This morning I got up and before leaving practiced a few Salsa steps. I'd been checking them out on youtube and was amazed how rhythmic it can be, and even how one person can do it on their own. So it could be, my normal weird fat man tries to dance routine can become a not so weird and isn't he good fat man dancing routine. As Bruce Forsythe might of said. In one breath. Didn't he do well? YES he did Brucee.
I was a little perturbed by the reaction received from Sparkling Eyes. She intimated in pretty straight forward words I was going through a mid life crisis, then to get ready for the ride. Thing is I am over my mid life mark now so it can't be a mid life crisis. My response was along the lines of, great, I can't wait for next week because then it will be an open top car and a 22 year old girlfriend. Most everyone else I've spoken to have laughed at my attempt to Salsa but they have found it exciting or interesting or something along these lines. Especially the leaning over bit when I demonstrate the steps. Though I think I have managed to shake off the inadvertent lean after this morning's practice. It's nice to be encouraged.
Salsa is an up and coming dance in London, and as I talk to people around me I find a number who actually have tried it, done it, or are doing it. Amazing. All different ages, shapes, sizes. It must be in London such an activity is not associated with body snatching, vampirism and burning at the stake of heretics. Of course these other items I practice much later in the day and they are honestly nothing like Salsa at all. The steps are all different.
Thursday, July 24, 2008
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
First Ever Salsa Lesson
For several months the ladies at the Fish Factory had been pestering me to join Salsa classes. They’re once a week during a lunch break. But I had on many occasions been able to avoid them. They said there was a lack of men, to tell the truth, me and the baldy carpenter man who sits next to me had been getting the thumb screws. But this was it. I had decided. After a conversation with Sparkling Eyes where she had suggested we could Salsa, I’d have to learn. Of course I don’t think Sparkling knows how to Salsa either, but she will learn I’m sure. And I could teach her if she don’t mind. But I have to be careful. Because if she thinks I’m getting bossy or know something she’d like to know then I’d be in trouble.
Promptly leaving the Fish factory at mid day I headed to the hall. It’s not a little hall. It’s a pretty big hall. With a tall ceiling. About thirty feet up. And the hall could probably hold a few hundred people, with room to spare I’m sure. As I entered there was a lady standing at a table arranging leaflets. All of them were about Salsa. Salsa gigs all over the country. I didn’t take much notice, but asked if she was teaching. She was. There was three of us in the hall. Me the teacher, and her mum. Both these ladies looked familiar, because they work in different parts of the Fish Factory. I introduced myself, wrote my name in a book. And waited. Texted Sparkling and waited a little more. I was the only student. Baldy Carpenter man had blown me out, he was yellow.
The next 40 or so minutes I learnt the 4 basic steps to Salsa. I danced with the teacher, and at one moment I was a bit horrified. Because, it was the moment when for some reason I make an odd face. Sticking tongue out without realising, as though about to lick ice cream from the sides of my mouth. It’s partly to do with the intense concentration. People with brains do this now and again. I caught myself, laughed and reeled it in. During the first ten minutes I nearly walked out of the hall from frustration. The steps and my brain just didn’t seem to be working together. Doing a kinda side step move, I found myself leaning over. Instead of the elegant swaying hip macho latin fellow, as required; I had become a mobile Leaning Tower of Pizza. I commanded my feet to move and at times they were glued to the floor. I was counting and losing count. Pulling when I should have been pushing, left footing when I should have been right footing and generally getting into a knot. There was one move I was a natural at, it’s a quarter turn. Otherwise the whole experience was equally annoying and enjoyable.
I can’t wait to show Sparkling my moves. Though I am sure she will be moving side ways or backwards to keep away from me, especially if the tongue thing gets lose. I’ll even show Rock Chick if she’s interested. However, I'm probably glad Baldy Carpenter man decided not to come, because he reminded me if he had come we'd of been the only students and may have found we were dancing with each other. Now blackmail matterial or what?
There's one small snag to Salsa. I don’t have dark latin skin or the features of Zorro. But I’m sure this is OK, I got the moves, better work on the rhythm though, the side step, the forward step, the back step, the hips, the leaning, couting from one to eight and missing out four, five and eight. Blimey, no wonder I got confused.
