Never Too Late!

Never Too Late!
any resemblance to anyone real or imaginary is mere bad luck
we are all lying in the gutter, but some of us are trying to get up


In the end

So happened like this that I was in Westend last Friday night when ____ of m____s called and asked me to brazilian superstar dj club night at the End at new monthly residency of her teenage friend who is probably known to you as dj marky. I pretend to be Mr Somebody Vetro for benefit of the door people checking the guestlist and then, we're in the sweltering belly of the club in heavy winter coats.

So tonight's story goes: There is a perfectly nice NZ chick in a leopard-print dress really sticking to me. But I get up from the sofa turn my back on her to go over to the young blonde girl who keep staring at me from the other side of the room.

She is young and beautiful and English, all of these exotic things to me... So we are talking. She is asking me about drugs, about what different things feel like. She wants to know from me, they have really never done these things before, but she is curious and adventurous. Suddenly, though, she have lost all interest in me. Who are we sitting with? Her friend also blonde quite pretty, and an ugly, balding, short English guy with some gold chains around his neck and like this, holding a cocktail. This is ____, and actually, he is the owner of the club, and his some friend join the group then too. And I have lost her attention... -Does it impress you that he own this club? I asking sourly... Phil and his mate are talking about some lines of K... my God, you're not gonna give these kids K, I laugh... oh, um, charlie I mean, they correct themselves... little lines... gonna make you feel more affable my dear... so they four remove themself to the lavatory...

I look around and the club is closing, mostly empty already, I walk across the floor to where the security meatheads are blocking off the floor for some bullshit VIP area and they stop me... -I was just sitting there with ___, they are suddenly deferential and let me through... I am off up the stairs and bye, fuck this shit tonight...

Maybe you would rather hear about what the music is like? Because plus marky also here is Gilles Peterson who you also may have heard of. The music is good and these people deserve their fame. Although I am in the other room half the night because it's more bouncy and dancehall in there. And it was a good night and a good crowd and you were all beautiful and you will never grow old.

Trying to get back to north London two bus drivers throw me off the night bus for having an expired ticket. I have been out this night as a beggar, and stole the wine I drank from a shop, and can afford one damn £5.60 drink at this club, and lucky then I find some guy who give me some his skunk for £2, because I'm self-employed and the cheques didn't come through, and like this. Yeah, I am feeling like a beggar when I get home and don't know why going to a club night should make me feel like this. So fuck it, that was my club review.

reality is what you can get away with” (RAW)


Paranoia trip

Imagine broadcasting yourself to the web like this? Or on orkut or yahoo personals or what your poison? Imagine just sending off your details to a stranger… and then what? Suddenly there is some unimaginable lunatic always on your phone hammering at your door not leaving your life…

Haha!! You know, there are some people that are in that head-space all the time… Afraid… all the time afraid of something… They're not adventurous... Not like you and me...

Did you ever read Breakfast in Babylon (Serpent’s Tail Press): road novel winding a bleak way through the squats and dirt of all Europe… until finally they reach the end of all hope and come to London…

Where, face it, squats have better broadband than you do. Me, I switched to Bulldog DSL today... I had hardly entered my BT number on their website (look it up yourself, I'm not linking to commercial sites) and was still filling out the rest of the order form when they were on the phone to me from Bulldog... very prompt... pleasantly chatty sales guy...

-You're expansionistic, I was telling him... But you do beat the shit out of the competition...
-Why, thank you for the complement...

In the days before mobile phones I could remember dozens of phone numbers. I think I shall set myself the task of getting to remember all my most important numbers again... Back to using a landline again... Has prestige, these days, having a landline number...

Photo 003

Wanderers! Worshipers! Lovers of learning!
For ours is not a caravan of despair
Even if you have broken your vows a thousand times
Come! Come! Yet again, come!

One thing from m_______s...

...that has to be put here because her comments aren't working. Mike had blogs before (now buried) and one of the first entries of the old SundayLurches referred to English women as "ugly and frigid". Now, however, he feels compelled to question this:

>>>Se um homem diz a uma mulher que ela é bonita, em ingles, para uma
inlgesa, o sujeito frustrado vai por certo ouvir: "you don't respect
me!". Mas se o gringo disser isto em português, com ou sem sotaque etc
etc >>>

---> umm.... vai ouvir "Thank you!" nao? O recebir uma sorrisa, o uma expressao descrente, o... eu nao sei? ... this one have an unaccountably low opinion of the English, isn't it?

The last retrospective post

My audacity has returned since the beautiful and perfect one left… I talk to whoever I want, wherever I want, whenever I want… I walk into shops and things fall into my pockets… this, for instance: I’ve only had it a few minutes and it’s already the favourite corkscrew that I’ve owned. Elegant yet functional. Need it for this awful Sicilian wine that I seem to have picked up from somewhere.

I sleep, I wake. My bed is soaking wet, a sea of sweat. It gets worse every night, the night sweats. What the fuck is this? Symptoms of hepatitis or strange dreams? I want to know what it means... I'm on a voyage of exploration and all things that happen are some sort of a signal from the heavens... the world is speaking to me again...

Who is Mike Camel?

I know someone who thinks Mike is stupid. I know someone who thinks he's a genius. I know someone who thinks he is extroverted and quick-witted. I know someone who thinks he is slow and introverted, verging on autistic. I know someone who thinks he's beautiful. I know someone who thinks he's a funny-looking skinny guy with too-big ears and a strange creepy look in his eye.

Does it matter what Mike would like? Does he have any choice in the matter? Or does he only exist through how other people perceive him?

If Mike falls over in a forest and there is no one there to laugh at him for being a clumsy drunken idiot, does he exist?

Context is everything. Who could you be in the right context? Who could you be among the right people? Do you think you've found your people yet?


Photo 002

Fuck you, Mike. This is as good a place as any to start the story. [redacted!]

Catching up. With what?

I wrote these earlier in Word. So these few are not live posts… you should always blog live, you cowards! I remember when you couldn’t save drafts or edit your blogger posts afterwards!… or am I imagining that? Blogger has come a long way…

I read a lot of blogs when I am recovering from alcoholic or narcotic excess or having insomniac episodes. Some I have enjoyed reading lately are in the sidebar.

I would call this blog bobagem but then it might be mistaken for a Brazilian blog. For a nation of 200m people they seem to produce a lot of the internet.

Photo 001

No more hiding behind blurry photos. Only the same disguises I use in the real world. This is me.
[crossed out]

The New Blog

I’m sitting here doing nothing once again. I will rehabilitate myself. Here's the new blog.

If you are idle, be not solitary. If you are solitary, be not idle” - Dr Johnson the bullshit epigrammacist.
Do you wanna hear another of his? Here it is:

"When a man is tired of London, he is tired of life."
[a great heaviness descends and suddenly I feel so old...] Hahahahhahahaahhahhaahahaaa!!