Friday, November 19, 2004

November Nail Varnish

Autumn was definitely here. The air outside was cool and damp, the dark pavements where flecked with first fallen leaves. Inside it was warm and humid, the windows steamed up, there always seemed to be more coats than customers.

She looked at her nails. Definitely too pink, they looked slightly weird against the deep brown of her skin. Another expensive bottle for the bathroom shelf. Damn.

Thursday, November 18, 2004

The Referee’s a C**t

Lying seems to have become part of modern football. If one team doesn’t do it then their opponent’s will. The game now harbours a not-so-hidden subterfuge arms race with each side raising the stakes in turn. Off-side traps, professional fouls, bullying the ref, insults hurled from sidelines. Every stumble is pursued as a misdemenour and every foul contested as an attempt to hoodwink the referee.

Palms are held out in appeal, arms raised in protest. Spittle flicks from mouths as tempers mount. Those protesting innocence are suddenly on the offensive, badgering the referee, chests out, shoulders up. The opposition change tact, calmly and insistently presenting themselves as the misunderstood naif, victims of circumstance framed by a wily opponent. If the referee supports your side then clearly the opposing team are bad losers unwilling to play by the rules of the game, if the opposite happens then you are being victimised, the referee has been biased by outside influences and dark forces are obviously at play.

Whether a foul actually occurred quickly becomes beside the point, secondary to the referee’s opinion. This desultory shouting is no longer about principals, its about politics.

Saturday, November 13, 2004

A Drinker’s Tale

On the scale of international drinking waters, I’m sure London’s isn’t actually that bad, but the thought is always there: This sip has been sipped before, sipped by thousands of people, thousands of times. Sipped, pissed, processed. Dripped from a tap, processed. Sipped, digested along with a meal of caviar and toast then pissed. The occasional drop may have holidayed for a week or two in Camden pub, abandoned in glass lost amongst the wilder edges of the beer garden, or perhaps taken a year’s sabbatical in a Battersea flat’s central heating system. And then, with no pause for sediment to collect it’s back into the system. Process, sip, piss. Process.

It all ends up tasting the same. Artificially clean. Absolved of its former lives and associated misadventure. The hint of chlorine a negative image of evidence removed.

I always filter it though, just in case.