Out of touch

'Your out of touch, I'm out of time, cut your hands on the edge of lime...'

I've never really liked that song, whichever version springs to mind first: it's terrible. There seems to be a penchant for terrible music in this country.

I know I've moaned in the past about Radio 1 and its tendency to kill a song before it's even been released, but I'm seriously missing radio programmed by people who know that we are in the 21st Century.

If I judged my surroundings by the music I hear on the radio over here, I'd hazard a guess that it's somewhere between 1986 and 1993. The people who chose the playlists must really have fond memories of this period. Having your eardrums forced into submission, you can still feel like those first winters mornings free of communist control. All to the sweet sounds of Charles and Fucking Eddie.

That's a bit harsh on my favourite interacial (musical) duo from the late 80s/90s. Since arriving here and hearing Would I Lie To You? about 37,000 times, the song really has grown on me.

Where stations try and rebel against the Goodbye Lenin logic (it's still 1989, it's still 1989) they only seem to have stumbled across the kind of shit music (if you can call it that) that boy racers tend to emit from their suped up Suzuki Swifts. Not a day goes by when I don't hear Guru Josh Project's Infinity at least four times. [I just had to check the Radio 1 site to find out a) The name of the artist, and b) That it is a new release.] Perhaps when I arrive back in England I'll hang out in car parks to get nostalgic about the music in Poland that I so dearly miss. I doubt it.

Bizarrely, it's in the high street stores that I hear music that I recognise and/or know and don't despise. The other day we were in H&M (we love you globalisation) and I heard something that sounded like The Killers. I'm pretty sure it was The Killers. Only The Killers sound like The Killers. And once I get hold of whatever their new album is called and listen to it a few times, I'll profess that it's great. (At least that's what happened with Sam's Town.) About a month or so back we were Christmas shopping in a big department type store and they were playing Ladyhawke's Paris Is Burning!

So it seems that now I'm back online I can get back into the habit of being in touch with decent music. It's been a quiet, lonely winter without any new tunes to croon to (yes, more Killers!). And if it means not having to go to H&M to do so, all the better!

'Swimming'

Today, we went to go swimming. Note that that’s not ‘we went swimming’. Nothing as simple as wanting to flap around in an unco-ordinated manner can be achieved easily in this country. Haven’t you been reading?

In preparation to go to the pool, Olivia asked me the (relatively absurd – to an Englishman) question, ‘Have you got any flip-flops?’ Why on earth would I need flip-flops to go swimming? We’re going to the pool, not the beach, right? After a few minutes of cross-cultural debate, she gave me a pair of sandals and I shut up. Then came the question of what I’d be wearing. ‘You can wear these, it’s all I could find,’ said Olivia, as she passed me some shorts smaller than the boxers I was wearing under my jeans. If the 1980s called up to report an artefact missing, I’d let them take it back without argument.

Twenty minutes scanning Tesco for some more suitable swimwear provided no desirable substitute. Their two options: Speedos or Speedo shorts, were not going to be seen on me in the next thirty years. I’m not wearing anything like that until I’ve got a beer gut and some kids to embarrass on the beach, I thought. We decided to leave it to chance. Either see what’s for sale at the pool or I go looking like a lime green David Hasselhoff.

We were down in the foyer of the pool complex to check our shoes into the cloakroom. All the hygienic hubub that Olivia explained to me earlier was happening before me. Another overly complicated process that Poland seems to have an affection for. Having been seated for all of five seconds and with my first shoe half off, an angry cleaning lady hovered in front of us. Let me make a mess before you try and clean it up! I thought. Her apparent hatred increased as I found it impossible to place my flip-flop on without balancing my shoed foot on the ground. We duly bagged up our shoes and handed them over with our coats to the cloakroom attendant.

‘Fuck that,’ I responded to seeing the price (four times that of Tesco’s) cut-off cycling shorts behind a second counter. It was time for some Baywatch action. Taking a rubbery wristband from a third desk, Olivia and I parted ways to our respective changing rooms.

I don’t fucking believe it. Opening the door to the changing room (corresponding to the number on my wristband, not that anyone told me) I was greeted by the sight of the cleaner with OCD. Seeing a solitary corner with a shower curtain, I concealed myself from the miserable bitch to get changed. Wow, these are even smaller with me in them. The material finished about an inch from the tip of my cock. Acres of thigh that have never seen daylight were exposed to the fluorescent glow of the pool lighting. I’m going to blind people, I thought.

Stepping out into the pool area, I was immediately stopped in my tracks by a lifeguard. ‘You can’t go in the pool in those shorts,’ explained Olivia. We dropped into the jaccuzzi to discuss the matter. Apparently my efforts to wear (the most) appropriately sized shorts was inappropriate. The most appropriate shorts to be worn in the pool (but not the jaccuzzi, the slide or the sauna) were skin tight swimming shorts. The ones that I refused to buy earlier. The ones that through their lack of surface area revealed more skin than the shorts I was wearing, and with their body hugging characteristics: reveal the contents contained within in high definition.

