred: it's a good halfway house.
Tittering
Similarly to smirking, tittering is not quite a full laugh. Tittering is appropriate for risqué humour, stories of inappropriate behaviour, the recounting of failed chat-up lines in a self-effacing manner or just gossip. A main drawback to tittering is that you will definitely be compared to Dick Dastardly's canine companion Muttley, whose tittering has become the stuff of legend to generations of children raised on Hanna-Barbera cartoons.
Tittering can be done in one of two principal ways. Firstly, and most commonly, through the mouth. Air escapes through closed teeth where the lips are slightly open, with the emanating sound resembling a "tss-hss-hss-hss-hss" sound, as though Kaa from the Jungle Book is desperately trying to exhale but Shere Khan has one of his paws resting fairly heavily just below the snake's throat.
The second way to titter is through the nose, with the mouth closed. This noise is more of a "hmm-hmm-hmm-hmm-hmm" and sounds similar to the sound of a steam locomotive travelling really quite fast through a canyon area, where the sound of the smoke escaping from the funnel has been echoing through the valley, but you are several miles away and can only just make out that it is a train. Something like that.
Reactions to the titter are not always positive though; often it is taken as an indication that you are only laughing politely while not finding the story humorous in the slightest. You must therefore ensure that you are smiling while you titter, in order to convince the storyteller that you are enjoying his narration. It also helps to (a) look them in the eyes, (b) remember what they say in order that you pinpoint the bit you enjoyed most, should they ask you to retell their tale, (c) take off your headphones while they are talking and (d) be in the same room as them.
Chuckling
A chuckle is a popular form of laughter, both for the peacock and the hyena. The peacock likes to hear a chuckle because it is one of the accepted forms of genuine amusement, indicating that s/he has told their story well. The hyena likes to chuckle because it makes them sound generous in their praise of the joke, as well as making them appear to be generally good-humoured and able to take a joke. Chuckling at a joke is definitely a win-win scenario for all concerned.
Most jokes told receive a chuckle because most jokes told are not superbly funny but amusing enough to prevent you from poking your eyes out with a the corkscrew attachment of a Swiss Army knife. Some (brief) examples of chuckle-worthy humour include:
Did you hear about the Irish orphanage which had a parents evening?
How many mice does it take to screw in a lightbulb? Two, but they have to be careful to avoid the filament.
What's black and white and red all over? A penguin who supports Manchester United.
So none of them are exactly comic gold, but they're old favourites which are fairly likely to get a bit of a chuckle.
Guffawing
This is generally only done by those hyenas who really do love a story, or people with enough lung capacity to inflate a Zeppelin. Upon hearing the punchline, you have to tilt the head back, roll the eyes, thrust your chest forward and let out an short but repeating bellow of laughter, generally at a volume disproportionate to your surroundings; if you are laughing in the Millennium Stadium in Cardiff, this means you will probably need to train as an opera singer before attempting to fill that place with guffaws.
Those who guffaw are most likely to be people unable to moderate the tone of their voice anyway, and may need some time after the laugh to recover their (thin veneer of) poise. This recovery period will be accompanied by wiping tears of mirth from their eyes, holding their stomach to indicate that such prolonged and decibel-heavy laughter has caused their sides to ache, and perhaps noise of an "oh" variety to indicate that while they still want to laugh, they are trying to calm the engine down to allow the teller to begin a fresh story.
Be wary of those who guffaw. Although some guffaw in genuine appreciation, others may be attempting to upstage the joke-teller, to prove that their ability to respond to a joke is superior to the teller's ability to relate the joke. Don't let them steal your limelight. If necessary, begin your next joke while they are still recovering, thus making it impossible for them to wind down in an attention-seeking manner. If they do try to interrupt you, then they will have ruined the set-up of the joke and will be seen as a bad sport. You've got to let them know who's boss.
Shrieking
The high-pitched hellish laughter of the damned, shrieking is the refuge of those who have no self-control whatsoever. If you have a shrieker in the crowd of people you are entertaining, give up. They will simply not bloody stop. Shriekers tend to be (a) drunk, (b) drunk, (c) drunk or (d) girls. Although there are always a few male shriekers in any crowd, men will probably attempt to turn their shriek into a guffaw before the laugh reaches its highest pitch; I think it's something to do with testosterone or their voice breaking or puberty or whatever.
Certain women, however, sacrifice their pleasant chuckling for a more banshee-like primal shriek which scares away any pets in the postcode, has the ability to shatter glass at up to a mile's distance and causes anyone with even a mild cold to grab their ears in an attempt to stop them bleeding. If you are lucky, however, the shrieker will stop after a few minutes to collect themselves. If you are really, really unlucky the shrieking can continue for up to ten minutes, only slightly diminishing in volume, and thus ruining any attempt for a follow-up story.
Seek out shriekers and make sure that you only tell them unfunny jokes; although they will form an opinion of you as a poor raconteur, your cat will thank you for it.
