Red or White?

Some like white, others red, the majority don’t really care what colour it is as long as they can get inebriated to the point they can’t walk or remember who they’re snogging. You know who you are.

I found myself in a wine bar the other night with a few colleagues. Someone asked me what I wanted to drink. My eyes scanned across the bar table looking for an ale pump but to my disgust but actually not that unsurprising there wasn’t any. So I had to choose between white, red or champagne. I considered champagne but realised that when it was my turn to buy the drinks I’d be scorched with an order of Cristal when all I good afford was Babycham. I was going to select white which had been my choice of wine for the last four years when “I’ll have the red” spurted out of my pie hole.

“I’ll have the red” reverberated round my partially empty head like a whirring fly. I hadn’t drunk red for years. The reason being just one. When I was in sixth form we went to the local watering hole one spring Friday lunchtime and started drinking red vino for no particular reason. I guess we were all trying to be sophisticated while discussing the current issues in Kosovo. I’d of worn a cravat if I could turn back time now. By 9pm, I couldn’t hold my pool cue straight anymore, I kept resting it on my wrist but still insisted on taking the shot. As I was focussing on the ball, I realised that something unpleasant was stirring in my stomach, my mouth suddenly started to salivate profusely and my palms started to get clammy. I was all too familiar with this procedure. No I wasn’t going to turn into the American Werewolf in London, I was going to projectile vomit. I dropped the cue and rushed to the toilet which was on the right hand corner, luckily there wasn’t anyone in the only cubicle. I remember getting on my knees when the contents of my food gushed from me splashing rather waywardly all over the inside of the toilet. I didn’t even have enough time to suck in a much needed breath before my next rushing of vomit came spewing out, splattering the walls as much as the toilet this time. My eyes watering and my body trembling slightly I laid myself against the toilet when all of a sudden the toilet lid came crashing down towards my head. There was a crash, a bang and then a hazy memory of being lifted up and taken home.

That thought had risen from the subconscious of my mind and nestled itself right at the forefront which caused me to feel slightly uneasy as I started to sip the red again. I don’t know what I was all worried about though, it tasted lush, in fact I had another glass, then another and before you know it I was wasted again. Only difference this time was I knew that if I wasn’t careful I would become reacquainted with the toilet and disgrace, although I’m sure this wine bar’s toilet was a lot finer than the pub’s. Anyhow, I wasn’t planning to find out so I relaxed from drinking for a bit and concentrated on conversation, flirting and rolling Old Drum cigarettes.

I was pretty chuffed that I wasn’t sick from red wine, this meant there was no stupid contorting of the face and shuddering of the shoulders, which is reaction I make every time I hear a drink I’ve been sick on. I still can’t drink Tequila. So now I’ve started to drink red wine quite regularly, it started off at 1 glass a night and was recently upgraded to two glasses each night. It all seemed to be going quite well until I saw this, http://news.bbc.co.uk/player/nol/newsid_6460000/newsid_6461300/6461303.stm?bw=bb&mp=rm,and thought, “f*&k sakes, I’ve only just got back into wine”. I’ve deliberately decided to ignore the messages of this video as it seems just another example of government ‘scare tactics’, I’ll just carry on slurping the red, thank you.

Vacant Choice

Just before Christmas I made a decision not to go travelling. It was a really hard decision to make, I considered it one of those difficult life decisions. Similar to the one you make when you’re forced by your teachers or parents into what career you wish to pursue when you’re a gangly teenage boy who’s only pursuit at the time is get a kiss of a hot girl. I had saved some my money, thought of a route I would take, in fact I had even found myself in STA Travel in Euston one rainy Thursday afternoon. I was all set to book my round the world ticket when the booking assistant changed my decision. I think her name was Claire. She looked a well travelled young lady by the different types of bangles on her wrist, a bandanna hemming in her sprouting dreadlocks and an African looking skirt wrapped around her waist. Everything was going well, until she asked me my specific itinerary I was a bit flummoxed that I couldn’t spit anything out. I knew that I wanted to go to South America, then to Australasia and ending up in East Asia. However, she asked me for how long I wanted to stay in these specific places and what countries I wanted to visit. I remember spurting out that I wanted to spend 2 weeks in Argentina, then to Chile for 3 weeks. She looked at me quizzically, and said, “to be fair, these sound quite short times”. I said, “I know”. She looked at me again and told me that she felt I wasn’t ready to go travelling. I asked her why she thought that. She replied that, "you’d know this sort of stuff, you’d know where you wanted to stay and how long for. What cities you actually wanted to visit within the countries and probably even know the weather forecast for that period too." I was a bit startled by the fact it was coming from a stranger. I have a tendency, well a conscious choice, in soaking in the opinions of strangers. The main reason being that they don’t know me so their observations are lucid and not smudged by any previous knowledge of me. I walked out of there thinking, “shit, do I want to go travelling?” On the train home, I realised that I didn’t want to go. The reason being, I didn’t want to go on my own. Sitting on the chewing gum infested Silverlink carriage, I knew my decision not to go travelling was a rather significant one. A decision that may gnaw at me slowly over the years, until I shout out, “yeah, now I’m fucking ready to travel, now back the fuck off, conscious” but by then I'd be 55.

