The week started with a brutal morning, a violation of my comfortable Western priviledges. I was left alone for six and a half hours, starting at 4:30am. I was stuck, dealing with somnambulist passengers and chirpy airport staff, while being unable to drink coffee or even urinate. I only mention this because it lead to my perception of my environment becoming very distorted (I never realised that I rely on coffee to be a psychic anchor as well as a stimulant).
Every old man that approached me suddenly became Sir Anthony Hopkins. He was everywhere, but I first noticed when an elderly man asked me a question in a soft Welsh accent. I looked up, and it was Hannibal, asking where Boots the Chemist is situated.
Good God, I told myself. Stay calm. This man played Richard Nixon, try to be civil but not too friendly.
My mental instruction worked, and I was able to point him in the right direction. I was satisfied with the encounter, believing it to be reality. That was until I was faced with another old man. He too had the accent and the soft twinkling features of Hopkins. At first I thought it was the same man, but not even a Knight of the Realm can change clothes that fast. I greeted him and answered his question with the same civil nonchalance as I used with Hopkins #1.
Once again I carried on my day, thinking about the little nothings that drift around my head, but certainly not dwelling on the Double Hopkins phenomenon.
Eventually, a colleague came to relieve me and I was able to go to the toilet. It was only in this hideous crucible that I began to suspect that my mind was drifting into another reality.
There, at the urinal, was a third Hopkins. He was pissing with force and I stood with mouth agape. After he had finished he turned and began walking. His "hog" was still withdrawn and he was shaking it with vigour, as if to say: "Enjoy this with a nice Chianti!" At this stage I went through the cliches, the eye rubbing, the pinching - the works. Alas, the exposed Hopkins remained, shaking his penis with thumb and forefinger positioned for maximum flail. I fled the scene without voiding my bladder, and as I moved through the departure lounge I shielded my eyes from one Sir Tony after another.
Addiction is a funny thing. I bought a coffee immediately after this hideous spectacle, and drank it with a hungry desperation. All of the Hopkins around me gradually faded back to their natural forms. It was a rare moment of psychic chaos and I admit that I was astoundingly comfortable with all except for the penis waving (and that was only because I was trying to hide my laughter from the man).
Tuesday, September 26, 2006
Monday, September 11, 2006
Run from The Pigs, The Fuzz, The Cops, The Heat!
I was collared by the police yesterday. "What was the crime?" I hear you ask. Well, I was quite dangerously sitting on a seat at a quiet, deserted gate in Terminal 3, wielding a tuna sandwich (well, wielding it from the packet to my mouth). This was apparently too much of an infraction to be ignored.
The policemen walked past me, looking through suspicious eyes, geared-up in guns, high-visibility jackets and bullet-proof vests. That's all they did at first, they just walked past me. I carried on eating my sandwich, and when I was finished I got up to go to the toilet. About fifteen minutes had passed since the policemen had walked past, but when I emerged from the toilet, they were waiting for me, one on each side of the door.
"Where are you flying to today, sir?" the one with the moustache said.
"Nowhere," I replied, holding my pass up. "I work here."
"What are you doing here, then," Moustache's colleague piped up.
"Just finding a quiet place to have my break." I was uncomfortable. I was still in the doorway to the toilet, cornered by these two men. I had the image of them pushing me back through the door and roughing me up, out of sight.
"We just thought it was a bit weird that there was no-one else around," Moustache said.
"Well, that's the point." I was being cocky because I knew they had nothing on me. "It is OK to take my break here, isn't it?"
Moustache looked at my pass again and muttered, "I suppose so," in the most grudging way possible.
It was the disappointment on their faces, the hope that they had something to punctuate their boredom. They wanted me to be up to something, and they saw a million crimes within that tuna sandwich, but I turned out to be a boring innocent. They left me alone after that, walking away and thinking of a conversation they could have that they hadn't already had that day.
The policemen walked past me, looking through suspicious eyes, geared-up in guns, high-visibility jackets and bullet-proof vests. That's all they did at first, they just walked past me. I carried on eating my sandwich, and when I was finished I got up to go to the toilet. About fifteen minutes had passed since the policemen had walked past, but when I emerged from the toilet, they were waiting for me, one on each side of the door.
"Where are you flying to today, sir?" the one with the moustache said.
"Nowhere," I replied, holding my pass up. "I work here."
"What are you doing here, then," Moustache's colleague piped up.