Groaning
And then there is, of course, the groan. Groaning is the companion to laughter; in many ways, it is a form of laughter itself, though in a less complimentary and appreciative way. The groan is most often heard when someone has heard the joke before but doesn't want to stay silent. It is also useful when the joke or the punchline is in poor taste and you wish to register that although you think it's funny, you are still a decent, upright, moral citizen who in no way wishes to make fun of others, ie you want to weasel out of it.
There is a tendency amongst groaners to adopt this laugh as their standard laugh for every story, situation or punchline. This can be a dangerous thing for the groaner because at best, it makes them out to be someone who has heard every joke before and therefore a spectacularly bad audience. At worst, it makes them out to be prudish, puritanical and slightly oversensitive on behalf of others. If the response you receive every time you tell a joke is "You really shouldn't say that, you know", then you are less likely to tell that person any more jokes.
I'm not too sure how possible it is to change your style of laughing. Some people go through the entire range of laughter depending on the situation, whereas others will laugh exactly the same way at almost everything. Some people rarely laugh at all, whereas others will laugh at even the most unfunny things or situations where laughter is incredibly inappropriate. Some people will bellow with mirth at the slightest bon mot, whereas others will remain blank-faced at undisputed comic genius. The only real conclusion is that it's a funny thing, laughing.
The art of lazing
The trouble with being really lazy these days is that it demands such effort. When I was a child, lazing seemed such an easy thing to do, especially at the weekends, in the evenings, and during chemistry lessons. Now, with the work and social pressures of mid-twenties life, lazing is something which you have to put in your calendar or organiser: "8.30pm-8.45pm: Laze. Set reminder for 5 minutes."
There are, of course, ways in which you can maximise your laziness, to make sure that you achieve absolutely nothing during your allotted period of lethargic meandering. There's no point just turning up somewhere and beginning to laze; you might actually get something useful done before you know where you are. It's a slippery slope out there, you know.
At home
Mmm … a lazy day beckons ahead of you. You wake up naturally, without any rude alarm clock interruption, and probably stretch your arms or rub your eyes. Alert: don't get up. Repeat: do not get up. If you are to be lazy today, the last thing you want to do is start actually moving only minutes after waking. Don't be silly; give yourself at least half an hour laying in bed, muttering "Mmm" to yourself, perhaps hugging your duvet appreciatively, maybe even fluffing up your pillows just a little bit more.
When you have decided that to stay in bed any longer would make you resemble Sloth from the film Seven, you can get up and start doing what you would normally do to get ready. This should be influenced by only one thing: slowness. Follow your routine, just make sure that it takes that little bit longer. Do you normally shower in ten minutes? Make it fifteen today. Do you normally gulp down your breakfast before running to the tube? Well, today, you can spend an hour over breakfast while reading the paper.
You are now ready for the challenges of the day ahead. There are two alternatives: it is fair weather or is it horrible weather?
A. Fair weather
Go into your garden or, if you don't have one, your communal garden for your block of flats or housing estate. If you don't even have a communal garden, then go into someone else's garden. The probability is highly weighted in your favour that they will be at work, so you don't have to worry about rude interruptions, irate neighbours or threats of being shot for trespassing. Items you should take with you include:
a beach towel
a folding deckchair
a book/magazine/newspaper
a notebook and pen/pencil
a cold beverage, preferably bottled
a lighter and your cigarettes
a Walkman/Discman/iPod (with sufficient tapes/discs/MP3s)
You are now ready to spend hours lounging in the sun, drinking your iced tea/real lemonade, smoking cigarettes and generally doing nothing. Should you wish to lie prone, you have your towel. Otherwise, the deckchair will provide you with back comfort. You will probably do absolutely zero but you have diversionary options with the reading and listening material, should you need them. At no point should you try to think serious thoughts; save that for when you are stuck at your desk at work, ie when someone else is paying you.
B. Horrible weather
Go into your living room/drawing room. Light the fire or, if you have no fire, turn up the heating. If you have no heating, then wear as many jumpers and cardigans as you own. Select the most comfortable armchair you have or, if you prefer, the sofa. Drag the armchair/sofa as close to the fire as can be achieved without burning either your furniture or yourself. Items you should have with you include:
a cup of tea
some biscuits
a deck of cards
a notebook and pen/pencil
a book/magazine/newspaper
a lighter and your cigarettes
Just a reminder: in both nice and horrible weather, you should ensure that your mobile phone is most definitely switched off. If it's urgent, they can send a carrier pigeon.
In the park
Park preparation is remarkably similar to being at home in nice weather, except that all the items you take with you must fit into a small bag, and you should be prepared for any items to be (a) soaked by rain or some children having a water fight near you, (b) covered in freshly-mown grass blades or dust, (c) broken when an inconsiderate cyclist slams straight into you, causing you to drop your bag, or (d) stolen, because there are some right thieving bastards out there, eh?
