Randomly Overhead Weirdness at the Olive and Bean

The Olive and Bean Cafe is one of my favourite hangouts. It inhabits the weird hinterland at the back of the Grainger Market, a strange mix of the posh - the Olive and Bean itself, the wool shop over the road, Cafe Royale round the corner - and the vaguely disreputable - the cheapie clothes shops, Poundland, and the infamous Black Garter pub. I rather like it (the cafe and the area) and can often be found chewing a panini there on a Sunday after church, alongside most of Newcastle's middle class.

Today I happened to be sitting on the big table in the middle, when two large, fresh-faced ginger-haired chaps dropped into chairs on the corner opposite. One was clearly a student, the other older, and they looked as though they might be related. The student fella was, apparently, also an organ scholar at Oxford. (I learned this from both their conversation and the fact that they'd left papers about an upcoming service on the table in front of them, and like many people involved in politics, I can read upside down). He had been doing a risk assessment for an upcoming service, which the older chap then proceeded to evaluate.

OLDER CHAP: "This really is very open-ended, isn't it? What they're asking? I mean, for risks, you could put 'Gas explosion', 'Meteorites', 'Terrorists running in off the streets with guns, bullets flying around'..."

YOUNGER CHAP: "Yes, it is a bit like that, they like you to put follow-on actions on there as well".

OLDER CHAP: "...'Strip-searching choristers', I suppose the associated risk would be 'grinning whilst strip-searching choristers'..."

I resisted the urge to chime in with "Volcanoes exploding...". At this point, a young woman in a dress and a knitted sweater with a picture of a monkey joined them.

OLDER CHAP: "Ah, [YOUNG WOMAN], you're going to be taking care of [YOUNGER CHAP] aren't you, I've got to go soon, show him round the town?"

YOUNG WOMAN (grinning): "No, I'm planning to eat him as soon as your back is turned."

OLDER CHAP: "Well, in that case you'll still be showing him round the town, albeit with him being inside you."

The young woman pulled off her sweater.

YOUNG WOMAN: "Did I tell you, I recently grew my armpit hair to raise money for research into polycystic ovary disease?"

At this point, I made an excuse. And left.

Video For How I Feel About My Current Employment Right Now

Start watching somewhere around 1.40. In fairness, things are not quite this bad, but when you have to watch this speech to remind yourself of that, they're pretty fuckin' dire, as Mr Tucker would no doubt say.

Breaking Glass In Your Room Again

I really must get round to writing about Glastonbury some time soon. Weird stuff keeps happening; I'm doing a study course in Management and Leadership. (This might be of more relevance if my employer hadn't restructured and removed anyone I might conceiveably lead or manage, but there's always the option of moving.)

The seminars take place in the TUC office on Pilgrim Street in Newcastle. If you've caught the bus from there, you'll know it, as it's the big office block that sticks out near where the old cinema used to be. As with many places in town these days, it has empty offices.

During the break, I was wandering down the corridor to use the facilities when I heard a sound like someone hitting a wine glass with a spoon. It persisted, so I wandered to the end of the corridor and stuck my nose against the glass.

There, in the middle of an empty office, stood a man with his back to me. Smashing a wine glass with a spoon.

After the glass broke, he turned round. We exchanged queasy smiles.

I really hope that was an art project, and that building isn't just haunted by a man smashing a wine glass. With a spoon.

Pills, Thrills and Locked Doors

Collected my prescription the other day. You know how some people say “I’m a bit OCD?” I have to resist the urge to say “Oh really? Can you leave your house without checking the door is locked ten times, then having to go back into the house and check the oven is off five times, then repeat the process with the lock? Do you put your hand inside the oven in the morning to check you turned it off? If not then dude, you are NOT PLAYING IN MY LEAGUE, you just need to REMEMBER TO TURN THE DAMN IRON OFF”.

Anyway, the prescription is for the nice happy pills that make this go away, or least lessen it to the extent that I only need to check the lock five times, and sometimes not at all if it’s a good day. The worst aspect of OCD, by the way, is that you know perfectly well you have got it, and that what you are doing is ridiculous, and you are embarassed and ashamed about it, but this is where the compulsiv
e part comes in; it’s very hard to stop.

(This is why, if you know someone has OCD, unless they’ve told you it’s okay, it’s not a great idea to comment on how often they’ve checked the lock. There is nothing rational about checking. Most folks with OCD know perfectly well that the lock doesn’t get more locked if you keep checking it. That’s not the point. The point is that you’ll be terrified out of your wits later if you can’t remember whether or not you locked it. You know the feeling you would get just before you fell off a cliff? It’s that feeling.)

I have my happy pills, which is nice. Every so often I have a conversation with the doctor along the lines of:

DOCTOR: Have you considered coming off your pills?

ME: Yes, but I’m concerned about the side-effects. (A combination of feeling depressed and losing your balance to the extent that you can’t tell where the floor is, if you’re wondering.)

DOCTOR: Perhaps you could try it when you have a stable, relatively stress-free period in your life.

ME: I’ve just bought my first home, I’m working full-time and studying part-time, my employer has made me apply for my own job three times in 24 months, and is likely to do so again this Christmas.

DOCTOR: Why don’t I write you another prescription?

