Is it me or do kids “gotta no respect” (read it again, but now do the voice of Marlon Brando from the Godfather.)
Let me stop people there, I know your all probably aware, I’m not exactly all that senior in years, but I’m already finding myself passing comments to my friend and peers that contain the immortal lines of either “I would never have said … in my day” or “I wouldn’t have dreamt of doing that when I was younger.”
Am I growing up or are the general populous of youth growing down?
Like the roots of sycamore trees, the youth of today (a phrase I’m currently loathe to use) seem to be undermining the very fabric of everyone else’s lives. When I was younger, we had the Smiths, Radiohead and other expressive mediums that helped us sit and mull things over, whilst tentatively reflecting on the troubles that our lives seemed to constantly lob over arm straight at us.
It would appear that, the current trend is to congregate in a collective of four to eight, but if your particularly gifted and have a phone you can bolster your numbers to a pensioner threatening platoon of at least twenty-odd. To then hurl abuse and anything that comes to hand, at any and everyone who happens to be living a life anywhere near yours.
What has started this trickle of abuse towards youth?
A delightful young lady I had the pleasure of meeting last week… at work… as a Powiss officer… honest!
She was 13, had the attitude of a diva (can be optionally read as div-a or deeva), and had little or no respect for anyone. And (sorry to harp on) she possessed a skill that far too many of her friends probably do, not knowing when to stop talking and not knowing when to eat humble pie*.
My how I wanted to… teach her in the ways of etiquette and politeness.
Both Saucy and I left her home address saying exactly the same thing. “If I’d been like that to my Mam, I would have got a (delete where appropriate) clout/slap/belt/slipper/trained attack chinchilla round the back of the legs/head/coal shed.
It’s times like these I start thinking about re-forming my vigilante squadron “The Solo Attack Squad” (or S.A.S. for short). Unfortunately due to problems with funding, an over bearing Government that deemed our activities inappropriate and excessive, and another very similar military group becoming household a name due to ex-members writing novels, we had to fold.
I’ll never forget the guys I led in that group, our motto of “kill those that deserve it” wasn’t as catchy as who dares wins, but they both essentially had the same meaning. Ish.
I am done. My outburst is complete. I have found solace and soft toys. Milky has returned to his happy place. Karma has returned. Utopia has been achieved again… *U*K*N* L*T*L* S*I*S !!
* Humble Pie, anyone?
The topic of humble pie came up recently at work. Derv, before his departure, said he felt it would be a savoury main course, which was rather dry and crusty possibly with optional gravy.
I on the other hand always presumed it to be a warm pudding dish, in a white bowl with blue trim, almost molten lava temperature with thick custard that sticks to the roof of your mouth.
Any ideas? Send them in on a stamped addressed postcard to the usual address.
Tuesday, April 26, 2005
Saturday, April 16, 2005
Friday, April 08, 2005
Singular
Imagine all my fears
imagine bone grinding
back breaking weight.
We carry it all, just never our fate.
Envisage every tear drop,
could you swim that sea?
Question every answer, impossible to be.
Remember waking early
just lying where you died.
Awaking every Sunday lost in a haze of over angelical pride.
All fictitious
only unreal
left in the cold with nothing to feel.
Milky'05
Imagine all my fears
imagine bone grinding
back breaking weight.
We carry it all, just never our fate.
Envisage every tear drop,
could you swim that sea?
Question every answer, impossible to be.
Remember waking early
just lying where you died.
Awaking every Sunday lost in a haze of over angelical pride.
All fictitious
only unreal
left in the cold with nothing to feel.
Milky'05
Monday, April 04, 2005
Are you comfy because there’s a lot to fit in?
As many of you may have undoubtedly begun to understand. My rest days are when I will usually do just that, taking the title of my days off as a command to R-E-S-T. I rather grudgingly find myself having to stay in bed past the AM (After Midnight) and well into the PM (Past Midday). Once in a blue moon, I have good reason to achieve this feat.
