On the arcade
Get Back
"Aaaargh, Jeesus! Gaaaargh! Ohfuckohfuckohfuck. Call a doctor. Call a doctor." (But I'm getting ahead of myself). Cast your mind back, dear reader, to March of 2004. In what was a rather embarrassing little accident involving a dustbin, a stolen Sainsburys Savacentre shopping trolley and one too many glasses of Rioja, your beloved narrator managed to royally fuck up his back. Since that inauspicious day, my spine has chosen to play merry hell on the slightest of pretexts - though happily it's never been anything that some Voltarol and a few whiskies couldn't sort out. Let us return to the present day. It is a Sunday, and Lucy and I have decided to hop in the Morgan for a groon around the countryside in order to make the most of the autumn sunshine. This isn't our only motivation. Our little flat is still in a terrifying state of disrepair, and thus we are still the houseguests of Marxist Jim. Nobody is happy about this situation. He is almost maniacally houseproud; my ability to create mess has lead people to liken me to Pig Pen from the Peanuts comics; Lucy is, well, Lucy. We are all somewhat on edge. And the stress seems to have taken up residence in my upper back, crouching in the muscle and occasionally delivering me a rabbit punch when I'm least expecting it. Still, I grit my teeth against the pain, fold myself into the Morgan's passenger seat and off we roar. A few hours and a pub lunch later, it is with sinking hearts that we arrive back chez Marxist Jim. Lucy parks up outside my employer's scarily neat semi and hops out of the car; I attempt to follow suit, but my back has other ideas. This is the point at which we came in. "Aaaargh, Jeesus! Gaaaargh! Ohfuckohfuckohfuck. Call a doctor. Call a doctor." Lucy calmly points out that, this being a Sunday, all the doctors are out playing golf. I say a series of very bad words, then go quiet for a bit, save for a few whimpers. I am breathing like a woman in heavy labour. "I could call Doctor Robert," Lucy suggests. "I don't think... oh, oh, Jesus-shitting-Christ... I don't think Beatles songs can help me right now, Lucy." "No, my friend Doctor Robert. He'll sort you out." She makes the call, while I do some more pitiful moaning. "He's coming right over." "That's amazing. A doctor who does housecalls on a Sunday." "Well, technically he's not actually a doctor..." "Oh God." An hour passes, during which I am trapped in the passenger seat of a 1978 Morgan like a pretzel made of purest pain. Finally, Doctor Robert rocks up on his mountain bike. His appearance is not one which is designed to inspire confidence in a patient. Too many tattoos and piercings and not enough teeth. A sudden thought occurs to me. "Um, is he another ex-boyfriend?" I whisper to Lucy, who answers in the affirmative. Why am I not surprised? Doctor Robert slides into the driver's seat beside me and flashes a gap-toothed smile. He has a mouth like a row of broken tombstones. "Hey pal, I'm Doctor Robert. What seems to be the problem?" (At least, that's what I think he is saying. It is hard to tell, as his Glaswegian accent is proving a slight barrier to communication). I explain that my back has decided to go on some sort of wildcat strike with my latimus dorsi in the Arthur Scargill role, and is violently resisting any attempt to get it working again. (At least, that's what I attempt to say. It actually comes out more as "Argh... back hurting... stop the pain, dear God please stop the pain." All very dignified.) Doctor Robert prods my back a bit, then sits back and lights a Lucky Strike. "Yer back's gone into spasm, pal. Have ye been under any stress at all?" I nod, then quickly decide that's a bad idea. After I've stopped whimpering, I explain that the roof of my flat fell in and that I'm currently living with my boss, who is a card-carrying misanthropist with anger-management issues. "Aye, that'd do it." Doctor Robert roots around in his bag for a bit and finally pulls out a bottle of pills. "Here ya go. Take one tablet three times a day. You should really stay off the sauce while you're taking 'em, but fuck it, yer only young once eh?" I eye the bottle with a mixture of hope and doubt. "What are they?" "Diazepam. Should sort out the spasming, yeah?" Hope wins out over doubt. "How much?" "Six pounds sixty-five." I look at him in astonishment. He stares back defiantly. "Hey, I'm no going to undercut the NHS. They do a fuckin' good job." I take the pills, and Doctor Robert whizzes off on his bike. An hour or so later, I am able to shuffle crabwise out of the car. An hour after that, thanks to a bottle of vino relaxo and a massage from Lucy, my back is virtually pain-free. My regular G.P. is never this efficient. And he doesn't cycle to my house, either. The Bottle Shop recommendation for today: Finca Las Moras Tannat Reserva 2004 (Argentina). A full-bodied red with hints of chocolate and berries and a lingering vanilla finish. A wine with real backbone (you see what I did there?) that's a full 16 pence cheaper than the NHS prescription charge. Bargain. £6.49
