Alasdair Watson

I start every holiday like this: I intend to do many exiciting things in London, and write them all up, and make everyone jealous of the fun I’m having, because what’s the point of a holiday, if other people don’t know how much fun you’re having? And invariably, I do nothing terribly exciting, and don’t bother.

But still, I am, once again, going to try. And in fairness, if I do do anything exiciting, this should throw it into sharp relief, because this is dull:

Got home last night, to find I had the house to myself, which was a bit of a surprise. Went to the gym, then came home and watched the last episode of Sex in the City, just to make sure it was really over. I have a mild dislike of that show (and most of it’s ilk) but it’s entertaining enough in a “shout irritatedly at the telly” kind of way. And since I had the place to myself, I did exactly that, because I really didn’t like the fucking ending. Complete predicatabilty from start to finish is not the way to end on high note. It was exactly what I expected, as well as being pretty piss-poor, so there was quite a lot of shouting at the telly. (I may have been drinking, too.)

Then I got up this morning and broke my whisky glass. Not the best start to the day. So I went out for breakfast with Warren Zevon and Bill Hicks for company, which cheered me up. Later, I am going out to have coffee, and then [REMINDER] on to John’s/my/anyone else who happens to be chronologically appropriate’s birthday drinks. (Locked post prior to this one has the details.) I may also buy a new whisky glass.

In a hair under two weeks, I turn 27 (on March 25th to be exact). And while I’m sure that some of you wish to shower me with tokens of your esteem, I appreciate that some of you just plain don’t love me enough to buy me the nice things I deserve. And while I am hurt and rejected by this, I’m prepared to offer you all a way to make it up to me. Because I know you feel bad about it. I know you do. [1]

This coming Saturday, the 20th of March, I and several of my friends with birthdays around now, will be celebrating our increasing wisdom at The Court on Tottenham Court Road. [streetmap]

Because half of my friends are on a budget, and the other half are deeply committed alcoholics, the bar is apparently both cheap and open late. I’m planning on getting there about six-ish, and if you can read this post, you’re invited to my birthday party, even if an accident of geography would prevent you from attending.

That’s this coming Saturday, at The Court on Tottenham Court Road. Be there, or at least have fun doing whatever it is you’re doing elsewhere.

[1] And, y’know, even if you don’t, come along anyway, because I’d love to see you.

I read Antony Johnston’s new graphic novel, Spooked on the bus to work today. I am amused by the number of people on my friends list, (or known to many them – it’s a good chunk of the old u.p.g crowd) that the book is dedicated to. Also amused to see Sexbat quoted in the book itself…

The book is very good, by the way.

“For why are you a happy man Alasdair?” I hear you cry!

Firstly: please shout less loudly.

But secondly, the reason I am a happy man is that my bottle of 1984 arrived. I was not expecting that, since I’d been given to understand it wasn’t yet available (but would be within weeks). So I figured I’d pre-order a bottle, and it’d get here some time next month. But no, it has arrived a mere two days after I ordered it. This is, as they say a re-fucking-sult.

So, because it is Wednesday, and on Wednesday’s I torture myself with exercise I am first going to go the gym, and then I am going to come back and pour myself a large dram.

Bloody gym.

What do normal people do when they have nothing to do? I’m sitting here with nothing to do, and I’m confused…

I spent most of yesterday afternoon at Whisky Live, the big whisky tasting event, enjoying a great, great many free samples. I was, as they say, very, very drunk. But not so drunk that I didn’t keep track of the really interesting new whiskies that I tried. So I figured I’d write it up here, as an excuse to bore the tits off the lot of you, and as an aide-memoire for myself.

But it’s quite long, so I’ll cut it…

Go on then: I’ve given you my list, but what things would you put in a box to represent me?

12 things in a box

Well, the thing I thought I was doing tonight (Mark’s birthday) turns out to be happening tomorrow instead, for when I have plans. Arse, and double arse. It does, however, mean I’m not doing anything tonight. Is there anything interesting happening in London tonight? (I’m not doing Tenebrae, because there’s a chance I’ll do Rathaus tomorrow, if I head back from the wilds of Dorking slightly earlier than the last train…)

Last night’s gig was … mixed. The band were very, very good. Beautiful, complex strands of sound shifting around each other, building from whisper to medlodious cacophony. I like the increased vocal element in the new material, as well – it lends the whole thing a bit more clarity, gives the listener a more informed hook into the soundscapes.

So yeah, a good time.

But by the end of it, I was ready to do bloody violence upon half the audience. From the bastards behind us who persisted in talking over all the quiet bits, to the idiots who kept shh-ing people more loudly than the people were actually talking, and most especially to the muppets who kept shouting over Ephrim as he was trying to talk. OK, I’m not sure it was a wholly smart move, trying to bring any level of political opinion into the stage patter, but then, it’s not like they’re an apolitical act. Still, while I don’t expect everyone to agree with them (I don’t entirely agree with them myself), I figure that if I’ve paid the price of admission, I might as well listen to what the man’s got to say. And I would have liked the chance to do that without it turning into a fight between Ephrim and some Kerry supporting fuckwit in the audience. Not a fight, of susbtance, you understand – just a fuckwit who wouldn’t let the poor sod finish a sentence without interruption. Debate, I can handle. Basic rudeness, not so much.

Still, as I said to a friend, the music was great, and the lady violinists pulchritudinous[1], and there’s not a lot more you can ask for…

[1] All women[2] violinists are, in my experience. Why this should be, I have no idea, but I’m not complaining.
[2] The men may be as well, but I’m not exactly sensitive to that sort of thing, and I don’t recall having seen any that stood out…