a lesson learnt

Someone's beaten me to the line and written about the pubs down Nelson Street which goes to show that thinking about writing something and actually writing it are two completely different things. Conclusion: I've missed the point of blogging and established some erroneous hierachy by which a blog is too inferior a form on which to write about a meaty subject. I haven't remembered the link to the piece but I'll put it up when I find it again.

Saw Sideways on my once-a-year trip to the cinema last night, which was a pretty beautiful film, if flawed in places. It reminded me of two things: a less histrionic American Beauty, and my boozy, skint camping jaunt round Umbria with Luke a few years ago. We went there after a trip to the curry house down POW Road that has replaced one of the Nazma's (classic, vintage-style Indian restaurant, not one of those nouveau gaffs with lighting and fusion menus). Though I enjoyed my food, I've woken up on a downer because I left my very old leather driving gloves in there that I acquired for a scarcely believable fifty pence at the charity for Romanian orphans (FARA). We wound the night up by spending a tenner we found in the snow outside the Alibi...in the Alibi. The "entertainment" was pretty special last night- a pissed-up guy playing the hits on an acoustic guitar. Now, I realise that this is fairly standard but most venues take time to find a guy who a) knows the right chords for the right songs and b) can sing a little. Now this guy wasn't a bad singer in the usual sense of having a grating voice or hitting one or two bum notes- he just couldn't sing at all. The highlight was an aborted version of REM 's Man on the Moon, which I can't do justice to in writing.

Had to work early again this morning. Why don't people take time to socialize their brattish kids before turfing them out into the big wide world? When people I know order a coffee, they look you in the eye, smile, mind their Ps and Qs and probably crack a joke. The students who I serve on a day to day basis act as though they don't have time to be polite, conversational or vaguely normal and attempt to give the impression that they're on their way to perform some task of earth-shattering importance. Even though I know for a fact that they spend all day every fucking day sitting in the hive bemoaning their "skintness" and how "hard" their work is. Solutions: get a job to support your coffee and croissant fuelled student lifestyle and actually pay the occasional visit to the library. I'd best get my arse in gear because i really want to be in the position of marking the work they hand in...comments will include "less time in the Hive, please", "this work shows all the hallmarks of caffeine dependency" and some other half-assed attempts at being deadpan and withering. Ah well. If they could only learn some manners (by which I mean the down-to-earth type also known as "common courtesy" rather than some la-di-da "the fish knife goes on the left" bollocks).

Well, it's Underground day. Hope I'm not supposed to be djing because I can't stand the sight of "Contort Yourself" and "Optimo" failing to fill a dancefloor anymore.

jx

computer-mouth

It's always good to see someone holding forth on PhD guilt, and interesting to see an alternate manifestation of the unwelcome phenomenon. Now, I'm only just embarking on the no-doubt hellish journey (such dizzying highs! such flattening lows!) but I've developed my own set of symptoms. Whenever I sit down at the computer and fool about on the internet (like I am doing now) I get a terrible feeling in my mouth, not unlike when you go to sleep for a very short amount of time on public transport. I feel as if I have the breath of a hound and slime dripping down the back of my throat, which is sore. My shoulders ache. Two things cure computer-mouth: a daring assault on Mt. Work, or a cowardly traipse up Pub Hill.

I'd better tell you about schemes. The beautiful, talented and very singular Jennifer Hodgson is launching a web publishing venture and all contributions are welcome (even, I'm led to believe, writing about sport). Keep checking out SCHEMES for information and the first few offerings. I'm trying to knock up a complete fabulation of a trip round the boozers of the "Nelson Quadrant", all but one of which I'm far too wet to enter unaccompanied, which I hope will become a tale of Hamilton (Patrick, not Ronald)-esque woe.

I've also updated the Teknikov website, but there's still far too many pop-ups on it.

jx

The Girls in Front of Me

I drank three cans of Guinness by myself last night and decided that, if they stopped having meetings to decide their direction and filming them and removed the slow bits with James hetfield singing, Metallica would not be too bad an idea. I did this because I'd promised myself some time to relax before having a day of hard work. So I get up early, get up to UEA in time to get all the shifts that I need, and hit the library by 9.30. Even allowing for my daily browse, I'm doing productive things by ten. And so it goes until the girls who are now sitting in front of me show up. They are talking, in a loud and exciteable manner, about:

surfing
what subjects studied at GCSE
where they've been travelling
what modules to take next year

There's something about the subject matter that, combined with the unique frequency that their voices produce together and the unrelentingness of it, that makes me feel as though the Melvins are doing a slow, instrumental set in the computer room. I can't quite explain, but I know that I'm not going to be finished by twelve and, being a pig-ignorant ignorant pig of a sexist I only ever tell blokes to shut the fuck up.

One of them has symmetrical piercings from brow to bottom lip, as if a metal butterfly flew into her face and got stuck.

Ah, they just caught the death stare thing and I bollocked them. Now I'm blushing. All this occurred in real time. I can work again now.

jx

the mental life of the old skools

Fall titles again elude me so I'm going to give up this silly game. For now. I've had the kind of week when it doesn't seem appropriate to listen to music made by other people- I've been too busy making my own. The gig at the Marquee on Tuesday was an experience- I can't remember ever playing so well, or being so engrossed in a performance. People danced. When you're performing you feed off the energy of the audience. Come down the front, be close, get in my face.