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Out
Enzo and I have been mates for years, ever since I first landed on the Arcade, still skinny and twitching from the breakdown. I used to escape into the Giannone's cafe for a coffee, shell-shocked and reeling after one of Marxist Jim's verbal assaults (I had yet to develop my current immunity to being called a useless f***ing c***; for some absurd reason I was still feeling a little bit fragile), and when he brought over my latte Enzo would chat to me about normal, comforting things like football and getting drunk. I liked him from the start. Sure, he was maybe a little too fixated with trainers. And he was almost aggressively good-looking. And the whole "I'm going to be a popstar" thing wore thin very quickly. But he was a good laugh, and Christ knows I needed that in those days when everything seemed to be saturated with shades of grey. Eventually we started hanging out after work - drinking and playing pool down the pub with his big brother Tony, or occasionally going clubbing in town, where Enzo would always end up playing tonsil hockey with some gorgeous girl while I sat on the sidelines and marvelled.
When Lucy arrived on the scene, however, our friendship cooled a little. I figured that he'd fancied himself in with a chance, and my unexpected success had put his nose out of joint. Eventually, we started hanging out again, but as part of a group rather than just the two of us.
Now, picture the scene: it is a sultry day in July. The sort of day that just cries out for a beergarden and one too many pints of cold lager. Lucy has bombed off in the Morgan to visit her barking mad sister in her new house down in Wiltshire, so I find myself alone, at a loose end and with craving for fizzy alcohol. Wall-Street Phil is busy with young Jude (as ever), Vinnie is in Brighton, getting yet another tattoo, and I am not such a masochist that I would ask Dylan along to the pub, as his conversation would make me want to drown myself in the nearest water-butt (the hosepipe ban is still in force – and I’m not sure how I’d go about drowning myself with a hosepipe anyway). So I nip next door to the cafe and ask if Enzo fancies a few pints after work. He answers in the affirmative. At the end of the day, we meet up in the Swan's "beer garden" (actually just a patch of bare concrete and a few scattered tables with wonky legs) and proceed to get riotously drunk on lager. All of which is well and good, until Enzo leans towards me and, in a slurred stage whisper, offers to suck my cock.
To say that I am taken aback would be the understatement of the year. How to respond? I rack my brain, but can find no precedent. I opt for the polite refusal.
"Errr... no. But, look, thanks for offering."
"Are you sure? I'm very good at it," Enzo puts his hand on my knee. "Umm, no, you're all right. Thanks anyway, mate." I mumble. "S'okay. Just thought I'd offer." And he goes back to his pint as if nothing untoward had happened.
The next morning, Lucy groons back in the Morgan and bounds into the flat, where I am busy self-medicating with a bacon sandwich and a vat of coffee. I look like death, and feel even worse.
"Hiya slugger. Good night last night?" "Yeah..." I chew pensively on some bacon fat. "You don't sound so sure." "Well, it's all a little indistinct, and I was very pissed so I may just be imagining things, but I think Enzo kind of... offered to give me a blow job." "What was it like?" "I didn't say yes. Jeez, Luce." "Well I can't say I'm surprised. He's had a crush on you for ages." The piece of bacon fat sails across the living room and hits the stereo with a wet plick. I am aghast. "He has?" My brain is doing cartwheels. "So, does this mean that Enzo is, you know, gay?" "Well, duhh." Lucy delicately picks the bacon fat off the stereo. "Do you want this?" I shake my head, and she pops it in her mouth.