As Jim and I miss each other more than is usually socially acceptable we decided to do something about it. We tried to book a weekend away but fell at the first hurdle when we discovered Madam Whiplash had no vacancies over the Easter Weak-end (I know what I wrote). We instead chose to drink profuse amounts of lager and liquor over a three day stretch. Almost as good as the Madam’s short breaks, excluding the unusual body markings.
The first evening, we attended Kingston and drank socially, just the two us. The night was fraught with numerous communications between Jim and my stalker (a story for another time).
You see, Jim (bless his little cotton heart) feels an inexplicable need to use his mobily to contact all those in his life whom would rather he didn’t. Add to this the fact he gets this urge when he has managed to consume a small European countries worth of alcohol and the outcome is never as good as he thinks it was.
Needless to say, our evening drew to an end in “the club” and resulted in me dancing permanently facing the back wall, so as not to be lit up by my stalkers high velocity sniper rifle laser aiming sight.
No undercover work for me then
However, there was a moment when Jim highlighted how easy I was to find. He ventured to the toilet (for most it’s a chore but for Jim it’s a venture). During his absence I boogied my way across the dance floor in a style I can only describe as strictly cool dude ballroom / urban quick-step which to the untrained eye would probably appeared to have been little more than drunken stumbling.
My new position was approximately two hundred and thirty three metres and 16 centimetres diagonally across from the North-West wall. A sniffer dog with the nasal capacity of Gerard Depardieu would have struggled to find me. I worried, as my mind created images of a poor defenceless Jim fighting through crowds of strangers to find his one chum (don’t read those last two words again, it sounds wrong).
When I felt a hairy, and somewhat clammy, hand on my shoulder. My heart stops as I realise the stalker has located its prey. I spin round, hoping to make my lethal spin attack look like an innocuous dance move. There swaying happily behind me is Jim holding four drinks (our usual ordering system in large clubs to avoid having to whisper sweet nothings in the bar tenders ear to often).
Amazed, I shout (because it’s loud from the music) “How did you find me?” There comes the reply “Mate. You’re the only one here with yellow hair!”
£6 for a sore ar5e, it’s a lot where I come from
Running out of options that didn’t otherwise involve drink we decided to socialise again on the second evening, just the two of us. We went back into Kingston to firstly collect my car and secondly attend the cinema complex therein. During the decision making process that consisted of us sitting at the computer at my digs flicking through cinema showing times I posed Jim the simple enough question “Where do you want to go, (to the cinema) Kingston or Epsom?” There came the panicked response “NOT LEEDS!”
I paused, confused by Jim’s apparently completely bonkers suggestion. I reluctantly made eye contact with him only to be met with Jim’s endless-stare-of-imposing-death (which he can usually only do for 5 or 6 seconds before his eyes water). We eventually concluded that it would be foolhardy to attempt to make the showing times available in Leeds and opted for Kingston. One of the original places I had suggested.
**There is a completely innocuous explanation for Jim’s outburst, but I’m not at liberty to share it due to current and ongoing legal proceedings that may result in me being granted power of attorney over “Mad Shouty Jim.”**
The film, Constantine, concluded and we were ushered out of the cinema on the flimsy premise that we were only allowed to watch one film for the grotesquely large sum of money we had paid.
We emerged from the cinema like camp X-ray prisoners, squinting and rubbing our eyes, clad in orange boiler suits and clutching photographs of our captors indulging in lewd and rude acts at our expense.
The Snooker Emporium and our Dinner trouble
On our last night together, before I had to go back to Woody Harrelson and Jim was to give him the million dollars, we decided to go to a snooker emporium. It’s too far away to call our local, and we don’t go often enough to call it our regular. No-one even recognises us, and on occasions in the past we’ve had problems getting in. It’s a real favourite haunt of ours.
We arrived at the establishment, and were fortunate enough to find the door propped open due to the heat. We ambled in and approached the bar / service area. It was then I discovered I had neglected to bring my membership card. Jim nonchalantly pulled his membership card from his wallet and glanced at me like the guy who tramples dog sh1t into a posh restaurant carpet.
It was as the 50 something red headed staff member approached that we recalled that there had been problems with our membership on our last visit.