As ever, I woke up the next day feeling a bit blank. There's been several high points this week (my Monday supervision was very encouraging indeed, and Lyndsey seems the person to bully me into becoming a good writer. Even more importantly, she's letting me do what I want with the project, so there's an element of fun that was absent before). High points emphasise all empty time. The day after a gig, or similar event, is often pretty grey.

I strolled, half according to plan, half following the path of least resistance. I studied the alignemnt of pubs in a small area just North of Dereham Road. There were a disproportionate number. I felt as though the right thing to do would be to pop into the Fat Cat and sup a half, but couldn't be bothered. Before this, I saw an old school, with separate doors for girls and boys. It reminded me of the two halves of the brain. Some good Victorian institutional architecture down Waterworks Road. The area across the metaphorical tracks is an absolute goldmine, an extension to my adventures in the Golden Triangle. I'm not sure what to do with all of the information I collect on these journeys.

jx

container drivers

Ah, there's no reason-ah behind this title-uh, except...and the shambolic excuses for diagrams that the science teacher had offered us-ah were now being used as a-ah textbook example-uh of what NOT to do in an emergency-ah...I couldn't think of the title of The Fall song about slating your critics. Though they are many in number.

We got a bad review on the BBC website which disappointed me, especially because the criticisms made were simultaneously true and ignorant- we did come across as "lacklustre" that night, but (I know this is a classic excuse) the sound was shit and it was our first gig with the new line-up. We were thrown to the lions a bit and it'll be a long time before we get on an art centre bill again. Still, something tells me that the reviewer was out of his depth at such a small gig (and the line about "entertainment in the bar" seems to suggest that he enjoys a tipple, I add mischievously) and is probably more familiar writing up shows at the UEA. I know, I know, I know that I'm sounding bitter here but I'm from the Paul Weller school as far as this kind of thing is concerned- we were lucky, but the criticism of the Pistolas was particularly personal and not at all conducive to encouraging the development of new music in Norwich.

A quick browse of the rest of BBC Norfolk's music mini-site indicated that they tend to favour bands who (in theory) have mass-marketability (Cord and the like). This makes commercial sense but the lack of success of these groups just points to the fact that they're not even very good at what they do. Every town in Britain is choked with Stereophonics/Coldplay/Oasis influenced bands who think they're going to make it because the local news gives them good write-ups. On the strength of the "local buzz" generated by out of touch regional media (whose music writers tend to be non-specialist thirty somethings whose interest in music doesn't go particularly far beyond the occasional purchase of significant releases ie, new Manics albums or the Scissor Sisters) these bands get picked up on by London promoters and alleged "industry" people who think that they're going to do great things. They then play a gig in London where the local buzz is immediately exposed by the scrutiny of people who actually know their shit, fuck off back to Norwich or Darlington or whatever and give up six months later. These bands also contribute fuck-all to the local scene because everybody in the area actually knows that they're just peddling the same brand of so-so rock.

Yes, this is the most immature, gauche and boring thing I've posted (well, at least since last week) but it really does my fucking head in.

Still looking forward to the gigs, though, and a bit of Brighton Rocks later in the week.

jx

Life Just Bounces...

Several encouraging things happened as I walked up to UEA today (as part of a new and probably soon-to-be-discontinued get fit 'n' save cash drive). Firstly, the dinner lady outside the school at the top of Avenues Road said hello and smiled at me. Then, a guy wearing a T-shirt walked past. As I looked away from the guy in the T-shirt I saw several small flowers sprouting in the verges (aaah). Most implausibly, at the Avenues/Bluebell Road junction a greenfly landed on my lip.

I think I should add here that, aged about seven, I tried to start a greenfly farm. Not understanding the principles of farming or of insects, I only had one greenfly. It died, because I put it in a tub with an airtight lid on.

Reading last night, discovered a cracking ""A-Z of the City" (edited by Steve Pile and someone else) plus John Reader's new book on urban life. We also talked some rubbish at the relationship between New Journalese and entropy, and my TLS came this morning. I feel almost like a "doctoral candidate" today, which means that I'll probably end up out on the lash tonight.

jx

Not writing "Elastic Man"

I think the problem today is that my mind is somewhere else. I've spent all afternoon:

- thinking about next week's gigs
- thinking about flyers
- mentally working on my Basque (the place, not the lingerie) story
- reading Guy Debord essays in the Nothingness library
- wanting to be locked in my room with all the right leads to do some recording
- looking on Amazon and trying to decide whether groups with names like "Sunburned Hand of the Man" would be any good, and whether or not I'll like the new Boredoms record any more than the last one
- calling up books in the library that have only the most tenuous links to the novels of Henry Green
- not being able to form sentences
- thinking about going on up to Orkney to drink Highland Park with Luke and reminisce

What a waster.

jx

the north will rise again

I should really know better than to feel so smug about the result of a football match, but United's victory over Arsenal last night gave me an involuntary warm glow which hasn't yet departed.

I did start writing a piece justifying this feeling but it was so full of North v. South cliches that I had to delete it. It wasn't as funny as this, anyway.

I just don't seem to have the words today...

jx