Chronologically disadvantaged
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An alarming day
Weewooweewooweewooweewooweewooweewoo "Our - Weewooweewooweewooweewoo burglar alarm - Weewooweewoowee seems to be - Weewooweewooweewooweewooweewooweewooweewoo malfunction - Weewooweewoo ing." Weewoowee.
"I think it's finally stopped." "Thank Christ for that."
Weewooweewooweewooweewooweewooweewooweewoo "Fuck - Weewooweewooweewooweewooweewooweewoo it." Weewooweewooweewooweewooweewooweewooweewooweewooweewooweewooweewoo...
Our so-called "security system" (as fitted three years ago at great expense by Shaftem and Runn Security Ltd.) has never been the most reliable burglar alarm on the arcade. I have always suspected that it has a level of sentience - it is certainly jittery as a bag of crickets, and goes off whenever it feels under threat ("Oh no! Late is trying to open up the shop! Danger! Danger! I am under attack! Weewooweewooweewoo!"). However, our burglar alarm now seems to have entered a period of irreversible decline. If it is possible for security systems to contract Alzheimer's, then ours is currently wandering round in its underwear, while eating ivory soap and plaintively asking everyone "Are you Percy?". Picture the scene: Vinnie, Lucy and myself are in the middle of our usual Saturday afternoon routine - to whit, attempting the Guardian quiz while chugging on a few beers. Me: Okay, next question: what is the only country to have a single-colour flag...? Weewooweewooweewooweewooweewooweewooweewoo... Me: Bollocks. Hold that thought. And I stomp into the back room to the control panel. Normally, resetting the damn thing sorts it out, until the next time it decides to panic and go off for no reason. Not so this time, however. I punch in the numbers. Me: One... nine... six... four. (not the real code, obviously) Weewooweewooweewooweewooweewoo... Me: One... nine... six... four. Weewooweewooweewooweewooweewoo... Me: ONE... NINE... SIX... FOUR. Silence. Me: Thank you. Weewooweewooweewooweewooweewoo... Me: Crap. Oneninesixfour, oneninesixfour, ONENINESIXFOUR... But no amount of button-pressing, pounding or pleading seemed to make the thing stop for more than a couple of minutes at a time. Vinnie, whose sunny outlook on life borders on the Panglossian, suggested that we should just wait until the battery ran down. Everybody felt happier after that, until I pointed out that the burglar alarm was hooked up to the mains. For the rest of Saturday we took turns punching the code into the control panel. Then we took turns just punching the control panel. Eventually it fell off the wall. The relentless weewooing continued. Lucy: I think this thing is possessed. At this point, Insufferable Jake from the Health Food Emporium of the Damned jangled into the shop. Jake: Hey guys, I don't want to come across as a crusty old kvetch, but your alarm has been going off since noon and it's really, like, putting me on edge, you know? Any chance you can, you know, switch it off? Lucy, Vinnie and I turned and, as one, replied (quite forcefully) in the negative, sending Jake scurrying back to his quinoa and strange-shaped vegetables, leaving a fug of patchouli in his wake. Weewooweewooweewooweewooweewooweewooweewooweewoo... Me: Right. This calls for decisive action. Fetch me a ladder. And a hammer. And so it was that on Saturday evening, as the sky bruised and day turned to night, your beloved narrator, hammer in hand, climbed up the side of the Bottle Shop and, Thor-like, smashed ten types of shit out of our burglar alarm. I think that may have been the most satisfying 2-minute period of my life. And the peace! The sweet, sweet peace!
(By the way, for those of you who are interested, the answer to the quiz question was Libya. Lucy got that one. I pride myself on not bothering to know that sort of useless ephemera).
The Bottle Shop recommendation for today: Givry Rouge 'Les Petits Buits' 2002 (France). A lovely, spicy wine for autumn, reminiscent of mists and mellow fruitfulness. Buy two bottles, and use the corks to stick in your ears if your burglar alarm is suffering from senile dementia. £8.49 |
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Incidentally, if you read the last post and thought "I wonder what cheap gimcrackery Late gave his girlfriend for her birthday?", then wonder no more. I am happy to tell you that on a day of her choosing, la belle Lucy shall be going to the fine establishment that is Agent Provocateur for a little shopping trip on my dime. Lingerie. It's the gift that keeps on giving. |
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Can you smell smoke?