"Just finding a quiet place to have my break." I was uncomfortable. I was still in the doorway to the toilet, cornered by these two men. I had the image of them pushing me back through the door and roughing me up, out of sight.
"We just thought it was a bit weird that there was no-one else around," Moustache said.
"Well, that's the point." I was being cocky because I knew they had nothing on me. "It is OK to take my break here, isn't it?"
Moustache looked at my pass again and muttered, "I suppose so," in the most grudging way possible.
It was the disappointment on their faces, the hope that they had something to punctuate their boredom. They wanted me to be up to something, and they saw a million crimes within that tuna sandwich, but I turned out to be a boring innocent. They left me alone after that, walking away and thinking of a conversation they could have that they hadn't already had that day.
Thursday, September 07, 2006
Caught Between Here and the Real World
Oh, to be able to play virtuoso violin! It has become something of an obsession recently. I have had a recurring day dream as I am sitting on the staff bus. In it, I produce a violin and begin to play. Some days it's a feisty Russian folk song, others it is a slow, mournful tune. It depends on mood, but more often than not I tend towards the former (the latter would give the bus journey an uneasy feeling, that of soldiers en route to a war).
There are many reasons for this thought. First, the violin is one of the most versatile instruments, it is small and it can be played in a variety of ways, thus making the journeys to work feel fresh and alive. I thought about a Trumpet, but anything played with the mouth has a very aggressive sound at such close quarters. Except the tin whistle, but who would want to play that?
Secondly, I have been thirsting for music in my life recently. It may seem strange to anyone who has entered the airport recently, because it is literally filled with music. But it is the wrong music. It's the harsh crack of an R&B rim-shot, or a heavily synthesised splurge. I crave the organic: Coltrane's My Favourite Things blowing through the hideous synthetic concourse, the complexity of Nick Drake's guitar making me think about more than what the air smells like today. Hell, I'd even take a busker playing Old MacDonald Had a Farm on an old, out of tune violin. At least it would be real.
I must hasten to add that this is not about cultural snobbery, it is about what music is appropriate for such a barren landscape. I crave the anti-commercial, seeing as life in the airport is endured under the neon glow of rampant commerce. The music chosen by people (if indeed it is even chosen, and not piped in by a cruel machine) grates against me when it is put in the context of the concourse. It seems to amplify the consumerism, distort it from an insidious concept, to one of extreme aggression.
Now consumers are becoming wise. They are buying organic potatoes, organic milk, and even organic shower gel, but nobody seems to recognise the importance of organic music!
All of this brings to mind a recent trip to Manchester. I had to shop, to buy clothes after being invited to a formal party. I normally hide myself away, and wear all sorts of scruff and tat, but this was unavoidable. I have a developed a huge conscience when buying clothes. I want to buy ethical clothes, something with no overt branding, and something that wasn't manufactured by teenage girls on 28 day contracts (just in case they miss a period - it's easier then for the owner to get rid of pregnant women). This, of course, is impossible. I had tried the internet, with some success, but I needed smart clothes and not baggy hemp trousers and ponchos. I hit the high street, hoping to have my preconceptions shattered. The first shop I went into was Next (a hideous prospect at the best of times, but it illuminates my desperation). An exchange with the sales assistant occurred as follows:
"Excuse me, do you sell any Fairtrade clothes?" I said.
"No, we only sell Next clothes here, love," she replied in a patronising manner.
"OK," I said, gearing up to rephrase the question. "Do you sell any ethical clothes?"
"No," she said again, her patronising tone reaching Def Con 5. "We only sell Next clothes here."
"Right," I was shaken by the ignorance, and certainly not prepared. "Do you sell any clothes that weren't made in a sweat shop?" I couldn't have made it clearer. Her response:
"I usually work on the women's section, so I don't really know about that."
I left the shop immediately, but still wanted to find out who or where was pioneering ethical clothing on the high street. My requests were met with curt negative responses in Topman, River Island, Marks & Spencer, Muji, and several other well known places. My favourite response came from the metro-sexual sales assistant in The Gap:
"We have one t-shirt," he said, and showed me to were it lay in a deep corner of the store. "Some of the proceeds go to an African Aids charity."
"That doesn't necessarily make it ethical," I said, knowing I was probably casting words into a deep, dark void.
"But it's for charity," he said.
