Better than last week, I would say. Most importantly of all, I think I’ve begun to turn a corner on the whole nothing to do/no motivation issue. This has been partly due to a shift in attitude – in fact, I think that last week’s posting served as a wake-up call to myself. Although I’m not one of those bloggers who writes for therapeutic reasons (it’s mostly about entertainment round these parts), expressing myself in public can nevertheless be sometimes very helpful.

On Monday, I went and had a chat with my office manager about how to use my time to best effect. We discussed the idea of my taking one day a week as unpaid leave for a finite period of time, or until new client work came in. That way, I would be able to fill both my working days and my spare time more productively.

However, no sooner was this mooted than things started to change. During the week, two separate opportunities for Real Work arose – though nothing has been finalised as yet. One of them was a direct result of my letting it be known amongst colleagues that I was available and eager for new work. It would only be for a week or so, but it would be covering familiar territory and would be an ideal re-introduction.

The other – if it comes off – is a rather bigger deal. I would be heading up a team of four, in a long-term arrangement that would also involve travel to the east coast of the USA (clue: Nina Simone recorded a song about it). As K’s US headquarters are just outside the same city, this could be an ideal opportunity for us to spend some time together in the States. Turns out that my name has been pencilled against this project for some weeks now – which is partly why no other work has been coming my way. So they do like me after all, then.

Outside of work, my biggest achievement this week has been staying off that bloody podium in NG1. It was in danger of becoming habit-forming. In fact, I’ve stayed out of NG1 altogether. Instead, I’ve had an excellent cultural week.

---

On Monday: Paco Pena and his flamenco troupe, at Nottingham Playhouse. Wonderfully accomplished stuff, performed with vigour and passion. The dancers make it all look so easy and carefree and natural – and above all, fun – and yet the precision and discipline involved is stupendous. I came away with the sense that, as an art form, flamenco is still very much alive, and central to its surrounding culture. It has not ossified into cheesy set pieces for tourists. It feels fresh. It is still evolving.

---

On Tuesday: J Mascis, former front man for Dinosaur Jr., performing a solo set at The Social. Once you had adjusted to not being able to see anything (J stayed seated throughout, and the audience were unusually tall), there was plenty to enjoy in his performance – especially towards the end, as his guitar solos grew ever more fractured and frenzied, without ever losing control.

He hasn’t aged too well, mind you. Oh, but let’s not be cruel. Except to say that his Deirdre Barlow circa 1983 glasses really did him no favours at all.

Update: Turns out that I wasn't the only blogger at the gig. Step forward Ben of Silent Words Speak Loudest, who has written a Proper Review of the whole thing. Goodness, and he even knows who the support act was!

---

On Wednesday: Richard Ashcroft, former front man for The Verve, at Rock City. For me, this was a concert of two halves. For the first half a dozen numbers or so (at least), I was reminded of why I have never managed to get into his post-Verve solo material. It was all very polished and professional and tuneful – but ultimately uninvolving. Too smooth, too distant. My concentration lapsed repeatedly.

Suddenly, halfway through the main set, Ashcroft announced “This is where we take things to the next level.” And so they did, with immediate effect. Ooh, much more like it. One song later, the band left the stage, leaving Ashcroft to perform stripped down solo versions of The Drugs Don’t Work and History. At this point, everything changed. His performance snapped into focus, as he finally connected emotionally with the crowd, delivering stunning renditions of both tracks and making me realise just what an astonishingly strong singer he can be. The warm reception fed back into his performance, as he dropped his aloof guard, relaxed, opened up, and started to visibly enjoy himself - pouring his emotions into the material and revealing a yearning, vulnerable, softer side which I hadn’t been expecting. With the band back on stage, he could do no wrong from that point on. Stunning stuff. And oh joy, they played Lucky Man - a song which has always been very special to me.

(Actually, that was the main reason why I bought a ticket. I just wanted to hear Lucky Man. Seriously!)