I am feeling every second of my thirty-six years today. And when I catch a glimpse of myself in a reflective surface it becomes clear that I look a good deal older. I look like John Hurt on a bad day. This is because the force of nature that is my girlfriend took time out this weekend from gathering up London's discarded rubber bands in order to celebrate her birthday with a party at our tiny flat. I wasn't entirely enamoured of this idea. Me: You want to have a party here? There's no room. Any more than three people in this flat and it starts to resemble the Black Hole of Calcutta. You could only swing a cat in here if it was particularly small and had had all its limbs amputated. And even then you'd risk knocking over the TV. Lucy: Nonsense. We can put all the breakable stuff downstairs in the shop with our bed. Me: Why would our bed be in the shop? Lucy: Well, we'll have to move it. I'm going to turn our bedroom into a ball pool. Me: But what about when we want to go to sleep? Lucy: Silly. We're not going to be sleeping. Oh Lord. Fast forward to Saturday night. My bedroom has been stripped of furniture and is now knee-deep in multi-coloured plastic balls. The living room is entirely covered with tin foil. And the bathroom windows have been blacked out and the light bulb replaced by a UV strip light. This I find uniquely disturbing - the blacklight gives the smallest room a chthonic aspect, as if my childhood nightmare has come true and the devil really does live in the U-bend. I resolve to use the shop toilet should nature call during the party. Guests begin to arrive, and it is with sinking stomach that I realise I don't know a single one of them. Me: (sotto voce) Luce, who are all these people? Lucy: Oh, y'know. Mates. Me: I've never met any of them. Lucy: You haven't? Oh, well then... (she jumps on the sofa and hollers at the top of her voice) Everyone! (the room turns to look) This is my boyfriend, Late. Late, this (she gestures towards the assembled masses) is everyone. I force a weak smile, wave, then head off to the kitchen for some alcohol. I feel I'm going to need it. Several stiff drinks and some fortifying cheese straws later, I venture back into the living room which by now has been colonised by about a dozen happily drunk sybarites who are attempting to play Twister while covered in baby oil. There is a lot of slipping. I remember a time when this kind of party was the sort of thing I fantasized about while masturbating into a sock. Now I just worry that baby oil is going to stain the carpet. A familiar shape extricates itself from the tangle of limbs - it is my favourite diminutive Canadian, Vinnie. I am so relieved to see someone I know that I almost hug him, but, realizing that if I did he'd probably shoot out of my arms and brain himself on the light fitting, I restrict myself to a manly handshake. Me: Christ, Vinnie, am I glad to see you. Vinnie: Well, I wasn't going to miss one of Lucy's parties. They're legendary. The last one she had, some guy decided it would be cool to build a campfire in the living room. People were still toasting marshmallows when the firefighters showed up. Me: Shit. When did that happen? Vinnie: Oh, a couple of years ago. Just before she moved in here. A little alarm bell goes off in my head, and I decide to ask Lucy a couple of questions. I locate her in the ball pool, and dive in beside her. She grins like a lunatic and throws a green plastic ball at me. It rebounds off my temple. Lucy: This is great. I'm having a great time. Isn't this great? Me: Yeah, great. Look, Luce, can I ask you a question? Lucy: Sure thing, slugger. Shoot. Me: Just before you moved in with me, when you had to leave your squat... did the landlord really come back and chuck you out? Or did you, y'know, accidentally burn it down? Lucy: I didn't burn it down. Me: Phew. Thank God for that. Lucy: It was more sort of gutted. Me: Oh, holy Christ. Lucy: See? Now you're stressed. Precisely why I didn't tell you in the first place. Now I'm going to have to think of a way to calm you down. Her hand snakes down between the multi-coloured balls and finds my trouser fly. "I hope the ball pool people disinfect these after use" is the last rational thought that goes through my head. I tell you, a guy hasn't lived until he's had sex in a room full of plastic balls. And there's a sentence I thought I would never have reason to type. I perked up considerably after that and actually (whisper it) enjoyed myself. Which is why I am currently doing an impression of Death warmed up. Still, it was worth it - my beloved had a great birthday party, and I at least know what I'm going to look like in 30 years' time. John Hurt, seemingly. The Bottle Shop recommendation for today: Chateauneuf-du-Pape 2001 (France). Fruity blackcurrant flavour and the aroma of spice and smoke. Although the smoke may be coming from the campfire in your living room. Great with toasted marshmallows. £14.99 |
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Banding together