"Ok," I said (in a friendly manner, there's no point being rude to people). "Where was the cotton sourced, and where was the shirt manufactured?"
"Made in Africa," he said, pointing at the label. "See?"
I left him muttering the word "charity" over and over again to continue my search (a search which ended with me buying a pair of trousers at a distinctly unethical shop. The trousers were made in Romania, and I handed over my cash, slumping my shoulders and hoping the sweat shop was one of the less exploitative ones).
Good God, it was a dark day, a long afternoon of the soul. I attempted to step outside of my fantasy bubble, and shop with a larger perspective, but I found it impossible. I will continue to try though. It seems too important not to...
There are many reasons for this thought. First, the violin is one of the most versatile instruments, it is small and it can be played in a variety of ways, thus making the journeys to work feel fresh and alive. I thought about a Trumpet, but anything played with the mouth has a very aggressive sound at such close quarters. Except the tin whistle, but who would want to play that?
Secondly, I have been thirsting for music in my life recently. It may seem strange to anyone who has entered the airport recently, because it is literally filled with music. But it is the wrong music. It's the harsh crack of an R&B rim-shot, or a heavily synthesised splurge. I crave the organic: Coltrane's My Favourite Things blowing through the hideous synthetic concourse, the complexity of Nick Drake's guitar making me think about more than what the air smells like today. Hell, I'd even take a busker playing Old MacDonald Had a Farm on an old, out of tune violin. At least it would be real.
I must hasten to add that this is not about cultural snobbery, it is about what music is appropriate for such a barren landscape. I crave the anti-commercial, seeing as life in the airport is endured under the neon glow of rampant commerce. The music chosen by people (if indeed it is even chosen, and not piped in by a cruel machine) grates against me when it is put in the context of the concourse. It seems to amplify the consumerism, distort it from an insidious concept, to one of extreme aggression.
Now consumers are becoming wise. They are buying organic potatoes, organic milk, and even organic shower gel, but nobody seems to recognise the importance of organic music!
All of this brings to mind a recent trip to Manchester. I had to shop, to buy clothes after being invited to a formal party. I normally hide myself away, and wear all sorts of scruff and tat, but this was unavoidable. I have a developed a huge conscience when buying clothes. I want to buy ethical clothes, something with no overt branding, and something that wasn't manufactured by teenage girls on 28 day contracts (just in case they miss a period - it's easier then for the owner to get rid of pregnant women). This, of course, is impossible. I had tried the internet, with some success, but I needed smart clothes and not baggy hemp trousers and ponchos. I hit the high street, hoping to have my preconceptions shattered. The first shop I went into was Next (a hideous prospect at the best of times, but it illuminates my desperation). An exchange with the sales assistant occurred as follows:
"Excuse me, do you sell any Fairtrade clothes?" I said.
"No, we only sell Next clothes here, love," she replied in a patronising manner.
"OK," I said, gearing up to rephrase the question. "Do you sell any ethical clothes?"
"No," she said again, her patronising tone reaching Def Con 5. "We only sell Next clothes here."
"Right," I was shaken by the ignorance, and certainly not prepared. "Do you sell any clothes that weren't made in a sweat shop?" I couldn't have made it clearer. Her response:
"I usually work on the women's section, so I don't really know about that."
I left the shop immediately, but still wanted to find out who or where was pioneering ethical clothing on the high street. My requests were met with curt negative responses in Topman, River Island, Marks & Spencer, Muji, and several other well known places. My favourite response came from the metro-sexual sales assistant in The Gap:
"We have one t-shirt," he said, and showed me to were it lay in a deep corner of the store. "Some of the proceeds go to an African Aids charity."
"That doesn't necessarily make it ethical," I said, knowing I was probably casting words into a deep, dark void.
"But it's for charity," he said.
"Ok," I said (in a friendly manner, there's no point being rude to people). "Where was the cotton sourced, and where was the shirt manufactured?"
"Made in Africa," he said, pointing at the label. "See?"
I left him muttering the word "charity" over and over again to continue my search (a search which ended with me buying a pair of trousers at a distinctly unethical shop. The trousers were made in Romania, and I handed over my cash, slumping my shoulders and hoping the sweat shop was one of the less exploitative ones).
Good God, it was a dark day, a long afternoon of the soul. I attempted to step outside of my fantasy bubble, and shop with a larger perspective, but I found it impossible. I will continue to try though. It seems too important not to...
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