The snooker emporium has recently changed management. I say recently, it was probably about a year ago, but as I said, Jim and I aren’t really regulars. Jim flew into an attempt at rectifying the situation. Explaining that on previous visits we had been promised different solutions that had never been honoured the next time we visited because there had been different staff in.
The lady, Peggy (for the purposes of this tale) informed us that she would honour the promise and would allow us a year’s membership for free. Jim and I high-fived, overjoyed at the fact we had dodged the five pound charge for the year’s membership.
Peg told us we would have to wait half an hour though, as Paul the manager was not expected until the time he usually started work. As he would need to put his official stamp on the deal before it could have the go-ahead.
We agreed and opted to dine in their quality establishment, choosing to sit in the specially designated seating area that was two feet from where we stood. We slid smoothly along the service counter into the bar area and were met by a highly trained member of bar staff to assist us in our culinary choices, or Peg as her friends call her.
Both Jim and I perused the disconcertingly laminated menu. As I pointed towards the Hamburger meal, Peg helpfully informed us there were no burger buns. Jim immediately queue jumped me and placed his order of scampi and chips. A choice I should have opted for.
Peg informed me they did have hot dog rolls instead of burger buns. My heart sank, this poor woman had no idea what little consolation her pathetic option had been. I took a few deep breaths and looked over the menu again. I wanted a burger and had already begun to salivate, preparing my mouth and stomach for the expected goods.
I plumped for a burger in sub-standard packaging. I happily requested a double bacon and hamburger in a hot dog bun. Peg informed me that they had no bacon. Or any curly fries, which was an integral part of the meal I had requested. Oh.
I scanned the menu for a third time, my heart quickening at the realisation that I was soon to starve should I not find a suitable option. Okay Peg, can I have the cheeseburger, in a hot dog bun with normal fries then. Peg regretfully informed me they had no cheese either.
My now withered body gave up hope of ever gaining sustenance as one of my frail fingers fell silently upon the hamburger meal. I asked for a hamburger, in a hot dog bun, with no cheese, no bacon with normal not curly fries. Peg visibly cheered up and told me that was something they could make.
I also requested some onion rings to celebrate my ability to order dinner after only my 4th attempt. Peg said that we could have two lots of onion rings for the price of one as part of a member’s only offer. We agreed and retired to our seats.
As we devoured our food, Jim looked up cheeks packed with scampi and said my name. An unusual occurrence when our standard term of address for each other consists of derogatory comments that Anne Robinson would blush at.
It was then Jim quite rightly pointed out that if we couldn’t get membership, we were going to have to pay for the second plate of onion rings. We panicked and began to scoff the evidence of our discounted food. As Peg approached and informed us that the deal had been Okayed with Paul the big boss dude. We collapsed back in our chairs, spluttering bread crumbs as we realised we hadn’t needed to eat the equivalent of a whole deep fried onion in under 9 seconds.
After finishing our dinner, I pointed out to Jim that I had managed to get free membership without any proof that I had ever been a member. As Jim quite superbly stated, it could have been the “Scam of the century!”
**We do realise that the Brinks Mat robbery, Great Train robbery and the gold heist from that documentary called The Italian Job all rank quite highly, but we personally feel our achievement tops them with ease.**
Pool, Music and Chavs
An explanation is always necessary when you introduce a subject matter to people that they may otherwise be unaware of. All the required reading on this subject is available at this helpful and informative website on Chav's.
I return your focus to Jim and I. We’ve eaten, and re-joined the club we never stopped being a part of. We chose to play American pool for the night and got acquainted with the table indicated by Peg.
After less than an hours play, the light over the table next to ours turned on. A sure sign that we were about to have some neighbours. We continued our game and watched pensively as a group of young lads approached. They all appeared to be quite sporty people as they were all dressed in tracksuit bottoms and a variety of branded sports t-shirts. One had even felt it necessary to wear his smartest vest and rather fetching baseball cap.
They all appeared to have excelled at the school of Chav and fitted every stereotype possible. Jim and I exchanged concerned glances as we began to envisage having to become embroiled in a bare knuckle fight to hold onto our personal belongings.
