Comfort & Joy

I won't lie to you: it's been a rough year here at SOS Towers. Losing my job, crashing my car, having to watch Green Lantern, Transformers 3 and Season Of The Witch... that'll take the spring out of your step and right. I've had stress, sleepless nights and moments where I've just plain broken down and sobbed into my porridge. But no matter how miserable I've felt, there are some things which always give me comfort. This post is a tribute to those...

1. Coffee Shops.

Obviously, the coffee itself is important here, but there's also something hugely comforting about taking time out from your day to sit in a coffee shop and watch the world go by. It feels like a special treat and makes me feel sophisticated and adult: something I'm especially grateful for after sitting in an anonymous cattle queue at the Job Centre. Coffee Shop Culture gets a lot of stick, but I think it's one of the true advances in our society. When I was a student first time round, our only options were pubs and grubby cafes. The rise of coffee shops make me think there's hope for civilization after all.

2. Alex Lester on Radio 2.

I tend to sleep with headphones on, tuned to Radio 2. It helps me gets to sleep and if I wake during the night it helps me get back to sleep. It gives me something to think about and distract my mind in the wee small hours when problems always seem far worse than they might actually be. 3am is the worst time to find yourself lying away with an over-active imagination, so thank god for Alex Lester on Radio 2. An amusing, genuine and inoffensive jock who plays a good variety of music and helps keep me from despair. See also Huey Morgan, Bob Harris and Richard Allison on a weekend. And Chris Evans for making me want to switch off the radio and get up as soon as it's morning.

3. Mum & Dad

They say you appreciate your parents more as you get older. I appreciate mine more every time I see them.

4. Comics

Though I can't afford as many of them as I once did, the ones I do buy, take from the library or re-read from my rapidly dwindling collection in the attic continue to give me solace. From the wonderful, warm nostalgia buzz of rediscovering comics from my youth to the rare examples of uncynical mainstream books (thank god for Dan Slott's Amazing Spider-Man!) to all the wonderful home-made small press books I continue to discover and champion. I still love reading novels and listening to music, even watching TV... but nothing calms my mind last thing at night like a good comic.

5. Writing

It's still there. Whenever I get the chance. Not as often as I might wish, but writing has always helped me sort out my thoughts and put things in perspective. Even blogging helps, but the real peace comes from writing fiction. Hopefully I'll continue to be able to steal time to write, whatever else life throws at me, it's the only thing that keeps me sane.

What gives you comfort no matter what...?

Friday Flash - Yolanda (Part 2)

Read Part 1 here...

Last week's #fridayflash story came with not only a 'To Be Continued...' but also a challenge to its readers - could they guess where it was going? It was an experiment to see if the seeds I'd laid in preparation for the twist were subtle or obvious... and when Steve G. saw through my cunning plan, I was forced to think a little smarter. Which, I think, leads to a better conclusion. Sometimes the first idea you come up with is the best... other times, a little brainstorming can be of great value. And as the best plot comes from character, I let the protagonist's character guide him towards a more apt fate...

I hope you enjoy how it all turns out...

(Image by -Kj.)





Yolanda (Part 2)


Do I really expect her to come? I suppose it depends how desperate she is. From her text, I’d say pretty damned desperate. But I don’t know anything about her beyond her name and what she looks like. She might live all the way over the other side of town. She might have responsibilities – god, a kid or something – meaning she can’t leave the house, only entertain visitors at home. Course, if that was the case, I find myself reasoning, surely she’d have texted back by now. The longer I sit there in silence, the greater the chance Yolanda is actually on her way… and then what will I do?

I finish my second coffee and think seriously about getting a third. I’m not going to sleep tonight anyway, whatever happens. The cafe closes in ten minutes, so if I don’t order now I won’t have time to drink it. I’ve pretty much given up on her walking through the door when she does just that.

She’s wearing a purple top with some kind of Muppet on the front (not one I recognise), a long black jacket, and stripy stockings that stop just below her black A-line skirt. Some kind of weird fishbone necklace and earrings shaped like tiny little cassette tapes. Is she even old enough to have ever owned a cassette tape, I wonder. As I try to stop myself staring.

She looks around the shop and scrunches up her face. As she turns in my direction, my eyes dash out into the street. I watch her reflection in the window instead. Thank god for big windows. Then I see her go for her phone.

