This Is This

Kitchen, work. I am making a coffee. Colleague is writing something on paper on a nearby table.

Me: “Whatcha doing?”

Colleague: “Writing a job description. It’s really hard.”

Me: “Oh.”

Colleague: “How would you describe the floor in our department?”

Me: “Blue.”

Exit me, deadpan with coffee.

Colleague 1 (to me, about similarly-dressed Colleague 2): “Do you two go to the same tailor?”

Me: “We do. Actually, I model myself on Colleague 2.”

Colleague 1: “You look exactly alike. Look at you - stripey shirts, tweed jackets.”

Me: “Tweed nothing, this is corduroy.”

Colleague 1: “That’s even worse.”

Me: “Listen my friend, coduroy is where it’s at these days.”

Colleague 1: “Right, like I’d take wardrobe tips from you.”

Me: “Suit yourself, I’m telling you - it’s the fleece of the Naughties.”

(I consider renaming this website “Fleece of the Naughties”.)

Also, if you are linking here, can you should change your links sometime soon to http://www.thisisthis.org - that’s all I’m saying. Plans.

A woman approaches my wife at the school gates as they both pick up the kids. “The Mr Jones - is that your husband?”

She has to think about it for a second, because no one has ever called me Mr Jones to her. Eventually, Wife nods.

Woman says: “The one giving the talk on Vesak?”

Wife nods.

“Oh wow! On actual Vesak day? That’s really exciting! I think that’s so good. I read about it in the newsletter.”

She looks down at her five year old daughter and says, “What’s Vesak about, darling?”

The girl looks up gleefully and says “Buddhaaa!!!”

There’s a newsletter.

What started off as an agreement to come in and talk to my daughter’s school has gone around in a newsletter to the parents - Buddhist parents in this case - who are looking forward to me coming in.

I guess I am Mr Jones.

(flash of blue light)

Oh boy.

We spend a lot of time looking for reason and meaning.

What’s wrong with the odd marvel? How about a knowing nudge instead of an explanation all the time?

Wonder shouldn’t be a hunger, but a meal. Like those fleeting instances when the startling beauty of a scene draws our mind away from ourselves in a moment which makes it impossible to find words to fit the feeling.

Here’s onesuch, in London’s cherry blossom this week. The fact that you can enjoy it as well is a reminder of how lucky we are to live at a time when our technical knowledge has gone so far that it has begun to put us at a loss at how to describe the most ordinary things.

This picture, this light on your screen, is as mysterious as the remotest known star and we know enough about both to know that we know nothing about either, except that something unknown is doing we don’t know what. The least and the most we can do is be amazed.

Have a wonderful weekend.

That’s what Joan Armatrading said.

Now, I like sarcasm just as much as the next man, but she went too far when she urged us to “drop the pilot”. That just goes against all logic, not to mention CAA regulations.

My dad calls her Joan Armourplating. I find this amusing. A friend of mine calls Hugh Masekela “huge massacre”.

If you don’t know Hugh Masekela, then check him out. Also get hold of “Sweet Jane (With Affection)” by Two Nice Girls, which blends Joan Armatrading’s Love and Affection with The Velvet Undergrounds’s Sweet Jane, because the two songs, when you slow them down, are very, very similar.

Cowboy Junkies did a great version of Sweet Jane on the Trinity Sessions album, but the Two Nice Girls version is achingly beautiful. It will tear and strengthen you heart like love and springtime. Stick that on and it’s like the blossom falling across the city while caterpillars explode into butterflies.

or:

A Real Life Conversation I Have Had That, If Written Word For Word, Sounds Like It’s Straight Out Of Hemingway

“So where abouts in the States are you from?” I asked the quiet guest at our table.

“Missouri,” he said politely, happy to make conversation, since he was only there as a mutual friend.

“There are only two things I know about Missouri. One is that it is home to William Least Heat-Moon.”

He smiles, “That’s right, I’ve met him a few times. He teaches at the University.”

“Does he still?” I ask. He nods and I say, “I loved Blue Highways. Hacklebarney is a great phrase.” It’s a place that Missourians know that symbolises a place that is always around the corner, where things are slightly better than where you are.

He smiles back and asks, “What’s the other?”

I collect my thoughts, still impressed that he knows the obscure authors of one of my favourite books. “The other is that Fats Waller died there.”

“And my father pronounced him dead.”

“Abord the Santa Fe Chief,” I say, half asking, half stating, with a smile of wonder. “I want to hear this.”

He took a gulp of wine.

