I went for a drink in town a couple of years ago.
Covent Garden. Christmas. I know it was the festive season because whilst waiting for my friend to arrive, I’d sat in Starbucks and nicked a plastic snow-flake from the window, intending to give it to my neighbour’s 11 year old son but actually I stuck it on my kitchen window at home and it made me smile every time I saw it. I told myself you don’t miss what you’d never had and he would grow out of stuff like that sooner or later (though I never have).
My friend and I went to Generic Gastropub and chatted about this and that. He was part Masai, hailed from South Africa and had lost a sister to the AIDS epidemic we don’t concern ourselves with too much except for every now and then when the Pope arrives in the UK; we rail at the hypocrisy of the Catholic Church and wear "Jesus is coming - look busy" T-shirts. Then he goes back to Rome and we go back to forgetting our outrage, not sleeping with Africans and reducing world issues to comedy sound-bites on social networking websites.
The evening was pleasantly spent meandering through age-old topics: we put the world to rights, we made resolutions, we started a revolution in between Mojitos and glasses of red wine.
The occupants of the table next to us had finished their meal and were arguing with the waiter over the bill. Voices were rising, indignant protests were made. 3 gays and a fag-hag were irately insisting to the waiter that they’d never ordered what he’d brought them and they weren’t going to pay. The waiter showed them on his pad where their words belied their actions. He politely pointed out to them that not only had they most definitely ordered the food he’d brought them, they had literally eaten most of the evidence in dispute too. They continued to bully, berate and belittle him loudly, and threatened to call the manager over to sack him.
I leaned over and said, “excuse me. Sorry for interrupting this, err, discussion however there is no need to speak to him - or anyone - like that.” The woman looked me up and down scathingly, threw me a passable withering look, and spluttered, “what's this got to do with you?"
To my immense delight, I was able to say, whilst giving it my best ghetto circular arm wave – one hand on hip, the other arm extended, palm-up, snappy head movement and syncopated shoulder shrug;
“I think you’ll find that it has everything to do with me when you’re harshing my buzz.”
I was outstandingly pleased with myself for finding the exact perfect right thing to say at the exact perfect right time and not weeks after the fact as is my usual tendency; I held my wide-eyed, huffy and righteous pose with glee.
I was rewarded with 4 jaws-dropping, my friend chuckling to himself and a smile of gratitude from the waiter. The manager moved us to another table so my buzz would no longer be harshed, apologised for the inconvenience and gave us a couple of drinks on the house.
I have no idea if the bill was paid in the end. If this were a US sit-com, they would have felt suitably chastened, and would then set-up a foundation for waiters who have been chewed-up and spat out by mean gays and their entourage. However this is London life and most likely they paid their bill, pointedly made a show of leaving NO tip and swept out in a clutter of handbags and attitude, complaining bitterly about their treatment and indicating that they would tell everyone they know not to EVER go there AGAIN. PAH! I'm sure that Generic Gastropub can cope with the potential loss of 26 covers in a city of 8 million.
I may put Don't Harsh My Buzz on a T-shirt so next time the Pope comes, we can all wear that instead.
Tuesday, 28 September 2010
Tuesday, 14 September 2010
On the bus, Peckham
I was on the bus going to work in the last of my child protection days. The bus was chugging along the high street. It may have been raining. It may have been dry. The skies were grey. Or possibly blue. There was definitely weather outside even if I now am unable to recall it's exact flavour. The bus was full of women ignoring their bored children, then wondering why they were so badly behaved; art-students expressing their individuality by dyeing their hair the same shade of blue, wearing black nail varnish and something stonewashed and people trying to get to court hearings for various reasons.
The obligatory Jesus-lover hummed loudly to herself in righteous oblivion, presumably intending to covert us through her heavenly voice. When I pointed out to her that she was in fact, humming extremely loudly and did she realise that she was actually singing to herself? She said angrily, “I’m singing for Jesus.” Yes, but it’s quite inconsiderate I said. What would Jesus do on a crowded bus, hmm? Do you think he would sing whatever he wanted to sing as loudly as he wanted to sing it just because he was Jesus? Predictably, she retaliated by singing even louder. A few chuckles ruffled around the bus.