Essentially, Ashcroft came across as a more grounded, more content figure than the “Mad Richard” of old. Someone who has slain a lot of his demons, and who is happier operating at a lower profile, in medium sized venues, to a properly appreciative and clued-up audience. It’s a transition which takes some artists years to achieve successfully (Mr. Bowie springs to mind at this point), and yet Ashcroft has managed it in a few short years. A much better night than I was expecting, then.

---

The week hasn’t passed without its Issues, mind you. However, I’m not in a mood for dwelling on them right now. Hey, it’s Friday afternoon, for God’s sake! So all I will say – very briefly – is this. A testing week for K, but it’s these situations which can bring the best out of him. Two areas of concern for me, both regarding other people, and both causing me some measure of fretfulness. But then, I’m a fretful type. A midweek conversation with the lovely man who cuts my hair turned out to be a great help with both of these concerns (he sees things so clearly sometimes) – but alas, the haircut meant that I missed Darius. And I was going to tell you all about it, as well. Sorry about that, folks...

Are you a blogger who isn't reading enough other blogs yet? Really? Are you sure about that?

Well in that case, here's a nifty little tool: the Recommended Reading utility (from diveintomark.org). Enter the name of your blog (or of your links page), and the utility produces a list of other blogs which you may not be reading yet, based on the links which you have already made. It's a Six Degrees Of Separation kinda thing, and it does work quite well.

However, the recommendations don't always work both ways. Therefore, If I feed the names of my "recommended" blogs back into the utility, they won't necessarily recommend this blog back. Which is curious.

And another great thing about Ben Shermans: because of their almost supernatural resistance to creasing, they used to be perfect for stuffing into my little American Retro Fag Bag, whenever I was due another weekend of bonkers clubbing mayhem in the big city. Thus I could stumble out of Trade on a Sunday lunchtime, unzip my bag, and hey presto! A nice, crisp, clean, dry shirt to change into! Now no-one could possibly guess that I'd been in Trade all morning! (Self-delusion was a key part of the experience back then.)

Jonathan, you're up next. This shirt could be yours before the weekend is through. Come back tomorrow to find out.

This is the third Six Eight Seven Six shirt, as picked up at Louis Boston around 18 months ago.

Actually, the day I bought it was something of a splurge day. The biggest splurge ever, in fact. But there's no point denying it: we both thought that the swanky shopping scene in Boston totally rocked. Some of my best purchases ever were made on that Saturday - including my favourite pair of sunglasses ever (Burberry - in leather, no less), my favourite dressing gown ever (Brooks Brothers - a wonderfully smooth cotton in a blue and white check), and the best pair of jeans I have ever owned (Diesel, low slung, slightly flared, soft faded dark denim, a perfect fit in every way, worn more or less constantly ever since, including right this very minute).

Classics-with-a-twist: that's my bag these days, at least while I'm in the city. I had the second-hand phase...the showy designer label phase...the Ben Sherman & 501s gay stereotype phase...and now it's firmly classics-with-a-twist. And it will probably remain that way for the forseeable future.

Douglas, you are now...Off The Project. But you didn't really want yesterday's manky old Ben Sherman, did you? Surely not. Goodnight then.

Back at the end of July, I was moved to write the following:Of course, I said nothing at all about Celebrity Big Brother. Just wanted to make that crystal clear.

Predictions? You want predictions?

Winner: Melinda Messenger, who I've secretly Quite Liked for some time now. Like Dolly Parton, she's smart enough not to worry about being taken for dumb. In two weeks' time, she could well be the nation's sweetheart - the new Kate. Or she could just be the new Nell McAndrew - or worse still, the new Caggy.

Second: S** P*****s (or Stereoboardina's spooky doppelganger, as I always think of her). The sensible, a-bit-above-all-this-frothy-celebrity-nonsense, used-to-be-a-bit-alternative one. Dream scenario: the new Jack Dee (*). Nightmare scenario: the new R***a C*****n.

(*)...or the new Anna. Is she, do we think...?

Third: Goldie. Avin' a larf, mate. The joker. The lairy lad with a secret softer side. DS: the new Craig. NS: the new Bubble.

