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musicandchips
Thoughts from 30-Something London
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Thursday, August 07, 2003 :::
If I hear the phrase "It's too hot" one more time I think there'll be murders. What is it about the English? I think our trains have in some strange way latched onto, and now reflect, the national psyche; no matter what the conditions, something's always wrong. In the winter the trains are delayed because of the wrong kind of snow. In the summer it's because the heat buckles the tracks. In Autumn it's a surplus of leaves. The human correlation being that all winter all you'll hear is "It's too cold / dark / snowy". In spring, "It's too wet". In summer, "It's too hot / bright" (a new one this, up until recently it was "Where's the sun, it hasn't stopped raining, it's too cold, we never have good summers"). In autumn, "It's too windy / the leaves are clogging the drive / footpath / drains". Why on earth must the English moan about everything? And I mean everything! The good side of a situation never even registers with most people here. The influx of foreign immigrants is never seen as a colourful boost to cosmopolitan life; a lack of fish 'n' chip shops abroad is never a good opportunity to sample unusual local cuisine; hot sunny weather never presents a great excuse to take the kids to the Lido for a family swim; I could go on. Obviously I am prone to bitch about things, but I'd like to think that the objects of my ire are deserving of it, and that I bring some humour where appropriate. This wholesale condemnation of any situation, event or circumstance - irrespective of any positive elements it may contain - is something I simply cannot relate to, and it makes me feel very un-English. Which in this global age is quite possibly a Good Thing. I recall my father having similar issues, although at the time I never really understood his frustrations with the rather more morose and negative side of English people. I feel a little closer to him this summer, even more so because he loved hot sunny weather too. God rest his soul. BBQ's on you this weekend Pa!
Also this weekend, I'm being taken fishing by my friend again. This time it's dog biscuits for bait, good because they've been working really well with the bigger carp and keeping the smaller ones away from the hooks, bad because I don't imagine they'll taste anywhere near as nice as the pan-fried Spam. Still, can't knock it till I've tried it I guess. Must remember to take them off the hook first though, otherwise I'll be the talk of the A&E ward for weeks, second only to the guy with his dick stuck in a hoover attachment and a broom-handle up his a*rse. This time, having mastered the very basics of baiting and casting, my technique is to be worked upon. It seems that my instinctive 'jam end of pole into belly-button, pull-up-and-reel-down' method is "Poncey", and "Straight off the back of a boat" fishing. The carp it seems, having seen the frankly laughable way I am attempting to reel them in, and it's total lack of regard for good etiquette, form and poise, were refusing to allow themselves to be caught by such a rank amateur and slipped the hook. Wiley buggers. I never realised there was such a class system in fishing; but then why would I, being new to the sport? So this weekend I intend to class-up my act, and with more hot sunny weather predicted I look forward to it immensely.
Whilst we're on fishing, there was a fantastic (if slightly tragic) story in the papers the other day. This guy had gone fishing for Scottish trout, and as he was setting up his swim he noticed a monster example floating dead in the water nearby. He hauled it out, and before he knew it was surrounded by highly impressed anglers who thought he'd actually caught it, all wanting to measure it and take his picture with it. Caught up in this exciting celebrity moment this chap kept his little secret to himself, and lo and behold was spread all over the next issue of Angler's Times or whatever, as a new record-breaker super-fisherman. Of course his guilt soon began to gnaw, so he felt a desperate need to repeat (or rather actually achieve) this feat. He therefore spent every moment angling, and when it got too dark to fish he's sit in his shed tying flies until the wee small hours. Needless to say his wife eventually left him, and he got so depressed with his failures at home and on the river as to be near suicidal. In a desperate bid to preserve his sanity he finally called the magazine and confessed all, and now, stripped of his record, is shunned and villified by his former fellow fishermen!! HAHAHAhahaha!!!! Hopefully his wife will come back and he can get on with some kind of normal life, but that's got to be the finest and most extreme proof of the old addage, 'Oh what tangled web we weave when first we practice to decieve'.
Recenlty I've been pretty much obsessed with the Scanners demo; fine mature rock with the odd electro twist here and there. Could be massive given the right label, A&R guy/producer and marketing backup. Remember where you heard it first pop-pickers!
::: posted by Andy at 8/07/2003 02:05:00 PM
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