When buying a house, the most important thing is location. Location is equally important when picking your spot in the park: too close to the playground and you'll be overrun by tartrazine-overloaded kiddies using your iPod as a frisbee. Too close to the main gates and you'll be dodging insane cyclists, runaway prams and, well, morons. Too far from the ice cream van and your 99 cone and flake will have melted by the time you get back to your idyllic hideaway. So choose carefully.
Once you have located the perfect place, ensure that your towel/rug is placed on an entirely grass area; it is this writer's experience that few things are quite so surprising as plonking yourself down for a pleasant afternoon reading in the park to find that directly under your rear, hidden among the blades of grass, is a surprisingly sharp stone. So surprising in fact that I added a whole new invective layer to my spoken vocabulary (for 'spoken', read 'semi-screamed').
Using your rucksack as a headrest, lie back on your rug, ensuring that any items which are not heavier than an elephant sitting on a Boeing 747 are secured either to your bag, to your person, or to a rather large and instinctively mistrustful Doberman which you have trained since he was a young whelp and who has come to regard you as both mother and father. The following items are particularly valuable and you don't want some spotty criminal making off with them while you are basking in a balmy summer's afternoon:
your wallet
your camera
your keys
your cigarettes
your lighter
your clothes
your private parts
One essential to bring to the park is your sunglasses. These are important because they will enable you to avoid being blinded by the sun's reflection off expensive silvery wristwatches which joggers wear ostentiously while doing their nineteenth circuit of Regent's Park to prove that not only are they richer than you, but they're also healthier and fitter. Gits. Also, gentlemen, sunglasses allow you to look at pretty girls while avoiding any of those awkward eye contact, strained body language or substantially large boyfriend problems.
Just a reminder: in the park, you should ensure that your mobile phone is most definitely switched off. If it's urgent, they can send a helicopter.
On holiday
Whether you are holidaying in the UK or abroad, the best places to go to laze are the beach and by the hotel swimming pool. This is because all the active people who have gone on holiday with you will be placated by the range of options of things to do, leaving you free to ignore them completely and get some shut-eye. If they insist on plaguing you with their ridiculously unreasonable demands, such as "Let's play volleyball", "Let's go up to the top diving board" or "Give me my room key, I need my medication", then you can claim with some justification that the recommended course of action for them is to sod off.
In a hot climate, you may well find that you wake up earlier than usual. Only those devoid of backbone would consider this to be an instruction to get up. Do you want to laze or don't you? If the answer is yes, then you should immediately take steps to get back to sleep, ie lie there until you fall asleep. You're on holiday, there's no need to rise before 11.00am. Then, when awake and breakfasted, you can pack your small rucksack and head for the pool, the beach, a sandy little isolated cove near the bay, a quiet bank by the river or anywhere else where (a) there are no people or (b) there are no people worth talking to.
Lazing in the sunshine can very easily be ruined by one element: sunburn. There is one very easy way of ensuring you don't get burned: do not step into direct sunlight, never mind stay there for longer than twelve picoseconds. This is, however, not necessarily practical for all holidaymakers. Other recommended options are to wear light, airy clothing which will protect you, such as cotton t-shirts or shorts over your swimwear, covering yourself with sunblock or tanning lotion, or alternating periods of sunbathing with swimming in cool water such as the sea or your swimming pool. Staying away from the damned sun might still be safest, though.
On no account should you involve yourself in any form of activity holiday unless you have brought along with you a butler, valet or gullible friend, ie someone to do all the work for you. Camping, whitewater rafting, skiing, paragliding … well, quite obviously, none of these are going to allow to laze around doing zero work. You shouldn't even be thinking about them, you fool.
Just a reminder: on holiday, you should ensure that your mobile phone is most definitely switched off. If it's urgent, they can arrange for you to be extradited.
At work
This is a bit trickier. One way of lazing at work is to play on the internet; this is not pure lazing because your eyes and your mouse finger are actually moving, but it is certainly more lazy than doing what you're paid to do. An even more advanced way of lazing is to return to the same sites each workday and provide some feedback on the words they have written. If you're going to be really, really lazy and workshy, though, you could try and write something daily yourself for your own little area of the superinterhighwebnetway, some kind of log of your life on the web. Not sure what you'd call it though.
Just a reminder: at work, you should ensure that your mobile phone is most definitely switched off. If it's urgent, they can get someone else to do it.
So, these are just a few ways of honing your skills at the art of lazing. As you can see, though, I need to practice a bit more myself. If I were truly a master of lazing, I'd never have been bothered to write this far.
Thank you, good night Well, I'm sure we'd all like to thank my guest Kate for livening up the blog during the week, so your offers of bouquets, chocolates and expensive jewellery (or just appreciation) can be placed in the comments below. You're back to just me, so get used to it. ('The art of …' will conclude this week.)