RUBBER. I imagine you just had an involuntary mental image of a gimp mask. Or a ball gag. Or a woman in thigh-high boots contemplatively stroking a cat o'nine tails while straddling your prone body. That is because you are a pervert. You couldn't just think of something innocuous like a tyre or a cheerily-waving Michelin man? Go and wash out your mindbrain, sicko. Ahem. Anyway. Lucy has a new fixation with rubber. Unfortunately for me, the rubber she has chosen to fixate on is of the bog-standard band variety. Specifically the red rubber bands that suddenly seem to be littering our streets. In a way I blame myself for this current obsession, as it was me that pointed out the phenomenon in the first place. Picture the scene - Late and Lucy, somewhat hungover from the Bottle Shop's monthly wine-tasting/riotous piss-up, are wobbling up to the Swan for a quiet Sunday hair-of-the-dog. Me: (pointing) Jeez, that's the fifth red rubber band I've seen in the last hundred yards. Lucy: What? Me: Those rubber bands. They're everywhere. It's as if we're being carpet-bombed by the stationery supplies department of Viking Direct. Lucy: Poor thing, it looks so forsaken lying there. (She stoops to pick it up) Maybe I'll start a home for abandoned rubber bands. And she was as good as her word. Now we can't walk more than a few yards without her spotting a rubber band. You'll be mid-conversation with her and she'll suddenly dive towards a likely specimen that is lying in the gutter, on the pavement, even in the middle of the road. It is most disconcerting (especially for any oncoming traffic). However, as with all of Lucy's eccentricities, the best way of dealing with them is just to go with the flow and join in. Thus, today I was on my way back to the Bottle Shop with some coffees from Giannone's when I spotted a lonely elastic band nestled between an empty can of Export and a crisp packet. I scooped it up, and later presented it to my ladyfriend as a token of my love. She looked at it critically, then tossed it in the bin. I was somewhat taken aback by this. Me: Whatever happened to your Home for Abandoned Bands? Lucy: That's only for red rubber bands. That (here she gestured binwards) was tan. Me: You're discriminating against it on the basis of colour? Isn't that rather racialist? Lucy: It's important that they're red. They also have to be virgin. Me: Virgin? Lucy: Yes. Clean, unbroken, unattached to anything. I don't want to just randomly collect any old rubber band - that's the sort of thing a crazy person would do. And she laughed a little condescending laugh. "Ah-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha." Just like that. I'm lucky I didn't bite off my own tongue. The Bottle Shop recommendation for today: Les Douze 2003 (France). Spicy and full-bodied. And RED. Because any other colour would be just crazy. £6.49 |
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Horseplay
I sometimes suspect that Lucy may have a tendency towards manic depression ("You reckon?" roar the assembled masses). Bone-rattling hyperactivity is followed by periods of deep gloom, which then burn away like clouds in a summer sky and suddenly she's bouncing on the bed again. It's all I can do to keep up. She's been residing in the Slough of Despond for a couple of days now. I of course refer to the Slough from 'Pilgrim's Progress', rather than the Slough that lies off junction 15 on the M25. Although the two do share striking similarities, it has to be said. The reason for her melancholy? She's decided she doesn't like her boobs. Yes, Lucy thinks her breasts, those ripely rounded melons, those gravity-defying miracles of nature, are "too big". Lucy: I mean, look at them (she grabs a boob in each hand and jiggles them in my face). Me: Um, it's quite hard not to. Lucy: But what are they for? Me: Err... milk? Which was the wrong answer, as it turned out. Now I happen to think that Lucy's boobies categorically prove the theory of intelligent design. Yes, this does require one to believe in a God who is not dissimilar to Benny Hill, but I'm pretty sure the Catholic Church can cope with that - for doth it not say in the Bible, "and lo, then Mary's top did fall off, and also Martha's. And Jesus did chase them all over Gesthemane to the sound of frantic comedy music until he did fall into a pond"? Well, no, it doth not. But it would certainly have livened up Sunday service if it had . Anyway, I digress. I think Lucy has marvellous mammaries. But just try telling her that over the past few days. There has even been talk about getting a breast reduction, at which point I began to panic slightly. So the fact that she is currently clattering about the shop, banging two halves of a coconut together and pretending to be a horse, is a profound relief to me. I have already mentioned in previous posts that my beloved is not really one for sleeping. For her, lie-ins are things that happen to other people. I have grown quite adept at slumbering through whatever it is she gets up to in the wee hours. For example, I was sleeping like a baby at 4 o'clock this morning when Lucy decided she was going to make coconut ice. And I admit, it was nice to wake up to a plateful of tooth-achingly sweet comestibles.
