Monday, September 01, 2003 :::

 

So here's the rub. I now know for sure that my Guardian Angel, or whoever/whatever it is that's responsible for my not careering off the rails as I charge headlong through this ridiculous existence, has a great sense of humour, and rather alot of power. Rewind....

It's last Thursday, 7pm. I'm loading my records into the back of a cab, ready to be taken to Mango, the club at which I'm launching my new liggerswithattitude weekly residency, provided loads of people turn up. And I'm nervous. I've been nervous all week, ever since the mix-up with the managers the week before, when they thought I was promoting their opening night and I thought I was just DJing at it. Very nervous. This night represents the culmination of a year's hard work, and if I don't get at least 100 through the door it's all over. And it's raining. HARD. Cue phone call from a good friend Mark.

"Sorry mate, looks like I won't be able to make it. There's been a power cut and I'm stranded in Canary Wharf as the tube's not running".

Arse. Ask the driver to put the 24 hour news channel on.

"...and this just breaking, a power cut that has hit central, south-east and parts of west London has brought the entire London Underground system to a standstill. Every line is closed, and the major overland terminals have been evacuated. Buses are intermittent due to failed traffic signalling systems. London is coming to a standstill."

Big hairy arse. Ask the driver to turn it off.

Needless to say, this act of Farce Majeure combined with the attrocious weather meant the whole night was a complete wash-out. The few people that did make it down had all walked for miles in the rain, bless them, and free guest-lists for life to one and all. Luckily the managers saw the funny side, as I did by the end of the night, and have given me one more chance. I'm now much less nervous; que sera sera I guess! Good work Guardian Angel fella / -ess.

Friday held a sobering event to help me forget my woes too. My brother drove the pair of us down to Plymouth to celebrate the occasion of my grandmother's 100th birthday. I'd not seen her for a couple of years, and therefore hadn't visited her in her residential care home before. Beautiful place it was, a lovely old country building with fountains gently burbling away in immaculately landscaped grounds. I was however totally unprepared for how frail she had become. Clinging onto life by her fingernails, she sat curled and wizzened in her wheelchair, unable to communicate in any but the most child-like manner, blind and deaf to everything happening more than a foot away. It was hard to tell whether she knew what was happening really; she looked pretty bemused by the whole spectacle, and of course barring those who have remained in daily contact with her she didn't seem to have any idea who all these people were. These factors combined to produce that very British reaction when confronted with a difficult social situation: pretend the cause of the discomfort isn't really there. So there we all sat, a group of strangers linked only by blood, drawn together to celebrate the centenary of someone most were trying to ignore, making chit-chat and pretending that this wasn't the last time we would all be gathered in the company of this wonderful old woman, who I remember so fondly from my childhood (even if her kisses were of the most slobbery kind, although I'm pretty sure that was deliberate!). As we left I glanced into some of the rooms we passed along the corridor, noting that every one contained a similarly decrepit old lady whiling away their last days in as comfortable and dignified a manner as possible, and I thought Please God, not me. Give me a good innings, but when the end comes may it be as quick and painless as possible.

Also I never got to see the birthday card from the Queen (no telegrams these days). My Mum thought the signature was printed, my brother that it was personally signed, but I guess I'll never get to make my casting vote on the subject. Pants. The cake was bloody lovely though, and I got a good-sized portion in a doggy-bag to take away. It'll be almost 50 years before I get to eat any more 100th-birthday cake (my mother is going to live forever) if I make it that long (I quite clearly am not!), so I'm relishing every morsel.

On Sunday I watched 'About Schmidt', little realising how relevant it was to the events and attendant thoughts of Friday's journey. What a phenomenal film. How Jack Nicholson didn't get the Oscar for that performance is beyond me, and Kathy Bates as Roberta Hertzel was also astounding. The scripting is just amazing; Schmidt is laid totally bare, with all his strengths and faults, and yet is never judged. There are some great comic moments (the 'breastfeeding till he was five' conversation had me in bits!), and some dreadfully tragic ones (Schmidt's self-appraisal near the end brings tears); I can't recomend it highly enough, a truly wonderful film.

On a cheery note, my flatmate has just called to say he's been promoted and that he's going to take us out for dinner to celebrate. Hurrah! Life goes on mi amigos, life goes on.

I spent the weekend listening to the debut Mankato album, forthcoming on 2m Recordings. Very, very nice.

::: posted by Andy at 9/01/2003 06:14:00 PM

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