Coldplay! (part 1)

So Monday was Coldplay Day. Took a much needed day off work so that I could meet my sister at 4.30pm at Victoria. She was late, despite wanting to get there earlier, so I bought both our train tickets to Crystal Palace and went and sat in a little grassy square (well, more of a triangle really) on Buckingham Palace Road. Didn't really mind, it was a nice day and there were some cute girls reading on the grass. Eventually she arrived in London and we found a train to Crystal Palace. A lady sat next to my sister and gathered that we were going to the concert so asked us about when it will start / end etc as she lives close to the grounds and can hear everything. She told my sister various things (mostly un-interesting) about Crystal Palace, but I was too excited to pay attention really.

The reason for my sister wanting to get there earlier than she actually managed to was that her boyfriend had decided he'd quite like to come after all. He saw their set at Glastonbury on TV and wanted to come. My sister had heard that they were selling some tickets at the gate so we were trying to get there soon enough to get one. If we got one then we'd ring him and he'd get the Oxford "Tube" down to London.

At the station touts were sifting through the crowds getting off the train in the shifty way that they do. I asked the 2nd one we passed how much to buy one. It was £40 so K rang her boyfriend to check if that was OK. The problem was, well there were 2 really. Firstly the fact that we paid less than £40 for our tickets, and 2nd that we didn't know what time Coldplay were actually playing so didn't know if he'd be able to get there in time. We rejected the touts "generous" offer on these grounds, although he'd probably have been willing to go lower on the price. Just after, an American girl (from New York) stopped us and asked if we'd been trying to buy or sell tickets. Apparently her boyfriend had been called into work at the last minute and couldn't come so she had a ticket to sell. We said we'd pay face value for it (about £33) but still needed to find out if M could get down in time to see the gig. She was fine with that, the tout had only offered her a tenner for the ticket that he'd have sold us for £40! Eventually she even said she'd sell it us for £20. We kept her with us while we walked out the station and then I guarded here (and the ticket) while my sister went to find out what time Coldplay were on. They started at 8.30, it was now just gone 5 so there should be plenty of time. My sister did the deal and the New Yorker and us went our separate ways.

Got into the stadium and went straight for the t-shirt stall. Took ages and ages to get served as there were two really laid back guys behind the counter who didn't care about the queues or the order in which they served people. Eventually got my tour T-shirt so we could go and watch the first support band, Morning Runner. A bit rocky for my sister really, and the lead singer was really fat so didn't really look the part of a rock-star! Still decent though.

We got a drink from the bar, and coming back guess who we saw? It was the New York Girl, but she didn't stop to chat, just waved and walked on by.

Next on the bill was Super Grass. We got a good pitch in front of the sound/light desk. In front of us a family came, the father looked like Sean Connery but that wasn't the weird thing. Their teenage daughter was with them, she had braces in so was probably about 16, but who goes to gigs with their parents??

To Be Continued....

Music

3 Days to Coldplay!

It's Glastonbury weekend this weekend, the last before it goes on it's periodic break. But I'm not going this year (obveously, as I'm here and not sat in a field in Pilton). No one to go with, despite the fact that I do know people who are going. Oh well, hopefully it will rain on them like it did on us last year. Probably won't though, it's been so hot this week.

Tickets for Glasto, assuming you are fortunate enough to get them, cost about £120.00 each. Tickets (a pair) for Live 8 cost £1.50 per text to enter the draw, which you had about a 1/20 chance of winning. My sister paid a friend of her flatmates £180.00 for a pair of Live 8 tickets. I would have cost this "friend of a friend" £1.50 for these tickets. That's some mark-up. But her boyfriend really wanted to go for some reason, to see Pink Floyd apparently. And the line-up is really good. Even has The Killers. And Coldplay, who seem to be whoring themselves out to everyone this summer. I'd say even £90 is pretty good value for money to see U2, Coldplay, The Killers, Razorlight, Snow Patrol, Dido and Joss Stone. Assuming they're all on the same stage (probably not). But that's not really the point. The point is it's a charity gig, so selling the tickets for such a high mark-up is not particularly ethically sound and should not be particularly encouraged.

