Think

Think
Think first
Think of what you are doing
Think about whether it helps or it hurts
Think if this solves anything or just makes it worse
Think of the innocent
Think about what you do does to them
Think of the pain you cause and in whose name
Think of the others
Think of those on the top floor
Think how happy they are that you screwed up once more
Think about yourself
Think about what is true
Think about how they will just use this against you
Think of an answer
Think of being heard
Think of dropping and swapping a brick for a word
Think again
Think

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Poison

Q: Why did the Mexican push his wife off a cliff?
A: Tequila!

Having already spoken of my late-teens tonic of Snakebite and Black in 'Blackout' I don't want you to think this Blog to be the memoirs of an alcoholic. However, I do feel compelled to also tell you of the tipple from my twenties - tequila! And then seriously warn you to STAY WELL AWAY!

I first discovered this devil's drink as a result of all the Tex Mex bars that began to spring up in the early 90's. In darkened establishments you could partake of nachos covered in scalding cheese, food stuffs cunningly concealed in various tortilla raps and wash it down with with a bottle of beer (topped off with a slice of lime) or tequila in one of its forms - there being three ways of administering it with various degrees of mental and bodily disintegration!

The first is the shot - a lick of salt, a shot of tequila and a suck on yet another lime. This was okay but very complicated, often involving the ingredients going everywhere other than down your throat and sparking arguments as to the exact order of consumption. The second was the more sophisticated margaritas - those deceptively tasty pitchers of tequila mixed with lime juice and drunk from glasses dipped in salt. Margaritas would slip down so easily, slowly inebriating you from the ground up. Half way through the meal you began to realise that your legs were numb and by the time the bill arrives it was just tickling your brain. But it was only when you left the restaurant that the full effect would hit you - possibly something to do with all that unhealthy fresh air!

The other method, and the most devastating for me, was first demonstrated at 'Break for the Border' in London where people patrolled the place with tequila and lemonade slug from holsters ready to pass out 'The Slammers'! Shot of tequila, shot of lemonade, cover with a napkin, hand over the top, spin three times, bang three times and then down in one. There would then be a rush of bubbles down your throat, a burning fizz up your nose and a sinister crackling behind the eyes. Again no obvious effect straight away, other than the physical revulsion to the drink itself, but moments later your brain would start to leak out your ears!

Remarkably slammers soon became my favourite way to send an evening with friends. Firstly, sort out a number of movies to watch. Then bring out a wooden chopping board, a tea-towel, some tequila and let the slamming begin! My sister even had a Mexican themed party once when we shared a flat. The evening was complete with Mexican food, home-made guacamole, chillies, tequila in all its guises and for desserts - Bandit biscuits!

Unfortunately the real evil of tequila used to be the hangovers. Nothing I ever tried seem to help stave them off other than staying in bed the following day, all day!. MW(TG) had always maintained that she had never experienced a hangover in her life until the night I introduced her to slammers. On that occasion she and I were visiting a friend for the evening and as the slammers went down another malevolent side-effect became obvious - memory loss! One minute I was drinking and discussing the merits of 'Withnail and I' - next thing I knew the film was almost over and I was lying on the floor gripping the leg of a table for dear life!

On another occasion I awoke from a night that I knew had somehow involved drinking but not entirely sure what. As my mind was delicately probing the inner workings of my being to see if getting up and staying up would be possible, a similar exploration of my surroundings brought confused messages. First of all I realised there was something metal under my pillow. When my brain finally recognised it as the leg a chair it just confused me even more. I discovered later from friends that like a rock-band on tour I had succeeded in trashing my own room. My bookcase, for example, had exploded, from where I'd run into it while trying to turn on a light. I had also inexplicably stripped my bed and left the mattress standing up on end. And for no reason I was sleeping on the floor with my quilt and pillow (hence the appearance of the chair leg) but with my legs on the bed base! Like an astronaut waiting to be launched into space! And staring down from my desk was an empty bottle of tequila and a sodden tea-towel.

I finally saw that tequila was not the happy drink I first thought. For one thing it tasted foul and for the sake of a few hours of joy the results were embarrassment, a hangover from hell and the destruction of personal property. The cons far outweighed the pros. I forswore the stuff and moved on to sensible, moderate drinking instead. I did have one relapse, however, when a quiet night out with friends in Hammersmith once took on a surreal twist.

We saw on arriving at a bar that a disco was being set up, but not thinking we'd be there long decided to stick with it, even after hearing that there was likely to be an ABBA theme to the evening. While supping on our pints a woman arrived at table carrying a tray on which was an array of colourful dots in mini cake-cups.

"Would you like a jelly shot?"

"Jelly what now?"

"They're jellies - but made with tequila." 

Like Alice in Wonderland these treats screamed out "Eat me!" and so I did. I had one jelly and one instant revelation. Here was tequila in a shot that actually tasted good! No salt or lime! No lick or suck! No table denting or alcoholic bubbles! Just a jelly fruitiness with a delicate tang. But the proof of the pudding and all that - what would be the result? Would we suffer any less and avoid embarrassment? Could this truly be the solution! In a word, no! Two hours and a tray of jellies later myself, my friends and indeed the whole bar were standing on the tables singing 'Dancing Queen' with our faces now doubt rainbow-stained like kids at a party!