Further questioning reveals the following facts:
- Lucy's gaydar is several million times more sensitive than mine.
- She has been aware of Enzo's sexual preferences for a couple of years now, but has never seen fit to mention it to me.
- Enzo is not officially "out", in that he hasn't told his family yet. But he is unofficially “out”, in that he has sex with men.
- Enzo confessed to Lucy that he had a bit of a thing for me during one of our tasting evenings at the Bottle Shop. Again, she chose not to mention this until now.
- It turns out that when Lucy appeared on the scene, it wasn't her of whom Enzo was jealous.
All this came as something of a shock, I can tell you. But as the hangover abated and my capacity for rational thought returned, it all began to make quite a bit of sense. I think back to all those women he pulled when we were out - they'd be throwing themselves at him, and yet he never seemed to have any long-term relationships. And then there was the obsession with shoes. But I clearly have the observational skills of Helen Keller, so all this passed me by.
I have since spoken to Enzo about it and he has confirmed that yes, he is indeed gay. Which makes it sound like an easy conversation - it wasn't. I was appallingly English about the whole thing. The amount of stuttering, blushing and umm-and-ahhhing would have struck even Hugh "all I do is stutter" Grant as being a bit over the top. Still, all is now well between Enzo and myself. And it's always nice to know that someone out there thinks you're hot stuff. Even if that person does have 5 o'clock stubble and dresses to the left.
The Bottle Shop recommendation for today: 'Sassaiolo' Rosso Piceno Superiore 2003 (Italy). A bold wine with a ripe, brambly nose and the deep, ruby colour of someone who's trying to be subtle about asking his friend if he's... y'know... ummm... ahhhh... well... sort of... you know... gay. £5.99
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Disaster!
It is a quiet night chez Bland. The night rubs against the windows like a cat, and the rain does a Busby Berkeley tap routine on the roof. Your beloved narrator is spreadeagled on the sofa, watching the highlights of the Ryder Cup. Well, I say watching. Your beloved narrator is more sort of listening, while resting his eyes. And snoring. Above my head, the large, brownish patch on the ceiling - which I'd meant to get round to painting over last month, but you know how these things are - begins to darken ominously. A small drop of water forms in its centre. Slowly, the drop of water grows in size until gravity begins to pull at it. The drop of water resists. Gravity tugs a bit harder. The drop of water grits its teeth and stays put. Gravity gently suggests to the drop of water that it should pull its socks up and just bloody fall. The drop of water shakes its head and says it would much rather stay on the ceiling, thanks very much. Gravity threatens the drop of water with a crowbar. The drop of water shivers. Then, with a remarkable precision, it flings itself into my open, snoring mouth. "Cah, pftht, wah! What the hell was that?" Lucy - who is sitting next to me on the sofa and who has been watching the drop of water's birth and its swan dive down my gullet with rapt attention - explains that the roof is leaking. We stare up at the ceiling. More drops of water, seeing that their fellow has fallen to earth with no ill effect, have decided to join the party. A large damp area is forming on the sofa. The brown patch on the ceiling has gone very dark. "Ah, bugger it," I say. "We'll stick a bucket under the leak and get someone in to have a look at it tomorrow." As it turns out, this is not the best plan ever devised. Eventually, Lucy and I board the sleepy train to Bedfordshire (after I have spent ten minutes brushing my teeth, trying to get the taste of roof-juice out of my mouth). I can sleep for Europe, so I'm out like a light (after a bit of... well, you know). Somewhere in the night I have the sensation of a roaring or a shuddering, but then it's back to dreamland. I am woken by Lucy putting a wet hand on my face. I look at the clock by the bed. It is still silly a.m. "Roof's gone," she says. "Ruth? Who's Ruth?" I am confused. It is far too early for one of Lucy's non sequiturs. "Not Ruth. Roof. Come