Fourth: Mark Owen. I'm not awfully sure that the post-Take That years have been terribly kind to poor wee Marky. DS: the new Alex. NS: the new Andy. Remember him? Well, quite.

Fifth: Les Dennis. Hmm, I'm sensing Unresolved Personal Issues here already. If we're in for some Tasty Voyeuristic Drama Which Debases All Who Watch It, then my money is on Les being at the centre of it. We can only hope. DS: the new Tony Blackburn. NS: the new Stuart.

Sixth: Anne Diamond. Always fondly remembered in our household for her appearance years and years ago on some posh Radio 4 panel show, when she was moved to comment: "I've always had a penchant for the double entendre." It's been one of our private catchphrases ever since. However. I'm sensing Tense. I'm sensing Rapid And Terrible Crumbling Of Carefully Constructed Anodyne Public Facade. DS: the new Christine Hamilton (best I can do, I'm afraid). NS: all together now...the new...Vanessa!

There are two whole weeks of this to go. I hate myself already.

1. Fifty fantastically anorakky facts about the UK singles charts - one for each year.
2. A BPI-friendly reading of the top ten albums chart - made me chuckle.
3. An epic rant about the current state of the NME (scroll down to "Correspondences of Death").
4. A gorgeous re-design (from remote island to big city).
5. Another gorgeous re-design (and a massive improvement in readability).
6. It's his 35th birthday, and he's in the middle of posting 35 "fragments". Keep hitting Refresh...

A lightening quick entry today, or else I'll make myself late for Richard Ashcroft...



Ben Sherman! Red! Ancient! Still wear it!

Junio! Off The Project! Later!Douglas! You next! Good luck!

Update: Your questions answered! Check the comments...

God, but is that new J-Lo single the biggest bunch of mendacious self-serving arse ever ever ever, or what? I was just thinking about this on my way to the newsagents - where I see that Jenny From The Block and Ben Affleck are Hello! magazine's gorgeous pouting cover stars this week. "The night Ben proposed was the most romantic and beautiful night of my life", sighs Jenny From The Block - whose divorce papers from last autumn's marriage to Cris Judd have yet to come through.

You kind of knew that Jenny and Cris were doomed right from the start, though. The biggest omen was the wedding cake, on which the groom's name had been spelt as "Chris". No-one knew any better, and no-one had bothered to check. He just wasn't important enough. Which reinforced your suspicions as to what the whole event was about in the first place.

"There were three people in our marriage: me, Jennifer and Donatella. It was a bit crowded."

Okay, so Cris/Chris never actually said that, but you couldn't help but think that the wedding day was actually one long Versace product placement, with Donatella's grisly orange chops never straying far from the happy couple whenever there were lenses around. A suspicion which was further reinforced in Lowri Turner's fascinating expose of the Evil Fash Biz in The Observer a couple of weeks ago:

---

Leaving the newsagents with my copy of this week's NME, I noticed a stage being set up in the Old Market Square, just in front of the council house. Nottingham's Christmas lights are being officially switched on this evening - by no less a luminary than Darius (with supporting singles promotions guest appearances from Busted, Blazin' Squad, Sarah Whatmore and Romeo.) Although there were over four hours to go before the start of the show, there were already a clutch of teenage girls patiently lined up in front of the stage, some clutching handmade "I love you Darius!" signs.

What I found curious was this: these girls had already fanned themselves out into a single neat horizontal line, several feet away from the stage itself. This line was not bordered by any physical crash barrier, but by what looked like a length of cable stuck to the pavement in front of them. I found something slightly disheartening about their obedience. If you're going to stand for four hours in the freezing cold and damp to see someone sing one - maybe two - songs to the accompaniment of a DAT machine, then at least you could show a little more rebellious passion about it. Sod the cable! Storm the stage! Fight for position! Kick each other! Scream! Do something! Anything!

Oh okay. I know. This is hardly on a par with the Beatles landing at Heathrow. This is just Darius on a miserable Wednesday afternoon in Nottingham. Let's keep some sense of perspective about this.