Tequila would only ever be the winner in such a destructive relationship so I have not touched a poisonous drop again since...

...not that I remember anyway...

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Office

The best office I ever had definitely suffered from sick building syndrome...

While attempting to be an actor I held down various temp jobs. The one I held the longest, and officially saw me move from acting to full time-work, was at St Thomas' Hospital in London. It started out as three hours a day as a filing clerk attached to three medical secretaries (though not in the biblical sense). The job appeared straightforward  "track down and deliver patient notes from around the hospital" but was often harder than it sounds even with a rather clunky file-location-database-thingy. The secretaries were part of the Paediatrics Department and had their offices up on the eighth floor of what was then the tallest building at the hospital. Two childrens' wards were also on this floor but a third had been left empty and housed the secretaries and myself.

My office had originally been a bedroom on the ward and would have housed three or four beds. Instead it now had two tables, a chair, a filing cabinet and a shopping trolley. This isn't one of those unexplainable trolley occurrences where they appear in canals, ponds and gardens across the planet. Instead this was an essential piece of equipment, used by the clerk to transport medical files. I'd hope that by now the advances in computer science means the files have been slimed down. But at the time an unfortunate patient could have as many as three thick files full of notes, charts and results. To carry them by hand up from the filing room in the hospital's cellar was asking for a slipped-disc and a new paper carpet if dropped - hence the trolley.

Another, equally obscure pieces of equipment was a broom! These were used exclusively by member of the filing room to retrieve files and notes which had fallen off shelves and were strewn all over the floor (I joke not). They did finally bring in some better shelving, the kind you see if spy movies, with the big wheels on the end that can be rolled along to save on space. However, this called for the final piece of clerk-kit - a good pair of boots. There you'd be in the shelving, searching for the lost secret of the January blood test, when suddenly some bright spark who hadn't checked first, would start rolling up your shelf! After the initial thrill of re-enacting the trash-compactor scene from Star Wars had passed you'd quickly move onto screaming your head off for them to stop. ("Listen to him, he's dying R2! Curse my metal body, I wasn't fast enough!") But if all else failed your sturdy monkey-boot planted firmly between the stacks would avert a crushing death and allow you to clerk another day...

But the best part of the job was the view from my 'office'. For those unaware St Thomas' sits on the river Thames at Westminster opposite the Houses of Parliament. My room looked directly over the river and straight at the face of Big Ben. Never again will my place of work ever command such a view. Who needs a watch when one of the most famous time-pieces in the world is chiming exclusively for you. And if bored I could watch the boats on the river, the people crossing the bridge or smell the bullshit coming from Parliament. One of my favourite memories is that in the winter months, when it would be dark at the end of the day, you could watch the clock light up in dartboard like segments until the whole face would be shining before you, waiting for Peter Pan's party of four to arrive.

As said my temporary role eventually became permanent and eventually meant moving to a different, windowless office on the ground floor. Thankfully I'd still deal with the secretaries and got to visit their floor from time to time. But after about five years I finally made the break, moving on from the hospital and left London life altogether. One of the last things I saw from that aerie on the 8th was the construction and eventual raising of the London Eye. A decade later and I hopped into a pod on the Eye for the very first time during a visit to the big smoke. At the zenith of our flight I turned and waved to my old office and any clerk who might be watching...


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Exhibition

As already stated I'm the sort of person who leaves his brain floating in the past more than is considered healthy. A bit like the bath I suppose - too long and you go all wrinkly. (Hang on! Brains are already wrinkly! So float away!) Even though I'm now an age passed the big 4-0 I'm Peter-Pan-proud to say I am a teenager at heart! However, there is one thing that takes me back to pre-teens. In fact one place on Cromwell Road in London. I refer of course to the majestic Natural History Museum. To stand before that arched entrance still fills me with delight. I feel  I am entering a palace of the Gods!

As a child trips to London would often involve my family spitting up for the day. My mother and sister would head for the shops while my father would take me to a musesum. We covered most of the biggies - British Museum, V&A, Museum of London - but we returned time and again to that place that dinosaur dreams are made of. Personally I blame Blue Peter. They were always taking trips there and advertising one exibition or another. To be fair I never needed much encouragement and all praise to my father for being dragged around again and again to look at the bones, stones and stuffed animals!

Each visit  would always start with a trip to the latest addition but would also involve the same list of unmissables. Dinosaurs (natch), mammals (to see the flying whales and throw pennies on its tail), metorites (to witness matter from beyond our planet) and the slice of giant Sequoia (marked to show the passage of its life through the history of the world)! Finally a climb the top of the stairs in the main hall to listen to the echoes of joy and wonder floating up from below.