and see." She takes me by the hand and pulls me out of bed. Like a wobbly-legged fawn, I follow her into the hallway, mewling plaintively. "What's going on? Luce? Why are you all wet? Oh." As I splosh into the living room, it becomes achingly obvious why she is all wet. The roof has fallen in. I shall draw a discreet curtain over the scene that follows. There is rather a lot of swearing. It has since become clear that a small lake has been forming on the flat roof above my abode for some time now. The rain in September swelled it to such an extent that the lake decided it needed to expand its premises, preferably in a downwards direction. The drop of water that fell in my mouth was just the scouting party. Lake: What do you have to report, Private Droplet? Droplet: Well, the flat's a bit scummy, and you don't even want to know about the carpet they've got in there, but they do have a brand-new widescreen TV and a DVD player that we could really fuck up by falling on. Lake: Good work, soldier. We've got to wait for the place to dry out before we can get someone in to sort it all out (at prohibitive expense, naturally). Thank God for contents insurance, that's all I can say. In the meantime, we are homeless. And this is why we are staying (God help us) in the spare room of my employer, the splenetic and not-in-any-way-at-all easygoing Marxist Jim. It's a tense time for all of us. P.S. Menace guessed correctly. Well done, sir. Your prize is my good opinion. The story of Enzo's emergence from the closet is to follow. The Bottle Shop recommendation for today: Bethany Riesling 2005 (Australia). Crisp and limey, like cold autumn rain filtering gently through the plaster in your ceiling. £6.49
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The procrastinator returns
Green in here, isn't it? As you can see, my (very, very) rudimentary HTML skills have returned this blog to something approximating its former glory. So, how long's it been? Nearly a year, you say? Gee whizz, time doesn't half fly by when you're flogging fine wine (and, some would say, a dead horse) in the arse-end of London. Why the hiatus? Well, to tell you the truth, I kind of lost my taste for blogging. It happens. When I was a kid, I went through a phase when I would only eat tuna sandwiches - tuna, tuna, tuna. Tuna for breakfast, lunch and tea. Man, did I love tuna. So what if it contained dangerous levels of mercury? Tuna and me, we were pals. Then, all of a sudden, I went right off it. If I was offered a tuna sandwich, I would push it away. I'd make gagging noises. I'd give it to the dog - and we didn't even have a dog. I'd go out and find a dog specifically so I could feed it my tuna. I'm surprised the tuna fishing industry didn't collapse overnight. So total was my rejection of all things tuna that I didn't touch the stuff until a few years ago. Then, for some reason, I woke up one afternoon (I like a good lie-in) and thought "I fancy a salad nicoise". And that, as you say, was that. Tuna and I were reconciled. So blogging = tuna. Okay? I would like to summarize the last nine months for you in bullet-point form, so we're all up to speed and normal service can resume. Right, here we go: - January: I had a hangover that seemed to last all month. It turned out that I had glandular fever. And, since it is the "kissing disease", I had to keep away from Lucy. Mmm, special torture.
- February: Still feeling like a steaming heap of crap thanks to the glandular fever. This didn't stop me going to Cologne for Karnival. Though, in retrospect, drinking industrial quantities of beer was maybe not the best thing to do while still convalescing. It turns out that alcohol doesn't, in fact, kill the germs. Braincells, yes. Bacteria, no.
- March: Lucy's Great-Aunt Rosalee kicked the bucket. She was a game old bird, and apparently snuffed it while trying to re-align her satellite dish by hitting it with a shoe. The funeral was a rather jolly affair, with lots of her old pals from her days as an exotic dancer - glamorous old ladies with a rather shocking line in innuendo. Lucy inherited the blue 1978 Morgan, and I pray to Great-Aunt Rosalee for protection every time we take a corner too fast.
- April: Did anything happen in April? I'm not sure. I think maybe Marxist Jim did some shouting.
