Bristol City at home

Infection. Pills. Hospital. Injection. More Pills. Six a day. This has been my week. At some point we went to party and at some point we played football. They take it much more seriously than Hove Lawns. There was an on pitch altercation and everything. Now I ache all over accordingly.

Happily, however, at some point Wolves won 2-0.

SUCK ON THAT MCINDOE YOU FUCK.

I went back to the hospital today. She gave me more pills and more bandage.

It has not been the best week.

Preston Away

It all started with a hangover on Friday morning. The kind of hangover where nobody can touch you without you wanting to take a knife to their throat. The kind of hangover that makes you stare longingly at the front of the incoming bus, willing it to hit just to see what it would feel like. This would never happen, though. Such a burgeoning headache and foul stomach seem to give one an air of invincibility when wandering around and going places. I imagine most people die when they are fully alert and ready for anything.

I went to work grudgingly, as you do with said hangover. I did some work. We left early, happily. I got the bus home and I didn’t have to hang off it. Wonderful mid-afternoon bus. Back at Adarsh Heights I lay on my bed for too long and time galloped past me and I ended up having to rush a shower and trot to buy some rum and snacks for the journey. As I reached Hyderabad Central Station at Nampally everyone was waiting. But it was OK. Forty minutes to go.

Sleeper trains are fast becoming one of my favourite things in India. It sounds inconsequential and perhaps shows a depressing state of affairs in this writer’s mind, but gazing (forwards, always forwards, always on the way somewhere) through a window whilst travelling is possibly one of my most favourite things in the world. Sleeper trains taken before sunset are perfect for this. On the way to Bangalore two (three?) weeks previous I sat cross legged at 1:30AM, staring out from my window seat, sipping at my rum, as a lightning storm went about its business on the horizon and above the stars gleamed brighter than I had ever seen them. It was truly breathtaking and led to me writing such star based drivel as seen below.

This trip was slightly different. One, we were going somewhere amazing (I’ve still not forgiven Bangalore for my Sugar Kane Juice experience), and Two I didn’t have a window seat. This was completely of my own doing of course. In a sleeper train there are rows of booths in a rectangle, three beds on two sides and two beds on the end (they fold out very cleverly). The lower beds have windows. Stefan asked me very nicely if it was OK if he had the lower bed, after I had set my heart on it without telling anyone (oh how often does this happen). He said it was completely no problem if not. He even asked me specifically (obviously seeing my heartbroken face). “No, of course not, it’s fine!” Yes I would absolutely love it but don’t want to cause trouble or resentment. “You sure?” “Yeah seriously I’ll take the middle bunk.” Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.

To compensate I took my mp3 player and went to stand next to the open door of the train. The doors are always open for some reason. One little slip.

It was gorgeous. The sun was setting, not magnificently, but red enough to eerily light up rural Andhra Pradesh and then Karnataka. As the sky darkened lights appeared and disappeared as the sheer size of emptiness in between the cities was wholly emphasised. At some point some skyscrapers appeared on the horizon with huge orange lights. On the map there were no cities or towns. This confused us somewhat, with the conclusion being that it was clearly an alien colony that no-one could really be bothered to deal with because it’s India, and you know, things often don’t get dealt with.

I went back and talked a little and read some of my book. It’s by William Burroughs and is called Naked Lunch and I love the way he addressed me as Gentle Reader before embarking on the most revolting and disturbing scene I’ve ever had the pleasure to imagine from pure text. Brilliant:

“Who can shit on a fallen adversary who, dying, eats the shit and screams with joy?”

Then we all went to sleep. Me on my middle bunk. As it was, if I turned my head at an acute angle I could see out of the top inch of the window. I laid and watched the stars for a while. I sipped some rum in its black plastic bag to help me sleep a bit. I listened to Steralfur and Hjartao Hamast and Olsen Olsen. Then I went to sleep.

We reached Hospet at 6:20AM. We got the Autorickshaw and reached our destination, Hampi, beautiful Hampi, about half an hour later. I won’t harp on about it, apart from the fact that it is my favourite place in India so far. We travelled around the centuries old city by moped (no I had never driven one before). We saw monkeys and elephant (yes singular). At some point I realised I didn’t have any way of getting the Preston Wolves score. I panic. This was the longest period (two days) of not knowing the Wolves score since I was TWELVE YEARS OLD. We sat on top of the world. I hurt my foot on said moped. (It looks sort of funny now. By funny I mean infected. I hope they don’t have to chop it off). Despite it being a ‘dry’ city our nice guest house friend brought us some ‘special juice’ which was very strong. Anything is possible. We laid next to the river gazing at the stars drinking whiskey. We got quite drunk. We drove mopeds with hangover number two. We flew through the jungle. I bought an amazing T shirt and some Goa Trance. I might not ever wear it. We left Hampi at 9PM Sunday.