Of course, in those days there was only the main body of the building open without all the additional wings and things. But this meant that if we got there good and early we could spend the morning in the NHM, have lunch in the restaurant (I'm seeing fish-fingers, beans and chips on a paper plate, but then that was my staple fare at age 7) and then after lunch we'd nip round the corner to Exhibition Road and the Science Museum.  I have a feeling that my Father preferred this museum due to his engineering background and love of Science Fiction. He definitely seemed more impressed by the planes suspended from the ceiling than the whales. Science Fiction is another shared passion between my father and me and I remember will glee the time the museum had on display both R2-D2 and C3-PO and Luke Skywalker's landspeeder!

Our third biggest passion, after comedy and Sci-Fi, is books (which often incorporates the first two) and an author recommended by my father, Russell Hoban, also describes lovingly the wonders of the Science Museum in his novel 'Amaryllis Night and Day' and in particular the display I always remember the most there myself - the Klein Bottles. The madness and impossibility of them would draw me in and I'd follow with my eye the twists and turns, trying to understand how such a thing were possible. The doughnut / bagel theory eluded to in my past post 'Arrest' certainly had its foundations in those incalculable curves of Klein.

One of the most random, cinematic like moments of my of my life also took place in the Science Museum. It was towards the end of the day and the galleries were emptying when suddenly a strange music filled the air - a whining trill that was beautiful and melancholic. We followed the sound and were finally greeted with the sight of a man standing by himself in the centre of the hall wearing full evening dress. He stood in front of a small, green cabinet which he appeared to be conducting. It responded magically to every shift and flow of his hands by singing the strange song. My father quietly explained that this was a Theremin, an instrument the sound of which sends tingles though my body to this day. I stood enthralled as the soloist finished the piece never once touching it but rather caressing it from a respectful distance...

It's moments like that I hope will stay in my mind wash after wash after wash...

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Hurry

Following on from the 'Fluctuation' story I should reassure you that thankfully My-Wife (Then-Girlfriend) and I didn't have to live in The Hole for very long. Six months later we moved slightly further north into a much nicer flat (the one with the urban fox). The Fox's Rest, as I shall call it, was a great place and our home for the next five years or so. Convenient for both the station and the shops and the best cafe in the world (hats off to you Maggie and the bliss you plated up for us on a Sunday morning).

On one occasion while at the Fox's Rest we received from MW (TG)'s mother some tickets to attend a private viewing at the Nation Gallery's Salisbury Wing. Not being great art lovers we were uninspired until we spied the magic words - "Free bar and buffet". The subsequent debate lasted a good five seconds and on the night in question we boarded the train to Charring Cross dressed to the nines. Well, my better half reached nines. I find it a push to reach fives - sixes if I change out of my jeans.

Unfortunately for us the weather decided to take turn for the worst during the journey. On arrival at Charring Cross we found that the heavens had opened to Biblical proportions. Using what cover we could we got as far as the shops at the south side of Trafalgar Square then waited for an opportune moment to cross the the final distance. Through the downpour we could see the gallery smugly temping us with its promise of free plonk. If we didn't move soon we miss the buffet.

Time was running out and then so were we! Hand in hand we dashed across the square and right on cue the Rain God turned it up a notch (or five). Before we had reached the first lion it was obvious that even if we made it to the gallery without drowning there was no way they would allow us in. In silent understanding we looked at each other and laughed. In a state of  mutual saturation, we turned round and walked back to a pub by the station, there to steam dry at our leisure with a pint...

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Fluctuation

Our cat is odd. Actually that’s unfair but the thing is she’s 18 years old and still looks like a kitten. She's always been small for her age but it’s never slowed her down. In past houses where we’ve lived she’s beaten up all-comers, even though feather to their heavy-weight. She's even seen off an urban fox!

Age is catching her up, however, in so much as she’s deaf as a scratch-post and has a tendency to shout. Yet, throughout the years there has been one true cat constant. Whenever we’ve gone to the vets and been met by a new face attached to a stethoscope they would say, “Are you aware she has a slight heart murmur?” Needless to say that after 18 years, and countless vets, we are.  And as already stated it has certainly never hindered her.

In fact there has been very few health scares. There was one occasion when she was about eight months old. At that point we were living in a Hole in South-East London (I don’t exaggerate) and so kept her as an indoor cat. The big, bad outside world was full of terrors in the shape of cars, lorries and the pit-bull who lived upstairs. On returning home one evening I was greeted by my wife (then girlfriend) who informed me, with a look of panic on her face, that something was wrong with the cat!  

A quick inspection of our first born (for so she was treated) showed that the mere slip of a thing had a distended stomach. Cat and I were dispatched with haste to the vets. This being a time when I was a fresh-faced would-be actor without the luxuries of later life (namely car or money) the trip entailed a long walk from Hole to bus stop, bus to town and walk over four pedestrian crossings to vets.

On arrival I gently lay her on the table, explained the problem to the vet and all but got down on my knees to plead for her life. The vet diligently looked her over and examined the offending bulge.

“Yes…", he said with a serious look. "She’s fat. Possibly needs to get out and exercise more.”

Embarrassment reigned.

“Are you aware she has a slight heart murmur?”

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