Less enjoyable is the noise she's currently making with the two halves of the coconut. Lucy is now claiming that her uncle used to be a foley artist. Lucy: He taught me everything he knows about making sounds. Check it out. A horse walking. Clip, clop, clip, clop, clip, clop, clip, clop. Lucy: The trot. Clip-clop, clip-clop, clip-clop, clip-clop. Lucy: The canter. Clippety-clop, clippety-clop, clippety-clop, clippety-clop. Lucy: And the gallop. Clippetyclopclippetyclopclippetyclopclippetyclop. And so on. The shop currently sounds like the inside of Princess Anne's head. It is only because I am so glad to see Lucy happy again that I am refraining from asking her to make the noise of a horse being shot through the head a la "Bolt" by Dick Francis (what do you mean, you've never read it?). The Bottle Shop recommendation for today: Albarino Martin Codax 2004 (Spain). A delicate-yet-strong, perky and graceful white - just like a Lipizzaner Stallion only without the pervading air of creepiness. Clip-bloody-clop. £8.49 |
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Breakfast, today.|
Just call me Stanley
It's raining, and Dr Livingstone is back in the Bottle Shop. We get a fair few eccentrics shuffling around the arcade. Often they are just your average shouter-and-gibberer, your bog-standard wild-eyed mutterer who smells of old biscuits and wee. Seedy Carl was one such derelict (albeit one with a particularly pungent aroma and an overriding obsession with fine wine). But every now and then somebody genuinely bizarre graces us with their presence. Dr Livingstone very definitely falls into this latter category. He first wandered into the shop on a rainy Tuesday about a month ago. Just your everyday middle-aged, average looking punter, except in two (and I think you'll agree, quite major) respects - not only was he sporting the largest, most luxuriant handlebar moustache that I have seen outside of a Victorian lithograph, but he also had an over-sized pith helmet perched on his head. I couldn't help myself. Me: Doctor Livingstone, I presume? He looked at me blankly. I pointed at the helmet. Me: Doctor Livingstone... you know, the helmet? He reached up slowly and gently touched the helmet, as if surprised to find it there, then let his arm drop back by his side. An uncomfortable silence descended, during which he stood very still and focused on a point somewhere above my left shoulder. Me: So... um... can I help you with anything? Dr Livingstone: It's raining. Me: I'm sorry? Mutely, he pointed outside where it was, indeed, raining. Me: Do you want to buy some wine? He pondered this, then shook his head. The pith helmet wobbled comically, and slipped down over one ear. Absently, he straightened it. Me: Are you sheltering from the rain? The pith helmet inched down over his eyes as he nodded. I considered the pros and cons of throwing him out of the shop. Pros - if I ejected him, I wouldn't have to field any questions from Marxist Jim of the "What the f**k is a guy in a f**king pith helmet doing cluttering up my shop?" variety. Cons - if he has a pith helmet, he may well also have the machete to go with it, and I happen to be very attached to all my limbs and assorted extremeties. Me: Well, okay, you can stay. But if a big, angry-looking bloke comes in can you at least pretend to be browsing? He nodded again, readjusted his headgear, then proceeded to stand stock-still in the corner of the shop for the best part of four hours. I had almost forgotten he was there, when suddenly the rain stopped and the sun came out, galvanizing him into action - he straightened up, tipped his helmet to me and strode briskly out of the door, leaving your beloved narrator more than a little dumbfounded.