Restricted from using the pool and the activity of swimming, Olivia, myself and my hideous shorts had a play on the slide before going into the steam room and the sauna. It was a good job that there was no one else there, as I noticed myself emerge from the leg of my shorts. ‘Check,’ I looked at Olivia and then down to my crotch so she’d follow my gaze. ‘They are pretty inappropriate.’

Exiting the showers, I again met my nemesis in the changing rooms. It’s a good job I’m English, I thought as I doubled checked that I had my miniature shorts on. Again she looked at the square foot of ground that I was occupying and moaned something in Polish. Helpless and not wanting to help her in any way, I ignored her snide sounding foreign remarks. What else was I supposed to do? And with a customer comes first work ethic, she left, leaving the changing room door wide open so I could feeze my tits off and her floor could dry quicker.

Just a few rules so you can enjoy the pool a bit better

C-c-cold

Thank God, it’s snowing again. It must be getting warmer. For the past few days the skies have been clear of cloud and precipitation. The sun has had complete access to glare across the snow left behind on Friday. It’s beautiful. And freezing.

For the first time in my life, I’ve found it impossible to roll a cigarette. Wind, rain and snow has never dampened my pursuit to make a cigarette, yet as I walk along the street, the numbing of my hands has made my task impossible.

While the Christmas card image of snow covered cars and pavements lasted just a day or so, the city looks different in the fall out of the arctic weather. Piles of snow are now tinted yellow. It would seem that there are as many dogs as people in the neighbourhood. I hazard to imagine the origins of the red tinted snow outside my supermarket.

From my window I can see a white expanse free of buildings or traffic. Last week there was a river, at least two hundred metres wide. I don’t think I’ll be the first person to test the security of the frozen water. Just thinking of my next trip outside brings on feelings of hypothermia.

When I do go outside, I’m attired in almost my entire wardrobe. I leave the doors and hinges, as it’s uncomfortable enough wearing three pairs of socks, a vest, long-johns (sexy!), jeans, t-shirt, a shirt, two jumpers, a scarf, gloves, hat and my shoes. God damn my fucking shoes. Of the three pairs I own, none are designed for the winter climate. The pair of Converse copies are like walking around bare-foot. My fancy shoes provide barely any more insulation. I opt for my trainers. They look shit and holes are appearing in the soles. However, they are my best option. Until I get paid, they are the only option. No one can look good in this kind of weather.

Somewhere between Christmas and New Year's

I’ve just got back to my flat from Gdańsk. Six hours on the train has left me feeling totally drained. I should probably go to the shop and pick up some food, as I have nothing in the kitchen. But I hate shopping. Eating isn’t a great pleasure of mine either.

I’m feeling quite spacey. Lack of food methinks. That and the half of a rolly I’ve just had possibly. Instead of sitting around the family house with nothing to do, I’m lying on my bed with nothing to do. Force myself to write something. Be productive or something. I just had a little play on the Mega Drive games I downloaded, it seems like my attention span has decreased in age. It feels like I can’t focus or be entertained by anything for more than five minutes any more. God knows what I’ll be like at 30. I doubt I’ll have free time to spend when I’m 30. I might as well make the most of it while I’ve got it.

Drum my fingers on the keyboard while I think of something to write. I’m not even thinking. Just churning out dirge from the shallowest enclaves of my head.

Something documentary like. Come on Horner. OK, so the past three days of holiday fun has been entertaining. Three days in the company of the parents Borszyńska has been quite hard work. I believe the majority of the time spent in the carriage was time spent witnessing Jerzy in comedian mode. I can’t be sure as I don’t understand that much Polish, I couldn’t help thinking I was the butt of most of it. I don’t know if I was or not. That’s not the point. I’m not even sure what the point is. I think it something to do with the lack of expertise in Polish. I’m feeling quite lost not understanding anything. The best bit of the Christmas trip was mucking about with Olivia’s cousin Bartek. He’s 12. Mucking about knows no language. Nor does making fart noises.

The house in Gdańsk was just that. A real house. Apparently I’ve started to forget that they exist. You don’t see many in Warsaw. Four walls, stairs, multiple bathrooms. Crazy. The place was situated on a hill too. Imagine that! Perhaps that’s the issue I have with Warsaw. It’s too flat.

So… plans. Olivia’s coming over in a while (vague time frames, my favourite) and then we’re going to drink some beer. Not much alcohol was consumed during the festive period. Not at all like the Christmas I’m used to. Bloody religion. Getting in the way of fun. Seriously. In the four days we spent there we went to church three times! (Although once was just a drop in visit to say ‘Hi’ to God, I had to explain to Ol that it still counted as a trip to church despite that lack of service.) Hmm, what else? Lots of sitting around thinking, what next, I think.

Yeah, what next? The eternal question. At some point in the next few months I’m going to have to figure out what exactly the fuck I am going to do when we get back to Britain. Hell, I can’t even figure out what to do this afternoon. As the next step to my writing about stuff (the term stuff can be easily applied) I’m going to try and produce some videos. Get my stupid face on YouTube. Expand on the creativity stakes. Plus if I have to speak to a camera I’ll have to use it for something other than boring mind wandering rants.