(But do you want to know the awful, shaming truth? I'm seriously tempted to wander down for a look myself later on. It's only five minutes' walk from the office, after all. And as manufactured pop stars go, I actually quite like Darius. His forthcoming single is really rather catchy, don't you think?)

---

This neat row of obedient teenage popstrels reminded me of something we witnessed one Saturday morning in London, a few years back. We were strolling down the South Bank towards the Oxo Tower for lunch (not recommended: snotty service and we had to send the soup back), when all of a sudden we came across none other than...Boyzone! Eek! There they all were, standing by the river, looking disappointingly ordinary in broad daylight, miming to whatever single they had out at the time - presumably for some Saturday morning kids' TV show. In front of them, separated off by crash barriers, there were maybe 50 or 60 screaming Boyzone fans, straining against the barriers and stretching their arms out imploringly.

But what I found really strange about the scene was this: there were only maybe three crash barriers lined up between the fans and the band. At the end of the line on either side - nothing. Empty space. Meaning that if you really, really wanted to get up close to Ronan & Keith & Mikey & little Stephen and...er...the other one, all you had to do was walk around the edge of the barrier. It would have been as piss-easy as invading France by walking around the edge of the Maginot Line. However, none of the assembled Boyzone fans showed the slightest inclination to do this. They were perfectly happy to continue straining beseechingly against the crash barriers, thank you all the same. Meaning that both fans and band alike were simply playing out their allotted parts for the cameras, without question. There wasn't any real hysterical frenzy, just as there wasn't any real singing. It was a wholly synthetic spectacle, in which everyone was cheerfully complicit.

I had a dual reacton to this. On the one hand, I found myself scorning the fans for their dumb obedience and lack of passion. On the other hand, I also found myself commending their level-headed media-savviness. Who in their right mind would want to lose the plot in front of bloody Boyzone anyway?

---

The CD that comes with this week's NME is a bit of a corker, actually. It's a round-up of some of the best new bands to have emerged this year, and it makes me realise that there has been an awful lot of good new stuff to get excited about (in as much as someone of my generation can reasonably get excited about new young rock bands, that is). The line-up is as follows: The Libertines, Yeah Yeah Yeahs, The Beatings, The Von Bondies, The Datsuns, Ikara Colt, The Cooper Temple Clause, Black Rebel Motorcycle Club, Interpol, The Thrills, The Coral, Radio 4, Burning Brides, The D4, The Music.

I've already seen The Libertines, Black Rebel Motorcycle Club, The Coral and The D4 this year, and I've already got tickets lined up for The Thrills and The Music. And now I've just learnt of two more potentially superb must-see shows.

1. At Rock City on February 4th, we're getting the NME Awards Tour, with The Datsuns, The Polyphonic Spree, Interpol and The Thrills (again). Having recently missed both the Datsuns and the Spree, it's good to be given a second chance.

2. At The Social on December 8th: The Faint, Radio 4 and Schneider TM - all on the same bill, courtesy of the consistently wonderful Night With No Name promotions. Now, just how fantastic is that? I am quite giddy with anticipation.

I've been saying this for the past couple of months now: when it comes to live music, Nottingham has never had it this good before. And hurrah for that, I say.

Polo Ralph Lauren, I'm ashamed to say. Oh, how I loathe those bloody little polo ponies. All I can say in my defence is that the check pattern almost totally masks the polo pony, and it was knocked right down at the end of a sale, and I particularly liked the check. I think my urges must have been spiralling out of control by then.

I know, I know. These are hardly the kind of mitigating circumstances that would stand up in Fashion Court. Mea maxima culpa.

Alan, would you now step forward please. Disconnected Zeitgeist Cyberpumpkin Oddverse Alan From Dublin With The Shady Alter Ego Which We Don't Talk About, that is. Yes, that Alan.

And it's your birthday today, isn't it? Come on everybody, visit Alan's site and wish him a happy birthday!

And believe me Alan, I'd love to cheat at this stage. I'd love to have ended the Project right now, just so that I could have sent you yesterday's nice grey shirt as a surprise extra birthday present.

