Round goes the wheel of fortune
May. 5th, 2004 12:23 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ventaWriting this journal, I'm beginning to realise that my life has become something of an almanac, marking the seasons and celebrating the same festivals each year.
This weekend, for example, I was down at the Jack-in-the-Green festival in Hastings. If I were to do a general report of it, it would be pretty much the same as what I wrote last year.
As ever, I was down there because I was dancing rapper. This year, the team was all a little awry, owing to various people not being able to make it. A rapper team requires five people; each position is different. Just because you have five dancers, you may not be able to get a team together. I'll happily dance in positions 2, 4 or 5, for example. So, for this weekend we had our usual 3 and 4. 2 couldn't make it, so we borrowed someone who's subbed for us occasionally before. We have a new recruit, who's only been to one practice but has been dancing for years: she decided she was happiest at 5. Leaving yours truly to mung through at number 1. A swift practice was in order.
We did practise slightly, then we decided we'd cope. After all, how wrong could it go ?
The answer, as we rioted through a series of pubs and bars over Saturday and Sunday, turned out to be not that wrong after all. Yes, there were cockups, but nobody died as a result, and we were enjoying ourselves. High- and low-lights of the crawls included:
Getting a bar in the very townie-orientated, non-folky-friendly New Town to ask us back again, then dancing there when they were packed out to huge applause.
Dancing in a bar so crowded that we had to shoulder-barge people out of the way who were (very drunkenly) trying to join in. Even Dave, our very raucous and bumptious Tommy[*], described that place as being "a bit too loud and leery".
Getting flashed by some very drunken bloke in the Jenny Lind.
Dancing in a tiny space in the First In, Last Out to a small crowd of other folkies, amid much good natured heckling.
Oh, and in one bar I discovered that there exist things called Vodka Mudshakes. Which are, basically, alcoholic milkshakes. And very nice they are too. The vanilla one is a little disappointing, but the caramel one is great. Mind you, they're very sweet so I'm not sure I could manage a whole one.
The major trauma of the weekend, however, was Samantha and me discovering that the wonderful, wonderful second-hand bookshop has closed. Which is something of a tragedy. We consoled ourselves with the remaining second-hand book emporia of the Old Town; there are still several well worth a visit. Champion purchase of the weekend was Thomas De Quincy's Murder As A Fine Art. I'm hoping it does what it says on the tin.
Oh, and it rained a lot. Really, quite a lot. Critically, it rained really quite a lot while we were trying to walk, coatless, from A to B. And then we got back to the hotel, and Samantha's clutch cable snapped, and it was all woe for a while. Well, not as much woe as it might have been - we had the 4lb bag of Woollie's pic'n'mix Samantha had procured earlier too munch on while we waited for the breakdown company. However, I believe we're both home and dry now, so all is well.
[*] Most rapper teams have a "Tommy", whose job is to clear space in pubs, grab people's attention, cover up mistakes, and throw themselves heroically into the breach when things go wrong. Ours is called Dave, and is exceptionally loud and leery himself, and very prone to suddenly spotting that random places have wooden floors and are thus good to dance in. It was noticeable, when someone was asking a few weeks back what was "the oddest place you've ever danced in", our team had a huge list - we've danced in hairdressers, curry houses, Pizza Express, Borders...
Actually, now I think of it, Dave can be Designated Hero of the Week, for the wonderful job he did of going round in advance sorting us out permission to dance in pubs, bars, a chip shop, etc.
Travelling down to Hastings from Oxford, in slightly cacky rain, I remembered what a horrible road the A21 is. Well, to be entirely fair, it's a perfectly normal road and I'm sure it has a lovely personality. But it's only single carriageway, and full of bends, and at bank holidays it clogs up and grinds to a halt. Getting there was, frankly, no fun at all, and not aided by someone having broken down and blocked one side of the road.