At least now I know where my prescription goes to; the Boots next door to the doctor’s surgery. Last time I forgot this, ran out, applied for more pills and turned up at the surgery desperate for the pills, only to be told “Sorry, we can’t give you a prescription because the system thinks you might be over-using them.”

It’s hard to convince people you’re not over-using drugs when you are clearly on the verge of replying “No, I assure you I am not, now GIVE ME MY DRUGS!”

The Yoga and Meditation Teacher With the Broken Back

This really happened: I walked into my meditation class on a Wednesday* and discovered that we had a new teacher. She was wearing what looked like a superhero costume of a two-layered green tank top, shorts, a grey thingie on her back that crossed over in front, blonde hair and a big smile, and the sort of toned arm muscles I don't have even after years of lifting weights.

Her opening line, in the sort of happy American accent that makes me think of sunshine and Florida** and people rollerskating before eating vegan pancakes for breakfast, was "Hi, just so you know, this is a back brace. I broke my back last week, but it's not as bad as it sounds".

The only thing I could think of to say was "That sounds pretty bad".

Fortunately, it was the kind of broken back you want to have, if you're going to break your back, where you crack a vetebra and think it's a muscle spasm that won't go away. She did the classic "Go to A&E, wait to see doctor, doctor suggests X-Ray to 'just make sure', doctor sidles back into the room holding the X-Ray and looking shell-shocked". Apparently when the doctor replied "You appear to have broken your back", she burst out laughing, which... seems fair.

Apparently it's healing up just fine, and the brace will be off soon.

Maybe I should suggested she tell everyone it's a superhero costume. I'd believe that.


* I recommend this. Although sometimes instead of meditating on the teacher's "you are on a golden beach" theme, I find myself meditating on what it would be like to be able to breathe water and be immune to cold, and just snuggle down in the sand at the base of a beautiful reef in Beadnell Bay. I still remember that summer's day diving. Mmmm, calm. I think this means I want to be a seal.

** I have no idea if she is from Florida.

The Tales We Keep Telling, One: The Guy Who Pissed on the Fruit Machine

It's a funny thing, going to the pub with the same group of friends for years. You develop your own little mythology, mostly featuring around alcohol and, in my case, tales from sharing a house. I kind of miss sharing a house from the point of view of funny things happening, but I SO don't miss the washing-up wars, the continual need to creep round the house for fear of waking folks up when I get insomnia, and the general sense that at any point someone might comment on something I'm doing. (What do you mean, baking at half past midnight is weird? IT'S MY LIFE DAMMIT!)

Some tales we keep telling, of course, cannot feature here for reasons of not wanting to get folks (including me) in trouble. But I see no reason I can't immortalise a few of them, and here is the famous tale of the Guy Who Pissed On the Fruit Machine.

So for this, we need to go back at least five years (flipping heck, I've been in Newcastle a long time). Our little reading group, of which I am proud to be a member, was having its Christmas Do, and we chose to begin with drinks in the Union Rooms. The Union Rooms is the Wetherspoons near Central Station, and used to be our regular haunt until the Five Swans opened, which is nearer the Central Library and handy for the buses and Metro. We prefer Wetherspoons for several reasons: it does real ale, everyone can just about afford to buy a round without needing to take out a loan, and there's no background music. It also affords us the chance to be rude about the food on a fortnightly basis, which usually ends when someone points out that each fortnight we say this, and each fortnight everyone orders the same food and complains about it afterwards.

So, back to Christmas. It was 6.30pm on a Tuesday two weeks before Christmas, and at the Union Rooms, that means a minor level of chaos. We were at the main bar downstairs, and had just bought the drinks when we turned round and saw a guy stagger in. He looked at least fifty, grey-haired and dishevelled, and had clearly been on the receiving end of the stick of life. He also didn't seem to know which room he was in, which pub he was in, or possibly which planet he was on. He staggered into the room, stood just inside the doorway, looked around the room, then turned round and pissed on the fruit machine with a sigh of relief.

I can safely say that this isn't usual behaviour, even in the Union Rooms. As we watched, the manager dashed out from behind the bar, and dragged him away, pointing and yelling "Now look what you've done!" Security became involved, and the man was propelled outside the door. We wandered back over to our table, and drank our drinks.

As we turned round and headed to the door, we saw the same man, clearly not sure where he was or why he was there. As we watched, he staggered up to the door, clearly thought "Yup, that's a door, alright", and wandered back on in.

Right in front of the manager.

I wish I could do justice in words to the expression that came over the manager's face, but if I say that he reddened, his eyes bulged, his finger pointed, and the word "YOU!!"came from his lips at treble volume, you'll get the picture. Security became involved again, and we made our escape to Zizzi's without anyone micturating in our direction.

This tale comes with a short epilogue. Some months later my friend A, who was there on the night in question, was having a curry with some friends in Latif's. As they left, he heard a familiar trickling sound and turned round. It was the same guy, in the same jacket, this time pissing on a record shop doorway. Apparently this is a hobby of his.

Either that, or A is being stalked by a random pissing guy.

It's a great life in the Toon!

Back From Glasto

 I returned from Glastonbury last week, having seen the Rolling Stones, Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds, Vampire Weekend, and many more. I also caught a hideous cold that left me unable to speak or type for a week, hence absence of blogging.

Blogging will happen soon, but until there, here's a video of Mumford and Sons closing the festival to make up for it.