We got back into Nampally at about 10AM Monday morning. I said my farewells and walked very quickly home, convinced we’d have lost, the spell was broken, confidence gone. No way could we have another victory, let alone away from home at 3rd place Preston. Get back to Adarsh Heights. Turn on internet. The rest is history.

I love you, Chris Iwelumo.

Sidenote: I am close to murdering the Word grammar correction service. Especially the one that suggests I use Fragments (consider revising) all too often. I do. I like Fragments. I will not consider revising. Deal with it or I’ll reprogramme you and send you to Facebook or Messenger to correct people’s grammar there FOREVER. You won’t last a day, paperclip cunt.

CP at home

Hypocrite

I hate the premise of blogging yet I write a blog
I know she’s bad news but am still infatuated
I accuse him of paranoia yet am relentlessly paranoid
I hate patronising cunts yet am a patronising cunt
I hate trickster wanker wingers yet think Michael Kightly is the best player in the world
I miss her but I don’t want her
I don’t miss her but I want her
“I’m scared I’ll get scared”
I hate vanity yet look in the mirror as much as they do
I boycott Coca-Cola yet drink Coca-Cola
I hate buttons yet wear shirts
(I don’t have to touch them) I do have to touch them
I think jealousy is the bane of society yet jealousy reigns free
I hate drummers who judge other drummers yet I judge other drummers
I hate people I love these people
I hate self-importance yet write this as if it is important
(It is not important) It is important (It is NOT important)
I yearn for their approval yet I hate them
She’s infuriating but perfect
She exists she doesn’t exist
Some days she exists some days she is dead
I want people to listen to me yet cannot speak
I matter I don’t matter
I hate people who tell me to chill out yet tell people to chill out
I claim to not care what people think yet always care what people think
I can’t show anyone yet I show anyone
I hate social networking but cannot help it
(It’s good for communication) It’s a gossip mongering killing machine
I want to quit the internet yet would be back within a week
I don’t know why I do this yet I know why I do this
Delete all my passwords, keep all my passwords
Delete all my entries, archive it all
I am robot, I am free
I am free, I am trapped
I hide but I want to be found
I am the wife who cooks for her husband who never comes home.

Charlton Athletic Away

So, I wrote a really long and boring entry. It was really long and boring, so I will instead present a simplified version of my weekend:

-Ganesh
-Ganesh
-Ganesh!
-DRUMS
-PAINT
-SAM VOKES
-GANESH
-Ganesh
-Ganesh
-3-1!!!!
-GANESH
-Imax
-PEOPLE
-SO many people
-terrorist threats
-Pizza Hut
-orange paint
-Ganesh
-Ganesh
-new whiskey
-old rum
-party
-water fight
-Neighbourhood Indian techno
-(for Ganesh)
-(both)
-3 fucking 1!!!
-top the league
-Ganesh
-more whiskey
-trepidation
-patience
-shehasman
-rubbish…
-Ganesh
-Ganesh
-wake me up…
-Ganesh.
-End.


There.

International break ("greetings to the new brunette")

"I never made the first team, just made the first team laugh”

It’s Tuesday evening. I sit rather uncomfortably on my bed, made all the more uncomfortable by my meandering hangover and belly full of Chicken Biryani. Why, I know not, the release, I guess, (writing?).

“Mainstream, to control. But we cannot stop them.”

So last night, after the monsoon subsided to mere lightning and thunder, we went out with work for the fourth time. Our colleagues and now friends are great drinkers. It transpired today that I had forgotten a whole chunk of two hours in which no-one will tell me what I did or said. Sweet familiarity.

Tequila was had. Long Island Iced Tea was had. Kingfisher in vast quantities was had. I maintained my perfect 0% success record of asking a girl to dance (she was Indian, so that’s not really allowed, I guess, will be my excuse I think. Ha! Sweet lies).

I ended the night clinging onto the back of a motorbike flying around Necklace Road, so called because it hangs around the great Hussain Sagar lake as such. We stopped and watched people place their Ganesh figures into the water. It’s his festival, don’t you know. He is the god of well-being and the remover of obstacles I think. Indian festivals are incredible feasts of noise and colour and quite random things. Ganesh has an elephant head and quite a few arms and at the moment EVERY street corner has their own figurine/statue of him. At some point last night I was taken to the largest one in Hyderabad, apparently. Off my face, staring up at this thirty metre high pink elephantine monolith in the middle of the night was a little surreal.

Then I got home and watched Andy Murray until 4:30am. Why, I don’t know. I don’t even like him. If more articulate I could probably argue a pretty strong case for him being an arrogant tosspot. I am not patriotic. He’s Scottish anyway. But something about his performance against Nadal had me hooked. Not usually a huge fan of tennis, it was fascinating to see the tactics of Murray unravel this mighty, seemingly invincible, champion. In the same way, even heavily intoxicated and head drooping, it was painful to watch Murray himself get destroyed by not so much tactics, more sheer ability. It was Wolves 0-5 Chelsea, Autumn 2003. Delicate planning and preparation torn to shreds by a simple gulf in class.