It was definitely going to be one of those days. In Peckham, sometimes several of those days hit you all at once.
The bus slowed to a stop. Doors whinged open. People blipped their oyster cards and made their way down the bus, closing their umbrellas (it must have started to rain by then), dripping onto other passengers and squishing into any space they could find.
There was a commotion at the front of the bus. The bus-driver was saying to someone, “Yes, this is the right bus for...” but the someone he was talking to was highly agitated and was making shouty, barking noises at the bus-driver who gave up trying to communicate. The bus slowly moved off, limited by the heavy traffic. The man made his way down the bus shouting and barking at his surroundings, asking if he was on the right bus for the DSS. He was a tall, black man with shoulder-length dreadlocks which swung around his head in a syncopated rhythm as he manoeuvered his way towards the middle of the bus. People moved to let him pass and watched him – some warily, many with sympathy.
He was still seeking confirmation that he was on the right bus and although several had tried to give it, without success, I thought it might be fun to have a go as well.
I started to say, "excuse me. Yes, you are on the right bus for..” but he had pressed the emergency stop button and the doors screeched open. As he descended into the road he stopped shouting and barking for a few lucid seconds to proclaim pointedly to me, "you’re a whore,” after which he disappeared into the traffic.
The doors squealed shut behind him. The entire ground floor of the bus turned towards me, taking in my whorish apparel of long, black skirt, shirt, slight heels, jacket and gloves. I was going to court that day. I smiled and shrugged, spreading my hands, “evidently this man is unwell” – the bus passengers murmured their agreement (hopefully to the man being unwell, not to my being a whore) – and we continued along the road without further incident.
Later I recounted the story to friends. When I reached the part where I said, “evidently this man is unwell,” one chipped in with, “but I am in fact, a whore” which would have been a much funnier ending to this story had I had the wit at the time to heckle, but as it turns out, it can be quite challenging to come up with comedy when being accused of whoring oneself before 9am.
I spent the rest of my time in Peckham hoping that another crazy, black man would get onto my bus and accuse me of being an evening entrepreneur just so that I could say to the passengers on the bus, “evidently this man is unwell. But I am in fact a whore" and enjoy the reaction.
Sadly there's never a crazy-black man around when you want one.
The obligatory Jesus-lover hummed loudly to herself in righteous oblivion, presumably intending to covert us through her heavenly voice. When I pointed out to her that she was in fact, humming extremely loudly and did she realise that she was actually singing to herself? She said angrily, “I’m singing for Jesus.” Yes, but it’s quite inconsiderate I said. What would Jesus do on a crowded bus, hmm? Do you think he would sing whatever he wanted to sing as loudly as he wanted to sing it just because he was Jesus? Predictably, she retaliated by singing even louder. A few chuckles ruffled around the bus.
It was definitely going to be one of those days. In Peckham, sometimes several of those days hit you all at once.
The bus slowed to a stop. Doors whinged open. People blipped their oyster cards and made their way down the bus, closing their umbrellas (it must have started to rain by then), dripping onto other passengers and squishing into any space they could find.
There was a commotion at the front of the bus. The bus-driver was saying to someone, “Yes, this is the right bus for...” but the someone he was talking to was highly agitated and was making shouty, barking noises at the bus-driver who gave up trying to communicate. The bus slowly moved off, limited by the heavy traffic. The man made his way down the bus shouting and barking at his surroundings, asking if he was on the right bus for the DSS. He was a tall, black man with shoulder-length dreadlocks which swung around his head in a syncopated rhythm as he manoeuvered his way towards the middle of the bus. People moved to let him pass and watched him – some warily, many with sympathy.
He was still seeking confirmation that he was on the right bus and although several had tried to give it, without success, I thought it might be fun to have a go as well.
I started to say, "excuse me. Yes, you are on the right bus for..” but he had pressed the emergency stop button and the doors screeched open. As he descended into the road he stopped shouting and barking for a few lucid seconds to proclaim pointedly to me, "you’re a whore,” after which he disappeared into the traffic.