Promptly leaving the Fish factory at mid day I headed to the hall. It’s not a little hall. It’s a pretty big hall. With a tall ceiling. About thirty feet up. And the hall could probably hold a few hundred people, with room to spare I’m sure. As I entered there was a lady standing at a table arranging leaflets. All of them were about Salsa. Salsa gigs all over the country. I didn’t take much notice, but asked if she was teaching. She was. There was three of us in the hall. Me the teacher, and her mum. Both these ladies looked familiar, because they work in different parts of the Fish Factory. I introduced myself, wrote my name in a book. And waited. Texted Sparkling and waited a little more. I was the only student. Baldy Carpenter man had blown me out, he was yellow.
The next 40 or so minutes I learnt the 4 basic steps to Salsa. I danced with the teacher, and at one moment I was a bit horrified. Because, it was the moment when for some reason I make an odd face. Sticking tongue out without realising, as though about to lick ice cream from the sides of my mouth. It’s partly to do with the intense concentration. People with brains do this now and again. I caught myself, laughed and reeled it in. During the first ten minutes I nearly walked out of the hall from frustration. The steps and my brain just didn’t seem to be working together. Doing a kinda side step move, I found myself leaning over. Instead of the elegant swaying hip macho latin fellow, as required; I had become a mobile Leaning Tower of Pizza. I commanded my feet to move and at times they were glued to the floor. I was counting and losing count. Pulling when I should have been pushing, left footing when I should have been right footing and generally getting into a knot. There was one move I was a natural at, it’s a quarter turn. Otherwise the whole experience was equally annoying and enjoyable.
I can’t wait to show Sparkling my moves. Though I am sure she will be moving side ways or backwards to keep away from me, especially if the tongue thing gets lose. I’ll even show Rock Chick if she’s interested. However, I'm probably glad Baldy Carpenter man decided not to come, because he reminded me if he had come we'd of been the only students and may have found we were dancing with each other. Now blackmail matterial or what?
There's one small snag to Salsa. I don’t have dark latin skin or the features of Zorro. But I’m sure this is OK, I got the moves, better work on the rhythm though, the side step, the forward step, the back step, the hips, the leaning, couting from one to eight and missing out four, five and eight. Blimey, no wonder I got confused.
Thursday, July 17, 2008
Severe Haircut
Sad it is, but I enjoy having my hair cut which I did yesterday. It is just relaxing, especially when the hairdresser isn’t from the local butcher shop. One particular girl who used to cut my hair always nicked my ear. I’d come out and for some reason one of them would be sore and bleeding. I tried desperately to avoid her. But the more I tried to avoid her cutting my hair, the more unlucky I got. So I just simply stopped going there and cast my net wider. Now about a mile down the road I’ve found another hairdresser. The barber’s in there change around and I can say it’s been years since I last had an English barber. This time I think he was from the former Yugoslavia, but was quite a nice bloke.
I tried several times telling him I wanted to keep as much hair on top as I could. Unfortunately the problem with someone who doesn’t speak English very well, is they don’t speak it very English very well or understand it. Somehow we communicated. I liked the fact he put a burning taper to my ears to singe out those recalcitrant straws. OK there was a moment when I felt the heat and nearly headed for the fire extinguisher, but overall I was happy. Sitting in the chair and seeing what he done. It looked smart and short, so I tipped him well.
A day passes. I get up early and head to the fish factory but not to work. My duty was on a picket line outside, though I don’t think we’ll be having further strikes, those who went in the factory defeat the efforts of those on strike. Then I had to hit the gym. So I did. It was here for the first time I was able to really see the effect of yesterday’s hair cut and I realised it was severe. Sparkling Eyes saw it on cam and told me I looked like a skin head. I was not amused so put my Russian hat on to hide it. She laughed and poked me several times and because she had been ill the past couple of days this all made her feel much better. In the meantime I begin to worry about the possibility I am becoming thin on top. Follicles beginning to migrate. Probably to my arse.