They began to play pool and a gutter English reverberated towards us as they seemed to communicate amongst their group much like a group of pre-pubescent apes would. The largest of their number was the vest wearer. I imagine his name was Max, as this was what he had printed on the back of the vest.
Max looked like Russell, a cartoon character from a band called Gorillaz
his lovely vest was a sort of cross between this 
and this 
although I imagine, for Max at least, it looked like 
His cap could have been a homage to Fred Durst
or even his little sister's 
but was actually 
Max was a guy who knew how to look good when he needed to, this just wasn't one of those times.
Finally I've reached the Chav jury
Jim and I spied a coloured box nearby, mounted on the wall where the old jukebox used to be. This place really had changed a lot in the seven years we hadn’t been!
We approached it and read the excited statement on the front.
"Play 2 million music tracks!!" it cheerfully told us in funky green writing.
There was a charge of one English Earth pound for three tracks of our choice (as long as they were on the jukebox). We pooled together our available change and realised we couldn’t manage the required funds for all 2 million tracks. We instead, only had enough money for 17 tracks at most.
Jim approached first and selected his three tracks whilst I guarded our personal belongings. We then swapped places and I picked my three.
I sheepishly returned to our table and informed Jim I had picked three “great” songs. Knowing me far too well, he immediately picked up on the thinly veiled threat hidden behind my innocuous statement.
“What did you pick?”
“What?”
“You picked stupid songs didn’t you?”
“Not exactly; the last one is more of a classic.”
Jim smiled as he too informed me that his third had also been a moment of genius.
We waited with baited breath for our musical selections to fill the whole of the emporium. We didn’t wait long, as the first of Jim’s selection began. It was a song by Akon called Lonely. It’s predominantly a rap song but contains a chorus that sounds like it’s sung by the ovalteenies.
Suddenly Max piped up, “Yeh, I like this one.” And proceeded to moan along to the chorus.
Jim and I though nothing of it and attempted to hide our inanely grinning faces. Until the moment that Max got up from his seat and proceeded to dance, pool cue in hand, to the tracks closing beats.
I sidled over to Jim and asked if he was aware that he could get a job as a Chav DJ. He stated he hadn’t but would keep it in mind if the underground thing went down the Waterloo.
His next choice, Feeder – Seven days in the sun, wasn’t as well received. Max and Co. could muster little more than a confused ar5e scratch and a slow nod between them. They obviously had no basic grounding in any kind of discernable rock music.
Fortunately Jim’s final selected song came on, Bob Marley – Jammin. To our shock they all seemed to perk up. Their pool game seemed to become enlivened and words I could understand flowed from their scowling little faces. How Mr Marley would have shone with glee at the knowledge of giving a few kids a voice.
Max trudged off towards the bar / service area and returned a minute or so later beaming like a Cheshire cat.
Then as he got back to his group, the music became louder. It dawned on Jim and I that he had picked a stormer to finish on as the Chav’s had liked it so much they had requested it be turned up!
Marley's wailing died down and the next song was the first of my choices. It was a 2pac track called Changes which was well received and again Max show boated his unusual gift of being able to sway almost drunkenly back and forth, causing Jim and I to reach for something solid as we assumed we were on a boat.
My second was, like Jim's, a rock track which again didn't settle well with them. It was at this moment that I remembered my last choice. I informed Jim it would probably be best if we called it a night and left rather hastily. He realised the gravity of our situation and began to try and inconspicuously collect together the pool balls.
We were too late, as the guitars faded out an almost deathly silence fell upon the whole room as everyone appeared to stop at the same time. I cringed, and squatted down behind the table as Mc Hammer began his classic (for me at least) Can't Touch This.
I breathed an audible sigh of relief as the Chavs welcomed this song. Again, many of them attempted to express their delight by shimmying round the pool table and Max even attempted a classy turn that was doomed before he even thought of it.
By the end of the evening Jim and I left the pool hall, satisfied that we had succesfully reached a point in our lives where should we ever need to we'll be able to conduct a family disco on a council estate with little more than a juke box and our razor sharp wit and inteleck.
My head hurts, and so must yours.
Go outside, get some fresh hair, my work here is done.
