Summer breeze sung really badly!

Shit, isn’t it just so hot.  My I am literally sweating out whatever liquid I pour into myself in seconds.  I am melting.

I’m lying on my bed in the nude with a fan on full blast aimed at my bollocks in a vain attempt to cool down.  If it falls over I will be down the hospital to have the skin of my scrotum yanked free of its mechanism.

I have tried ice cream and tall glasses of lemonade with ice and a slice yet nothing is helping me to keep cool.  And the worst bit is; it’s only going to get hotter.  I need a swimming pool.

But as I lay here I am disturbed by a strange sound.  It’s coming from down the street and can be heard around our way every other Sunday.  It comes in layers over the rise and fall of the traffic noise from the main road.  It is accompanied with cheers and the occasional smash of glass.  My heart sinks as I suddenly realise what it is.

It’s fucking karaoke night down the pub on the corner.

FUCK!

As if the heat wasn’t bad enough now I have to endure some of the worst song choices ever sung by the bloated red faced patrons down the ‘old nuclear’.

Let’s see we have had ‘gold’ and ‘night fever’, some Michael Jackson with a bit of ‘thriller’, and we have even had a bit of Elvis in the form of the worst rendition of ‘in the ghetto’ I have ever heard.  I’m trying to recall the tune but I swear it wasn’t originally sung by about 4 or 5 pissed up football hooligans.  To be fair they have probably done an Elvis size amount of cocaine this evening so kudos for keeping it as closes to the original there.

Just went to the toilet and could hear a couple of girls doing the Spice Girls classic ‘two become one.’  Some poor lad is getting eyed up by an 18stone kebab swilling gin soaked she-beast tonight.  Lucky chap.

Just now they went into that overly chirpy and upbeat ‘Gangnam Style’ tune.  How can people that have had so much to drink they can barely say their own names sing something in Korean?  The mind boggles.

But seriously folks I really can’t stand a karaoke night.  Nothing can ruin a quiet pint down the local faster than some balding man setting up a PA system and telly.

It’s the willingness of some of these deluded arseholes to get up and butcher classic after classic.  They can’t get enough of it.  I’m guessing they know that they can’t sing, right?  They might be pissed but they can’t be that far gone, right?

The poster in the window says ‘bring your x-factor’.  I was passing the other day and misread it and I thought it said ‘bring your x-girlfriend’.  Nothing says I want you back like a botched rendition of ‘how deep is your love’ over a pint and a packet of pork scratchings.

I have heard a couple of blokes sing Sonny and Cher’s classic ‘I’ve got you babe.’  Amazing.  I actually thought they were going to kiss at the end of it.

Have you ever heard of it kicking off at a karaoke jam?  I can’t recall anyone I know being involved in fisticuffs at one.  Mid Roy Orbison someone throws a bottle and the place just erupts.

MP Eric Joyce was arrested following a brawl after a karaoke night; apparently he fought with the police and was handcuffed on the ground.  Only the Scottish. Here’s a link.  http://www.dailyrecord.co.uk/news/scottish-news/eric-joyce-arrested-karaoke-brawl-1764963

It must have happened somewhere, it only takes me about ten seconds into a Robbie Williams tune and I want to toss a bomb into the pub, and I’m not even in the bar.

I do like the way the bloke running the night down there will go into a belter in the form of ‘cockles and mussels, alive-alive-o’ about halfway through proceedings.  Seriously, this is a highpoint.  For fuck sake.

Seriously considering putting in a noise complaint.  It worse than the time a fox got hold of a cat down the back of our alleyway.  It sounds about the same only through a PA system with added backing track.

I’m not even joking when I say I want to bomb the place.  I would gladly fling a grenade in there.  I have lived next door to the place for years and the owner still gives me the old ‘who the fuck are you’ look even when I just walk by.

When I move I’m going to chin that fat prick.

God I can’t wait to move away from this dump.  Five years of having to listen to the aftermath of one of the towns busiest pubs kick out every night.  Fuck you, I’m off.  There have been some good moments like hearing some bloke find his girlfriend getting scuttled by his mate or the time some bird asked some bloke ‘why did you tell everyone about the three way we had with Adam?’

“Morning mate!”

I won’t miss having to step over massive puddles of piss and sick in the mornings.  Also I won’t miss the sight of the occasional turd sprayed up the adjacent wall to my front door.

It was quite funny when I saw the fat bird take a dump behind the pub bins and when I threw the bucket of cold water over the tramp that was ripping our bins up in midwinter.  He was a stinky bastard and showed his willy to the young girl at the off licence.  Scumbag.

I heard he got his head kicked in by Albanians.

I can’t wait for the day I can open my windows on a warm summer Sunday and not hear the echoing reverberation of Tom Jones’s ‘it’s not unusual.’  Fuck karaoke… it fucking sucks!