I went into the centre of London hoping to see the new Will Smith film, Hancock. But after seeing the price of a ticket and not having a real person to purchase a ticket from, just machines. I declined to enter the cinema. It is no wonder there are so many pirates about. The cinema’s and film makers have priced themselves out of the public's reach. For a day when I had lost money I was not going to pay an exorbitant rate for a ticket to watch a film, especially when it wasn’t even peak viewing time. Perhaps I should of collected my hair from the hair dressers and tried to do some kind of barter? For some reason I don’t think they would of accepted. Shame, they just don’t know a super hero when they see one. This disguise works wonders. The Fat balding middle aged man, who’d believe it, hairy ass and a fart to kill.
I tried several times telling him I wanted to keep as much hair on top as I could. Unfortunately the problem with someone who doesn’t speak English very well, is they don’t speak it very English very well or understand it. Somehow we communicated. I liked the fact he put a burning taper to my ears to singe out those recalcitrant straws. OK there was a moment when I felt the heat and nearly headed for the fire extinguisher, but overall I was happy. Sitting in the chair and seeing what he done. It looked smart and short, so I tipped him well.
A day passes. I get up early and head to the fish factory but not to work. My duty was on a picket line outside, though I don’t think we’ll be having further strikes, those who went in the factory defeat the efforts of those on strike. Then I had to hit the gym. So I did. It was here for the first time I was able to really see the effect of yesterday’s hair cut and I realised it was severe. Sparkling Eyes saw it on cam and told me I looked like a skin head. I was not amused so put my Russian hat on to hide it. She laughed and poked me several times and because she had been ill the past couple of days this all made her feel much better. In the meantime I begin to worry about the possibility I am becoming thin on top. Follicles beginning to migrate. Probably to my arse.
I went into the centre of London hoping to see the new Will Smith film, Hancock. But after seeing the price of a ticket and not having a real person to purchase a ticket from, just machines. I declined to enter the cinema. It is no wonder there are so many pirates about. The cinema’s and film makers have priced themselves out of the public's reach. For a day when I had lost money I was not going to pay an exorbitant rate for a ticket to watch a film, especially when it wasn’t even peak viewing time. Perhaps I should of collected my hair from the hair dressers and tried to do some kind of barter? For some reason I don’t think they would of accepted. Shame, they just don’t know a super hero when they see one. This disguise works wonders. The Fat balding middle aged man, who’d believe it, hairy ass and a fart to kill.
Thursday, July 10, 2008
Text message to unsettle
Sometimes in a pretty ordinary day which is going along without any issues, the type I like, something happens which can be annoying for the remaining daylight hours. Today this little problem came from a third party. Sparkling Eyes had texted me because wonderful Rock Chick had said something I should know about. Sparkling had told Rock Chick I occasionally spend my lunch break in the Church Court yard enjoying the company of squirrels and pigeons. Rock Chick had taken from this an interpretation and warning. Of course rather than keep this to herself Sparkling had to share it with me. It reminded me of the time I was made to watch a horror movie which Rock Chick liked, but I found disturbing. I don't know why, but teenage girls have things about horror movies. Like they must find and watch the worst to show they are without fear. Unfortunately this fearlessness does not extend towards middle aged fat men. After watching the DVD, I spent the next 2 weeks checking behind me just in case there happened to be the floating ghost of a Chinese man. There wasn't. But the effect lasted. So going back to the message.
Rock Chick's interpretation was along the lines of sitting in Church Yards eating lunch was not a good thing. The reason being ghosts from the Church Yard attach themselves to you and follow you home. I really didn't know about this. It was something I didn't want to know about. In fact it's a load of codswallop. They don't. Because I keep looking. And have seen nothing. No ghost. No floating man, nothing. So why did it play on my senses I ask myself? Because it was completely unexpected. A bit like watching a Jaws movie, you never know when you're going to end up as fish food. My nice quite ordinary day was now troubled. And it doesn't matter what I do this bloody thing is following me about now. I mean, not thing but thought.
Who needs ghosts when a teenager will do?
