Went to London Bloggers Meetup.
Arrived on my own without usual meetup companion Aref-Adib and as a result sat on my own in a corner for the first half hour or so, scribbling notes about the sponsored goodie bag.
Berocca make vitamin drinks and engery tablets, the goodie bag contain a fine branded glass (about 400ml), one branded biro, a tube of the Berocca effervescent tablets (orange flavour) and a pad of branded post-it notes.
I'm sceptical about the effervescent tablets, one side of the pack says "Taking more than your recommended daily intake may be harmful", the other side of the pack says each tablet contains 860% of your recommended daily allowance of some of the vitamins.
It is a fine branded glass they provide and the branded post-it notes make my mind boggle at the possibilities. But the warnings and information on the packaging are a bit ambiguous. Its like if a pack of razor blades says how sharp the blades are and then warns you against cutting yourself.
Anyhoo, Jaz and Lisa both recommended taking the stuff, so I have done. The fizzy bubbly goodness has burnt my lip, but I think the goodness will do as a surrogate breakfast for me tomorrow morning. It is orange flavour so I think it counts as one of my five daily portions (along with two cups of coffee, bacon roll and microwave meal).
I am well healthy me.
Met the following bloggers:-
Andy from the marketing blagger
Chris from qwghlm
Andy from Distributed Research
Jure from Zemanta
Lisa from u-handbag
Krista from Londelicious
Julius he's an event manager
Jaz from ShinyRed
Tom the Flashboy from The Metro
Also I think I glanced at:-
Carmen from Green is Not a Colour
Annie from the Going Underground
Peter Marshall from My London Diary
Showing posts with label reunion. Show all posts
Showing posts with label reunion. Show all posts
Tuesday, 27 May 2008
Friday, 4 April 2008
Failed attempt at being.
Its mostly guilt that brings me to Barden's Boudoir tonight. Sure I could claim to be a big fan of Arthur and Martha, but that would be doing a great disservice to Sharon from The Gresham Flyers who spent the best part of an hour working on me last weekend.
Since I've known half the people in the room for half a decade, but save the merest glimmer of recognition from the girl on the door, it counts for nothing. What I get, I have to get myself, like my damned fool plan to have one of the most popular political blogs in the UK, on a whim, because I can.
My car's parked just down the way, this is my first time in Stoke Newington, well, the first conscious time. A mob of locals came yahooing down the street as I locked my car, I swear one was packing heat. I'm only quite sure I'm not some kind of split personality serial killer, avenging some half-imagined crimes of the past, but sometimes I wake up in strange placed covered in blood that isn't my own.
Arthur and Martha on stage, halfway through AutoVia, my favourite song of their's, alas it the final song of the set. 'Arthur' seemed to be rocking out a little more than usual.
Summer festival appearances should be good.
I don't know if I was actively trying, maybe it was just going through the motions, I stood at the front, as near to the speakers as possible without people thinking 'he's standing as close to the speakers as possible', but I didn't hear any of the second band, save the blistering shards of an epic guitar solo and people clapping. Instead, I was in another place.
It was like in geography class or some MRPII meeting, slipping out of consciousness. Faces of girls I'd loved and any tenuous connection they had with the band before me. Memories of seeing them there or photos of the scene, glimpses like from a passing car, from too far away or the wrong side of the room. The stabbing shards of seperation, of missing something very important, of helplessness, of fate and damned bad luck.
Even in my slipping out of lucidity, I knew something was wrong and sought to guide my stream elsewhere to Manchester and Bolton and married life, anything away from the hell I occupied.
But it didn't quite work, the stabbing shafts of reality and it all comes back to east London cutting through. The here and now, crushing on what once was, or what I remember of it.
Even the reaffirming terrible truth that what I remember isn't the same as what actually happened.
The memories are wrong, incorrect, I know that for certain. But they are still the memories in my head, crystal clear, as though it was yesterday, last week, last year or a decade ago. The memories, soured by the truth.
Where the hell are the toilets in here?
I think I saw Das Wanderlust at Indietracks, but I can't for the life of me remember what they sounded like, and it would be unfair to judge them on tonight's performance considering it was mostly "imagine that last song sounded great" on the grounds that the singing girl had lost her voice, and the one song where DJ Waz played the 7" and the mimed along.
There were people behind me who wouldn't stop talking.
If asked what did I think of the evening, in an imaginary conversation with some vague acquaintance who happened to ask, I think in order to improve my quality of life I should have gone to the My Sad Captains single launch instead. I can barely control what goes on in my head, providing rope to hang myself was never going to be good and a better tunes would have been nicer.
Maybe that's unfair.
I think I've made many bad life decisions. I can't quite pin-point any of them, where or when.
Except climbing out of an eleventh floor window in 1997 and deciding to climb back in.
The oddest thing, after the bands I slouched out of the venue to scribble notes in my car, and as I drove away, I wanted to kill myself even more.
