80%

Following on from the booze references in the previous post, I was reminded of something very much alcohol-related from a few years ago.

One of the bands I used to play in never got beyond the rehearsal stage. This was never a problem for us, I always looked forward to the rehearsals: it was me and a couple of friends and a few gadgets, and one or two nights a week we would improvise music in the comfort of the house of one such friend. The stuff we used to churn out was epic, mesmeric psychedelic stuff which ebbed and flowed: sometimes very structured, other times completely eschewing any kind of order in favour of a formless wash of sound. Hark at me with my grandiose descriptions.

One significant feature of the rehearsals, and which surely both helped and hindered our musical noodlings in roughly equal measure, was the bottle of spirits which we would usually get from the rather quaint off license a few minutes down the road. Usually this was vodka, though from time to time we would sample other interesting concoctions on the recommendation of the owner. A number of times we would go for the imported Polish vodka, I remember not the name, but it was the ridiculously strong stuff (hence the title of the post) which to the uninitiated wouldn't smell or taste much different to some form of industrial furniture polish. Which probably counted us as being among the ranks of the uninitiated.

Still we would drink it anyway, a couple of capfuls each when each piece of music we were playing wound down to a natural halt (or if one of us needed the toilet). Despite the occasional grimace as this heady stuff hit the back of the throat, it gave a pleasant warming sensation, and served to increase our ability to shut out practically everything else apart from the music.

One of the residents of the house was a marvellous, genial and very knowledgeable chap called...well, let's call him Dave. He too was known for liking, and being able to hold, his drink. Occasionally during our rehearsals he would pop his head round the door to have a listen, perhaps share a capful or two of whatever our chosen poison was that week, and then leave us to carry on.

One evening we were taking a break as he looked in, and we invited him to share some of the strong Polish vodka with us. To our faint surprise he turned it down. Later on when we had finished for the night, we were sat talking with him and during the conversation I asked him if he didn't like the vodka. He then launched into an incredibly authoritative, technical and scientific-sounding description of the chemical makeup of this type of vodka - I still remember him talking about polymers and other such things in great detail, and was astounded by the eloquence of his explanation - and how it wasn't just stronger by volume, but potentially so much more volatile in its effects on the body. "Bad Shit" was how he summed it up at the end of this lengthy but fascinating discourse.

So we heeded his grave advice and decided to leave it alone, and at our next rehearsal a couple of nights later we reverted back to standard strength vodka. Later on when once again we were in conversation with Dave, we offered him a glass, pointing out that we had followed his advice from the other night.

"What advice?" he asked, looking slightly puzzled. I recounted to him as best I could the explanation he'd given, making sure I put the word polymers in there at some point, and how he'd basically shocked us into leaving the stuff well alone. By the time I'd finished he was in fits of laughter, making me wonder aloud whether I should be embarrassed about the inadequacy of my explanation.

"No, it's not that," he said, "it's just that I realise this must have been Tuesday night you're talking about. I can't remember saying any of it: I was, completely and utterly, pissed out of my face!"

Untitled

I was going to do a rant about V********s Day, but I really don't think I'm all that bothered about doing so. It was going to be a good excuse to use a terrible title though, something along the lines of Anti Valentine's Day Macassars. Never mind. Maybe next year eh?

But! I, amongst others, did get one of these - well, two in fact - the other day, thanks very much to queen vixen and pixie: nothing to do with V********s Day either, but why shouldn't I mention it today?


I'm away for the weekend, going to see a good friend of mine for intelligent conversation, a sing-song at the piano and...nah, chances are we'll get rather pissed, and I'm looking forward to that especially since I won't be turning up to work on Monday bleary-eyed and groggy: mainly because I'm not at work next week.

So if I do post anything at the weekend, I wouldn't expect it to be anything approaching coherent. Time will tell...

Stillness

Thanks in part to the unseasonably good weather round our way, there's been an odd (but not unpleasant) atmosphere in the city this week. I think it's probably compounded by the fact that the schools are on half term holiday, which makes travelling to and from work a far less fraught and frustrating kind of experience. It also means I don't have to get up until 20 minutes after I usually would, since the roads are so quiet: well, relatively quiet anyway. Even the bus drivers are uncommonly cheerful, which is actually quite unsettling, so rare is it.

But - it's more than just a case of being quieter on the roads either side of the working day. Nor is it merely a case of the change in atmosphere being due to the unexpected sensation of the city being drenched in glorious, golden sunlight.