As Jim and I miss each other more than is usually socially acceptable we decided to do something about it. We tried to book a weekend away but fell at the first hurdle when we discovered Madam Whiplash had no vacancies over the Easter Weak-end (I know what I wrote). We instead chose to drink profuse amounts of lager and liquor over a three day stretch. Almost as good as the Madam’s short breaks, excluding the unusual body markings.
The first evening, we attended Kingston and drank socially, just the two us. The night was fraught with numerous communications between Jim and my stalker (a story for another time).
You see, Jim (bless his little cotton heart) feels an inexplicable need to use his mobily to contact all those in his life whom would rather he didn’t. Add to this the fact he gets this urge when he has managed to consume a small European countries worth of alcohol and the outcome is never as good as he thinks it was.
Needless to say, our evening drew to an end in “the club” and resulted in me dancing permanently facing the back wall, so as not to be lit up by my stalkers high velocity sniper rifle laser aiming sight.
No undercover work for me then
However, there was a moment when Jim highlighted how easy I was to find. He ventured to the toilet (for most it’s a chore but for Jim it’s a venture). During his absence I boogied my way across the dance floor in a style I can only describe as strictly cool dude ballroom / urban quick-step which to the untrained eye would probably appeared to have been little more than drunken stumbling.
My new position was approximately two hundred and thirty three metres and 16 centimetres diagonally across from the North-West wall. A sniffer dog with the nasal capacity of Gerard Depardieu would have struggled to find me. I worried, as my mind created images of a poor defenceless Jim fighting through crowds of strangers to find his one chum (don’t read those last two words again, it sounds wrong).
When I felt a hairy, and somewhat clammy, hand on my shoulder. My heart stops as I realise the stalker has located its prey. I spin round, hoping to make my lethal spin attack look like an innocuous dance move. There swaying happily behind me is Jim holding four drinks (our usual ordering system in large clubs to avoid having to whisper sweet nothings in the bar tenders ear to often).
Amazed, I shout (because it’s loud from the music) “How did you find me?” There comes the reply “Mate. You’re the only one here with yellow hair!”
£6 for a sore ar5e, it’s a lot where I come from
Running out of options that didn’t otherwise involve drink we decided to socialise again on the second evening, just the two of us. We went back into Kingston to firstly collect my car and secondly attend the cinema complex therein. During the decision making process that consisted of us sitting at the computer at my digs flicking through cinema showing times I posed Jim the simple enough question “Where do you want to go, (to the cinema) Kingston or Epsom?” There came the panicked response “NOT LEEDS!”
I paused, confused by Jim’s apparently completely bonkers suggestion. I reluctantly made eye contact with him only to be met with Jim’s endless-stare-of-imposing-death (which he can usually only do for 5 or 6 seconds before his eyes water). We eventually concluded that it would be foolhardy to attempt to make the showing times available in Leeds and opted for Kingston. One of the original places I had suggested.
**There is a completely innocuous explanation for Jim’s outburst, but I’m not at liberty to share it due to current and ongoing legal proceedings that may result in me being granted power of attorney over “Mad Shouty Jim.”**
The film, Constantine, concluded and we were ushered out of the cinema on the flimsy premise that we were only allowed to watch one film for the grotesquely large sum of money we had paid.
We emerged from the cinema like camp X-ray prisoners, squinting and rubbing our eyes, clad in orange boiler suits and clutching photographs of our captors indulging in lewd and rude acts at our expense.
The Snooker Emporium and our Dinner trouble
On our last night together, before I had to go back to Woody Harrelson and Jim was to give him the million dollars, we decided to go to a snooker emporium. It’s too far away to call our local, and we don’t go often enough to call it our regular. No-one even recognises us, and on occasions in the past we’ve had problems getting in. It’s a real favourite haunt of ours.
We arrived at the establishment, and were fortunate enough to find the door propped open due to the heat. We ambled in and approached the bar / service area. It was then I discovered I had neglected to bring my membership card. Jim nonchalantly pulled his membership card from his wallet and glanced at me like the guy who tramples dog sh1t into a posh restaurant carpet.
It was as the 50 something red headed staff member approached that we recalled that there had been problems with our membership on our last visit.