But I couldn't do that. Because it would be so very, very wrong. Ethics and integrity are everything to me, you see. It's the cross I have to bear.

On we plough, then. Alan - enjoy the the rest of your birthday, won't you - but you too are now...Off The Project. Top of the evenin' to ya.Junio, it's you next. If I haven't got any more shirts to wear tomorrow, then this Ralph Lauren number will be winging its way across the Atlantic, all the way to the very lair of the Great Satan himself. (Seattle, in other words.)

(Which reminds me, Junio: the GLEAM T-shirt arrived this morning. Wow! Thank you so much! I shall be modelling it later in the week, don't you worry.)

Jump to first vignette.

People these days increasingly seem to equate the 1980s with the ephemera of the age. Ra-ra skirts, legwarmers, wacky hairdos, cheap synthesisers, red braces, smiley faced bandannas, that sort of thing. However, I remember the 1980s for rather different reasons.

Here then are four curious little incidents, each of which struck me at the time as somehow illustrating key characteristics of the decade. In each case, I clearly remember mentally filing them away, placing them in a special category in my memory marked Parables Of The Eighties, to be related to Future Generations.

Well, now seems as good a time as any. Gather round now, children - and let me take you back. Way back...

4. Dogma.

Our lodger’s best mate was active in student union politics in London, and sometimes used to DJ in the union building. One night, in the middle of playing Free Nelson Mandela by The Special A.K.A., a group of students stormed his decks. Knocking the needle to the end of the record, they furiously demanded an immediate public apology, for playing such disgusting, offensive trash.

Their reason? Free Nelson Mandela contains the following line:

Are you so blind that you cannot see?

Which, by comparing the blind and partially sighted community to the hated South African apartheid regime, was a gross insult to all members of that community.

In the Eighties, you had to be very, very careful with language. The devil was in the details, see…

Labels: vignettes

3. Style fascism.

If you were a bloke who wanted to go out dancing in Nottingham in the early 1980s, then like it or not, you had to wear a tie. Apart from the Irish Social Centre (students) and the Ad-Lib (students and rastas), every other disco in town (Annabelle’s, Isabella’s, Madison’s) insisted on smart dress.

The situation started changing with Rock City’s “futurist” nights on Saturdays (no jeans, mind), and the opening of the Asylum in late 1982 – the city’s first dedicated “alternative” club. These were followed in 1984 by the legendary Garage club, which would be Nottingham’s Mecca of Cool for the next four years. Upstairs at the Garage, resident DJ Graeme Park gradually swung the music policy away from the early diet of endless Talking Heads tracks, introducing his dancers by degrees to funk, electro, rap, Washington DC go-go, and finally to early Chicago house. In fact, the Garage has sometimes been credited as the first club in the UK to play house music on a regular basis. Compared to the student hops and “shiny” discos of the past, this was groundbreaking stuff for us.

There was, however, a major downside to this. Entrance to the Garage was by no means a given. In order to gain admittance, you first had to fit the door staff’s notion of what was considered stylish and cutting edge. If there was just one member of your crowd in stonewashed jeans, a naff T-shirt and a boring haircut, then you had a stark choice: ditch your friend on the spot, or forget about clubbing for the night. As a result, you would often witness awkwardly humiliating little exchanges at the door of the club:

“No, honestly – you lot go in and enjoy yourselves. I’ll just get some chips and go home.”

(earnestly concerned) “Oh God, are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure.”

(rather more half-heartedly, stealing glances towards the cash desk inside) “But we can’t go in without you…”

“Look, I’ll be fine, honest.”

(gratefully, yet guiltily) “Well, as long as you’re sure then…”

And so it was that one night, a bunch of us turned up at the door of the Garage – including a couple of utterly conventional looking people who had never been before.

“No, sorry. You lot are alright to come in, but not you, and not you.”