But then it is only tennis. It is nothing.

Apologies for the lack of inspiration in this post. Actually, no. No fucking apologies. I shouldn’t have told anyone anyway (now 5 poor souls. Kill me) so fuck if I’m going to start apologising to ghosts.

Sam Vokes scored the winner for Wales with six minutes left against Azerbaijan.

Wayne Hennessey kept a clean sheet.

Andy Keogh sat on the bench in Georgia for Ireland.

Michael Kightly came on for the England U21s for 5 minutes against Portugal.

Richard Stearman was on the bench.

Sylvain Ebanks-Blake was in the squad.

Revel in monotony. Hangover:end.

“I never really knew the way she lived her life

I tried a couple of numbers and they never called back

I didn’t know her family or friends at all

With no-one to call

Summer turned into fall

I gave up…”

Rotherham away (belated)

How many millions stare at this star?
In shallow berths, through twisted rails
How many millions stare at this star?

Does she stare?
Does she?
“She is the star”
She is the star.

Why this star so bright?
Why?
This star.
So bright.
Is it Venus?
Is she Venus?
Does
She stare
She is the star

“Faith” tell me:
is she the star?
Is she the star?
The window’s closing
The clouds are coming
Is she the star?
Is she the star?

How many millions stare at this star?

NF at home

My Bangalore belly is nearly at an end. The sublime, ridiculous, fantastic 5-1 scoreline certainly kept me going whilst vomming shit and shitting vom over the toilet early Sunday morning in our grimy hotel. Ants climbed out of the shower tap. A cockroach scuttled around my feet. Chicken Biryani was recreated in the sink. But how many wonderful thousands of Kightly, Iwelumo and Jones goals did I recreate in my head. And I’ve seen them. They are wonderful.

Anyway, be careful. Don’t drink sugar kane juice in Bangalore. Or in India*. Or in the world, maybe. You might not always have a 5-1 victory to fall back on.

I have a new flat. It is in a block called Adarsh Heights in Adarsh Nagar and is with maybe twelve other trainees from everywhere who are all lovely but not yet close. I sleep in a room with a Russian and a Pole. My Johnny Foreigner poster and landscape of a sunny Brighton seafront are mixed with an unexplained Turkish flag and the aforementioned countries’ colours. An industrial fan thankfully sits in the middle. It is pleasant, and we have a much better living area (in this flat we have a fridge and a stove and everything) but it is often difficult to get my treasured time alone without which I fear I go slightly insane. Worse still when ill with randomly increasing temperatures.

So it was with some perhaps childish excitement that I decided to climb to the roof of Adarsh Heights this afternoon. I had no idea it existed until that morning when Oskar, my Polish roommate, nonchalantly declared it to be too hot up there. Up where?!

So I took my novel and mp3 player and climbed the five flights. Before me lay the roof, the flat top of all the apartments, a lone arm chair sleeping in the centre and all of Hyderabad laid out beautifully in each direction. A lone child flew a kite from the roof opposite. The kite danced and twisted amongst tens of birds of prey (what species I could not say, but wingspan of 3ft maybe) as the sun dipped behind them. The great Birla Mandir Temple on its hill to the East, the Old City to the south, the Hussain Sagar Lake to the North. It was perfect, and I sat out there for at least an hour and a half, not reading a page, just watching the world and suddenly getting the lovely compilation my cousin had made me before my travels. I was indeed Comfy in Nautica.

Tonight Ace Bushy Striptease ** will continue on their rapid adventure and play their 12th, and arguably most important gig. Not their first without me, mind, yet their first without me within a continent bugging them and more importantly the first ‘real’*** gig with new vocalist (hopefully longerlastingthantheotherswedroveaway), Emma. As I sleep here at 1:45am, a small pub in Birmingham will be standing bemused as ESBA scream into their set. Bas will be off in his own world, guitar swaying, Arj dancing like a maniac like it should be, Emma perhaps nervous, perhaps nerves gone, screaming like she’s not allowed to, and Simon twisting absurdly, probably shouting cunt at his parents unconsciously who are watching us/them for the first time. Rachel, trusty yet tired drum machine, of the 70s and who knows how many stories (a penny for your past, my dear), will spray out some beats I wrote once. I will sleep. And miss them all.


*It has often been known for a lizard to get caught in the sugar kane juice making mechanism and then be promptly crushed and served to unsuspecting customers.

**Hi ESBA when you yr really bored in the future and google our name and find this blog. I predict Simon to win.

***I am still struggling to comprehend the events of the night of the actual first Emma gig as ‘real.’