The doors squealed shut behind him. The entire ground floor of the bus turned towards me, taking in my whorish apparel of long, black skirt, shirt, slight heels, jacket and gloves. I was going to court that day. I smiled and shrugged, spreading my hands, “evidently this man is unwell” – the bus passengers murmured their agreement (hopefully to the man being unwell, not to my being a whore) – and we continued along the road without further incident.
Later I recounted the story to friends. When I reached the part where I said, “evidently this man is unwell,” one chipped in with, “but I am in fact, a whore” which would have been a much funnier ending to this story had I had the wit at the time to heckle, but as it turns out, it can be quite challenging to come up with comedy when being accused of whoring oneself before 9am.
I spent the rest of my time in Peckham hoping that another crazy, black man would get onto my bus and accuse me of being an evening entrepreneur just so that I could say to the passengers on the bus, “evidently this man is unwell. But I am in fact a whore" and enjoy the reaction.
Sadly there's never a crazy-black man around when you want one.
Sunday, 12 September 2010
Jacket - edited version
I gave a homeless man a jacket the other day.
I was out with a bloke I met at Fire and a few of his friends; 2 gays and a fag-hag.
A jacket had been left on a chair in the pub in Leicester Square we were sat at. It was a hoodie, lined with fake-fur. It was there for over an hour and no one had returned to claim it. I had also covered it up with my own jacket, my thinking being: okay, it's now mine. I’ve lost plenty of stuff in London. London is now giving back to me. Awesome. I’m always cold. This would be perfect for me. And cheaper than flying to Trinidad for the winter.
A long-time homeless guy wandered up to us; straggly beard, knotted eyebrows, fierce expression. He was selling a local magazine and we all chorused sorry, we're on plastic. I said hey, you should take this jacket. Someone left it here and it's been ages. They’re not coming back. He took the jacket and continued to ask me for money. Would it bankrupt you to give me some cash? He asked me. I said no, but I’m unemployed at the moment, I can't spare any change. And – more to the point – I just gave you that jacket. He said it wasn't even yours to give. It literally cost you nothing. Why can't you give me some money? I said if you don't want it, you should barter it, swap it for something else (thinking of all my street kids in London and Honduras who would use the jacket as currency and acquire a car by the end of the day). He said "are you making fun of the homeless?" and I believe he may have wagged his finger at us.
The fag-hag, the 2 gays and the bloke I met at Fire had been chuckling throughout the exchange but the finger-wagging tipped us all over the edge. The now reluctantly-jacketed but still very much homeless man repeated his accusation of mocking the homeless which I guess we sort of were by then as the situation had become very comical.
I was sorely tempted to say, well give me back the jacket then if you don’t want it, beggars can’t be choosers, as it would have been very funny, though more than a little cruel.
Prior to that, I should have thought it impossible that the act of giving a homeless man a jacket could have created anything other than a bit of world peace. But apparently it annoyed the crap outta him.
I was out with a bloke I met at Fire and a few of his friends; 2 gays and a fag-hag.
A jacket had been left on a chair in the pub in Leicester Square we were sat at. It was a hoodie, lined with fake-fur. It was there for over an hour and no one had returned to claim it. I had also covered it up with my own jacket, my thinking being: okay, it's now mine. I’ve lost plenty of stuff in London. London is now giving back to me. Awesome. I’m always cold. This would be perfect for me. And cheaper than flying to Trinidad for the winter.
A long-time homeless guy wandered up to us; straggly beard, knotted eyebrows, fierce expression. He was selling a local magazine and we all chorused sorry, we're on plastic. I said hey, you should take this jacket. Someone left it here and it's been ages. They’re not coming back. He took the jacket and continued to ask me for money. Would it bankrupt you to give me some cash? He asked me. I said no, but I’m unemployed at the moment, I can't spare any change. And – more to the point – I just gave you that jacket. He said it wasn't even yours to give. It literally cost you nothing. Why can't you give me some money? I said if you don't want it, you should barter it, swap it for something else (thinking of all my street kids in London and Honduras who would use the jacket as currency and acquire a car by the end of the day). He said "are you making fun of the homeless?" and I believe he may have wagged his finger at us.