Touch
Shut your eyes, plug your ears, hold your nose, close your mouth. In a limited way, you'll still be able to see, hear, smell, and taste. But you can't even try to impose limits on the sense of touch. We can't purposefully turn off or even mute the receptors that force us to recognise the way something feels against our skin. Feel -- that passive counterpart to touch -- never switches off.
Our sense of touch is constantly on alert. The number of physical feelings we can register at once is amazing. Right now I feel smooth keys against my fingertips, the hard sticky surface of the countertop on which my wrists rest, the prickly upholstery of this chair scratching the backs of my legs, the pressure of the back of the chair against my spine, the smooth rubber of my flip flops, the weight of my purse on my lap, the tiny itch of a displaced eyelash that's landed beside my nose, the dampness of the unmoving air around me, the light touch of my ponytail against the skin between my shoulder blades, the pull on my neck of the halter tie, my own skin against itself where limbs are touching. And that's just while sitting down and typing a post.
Favourite things to touch: Clean, cool bedsheets. Some flower petals. Soft hair. Stickshift. Fountain pen. The hollow of a cheek. Own just-shaved legs. Martini glass. New carpet. Sand. Lips.
Touch When I was very little, my parents would take me on holiday to Dartmouth, on the South coast of Devon. My godfather lived in a flat there, with a fantastic view over the River Dart and out to the sea. The town itself was beautiful, a few miles in from Dartmouth Castle, and with a small square-shaped dock area for locals' boats. This was known as the 'Boat Float'.
Most days we would go to see some of the local sights: Dartmouth Castle, the steam railway from Kingswear to Paignton, the wild ponies on Exmoor, the shingle beach at Slapton Sands, there were always plenty of things to do and, in the years following when we went there most summers, I would never tire of seeing the same things again because there was always something new to discover. When my sister was born and was old enough, we would visit them all over again for her, and I had the bonus of a companion to play with.
Our mornings, however, followed a roughly similar pattern regardless of the varied delights which the afternoon might bring. We would rise, breakfast in the morning room (so called because it had windows only along one side, facing the sun as it rose), get ready and then go into town to buy our food. From the flat, there is a steep hill called Mount Boone which takes the walker directly into the town centre, just by the market. It takes 5 minutes to walk down and 15 minutes to walk up.
My favourite shop in town when I was a child was the fishmongers. We would get there relatively late, around 10.00am, to see row upon row of all kinds of fishes packed onto the ice counters. On the left hand side wall was a massive poster showing the pictures and names of all the fish which could be caught in the British Isles and, if there weren't too many customers, the lady behind the counter would come round and point out which fish they had in that day for me on the poster map.
While mum and dad debated between herring, mackerel, salmon, prawns, crabs, cockles, mussels, winkles, trout or any other of the delicious creatures laid out before us, I would stare at the fish, their colour and texture intriguing me so much that I still pause at the fish counter by my local Sainsbury's, somehow still remembering the tiny fish shop at the corner of Dartmouth Market.
After buying our fish and stopping at the bakery, the delicatessen, the dairy and whatever other shops my parents had to visit, I would be allowed to go to the boat float and throw crumbs for the seagulls and the ducks. My mum would bring down any stale bread in a paper wrapper, and I would mash and crumble the ends of days-old loaves with my fingers and then throw them out onto the water between the boats, where the gulls would swoop in and start to argue between themselves as to who would be first to feast.
There was a series of short steps down to the waterside of the boat float and providing my mother, father or godfather went with me, I could go down closer so I could see the birds better. There is still a photo of me, aged about five years old, wearing a blue-and-white striped t-shirt and faded red shorts, happily holding out some crumbs over the stone side of the boat float to some hungry seagulls, with a look of utter wonder and rejoice on my face: I'm feeding the birds, there can't be anything better than this!
The boat float was not restricted to seagulls and ducks, however, it was also home to some swans. These swans, though elegant and regal as all swans are, also possessed their race's rather sharp temper; a sharpness of temper which matched the sharpness of their beaks. While feeding the ducks, whose hard but gentle bills were careful only to nuzzle my hand when I fed them scraps of bread, the swans would glide into the boat float and immediately make for the herded ducks, intent on sharing their meal.
Being young and trusting the ducks, I attempted to feed the swans directly also. After all, weren't they just larger, more pretty versions of the ducks that had been so placid and content to eat out of my hand? Unfortunately not and upon my first attempt to hold out some bread for one of the swans, it quickly grabbed the crumbs and nipped my finger sharply enough to draw a tiny amount of blood. I don't remember crying, I only remember moving away from the float with this little sense of astonishment that the small duck-like creatures could be so nice to touch, but the big, cloud-coloured creatures could be so nasty at touching me back.
It never stopped me feeding the ducks and swans again – from a distance – but, as I grew old enough, the sense of wonder and enjoyment at feeding them faded away to a childhood memory.
Taste
You taste more than just food, you know. On any given day you might also taste toothpaste, water, coffee, cigarettes, your own saliva, excess lip gloss, the air around you. And yet, when we think of taste, we seem automatically to think of culinary matters.