Shit! Why didn’t I think? When Guy isn’t where he said he’d be, what’s the first thing Yolanda’s going to do? Call him up and ask why. But if she calls now, she’ll hear his phone in my pocket. I can’t even go to turn it off because she’s still looking in my direction. Then she’ll know. I’m a thief. And a liar. And… what? Some scary guy who pretends to be someone he’s not to lure young girls away from the safety of their home in the middle of the night and…? Oh, god, no, that’s not what I am. That’s not why I did this. That’s not—

“What can I get you?” says the bloke behind the counter and Yolanda pauses from making her call, turns to consider the menu on the board above his head, and shrugs.

“Guess I better have an expresso,” she says. Under normal circumstances she’d lose thousands of points for thinking there’s an ‘x’ in the spelling, but in that moment I really don’t care. I’m just glad of the distraction that gives me time to fish Guy’s iPhone from my pocket and hold my thumb against the off button.

Yolanda turns back in my direction while waiting for her drink and puts the phone to her ear. I stare at my empty cup and take a long, deep breath. I know I’ve blown it now. I couldn’t make a move even if I had the guts. What on earth was I thinking? That she’d come all the way down here and be so… what? Pissed off? Heartbroken? Horny? So fucking vulnerable that she’d just fall into my arms and I wouldn’t even have to try? What sort of idiot am I? Really?

“Guy?” she says to his voicemail, though she pronounces it ‘Gui’, and I hate him even more for that. “Guy, you utter shitheel, where are you?” Her voice is low, but direct. It’s anything but the voice of the shy, sensitive ingénue I’d been imagining. People with confidence scare me. “I can’t believe you’d drag me all the way down here and not even… This isn’t funny, Guy… you’ve got five minutes to get your arse back down here, or I swear to Leviathan you’re going to regret it.”

She swears to Leviathan? Riiight... so, turns out the weird goth shit goes further than just her fashion sense. And I’m glad, in a way, because that makes it easier to get up and walk out of there. That and the fact that this is the sort of woman who’d obviously eat me alive, despite my advantage in age. But then again, what did I expect? U know what I need. And I need it bad. There’s a good reason no one’s ever said anything like that to me. Because the sort of woman who’d be that confident, that direct… I’d never be able to approach them in the first place. No, women like that, girls like Yolanda… they get the conceited arseholes they deserve. Guys like ‘Gui’. It doesn’t matter that I’d treat her with more respect and kindness and love than he ever would. It doesn’t matter than I’m better than a box full of Guis. That’s just the way the world always works. Good guys finish last... bad Guis get all the girls.

“Where do you think you’re going…?”

I’m almost out the door when I hear her. At first I think she must be talking to someone else, but as Robert De Niro might say, I’m the only one here. I want to keep going, but I want to turn back more. Look at her. Talk to her. Defy the way the world always works.

I watch her knock back the espresso in one. Only just poured, it must still be molten. If it is, she shows no sign of it.

“M-me…?” I say, and curse myself for the hesitation.

“You,” she says, wetting her lips as she steps towards me. The bloke behind the counter gives me a look, surprise stirred in with jealousy, and that’s the last I ever see of the world as it was. From that moment on, everything is Yolanda.

“Come with me,” she purrs, taking my hand and leading me out the door. She smells of jasmine and old things, her skin on mine feels like the crawling and tickling of a thousand ants. “I think you have something I need… and fuck me, mate, I need it bad.”

And then we’re outside, where I couldn’t tell you, but there’s rain on my face and brickwork against my back. She’s pressing her body against mine, breathing coffee and liquorice, and her eyes are impossible. Somewhere a radio plays Reet Petite. Woah oh oh oh. Woah oh oh oh.

“Tell me,” she says, her voice little more than a whisper, “tell me how much I deserve a man like you. Tell me, how much better you are than the boys I’ve had before. Tell me how I’ll never be happy with a conceited ape like Gui, and only you - only you can satisfy my need."

And that’s how I ended up in thrall to the demon, Y’olan’da, archduchess in the church of Leviathan. That’s how I ended up fodder for an infernal beast that sustains itself on the arrogance and envy of others.

I thought myself better than this.

Friday Flash - Yolanda (Part 1?)