The fag-hag, the 2 gays and the bloke I met at Fire had been chuckling throughout the exchange but the finger-wagging tipped us all over the edge. The now reluctantly-jacketed but still very much homeless man repeated his accusation of mocking the homeless which I guess we sort of were by then as the situation had become very comical.
I was sorely tempted to say, well give me back the jacket then if you don’t want it, beggars can’t be choosers, as it would have been very funny, though more than a little cruel.
Prior to that, I should have thought it impossible that the act of giving a homeless man a jacket could have created anything other than a bit of world peace. But apparently it annoyed the crap outta him.
Jacket - email version to Anwara
i gave a homeless man a jacket the other day.
i was out with that disgusting bloke i met at Fire (Ainsley's b'day, end of August. we did gay things of course), and a few of his friends (not Ainsley, i'm talking about this horrible guy i met at Fire): 2 gays and a fag-hag. a jacket had been left on a chair in this pub in Leicester Square we were sat at. it was a hoodie lined with fake-fur. it was there for over an hour and no one claimed it. i thought okay, it's now mine. i've lost plenty of stuff in London. London is giving back to me. awesome. i'm always cold. this would be perfect for me.
this long-time homeless guy wandered up to us. straggly beard, g'd knows how old he actually was. he was selling a local magazine and we all said sorry, we're on plastic. i said hey, you should take this jacket. someone left it here and it's been ages. he took the jacket and still asked for money. would it bankrupt you to give me some cash? he asked me. i said no, but i'm unemployed at the moment, i can't spare any change. and i just gave you that jacket. he said "it wasn't yours to give. why can't you give me some money?" i said if you don't want it, you should barter it, swap it for something else (thinking of all my street kids who would use the jacket as currency in a heart-beat). he said "are you making fun of the homeless?"
i can't remember what i said back but it made the fag-hag and the gays laugh. at which the now jacketed but still, homeless man accused us all of mocking the homeless which i guess we sort of were by then b/c the situation had just become very comical.
i was THIS close to saying okay, well give me back the jacket then.. (b/c it would have been very funny. though a bit cruel).
but anyway..... it reminds me of one of Joey's sayings (from Trinidad and his Bajan grandmother) "no good deed goes unpunished.."
prior to that, i would have thought it impossible that the act of giving a homeless man a jacket could have created anything other than a bit of world peace. but apparently it annoyed the f*ck outta him.
i was out with that disgusting bloke i met at Fire (Ainsley's b'day, end of August. we did gay things of course), and a few of his friends (not Ainsley, i'm talking about this horrible guy i met at Fire): 2 gays and a fag-hag. a jacket had been left on a chair in this pub in Leicester Square we were sat at. it was a hoodie lined with fake-fur. it was there for over an hour and no one claimed it. i thought okay, it's now mine. i've lost plenty of stuff in London. London is giving back to me. awesome. i'm always cold. this would be perfect for me.
this long-time homeless guy wandered up to us. straggly beard, g'd knows how old he actually was. he was selling a local magazine and we all said sorry, we're on plastic. i said hey, you should take this jacket. someone left it here and it's been ages. he took the jacket and still asked for money. would it bankrupt you to give me some cash? he asked me. i said no, but i'm unemployed at the moment, i can't spare any change. and i just gave you that jacket. he said "it wasn't yours to give. why can't you give me some money?" i said if you don't want it, you should barter it, swap it for something else (thinking of all my street kids who would use the jacket as currency in a heart-beat). he said "are you making fun of the homeless?"
i can't remember what i said back but it made the fag-hag and the gays laugh. at which the now jacketed but still, homeless man accused us all of mocking the homeless which i guess we sort of were by then b/c the situation had just become very comical.
i was THIS close to saying okay, well give me back the jacket then.. (b/c it would have been very funny. though a bit cruel).
but anyway..... it reminds me of one of Joey's sayings (from Trinidad and his Bajan grandmother) "no good deed goes unpunished.."
prior to that, i would have thought it impossible that the act of giving a homeless man a jacket could have created anything other than a bit of world peace. but apparently it annoyed the f*ck outta him.
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