When Harry met Homo

  There's this rumour circling the school yard and it goes; the more good deeds you do the better your life will be/the more good karma you will get/the greater the chance that your name will be on the door when the cabbie finally finds his way..

I'd like to hope that any of the above is true. Early this morning after stopping off at the local 24-hour bagel bakery I made my way up my building stairwell, whose aroma can only be likened to that of ol' Billy cat's sandbox, and at 3am I fell into a deep slumber. As usual, the soundtrack deafening my eardrum was that of a phone screaming to be answered. That same phone that coincidently seems to ring every time I get home from a night out. The one whose owner obviously is yet to read the 'idiot's guide to answering a phone'.

Two and a half hours later I was put to the test. My phone rang. Luckily for me I proved my capability, and therefore the fact that I was anything but a hypocrite, by retrieving my phone and answering it.

However, looking back now I see that failing this test and thus proving hypocrisy would have definitely been in my best interest. On the other end, was my American friend Harry, only that morning it seemed Harry was posing as a homosexual English gent, called Ralph.

Ralph informed me that he had found Harry strewn across his front porch and Ralph had been working his way through Harry's 'recent call list'. He thanked the lord that someone had finally picked up. He asked if I was able to come pick Harry up from 42 Crowndall Court, just off Kingsland road, near the top of Pittfield Street. After recovering from the shock of the situation and taking charge of my motor skills, I cursed the lord and managed to mutter a request for repetition. Moments later I was in a cab to Crowndall Crt.

Ten minutes later I was standing in front of a body positioned in a manner that could be likened to those kids who lie in the snow waving their legs and arms back and forth in the hope of creating a bona fide snow angel. Only difference was, there was no snow and Harry seemed to be stuck in the 'forth' motion - his limbs were strewn out like a bruised and battered starfish.

Eventually he stood up, eyes still closed, I collected his belongings off Ralph, and both Harry and I extended our gratitude to the mysterious saviour.

Me -'thank you soo much' & then Harry - 'fuck you, you cock sucker'.

For five minutes Harry and I stood on the side of the road. He had a cut above his left eye, and the tracings of what looked like a 'fist to jaw' kind of action. 10 minutes later we were climbing up my stairs, whose pee-stained stench was too much for Harry to endure without promptly reminding the slumbering residents. Then we went to bed. Finally.

Later, we awoke and Harry was, not surprisingly, very confused about his whereabouts. He had no recollection of anything after 2:30am. I had been called at 5:26am.

After examining his appearance we concluded that the scraped arm and knee and torn jeans could only be attributed to a 'trip' down the stairs. And well, the punch to the jaw must have been the result of Harry mouthing off; at which neither of us were surprised. We came to the agreement that he probably deserved the smack in the chops.

After all the drama, (he is forever in my debt), he lost a jacket but gained a scarf.

Later that day I spoke to our mutual friend Tyler, who said he had also received a call from Harry, and boy was he glad he had neglected to answer it.

I must be the only person in the world, who is willing to answer their phone during the times of 'shut - eye'. And for that I am expecting a shiit load of good karma.

Beautiful Losers Premiere & After Party

A doco/movie that says it's okay to be a freak/geek/outcast because in

the end they all turn into butterflies. Get it? This is a film for all those who were made to feel like they were nothing, just an insignificant caterpillar. But now director Aaron Rose says it's the caterpillar's turn to shine.

It's a feel good piece with skaters and graffiti artists to boot. Need a confidence boost? Check this mother out.

The After Party @ Cordy House followed the secret premiere of the movie, a day earlier than scheduled. It featured £5 door entry, unless you held a BFI ticket stub or like me you arrived 1 hour before finish and kicked up enough of a fuss to be let in for free.

There were light installations and DJs who weren't too shabby, especially Squeek E. Clean.

Why you don't pick up at bars

While in London one of the most popular things to be, other than a Shoreditch whore, is a bar-tender. The second most popular thing to be, is one who attends those bars, in the hope of attaining a free beverage or two or three. After listening to the late night tales of my many bar-tending enthusiasts, I have come to the conclusion that the bar-tenders themselves also enjoy benefiting from their position. Some know how to work the system, ie. each time they serve a customer they serve themselves, others are under the watchful eye of surveillance and rely on the kindness of customers. However, to expect such customer generosity it helps to be one of the following:

1)Very personable; in the way that you were voted person most likely to talk the pants off a nun.

or

2) Rather ravishing; in the way that you have learnt to deal with the fact that most people don't really care what you have to say but in an attempt to 'score' will pretend to listen anyway.

My friend 'Barry' is the latest individual to jump into the beer barrel and luckily for him he holds one of the above qualities. In this case, ambiguity will be upheld in order to ensure his head maintains its entitled surface area.

About a week or so ago, I received a call from 'Barry', he instructed me and another friend 'Syler' to join him and his new friends. Apparently, while closing shop, the generous strangers had encouraged him to join them at their Indian restaurant on Brick Lane. We reluctantly agreed and made our way. Upon arrival we were greeted by an empty eatery and thus followed the hedonistic sounds coming from the second floor, where we found Barry and three new friends, a young American lady and two British lads, chowing down on some curried delights.

