Portkabin Diary – Week Two.

In the Newcastle quayside restaurant, they are playing the new Lambchop album. This is the first decent music I have heard in three days, and it immediately bathes me in a warm glow of relief and contentment.

There was no point in bringing any music up with me to the industrial North East. Unlike the office in Nottingham, it is not the done thing to listen to music through headphones in the Portakabin. So, for the last three days, the only music I have heard has been: Radio 2 in taxi cabs, incidental music on TV programmes, and ring tones.

Oh, and the shitty three-years-old commercial trance that they insist on playing in the hotel bar. There’s something deeply depressing about hearing frantic, banging, up-for-it dance music in an almost deserted, soulless, totally incongruous environment. Its inappropriateness sets my teeth on edge as I sit with my pint of Stella, my cigar and GQ magazine.

GQ magazine? What is happening to me? I am a long, long way from home.

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One strange thing about Newcastle. The whole time I have been there, only one person has ever come up to me asking for money on the street. By contrast, if you take a walk through central Nottingham, you can reckon on encountering one beggar every fifty yards or so. On any normal lunchtime walk from the office to the sandwich shop, I will probably self-consciously ignore about half a dozen people along the way.

When we won the pop quiz a couple of weeks ago, I drunkenly decided that I would commemorate the occasion by giving all my change (2 or 3 quid’s worth) to the next person to ask me. Such largesse. But for once, there wasn’t a beggar in sight – and I was looking, I was really looking.

Typical bloody homeless people. They’re never there when you need them, are they?

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On any single day in the Portakabin, I will experience every emotion on the scale. There will inevitably be one point in the day where I feel fed up, homesick, resentful at having my life hijacked at no notice, angry, powerless and very slightly close to tears. Equally, there will always be another point in the day where the sheer relentless pace of the work causes a major endorphin rush. Exhilarated, I will find myself thinking “Wow – I’m actually enjoying this! Maybe hard work can be fun after all!”

Which of these two reactions do you think bothers me the most? The second one, of course. It just isn’t natural.

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Tax and spend! Tax and spend! YES! At last! Oh, be still my beating heart!

Once again, Gordon Brown proves himself to be one of the last remaining politicians to be worthy of any respect whatsoever. My man!

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I’m getting fed up with the overwhelming blokeiness of the industrial North East. Almost the only women I’ve seen all week have been waitresses or cleaners. In one busy restaurant, there wasn’t a single woman diner. It’s a testosterone fuelled man’s, man’s, man’s world. Where porn videos get played on tea breaks, and “lasses” know their place. It’s not what I’m used to. I really am a long way from home.

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Back in my hotel room for the final hour and a half of each day, mentally drained after eleven solid hours in the Portakabin, I find myself slumped in front of TV programmes that I would never normally bother with – and what’s worse, I am enjoying them. They are simply all that I’m fit for.

The corny new drama set in a Manchester hairdressers – the cheaply made documentary about police officers in the West End of London – Jesus, I even sit through an entire episode of Attachments, and am entertained. What is happening to me?

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K has flown to Washington DC for a one day meeting. Out on Thursday afternoon, back on the Friday night red-eye. This isn’t the first time he has crossed the Atlantic for a single day, and it won’t be the last, either. Mad! Mad, I tell you!

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I’m eating too much. Food is just about my only remaining pleasure up here, and so I dive greedily into vast platefuls of the stuff. My belly is steadily getting fatter. It’s not a good look. But at meal times – I just don’t care.

Fat and forty. This isn’t me!

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Why do they want me up there? Why me, and only me? I think I know why. It is The Curse Of Competence. I have made the elementary mistake of being demonstrably rather good at my job. Stupid, stupid boy.

Look, I’m quite happy not having a “career”, thank you all the same. K is the one with the “career”. I, on the other hand, have my little job which keeps me out of mischief during the day, and that’s fine by me.

My personal territory is the comfort zone. Always has been. Why, I am the very King of The Comfort Zone. Yet now, I have been exiled against my will into the world of Hard Graft.

But you know what the really scary thing is? It’s a slowly creeping realisation, and I can’t ignore it for much longer. Basically, I am now starting to realise that hard work, dedication, perseverance, self-discipline, stretching oneself and overcoming obstacles actually, you know, pays off. It actually feels quite, you know, fulfilling. Fulfilling in the sense that quite large numbers of pleasure impulses are triggered whenever tasks are successfully achieved. I am still applying my hedonist’s logic here, you see – aiming to maximise my pleasures, as always.

I started realising this with the blog, and now I’m discovering it up in the Portakabin. I’ll say it again, shall I? Hard - work - pays - off.

The easy assumptions of a lifetime, shattered. Bugger!

