24 September 2013

you wait for darkness then you wait for day

it's time to ask myself, do i really like going to gigs? i hate the guys who don't stop talking, i hate the people who are going to or from the bar or toilet who (even in this moronically overly apologetic country) don't say 'sorry', 'excuse me' or even 'back the fuck up, homes', i hate the couple (there is always at least one) who seem to think that if they are not completely entwined at all times perhaps the world will fall apart, i hate standing up, i hate the bit before the opener/after the opener before main part, i hate the wait before the encore, i hate holding my bag/jacket/beer, i hate that they start/end so late and never take place in my living room.

these feelings are not new. not at all, but now, on the eve of my 35-and-a-half birthday (happy birthday, maj!!), i am old enough to admit: i can't wait till they are over.

it all starts with an email announcing [insert mildly esoteric band here]'s impending arrival and listing an on-sale date. cut to day tickets arrive in post--yay! can't wait to see them/they were so good last time! doors arent till 8? wtf? cut to afternoon of actual gig--hmmm, why didn't i book?/thank god i booked seats. it's gonna take SO LONG to get home. who is this random opener?

yes, yes, the point is on its way.

the thing is, for all the crap that annoys me about gigs, ill still react the same way whenever i get those emails, because gigs are good, and fun, and interesting. and i love them. even if BtS didnt play 'the weather' (again), you might see them play 'while my guitar gently weeps' or 'dont fear the reaper' and 'how soon is now'. 

so i will go, and i will moan, and razberet and i will continue to develop 'home by 10 productions', for people who like to gig, but like to do it early, and sitting, and with an established personal space for all in attendance, and with the promise that you'll be tucked up in bed by 1030. and ill shift my weight but reshift it anyway so i can keep tapping my foot, and do the indie head bounce dance, and look at guys in checked shirts, and drink a few beers, and spill some on me, and wait for them to end, and be sad when they do.

10 September 2013

it's a lullaby from a giant golden radio

the haze is wearing off. all of london has woken from a collective dream. a sort of time when the nerdy girl is asked to sit at the cool table and the cute jock takes a shine to her, when the guy working at gregg's gets talent scouted by a hollywood producer, when all the dreams you'd almost given up on come true, so much so that you have a lingering fear of when it will all end. well, end it has.

at first we wondered if it would last. one day of 22 degrees and sun sent us into a panic. 'get out, get drunk, every outdoor activity on the list for TODAY, people, we don't know when we'll get another chance'.

but then, we rolled over in our sleep, let out a satisfied sigh and the dream went on. sunshine, not in bits and pieces, but a lengthy, reliable stretch of halcyon days. followed of course by truly british complaints of it maybe being ever-so-slightly too warm.

we basked in long evenings at the pub, not even thinking of wearing jackets. we wore the hopeful summer wardrobes in legitimate summer weather, and even had to repeat outfits! we made plans for outdoor activities without fear, without the traditional british plan b of an indoor activity.

but now, the jackets and coats have come out. we eye up the darker colours in our wardrobes and try our jeans on again for the first time in months. we relocate our brollies - the work brolly and the home brolly - 'where on earth did i chuck those hoping never to see them again?'

but it's not tragic, far from it. walking along the streets of london the last couple of days i sensed a feeling of relief. we have awoken, we are rested, the dream is over, we return to our table of geeks and our job at gregg's. we have returned to our element(s).

after all, this weather is our home.

27 February 2013

too important for all that song and link malarkey

this is more of a news bulletin than anything else cause i find these two facts amazing enough independently and almost circuit-shorting when combined.

Three-time Academy Award-winner Daniel-Day Lewis is half Jewish. He also supports Millwall FC. 

21 February 2013

oh when you're cold, ill be there

ugh, SARA, what else is going on? it's not like we're content with some bullshit about how fancy you are cause you puked four times in a northeastern english train station. like you think that's interesting? well it's not. it's boring and i have a mind to stop reading this shit altogether if you dont come up with something better.

something like, say, pictures from London's brand-new (for-the-time-being) tallest building in Europe?


who likes instagram!?! razberet totally gave me a trip up the shiznard for christmakah so we went a few weeks ago. on opening weekend. cause we are fucking trendsetters.

Trend. setters. first we went for brunch at the drift. it's a little chain that's got some of the twee-est decor ever but i love it despite my generally grumpy-arse self.

we had some decision-making issues so ordered (and shared) a sausage sandwich, eggs florentine and some bubble and squeak with a poached egg on top. it was faaaaabulous. i might. even. have. a -- oh here it is. there you can see the sandwich and the eggs and the B&S (really good).
as i said, this place is part of a small chain. i've been to the folly near bank and had some fabulous scotch eggs and mac n cheese, and the refinery, which does lovely cocktails and occasionally sort of has bocce. it's a decent little chain. if you find yourself near one, it's worth popping in.

