Slightly Askew

I was asked by our PR team at work to document my journey to work, on the off chance that it would be interesting thanks to the recent snowfall. I usually navigate the A12 to Southwold, but on this particular day, I had a meeting scheduled in Fulham.

Sure enough, it wasn’t a fascinating journey. But I did bother to take some photos. So in order to make the exercise in some way worthwhile, here’s a blog post.

The photograph below is the back garden at my Ipswich home. (I don’t have any more homes, but I’d like to assume that someone who doesn’t know me might read this.) At this point, I thought it’d be a pleasant stroll to the railway station.

Of course, as soon as I had shut the front door, a few flakes began to fall.

And those few flakes of snow soon became a full-on blizzard. Bastard weather. So intense was this snowfall, that I nearly turned around and went back home. But I didn’t. There’s something about the thrill of starting a journey. Common sense goes out the window. I was almost enjoying the ridiculousness of it all. Onwards.

The snowfall had all but stopped by the time I reached Ipswich docks.

Part of the docks had frozen. I wasn’t the only one staring at this mini iceberg, which reaffirmed my faith in it being interesting. Or I was in the company of fellow idiots.

This car park is usually full. Just saying.

I reached the station in one cold piece. A man across the street was singing a song about snow. I didn’t recognise it, but it made me smile anyway.

I arrived as the train pulled in. Which was nice.

And there were loads of seats on the train. Which was also nice.

There was snow across every bit of countryside.

We got to Chelmsford in good time.

And finally to London. The skyline wouldn’t be the same without the Swiss Re gherkin. It’s a fab building.

And so to Liverpool Street Underground Station. I’d take the Circle Line and change at South Kensington. As a side note, why doesn’t the Circle Line refer to the trains as Clockwise and Anticlockwise at Liverpool Street? Up or Down, at least. When it’s right on the eastern tip, Eastbound and Westbound is useless.

This is South Kensington. I like this photograph. It has some nice lines.

And I like these Tardis-looking things.

I got to Fulham Broadway in good time, and with a long meeting ahead, I thought I’d refuel. I’ve just finished reading the rather wonderful Eggs Bacon Chips & Beans by Russell Davies. It’s about great little independent cafes. So I decided to shun the franchises and find a little gem.

And I did. Although I didn’t take a photograph of the outside, so I’m not sure what is was called. But it was good. Here’s my nice cup of tea.

And here’s my EBC&B.

Tasty.

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Uncle John came round for dinner tonight and brought this photo.

It made me smile.

It’s James, me, Micky the Fish and Jamie having a piss beside the A14 after a day at Newmarket races. And in a bizarre way, I think it sums the day up perfectly.

It was one of those bloke days out where the male species – without guidance from the female – do some bonding. We buy each other beer, talk about football, gawp at tabloids, and fritter money away on horses we know nothing about. Every minute brings the opportunity for a one-liner, an anecdote about sexual conquests, or another drink.

It’s not sophisticated, it’s not big, and it certainly isn’t clever. But it is fun. This photo rekindles all those hazy memories of drunken hi-jinx.

Perhaps the nice thing about this photograph is its tangibility. In a world where not having a camera on a phone seems daft, so many of our snaps remain on memory cards forever. They become easy to ignore; filed away on stamp-sized gadgetry, never to evoke feeling again.

This photograph will no doubt end up in a box in a cupboard in a room somewhere. But for the next few weeks it’ll move around the house, become a topic of conversation when people pop round, and make me smile when I don’t feel like smiling.

Wonderful things, photographs.

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Born To Run at Latitude 2009

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Just returned from Latitude Festival. Feel like utter shit, smell even worse. Not to worry. A very good, cider-sodden time was had by all.

Here’s my round up of the festival.

“This is a new song, so go for a piss.”

Thom Yorke understands that a big, early afternoon crowd would rather hear Fake Plastic Trees. Shame the miserable sod didn’t oblige.

“I think you’ll find mercury is only poisonous in its ionic form.”

Comedian Stephen K. Amos gets the most bizarre heckle of his career when discussing the use of mercury in dentistry.

“We don’t cuss on our records. My mom won’t allow it.”

Brian Fallon of The Gaslight Anthem (if Bruce recommends them, you listen to them) takes the lead in the Nice, Warm and Funny Front Man of the Festival competition.

“I’m going to take part in some food escapement.”

My good friend Jamie heads to the festival toilets for that scary first poo.

“If your parents brought you to this show, your parents are cunts.”

Phil Nichol points out that his show has been rated 15 by the Latitude authorities. And in doing so, wins the award for Greatest Opening Line Ever.

“Fuck you, Natasha Kaplinsky.”

Watching Robin Ince have a breakdown on stage wasn’t comfortable viewing. Especially if you happened to be Natasha’s mum. Memorable, though.

“Come on, you bumders!”

Because even at a frightfully middle class festival, you can’t have enough of The Inbetweeners’ toilet humour. Thanks, Brett.

“Next on stage is Chris Waters singing Born To Run.”

Drinking excessively and then ending up at a tent where the entertainment is karaoke with a live band was only ever going to end one way. Needless to say, I was brilliant. Clarkey woke up the following morning with the souvenir photo that you see above. We’ve still no idea how we ended up with it.

But the bits we do remember… well, they were bloody good. Thanks, Latitude.

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