“Well,” he said, “my father was a doctor and was waiting for a different train. When the Chief pulled into Kansas City, someone came out and asked if there was a physician anywere in the station. My dad had his bag with him and duly stepped on board, checked him over once and said: ‘This man’s dead.’ ”

“Is that right.” None of my questions sounded like statements.

“How he told it.”

Also:

“Execute on” is not a verb. The only verb-preposition combo I can think of that works as an action is “fuck off”.

“Learnings” - no such word.

Carry on.

Sometimes I am a bona fide, first class idiot.

On the plane home from holiday I bought a tea and gave the flight attendant a load of spare change. I didn’t think they would mind me offloading some spare foreign coins and I notioned that people did it all the time.

But being a big cause and effect man, I wondered what would be the downside of everyone on the plane doing this. Was it possible that by handing over our loose change en masse, we were increasing the weight of the aircraft and therefore reducing fuel efficiency which was harming the planet?

I considered this for a second, before realising that physics isn’t my strong point.

I mean well, I really do, but my fear is that with such stupidity on tap, a lot of it escapes my attention but not anyone else’s.

OK, maybe not a first class idiot, but possibly a business class idiot. Or at least a member of a frequent stupid points programme which I seem to be amassing quicker than I can use them up.

I ask the grizzly old seadog by the dock: “Is this the ferry to see the dolphins?”

I point back at the kids and roll my eyes like I’m too cool for dolphins. I’m not. Dolphins fucking rock.

“Phftt,” he says, which I guess from his derisory tone is Spanish for: “They’re taking the piss.” Derision never gets lost in translation, it has linguistic GPS. “Dolpheen? No. Small boat, yes. Ferry mit dolphin? Forget about it.”

He adds “mit”, a random German word, but picks up extra points on the dismount with a near perfect Brooklyn accent.

Also, in a soap opera, “Soy responsable por la muerte de Santos.”

Oh, so now you want to hear about my holiday.

In the UK, we’re a little prudish when it comes to going topless. And when I say “we”, I mean women in general.

And that’s cool with me - ladies, if you got it, you got it, you know you got it and we don’t all need to see.

But plenty of British women choose to go topless when they are not in Britain, I now suspect, because of the lack of British men. And when I say “British men”, I mean me.

This one topless woman came idling by (I toyed here with “flouncing”, “sauntering” and “slinking” here, but they all made me sound sleazy) and I can’t remember whose eye caught whose or where they wandered after that, but suffice to say I looked.

What?! There she was, idling to the nines, between myself and the ocean from whence she came, heading towards me, nay, bearing down, I guess because her towel was in my direction. That was the only reason a wet, topless stranger would be walking towards me. Wasn’t it? I mean, wasn’t it?

Then she saw me looking. Shit. Except she looked back. “Hello,” I thought. She checked out my stuff. And when I say “stuff”, I mean stuff. She looked around at my belongings, I guess because you can tell a lot about someone by what they take to the beach, or something.

I kept looking her way, purely because my kids were playing in the ocean behind her. My kids, whose mother I love and without whom anything.

I suddenly tried to look disinterested in topless lady, partly because I was. I’m off the market. This ship has sailed, or at least permanently slipped its moorings.

Her eyes landed on the book in my hand. The Contant Gardener by John le Carre*. The eyes filled with panic and dread. She covered herself up with her arms and looked at me in disgust.

Now:

Either:

1. She was English, as many pale women on the beach were and she was suddenly ashamed at having invited the oogling (which I wasn’t anyway, but anyway) of her fellow countryman and was quickly turning her inward bashfulness into outward rage.

2. She hates John le Carre*

I ruled out 2 almost immediately and hoped she wasn’t staying at my hotel.

* Nom de plume**, real name Johnny Squares
** Pen name, en francais***
*** in French, in French

Police open fire on Nepal lawyers

That might not all be bad news. When do the TV Chef and Parking Attendant seasons start?

On top of international terrorists, one of the most annoying people you will encounter on holiday is the Little Madam. This is a posh spoilt girl younger than ten who likes to tell your kids how great she and her family are while putting down them and yours.

Some things Little Madam says (always in a conceited indignant tone slightly louder than it needs to be, behind a veil of contempt):

“You know that film on the plane on the way here? No, not Zorro, it’s called Legend of Zorro. You know that one? I’ve seen it five times. How many times have you Ice Age?” etc…

“Mummy, I want more calamaris.”

“I once saw a stingray that was as big as this pool and it wasn’t in the London Aquarium either, which I’ve also been to. It was in the wild and my dad swam right next to it.”

With love in my heart, I’m saying learn how the world works and drop the act, missy. You’re annoying people and will only make yourself unhappy.

I saw a restaurant on holiday called Casa Guantanamo. I wondered if it was one of those theme restaurants and maybe they chained you to the floor on something.