Rock Chick's interpretation was along the lines of sitting in Church Yards eating lunch was not a good thing. The reason being ghosts from the Church Yard attach themselves to you and follow you home. I really didn't know about this. It was something I didn't want to know about. In fact it's a load of codswallop. They don't. Because I keep looking. And have seen nothing. No ghost. No floating man, nothing. So why did it play on my senses I ask myself? Because it was completely unexpected. A bit like watching a Jaws movie, you never know when you're going to end up as fish food. My nice quite ordinary day was now troubled. And it doesn't matter what I do this bloody thing is following me about now. I mean, not thing but thought.
Who needs ghosts when a teenager will do?
Wednesday, July 09, 2008
Rained Today
Got up late and left for the train station. Got wet, then just as I reached the station 50 Italian pensioners beat me. They then began to que at the ticket machine. The kiosk was just as bad. I don’t know if it was the getting up late or whether it was the rain. Today things were not going so well.
Walked to the bus stop, as I approached it a bus passed without stopping. Great. It rained some more. So I began to walk to an alternate bus stop. Two minutes after reaching the alternate stop a bus came along. One woman was waiting another was standing about fifteen yards away. The woman who was fifteen yards away walked to the bus stop and pushed in front of the only person waiting. It seems now a common practice in this part of London for some persons to not bother about the etiquette of queuing. They generally fall with in a specific category of ethnic origin. But I don’t want to mention it in case I get accused of being racist. Because now days you can not call a pensioner, a pensioner or an African an African even if they are accurate descriptions. I’m a native born Englishman. I can call myself this because I’m getting rained on.
On the bus I sat upstairs. At the back there was a young lady. Of a particular economic class and education, which a friend of mine would call a Scrote or if in Scotland a Gadggy or Ned. She was talking rather loudly so the rest of the upper deck could hear her. I watched the water from my umbrella run off and pool on the floor. She had been caught for shop lifting, but not been put inside. Her boyfriend was given eight months and she couldn’t understand it. She was getting sentencing later in the month, after some community work. It troubled her how some people got imprisonment for shop lifting and others didn’t. In reality she hadn’t really thought much at all. The bus shifted and my pool of water moved, turning into it’s very own stream.
Obviously her presence on the upper deck is proof of warped justice or damp justice as the day was drizzling out to me. The thought occurred to me to tell her she was a “moron” and didn’t she know; this was her life and it’s not an achievement to be banged up. I don’t think it would of mattered because her peer group see lawlessness as an asset. Maybe she could have a word with the other woman who had pushed in the que. And got some advice how to push herself behind bars a little quicker. This way she could of avoided stealing from a shop and upping the price of goods for those who do pay and perhaps avoiding the necessity of a couple of security guards here and there. She could submit to her guilt pre-emptively, so to say.
Being an enlightened country, here if religion is mentioned in politics it is frowned upon. We’ve done it, got the badge, been there and learnt politics and religion should never be mixed together. It happened a few hundred years ago. Yet, in a great many countries it is not. In some, a thief would have their hands cut off. I dare not think what an adulterer would have cut off, except they’d probably join the high pitched end of a choir afterwards. So the rain falls down. I get wet and internally curse the shoplifters and que jumpers. When my number’s up, I just wonder if she’d like to jump in front of me, I surely wouldn’t mind it would be a watery grave I’m sure.
Walked to the bus stop, as I approached it a bus passed without stopping. Great. It rained some more. So I began to walk to an alternate bus stop. Two minutes after reaching the alternate stop a bus came along. One woman was waiting another was standing about fifteen yards away. The woman who was fifteen yards away walked to the bus stop and pushed in front of the only person waiting. It seems now a common practice in this part of London for some persons to not bother about the etiquette of queuing. They generally fall with in a specific category of ethnic origin. But I don’t want to mention it in case I get accused of being racist. Because now days you can not call a pensioner, a pensioner or an African an African even if they are accurate descriptions. I’m a native born Englishman. I can call myself this because I’m getting rained on.
On the bus I sat upstairs. At the back there was a young lady. Of a particular economic class and education, which a friend of mine would call a Scrote or if in Scotland a Gadggy or Ned. She was talking rather loudly so the rest of the upper deck could hear her. I watched the water from my umbrella run off and pool on the floor. She had been caught for shop lifting, but not been put inside. Her boyfriend was given eight months and she couldn’t understand it. She was getting sentencing later in the month, after some community work. It troubled her how some people got imprisonment for shop lifting and others didn’t. In reality she hadn’t really thought much at all. The bus shifted and my pool of water moved, turning into it’s very own stream.