- May: Jasper and Nell celebrated their one year anniversary, which meant that I lost my (rather mean-spirited) bet that their marriage wouldn't last 12 months. On the plus side, I am reliably informed that Nell appears to have turned into a demanding, screeching harpy, so at least I had a lucky escape when she ditched me.
- June: I turned 37. And the least said about that, the better.
- July: A bit of a shocker, this. One of my good friends, who had hitherto been something of a ladies' man, well and truly came out of the closet. I'll leave you to guess who it was (hint: it wasn't Wall-Street Phil, who is too exhausted by running around after little Jude to even think about sex). If you guess right, I'll let you know all the juicy details.
- August: A week's holiday in the South of France which was delightful, thank you very much. Apart from me managing to get a quite severely sunburnt arse (don't ask... I said don't ask), which meant sitting down was virtually impossible. My, but that was an enjoyable return flight. "Sir, can you return to your seat, we are about to begin our descent." "Um, can't I just stand up? I promise not to fall over or anything." Classy.
- September: DISASTER!
Yes, disaster. But if you wish to know the nature of the disaster, you will have to tune in again for the next gripping* installment. I promise not to make you wait another nine months for it. *may not actually be gripping The Bottle Shop recommendation for today: Spier Shiraz 2005 (South Africa). A big, powerful wine with gingery, peppery flavour and plenty of body. Great for drinking in large quantities after a DISASTER. £6.99
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London Burning
It lives!
This is the first post to be written on the Bottle Shop's new computer. It is sleek. It is mean-looking. It cost a bloody bomb. And it has steadfastly refused to let me access the internet for the best part of a month. Oh, I do so love modern technology.
The reason why the shop needed a new computer escapes me. Sure, our old machine was big, ugly, noisy and temperamental, but then again so is Marxist Jim and you don't see us trading him in for a newer model with an Intel Pentium 4 processor (da-ding-da-ding). However, Marxist Jim does prefer conducting his business by email, as he hates actually having to talk to people - mainly because the talking usually segues quite quickly into the shouting, then all of a sudden you're looking for a new supplier. That said, he hates email as well (probably because he finds it difficult to type with his big, meaty fingers). In fact, in an ideal world, Marxist Jim wouldn't have to interact with people at all. Unfortunately, the realisation of such a utopia is still a good few years away - hence the new PC.
Marxist Jim: It'll speed up our business.
Me: (sotto voce, eyeing the empty shop) Because we're currently having to beat people off with a shitty stick.
Of course, because nothing ever seems to quite go to plan in Marxist Jim's world, the whizzy new computer turned out to be allergic to broadband. And so it sat in a corner looking sulky, while Marxist Jim was forced to actually speak to people. But it's all fixed now, and everybody is heartily relieved. Not least me, because I was usually the one who had to phone the suppliers back up and assure them that they're not really a bunch of f***ing c***s and can we please increase our order of Dancing Monkey (a straightforward Argentinian cab sauv that seems to go down well around here, presumably because the idiots like the name)?
As a result of my enforced exile from the world wide web, I missed the opportunity to tell all you stout yeomen about the Incident of the Burning Guy. And so, to get back into the swing of this whole blogging thing, I shall tell you about it now.
Cast your mind back, dear reader, to November 5th. Your faithful narrator - aided by his chums Vinnie, Enzo and Wall-Street Phil, as well as his inamorata, the fragrant Lucy - is putting the finishing touches to an 8 foot high pile of wooden wine crates, cardboard boxes and other detritus.
Vinnie: So explain all this Bonfire Night shit to me again. You're celebrating the fact that some guy got burned at the stake?
Me: No, no. We're celebrating the fact that he got hung, drawn and quartered. By burning him in effigy. Um.
Vinnie: Jeez, you Brits.
Wall-Street Phil: That's a point. We don't have a guy.
Lucy: Not a problem. Wait here.
She disappears upstairs into the flat, while we men stand about drinking beer and regarding our big pile of wood with satisfaction. Shortly, she returns carrying what appears to be a dead body - an approximately human figure made out of stuffed shirt and trousers, with a football for a head.
Lucy: Ta-daa! Say hi to Guy.
