Dance & Drink & Screw

From the Debeauvoir newsletter:

WARNING TO CYCLISTS ON REGENT'S CANAL
A cyclist was attacked this week on the towpath through
Victoria Park and sadly such attacks are frequent. Cyclists are advised to
avoid using the towpath at quiet times.

Fuck... I walk the towpath by myself in quiet times all the time. I can even guess where it happened - it's that bit just after the barges, when the towpath dips just before reaching Mile End park. I suppose I could always jump in the canal if somebody attacked me - or could these attacks only be related to cyclists? I could also put my trusty Doc Martins in their crotch, I suppose...

It's been a real pleasure walking up and down Regent's Canal this past week, the path nearly all to myself. The usual cyclists that love speeding down it as if their jobs were a matter of life and death clearly don't have the guts for a bit of deadly black ice. Sadly, though, the canal is now attracting people fascinated by its spontaneous ice rink quality, and this means that anything heavy, and preferably metallic, is game. First went old bottles, discarded toys and dismantled bicycles that lined the path or the nearby streets. Now they've started ripping off the garbage bins placed by benches. It brings out the Daily Mail reader in me. I was thinking today if maybe Singapore's iron-gloved right-wing government got it right: spit chewing gum on the pavement, pay up a hefty fine; vandalise public property, get caned and left with a nice red scar across your ass cheeks.

What bothers me is that London's canals could be cleaner, home to more fishes and wild plants. But they are littered instead with traffic cones, tires and all sorts of other garbage I often see people chucking into the water. I'd love to have the power of placing a spell on the canal: anything thrown into the water reappears in the person's bedroom. That might be a nicer, bleeding liberal heart way of solving the problem.

Tonight, I'm spending the evening in bed watching brasilian soap operas and reading. I'm hungover from a night out in Walthamstow, where neenaw, king_prawn and I drank the night away while playing a pub quiz. We came second place and won a bottle of white wine called Oliver something-or-other. I naturally had to have it.

From icymorning



I hope the game makers at Nintendo have seen this.

What are the chances of a teenager getting stabbed tomorrow in London?

I'm going to say 82% chance.

* Kevin got a viral infection at the start of the week and now, just as he got better, a cold settled in his chest. It's freezin' and 'orrible outside and we have no money. The apartment is a tip and there's no getting away from the fact I'll have to clean it today, by myself. I very much expect this guy to show up Monday night.

* I got all tarted up for the gym this morning, only to arrive and discover they are shut down for a training day. So I went to Woolworths instead.

* I've worked for the last five weeks in a prestigious university's press office. It was one of my best working experiences: everyone was kind and friendly, the work was interesting and yesterday's goodbyes were genuinely full of good wishes. I have a job interview in the new year for a job I really, really want, with a small charity that works with gays, lesbians and transexuals. And they pay good. And I have a few days off during the week which I can use for my writing or temp work. Fingers crossed I don't fuck up.

* Russell Brand is going to be in Morrissey's next music video. I hope Morrissey gets his thugs band to hold him down and shave that awful hair of his.

* I love crazy cults, in particular American ones. They always seem to twist the Bible into something a lot worse than it is. Don't you just love their brain-washed stares? The old leaders who sleep with pre-pubescent virgins in the name of the Lord? Channel 4's documentary The End of World Cult was an unmissable, terrifying and sad story of people with no education, in the middle of nowhere, who make me all the more thankful I'm not a religious person.

* My last meal in death row will consist of freshly-baked bread, salty butter and a cup of coffee with milk and two sugars.

What are you afraid of?

I'm afraid of waking up at 3 a.m., like I did last night, hearing the dogs bark in the kennel, a faint bluish tinge seeping into the room past the curtains, then notice that someone is outside, someone with a shotgun who has decided to rob our farm. I'm afraid this nightmarish scenario may have been brought about by our security guard telling my brother that during this time of the year, with so many visitors arriving in town to celebrate Jesus' procession, many of them get the idea of breaking into places where they think there's a lot of money (a misundertanding/mistake when it comes to our guesthouse). I'm afraid of this paranoia taking hold of me at 3 a.m., keeping me from sleeping until the roosters start singing.

I'm afraid of the violence concentrated in Brasil's megacities arriving at the countryside, in towns like this one. I'm afraid of us getting caught up in it. I'm afraid of taking at face value the peace that reigns here.

Rich celebrities like Paris Hilton get sent to jail for short sentences during the summer. No cameras allowed, not even at their arrival.

Non-entities like these people sign up for a short jail-term during the summer. Excessive amounts of camera allowed.

But which of the two shows does the public actually want to watch? The Simple Life indeed.

Creative writing exercise: Start a blog today and pretend that you are Paris Hilton's cellmate. She arrived in your cell today (well, last night at 11.30pm) and she will be doing time with you, in matching orange jumpsuits, for the next three weeks. Detail your life in prison with her. What kind of conversations do you have late at night when the moon shines through the bars? Is she a snob? Is she interested in getting to know you? Does she have salacious secrets to trade in exchange for protection? What do you do to kill time?