On leaving on Monday, the breakdown man had mentioned that the A21 was stationary even by Hastings bank holiday standards. So, having perused the road atlas, I struck out for Folkestone, and headed for the M25 that way. (For the geographically challenged, that's like doing three sides of the square whose fourth side would be the A21.)
This is much longer, of course, in miles and, since I have no idea how jammy the jams were, may have been longer in time. However, the road to Folkestone proved to be a really lovely drive. It's also a single carriageway A road, with lots of bends and small villages, but it was clear, beautifully sunny, and with really lovely views of English countryside. The only drawback was the idiot behind me, who was driving far too close, as if trying to hint that I should be going faster. I thought that him (or her) losing it and nearly pulling a full 180 taking a wet roundabout too quickly might have damped the enthusiasm a little, but apparently not.
Despite that, though, I rather enjoyed that part of the drive. Lots of wonderful place names (I went through Guestling Thorn, and Icklesham, and only just managed not to follow the sign for Snave), and amazingly tranquil scenes of sheep grazing peacefully in the sunshine. There was even someone flying a huge, black double stunt kite - at least, I hope there was, I'd hate to think that Kent sheep have developed opposable thumbs.
And then the M25. Has anyone else noticed how different sections of the M25 have completely different characteristics ? The bit I joined from the M20 (ie about four o'clock as you look at it, and heading west) had an almost rural feel. Yes, it's a four lane motorway but it seems to run through some particularly pretty countryside, hoping you won't notice that it's a big concrete invader. Then there's the bit up round the top, heading for the M11, which is frankly, a bit inferior. It looks like any nasty provincial concrete two lane A road, and could really do with smartening itself up. The part I'm most familiar with, which connects the M40 to the M4 is the sleek, self-satisfied section. "Get me and my variable speed limits" it says, smugly, bristling with illuminated signs, "I'm the future of motorways." Then there's the section just south of that (junctions 12-15), which is very much the poor relation at present. "I've got the variable speed limits" it admits, slightly embarassed, "but my carriageway is still crap and I'm all covered in roadworks."
I should probably read that guy's book about it. Do I mean Ian Sinclair ?
Which reminds me, has anyone read Slow Chocolate Autopsy, and if so did it make any sense whatsoever ?
Completely irrelevantly, I noticed at the weekend that I've finally achieved a childhood ambition: I can sit on my hair. Only just, mind, and I have been observing of late that it needs a bit of a trim, so this triumph is probably going to be short-lived.
This weekend, for example, I was down at the Jack-in-the-Green festival in Hastings. If I were to do a general report of it, it would be pretty much the same as what I wrote last year.
As ever, I was down there because I was dancing rapper. This year, the team was all a little awry, owing to various people not being able to make it. A rapper team requires five people; each position is different. Just because you have five dancers, you may not be able to get a team together. I'll happily dance in positions 2, 4 or 5, for example. So, for this weekend we had our usual 3 and 4. 2 couldn't make it, so we borrowed someone who's subbed for us occasionally before. We have a new recruit, who's only been to one practice but has been dancing for years: she decided she was happiest at 5. Leaving yours truly to mung through at number 1. A swift practice was in order.
We did practise slightly, then we decided we'd cope. After all, how wrong could it go ?
The answer, as we rioted through a series of pubs and bars over Saturday and Sunday, turned out to be not that wrong after all. Yes, there were cockups, but nobody died as a result, and we were enjoying ourselves. High- and low-lights of the crawls included:
Getting a bar in the very townie-orientated, non-folky-friendly New Town to ask us back again, then dancing there when they were packed out to huge applause.
Dancing in a bar so crowded that we had to shoulder-barge people out of the way who were (very drunkenly) trying to join in. Even Dave, our very raucous and bumptious Tommy[*], described that place as being "a bit too loud and leery".
Getting flashed by some very drunken bloke in the Jenny Lind.
Dancing in a tiny space in the First In, Last Out to a small crowd of other folkies, amid much good natured heckling.