“Now I’m going to ask you again, nicely this time: ‘How did you enjoy your meal?’ ”

Am I a bad person?

My Spanish isn’t of Fishboy standard, but I like to talk badly. Not to anyone in particular, just to the family within earshot as I go about. At breakfast I was known to pronounce: “huevos muchos calientes” for no other reason than I had a plate of them (very hot eggs). I don’t do this in any other country with other phrases I know.

In Germany I don’t say: “Ich bin diene Angstraum” (I am your nightmare)* In France I don’t say: “deux bouteilles de vin rouge.” OK, I might say that, but in a Spanish speaking country, I revert to Sesame Street and Dora the Explorer Spanish.

It might come from having kids that every time I saw an exit, a comically emphatic voice would echo in my head: “Salida. Sal - ida,” followed by lots of American kids shouting “EGGGS-ZIT!!!”

Incidentally, I saw The Simpsons in Spanish (Los Simpsons) and I wanted to see what Bart said instead of “Aye caramba.” Or to see how the guy in the bee suit talked. Maybe he spoke English. Maybe the joke was lost in translation, because all the Spanish speakers thought that a guy dressed in a bee suit was quality entertainment and couldn’t understand the gag. Anyone know?

* I know this from bad German heavy metal bands I listened to as a teenager. I have wide ranging tastes, as opposed to being a nutter.

If I had a bakery, I would call it this.

I like the way non-English speaking countries give their shops and companies English-sounding names to give them an air of cosmopolitan worldliness.

You hear the ads on foreign radio among a stream of some exotic language, then two words like he or she is saying the coolest thing ever spoken on Earth.

It’s good when the English words make no sense, but it’s best when the words mean something stupid. One video arcade I saw was called “Punky Park”, which I like. “Bienvenido a Punky Park”.

A bait and tackle shop down by coast was called (and you’ll love this): “Fishboy”, presumably pronounced “feeshboee”, like some wierd Spanish superhero.

Would someone along the British coast call their rod and line emporium “Chico Pescado”?

We can only hope.

He’s blunt!
He’s crass!
His name’s a steep land mass!

It’s hard to know how to make an entrance without looking self-important, but “Hello. It’s good to be back here and thanks for reading.” Thanks also to my dad for posting while I was away.

So hi! How are you? Have you been on holiday or something, cause you look great. Or you’ve had some work done. Kicked the smokes. Working out? Whatever, but something, because you look good.

Me? Oh, I’ve been spending two weeks with the Atlantic Ocean lapping at my toes, enjoying views (see above), not having my life ruled by a series of beeps and wavs and the times of the day broken down into no more than five easy segments instead of thousands of seconds.

It was good being in the moment instead of preparing for what you can’t really predict and then reacting to whatever it is you didn’t expect. But that’s life I guess. I expect the people whose job it was to stick little umbrellas into my drinks on holiday have no easier life than I.

It was ok knowing the holiday would end. There’s a saying that if it’s not fading, it isn’t real. That’s a good way of making you enjoy what’s passing and not paying too much mind to what you think won’t.

Or to put it another way, enjoy the ice cream and not the bowl.

So yes, hello. I’m going to spend a few days talking about holiday stuff because everything happens when you’re gone, right? Including a new frontrunner for quote of the year by old lady sitting next to me on the plane when she told me: “It’s frightening how quickly a quarter of an hour can turn into an hour.”

There’s normally a bit of banter on the bus, a friendly exchange, a shooting of the breeze. In short, the fat gets chewed. Being English, we winge about stuff in a funny way and are self depricating and quippy. This leads to our polite chuckle, which, like standing in queues and apologising, is a national sport. Chuckle gasp has this down, except it is followed by a low scratchy drawing of breath. Low scratchy is something that is low in tone, but has a lot of treble on it. Prince is low scratchy. “I’m gonna talk low scatchy…”

Chucklegasp does it after every polite laugh and he is very polite. But by god is it annoying. It’s like a giggle followed by the sound you make if you try and talk while you are breathing in. “Arhhehehehe… khhhheiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii“

Merciless mobile texters, this strange breed seem obsessed with gossip, the calorific content of Marks and Spencer food and the price of alcohol. They are in their very early 20’s and they dance somewhere in London and they are all lean and have perfect posture.

This woman has, for the last year at least, been reading wedding magazines. She seems - nice. She has a nice name, she looks friendly, she sounds nice. One of the two great things about her are her hands, which are perfect in every way. Not just well maintained, but just great. Not too many veins, but enough definition. Even the way they sit is great.