The snooker emporium has recently changed management. I say recently, it was probably about a year ago, but as I said, Jim and I aren’t really regulars. Jim flew into an attempt at rectifying the situation. Explaining that on previous visits we had been promised different solutions that had never been honoured the next time we visited because there had been different staff in.
The lady, Peggy (for the purposes of this tale) informed us that she would honour the promise and would allow us a year’s membership for free. Jim and I high-fived, overjoyed at the fact we had dodged the five pound charge for the year’s membership.
Peg told us we would have to wait half an hour though, as Paul the manager was not expected until the time he usually started work. As he would need to put his official stamp on the deal before it could have the go-ahead.
We agreed and opted to dine in their quality establishment, choosing to sit in the specially designated seating area that was two feet from where we stood. We slid smoothly along the service counter into the bar area and were met by a highly trained member of bar staff to assist us in our culinary choices, or Peg as her friends call her.
Both Jim and I perused the disconcertingly laminated menu. As I pointed towards the Hamburger meal, Peg helpfully informed us there were no burger buns. Jim immediately queue jumped me and placed his order of scampi and chips. A choice I should have opted for.
Peg informed me they did have hot dog rolls instead of burger buns. My heart sank, this poor woman had no idea what little consolation her pathetic option had been. I took a few deep breaths and looked over the menu again. I wanted a burger and had already begun to salivate, preparing my mouth and stomach for the expected goods.
I plumped for a burger in sub-standard packaging. I happily requested a double bacon and hamburger in a hot dog bun. Peg informed me that they had no bacon. Or any curly fries, which was an integral part of the meal I had requested. Oh.
I scanned the menu for a third time, my heart quickening at the realisation that I was soon to starve should I not find a suitable option. Okay Peg, can I have the cheeseburger, in a hot dog bun with normal fries then. Peg regretfully informed me they had no cheese either.
My now withered body gave up hope of ever gaining sustenance as one of my frail fingers fell silently upon the hamburger meal. I asked for a hamburger, in a hot dog bun, with no cheese, no bacon with normal not curly fries. Peg visibly cheered up and told me that was something they could make.
I also requested some onion rings to celebrate my ability to order dinner after only my 4th attempt. Peg said that we could have two lots of onion rings for the price of one as part of a member’s only offer. We agreed and retired to our seats.
As we devoured our food, Jim looked up cheeks packed with scampi and said my name. An unusual occurrence when our standard term of address for each other consists of derogatory comments that Anne Robinson would blush at.
It was then Jim quite rightly pointed out that if we couldn’t get membership, we were going to have to pay for the second plate of onion rings. We panicked and began to scoff the evidence of our discounted food. As Peg approached and informed us that the deal had been Okayed with Paul the big boss dude. We collapsed back in our chairs, spluttering bread crumbs as we realised we hadn’t needed to eat the equivalent of a whole deep fried onion in under 9 seconds.
After finishing our dinner, I pointed out to Jim that I had managed to get free membership without any proof that I had ever been a member. As Jim quite superbly stated, it could have been the “Scam of the century!”
**We do realise that the Brinks Mat robbery, Great Train robbery and the gold heist from that documentary called The Italian Job all rank quite highly, but we personally feel our achievement tops them with ease.**
Pool, Music and Chavs
An explanation is always necessary when you introduce a subject matter to people that they may otherwise be unaware of. All the required reading on this subject is available at this helpful and informative website on Chav's.
I return your focus to Jim and I. We’ve eaten, and re-joined the club we never stopped being a part of. We chose to play American pool for the night and got acquainted with the table indicated by Peg.
After less than an hours play, the light over the table next to ours turned on. A sure sign that we were about to have some neighbours. We continued our game and watched pensively as a group of young lads approached. They all appeared to be quite sporty people as they were all dressed in tracksuit bottoms and a variety of branded sports t-shirts. One had even felt it necessary to wear his smartest vest and rather fetching baseball cap.
They all appeared to have excelled at the school of Chav and fitted every stereotype possible. Jim and I exchanged concerned glances as we began to envisage having to become embroiled in a bare knuckle fight to hold onto our personal belongings.
