What next? And yes it does deserve a question mark, because it's far from being a rhetorical question. Answers on a postcard please. In 25 words or less, to How to Get a Life competition. Gulp Lane Bewilderville GR8 UR0

This entry is about nothing in particular happening to me, but rather everything I've done as a result of things happening. And now, having just handed the keys of my house over to the new owners,  I've completely shed my life. The feeling is somewhere between terrifying and liberating - it changes by the minute. I suppose, the way my life has gone thus far, the situation I find myself in now is probably a culmination of effects and influences.  But whilst most people my age have some benchmarks or solid reference points in their lives - even if it's a job they detest, or kids who hate them - I now have no wife, no job, no house, no car, no dog and no idea what I'm going to do next. (wife divorced, dog dead, house renovated and sold, car sold, furniture given away) I do however have a plane ticket, some money, some books written, some canvasses painted, an idea for a business, and an open mind.  And I have my health, which many people say glibly, but without that, in my experience, the rest means substantially less. So we shall see what we'll see. Freaky.

Worlds in collision.

There's no photo with this entry, simply because any image would be, at best, irrelevant and just added because the other blog entries are accompanied by images. And any image here would be, at worst, utterly insensitive.

I was on the London Underground, on a Wednesday, going home after a night out. I was a bit squiffy, but certainly not about to break into a slurred song or soil myself.


On the tube, the seats are arranged either facing perpendicular to the direction of travel, much like normal train seating. Or the seats are arranged in long benchseats running along the sides of the compartment with the windows behind them. I was sitting on one of these benchseats. The rest of the carriage was empty; a rarity in its self.

The train stopped and a vision-impaired man got on. He tapped his way along the wooden floor and eventually sat on the benchseat opposite me. Well, I imagine he was vision-impaired; either that or he was one of the only sighted people I’ve ever come across with a white cane, and who liked wearing sunglasses underground, at night.

The train’s doors closed and we took off into another tunnel. At the next stop, the door opened and, oddly, another man with a white cane and black sunglasses got on and sat on the same benchseat as I.
As the train doors closed, and we headed into the next tunnel, we all sat in silence. I was wondering if these guys’ hearing and smell had compensated for their lack of sight and whether they knew that there were indeed other people in the carriage. I wondered if they could smell what must surely have been my beery breath and the smell of cigarettes lingering on my clothes from the pub I’d been in.
In seconds the train was coming out of the tunnel and slowing as the light poured in and the platform rushed by. The first blind guy tapped his stick out and found the leg of the man sitting opposite him. The stick tapped his leg.

“Excuse me, could you tell me which station this is please?” said the first blind man.

“No, sorry. I’m blind.” said the other man.

“What? I’m blind. Can you tell me which station this is please?”

“No. I cant tell you. I told you, I am blind.”

“Mate, are you taking the piss?” he said, taking a firm hold of his stick and waving it more like a sword. “Because if you are, I might be blind, but I know exactly where you are.”

“Fuck off. I’m blind. What? You’re going to attack a blind man in front of all these security cameras?”

“So you can see.”

“No, but I know they’re there alright. A bit like you, you wanker. Now leave me alone.”

Now they were both wielding their sticks like light sabres.

I thought I better do something before the bloke missed his stop or someone got whacked.

“Excuse me guys, you are both blind. And this stop is Victoria.”

“No way.” said the first one.

“Bollocks.” said the second disbeliever, smiling.

“Honestly.”

They didn’t even need me to guide their hands to eachother to shake hands, whilst I kept the door open for one of them to get off. We left the one on the tube smiling to himself. And the other one, I left on the escalator, both of us smiling.

You couldnt write it.

So, two weeks ago, I’m at the trivia night in a pub/restaurant with my ex-secretary, her husband, and their 2 little boys. We've just had dinner and a couple of beers. The trivia is going to start soon, and to ensure that a full bladder and the associated behaviours don’t compromise my ability to trawl my mind for trivia answers, I adjourn to the toilets.
In the Gents, the trough/urinal is packed shoulder to shoulder with men (not literally – though I have been to a club in London, where ‘trough man’ resided – very specific tastes and pecadillos some folk) feeling better by the second , so I make haste to one of the traps and close the door.
On the wall, there’s scrawled in what looks like penknife ‘LIVERPOOL FC’. I couldn’t believe it – not only is this the other side of the planet from the UK, but they’re still true to form and writing it not in pen but in knife blade. And underneath the scrawl, in a different knife blade is written ARE SHIT. Very amusing. It rememinded me of the scrawl I once saw outside a church beneath the phrase, Jesus Saves, but Keegan gets it on the rebound. And the other classic I saw was for a man, George Sands, who had been incarcerated for a crime, which his supporters believed he hadn't committed. Their grafitti demanded Free George Sands, but underneath some wag had written with every gallon of petrol.  But tonight, in the pub, this scrawl, if only for its displaced geography ( doing fine ambassdorial work spreading the word of what to expect from the brand that is Liverpool) is too good to miss. Behind me, the door has banged closed a lot, and all the men have left, and I’m left musing in silence in a well-lit convenience.

Hey, I know, I’ve got a new phone with a camera, and it’s in my pocket, cool. I can take a photo for ridiculous posterity. I get the phone out, being careful not to drop it into the toilet bowl, and finally, after a bit of faffing, I get it onto camera mode and point it at the scrawl – can’t wait to send this back to Blighty. My cousin will laugh.
I take a photo, but apparently, the Gents isn’t bright enough, so the camera chooses flash mode. But before it can take the photo, it has to send out this little sequence of focusing flickers to get the focal length in the murk or reduce red eye or something, before it flashes.

So the camera is on its second of four little flickers before the proper flash goes off, and the door to the Gents toilet bursts open with a procession of heavy-bladdered men. They’re in jocular conversation, enjoying their evening out, and I hear them line up at the urinal, unzip and assume the position. Meanwhile, my camera gives off the last of its four little flickers and then BOOF, the big flash goes off and lights up the whole of the Gents toilet.
The men stop talking.
Bollocks.
I could wait in silence, which just seems a bit too weird. So I elect to flush the loo and go out into the larger area of the Gents and act is if nothing untoward has happened. Maybe they'll just think it was lightening or something. As I wash my hands, I can tell the men are trying to identify me without actually making eye contact and are wondering what I was taking flash photography of alone in a men’s toilet stall.I dont think this is the place to explain that I have a sense of humour and am fascinated by social anthropolgy.Nor am I going to mention the word 'branding', as that word needs some contextualising. I avoid their gaze and leave the toilets to back to my table shared with a man, woman and two little boys. I get funny looks all night.

But we came second in the trivia competition– I’d signed up for double points on the science and nature section. And I’m sure the men from the Gents wouldn’t have been at all surprised, that I scored highly.
some days I feel like Frank Spencer on acid.







JX