You know sometimes you look at someone and see one detail and it rocks. Like someone’s neck from the back, or the way they walk. Or eyebrows. This lady’s got the hands. Wonder if she knows it?

The other thing is the vowels she uses when she is talking. These are also perfect. Long, soft and thoughtlessly immaculate, the vowels in her words are like the peach in the melba.

This kindly looking man,early 50’s is always reading something religious. Not just the bible, and never pop-christo paperbacks, but serious theological texts. Like books about the duties of the Church during the Renaissance. Or guides about the current role of the Church of England. He always looks happy and he is always, without fail, sitting at the front of the bus.

Oooh, what if he didn’t exist? The man, I mean, not God.

What if one day I said there were no seats and told the driver and he said “Sit there?” and pointed to the seat he always sits at and he wasn’t there. And when I pointed out that I’d just seen him there and described him, they didn’t know who I was talking about.

And then what if the bus crashed and burst into flames and the only seat that survived, totally intact, was his seat, which I was in.

Far out.

I feel sorry for this guy. He is very quiet, and in the morning he reads the sport pages and talks to anyone as long as it’s about football. I think he works for the Football Association, because he’s got their logo on his bag. In the evening he sometimes drinks from a plastic bottle in a paper bag. It’s probably the place he feels least ashamed of his habit. He has an image to uphold at work, he can’t be home late because his wife will think he has been drinking again, but he is least bothered about feeling humiliated in front of his commuters. Poor bastard.

This man talks loudly, has an impossibly low voice, and comes from Sunderland. (non-Brits: in the North East of England, where there’s a distinct sing-song almost Norse patter to words)

This lady always has a cup of coffee from Tchibo, that wierd shop that sells, like, underwear, shoe racks, waterproofs and chocolate. She cuts hair or a living and is a really nice lady.

He listens to the radio on his mobile phone with the headphones connected. In order to get a clear signal he holds it up at about eye level. Trouble is, after a few minutes he starts drifting off. When he does his arm drops and he regains semi-consciousness. Then he steadies his arm and resumes his radio listening. Then he falls asleep and does a slow convulsion into wakefullness. Repeat ad londinium.

Cockney lady who gets off the bus at Pall Mall, which she calls “Pow Mow”. She is in her early 50’s and/but she always has the latest gadgets. Handheld video players, palmtop computers, video conferencing mobile phones, teeny MP3 players. I asked her about this once, and she said her boyfriend works in IT. Ten years ago this would have been a very uncool thing to admit.

Right. I’m going to be busy for a bit. Actually I’m going to be not busy for a bit. But while I’m away my dad will be keeping you out of trouble while he publishes some posts I’ve had lying about. It’s not the first time he’s aired my dirty laundry.

I take the bus into London every morning with some pretty unique characters who probably deserve more space than they will be getting from me, so there will be some posts about them. The posts will be very small. Some may well be choking hazards, but the fact is I made the effort.

And in the meantime, here are a few of my favourite blogs you can read while I’m gone.

Little Red Boat - The much deserved Bloggie-nominate site in which she wears her heart on this e-sleeve of a site. I also nicked the idea of the bussies from her. Sorry.

JonnyB’s private secret diary - I almost didn’t want to mention this because everyone knows this site and you’re reading this. It’s kind of like if you say, “I quite like that motown stuff” and someone says, “Really? Well, have you this Stevie Wonder chap?…” When if comes to Johnny,I wish I could say nonchalantly, “I’m aware of his work…”, but there’s a lot of chalant. Too much fucking chalant, actually. Because not only is this an old blog, it’s fucking great. And every time I do a good post, I think, is this too much like Johnny B’s Private Secret Diary?

BonBlogs…a work in progress - Endearingly self-conscious and honest as only Californians can be.

meish dot org - The person who got me blogging, because I thought all bloggers were saddos until I found out someone I knew had one. Then either I became a saddo or I stopped worrying about it and just started writing. I’m writing now, actually. Coincidence? I think not.

Three Beautiful Things - As they sat in Italian, “putasmile onaface” (pronounced “poot-ah-SMEE-leh on-ah-FACH-eh”)

Goin’ to the John - Leemer is a man with more musical knowledge than is healthy, and I should know. He’s in Texas and quotes The Wonder Stuff. That begs the first of my many questions, all of which are: “What’s that all about?”

rivierawriter - My old man’s a blogman, he wears a blogman’s hat. I went to university, my dad went to university. I started a blog, he started a blog. I got married, he got married. It must be hard for him to live in my shadow. He EVEN supports the same football team as me! Only joking on that last one. To be fair, he has written a book . Rivierawriter is a great blog - it’s like me without the swearing.