Anyway, Monday is Coldplay :o) And Supergrass, but I saw them last year at Glastonbury. I really should try and get to know more of their new songs .

Missing: Stranger

It's strange how I miss people that I don't know and have never even spoken to.  When I first started working here, in the winter, there was a girl I would often pass.  She walked in the opposite direction to me as I made my way down the street my office building is on.  I always noticed her because she wore a brown parka with a hood that had "fur" around it.  Mostly she wore the hood up, making her look (to me at least) like an Eskimo.  Seeing her most mornings made me feel less alone in my daily trudge to work, even though we never shared more than a sly glance of recognition, ocassioanlly a half-smile.  Inside though, I'd always be smiling when I spied her coming towards me.

I've not seen her since the start of spring, and it's odd how I miss this total stranger.  Maybe it's simply that she no-longer wears her brown eskimo-coat and so I no-longer recognise her; perhaps she melted away in the spring; possibly she went home to the North Pole; probably she found a better job in some other part of London.

There's an old man that I often pass on my way into work.  He sits drinking cans of cheep beer at 9:15 in the morning.  At first I though he was a tramp, then I noticed he seems to change his clothes far to often to be homeless.  He's always dressed almost-smartly, as if he had a really great wardrobe 10 years ago but has bought nothing new since.  I try my best to appear not to notice him, though I would miss him if he dissapeard one day.

Walking to the station most mornings I pass a young blonde girl.  I think she works at one of the dentists I pass.  We share a similar glance of recognition as I did with the Eskimo girl, and the location at which I first see her suggests how early or late I'm running that morning.  Another stranger I share nothing but brief spacial proximity with but that I've grown accustomed to and would miss should I never see again. 

Would I want to see these people in different surroundings though?  I think that may be as disturbing as not seeing them where I expect to.  If you know what I mean?

Insomniac Kid

A few weeks ago, whilst perusing the back-issues of POSTCARDS and reading about the insomnia that she suffer{s/ed} from, then reading Fight Club, I was reminded of a "stage" I went through in my childhood. I'm not sure how long this stage lasted for, it was a fair few years though I think.

As a small child, I was always afraid of my bedroom in the darkness. In the darkness, evil things could see me, watching, waiting for me to make a wrong move. I had to hide, deep down under the covers. Of course, it got hot down there. The heat made it impossible to sleep. Eventually I would build up the courage to go down stairs to my parents in the lounge. I had to time it just right so that I had the element of surprise over the Evil in my room. I'd jump out of bed and dash across the room to my door and open to escape into the almost safety of the well-lit landing.

Downstairs, my parents would let me sit for a while with them, watching TV. I'd say I was too hot, or in the winter maybe I'd actually be too cold, or simply that I couldn't sleep. I'd never say I was too scared, as that was never the reason; the battles I'd have each night with the darkness were nothing to do with my battle to get to sleep. Often, it was my dad who would take me back up to bed again (my mom always "tucked me in" first of all, when I first went to bed).

He'd run through some relaxing exercises with me, starting at the top and making every part of my body Tight, then Floppy until my toes were floppy and relaxed. Then, perhaps, I'd get to sleep, but sometimes I'd go downstairs 2 or even 3 times a night, until even my parents were in bed and I had nowhere else to go.

When a little older, say 9 of so, I'd lie in bed for what seemed like hours before sleep found me. My bed had become a place to day-dream, not sleep-dream, so I'd have adventures traveling the world, construct houses, castles, whole cities even and cars in my mind. My imagination would run wild, not willing to surrender night-time to sleep and dreams.

Now sleep comes easier to me, occasionally even instantly. But perhaps that just means I get tireder easier these days?

Fantasy (underground train)

I'm on an underground train. It's late and the train is deserted, though hot and sticky as ever. The train screeches into a station.

The doors slide open and a girl gets onboard at the far end of the carriage I'm in. She's tall with long black hair that the breeze from the ventilation vents blows behind her; she's also almost completely naked apart from a pair of red, strappy high-healed shoes on her feet and bright red lipstick on her lips.

She walks up the empty carriage towards me. As I stare at her in disbelief I'm growing harder by the milli-second. She reaches me, captures my eyes in her own stare, glances to the row of empty seats to my left. "Is this seat taken?" she asks, almost casually.