While at the table there were whispers (by Barry) that the skinny one with the receding hairline and the stout boisterous one were in fact owners of the establishment, and as a result everything was 'on the house'. Syler and I exchanged glances and made our way to the refrigerated haven that would uncover the party about to be had.

Receding hairline explained that both he and his parter worked at Coutts Bank but as a side project owned 25 per cent respectively. He said they often recommended the establishment to their wealthy customers and as a result the bevy of regulars was enough to keep the place afloat.

The night continued with Mark the stout Englishman egotistically raving on about a whole load of crap which had no validity. On the rare occasion in which I sided with the nasal American gal, I received a reply of slurred barkings. However, the 'he's paying for our free night on the raz, don't tick him off' look from across the table, was as effective reminder for me to keep my eye on the prize.

After finishing my second bottle of cider and quietly noting that the night had actually ended quite successfully, 'Syler' returned from the boys room and promptly queried the where abouts of his iPhone. I had no reply other than a shrug of the shoulders. We looked high and low, quizzed the scurrying staff, 'Syler' retraced his steps and Barry even looked through the trash.

Skinny & Stout

We then turned to the respective owners, only to be faced with a M.I.A (missing in action). The stout gent had mysteriously yet conveniently disappeared, but the skinny bean pole quickly put our worries to rest by announcing Mark had gone out for a quick smoko. We followed him down the stairs, where in fact there was no smoking stout just a confused looking friend who hastily whipped out his phone and dialled Mark. Apparently, he had gone to catch the last train and was on his way back. By this time we'd spilled onto the street, fingers were being pointed and vulgarities were being tossed about in the hope that someone would confess.

Mark finally turned up and then 5mins later had disappeared again.

Things continued to spiral:

Fed up, Syler muttered future actions involving 'wrecking this place'.

The owner shot back with a threat on Syler's life, ie. 'I'll slit your throat'

Barry called the police.

We found out from a squealer that Skinny and Stout did not in fact own a percentage of the establishment.

The cook tried to backtrack, stating that both men bought the restaurant 'many, many customers' and they were 'ghost owners'. That's right folks you heard it here first, you can take credit for owning a restaurant and not actually own it at all. Just make sure there isn't a squealer in the group.

The police arrived, took out their pad and paper and lay down the law.
Nothing was done and we left, empty handed.

Moral of the story: Mark is a genius. Pour some free alcohol into an unsuspecting victim, then citing the need for a tabacco release take their iphone and run. Because apparently 'see no evil, hear no evil' is the name of this game. Sounds like a mighty fine business venture and something the rest of us should look in to.

Aside from attempting to merge the rear end of the owner with that of a nearby vehicle, overall 'Syler' handled himself with dignity and grace. I took much deserved pity on Syler and his 400 pound loss.

Two days later he mentioned that he realised he could claim it on travel insurance.

Yes, yes you can Syler you baboon. After that comment all pity points had vanished.

Thursday nights are the new black

The plethora of Thursday night free events never ceases to amaze me. Last night there was heaps of art exhibitions on. The night began with a touch of Phil Frost, but this wasn't just any exhibition it was a l'il bit posher the rest.

Our choice of alcohol was not limited to beer in a bottle, but beer or a vanilla cocktail. After choosing the cocktail the first sip was one of sheer delight. Okay well my facial expression may not have convincingly portrayed sheer delight but this was only because when hit straight on with an (unexpected) double shot of tequilla a smile isn't the first thing that is pasted on your face. Despite the sour puss face, on the inside I was all smiles. Anyway back to the appreciation of Phil Frost and his artistic extensions. This is a guy that uses all sort of mediums in order to create his master-pieces. From afar it looked like a carefully constructed canvas-o-paint. But up close you could see leaves, rusty pressed nails and other odd bits of assortment.

Concrete Hermits

After an hour or so of Phil Frost appreciation we swiftly moved on to the regualr spot, Concrete Hermit. I am ashamed to admit that I don't even remember the name of the artist, but I do remember the shaper, colour and texture of the bucket 'o ice that was cradling the frosted beer bottles. Upon the hasty consumption of the first bottle, I collected another on the way out and we continued the crawl to our last and final spot; Cargo.

A wide load 'o Cargo

This bar/club was the home of two events; the first being the launch of a book dedicated to graffiti artist Banksy and the impact his 'art' has had on his home town Bristol. I didn't see one book when I arrived so instead we gazed at the live graffiti art and took sips from our beer, complements of the Hermits at Concrete. After a bounty of free gifts; ie. a King Apparel plastic bag w/ a t-shirt and condom we followed out noses and landed at a Chinese Buffet.

Fuck You Mr Woo

£4.95 got us exactly what you'd expect. Lots 'o fatty shiiit.

Mon managed to force it down, but later regretted it.