The two “squares” were actually veterans of the old Northern Soul scene, which had been big in Nottingham during the previous decade. They were certainly no strangers to dancing all night to obscure but fantastic US imports. They were here to dance, not to gawp on the sidelines like tourists. This was laughable. I found myself snapping out of my usual state of meek, nervous awe, and adopting what I thought was a tone of recklessly cocky sarcasm. Just as a parting shot.

“Well excuse me - but we’re all interesting, creative, exotic people. You have to let us in!”

Pause, as the cogs whirred.

“Oh, OK then. In you come.”

The door opened wide, and we all stepped through, trying not to giggle.

These people had clearly been briefed. Interesting – creative – exotic. That’s who we want in here. Trigger words. Not very bright, these style fascists. Just tell them what they want to hear.

A couple of months later, in a similar situation, I used the exact same line again, with equal success. Evidently, I had cracked the code.

Jump to next vignette.

Labels: vignettes

The final (and best edited) MP3 in the series features excerpts from the following songs (and the number one song in its entirety):

10. Abba - The Winner Takes It All
9. The Specials - Ghost Town
8. John Lennon - Imagine
7. Sinead O'Connor - Nothing Compares 2 U
6. Dusty Springfield - You Don't Have To Say You Love Me
5. Soft Cell - Tainted Love / Where Did Our Love Go?
4. Queen - Bohemian Rhapsody / These Are The Days Of Our Lives
3. Abba - The Name Of The Game
2. Donna Summer - I Feel Love
1. Freda Payne - Band Of Gold

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!

...that's right...keep smiling...maintain that cheerful and sunny disposition at all times...oh God, will the camera batteries last out?...hate the way these digicams eat batteries...now, is that self-timer thingy working?...any second now...keep smiling, dammit!



A brief respite from the endless Parade Of Plaid, in the form of this Geoffrey Beene business shirt. Once again, this was brought back for me by K from the States in a job lot from Filene's. We used to divvy them up when he got home. I'll take that one...OK, so I'll take that one...and I'll have that one...

Sasha! Stop skulking at the back there! Now step forward!

Now, Sasha. I ask you this. What could a fabulous glamourpuss such as yourself possibly want with one of my knackered old check shirts from five years ago? Honey, it's so not your look. I couldn't drag you down to my sartorial level. I really couldn't. It wouldn't be right.

Sasha, you can let out a huge sigh of relief. You are now safely...Off The Project. Shalom, sweetie.Alan, it's you next. If I haven't got any more shirts to wear tomorrow, then this lovely Geoffrey Beene shirt will be winging its way across the Irish Sea to you. How exciting is that?

2. Greed.

We were visiting friends in London, just off the Kings Road. It was the height of the Lawson property boom (after the election landslide, after Big Bang, before Black Monday), when seemingly every other conversation was given over to a breathless comparison of house prices.

On the Sunday afternoon, our friends suggested a stroll down to the swanky Chelsea Harbour residential complex, which was nearing completion. Perhaps we could pretend to be potential buyers, and bluff our way into viewing one of the show apartments? Just for a laugh, and to satisfy our curiosity.

But also, I suspect, for the temporary buzz - of feeling like we were In The Game, playing the markets with the best of them. There was a general feeling in the air at that time: a highly conspicuous (and well publicised) group of people were busily making an awful lot of money, seemingly out of thin air. On the one hand, it was appalling – a blatant attempt to hype the illusion of a strong economy to a gullible populace, merely in order to prolong the lifespan of the Thatcher government. A mirage of a boom, built on clever advertising, wishful thinking, and ever-increasing amounts of unsustainable debt. On the other hand, there was a nagging feeling that chances were passing us by – chances that were almost within our reach, but not quite. We were outwardly repulsed by what was going on – and yet we were secretly in thrall to it at the same time.

In we went. In the swish entrance lobby, there were glossy leaflets showing what the apartment blocks would look like when completed. In the corner by the reception desk, a video was playing. In it, the chief architect was outlining his creative “vision” for the project, in suitably flowery designer-speak (organic…harmony…elements...space).