THAT IS BECAUSE FOOD IS A WONDERFUL, WONDERFUL THING.
Anyone who has known me for at least two hours can attest to my near-constant desire to eat. In truth, it's probably traceable to a psychological glitch whereby I am unable to recognise my own stomach's fullness, but I'd prefer to attribute it to an insatiable capacity for taste. Whereas my stomach can physically accommodate only so much food, my taste buds are essentially tireless. I can enjoy more than I can store. I can bite off more than I can chew. I can start more than I
Although I may not have the world's most learned tongue, I certainly have an appreciative one. So I can't tell the difference between certain wines or name every spice in a meal -- if it tastes good, who cares? (Besides, it makes me an easygoing dinner guest. While everyone else mulls over the quality of the post-meal brandy, I'll be sitting off to the side exclaiming "This is damn good!" à la Sam Jackson enjoying the cheeseburger in Pulp Fiction, except without the subsequent slaughter and bloodshed.)
The problem with my infinite hunger is that indulging it is the only way to satisfy it, but down that road lie overstuffedness, sickness, and blowinguplikeaballoonness.
Naturally, I ignore this. Why let worries about personal well being interfere with a good meal?
I looked up 'taste' on Dictionary.com. It lists several definitions, including:
The sense that distinguishes the sweet, sour, salty, and bitter qualities of dissolved substances in contact with the taste buds on the tongue.
Substitute 'loves' for 'distinguishes'; that's what taste is to me.
Taste
This is a difficult issue, because how one defines what is and what is not good taste depends on many things: upbringing, cultural reference points, exposure to art, literature and 'high culture', friends, experiences, travel … the list goes on and on. I think that, ultimately, the definition of good taste is: it's whatever you want it to be.
Let's look at some evidence. I like wine. Wine is nice. Wine is good. Wine is your friend. Now, apparently, it's bad taste to drink red wine with fish; you're supposed to drink white wine. Pshaw, I say. Tchah, I also say. If you have a nice bit of salmon in front of you and a cheeky little glass of St Emilion ready and waiting, then it would be practically criminal to refuse either fish or wine due to some archaic convention that you don't really believe in anyway. Tuck in, nosher.
'Tasteful' in commonplace English is often a substitute for 'appropriate' or 'suitable'. The word will be used by, for example, the church group going to an art exhibition: "Well, it's done very tastefully". This does not mean: "My goodness, that really is done rather well". It more likely means: "Well, that's hardly likely to offend anyone". And it's a short step from there to pure blandness.
Likewise there is taste in stories and jokes: my friend Tim is a specialist in tasteless jokes; the kind that make you feel slightly guilty at laughing at others' misfortunes, yet you laugh nonetheless. The laughter is partly at the joke, and partly that anyone has the gall actually to say it. You don't really need me to run through a list of them, suffice to say that they are of the "What's better than winning the Paralympics?" ilk.
There is also taste in partners. Let's assume you are a man. You are standing with another man, a friend, outside a café or bar. A pretty girl walks past. Your friend nudges you, clearly attracted to her but when you gaze at her, you feel no romantic stirrings. Although this is the basis for the "she is/isn't my type" school of thought, it is essentially because she is not to your taste.
Smell
Inland urban heat, though not necessarily crippling, is the most stifling kind. Held in like air inside a plastic bag, without the forgiving openness of the countryside or the ocean breeze of the coastline to mitigate its thick, heavy feeling, inland urban heat tends to permeate every pore of a city over which it settles. Things change in the heat; surfaces are sticky and skin glistens and, if it's hot enough, that distinctive glimmering haze rises up from the pavements.
And everything smells a little different.
Adding heat to smell is like adding butter to food. It becomes thicker, greasier, more intensely flavoured; and you sometimes get the impression that your arteries are being clogged. This isn't necessarily bad. Oceans smell much better in the heat, as do other summer
'accessories', so to speak, like sunscreen and barbeques. I personally like the smell of a volleyball game played outside in the hot sun, whereas a winter game in the confines of a gymnasium just stinks of unseasonal sweat.
Other smells are simply ghastly when combined with heat. Some examples can be found in spaces that are crowded to the point of discomfort (large queues, shows, the Tube), places that lack ventilation (telephone booths, fitting rooms, the Tube), and anyplace dirty (bathrooms, city streets, the Tube). It's in places like this that the more delicate may find themselves putting their hands or newspapers discreetly in front of their noses.
Most interestingly, though, people smell different in the heat. Or, rather: people smell more in the heat. High temperatures and stuffy atmospheres coax out our normally subdued odours from underneath their perfumed disguises. The pretty girl stops smelling of flowers and starts smelling of sweat. The slick-looking guy stops smelling trendy and starts smelling seedy. The stinky woman smells, well, the same, but more potent.