Obviously her presence on the upper deck is proof of warped justice or damp justice as the day was drizzling out to me. The thought occurred to me to tell her she was a “moron” and didn’t she know; this was her life and it’s not an achievement to be banged up. I don’t think it would of mattered because her peer group see lawlessness as an asset. Maybe she could have a word with the other woman who had pushed in the que. And got some advice how to push herself behind bars a little quicker. This way she could of avoided stealing from a shop and upping the price of goods for those who do pay and perhaps avoiding the necessity of a couple of security guards here and there. She could submit to her guilt pre-emptively, so to say.
Being an enlightened country, here if religion is mentioned in politics it is frowned upon. We’ve done it, got the badge, been there and learnt politics and religion should never be mixed together. It happened a few hundred years ago. Yet, in a great many countries it is not. In some, a thief would have their hands cut off. I dare not think what an adulterer would have cut off, except they’d probably join the high pitched end of a choir afterwards. So the rain falls down. I get wet and internally curse the shoplifters and que jumpers. When my number’s up, I just wonder if she’d like to jump in front of me, I surely wouldn’t mind it would be a watery grave I’m sure.
Sunday, July 06, 2008
Getting Drunk
Getting drunk can be a happy experience. But there are some conditions, such as being around people you like or don’t know. Those unknown persons are acquainted to other group members and are an unknown factor. There’s more to chat about. Or if they are shy then less. But they add to the atmosphere. Which of course brings the next essential, a good atmosphere all round. Where no body is out to settle a personal vendetta, all are open and safe persons to be amongst. There’s one bloke who goes to the same pub as me. A regular. Who I just can’t help but dislike, I have to watch myself if ever I’m going through the stages of drunkenness because I could easily let the genie out of the bottle and become obnoxious, if not aggressive. He’s a complete arse hole, so there’s good reason.. For a conducive atmosphere some background music helps. Even better if it is a live band and you’re not sitting bang next to a speaker, because in between gulps of alcohol there is the occasional need to chat.
Stages to getting drunk, usually begin with, the comment “this drink is having no effect on me,” something I say is after half a pint. And would depend on whether I’ve eaten, because drinking on a full stomach makes slow intoxication. Whilst drinking on an empty stomach is equivalent to a very, very cheap date and a permanent gaze at the world through the bottom of beer glass spectacles, effectively some stages are jumped altogether, not to mention everyone looks sexy. Even the flea bitten dog in the corner suffering from a bout of mange.
However, if just getting normally slowly inebriated then the next stage is feeling tipsy. This inevitably brings on a happy smile. A permanent smirk behind which the mind thinks of funny things constantly. The outside world looks great because encaged in this alcoholic froth everything is funny. Without realising it I catch onto the double entendre so quickly it astounds me how comic timing become natural. It’s odd but the smallest things and comments can be changed into something obscure and hilarious. After tipsy is the pretty merry stage. It’s this point when I don’t ever want to come back to reality. If I could stay intoxicated to this level permanently, everything in the world would have little importance, except of course the funny things again. Being pretty merry is wonderful time, and I wish it were a frozen continuum. For a short period anyway.
Coming very close to this stage is the “I am drunk” stage, and admitting it to other people. Who equally if drinking will simply smile and enjoy your company because they may well be at the tipsy or the pretty merry state themselves, they naturally enjoy the company of a drunk and don’t shy away. There is a caveat at this point. Other’s who are sober will look at you with distaste on their face. As though you have suddenly caught small pox. Don’t worry, just stay away from sober people, by being sober they are out of the loop and do not have access to the inebriate’s mind. I recall chatting on the phone while on the train and being drunk or rather shit faced drunk. The stares I got. If I could of bottled them up they were the stuff a horror movie could be made from.