Yolanda

Ever eavesdrop on a conversation that makes you so angry, you have to do something about it?

Here’s my advice: keep out of it. Look at what happened to me…

It starts in a coffee shop, one evening after work. Ten hours on my feet, with just a 20 minute break for lunch and nonstop earache from Victoria all afternoon, I’m ready to drop. But I don’t just want to go back to my lonely flat and slump comatose in front of another CSI repeat. I need a little human interaction, even if it’s only the brunette in Caffé Nero who always has time for a chat and stamps my loyalty card twice, with a wink. I actually thought I was in there, but of course that’s the night I arrive to find her stepping out with some Neanderthal in a Fred Perry top. As is often the case, I left it too long.

Now I’m way past wanting to be sociable, I just want my coffee. So I order my usual, Americano, black, and sequester myself in a booth as far from the counter as possible. See, people are generally lazy. They don’t want to have to walk to the other end of the shop to sit down after all those endless minutes (say, two) standing in line. And it’s pretty quiet in here tonight so the changes of anyone schlepping all the way over to disturb my sulk are slim. That’s the theory anyway. But it’s been one of those days, so my coffee’s hardly cooled to drinkable before these two huge emo arseholes have slung themselves into the booth next to mine, all Siouxsie Sioux make-up and black leather trenchcoats. I hate them on sight, and then they open their mouths.

“Broke up with Yolanda last night,” says the one on the left. He’s wearing a 30 Seconds To Mars T-shirt and drinking what I’m guessing is a cinnamon latte. Too much eye make-up and bandages all up his left forearm. “What a scene.”

“Aw, dude, I’m sorry,” says the other. He’s only got one eye because of his ridiculous fringe and his coffee’s iced. Never trust anyone who likes their coffee cold. That’s one of the fundamental laws of thermodynamics. “Yolanda was smoking hot.”

“Bitch went nuts,” says Bandage Boy, and my loathing plumbs new depths. Those bandages are obviously for show. I’d love to think of him carefully scoring that arm with a razor blade, but there’s only one kind of self-abuse this idiot specialises in. “How was I supposed to know it was her birthday?”

“Sheeeeit,” says One-Eye, sounding nothing like that guy from The Wire. He laughs and asks how long it’s been since they first got it together.

“I dunno, man,” Bandages replies, “feels like, four, five, six… thousand years or something." If his face was an email, it'd read LOL right now. "Who keeps track of that kind of shit? It was good while it lasted, but a man gets bored – you know?”

“Oh, I know, brother, I know…”

It’s the kind of situation makes me desperate to commit random violence. How such an utter dick can end up with a "smoking hot" girlfriend who he takes for granted, treats like utter shit, then crows to his mate about dumping her. And meanwhile, here’s me, 27 year old, a steady job, prospects, and I don’t even have the confidence to ask out the girl in the coffee shop before she hooks up with some fashionista simian.

I’m still fuming five minutes later as the men in black drain their cups, lick the foam from their lips, and bounce on out of there. I can’t even rejoice at their departure, they’ve made me feel so bad. And that’s when I notice the iPhone Bandages has left behind in the booth. Must have fallen out of his trenchcoat. Anyone else, I might have chased after him, but this oaf? I’ve half a mind to phone up some premium rate sex line in Bangkok and leave the call running till the battery goes flat.

And then the text noise goes off and I almost drop the phone... until I see her picture flash up on the screen. Yolanda. There’s no denying it: she is smoking hot. Not a phrase I would generally use without bunny ears, but this is a girl who knows how to wear eye shadow, juju beads, and fingerless indigo gloves. Her hair is an explosion, but it’s the kind of explosion you’d gladly throw yourself into, and she’s smiling in her photo – the kind of smile that makes me hurt inside when I think of her wasting it on a cock-end like Bandages. I click the envelope and read the message.

Guy – we need 2 talk. Cant leave it like we did. Meet me. Tonite. U know what I need. And I need it bad.

And that's when I lose it completely. It makes me so angry, I want to smash things. Bandages’ iPhone, my grande coffee mug (it’s empty now, I wouldn’t smash it if there was still coffee to be drunk), this stupid leatherette booth, the whole blasted shop. Nobody’s ever sent me a text like that. Even the girls who stuck around for a while, none of them have ever told me they needed it. Bad. But this heartless buffoon… this faux-emotional poseur… this Guy… from him, she needs it. She needs it bad.

