Oh no

Sat in my local pub with my old friend C, after a reasonable game between Spain and France, ZZ getting a bit of magic back in his aging legs, the conversation turned to cats.

“My cat might be coming to stay with me for a bit. Custody for the summer holidays.”
“Hmm…” C said not really looking interested.

Then added “What, not that little black kitten that used to climb up the wall to the ceiling and then hurl itself at my groin at high velocity with its claws out at 7 in the morning when I used to stay around your house after clubbing.”

“That’s the one”

“Wow”

“It is a bit bigger now”

“Right - tiny little thing it was – sharp claws.”

“Yeah – that was 7 years ago”

“7 years! Time eh? It just passes doesn’t it?” C said philosophically.

“Yeah pretty much.”

“No one goes out as much as they used to, do they?”

“Well no, getting older aren’t we”

“We should organise a club night!”

I glance at C over the rim of my pint glass to see if he is serious, there is a glint in his eye, I have it seen before.

~ hen’s eyes go misty – the present wavily fades away to 1999 ~

“Hmm… ok but you know… kids these days – they probably listen to post ketamine punk hop or something.”

“Only one way to find out.”

Oh dear.

Two Wheels Good

A couple of weeks ago I started cycling to work, along the Regent’s Canal, the age old jugular feeding Victorian London coal and cotton, tar and tea and various other imperial booty.

Now it is the domain of joggers, early morning dog walkers and holiday boats, casually mooring along side, in the clean and healthy waters filled with ugly ducklings, green weed and fishing lines, their floats bobbing in the sun, flashing across slow waves.

But more than that - there are cyclists – hundreds of them. Streaming in snakes, weaving in and out of pedestrians and the occasional goose, speeding by cobbled locks and trendy Hoxton warehouse conversations.

When I first joined their ranks I was a classic weekender, a fair weathered bicycleler. Courteous and conscientious to my fellow road and toe path users. Braking and smiling thanks or pleasant apologies as I rode over people’s feet. I even stopped at red lights.

But no more.

I didn’t take me long to remember.

For I am one of them now.

An ethereal blend of man and machine, a perfect mix of muscle and metal. Gracefully cruising in top gear, effortlessly leaping from curb to road ignoring the laws of mortal man - for they no longer apply to me. Traffic lights are nothing but road side decorations.

I look down from noble heights on an ugly world, over the other transportees in their cars and busses and shoes, with mild disinterested contempt, a world I am selflessly saving for its ignorant and wasteful inhabitants.

As I pedal past, the wind ripping over my elegant features they must bow down before me - for I am like a God. They must part, running in fear out of my path or they will face the full force of my terrible wrath as tinkle my little bell.

Bless

Commentator 1 [talking of Ronaldo’s lard arse Sunday league performance so far]: “It is like a salesman trying to sell you a print of the Sistine Chapel – it’s not the real thing!”

Commentator 2: “Sistine Chapel? I’ve not seen that.”

Commentator 1: “It’s good!”

The Kicks

“I love all the flags trying to work where they are from like I said to the misses where is Tobago no not Tobago the other one Tonga I thought it was in the south pacific but it wasn’t it was in the west Africa, I got that wrong like a right idiot heh picked up 3 Brazilians the other night up the Edgware road two Brazilians cafés in the row there is there, street was filled with, what is that yellow? Everyone doing that dancing they do, playing the drums on the street, fantastic, never knew there were so many Brazilians in London, all came out of the wood work, where are they hiding, I don’t know, wanted to go to south London, I didn’t mind, I’ll go anywhere, never understand when people refuse jobs, get the fare I say, see where it takes you, you’ll never know what will happen, where you might end up, it is money in your pocket you have made 3 times the journey home, saw the 66 final, on TV like, just got back from rugby wasn’t interested really in football but there he was, Hurst kicking it in – all over now the bloke said heh, fantastic it was, 40 years ago that is now, 40 years eh? Still the right side of 60 I am though not sure I can wait another 40 heh – hope they do well, England, that is, got 3 son in laws that will be very happy – not that interested myself – give everyone a lift though wouldn’t it? He we go. Pull over here shall I? That’s 9.20.”

“Call it 10”

God and Love

God is Love, Love is God - some say. More than say – believe - which makes them right.

Love is what you believe. Free-will can’t change what you believe. No more than it can change what you look like or who you are or fly like a bird through towering blocks of bricks and money.

You can’t choose whether God exists or not – he exists or he doesn’t.

God and Love are different manifestations of the same deepest hope in the truth of bliss.

The limit of materialism has been found, not within chaotic equations or emergent social technological phenomena or cascading environmental catastrophes or even a possibly poisoned cat, but deep within something that may or may not be only modelled by itself.

Is there any hope for the enlightenment, for reason and rationality – has its end been ironically predicted by itself?

God only knows.

Green Plastic Watering Can

On Saturday night I sat outside in my metre square garden, on the warm dry soil, leaking the summer’s heat’s sweet fragrance of weed flowers, fresh June leaves and feline poo.

Above, hanging from a tree a fake, tiny Chinese hot air balloon, carrying a broken man, fixed with a rubber band, swung like the real thing.

It wore me out.

I went out there for broken crumbled reasons.

I heard a noise – like a cat crossed with the grunts of a goblin, up to no good, running a mock, maybe dancing with a cold and a smoker’s cough.

It probably was a cat because I know the cat. Sometimes he is there, during the day, looking in the window, demanding to be let in.

It is his garden. He owns it. It is a good garden with many hiding places, vantage points and crapping stations and he is keeping it clear of rats and other cats and as one of his humans he expects payment – in fish or whatever…

“Just let me in bitch - before I give you a slap! You eye balling me boy?! See these claws? They will rip those fuckers right out!” he says mostly.

So I went outside to see my pimp, maybe give him a stroke and little tickle on the belly - see if we couldn’t sort things out. Or maybe it was a goblin and I had to see that.

But neither were there.

Only a green plastic watering can.

"Customers are advised to take alternative routes."

The pale greasy skinned commuters sighed in unison - a beautiful blue skied day in a dank windowless office was turning into a gloomy neon evening underground as the summer’s light faded away above.

“Alternative routes?” this is the northern line – there is nothing else. “Alternative routes?” how exactly? Give up our stupid fucking jobs pushing electronic money around and buy some cottage by a lake and write stupid bollocks that no one will ever read. Buy a farm in the hills and make cheese? Buy a boat and sail the seven seas?

No, I ain’t taking no bus! This is the real life. I am going to stand here beneath giant beautiful faces leering from concave posters trying to sell me shit I don’t want and wait for the next train.

Oh look one has come, crammed to the hilt – but there is still room for me.