I’m standing at the urinal in the Plough tending to my biological obligations. However, I’m staring hard at the rusting aluminium panel. In the dining area, I’m at a work lunch with two producers, one of them a senior one, a designer, and a software engineer. The conversation started about work but soon becomes more impersonal. I’m cracking a joke to the designer about Spurs not being able to keep a lead, when my ear catches the sound of “when I travelled Russia…” I turn waspishly to see who said this. It’s one of the producers. I turn back to the designer but my ear is attentively listening to the other conversation about travelling. A pain swells up inside my stomach, it’s kind of dull and uncontrollable. I’m jealous. “Yeah, it was the same when I was travelling through Cuba”. The pain increases and starts to spread up to my throat to the point I can’t really hold a stimulating conversation anymore. I let the designer do the talking and I just nod in the right places. Before the pain reaches to the tip of my tongue, my body tells me I need the toilet.

I’m blankly looking at the urinal thinking why am I so bothered about people that have been travelling. I made my decision, I deliberated about it, imagined in my head me out there in New Zealand or Bolivia. The imaginary picture wasn’t clear and rather faded. I conclude that I’m an uncultured idiot and realise that I’ve been staring at the aluminium panel far too long that the gentleman on the left of me might think I’m trying to pick him up. So I zip up, wash my hands, realising one thing is for sure, I need a holiday.

Clothing Quest

“Please make sure you remove all your money” read the ATM.

“I sure will” grinned I as my right hand eagerly grabbed hold of the cash that came spitting out of the machine. I ran my index finger along the top of the notes so that they sounded something like cards being shuffled at a frantic rate. I’d just been paid that day after a months worth of my labour and time. Like most people I love the feeling of getting paid, it’s on par with drinking good ale or watching Shaun of the Dead for the first time. With all this money I decided to get some new attire to look good around the ghetto. I got myself to the train station fairly quickly but once there I found out rail works had scuppered my plan of heading down to Camden Market to get some jeans. As an alternative I had to wait for a bus that the rail company was supplying if I wanted to reach my destination. I stood by the bus stop for a few minutes allowing the wind to lash its whip of ferocity across my face like an enthusiastic S&M first timer. Feeling the lashes would soon scar me or at least excite me into a state that was unacceptable for public viewing I decided to abort going to the capital and instead choose to go to the next best thing. The town centre. Knowing full well that the town centre is just a bevy of high street chains all living together jostling and vying to try and take your money I thought I’d give it a shot. With a sigh I nestled my hat onto my head and headed up there.

I entered Top Man and immediately got the feeling that everything was a bit false, like when you are introduced to people in a new job. They smile at you and nod as you’re talking but really they’re thinking when their next fag break is. A light blue t-shirt caught my eye and I picked it up for further examination, with slight shock I thought this was something I could exchange money for, until, that is, I turned it round and saw a skull and cross bones logo sprayed in white across the middle. It sort of reminded me of the crap graffiti that featured prevalently along the walls of the underpasses I used to go by on the way to school. Obviously these graffiti artists have now got jobs at Top Man and t-shirts are their canvasses. I didn’t even bother hanging it back on the wall, in my disgust I just shoved it between the hats and scarves and left it there all crumpled and creased. I actually thought it looked better like that, so I turned around and headed for the exit. Although I didn’t really enjoy my experience in Top Man, the majority of my female friends speak with the same intensity and admiration of Top Shop as they do when they talk about Timberlake and Jonny Depp. I guess they must be doing something right in the women’s department.

After my sharp exit from Top Man I came across Next. I knew this was a futile cause because you know exactly what you’re getting in Next, smart casual garments that enhances the features of the male models wearing their clothes on posters but only enhances the inferiorities of the average looking gentleman. I walked in and stood on the escalators. As I was heading up towards the men’s department I looked at my watch and rued the inefficiency of rail track. Right now I could have been running the food gauntlet along the cuisine alley in Camden Market. The place where within a space of 2 minutes you feel disorientated and tenderised from all the screaming and groping made by the different chefs trying to sell you their variations of “squid and rice” or “Beef stew”. I reached the top of the escalators and didn’t even bother taking a look, I just done a U-turn and went back down to get something to eat.

After devouring a Mexican chilli bean wrap from M&S I headed towards H&M and to my luck they delivered. I’ve always been a bit of a fan of H&M as they do clothes for people who like to look good but don’t want to over do it with garish skull and cross bones appearing on their range. I saw a pair of jeans I liked and rummaged through trying to find my size but was unsuccessful. I asked one of the shop assistants for help and told him my size to which he replied, “you need a lad, I’ll see if I can find you one”. Before I could ask him why he was bringing me a boy he disappeared into the back room and returned two minutes later with a pair of jeans draped across his arm but no sign of this ‘lad’. He handed me over my jeans and I asked him why he wanted to bring me a boy. He pointed over to a wall chart of sizing where it read that H&M categorises all the different sizes and then names them things like Ladd and Sliq. I thanked the assistant and went towards the changing rooms thinking whatever happened to the ol’ ‘Boot Cut’ range. On my way to the changing room I found a plain blue t-shirt which looked familiar to the Top Man one. I quickly turned it round to check there wasn’t anything pirate related on the front and took that with me when I realised the only thing pirate related on there was its actual colour. The jeans fitted well and so did the t-shirt. I pulled a muscleman pose in the mirror to amuse myself even though I was aware that the curtains weren’t fully drawn but I didn’t really care I was just content I’d found something.

With the remaining of my money I walked over to HMV and bought the Mighty Boosh Season 1 and then strolled over to Waterstones and purchased Factotum which I had been meaning to buy the other week. With all my purchases I headed home with a smile on my face and a swagger in my stroll.