You can treat this exercise as a sort of NaNoWriMo, which ends when Paris Hilton gets released while you stay behind to rot in jail.

Every day carries a new story of somebody stabbed to death in London. Usually, they are teenagers -- questionably part of gangs -- but I wonder how long before your Average Joe feels the blade going into his gut after one miscast glance.

Stratford at night, especially on the weekend, is ruled by young people milling about in groups. As we head for a pub, I wonder how many of them are carrying knives underneath their clothes. I know it's just my paranoia; I blame it on this city's obsession with crime and demonization rubbing off on me. The pub, part of the Wetherspoons chain, is filled with all kinds of people: men wearing St. Paddy hats, families playing cards, couples, students pointing mobile cameras at themselves for photos they will later upload to MySpace. I join a small group of friends I haven't seen in half-a-year.

We drank; we talked; we moved tables; we wasted time at the bar counter because the staff hate their jobs; we caught the last tube home; we bought chips and poured vinegar on it; we slept for four hours (because when we drink, we can't sleep for long); we had a lot on our minds.

Somebody wore Kylie Minogue's perfume: it smelt of crushed butterflies.

An old man sat at our table, at the edge, drinking by himself. Did he come to the pub because he hated drinking alone at home? Or perhaps he escaped a nagging wife when he headed for the nearest drinking hole? At another table, a couple had just ordered their food and drinks when she said out loud, "this is as hard for me as it is for you." She then stood up, picked up her coat and left. He stared at the wall, shocked or angry, then followed her. One of us thought it would be a shame to waste her glass of white wine so we grabbed it for our table.

We don't leave the apartment today; we watch the sun rise over London; we watch another episode of Dallas; we encourage the boyfriend to bake cookies; we read the newspapers; we play videogames; we check Livejournal; we listen to the beautiful new album by Arcade Fire; we take a nap in the afternoon; we write in our paper journal; we shower; we eat chicken wraps; we drink a lot of tea; we try to write slash fiction involving Patrick Swayze and fail miserably; we watch David Cronenberg's Shivers then get scared something will shoot up from the toilet and chew our bung-hole. We wait for Sunday to end with a mixture of apprehension; as always, the weekend sped away.

Tonight, another crime scene on Grove Road. This time, Kevin and I witnessed it.

We were walking home after watching GlassBody, when we heard a man on the other side of the road shouting angrily. He was clearly drunk -- stumbling and slurring his words -- and he carried a bag of chips. He crossed the road in our direction; we walked a little faster. An old man, also drunk and with a bag of chips, was not too far behind.

Behind them, more shouting; behind us, police sirens. Two men ran into the road, gesturing wildly at the approaching police car, screaming and pointing at the two drunks carrying the bags of chips. The police car slowed down; the officer in the passenger seat jumped out and raced after the drunks while the car did a U-turn and followed suit. A few steps away, outside Britannia Fish and Chippie Shop (scene of the last crime on Grove Road), a police car was parked in front of a number 277 bus. A police woman was inside, interviewing the driver, while another crossed the road and hurried down the street by The Victoria pub (to probably cut into the drunks' path, in case they were running). The people in the bus looked mighty pissed off.

I stopped and stared like any person reared on crime TV shows. When I looked for Kevin, he was up the road, clearly intent on getting away from the action as fast as possible. I was suddenly aware of our different tolerance to city crime: I grew up in one of the most violent cities in the world, São Paulo, used to this sort of stuff; whereas he grew up in a peaceful farm outside Ottawa, in the possibly safest country in the world, Canada. I should learn from him: one day, I'll get a bullet in the forehead and go to my grave with a gawking expression on my face.

I was on my way home last night from the gym, when I spotted a policeman walking down the middle of Grove Road. He stopped cars heading towards Roman Road (and where I live), spoke hurriedly to the drivers, then watched them make a U-turn and return from where they came.

Getting close to the railway bridge that runs over Grove Road, I saw police cars flashing lights in the distance. There weren't many people on the sidewalk; the ones that walked past me seemed to look at me with startled eyes (or were they trying to judge my reaction to so many policemen around?)

Right outside Britannia Fish and Chippie Shop and the Victoria Pub (where only white people dare to venture inside) a crime scene cordon had been erected, stretching from lamp post to lamp post, surrounding an empty smashed-up car. The front windshield looked like it had been hit by a rock... or bullet. The passenger window was missing. A few rags lay on the concrete, either part of the scene or just randomly there.

Just as I got to the crime scene tape, a policeman arrived on a motorbike. He lifted the tape over his head and motorbike but forgot the antenna poking behind; when he drove on, his bike pulled the tape and ripped it apart. A policeman approached him and said out loud: "well done, Sarge."

Nothing on the internet as to what might have happened.