For many of us, an automatic reaction to noticing our own scent is to attempt to cover it up. But doing so is tricky. Cologne is fairly pointless, I think, because if it's not sweated out completely it's at least blended with perspiration, and who wants to smell like a combination of musk and armpit? The only artificial scents I don't mind wafting into my nasal cavity are the ones designed to block unpleasant odours, or light fragrances that seem to cool everything around them, like some citrus smells. Invariably, though, many people go on eau de toilette spraying sprees so that they don't have to smell themselves, resulting in groups that smell several times more (and, often, several times worse) than they would in cooler weather.
My favourite hot weather smells are the ones I named above: the ocean; sunscreen; barbeques. When the heat isn't an inconvenience, neither are the scents that come with it. I even like the smell of sweat, sometimes. Go ahead and say I'm disgusting, but I don't mind it when it follows an afternoon of laying in the sun or a night of -- um, nevermind. No, seriously.
Smell
There are times when you can sympathise with Agent Smith:
"I'm going to be honest with you. I hate this place, this zoo, this prison, this reality, whatever you want to call it. I can't stand it any longer. It's the smell. If there is such a thing. I feel … saturated by it. I can taste your stink. And every time I do, I feel I have somehow been infected by it; it's repulsive. I must get out of here."
Camden Town is probably an aromatherapist's nightmare or heaven, depending on how much they're charging you at the time. From the market stalls where you can buy incense, fragrant soaps and joss sticks, all the way through to faint smell of marijuana on Inverness Street, the building works by Mornington Crescent or the smell of what can only be described as 'kebabness' by Britannia Junction, Camden is (ironically, for some of its residents) an interesting place to have an unblocked nose.
The minute you arrive there, however, and alight from your bus or ascend from the platforms at the tube station, Camden smells like anywhere else in Central London: oily, dirty, smoky and with the unmistakeable aroma of litter.
It's when you start to move around the place that you can get a better idea: wandering through the noodle bars by the Lock, the smell of freshly mown grass in Regent's Park, all the coffee shops on Parkway with their deep java perfumes, even the faintly fetid smell of Regents Canal by the bridge on Kentish Town Road.
It may be grimy, dirty, busy, loud, abrasive and intrusive, but there is absolutely no substitute for stopping somewhere quiet, closing your eyes and, just for a second, breathing in.
Hear
My friend Dave has numerous compilation tapes and CDs which he has lovingly crafted, each cassette or disc crammed to the gills with top music. There are a series of them, all with different volume numbers, and with the best title ever to grace a compilation: 'Music To Listen To With Your Ears, Volume 1'.
And so, channelling the spirit which some of you may remember as Radio Free Londonmark, here's some of the tunes rattling around my head at the moment:
"You look very swell, ma'am." -- strange man, to me, along the canal in Camden this morning
"What can I do besides pledge my life to you? What can I do besides tell you I love you?" -- man on mobile, Tottenham Court Road
"For God's sake, go outside! You look like a glass of water!" -- a mother, to her pale son, as quoted by her daughter
"It's not on." -- girl in internet cafe, half to the blank screen and half to the attendant, who then pointedly touched the mouse and woke up the monitor
"$150." -- a rich friend, answering my inquiry into the cost of his Gay Pride belt
"Would you like to say that in proper English?" -- someone
apparently under the impression that it's original to make fun of my American accent
"I am guessing that you are from California. Please, when you go back, tell your people that you met an Iraqi man who thinks you are very nice and that your president is a fascist. Good luck in your life." -- a man serving me food
"What's better than being Stephen Hawking?" -- teller of offensive jokes
"I'm never drinking again." -- Mark
"I say that all the time." -- Mark, in the pub, over a Guinness, referring to the above
See
When you set out for a holiday overseas, although everyone obviously wants you to have a good time and meet nice people, mainly they just want you to see The Sights. When you return, they will mostly ask about The Sights. "Did you visit the houses of parliament?" they will say. "Did you ride on that giant ferris wheel? Did you see Stonehenge?" If you missed any of The Sights, they will be gravely disappointed. You will explain that, no, you didn't have the time to make it to Stonehenge or the inclination to venture into Westminster Abbey or the money to dash over to Paris and see the Eiffel Tower. You will note that you were just as happy, if not happier, to hole up in a pub with your new friends, drinking yourselves silly one day and nursing hangovers the next, and they will feign agreement. "Yes, that's true. It's good that you made friends." A pause will follow, after which they will add -- because they simply can't help it -- "But you can find friends anywhere. This was your only chance to see Stonehenge."
There are only two ways around this exchange: actually see The Sights, or Google your way out of it (meaning, do some research, find some images and fake the experience). You will opt for the former unless you are even more tightly tethered to the internet than I am -- and I'm blogging during my holiday. On two blogs.