Oh, and in one bar I discovered that there exist things called Vodka Mudshakes. Which are, basically, alcoholic milkshakes. And very nice they are too. The vanilla one is a little disappointing, but the caramel one is great. Mind you, they're very sweet so I'm not sure I could manage a whole one.
The major trauma of the weekend, however, was Samantha and me discovering that the wonderful, wonderful second-hand bookshop has closed. Which is something of a tragedy. We consoled ourselves with the remaining second-hand book emporia of the Old Town; there are still several well worth a visit. Champion purchase of the weekend was Thomas De Quincy's Murder As A Fine Art. I'm hoping it does what it says on the tin.
Oh, and it rained a lot. Really, quite a lot. Critically, it rained really quite a lot while we were trying to walk, coatless, from A to B. And then we got back to the hotel, and Samantha's clutch cable snapped, and it was all woe for a while. Well, not as much woe as it might have been - we had the 4lb bag of Woollie's pic'n'mix Samantha had procured earlier too munch on while we waited for the breakdown company. However, I believe we're both home and dry now, so all is well.
[*] Most rapper teams have a "Tommy", whose job is to clear space in pubs, grab people's attention, cover up mistakes, and throw themselves heroically into the breach when things go wrong. Ours is called Dave, and is exceptionally loud and leery himself, and very prone to suddenly spotting that random places have wooden floors and are thus good to dance in. It was noticeable, when someone was asking a few weeks back what was "the oddest place you've ever danced in", our team had a huge list - we've danced in hairdressers, curry houses, Pizza Express, Borders...
Actually, now I think of it, Dave can be Designated Hero of the Week, for the wonderful job he did of going round in advance sorting us out permission to dance in pubs, bars, a chip shop, etc.
Travelling down to Hastings from Oxford, in slightly cacky rain, I remembered what a horrible road the A21 is. Well, to be entirely fair, it's a perfectly normal road and I'm sure it has a lovely personality. But it's only single carriageway, and full of bends, and at bank holidays it clogs up and grinds to a halt. Getting there was, frankly, no fun at all, and not aided by someone having broken down and blocked one side of the road.
On leaving on Monday, the breakdown man had mentioned that the A21 was stationary even by Hastings bank holiday standards. So, having perused the road atlas, I struck out for Folkestone, and headed for the M25 that way. (For the geographically challenged, that's like doing three sides of the square whose fourth side would be the A21.)
This is much longer, of course, in miles and, since I have no idea how jammy the jams were, may have been longer in time. However, the road to Folkestone proved to be a really lovely drive. It's also a single carriageway A road, with lots of bends and small villages, but it was clear, beautifully sunny, and with really lovely views of English countryside. The only drawback was the idiot behind me, who was driving far too close, as if trying to hint that I should be going faster. I thought that him (or her) losing it and nearly pulling a full 180 taking a wet roundabout too quickly might have damped the enthusiasm a little, but apparently not.
Despite that, though, I rather enjoyed that part of the drive. Lots of wonderful place names (I went through Guestling Thorn, and Icklesham, and only just managed not to follow the sign for Snave), and amazingly tranquil scenes of sheep grazing peacefully in the sunshine. There was even someone flying a huge, black double stunt kite - at least, I hope there was, I'd hate to think that Kent sheep have developed opposable thumbs.
And then the M25. Has anyone else noticed how different sections of the M25 have completely different characteristics ? The bit I joined from the M20 (ie about four o'clock as you look at it, and heading west) had an almost rural feel. Yes, it's a four lane motorway but it seems to run through some particularly pretty countryside, hoping you won't notice that it's a big concrete invader. Then there's the bit up round the top, heading for the M11, which is frankly, a bit inferior. It looks like any nasty provincial concrete two lane A road, and could really do with smartening itself up. The part I'm most familiar with, which connects the M40 to the M4 is the sleek, self-satisfied section. "Get me and my variable speed limits" it says, smugly, bristling with illuminated signs, "I'm the future of motorways." Then there's the section just south of that (junctions 12-15), which is very much the poor relation at present. "I've got the variable speed limits" it admits, slightly embarassed, "but my carriageway is still crap and I'm all covered in roadworks."