The Troubled Diva Old Curiosity Box – Item 9.
The Anteeks – I Don’t Want You (1966) (2.36mb)

Some time in 1966, my parents threw a party. As a result, we ended up with a clutch of singles – mostly big hits of the day (Wild Thing, These Boots Are Made For Walking, Substitute, Homeward Bound). In amongst these was this mysterious, obscure single by The Anteeks. It was never a hit, so I’ve no idea how my parents ended up with a copy, as they had no interest in pop music whatsoever. Anyhow, I finally discovered a few years ago that this is a very rare and collectable single – my Rare Record Guide prices it at £60, which makes it one of the two most valuable records in my collection (the other one being the debut album by the Justified Ancients Of Mu Mu).

But is it any good, I hear you cry. Oh yes. It’s raw, vituperative 60s garage punk, of the “96 Tears” / “Nuggets” ilk, and I love it to bits. A forgotten gem which deserves a wider hearing.

Update: Sorry - you weren't quick enough. These MP3s are no longer on my server. I generally make them available for a week or so (sometimes less) before substituting them for new ones. Better luck next time!

I should have explained. That isn’t my Portakabin – it’s just a Portakabin. Not entirely dissimilar, but mine isn’t next to a children’s playground. No, it’s bleaker than that.

I'm back. And I did have, ooh, so much to say. The main points are all scribbled down right next to me on a little scrap of paper. But, after nearly four and a half hours on the train tonight (when the journey should have taken just three hours), I am a trifle braindead.

Instead, here's a nice picture of a Portakabin.

My Portakabin awaits me. Back on Thursday night. Be good.

The Troubled Diva Old Curiosity Box – Item 8.
Yazoo - Situation (Francois Kevorkian dub) (1982) (5.04mb)

Before being reborn as Francois K, of New York's Body And Soul fame (now if there's one club left on the planet which I wished I could visit...), Francois Kevorkian knocked this remix out way back in 1982. Hailing from the days when "remixes" really were just that - rather than entire remakes of the track - this was a massive club hit on a wide variety of the world's more sussed dancefloors: gay, straight, black, white, Europe, America, whatever. It was the time when British synth-pop was directly influencing early New York hip-hop, and there was a feeling of "anything goes" in dance music. Excuse me while I come over all rose-tinted, will you...

This is the rarer B-side dub mix. It's still fresh & funky. Enjoy.

Update: Sorry - you weren't quick enough. These MP3s are no longer on my server. I generally make them available for a week or so (sometimes less) before substituting them for new ones. Better luck next time!

Weekend Diary.

On Friday night, a visit from Beyoncé, Kelly and Michelle, who treat us to dinner at The Gate in Brassington (the finest country pub on the planet, in case you hadn’t quite got the message yet). The girls come bearing strange gifts: exotic fruit, sweet German wine, and a 1988 vintage Smash Hits sticker of The Proclaimers.

Why The Proclaimers, you might ask? Well, back in the late 1980s, K and I had inadvertently slipped into that familiar pattern whereby couples start looking and dressing like each other. We were frequently mistaken for brothers – and one set of brothers in particular. Things reached a head during a 1989 visit to the Edinburgh Festival, where people on the street would regularly start singing “Letter From America” at the very sight of us.

Back in Nottingham, I realised that my glasses had to go, and that it was time to overcome my squeamishness regarding contact lenses. They were a hideous pair of glasses, in any case – oversized brown plastic “Trevor Horn” style frames, which I retrospectively dubbed my “cruise shields”. With lenses newly installed, I found to my considerable excitement that my stock on the gay scene began to rise, with immediate and dramatic effect. It was my very own “You are a swan!” moment. Naturally, I seized this opportunity with both hands (and any other readily available body parts). The Slapper Years had begun in earnest.

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As our Friday night progresses, conversation in our corner of The Gate gets steadily louder and smuttier. The girls rise to the occasion magnificently, with some particularly fine toilet talk (“It’s hoverers like you who cause dewdrops!”)

We do like a healthy dose of smut from time to time – and K in particular, for whom smut is both his stock in trade, and one of his most effective relaxation techniques. Don’t be fooled by that urbane Niles Crane exterior, for there lurks an unreconstructed Benny Hill within, barely concealed and struggling to get out.

A few weeks ago, exasperated by the predictability of K’s umpteenth double entendre of the day, I snapped back at him “That’s not exactly very witty, is it?”

His calm reply: “Yes, I know it’s not witty. But it’s still funny though, isn’t it?”

That’s the crucial distinction. Witty and funny: two overlapping but distinct concepts. For funny does not have to be witty, or original, or inventive. Funny can be repetitive and predictable, and it will still be just as funny.