My thumb hurries off a reply. It’s automatic.

I’m in Caffe Nero, by the station. Waiting. See you soon.

I detest shorthand. My texts are always written in complete, punctuated English. But as my thumb hovers over send, I realise Guy wouldn’t be quite so conscientious. I rethink, then rethumb.

Babe - Im in Cafe Nero by station. Waiting 4 u. C u soon.

Yes. Much more illiterate. I hit send, slip the phone in my pocket, and head back to the bar to order a second drink. This time I’ll sit nearer the door.

To be continued...?


*********************

This week's #fridayflash wasn't meant to come with a "To be continued..."

I knew exactly where it was going and could probably have found time to write the second half... but then I hit a natural stopping place. Rather than rush the ending, I thought it might be fun to allow it a little more space to develop.

I dunno... what do you think? Let me know if you'd like to read part two next week. I'll take stony silence as my cue to come up with something different.

More importantly... where do you think this story is going? I'm intrigued to know whether the plot thus far suggests a predictable resolution. No, I'm not just scrounging around for ideas... in fact, if someone does suggest the ending I have in mind, it'll probably discourage me from taking this any further. Think of me as M. Knight Shyamalan, stopping at the end of the first act of The Sixth Sense, and asking his audience... so? If anyone says "Bruce Willis is a ghost", I promise I won't take this any further.

The Race Is On

Something is getting on my nerves lately.

Well, something new. All the old things are still getting on my nerves too, but this is one I haven't noticed before - or that I'm noticing with far more frequency.



I've always been a fast walker. If ever I go for a walk with Louise, she always asks me to slow down. It's not like I'm in a hurry to get anywhere, I just have a naturally fast pace. I don't like walking slowly, unless I'm stopping to admire the view, and let's face it - in Bradford, there's no view to admire.

So when I walk across town for my daily caffeine fix, I'm used to passing most of the people who are going in my direction. Because most people walk slower than me. And that's fine. I don't barge them out of the way like Richard Ashcroft, I just step around them and carry on my mission.

But lately, more and more people seem unwilling to let me pass. Instead they start to speed up, to match my pace, or even get ahead. They want to race. Which in turn makes me walk even faster. Till we're virtually sprinting through the centre of Bradford like the winner gets Cafe Nero's last ever Americano, and the loser dies of caffeine withdrawal. Only they're not even going for a coffee... they just don't want me to get ahead.

Look, I don't ask for much out of life. But if I want to walk past you - please just let me walk past you. It isn't a race. There isn't a prize. This is just my natural pace and I don't like following you. Who does it hurt?

Actually, thinking about this, it's just one more nail in my mid-life coffin. I know why it's happening. It's because I'm getting old, isn't it? It's because those damned young people can't face the fact that a soon-to-be 39 year-old fogey has a quicker step than them. And it's only going to get worse, and more frustrating, and drag me further still into a trough of despond... with every passing year.

There's nothing else for it. I'm gonna have to get a segway.

Top Ten Coffee Songs

Went into Cafe Nero today. Ordered my usual black coffee to take out.

"Would you like a biscotti to go with that, sir?"

"Tell you what, call it a fucking bisCUIT and I might."

As mentioned a couple of weeks back, I'm back on the drugs. Specifically caffeine. And for no other reason than because I didn't have enough room in my Top Ten TV Songs for Blur... here's my Coffee Countdown.



10. Johnny Ray - Coffee & Cigarettes

Poor old Johnny Ray
Sounded sad upon the radio
Moved a million hearts in mono...

If it's good enough for Kevin Rowland, it's good enough for me.

9. Otis Redding - Cigarettes & Coffee

Some of the greatest songs ever written take place in the wee small hours of the morning, yet typically they're written from the point of view of a lonely, down-at-heel loser who's only companion is a whiskey glass. Otis bucks that trend by writing a small hours love song. They're just sitting here talking over cigarettes and coffee - with Otis on the stereo.

8. Crash Test Dummies - Afternoons & Coffee Spoons

The song that proves Crash Test Dummies weren't just an annoying Mmm Mmm Mmm Mmm One Hit Wonder.