Getting older, not getting wiser

(Originally written 02/01/09 - 08/01/09)

I look to the clock in the bottom hand corner of the screen. It’s 23:59. I carry on playing my guitar, trying to come up with a decent sounding riff. One that hasn’t been written by somebody else. I’ve been playing the guitar for about half my life and have rarely spent any of that time playing my own music. It’s time for a change, I think.

I look again. It’s 00:01. I am officially 25 years old.

This is only the second birthday I’ve had away from home. And seeing as I’m only nine minutes into it, I think I can leave the critique until the day is done.

Away from home. What does that even mean anyway? I’ve never really felt at home in Newquay. The vast majority of my time at home in Newquay is usually spent imagining what lies for me out of town.

It’s like with the music. In Newquay I’ve played open mic nights since I was about 16. Pretty much all of them (barring one or two) were spent playing covers. That is what is popular, that is what works well. Also, I’ve been busking for a similar amount of time. Likewise, playing covers. That’s what works. That’s what pays well.

When I started learning to play the guitar I saw a Beatles cover band while on a family holiday in Tenerife. It seemed odd to me for someone with so much creative talent to devote their time and energy emulating someone else’s hard work. Yet here I am almost ten years down the line caught in the exact position. I’m not playing open mic nights or busking. I have no reason to play songs that aren’t mine. It is time for a change.

Olivia made a rather simple fact that I’ve never really thought about abundantly clear earlier. She said that business is providing something that someone doesn’t have, but needs in exchange for something else. I’ve never really been business minded. Hence, as a musician without any of my own material, I’m nothing more than a humanoid jukebox. I don’t want to be one of those. Vacuous peddlers of plastic pop from televised talent shows never got me playing the guitar. It was real musicians, who had something to sing about that got me playing the guitar. Fuck, I need to stop talking about playing the guitar and play the bloody guitar.

* * * * * * *

I think I did stay up for a little while playing my guitar, coming to terms with how old I am, moping and all that. It wasn't until the evening that my age and experience really shone through.

At about 8pm my friends Anna, Piot, Karaś came over to drink some vodka. It's something of a national drink over here. So we sat around the table and talked bollocks and drank shot after shot of vodka. You know, the same kind of drinking that is done around the world.

At about 11, Piot and Karaś made for the exit, explaining that they had some studies to do or something. I can't really remember. Within minutes of their departure we were blessed with the arrival of more of my friends. Instead of just bringing a copious amount of alcohol like my first guests did, my friend Żuk shows up with a bag of weed. 'We should roll one each!' He tells me. Yeah, sure why not, what harm can that do?

As I take my final drag on the joint, the penny drops. Rather, instead of the penny it's the vague outline of sobriety I have left in my body. My bed has about five people sat on it, yet I manage to roll back into a spot behind my girlfriend's back to obscure myself from the view of the party. After about five minutes of lying down, gripping on to the bed for balance, I stumble into the bathroom and release the contents of my stomach into the toilet. Out of my senses, I allow my girlfriend to put me to sleep, in my housemate's bed (mine has half a dozen people sat on it). My birthday is over.

About fucking time

This might sound like a token 'bad dad' from a token bad Disney film, but:

Kids I promise, I'll try harder this time.

If this was a bad Disney film, my current blog would've run off with the blatently smarmy blog from next door. I don't know what my blog sees in that son of a bitch: he's more work obsessed and money driven than I am. Plus, he can't even take our genetically engineered baby blogs to the blog pool because of something that happened in the town that he used to live in. How does he spend so little time at work, earn a great living and know all the ice-cream salesmen in the area on first name basis?

Fortunately this is not a Disney film. Nor is it a Disney blog. I wonder what a Disney blog would be comprised of. I'm too scared to look at the one I saw before. Pinnochio was doing something to Bambi that I don't really understand.

Where was I? Oh yeah, let me pick the fragments of brain I have left from the tepid pool of family values and perfectly formed smiles that I seem to have fallen into.

The bad dad character's empty promises have just had their arseholes ripped wide open. 'Oooh, I'll write more in the New Year...'... 'I do believe in Santa Claus' and all that shit. No more my over paid, straight to DVD friend. As of about twenty minutes ago, I just got my laptop hooked up to the internet. I'm at home, I'm online and I'm feeling fine!

Except that last bit isn't quite true. I feel like shit. I've spent the past four days at the mercy of a Slavic strength manflu. It serves me right for spending the week wishing I was high. I've spent the weekend off my fucking rocker. And it hasn't cost me a penny neither. Granted, I can't quite feel my fingertips, palms of hands (or any body parts with nerve endings), I'm either on fire or feel like I'm trapped under an ice rink, and I'm sweating so much I might as well just relieve myself of what dignity I have left and relieve myself. But I'm feeling kind of spaced. Awesome.

So yes, after months of going to coffee shops to use free internet (which obviously costs a coffee), I have internet in a place that I need it. Now roll the credits and I'll stick up all the stuff I've written in the last few weeks as the sequel.

(Which means I'll be played by a different actor, but we'll recycle the gags, you'll never notice.)