And so, every time K puts a roast chicken on the table, you can bet that he will always say something along the lines of “There – get that nice piece of hot cock inside you!” And we will always laugh like drains. Simple pleasures indeed.

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Back in the cottage, I tell my favourite off-colour story. You know: the one involving multiple bodily fluids. The one which I left out of the 40 In 40 Days Project. The one which I nearly blogged, but ultimately didn’t dare to.

This time round, the story gets a satisfyingly hysterical reaction from the assembled company. You know what? I might just tell it yet.

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Saturday morning is spent lingering over a massive three course breakfast (those tropical fruits make a fine salad, with just a dash of Cointreau to top up our levels). We then head off to the Tissington butcher’s shop (the finest butcher’s shop on the planet, in case you hadn’t quite got the message yet). Our next stop is The Yew Tree at Cauldon – an extraordinary pub with nickelodeons, medieval musical instruments, a pianola, bar billiards and a penny farthing bicycle, not to mention the evil looking “Acme Patent Dog Carrier” hanging above the bar.

K first took me to The Yew Tree when we were courting. At that time, I was still a confirmed lager drinker, who would never touch bitter (evil, noxious stuff). However, sensing that this was simply not the sort of pub where anyone should rightly be drinking lager, I was persuaded by K to try a pint of Bass, brought up from the cellar in a jug. Reader, I saw the light! In a stroke, I was instantly converted to the subtle joys of a decent pint of ale. It was one of those “defining moments”, and I have never looked back.

The Yew Tree doesn’t do poncey “gastro-pub” lunches. There are pork pies, crisps, simple white baps (ham or cheese) – and there are pickled eggs, the perfect accompaniment to a good pint. Despite some considerable reluctance, two of the three girls are persuaded to try their first pickled eggs, dipped in salt. I would like to think that they too had a “defining moment” that lunchtime.

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After a mooch round the antiques emporia of Leek, Beyoncé, Kelly and Michelle take their leave, but not before we all listen to the 30th anniversary edition of I’m Sorry I Haven’t A Clue. Like a model nuclear family of the 1950s, we gather round the wireless and tune into the Home Service. Forty-five minutes of top-grade smut and innuendo follow (“Countryside: the assassination of Piers Morgan.”) Graeme Garden, Tim Brooke-Taylor, Barry Cryer, Stephen Fry and Humphrey Lyttleton (not forgetting the lovely Samantha) are all on sparkling form. It is sheer bliss.

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By Saturday evening, K is feeling proper poorly – crippling stomach pains, and he can’t get warm. He retires to bed. I seem to be suffering from around 10% of the same symptoms – I also have no appetite, which is a sure sign that something is very wrong indeed. These suspicions are confirmed when I find myself unable to read an interview with Laurence Llewellyn-Bowen in the Weekend Guardian, on the grounds that it is too intellectually demanding. I settle down in front of witless lowest common denominator TV trash instead. Ah, much better.

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Fully recovered on Sunday, we enjoy a visit from Elisa K of I’m Hip To You, and her boyfriend Tag. This is our first meeting, and I am pleased to report that Elisa is every bit as sweet and lovely and delightful and glamorous as her blog would suggest. And so is Tag too, of course! We head off for lunch at the aforementioned Finest Country Pub On The Planet. Sitting at the same table as before, Friday night’s smut is now replaced by well-informed pop cultural talk and weblog gossip (mercilessly slagging off this blogger, effusively praising this blogger, earnestly recommending this blogger, asking what this blogger is, you know, really like).

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Elisa has copied a CD for me: “Our Noise”, by Herrmann and Kleine, which I haven’t heard of before. Mmm, but it’s good. Essentially, it’s leftfield electronica, but it defies categorisation. Too angular and surprising to be “chill-out”, and yet too pastoral and soothing to be “electroclash”. Why, there are even distinct shoegazing elements! The overall effect is akin to what I was hoping for from the recent Boards Of Canada album, but this succeeds where “Geogaddi” fails. Warm melodic figures are juxtaposed with harsher percussive patterns, setting up some fascinating contrasts in sound. On a Monday morning, stuck in traffic jams on the way back to Nottingham, it is just the ticket.

On World Of Chig, a full review of this year's Eurovision preview videos. It's good to see that he's slowly coming round to my point of view over the Finnish entry.

Does our hero, the undeniably flawed yet strangely loveable John Maclaren, get on that plane to Argentina? Is the enigmatic, pneumatic Diana just a strung-out teenage bimbo, or is there more to her than meets the eye? Could the twisted megalomaniac pornographer Jerry Burrows get any more vile? What will happen to poor Daisy, tied to a chair in a Spanish hotel room as thousands of registered subscribers around the world count down to showtime?

Chapter 4 of The Naked Novel is available now.