London - Jam3: 26/10/09
CAPITAL
London has a strange effect on me. In many ways I hate it. I hate the pace of life. I hate the cost of living. I hate the fact that everyone rushes around, elbowing you out of the way to get to their next meeting or whatever, knifing grannies on the tube so they can get a seat and stomping about en masse in their long black overcoats and umbrellas, embracing every cultural stereotype in the world short of using the words "I say!" and "ra-ther!" in every sentence. It's like going to work with the Gestapo every morning. I'm glad I left. No, really.
But still, for some reason, despite it being many years now since I fled from the capital leaving it snapping at my ankles and gnawing happily on a fair chunk of my bank balance.
I can't say that leaving wasn't a good idea. Up north I can afford my own flat, I have lots of friends in the area, and the pace of life is much more relaxed. And, as an extra bonus, the average Mancunian would never knife a granny for a seat on the Metro. They only do that for money and/or drugs.
And yet, for some reason, every now and then I have a craving to be back in London, and despite reminding myself repeatedly of all the above, it takes a while to shake off. It returned again on the journey down. I could probably quite legitimately blame it on the five hour bus journey. It really is an exercise in boredom tolerence, slowly leeching you of your sanity mile by agonising mile and every time I have to do it I wonder why I couldn't have taken the train.
Oh yes, the train costs sixty quid. That's why.
The day started out promisingly, or rather as promisingly as could be expected. Wake up. Get coffee. Light fag. Sit. Stare into space. Light another fag. Reheat coffee. Repeat ad nauseum. Getting up and getting going tend not to come easily when you know you are facing five hours on a bloody bus. Get second coffee. Light fag. Cough. Spill milk. Swear. So far, so standard.
Finally manage to get enough motivation together to stagger out of the door and onto the number 37 bus to the main terminal. Have never been on the 37 bus, and I don't think I ever will again either. Let's just say that with 50 minutes until coach departure and me living 30 minutes walk outside the city, I somehow wound up arriving at Shudehill with only 5 minutes to spare. And no fingernails remaining on my right hand. Bus driver clearly liked the scenic route around Salford and had aspirations to become a tour guide: "And to your left, a burnt out warehouse." Oooooooooh!
But now let me tell you about the Megabus. For those of you not already familiar with the Great Big Blue Cigar Tins of Doom, I actually swear by them. I also swear at them, as they are not the most luxurious of transport methods, but no other coach company offers you such reasonable prices, and they really have changed quite a bit from the days when some bloke decided to buy a bunch of old London Transport buses, paint them blue and yellow and run them up and down the M23 to Brighton. But the best thing is that, unlike National Express, they only go from major city to major city with no minor stations, no comfort stops, and no dicking around down little country roads getting stuck behind tractors. The Megabus gets on the motorway and stays on it. Then it hits London and crawls across the city to Victoria coach station, and it is about this time I start getting nostalgic.
The thing about London is that it just looks so... appealing. It doesn't necessarily look nice, but everything sort of has this strange filmic feel about it. London is the England you see in the movies, and therefore we are programmed to think it looks nice. Even the scuzzy little flats above the takeaways look nice. You can peer in through the grimy window panes and almost kid yourself that the people inside are happy. God knows how, considering the fact that they probably all work 60 hours a week in 3 jobs in order to afford the place they live in and as a result never see their families, but this is probably a good thing as they are all so hungry after spending all the money on the flat that if they were to all sit down around a table they would only eat each other, and nothing kills the after-dinner conversation faster than cannibalism, turning to ask Uncle Walter his opinion on the latest economic crisis, as you pick him out of your teeth with Auntie Maggie's jawbone.
But nonetheless, I start remembering when I lived here, but only the good stuff. And I don't like it when that happens because I have a tendency to sound stupid. I have long held the opinion that young people shouldn't do nostalgia. They're just not old enough to. As soon as anyone under 25 uses the words "I remember back in the day...." people should be allowed to shoot them. You don't remember back in the day. You weren't born back in the day. The only thing you remember was this morning. But I'm over 25 now, so bollocks to it.
I remember London. I remember my first little flat over the pub. And my second little flat over the off-licence. They were good times. I remember my bus ride to the Shakespeare's Head every other Saturday, and the walk past Big Ben, Nelson's Column and Downing Street. I remember walking through Canary Wharf with all the rich tossers and kidding myself that they weren't looking at me like something they scraped off their favourite Manolos.
But then I got off the bus and a tramp asked me if I could spare £20 for a triple mocha frappuccino and a hummous sandwich with organic lettuce and a pecan biscotti, and I remembered why I left.
TO THE GEORGE!
There is a method to getting around London. You perfect it in your first week so as to not die or wind up hiding in your house. It goes thus: You don your long black coat (everyone in London is required to own and wear one of these by law, or the security guards outside Moss Bros come round to your house and beat you with sticks), you stand up straight, you frown in a slightly pissed off manner suggesting you've just had an overpriced latte and the milk was a little off (this is probably true), and then you stalk about the place very quickly, swinging your arms and glaring dead ahead of you so as to convince anyone who happens to get in your way that it really would be in their best interests if they move, as you are very busy and important and cannot be held responsible if they get hurt. The pedestrian equivalent of a BMW driver, basically.
It's a handy trick, and you never forget it. Slip into London gear, stalk across city. Find tube station. Purchase ticket. Sail through ticket barriers tutting disapprovingly as tourists attempt to figure out how to work our weird, exotic future space technology.
Sit on tube. DO NOT SPEAK TO ANYONE. Also law.
Emerge at Kings Cross station. Turn right. Cross street. Left down Judd Street. Right down Leigh Street. On the corner, the off licence where Bernard bought fizzy-good and was blanked by Gerald and Sarah. Onward. To your left, Bernard's bookshop. To your right, the pub where the skinheads beat him up. Onward again. Cross street. To your left, George Hotel. I know how to find good places to stay!