Me: Hang on, are those my clothes?
Lucy: I only used some of your old gear.
Me: All of my gear is old! And that's my football!
Lucy: You never play football.
Me: Yes, but I'd like to have the option.
My objections ("But they're my clothes!") are swept aside as the rest of the group discuss how to fix the guy to the top of the bonfire. Eventually, Vinnie scrambles to the top of the heap of wood and sets a large fencepost into the centre of the pile. A hammer and a couple of nails are found, and he fixes a plank to the post as a crossbar on which to hang the guy. We pass up the stuffed mannequin and he lashes its arms to the crossbar with blue plastic twine, then slides down off the bonfire.
We stand back to observe our handiwork.
Wall-Street Phil: It looks like we've tried to crucify a Cabbage Patch doll.
It did indeed resemble some terrible pastiche of the scene at Calvary.
Enzo: Well, I think we should hurry up and burn the fucker. It's freezing and I've got a date later.
So without further ado, we make with the matches and light the bonfire. The fire spreads pretty quickly, as all the wood is very dry and the whole edifice is stuffed with cardboard, and soon the flames are licking upwards towards Guy. We sink more beers and feel very satisfied with ourselves as the blaze lightly roasts our faces. Lucy cracks open the sparklers and we entertain ourselves by writing rude words in the air.
It is not until Guy is fully alight that we understand that lashing him to the crossbar with plastic twine was a very serious error. We realise this at the very point when his bonds melt away and he pitches forwards into the flames - leaving behind a large burning cross which is visible to the entire neighbourhood.
We all stare in horror.
Me: That... wasn't... supposed... to... happen...
Vinnie: Do they have the KKK in England? 'Cos it looks like they do now.
Me: Oh crap.
The next ten minutes are spent wildly lobbing anything that comes to hand at the burning cross in an attempt to knock it over. Eventually, Enzo succeeds with a well-hurled paint can, and the flaming cross topples over into the bonfire. We stand, panting, the ash making us look like we all have particularly bad psoriasis.
"That was fun. I wish we had Bonfire Night in Canada." Vinnie rubs his face, making him look like a Victorian chimney-urchin.
I snort. "You're welcome to it. Let's go to the pub."
"But we can't just leave the bonfire," opines Wall-Street Phil. I pat his shoulder kindly and gaze into the leaping flames with a beatific expression on my face.
"Phil, my friend, let me tell you something."
"Yes, Late?" His moon face gazing trustingly into mine.
"Bollocks," I say, "to the bonfire."
And off we went to the pub. Bonfire night always brings out the poet in me.
The Bottle Shop recommendation for today: Cline Ancient Vines Carignane 2003 (USA). A big, intensely herby red, ideal for drinking when you've just turned the local waste ground into a scene from "Mississippi Burning". £10.99
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Staff Outing
"Oh my f***ing God!"
Marxist Jim is back in the Bottle Shop. He has been away for a couple of weeks on a driving tour of the Californian vineyards (which struck me as being something of a busman's holiday; like"Sideways" with more swearing). He came back full of the sort of vim and vigour that only comes from a fortnight screaming at uncomprehending Yanks. The first thing he noticed when he came back was the smashed-up burglar alarm.
This is not why he is shouting.
"F***ing hell! I don't f***ing believe it! Give me the f***ing phone, you Canadian c***!"
Marxist Jim is excited. It's an alarming sight. He snatches the telephone from Vinnie and starts feverishly dialling with one hand, while the other brandishes this week's Time Out in my face.
"Will you f***ing look at that?"
I f***ing look at it. Gig listings. My blank look obviously infuriates him, because he jams a meaty finger at the page. "John Prine," I read.
"Exactly. John f***ing Prine (yelling into the phone) don't you f***ing dare put me on hold, motherf***er!"
Wisely, I and the rest of the staff creep away and leave Marxist Jim to his raging.
A short while later, Marxist Jim calls a staff meeting. He is smiling broadly. This makes me profoundly nervous. Marxist Jim only usually smiles when he's about to throw somebody through a window.