I should probably read that guy's book about it. Do I mean Ian Sinclair ?
Which reminds me, has anyone read Slow Chocolate Autopsy, and if so did it make any sense whatsoever ?
Completely irrelevantly, I noticed at the weekend that I've finally achieved a childhood ambition: I can sit on my hair. Only just, mind, and I have been observing of late that it needs a bit of a trim, so this triumph is probably going to be short-lived.
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no subject
Date: 2004-05-05 12:26 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-05-05 12:35 am (UTC)slightly cacky rain
In my world, 'cacky' means 'shitty'. I guess that it doesn't in yours?
no subject
Date: 2004-05-05 12:42 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-05-05 01:32 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-05-05 01:49 am (UTC)Cack can be general mess, rubbish, stuff-in-the-wrong-place and so on as well as actual shit.
Then again, I use phrases like "shitty rain" as well, to mean a similar sort of thing :)
no subject
Date: 2004-05-05 01:50 am (UTC)Otherwise, you're just wrong and my hair isn't longer than yours :)
no subject
Date: 2004-05-05 01:52 am (UTC)I'm reminded of what Michael Flanders said about Donald Swan singing in Greek - "I don't understand a word of it, I just look on it as a jolly pleasing noise".
no subject
Date: 2004-05-05 01:56 am (UTC)I've never met the things before, I'll have to keep an eye out for them in future.
no subject
Date: 2004-05-05 02:54 am (UTC)And one day i'd like my hair on my head to grow long enough so that I can sit on that as well.....
no subject
Date: 2004-05-05 02:56 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-05-05 03:05 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-05-05 03:07 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-05-05 06:27 am (UTC)SO jealous! I have been secretly envious of your hair pretty much ever since I met you, and now I have just shot up several points on the enviometer...
I don't think it is ever going to happen for me, as I think mine is basically at its 'terminal length' already, and besides I keep insisting on trying to change the colour from a darker one to a lighter one, which involves bleach and therefore breakages.
Out of interest, how do you know when yours needs a trim? Do you get split ends, or is it just when the ends aren't all in a nice neat line any more?
no subject
Date: 2004-05-05 07:33 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-05-05 03:17 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-05-06 02:45 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-05-06 03:11 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-05-06 03:13 am (UTC)I keep insisting on trying to change the colour from a darker one to a lighter one
Er... but you've always had black bair. So, your natural shade is *darker* than black ?
Bloody goth :)
Out of interest, how do you know when yours needs a trim?
My hair's actually in pretty poor condition, and I have split ends all the way up to my shoulders; sadly I'm too vain to get my hair cut to that extent :)
At the moment, the last few inches are extremely straggly, which I reckon means that need trimming. The fact that it hasn't been cut in two years is a bit of a clue, too :)
no subject
Date: 2004-05-06 06:26 am (UTC)If you saw me in daylight these days (which I recognise that you usually don't, because we tend to see each other e.g. at Intrusion), you would see that my hair is now a sort of dark brown with reddy-purple tints kind of colour. Achieving that from jet black has taken some doing, but obviously you never noticed the tedious transitional phase where I had purpley-brown roots and black ends!
no subject
Date: 2004-05-06 07:48 am (UTC)Once again another bad deal...
Date: 2004-05-08 10:56 pm (UTC)The concrete topped M25 sections were constructed that way as they're arterial routes for tank transportation, the M11 has similar construction (though now I think they've dropped a bunch of tarmac on top so you can't tell so much).
As for 'London Orbital', it is *necessary* reading for anyone who uses the road regularly.
no subject
Date: 2004-05-10 09:30 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-05-11 03:22 am (UTC)I can see how finals might get in the way, though. Keep me posted how you're getting on - it'd be great to have a few more rapper teams in south England.