What has struck me, as I've walked along at the beginning of my day, is that it reminds me of a very early morning in late spring or summer: bright, pleasantly warm, and almost eerily still. Stop walking and, save for occasional birdsong, the quietness has been amazing.

The equivalent happened as I headed through the backstreets of town on my way from work this afternoon: it felt like a late spring evening, and the atmosphere practically demanded of me that I take my time and enjoy the moment. Even the car parks and industrial buildings, the alleyways and the canal where the drinkers congregate seemed pleasant enough places to take pause for a few moments (I could be cynical and say that this was because the sun was in my eyes and it was difficult to see at all, but I'll let that pass).

I suppose the slight feeling of eeriness that I'm getting at is because, whilst in no way unwelcome, it's way too soon for us to be having such a spell of weather. At this time of year, such conditions seem to alter the sense of time, so that my first couple of waking hours feel like 5am in June, and the late afternoon sun feels like 9pm midsummer. Take the school run away from the equation, and that just intensifies the whole feeling.

Mind you, thinking about it, this state of affairs also reminds me of the opening weekend of the 2002 World Cup finals. That was over the course of a bank holiday weekend in May (I think) and, since the tournament was in Japan and South Korea, many of the pubs were opening at ridiculously early hours of the day and serving breakfast for those who wanted to watch the first games. Come 3 o'clock in the afternoon, the legions of diehard footie fans (and drinkers), spurred on by fine weather and a long weekend before they had to return to work, were as inebriated as they would be at the end of a hectic Saturday night.

I remember wandering through the locale and feeling like I was walking through the village of the damned (I haven't seen the film of the same name but the phrase seemed to fit): all the carnage of a late night illuminated by the bright afternoon sun. A couple of inert bodies lay in the gutter; two people were stood in the middle of the road (there was barely any traffic since everyone appeared to be in the pub) trying to have a fight, violently swinging punches and looking puzzled as to why they didn't connect.

The fact was that these inebriated adversaries were a good ten feet away from each other, and it would have been amusing to watch - were it not all so odd and faintly grotesque. Further down the road a man in a similar state of intoxication tried and utterly failed to jump over the wall, 1ft high as it was, that stood between him and the entrance to the off-license.

Well, back to this week and its altogether more pleasant sense of disconnect. May as well get used to it, I'm sure we'll have much more of this kind of thing in the years to come; on the other hand, I may as well make the most of it for now, since the forecast indicates rain and snow come the weekend. At least it'll actually feel like February.

Curtains for Rothko

Any excuse for a bad pun.

Receive an award, award an ASBO

The kindly dj kirkby has presented me with another award to add to the virtual mantelpiece, this one prompted by a shameless display of my tattoo - with accessories - on Caroline's blog (no I'm NOT providing a direct link to the post: I've already indulged in enough shameless self-promotion!). Thanks dj (and Caroline too), greatly appreciated!

Whilst this is graciously accepted, I'm going to do my usual thing of ignoring the conditions for passing it on to others, but I do think it would be appropriate of me to bestow it upon one particular blogger. His comments and his posts often puzzle me to say the least, but they are often punctuated by flashes of sheer brilliance; I recently suggested that he has the knack of expressing completely the opposite understanding of the point of many of my posts; he's also been consistently making cryptic (what else?) references to darts on my recent comment threads.

So I'm awarding zola this particular badge of (dis)honour, in light of the fact that not only did he finally answer my pleas to actually write a post about darts, but I also found it to be a cracking read (From Football To Darts, posted yesterday). Blogging above and beyond the call of duty, as far as I'm concerned. The only thing is, I don't think he'll accept this award unless I manage to convince him that it's actually an ASBO.

ZOLA, I'VE AWARDED YOU AN ASBO

(I wonder if that'll do the trick)

Well it's there for him if he so wishes: zola take a bow.

Wandering

Typical that, just as my self-imposed teetotalism comes to an end, I end up suffering with what we shall euphemistically call a delicate stomach. I'll provide you with no more detail than that, despite the temptation to go into all sorts of intricately gory descriptions. It's a relief in all sorts of ways though, not to feel quite so - how shall I describe it - centrally governed today. It wasn't the norovirus that the very eloquent but why? has had the misfortune to suffer, I think it was something I ate which decided to rather violently disagree with me.