In front of us, a smartly dressed couple in their late forties were accompanied by a little old lady, dressed in noticeably cheaper clothes. The husband in a pale yellow V-neck golfing sweater. The wife with heavily lacquered Big Hair, a white blazer, and a navy blue pleated skirt.

As we drew closer, we could hear them talking. The old lady was evidently the wife’s mother. Unlike her daughter, she had retained her East End accent. Her voice was tightening, trembling slightly, and expressing mounting levels of concern and disbelief, bordering on panic.

“But surely you can’t expect me to live here, can you? You’re not going to put me in this place, are you? I’d be all alone! I wouldn’t know anybody!”

“But mother, these flats are beautiful. And you haven’t even looked at them yet. Come on! Let’s get the lift, shall we?”

“But I don’t want to look at them…I don’t want to live here!”

At this, the old lady looked beseechingly at her son-in-law.

“Come on, mum. Let’s at least take a look at them, shall we?”

As he said this, taking his mother-in-law’s hand and dragging her towards the lifts, his wife dropped back, placing herself directly behind the frightened and bewildered old lady. Now safely out of sight, she let out a clenched snarl of frustration (“Gnnnrrrh!”), and started pummelling her fists up and down above her mother’s head, stopping just short of actually touching her, in a pantomime display of annoyed impatience. The family group moved steadily forwards.

In a sickening flash, I realised what the daughter and son-in-law were up to. Drag the old bird out of the East End, bung her in a posh flat, wait for her to croak in a few years’ time, then pocket the profit. Naked profiteering, disguised as familial concern.

K and I quickly exchanged disbelieving glances. I felt horrified, disgusted and increasingly angry. My curiosity evaporated in an instant. This didn’t feel like fun any more. We turned back to our friends.

“Can we go? This place is vile.”

“But now we’re here, don’t you even want to see one of the flats?”

“Actually, no. Let’s just go, shall we?”

Shaking their heads in bafflement, our friends obligingly turned round. We walked away in silence.

Jump to next vignette.

Labels: vignettes

1. Sanctimonious self-righteousness.

Late one Sunday afternoon, we arrived at a friend’s house for an informal get-together and a bite to eat. There were probably about nine or ten people in the room when we arrived. Most of them were on the dole, stuck in that disorientating void between student life and working life. At least a couple of them were about to start training as social workers. They were all impeccably politically “right-on” in thought and word and deed, each one of them following the same putative “how to be a good socialist” handbook to the very letter. Several of them were involved in either the lesbian or the gay equal opportunities sub-committees for the city council. Everyone wore black, either with ethnic trimmings or “Soviet chic” accessories.

In contrast, K and I were now both in regular paid employment. We would shortly be moving out of our rented flat (which we had crammed full with brand new lacquered black ash furniture from Habitat), and would be taking on our first mortgage. Our clothes were newer, smarter, more High Street.

These people weren’t really our crowd. However, with a lot of our old friends no longer in Nottingham, we were still finding our way socially – and these were the just sort of people we thought we wanted to know. Alternative-ish, left-ish, cool-ish, and a bit arty as well. Definitely a group to aspire to.

We bounced into the large living room in high spirits, bottles of Bulgarian Cabernet Sauvignon in hand. “Sorry we’re a bit late”, we trilled. “We’ve been watching the Wimbledon finals, drinking champagne and eating strawberries.”

A long and deathly quiet descended upon the room. People either dropped their gazes to the floor, or stared at us with expressions of distaste, bordering on contempt. I swear I heard tutting.

Eventually, someone broke the silence.

“That’s not very left wing of you, is it?”

The scales fell from our eyes.

Jump to next vignette.

Labels: vignettes

It doesn't come across too well on the photo, but the combination of bright greens and yellows on this particular Ben Sherman produces a pleasingly acidic effect. In fact, another of the great attractions of the brand lay in its fresh use of vibrant colours in new and arresting combinations.

Luca! I do believe your turn has come. Now, what was it you said in your "100 things about myself" entry? "I avoid wearing shirts if I can?" Well in that case, I think you should be particularly well equipped to deal with your elimination.

Luca, you are now...Off The Project. Ciao.