(Note: Anyone wanting to relive this particular journey can go to Google Maps: Find Kings Cross station, and dive into Street View by dragging the little man onto the map. I don't know if you're fangirly enough to do it, but I just find the fact that it's possible so utterly mind-boggling I just can't stop playing with it. I've just spent half an hour running up and down my own street and the village where I grew up. I can even see my dad's car! It's great!)
Having collected my key, there then follows an amusing incident involving me trying to unlock and already unlocked door, and getting jumped out at by Vivi. Much shrieking and girlyness.
Then the drinking starts. We have lager. We have wine. And we have Absinthe.
Absinthe, for the record, is not as scary as people think. It tastes like a sort of alcoholic mouthwash. Listerine mixed with meths. I think I'd have it again, but I'm waiting for my eyesight to return first.
We head off for the gig only about 20 minutes late. We then get lost. By the time we finally locate the West End (it has been a while since I lived in London, I can't be expected to know everything) we just have time to dive into Pizza Hut for dinner. Or, in my case, breakfast. This is my first meal and I've already mixed 3 types of drink. Pretty soon we'll be making up imaginary drinks and mixing those. Good job I've had four cigarettes to line my stomach.
JAM MAFIA, THEATRE BUFFS
There are four Mafiosa in the end, neatly lined up in the second row. As I take my seat I am handed a photocopy of the Black Books script Mariam had purchased from eBay. I like presents! I use them to measure my worth as a human being.
Sian returns from the bar and a glass of wine is handed to me. Later on she would decide she didn't like the theatre chardonnay and would hand me hers also.
Dylan saunters on and issues forth words. "I've started, by the way." He ploughs straight into the material with an almost nervous enthusiasm (but I have it on good authority that he was sitting in a cafe in Friday in Edinburgh flicking through papers and looking very stressed). The first half flies by. He goes through the material fast, as if he doesn't quite trust his memory and has to grab the bits he can recall fast before they run away. It's not his best show, but he has had a break and he's only human. The information on the booking said this was a 'preview' while he gets back into the swing of things. As I have said before on my earlier reports of his warm up shows, I enjoy seeing him when he's still a little rough round the edges. Makes me feel human.
Just before the interval, a woman in the lower balcony calls him over and hands him a jewellery case. He gets very shy and awkward, dithering in front of the microphone as the audience pursuades him to open it. I swear he actually tears up at this point. "I can't accept this - it's too expensive!" But the woman assures him that he's worth it - and anyway, her daughter's an air hostess and got it cheap.
She later tells us that it is a gold watch. Somewhere beyond the awe and envy, a little voice keeps repeating the mantra of 'she got it cheap' and wonders if I should maybe get Dylan some Savlon, just in the event of 'cheap watch rash'.
Stand outside. Smoke. Locate stage door. Dylan is also having a smoke. Disappear. Leave well alone. Back in. Drink more.
Part two. Dylan wanders on. He apologises for shouting a lot in the first half. "It's just that I haven't been on stage in a while and I keep forgetting that you're here and I'm not in my kitchen."
Kitchens are good rehearsal rooms. The accoustics are good, but I have yet to drag so much as a chuckle out of my fridge.
Someone in the front row puts an empty ice cream carton on the stage in front. Dylan looks daggers at them. "Take that ice cream tub off my stage. This is my space."
He relaxes a lot more in the second half, and as well as reeling through the usual stuff, new material starts to creep in. "Drinking responsibly? What is that? Helping the kids with their homework afterwards? 'Algebra? No, that's rubbish. They just make that stuff up. What's next? Geography! There's Spain! I win!'"
Ad lib of the evening: A man in the front row draws unwanted attention by having a very unusual laugh. Dylan looks at him. "That sound would get you a mate in the North Atlantic." Then he meanders off on one. "And on the subject of North Atlantic... Eskimos. They're not really North Atlantic... but they have 76 words for snow. Well you would, wouldn't you? When it's all you see, coming out of the igloo every morning. 'Oh, more snow.' You wonder why they don't move to a three bed semi in Basildon."
I don't. I've been to Basilson.
TEN POUNDS. LOL.
So, stage door. Scurry round. I lean nonchalantly on the brickwork like I always do. Sian hands me a fag. I light up. I'm still clutching my photocopied script. Dylan emerges. He says hello to the crowd, then says hi to me and Vivi (the people he recognises.)
Now, I have already explained to Dylan who the Jam Mafia are. I have thanked him personally for bringing us all together and allowing us to have our gatherings, and above all, giving me an excuse to invite and meet people from other countries, because I have no friends here. I named Vivi, the French girl, because he remembers her (she gives him wine, apparently that works) so when he twigs that we were all a group I say "I brought the French girl over again."
"Is it like an exchange programme?" he asks.
Well, something like. One day I'll go over there. When I have money. Pencil me in for 2029.
He signs around the little group, and I hand him the photocopied script. "Haven't you already got my autograph?" he asks me, clearly demonstrating his quite startlingly accurate memory of every time I've bloody seen him (and considering I only got his autograph once, he really is going back a bit now, I'm getting a little scared.)
"Yeah," I reply, "but I lost it." Rather informally, he signs 'Dylan' and then twigs what he's signing. "Where did you get this?"
I point out Mariam, who had handed it to me. "She gave it to me, about an hour and a half ago."
Mariam explains: "I got it on eBay."
"How much did it go for?"
"About a tenner."
And Dylan laughs, a proper head-back, cackling, look-at-all-his-seven-million-teeth laugh. "HAH!"
He'll never forget the Jam Mafia. We can be sure of that.