7. All Saints - Black Coffee

All Saints, Rol?

Really?

I'm a big fan of the classic girl-groups - from the Supremes to the Shangri Las... and for a second - just one second - All Saints came closer than most to recapturing and updating that sound. Ultimately they failed, but give them some credit...

6. Richard Thompson - Java Jive

From Richard Thompson's epic trawl through 1000 Years Of Popular Song, here he takes on The Ink Spots' 1940 hit. You know the one.

"I love coffee, I love tea, I love the Java Jive and it loves me..."

5. James - Coffee & Toast

Recorded in the original sessions for the Pleased To Meet You Album, this was subsequently relegated to b-side status when Brian Eno stepped on board the good ship James as producer. A shame, because this would have been the best track on the album. Perhaps Tim Booth realised this - he quit the band for 7 seven years after its release.

4. Squeeze - Black Coffee In Bed

Featuring Paul Young and Elvis Costello on backing vocals, another of those songs that reminds you what a great lyricist Chris Difford is.

3. Blur - Coffee & TV

The song that broke Blur and persuaded Graham Coxon a solo career was beckoning? Could be.

2. Prince - Starfish & Coffee

Prince goes into Cafe Nero...

"Hello sir, can I take your order."

"Yes, I'd like Starfish and coffee, maple syrup and jam, butterscotch clouds, a tangerine and a side order of ham, please."

"Certainly sir. And would you like a Biscotti with that too?"

"Call it a fucking bisCUIT and I might."

Soulwax do a cracking cover of this song too.

1. The Clint Boon Experience - White No Sugar

The man on the mac in Macedonia
Hits on the girl with the fully loaded PC in DC
This is definitely a new revolution

Mr. Boon - play that tune!



So that was my caffeine fix - what's yours?

Off The Wagon

I have a confession to make.

After years of restraint, circumspection and self-discipline, I have slipped.

I have fallen off the wagon.

I'm drinking again.

No. Not alcohol. (Sorry, Penelope.)

Not alcohol, but almost as bad.

The dreaded bean.

Coffee.

I managed to kick the habit three years ago, fighting my way through the withdrawal headaches to the point where I actually believed I didn't need it anymore. But there's nothing compares with the smell of freshly brewed coffee in a morning (not even napalm), and I've been lured back in. Maybe I needed a little drug abuse to help me deal with the back pain. Whatever my excuse, I'm drinking again. And though it's only a couple of times a week, I can feel the addiction digging in its claws.

I'm limiting my abuse to proper coffee only. Filter coffee, never instant. Which means I only drink when I'm out or visiting my folks, occasionally at home (via cafetiere)... and every now and then, from a coffee shop.

This morning I had to take my car in for a new exhaust. With an hour to kill, I drifted into town and found myself besieged by coffee shops. I'd actually intended to go record shopping. Louise found a band on the Glastonbury coverage we both thought sounded pretty cool (The Avett Brothers) and I thought I'd pick up their CD. I remember when I was a kid, a trip into town offered a myriad of possible music outlets. Now there's only sad old HMV. The lone survivor of the high street music decimation. And did they have the disc? Did they buggery. No record shops then... but thousands of coffee shops. Everywhere you look. Starbucks. Cafe Nero. Costa Coffee. Merrie England (!) Not to mention the independents. There's a coffee shop on every corner. How do they all stay in business? Are we that addicted?

I chose an independent. The last time I visited Starbucks I was disturbed to discover their takeaway cupholders are made from 'post-consumer fibre'. How Soylent Green is that? I liked the look of this place though, and the fact that the owner was playing (and singing along to) Gene as I walked in. His patter was slick too - "there you go, young man" - till I realised it was just his standard routine. You feel less enamoured by someone addressing you as "young man" when he gives the same line to the pensioner following you in the queue. But then it happened. The thing I've found keeps happening, ever since I started frequenting coffee shops again...

It's always the same. I walk in and make my order. I've never been one for mocha-frappa-bollocksa-chinos. My needs are simple. I just want a plain black coffee. So that's all I ask for...

"Regular black coffee, please."

Is that not clear enough? Is there some room for misunderstanding? No? So please, someone tell me, why do I keep hearing the same question whenever I ask for a regular BLACK coffee...?

"Do you want milk with that?"

Seriously. Is it just me?