Just a day I had a week or so ago…

It was a Tuesday and as I approached my 36^th hour of being horribly awake I decide to venture out into the open; to come out from hiding and forage for supplies.  It is way too bright and I resort to cheap sunglasses and Steely Dan’s ‘can’t buy a thrill’ album on my MP3 player.

I pass bloated Turkish taxi drivers puffing away on hand rolled cancer sticks that smell of burning hair as a group of ageing Indian men drink Bacardi from plastic cups outside the bookies nearby.

They conceal their bottle in a blue carrier bag stashed under the bench so it just looks like rubbish.

It is 8.53 in the morning.

A group of (I’m guessing) Lithuanian men are arguing outside one of the local gyms that have recently sprung up from nothing.  (I’m guessing again) it was over money or a woman as it was rather heated.  The Nigerian guy that works on the gym’s reception tells them to fuck off and take their disagreement elsewhere.  The Nigerian dude is fucking massive.  They leave.

A group of French au pairs hinder my progress down the bread isle in the super market as they play fight over a packet of what I thought were scones.  If I am honest I found their ascents slightly sexy.  They giggle as a trolley boy walks by, but don’t seem to care that I am trying to get to the brioche and continue with their (arousing) horse play.  How do you pronounce scones?

There’s a Muslim family at the checkout; the old man has a beard and a white kufi; another bloke in the queue gives him and his wife a dirty look.  It’s okay mate, they are not here to plant a bomb; they just want baby spinach and a shit load of milk.  I find the other man’s children to be overly loud and they are all hands trying to get at stuff before they have even paid.  The Muslim children are as good as gold.

I take a walk to the Asian market as I find the vibe in there rather mellow and as the town is starting to come alive it is a nice retreat.  People start filling the streets as the shops start to open for the day.  I don’t want to do ‘people’.

They know me in there and they leave me alone as I look at all the South-East Asian sundries and snacks.  The Chinese woman on the counter always gets me to try new stuff that I always end up buying.

I buy a bottle of Japanese pomegranate milk drink with basil seeds in.  It’s odd yet amazingly nice at the same time.  I cut my finger in the weird ring pull.  Guess there is a knack to it.

I head through the covered market to buy some incense off of the hippy stall.  The young girl there is amazingly dizzy and always puts the wrong stuff in the bag.  How hard is it to differentiate cones and sticks?  She aske’s if she can put her finger through my flesh tunnels as they are the biggest she’s seen in a while.  I resist the urge to ask if I can put my hands on her breasts for the same reason.  I decline the request.  I don’t want my ears probed, but thanks.

I buy a load of watermelon slices from the fruit and veg guy with the weird polish wife.  She has a wonky eye.  It follows me as I look over the apples.  I find that polish women sound like Pingu.  Last time I was down here they had a Dalek on the stall.  I have no idea why.

I eat a slice of the melon as I make my way through the shopping centre and stop off to by a magazine.  They have this old Indian lady that works on the post office bit and she always gives me a dirty look.  I think she thinks I’m a junkie or something.  I hope I haven’t done anything to offend her.  Actually I don’t care.

I nip home and drop off my stuff then decide that I want to spend the day eating sandwiches.  I go to another supermarket as I don’t want the people in the last place thinking I’m some kind of mong that has to buy groceries in batches.

For once the place that I go to is almost deserted, not normal at all as usually it is packed with old and/or disabled people.  Some mornings you can’t move for blue rinses and mobility scooters.  I am glad that it is empty as my sunglasses disguise is wearing a little thin.

A small bloke with the craziest accent I have ever heard asked me to pass him down a bag of mixed baby leaf salad from the chill section.  I’m going out on a limb to say he looks South American Native.  He thanks me and pats me on the back as he passes and calls me ‘bro’.  What a nice chap.

As I go back to my digs I stop for second and light a menthol.  As I smoke I watch the world go by for a moment and think of all the different people I have encountered in such a brief flicker of time; so many races and cultures without batting an eyelid.  ‘Wow,’ I think to myself, ‘that’s really fucking cool.’

Could I be in the bodega and deli lined streets of down town New York City or the bustling market squares of Marrakesh?  It certainly would seem like a massive multi-cultural melting pot.  Maybe the leafy North London suburbs or the outskirt ghettos of Paris; somewhere in the passionate heart of Italy or maybe the Sunkist shore of Sydney maybe?

Well no.

It looks like I’m just in plain old Gravesend up the top of town by the British Heart Foundation shop.  I’m in good old G-town once again.  Other than that the place is a bit of a tip.

A smile crosses my face that I can’t explain and I feel warmth deep inside the shard of blackened ice that twitches from time to time inside my chest.  Apparently it is keeping me alive but I thought that was down to coffee and nicotine in excess.

I start to whistle ‘Brooklyn owes the charmer’ and continue my day.  Stepping on my cigarette end and head for home.  I have sandwiches to make and stories to write.

Peace.