March 8th 2004 - March 14th 2004
Sunday Hirsted
Saturday Sketchy
Friday Vlad the Impaler
Thursday Vermiculating
Wednesday Unbelievable
Tuesday Spalding
Monday Not so suddenly
Sunday 14th March 2004
Sir:
I should like to ask Tom Lubbock: who rattled your cage? Who pushed your button monkey? Did I screw your wife? Is it your period? Are you a failed artist yourself?
I read the illuminating piece you wrote after you looked round the show In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida. I cannot believe what a rude fellow you have become..
I come from a family where I was taught that if you couldn't say anything nice then not to say anything at all. And if your mother is still alive then I will be sending her a letter suggesting that she give you a firm smack on the bottom and send you to bed without supper...
DAMIEN HIRST
London WC1
Saturday 13th March 2004
Oooh. I've just flashed on something that was going on at Horse Meat Disco last week. I knew there was more to that than I remembered.
Amidst the bustle, tucked neatly into a corner up by the pool-table, an attractive man stood propped against the wall, sketching.
Unremarkable enough, I guess. Except that it's something I've always wanted to do, to be insouciant enough to take pencil and paper to a crowded venue and attempt to capture some of the chaos as it passes.
I always thought it would be just a little bit too much like hard work: having to deal with curious friendly faces peering over your pad, people posing just in case your pencil turned their way, bystanders (like me) watching you watching them.
On reflection, I think I was right. Hats off to him, nonetheless.
Friday 12th March 2004
At work the conversation turned, as conversations do, to the sexual charisma of world leaders. Or lack thereof.
Power has it's own allure, so politicians ought to have a head start over us mere mortals. Kissinger was always said to be sexy, but I don't see it myself. Bill Clinton got a vote from one of the girls but.. nah. The only figure to get anything even remotely resembling a positive concensus was Vladimir Putin.
That can't be right, can it?
Thursday 11th March 2004
Strange, the places that your mind goes when you're mildly drunk and travelling home on the night bus. My mind, anyway.
Heading through the City, musing on time and history, noticing the way that architecture that was, until recently, merely late-Edwardian already looks unspeakably ancient; wondering whatever happened to the buildings that looked ancient when late-Edwardian looked merely not-quite-new; glancing at the decorated stonework on some newly-ancient bank building and thinking: Vermiculation. Now there's a word I know, but will never need.
From the Latin, doncher know, for "worm". Referring, specifically, to the raised trails that worms leave on the surface when burrowing through mud. (And when was the last time you saw that?)
Hence, a mode of carved stone decoration: lumpy, bumpy, and randomly textured. God knows how I know the word. God knows why. And God knows when I'll ever use it again.
It is, of course, quite possible that I've made this up. There may well be no such word.Or, if there is, perhaps it describes some arcane process known only to lost generations of master brewers. Maybe it's the proper term for being awarded a posthumous honorary doctorate. Or maybe it's a disease of sheep?
Wednesday 10th March 2004
Dan Brown's The Da Vinci Code is now the best-selling hardback novel of all time.
I've been (reluctantly) reading it, and I have to tell you that it's complete crap. A couple of extracts will give you the flavour (if that's the word I'm looking for):
André Vernet looked awkward with a pistol, but his eyes shone with a determination that Langdon sensed would be unwise to test.
'I'm afraid I must insist,' Vernet said, training the weapon on the two of them in the back of the idling truck. 'Set the box down.'
'The Priory keystone is not my speciality,' Langdon admitted. 'My interest in the Holy Grail is primarily symbologic, so I tend to ignore the plethora of lore regarding how to actually find it.'
Sophie's eyebrows arched. 'Find the Holy Grail?'
Langdon gave an uneasy nod, speaking his next words carefully. 'Sophie, according to Priory lore, the keystone is an encoded map...a map that reveals the hiding place of the Holy Grail.'
Sophie's face went blank. 'And you think this is it?'
Langdon didn't know what to say. Even to him it sounded unbelievable...
Unbelievable? You got that right. Chapter 52 features an expatriate English aristocrat who lives in "one of Paris's most significant historical châteaux' where his "prim and elegant" butler answers the door "making final adjustments on the white tie and tuxedo he had apparently just donned" before ushering them into "an exquisitely adorned drawing room" where he serves Earl Grey tea with lemon.
Eeeeuw.
Tuesday 9th March 2004
Farewell, blog hero
After graduating from Emerson College, Spalding Gray moved to New York, where he joined the experimental theatre outfit the Performance Group in 1970 and took small roles in pornographic films..He would later deny any association with those movies.
While that dubious work was paying the rent, Gray was honing his writing skills on anecdotal monologues drawn from the experiences of his youth.
He also began landing parts in more reputable films. It was one of his earliest "straight" roles, in Roland Joffe's The Killing Fields (1984), which in turn led to Gray's own biggest success. The experience of working on Joffe's picture, combined with Gray's impressions of modern Cambodia, formed the basis for Swimming to Cambodia.
Despite the sombre events that Gray incorporated into the piece, its progress from subtle horror to surreal comedy and back again was handled with elegance: one moment he was articulating the boredom of the film set; the next he was running through a history of the Khmer Rouge with appalled bewilderment; before the audience knew what had hit them, he was dishing the dirt on freakish Cambodian strip-clubs where dancers did unspeakable things with fruit.
(Spalding Gray had been missing for several weeks before his body was found in the East River. He'd recently been talked down off a bridge by a passing stranger, and most of his friends suspected suicide: see John Perry Barlow's moving tribute.)