And now Dr Livingstone is back, standing by the New World wines like a refugee from Boy's Own Adventures while the rain beats against the shop windows. We really do attract a better class of nutter here at the Bottle Shop. Strangely, Marxist Jim is being quite reasonable about the whole thing. Marxist Jim: What is that f**ker doing? He's been staring at that f**king bottle of Sonoma Creek for the past half an hour. Me: He's... uh... browsing. Marxist Jim: Late, browsing by definition involves looking at more than one f**king bottle. Are you going to tell me what the f**k is going on with that c**t, or am I going to have to hold you upside down by the f**king ankles? Me: He's sheltering from the rain. Marxist Jim: But it's been raining all f**king morning. Me: Mm. Yeah. Marxist Jim: What, am I operating some sort of f**king drop-in centre for aqua-f**king-phobic Victorian explorers now? Me: It would seem so, yes. Marxist Jim glared at me, then cast a suspicious glance across the shop to where Dr Livingston stood staring into space. Then he shrugged. Marxist Jim: F**k it, he seems harmless enough. But if he breaks anything, it's coming out of your wages. That was earlier today. Dr Livingstone still hasn't moved and I'm considering using him as an umbrella stand. I sincerely hope it stops raining before closing time, otherwise he's going to find himself locked in the shop. And the last thing I want to see when I open up tomorrow is a moustachioed madman standing in a pool of his own piss. The Bottle Shop recommendation for today: Yalumba 'Y' Series Viognier 2004 (Australia). A dry, crisply peachy wine with a headily perfumed nose. The sort of wine the real Livingstone might have quaffed after discovering the source of the Nile. £6.99 |
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Rant
We've got a happy little family unit here at the Bottle Shop. Marxist Jim is the alarmingly belligerent grandaddy; I'm the benevolent pater familias; Lucy is... well, I'm not really sure what Lucy is, the benevolent pater familias' loopy girlfriend, perhaps; Vinnie is the funny little cousin from the colonies. And Dylan is the child that got kicked in the head by a horse. He is the Idiot Boy. I have begun to dread him opening his mouth because, apart from the fact that his voice is still breaking at the age of 20, it has become abundantly clear that nothing of any sense will ever come out of his flapping gob. The vagaries of wine retail mean that there are very often longueurs where nothing much happens. Prior to Dylan's arrival in the shop, these periods (where boredom hangs in the air like a bad fart) would be profitably spent by building a fort out of wine boxes, say, or by inventing new games. It was during one such hiatus that the Poo Game was developed. Lucy: Okay, you've got to replace any word in the title of a Bond film with the word "poo". Vinnie: "A Poo To A Kill"? "Live And Let Poo"? "Poofinger"? Me: "Octo-poo-ssy"? Hours of fun, I'm sure you'll agree. But since Dylan made the leap from weekend-worker to full-time member of staff, we have been subjected to what he calls his "conversational gambits" whenever a lull in trading occurs. These attempts at engaging his co-workers in debate are so thoroughly cack-handed that it takes all my willpower not to batter Idiot Boy to death with a bottle of Vouvray Demi-Sec. And for some reason, I seem to bear the brunt of his idiocy (probably because he is scared of Lucy and Vinnie spends all of his time plugged into his iPod). This morning I've already had him squeaking his abject nonsense in my direction. Idiot Boy: Late... Me: Yes, Dylan? Idiot Boy: If you were the father of a family, with one wife and two children, one aged eleven and one aged eight, and you had to have just one meal with all of your family every day for the rest of your life, which meal would it be and why? Would it be breakfast, lunch or dinner? Me: Do you honestly want to know, Dylan? Do you really want to know what meal I'd have with my imaginary family in some crazy fucking world where only one meal is permitted? Idiot Boy: Yes, Late. Me: Dinner, then. Idiot Boy: Ah, but why? Me: I don't know. Does it matter? And thus I get drawn into pointless conversations that simultaneously ignite feelings of despair and homicidal rage that rack me to the very core of my being. It's not only the conversational gambits that have won Dylan the title "Idiot Boy", however. He is also deeply, unremittingly ignorant. As well as his assumption that anyone non-white must have been born in sunnier climes, Dylan has treated us to the following pearls of wisdom: During a conversation about food - "Gammon's a fish - right?" When the back-room radiator was broken - "There's nothing wrong with that radiator, it's just not radiating any heat." Talking about farmyard animals - "So what do you call a baby calf?" On geography - "Glasgow is the capital of Wales." On Northerners - "Up North, they all use brown beer bottles for rolling pins." (Upon being asked what he considered "up North", he replied "Watford"). The only possible response to such interminable idiocy is prolonged and scathing sarcasm. Unfortunately, Dylan does not understand sarcasm either. He just looks blankly at you, flaps a little, then keeps talking. And then there's his fucking Crazy-Frog-trilling mobile, don't even get me started on that... I fear that the next time you will hear of Late Bland, Esq. will be on a London Tonight bulletin, following his arrest for the brutal slaying (by crucifixion) of his flapping muppet of a co-worker. If this is the case, I will use this blog entry as evidence in my trial. Surely no judge in the land would convict me. The Bottle Shop recommendation for today: Vouvray Demi-Sec 2002 (France). A pleasant blend of richness and acidity for lovers of medium-dry wines, and with a good hefty bottle for those contemplating homicide. £6.99 |
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