They began to play pool and a gutter English reverberated towards us as they seemed to communicate amongst their group much like a group of pre-pubescent apes would. The largest of their number was the vest wearer. I imagine his name was Max, as this was what he had printed on the back of the vest.
Max looked like Russell, a cartoon character from a band called Gorillaz
his lovely vest was a sort of cross between this and this although I imagine, for Max at least, it looked like His cap could have been a homage to Fred Durst
or even his little sister's but was actually Max was a guy who knew how to look good when he needed to, this just wasn't one of those times.
Finally I've reached the Chav jury
Jim and I spied a coloured box nearby, mounted on the wall where the old jukebox used to be. This place really had changed a lot in the seven years we hadn’t been!
We approached it and read the excited statement on the front.
"Play 2 million music tracks!!" it cheerfully told us in funky green writing.
There was a charge of one English Earth pound for three tracks of our choice (as long as they were on the jukebox). We pooled together our available change and realised we couldn’t manage the required funds for all 2 million tracks. We instead, only had enough money for 17 tracks at most.
Jim approached first and selected his three tracks whilst I guarded our personal belongings. We then swapped places and I picked my three.
I sheepishly returned to our table and informed Jim I had picked three “great” songs. Knowing me far too well, he immediately picked up on the thinly veiled threat hidden behind my innocuous statement.
“What did you pick?”
“What?”
“You picked stupid songs didn’t you?”
“Not exactly; the last one is more of a classic.”
Jim smiled as he too informed me that his third had also been a moment of genius.
We waited with baited breath for our musical selections to fill the whole of the emporium. We didn’t wait long, as the first of Jim’s selection began. It was a song by Akon called Lonely. It’s predominantly a rap song but contains a chorus that sounds like it’s sung by the ovalteenies.
Suddenly Max piped up, “Yeh, I like this one.” And proceeded to moan along to the chorus.
Jim and I though nothing of it and attempted to hide our inanely grinning faces. Until the moment that Max got up from his seat and proceeded to dance, pool cue in hand, to the tracks closing beats.
I sidled over to Jim and asked if he was aware that he could get a job as a Chav DJ. He stated he hadn’t but would keep it in mind if the underground thing went down the Waterloo.
His next choice, Feeder – Seven days in the sun, wasn’t as well received. Max and Co. could muster little more than a confused ar5e scratch and a slow nod between them. They obviously had no basic grounding in any kind of discernable rock music.
Fortunately Jim’s final selected song came on, Bob Marley – Jammin. To our shock they all seemed to perk up. Their pool game seemed to become enlivened and words I could understand flowed from their scowling little faces. How Mr Marley would have shone with glee at the knowledge of giving a few kids a voice.
Max trudged off towards the bar / service area and returned a minute or so later beaming like a Cheshire cat.
Then as he got back to his group, the music became louder. It dawned on Jim and I that he had picked a stormer to finish on as the Chav’s had liked it so much they had requested it be turned up!Marley's wailing died down and the next song was the first of my choices. It was a 2pac track called Changes which was well received and again Max show boated his unusual gift of being able to sway almost drunkenly back and forth, causing Jim and I to reach for something solid as we assumed we were on a boat.
My second was, like Jim's, a rock track which again didn't settle well with them. It was at this moment that I remembered my last choice. I informed Jim it would probably be best if we called it a night and left rather hastily. He realised the gravity of our situation and began to try and inconspicuously collect together the pool balls.
We were too late, as the guitars faded out an almost deathly silence fell upon the whole room as everyone appeared to stop at the same time. I cringed, and squatted down behind the table as Mc Hammer began his classic (for me at least) Can't Touch This.
I breathed an audible sigh of relief as the Chavs welcomed this song. Again, many of them attempted to express their delight by shimmying round the pool table and Max even attempted a classy turn that was doomed before he even thought of it.
By the end of the evening Jim and I left the pool hall, satisfied that we had succesfully reached a point in our lives where should we ever need to we'll be able to conduct a family disco on a council estate with little more than a juke box and our razor sharp wit and inteleck.
My head hurts, and so must yours.
Go outside, get some fresh hair, my work here is done.
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