So you're going to have to see The Sights. Not just The Sights you want to see, but additionally, all The Sights everyone you know back home would see if they could. And you're going to have to take pictures (or Google it, but you're not a lying cheater, are you?), because the pictures are the most important part. Basically, the value that your loved ones at home will put on your holiday can be calculated with the following formula:
Value of Holiday = (Number of Sights seen) x (Number of pictures taken of The Sights) + 1/(Number of friends made)
Since I'm on holiday in London right now, I've been trying to capture and stockpile as many images of The Sights as I possibly can, for display upon inevitable request once I arrive back home. The problem is, as much as I love the architectural wonder that is Big Ben and the history-rich appeal of the British Museum and the grand view from the bank of the Thames, I can't help but be distracted by the ordinary beauty of a shadow or a concrete path or a couple of boys on swings. Those sights are enough for me.
See
When I was in New York nearly ten years ago with my friends Mike and Richard, we did the usual touristy things, one of which was a trip to the Empire State Building. The three of us went up to the Observatory and gazed over the fantastic view of New York, pointing out buildings and trying to work out where everything was in relation to everything else.
I can't remember which one of us started it – though all three of us were (and still are) childish enough that it could have been anyone – but we decided that this would be the ideal place to play 'I Spy'. Previous 'I Spy' games had been played at Richard's house where questions had included:
"I spy with my little eye something beginning with … S A P."
"Is it sub-atomic particles?" Pause.
"How the hell did you get that?"
"I know what you're like."
Another notable 'I Spy' moment was "I spy something beginning with … D." After many unsuccessful guesses the answer was revealed to be: dromedary. There followed a fifteen minute heated debate as to whether the stuffed toy on Richard's shelves was in fact a dromedary or whether it was a camel. Don't ask; it was late and we were all, obviously, drunk.
So, at the top of the Empire State Building, we decided that this was the game for us. It began with the usual kinds of things: B for building, A for another building, Y for yet another building, etc, etc. Eventually, we got through to P for pigeon. Another P became a policepigeon, W became a wpolicepigeon and G became … yes, you guessed it: gwpolicepigeon.
Now, almost a decade on, I would like to apologise to New York on behalf of myself and my two compatriots for looking over your beautiful city and only pointing out the gwpolicepigeons. What a shame I haven't really grown up since then.
Serial We will be interrupting your current programme for the next week. 'The art of …' will be returning to conclude in August, but next week sees not only a new one-week-only series but also, shock horror, a guest blogger. The less observant among you may amuse yourselves by guessing the guest's identity. Those of you with eyes will probably already know. So, stay tuned.
The art of preparing
I don't know where I heard this but apparently the UK military teach their cadets something called the six Ps: prior preparation prevents piss-poor performance. And you know what? They're right. Preparation is crucial when executing any plan, from making sure that you get to Tottenham Court Road station on time to devising a fiendish scheme for world domination, preferably from some underground bunker. Underground bunkers don't just build themselves, you know; you must prepare.
Preparing for work
Wake up, stretch, stop your cat from perforating vital areas of your groin with its claws, roll over and throw your alarm clock through the closest open window. It's morning. You have work to do: you'd better get ready. This preparation has four key stages:
A. Cleaning
Brush your teeth carefully and gargle with mouthwash, wash your face, shower, brush your hair nicely. If you are a girl reader, you may have approximately 17 cleansing products which you will apply to your face after you have washed. If you are a boy reader, you may be mystified as to how putting a bit of water over your cheeks can take 34 minutes, and just use soap.
If you are a girl reader, you may want to put on some make-up, you may not. If you are a boy reader then the application of make-up is strictly optional unless you are a member of the Kiss road crew, in which case it is mandatory. Similar rules apply to jewellery, although you should take care if you work in a place which has increased its security measures. Explaining to your boss why parts of you make the metal detector beep when they really shouldn't is going to be a case study in fast talking.
B. Dressing
Office work demands smart clothes unless you are (a) part of the maintenance team, thus permitting you to wear jeans, (b) part of a failed new economy/new media outfit, thus permitting you to wear geeky t-shirts, or (c) me, thus permitting me to wear what the hell I want to (but no jeans).
Some of you may deeply regret the fact that you have to dress at all. A clichéd interview technique is to imagine your interviewers naked, thus putting you in a position of superiority over them and allowing you to calm down when they are asking you personal questions, such as whether HMP Broadmoor is an appropriate choice of answer under the entry "University qualifications".
However, do you really want to see your colleagues naked? No. You don't. Depending on the attractiveness of your co-workers, you may very much want to see one or two of them naked, but not all of them. And by leaving the house sans vêtements, you are opening the floodgates to corporate nudity. It will all be your fault, so get dressed quickly.
C. Eating
Breakfast in an ideal world is leisurely and healthy, with real coffee in fine china, plenty of fresh fruit and maybe kippers and scrambled eggs. In the real world, it often involves a cup of instant coffee that could fell a mastodon, half a slice of underdone toast spread with what the knife had on it before and, let's face it, a cigarette. Last night's pizza also makes a fabulous brekkie while on the run.