Enough of that already. This is one of those blog posts which feels a little bit aimless, but which doesn't necessarily feel like a bad thing. Often I find myself thinking about what to write about, and imposing certain tacit conditions as to whether I should write about something which is current, relevant (to me at least), structured, or in other words not so completely random that I wonder why on earth I might write it or why anyone might read it.

Not good. It's good to have certain conditions (not in the sense as that described in the first paragraph) otherwise this really would end up as the blogging equivalent of eating spaghetti without cutlery, on the other hand I don't see why I shouldn't write something purely because it might not flow or sit well with other topics.

So, earlier, I was thinking about the work of the painter, Mark Rothko. Possibly because, in a couple of weeks, I have some time off work: I've decided I really ought to go down to London and look round some of the galleries as well as doing some record shopping and whatever else may crop up. I haven't been down to London for quite some time.

When I first began attending art college, Rothko was for me the epitome of all that was dubious if not downright shit about art. This says much about my ignorance at the time, and it's not easy to remember the reasons - if indeed there were any clear ones - why I held this view so firmly. I know it's because I couldn't read his work in the way that I felt I could read that of, say, Picasso or Cezanne or Monet, but I don't recall whether I had a problem with it purely because it was abstract: I'm sure I did like other abstract works. I'm not sure either whether my disdain fell into such crass territory as that old chestnut, anyone could do that, what's so special about it?

But, I didn't like it. His work didn't speak to me, it was cold, dark, devoid of emotion, depth or feeling. On my visits to the Tate (before it diverged into Tate Britain and Tate Modern), I would wander through the room devoted to Rothko paintings, barely pausing except to register said disdain.

One day, on such a visit, I paused in the Rothko room. It was more dimly lit in there than in most of the rest of the gallery, which had added to my list of disincentives. I may have just decided to sit down on one of the seats for a few minutes and take a rest from the influx of quite intense visual information that can sometimes feel like sensory overload when looking at artworks over a period of time. By the time I left the room however, I was a convert. I have used this phrase often, but for some reason while I was sat in that room, something clicked.

Just as I've found it hard to pinpoint exactly what it was that had previously made his work seem so lacking, it's just as difficult to describe this complete and sudden turnaround: but sudden and complete it was. The simplest - and thus hardly the most accurate - way of describing it would be to say that whereas previously I just didn't "get" it, now I did, at least on my terms. Now that really isn't satisfactory at all, but for now it will have to do. Years later, when these works had been relocated to the Tate Modern, I took the train to London with the specific intention of spending a lot of time in the Rothko room: it was something I felt I needed to do.

I think I was in there for four or five hours, sometimes studying the individual paintings closely, other times standing back to view them in relation to one another and their surroundings, and still other times just being there and not focusing on anything specific. It was quite an intense experience, ranging from claustrophobic to something quite liberating and very lifting. In the end I had to leave and get out into the fresh air, but I was glad to have done it.

I'm also reminded of an anecdote of a friend of mine: an art lecturer, he accompanied a rather cynical acquaintance of his to some of the galleries in London. In a manner not dissimilar to my own, he was at his most cynical upon entering the Rothko room, stating that he didn't know what the work was about or even for, nor what effect he might expect it to have on anyone. To which my friend replied, "why are you whispering then?"

I'm already looking forward to renewing my acquaintance with them and with a whole host of other paintings and artworks.

Sent

My mobile stores the last 25 text messages I've sent. Here they are (less than 25 in fact - that's due to messages which have failed to send) - some are to the same person regarding the same subject, but I thought it better to leave any further context out of it so that you can make your own narrative should you so wish. They are in order of sending though, the earliest first:

*Anything on or you just having a sit down?*

*Stop avoiding the question*

*What is it?*

*Stick with it son*

*Did they rock? Do you need counselling? Which one is your fave? So many questions...*

*What a price to pay for love...*

*A bit of SPK might do the trick*

*Is tonight the night that two become one?*

*Don't remember that one*

*Paws duly crossed. Miaow*

*Oh good, v glad to hear it. Ta for letting me know*

*Yes for a bit. You?*

*See you there*

*Ok, bring drumsticks*

*Aye, will do*

*Ok*

*Yep*

*You in tonight, or are you FUCKING OFF OUT AGAIN?*

*ALRIGHT TWATFACE, I MIGHT NOT RING YOU IN A FUCKING BIT THEN*

*Correct, you start tomorrow morning if that's ok*

*How is the little furry feller?*

*No worries. Just fed him earlier, seems content enough*