He folds his arms over his chest and beams. I brace myself and hope that the window isn't plate glass. "We're closing early tonight."
Three incredulous faces gape at him. Marxist Jim never closes early. Even if avian flu had wiped out every human in a 100-mile radius, Marxist Jim would insist on staying open just in case some lone survivor was to stagger by in search of Pinot Grigio.
"And if any of you f***ers have plans for tonight, f***ing cancel them. We're going on a f***ing staff outing."
Once I can pick my jaw up off the floor and get it working again, I manage to croak out a faint "Where?"
Marxist Jim's smile broadens. It is like being grinned at by a crocodile. "We are going to a f***ing John Prine concert." He looks at his three stunned employees, obviously expecting some sort of big reaction. We just goggle at him. "Oh, for f***'s sake. John Prine. He's only one of the greatest f***ing country singers of all time."
This just baffles the already confused Bottle Shop staff even further. Marxist Jim, a country music fan? As we struggle to process this information, Marxist Jim is standing smiling that terrible smile, obviously waiting for some sort of thank you. I feel I should say something, before he takes umbrage at our perceived ingratitude and starts breaking things. "That's very good of you, Jim..." I began.
"Think of it as your Christmas bonus come early. And you f***ers had better enjoy yourselves, or you might as well start looking for a new f***ing job." He wasn't in any way joking. A true philanthropist, that's my boss. I sometimes wonder whether I should do something more restful. Like joining the SAS.
Scroll forward to that evening. At 7:00pm the sign in the Bottle Shop door is flipped over from "OPEN" to "CLOSED" and Marxist Jim shoos Vinnie, Lucy and myself out into the night air. He carries a clinking bag of beer, which he proceeds to sink in a determined and methodical fashion on the tube journey to Shepherds Bush.
"Have you ever heard of this guy?" I whisper to Vinnie.
"Nope."
"I thought you'd know about that sort of stuff."
"Nah, I leave all that country shit to the Yanks. I'm Canadian, man. You know, Joni Mitchell, Lennie Cohen, the Tragically Hip..."
"Barenaked Ladies..."
"Fuck off."
We rock up to the Shepherds Bush Empire and Marxist Jim picks up the tickets. I check the price - twenty-five smackers. So much for the Christmas bonus. Then we're inside and Marxist Jim is elbowing his way through the crowd. He does a remarkably good job - then again, as when someone as big and scary-looking as Marxist Jim elbows you the sensible thing to do is to move out of the way, and sharpish.
We wait.
Lucy goes off and buys four pints of lager.
We wait some more.
Vinnie complains that he can't see the stage. I make that the observation that he should stop being so lazy and grow a few inches. He flips me the bird.
Still we wait.
Lucy comes back with the lager and, as if by magic, the lights dim and a portly chap in a black suit and cowboy boots comes onstage to riotous applause. Marxist Jim whoops. Vinnie, regarding the figure on stage with a critical eye, observes that he's a bit on the porky side. Marxist Jim doesn't take this well. "That's because of the chemotherapy. He's just recovered from f***ing throat cancer, you ignorant motherf***er. Now shut the f*** up and enjoy the show or you'll be going back to Canada in a f***ing pine box."
We all shut up. And we did enjoy the show. Turns out, John Prine is damn good. And the sight of Marxist Jim rumbling along to "There's a hole in daddy's arm where all the money goes" while openly weeping is not something we are going to let him forget in a long, long time.
The Bottle Shop recommendation for today: Robert Mondavi Winery Cabernet Sauvignon 2000 (USA). One of Marxist Jim's souvenirs from his Napa Valley trip. Full berry flavours, with hints of mocha and floral spices. Buy it with your so-called "Christmas bonus", and have enough left over for a one-day bus pass. Bargain. £21.99.
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An alarming day
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"Our -
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burglar alarm -
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seems to be -
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malfunction -
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ing."
Weewoowee.
"I think it's finally stopped."
"Thank Christ for that."
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"Fuck -
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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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