Knocking back the remainder of a bottle of vodka and cough medicine, trotting out a few lines of your preferred white powdery substance and then emitting a primal scream may be fun, but it does not qualify as 'breakfast'. You have been warned.
D. Leaving
In order to have left, you must leave. It stands to reason.
Of course, any of these four stages can be missed out if you are really in a hurry, except leaving.
Preparing for a date
Nervy? Tense? Butterflies in your stomach? You're going out on a date. Arranging a romantic liaision is the emotional equivalent to crawling through a barbed-wire infested minefield dressed only in a pair of socks and a wristwatch which doesn't work anymore. The line between pain and elation is very, very thin. If you get it right, you will probably get sex. If you get it wrong, you will probably get slapped (or sued).
Choose a decent restaurant. If the restaurant is cheap, then your date will assume that you are also. If the restaurant is overly expensive then they will assume that you are attempting to make up for your lack of intelligence, wit, charm or grace by paying way over the odds for posh food. Pick just the right price range, ie slightly more than you'd normally pay.
Dress appropriately. A t-shirt with a speech bubble reading "Down boy" and a big arrow pointing to your crotch is not the way to convince a lady that you are her knight in shining armour. Ladies, elegance is the key word here. You may be the most intelligent and caring woman in the world but if you dress like a lady of the night then you will be dumped quicker than toxic waste.
Be considerate. Is your dining companion vegetarian? Lactose intolerant? Allergic to nuts? (And don't make any smutty jokes about the last one if she is actually allergic to nuts. She will have (a) heard them all before, and (b) hate you with all her being.) Make sure that you know about this and arrange things accordingly.
Think ahead. Prepare for one of the four eventualities of the evening:
You never see each other ever again.
You take her to her house, arrange to meet again at another date, then go to your home.
You take her to yours.
She takes you to hers.
Of these choices, Option 4 is obviously the most preferable as it requires you to do nothing but be charming and you get sex. Though you will have to be the world's greatest lover (sorry, should have mentioned that). No pressure, lads. Option 2 is also good because you don't have to do anything until next time. Option 1 is okay but not so good if you actually liked the girl.
Also part of thinking ahead with Option 4 are matters of a more (ahem) personal nature. Ladies, please skip to the next paragraph. Gentlemen, I'll write one sentence and leave it at that: make sure you wear clean underwear, don't drink too much and you know exactly why, put your socks in your shoes otherwise you'll never find them if you need to do a runner, check out her place initially for signs of boiled bunnies or psycho husbands, and remember foreplay, ie to do some.
Option 3 is the nightmare scenario because at some point you will have to leave her to her own devices in your flat. However clean and tidy you are, however pure your mind, body and soul, however upright and morally correct you are, there is always something incriminating in everyone's house. And the minute you leave the woman you are about to try and become intimate with, they will find that one item that condemns you. Game over.
Preparing to go out
Visiting a top nightspot or dining in rarefied and elegant surroundings will require you to prepare properly. Barging into the Manoir aux Quat' Saisons in a Hawaiian shirt and jogging shorts will result in your immediate ejection from the establishment, probably with some kind of head or facial injury. Likewise, attempting to dance the night away at Annabel's will be made more possible if you have remembered to bring along a few basic things: cash, clothes, your partner … that sort of thing.
Do:
work out where you are going. You will not gain instant, enduring popularity by guiding people erroneously around Soho for hours and hours, bleating "It's around here somewhere".
dress appropriately. White tie and tails is not appropriate garb if you are going to a rave. Think about it, eh?
bring enough money. There is nothing more bowel-churningly irritating than travelling for three hours to get to a particularly fine restaurant or happening club, only to find that one of your group has left their wallet at home and you'll have to pay for them all night.
be reasonable, polite and friendly to any waiting staff, bar staff or other attendants. If you are excessively rude or obnoxious to them then your spaghetti carbonara may come to your table slightly different from the original recipe.
Don't:
start a fight in the middle of a garden party. At least don't start it until all the free drinks have been served.
decide that a restaurant with three Michelin stars is the best place to start talking loudly about urinary disorders.
persist in slapping the waitress' bottom, claiming that "she loves it".
pass out because you're too drunk. Remember: always be the second most drunk person there, never the most drunk. You'll benefit from the comparison.
The are other areas of discussion within the art of preparing such as preparing a cadaver for dissection, preparing to enter into mortal combat with an alien race, preparing to accept a major award or honour, preparing to assassinate Paul Hogan … the list goes on and on. The one common thread throughout all preparation is that you must build in one tiny flaw, so that if it all goes wrong, you have an escape clause.
25 things
i was born in 1977 and lived in mill hill until the tender age of 17, whereupon I went up to oxford for my degree. two years of varying success later, i left (degreeless) and wandered the tide of mediocre jobs while living in, variously, new marston, brixton, finsbury park, camden town, notting hill and greenwich village. i'm six foot tall, thin, i wear glasses, i work in an office, i drink in nyc and i live in hope.