After being drunk, I hazard there are just two more stages left. This is because more than anything else the speed of recovery next day is down to which drunk state you’re in. If only at the drunk stage recovery isn’t so bad. However next is very drunk, followed by paralytic. Being very drunk means you will have a hang over, and may not be able to recover until mid afternoon. Being paralytic, is also a fine line from being very drunk. When you’re paralytic and wake up in the morning the room is still spinning. It is the classic symptom of one whopping hang over to come. Further there’s the pukes. Or for those unaware visits to the loo with projectile like vomiting and getting into contact with your closest post alcoholic friend. Mr Old Armitage Shanks. Sodd the skid marks. There’s something so comforting about hugging a ceramic pot. Again this is providing you haven’t been greeted by another unfortunate symptom. It’s when the thought goes through your mind “I am going to shit myself.” Yes, if you haven’t practiced getting off the blocks fast it could be a problem. And preying to the great green bottle in the sky, or brown bottle, the toilet is free. Because if someone else is in there, one of you is going to have an accident. This weekend I been through all these stages fortunately with no accidents.
Post drunk clarity. When the air has cleared and your able to think straight with the aid of a couple of headache pills your mind is vexed by the same two words “never again.” Let there not pass over these lips another drop. Let me stay sober the rest of my life and never visit the gates of hell to recover again. Oh well. Till next time.
Stages to getting drunk, usually begin with, the comment “this drink is having no effect on me,” something I say is after half a pint. And would depend on whether I’ve eaten, because drinking on a full stomach makes slow intoxication. Whilst drinking on an empty stomach is equivalent to a very, very cheap date and a permanent gaze at the world through the bottom of beer glass spectacles, effectively some stages are jumped altogether, not to mention everyone looks sexy. Even the flea bitten dog in the corner suffering from a bout of mange.
However, if just getting normally slowly inebriated then the next stage is feeling tipsy. This inevitably brings on a happy smile. A permanent smirk behind which the mind thinks of funny things constantly. The outside world looks great because encaged in this alcoholic froth everything is funny. Without realising it I catch onto the double entendre so quickly it astounds me how comic timing become natural. It’s odd but the smallest things and comments can be changed into something obscure and hilarious. After tipsy is the pretty merry stage. It’s this point when I don’t ever want to come back to reality. If I could stay intoxicated to this level permanently, everything in the world would have little importance, except of course the funny things again. Being pretty merry is wonderful time, and I wish it were a frozen continuum. For a short period anyway.
Coming very close to this stage is the “I am drunk” stage, and admitting it to other people. Who equally if drinking will simply smile and enjoy your company because they may well be at the tipsy or the pretty merry state themselves, they naturally enjoy the company of a drunk and don’t shy away. There is a caveat at this point. Other’s who are sober will look at you with distaste on their face. As though you have suddenly caught small pox. Don’t worry, just stay away from sober people, by being sober they are out of the loop and do not have access to the inebriate’s mind. I recall chatting on the phone while on the train and being drunk or rather shit faced drunk. The stares I got. If I could of bottled them up they were the stuff a horror movie could be made from.
After being drunk, I hazard there are just two more stages left. This is because more than anything else the speed of recovery next day is down to which drunk state you’re in. If only at the drunk stage recovery isn’t so bad. However next is very drunk, followed by paralytic. Being very drunk means you will have a hang over, and may not be able to recover until mid afternoon. Being paralytic, is also a fine line from being very drunk. When you’re paralytic and wake up in the morning the room is still spinning. It is the classic symptom of one whopping hang over to come. Further there’s the pukes. Or for those unaware visits to the loo with projectile like vomiting and getting into contact with your closest post alcoholic friend. Mr Old Armitage Shanks. Sodd the skid marks. There’s something so comforting about hugging a ceramic pot. Again this is providing you haven’t been greeted by another unfortunate symptom. It’s when the thought goes through your mind “I am going to shit myself.” Yes, if you haven’t practiced getting off the blocks fast it could be a problem. And preying to the great green bottle in the sky, or brown bottle, the toilet is free. Because if someone else is in there, one of you is going to have an accident. This weekend I been through all these stages fortunately with no accidents.
Post drunk clarity. When the air has cleared and your able to think straight with the aid of a couple of headache pills your mind is vexed by the same two words “never again.” Let there not pass over these lips another drop. Let me stay sober the rest of my life and never visit the gates of hell to recover again. Oh well. Till next time.
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