"No, no it isn't" I stammer and she pushes me down hard onto them so I'm lying there with her naked body before me. In a heartbeat she has my shoes off and rips my shirt open. Straddling me, she undoes the fly of my jeans and releases my had cock from its underwear prison. She slowly and sensuously kisses its tip with her deep red lips, before lowering herself onto me and me inside her. She rides me to the rhythm of the train until I come; at which point we arrive at the next deserted station.

She pulls away, stands up and exits the train.

Naked Public Showering with Other Guys

Usually, when I shower at the gym I wear my swimming shorts . This is done under the pretext that I'm either going for a swim or just had one, so showering with them on will wash all of the chlorine out. If I'm honest, though, it's really because I don't feel comfortable being completely naked with anyone. Unless, of course, it's a girl and she's completely naked too. And even then...

You see, at school there wasn't really a big culture of showering (and being naked) after Games or P.E.. When the new Head of Department said we all had to shower before changing back into our uniform, we'd just run the length of the showers in our kit to get our to get a bit wet.

The changing room at my gym, however, is full of naked blokes when I go. Fat men, muscley men, skinny men, hairy men, completely bold men, white men, black men. So it's also full of dicks, bollox and pubes, of equal variety.

The other day, I forgot my swimming shorts. Though rather than skyving off the gym, or going home smelly, I decided to grasp this opportunity to face my insecurities and experience, for the first time since puberty: Naked Public Showering with Other Guys. Throuhout the day various anxieties crossed my mind: What if someone stares at it? What if it shirvels up to a microscopic size? Or worse, what if I get a most-un-natural erection?

After my workout I quickly got undressed, wrapped my towel around my waist (I wasn't quite ready for extended periods of nudity in the changing rooms, although some guys stand fully naked infront of the mirror and moisturise all over) and walked to the showers. I took my towel off and looped it through one fo the steel hoops on the wall, as close to the showers as I could find. I was naked. I stepped into the shower area. There were about six other naked guys in there, more than in my worst fears. I went to the shower at the end, out of the way; it was cold because it's at the end of the system and there were so many others running. I persevered for a short while, at least it would put out any concerns of an erection! In the end it was too cold though - I had to move to a hotter shower, right in the middle.

I could feel eyes watching me. What's wrong? Am I too small? Too skinny? Too hairy? Too spotty? Probably just too self-conscious. I quickly showered, facing the wall mainly, and cleaned the bits I can't usually easily get too. It felt more natural than wearing shorts, I felt liberated. Still, when I got back to my towel and died myself off, I was relieved to tie the towel around me and restore my modesty.

A year ago

It was over a year ago now that I finished uni. I remember what it was like to have nothing lined up for you to go onto after summer for the first time since starting school so many years ago. It was a strange feeling, but a nice one. One I may not get again for 50-odd years.

Beware the Brown Side

"What are we going to do tonight then, Brown?"
"The same thing we do evey night Pinky, TRY TO TAKE OVER THE WORLD."

I'm currently formulating a theory that Dan Brown is actually the infamous DARREN BROWN in disguise. A disguise even more fiendish and cunning than Superman's specs and reversed side-parting. Darren Brown, the mind control "artist" who, while we sit at home and watch him twist his subjects minds on TV for our supposed viewing pleasure has really been slowly brain-washing us. I believe that the Da Vinci code also serves this purpose. Within the front and back cover is not just a cleverly written and engaging story (as he would like you to believe) but also subtle, suggestive words with two purposes: -

1) to make the reader believe that he/she has read the best book ever and recommend it to all their friends and read all "Dan" Brown's back catalogue.

2) to turn the reader into a "sleeper agent" who, on some trigger word, can be called into the service for the Brown Side when he makes his move.

Of course I've no way of proving this theory, as I'd have to read the book to do this, which I can't cos then I'd become a zombie myself! Catch 22.

Though surely anyone in their right mind can see that this is the case, simply from looking at all the people on the train reading these books, and the fact that, last time I looked, Darren Brown had taken over 40% of the top-10 book sales chart. If that's not unnatural then I don't know what is.

{a clever disguise}