Monday 8th March 2004
(Not so) Suddenly Last Sunday
0530: Stagger in from a very enjoyable night at the Joiners with vague recollections of having engaged in long conversation with lap-dancer from pub across the road. "Nah, I don't enjoy it at all, but my eldest's got cancer and when I can make £600 a night I say to meself that's anuvver night in hospital for him, y'know?"
0730: Finish watching Will and Grace Have Sex in the City and fall into bed. Read for a bit
1015: Curse in my sleep, wondering just where the estate cleaners learnt that trick about chiming the broom against the iron railings on Every Single Sodding Step of the Stairs
1615: Crawl back up to consciousness. Calculate that it's too late to make a late dash to the Vauxhall Tavern. Smile smugly, given I'm planning a queue-free weekend
1620: Dimly recall telling David I'd see him at Horse Meat Disco at "8..9..10..ish" Calculate time left between now and 8..9.10.ish, deduct an hour for a bath, smile. Coffee. Papers. More coffee. More papers.
1715: Try to remember if I ate last night. Vaguely recall one third of a packet of digestive biscuits. Investigate food stockholdings: good eggs, some rather dry cheese, two very pregnant potatoes
1815: Consume most of enormous cheese and potato omelette. Decide not to resist urge to nap. Set alarm for 1915.
1915: Clench snooze button, go back to sleep for 10 minutes. Repeat x 5
2015: Txt from David: Horse Meat Fab. Txt to David: On my way! Force eyes fully open. Repeat mantra: The Snooze Button Is Not Your Friend. Forgo bath.
2120: Arrive Vauxhall. Squint down road trying to ascertain if that's, sod it, a queue outside Dukes.
2123: It isn't
2130: Don't see David anywhere. Or Pano. Or David C or Jason. Or any close friends. Lots of familiar faces though. And lots of faces with which one would like to become more familiar. Including the Most Beautiful Boy in the World, hoorah. (Maybe he's stalking me?)
2140: I do enjoy a crowded bar. But not when I have to wait 10 sodding minutes to get served. It's alright for you lot, you're already pissed. I only just got here!
2145: Spot David C's pogoing head rising rhythmically above the crowd on the other side of the dance floor. (Not difficult when you're 6 foot 8 in stacked shoes.) (David C, not me.) Fight through. And here's Jason. And their friend. And, look, there's Drew. Oh, and Euan. Hello Euan
2155: Euan finishes saying hello, and moves on to So How Are You
2200: More beer please. Now. David turns up. Notes are compared
2210: Oh look, there's Sef. Hello Sef. And Patrick. Hello Patrick. And Hinton, talking to the the Most Beautiful Boy in the World, fnarr
2230: More beer? Certainly. And a fizzy water for Patrick, bless
2245: "You're cool. The eyes." Why thank you
2300: Spot tall bearded beatific man on the other side of the throng. I think it's Richard, of Radio Egypt fame. Wonder if he'll recall the few words we exchanged the other week, when he drifted into the Joiners wearing the biggest frock in the world.2301: Work way across dance floor, tap him on the arm: "This is great but what it really needs is someone in Very Big Frock." He smiles but looks a little confused. (A little more confused.) Maybe it's not Richard. Well, my point holds.
2315: Ooh, he's nice. And him. And him. Oh look, a woman's fallen over. Ooh, he's nice. And him
2345: Well, so much for getting the last tube. Vauxhall Transport Hell, then. But not yet. I wonder how I could get to LA3 from here. Without paying an arm and a leg for a cab. I blame Livingstone
0005: Goodnight Jason. Goodnight David. Haven't seen MBBW for a while
0006: Time to be going then. Goodbye everybody. I love you. (Especially you)
0009: Arrive eastern side of ongoing construction work on new Vauxhall Bus Station, plastered with posters (the station, not me) announcing "It's on its way!" On it's way, my arse. This has got to be the longest sodding construction project in history. I blame Livingstone
0015: Arrive western side of bus station. Bus just leaving. probably the last of the ones that would take me directly to Liverpool Street. Try to read map to find bus that would take me to LA3. Fail dismally. Read schedules instead, at three separate bus stops. There is no bus that would take me to LA3
0030: Five buses have passed, all of them Not In Service. No other buses. Don't London Transport realise the implications of Vauxhall as a major gay hub? Christ knows, they employ enough queens. Grr
0045: Still no sodding buses. I definitely blame Livingstone. Recall row I had with bus conductor here several weeks ago, who insisted I had to buy ticket before boarding bus despite signs indicating contrary. Buy ticket, check that it's the one I've paid for rather than the (outdated) one left by confused passenger before me. As several weeks ago
0047: Think to check I have another pound coin for bus from Trafalgar Square. When I get there. If I get there. I have two pound coins. Result
0053: On a bloody bus at last. Should have had that bath before I came out, I really pong. Oh hang on, no, it's that whey-faced girl sitting next to me, picking at her sores. Great
0115: "Esscuse. Trafagguh Square?" Yes, dear. Over there. With the statue of Nelson in the middle. The guy who beat the shit out of your navy in 1805. Oh God. I just wanna go home.
0120: "Hello mister. Travel card?" No thank you. Insert coin in ticket machine. Nothing happens. Resist urge to kick machine.
0121: Insert coin in second ticket machine. Nothing happens. Kick machine. Blame Livingstone
0122: I'll take that travel card. Was it you who's fucked up these machines? "No, honest, I swear. Is other people. You need penny." Excuse me? "You put in penny. If penny come out again, machine working. Then you put in pound." Well thank you, that's one sodding thing I've learnt..oh that's my bus.
0145: Approaching Liverpool Street, on a bus with three, count'em, three Japanese girls talking incomprehensibly into mobile phones. Here's my stop. Just the twenty minute walk from here then
0345: Arrive home. Long story
......previous week