20 February 2013

I'm not about to blow [chunks] now

my god where to begin. a month's absence! it might be hard to believe but there are actual people on this green earth who are upset with me. so here i am. back in black. return of the mack. the terminator only nice this time.

following the last post, i went to harrogate for a lovely weekend with the mayoduck family. we went on walks, we sat by the fire, we had pie and lamb for tea, we had hearty breakfasts, we watched it snow, we played with the baby. then we got norovius while on the way to the Yorkshire Dales.

what is fun? well, this much i do know. spending almost two hours freezing in Leeds train station while trying not to retch is not fun. eventually going in to the toilet and staying there because 1. it is warmer and 2. that was your last 30p and in this state of vomergency, i needed to be near a toilet more than i needed anything else. once on the train, i imagine i looked remarkably like a junkie. not many people sit on a 2.5-hour train journey with their gloves, coat, hood, hat and scarf on the whole way, while also shivering constantly.

getting home that night was the best thing that ever happened to me.

i'm sure a few other things have happened, but we'll get to that. the focus now is on the fact that last night razberet and i totally saw dave grohl and a bunch of other mental musicians at the forum. it was amazing, although it was VERY LOUD. i still can't really hear anything. of all the things i figured i'd get to see in my life, most of nirvana playing back up for renditions of 'jessie's girl' and 'i want you to want me' was really not on the list. but wonders, they say, never cease.

speaking of wonders -- did you ALSO know that one of the lines in 'Jessie's girl' is "but the point is probably moot". who the shit is saying 'moot' in songs?!!!?! rick springfield, motherfuckers. that's who.

17 January 2013

teeny tiny pre-northern adventure update

Message recieved from mayoduck: 
By the time you get to me tomorrow it'll be late, maybe near midnight. Phone or text me on your travels, let me know if you will want a bit of supper when you get in. I went to my favourite flirtatious butcher today (he's my version of your bagel guy), and I got a steak family pie, and also some leeamb

then she told me that the baby's stroller is getting its all-terrain wheels ready to go. 

i could not be more excited. this may be the one time in my life i'm praying for it NOT to snow very much.

14 January 2013

im sending a letter, ill send it right to you

in the words of a certain dustin hoffman character, i am an excellent driver. you can ask a great many people. i only fell asleep driving once, and that was when we decided to go to ohio and back in a day to see radiohead, and i have never been in a wreck that was my bad. i have covered a good third of the union, a decent part of a tiny area of greece and about 10 feet in borneo.

but american driver's licenses don't last forever. and mine expired. and even if it hadn't the UK only accepts those for the first six months you're here. so last year i thought i'd get a new one. for anyone outside the UK this part will sound as totally ridiculous as it is, and actually make you thank whatever it is you thank that you ONLY have to go to the dmv.

first  you fill in a form, which you have to send, along with like a passport (in my case my residence permit), to the middle of fucking nowhere in wales. I think they moved the dvla out there so welsh people could have career opportunities.

so yeah, i sent it off, and before you ask, i didn't send it special delivery. and before you say anything else, yeah i know that was dumb. but the envelope was all addressed and freepost so i thought that was just the like normal way of doing it.

if you fancy ending up without your residence permit and then passport, while having to miss three holidays, then it is totally the normal way of doing it. let's break it down.

1. report your permit missing
2. get police report confirming the above is true
3. fill out a bunch of forms and pay like £90 in processing fees
4. wait
5. travel to america twice with only a passport and a panicked look and a letter from your immigration attorney
6. miss birthday trip to zagreb
7. miss razberet's birthday trip to iceland
8. miss trip to mallorca
9. get pissed and find anyone to call
10. receive replacements just in time and go back to the US, and to vietnam & cambodia

It may now be obvious to you why i am doing nothing but hitting refresh on the Royal Mail website for the next 48 hours.

i've been driftin' along in the same stale shoes

you'll probably get the idea that i do fuck all with my life these days, but any of you sarah lundies out there will know that there's more than meets the eye with stuff like this. really i haven't been writing to you fine people cause i'm like totes busy style.

and because i love you all so dearly, i will start with the least interesting updates.

I bought new kicks, we are in love and will be together forever:

after the most scientific and legitimate study conducted since those guys tried to kill us all at CERN, we now know that it takes me two and a half months to get through five bottles of salad dressing.

my bagels, while delicious, lack a rob reiner-produced lovin' feeling these days. as the pod man is gone, gone, gone, whooa oh oh oh oh.

and now, in the name of chronology, turns out that i managed outdo my escapade home just before christmas with my escapade home on boxing day. Yep, i said boxing day. 'but sara, we're in england. you know shit is snoozin' on boxing day!' dear readers, i sure as shit do now. but i didn't think of it at the time. i was once again enjoying the vast hospitality and fine food and drink one encounters when staying with the razberets, when mrs razberet asked when i was going back. 'today! for i must be at work on the morrow!' i declared. everyone looked a bit shifty after that. and it was only then i remembered that last year i hadn't come home on boxing day but the day after, since we had that extra day off and whatnot and so on.

POINT, WCS, get to the POINT!

right fine! so mr razberet had to drive me and the fam to cambridge (i was duly mortified), whence i spent a panicked hour trying to book a national express bus on each of my dying phones. three coaches were booked. which got me up to about 6pm. but luckily (depending on your outlook on life) there was a 3pm coach. from cambridge. to stansted. to london. which took three hours. instead of the 40-min train journey to king's cross. whatever! i cried. 'i shall book this and have the divine comedy stuck in my head and get home before midnight and all will be right with the world!' it wasn't actually that bad after i freaked out when my phone died and thought they wouldnt let me on the second coach with literally zero proof that i was a paying customer. this was about the only way in which it being boxing day was of any use. the guy was also clearly convinced by the sheer terror on my face that evinced the underlying sheer terror of having to live at stansted airport.

i made it home safe, and then i ordered a lot of indian food.

the next morning, i woke up feeling like someone was taking a weed-wacker to the back of my throat and had a fever, and called in sick.