Since I've known half the people in the room for half a decade, but save the merest glimmer of recognition from the girl on the door, it counts for nothing. What I get, I have to get myself, like my damned fool plan to have one of the most popular political blogs in the UK, on a whim, because I can.
My car's parked just down the way, this is my first time in Stoke Newington, well, the first conscious time. A mob of locals came yahooing down the street as I locked my car, I swear one was packing heat. I'm only quite sure I'm not some kind of split personality serial killer, avenging some half-imagined crimes of the past, but sometimes I wake up in strange placed covered in blood that isn't my own.
Arthur and Martha on stage, halfway through AutoVia, my favourite song of their's, alas it the final song of the set. 'Arthur' seemed to be rocking out a little more than usual.
Summer festival appearances should be good.
I don't know if I was actively trying, maybe it was just going through the motions, I stood at the front, as near to the speakers as possible without people thinking 'he's standing as close to the speakers as possible', but I didn't hear any of the second band, save the blistering shards of an epic guitar solo and people clapping. Instead, I was in another place.
It was like in geography class or some MRPII meeting, slipping out of consciousness. Faces of girls I'd loved and any tenuous connection they had with the band before me. Memories of seeing them there or photos of the scene, glimpses like from a passing car, from too far away or the wrong side of the room. The stabbing shards of seperation, of missing something very important, of helplessness, of fate and damned bad luck.
Even in my slipping out of lucidity, I knew something was wrong and sought to guide my stream elsewhere to Manchester and Bolton and married life, anything away from the hell I occupied.
But it didn't quite work, the stabbing shafts of reality and it all comes back to east London cutting through. The here and now, crushing on what once was, or what I remember of it.
Even the reaffirming terrible truth that what I remember isn't the same as what actually happened.
The memories are wrong, incorrect, I know that for certain. But they are still the memories in my head, crystal clear, as though it was yesterday, last week, last year or a decade ago. The memories, soured by the truth.
Where the hell are the toilets in here?
I think I saw Das Wanderlust at Indietracks, but I can't for the life of me remember what they sounded like, and it would be unfair to judge them on tonight's performance considering it was mostly "imagine that last song sounded great" on the grounds that the singing girl had lost her voice, and the one song where DJ Waz played the 7" and the mimed along.
There were people behind me who wouldn't stop talking.
If asked what did I think of the evening, in an imaginary conversation with some vague acquaintance who happened to ask, I think in order to improve my quality of life I should have gone to the My Sad Captains single launch instead. I can barely control what goes on in my head, providing rope to hang myself was never going to be good and a better tunes would have been nicer.
Maybe that's unfair.
I think I've made many bad life decisions. I can't quite pin-point any of them, where or when.
Except climbing out of an eleventh floor window in 1997 and deciding to climb back in.
The oddest thing, after the bands I slouched out of the venue to scribble notes in my car, and as I drove away, I wanted to kill myself even more.
Tuesday, 25 September 2007
The end of days, end of days
Finally got round to writing up my school reunion thing...
How can it be a waste of time and really important, at the same time? I'm prejudicing this school reunion thing. After having driven for 5 hours I'm in the Lion car park opposite the school, debating in my head whether to go in and where to go in.
I'm telling myself I can't possibly drive 220 miles here in order to turn round and drive 220 miles home again, but in writing it down, the idea has merit.
It wouldn't be the first time or the worst time, that 840 mile trip to HDIF still bubbls up in my head from time to time.
Fuckit, I'll do another lap of the building then try my parent's place.
Do I even have the right day?
In Bolton town the sun was shining, rolls of flesh on display. Outside the Olde Man and Scythe there was Morris dancing, and I think I saw Jo Allen from the old Strathclyde/Lostock Arms axis.
It looks like wi-fi and the internet hasn't reached this town yet. I got five minuts into the librar/museum before it was slinging out time.
Where is everyone?
The Olde Man is the only place that hasn't changed. All the clubs have new names or are derelict The Jungle became Uropa, 5th Avenue became Jax, Hawthorns – IndieGo, and the Malt and Hops – Barristers.
Queens Park is still Queens Park.
Only on the way home do I regret not seeing people
How can it be a waste of time and really important, at the same time? I'm prejudicing this school reunion thing. After having driven for 5 hours I'm in the Lion car park opposite the school, debating in my head whether to go in and where to go in.
I'm telling myself I can't possibly drive 220 miles here in order to turn round and drive 220 miles home again, but in writing it down, the idea has merit.
It wouldn't be the first time or the worst time, that 840 mile trip to HDIF still bubbls up in my head from time to time.
Fuckit, I'll do another lap of the building then try my parent's place.
Do I even have the right day?
In Bolton town the sun was shining, rolls of flesh on display. Outside the Olde Man and Scythe there was Morris dancing, and I think I saw Jo Allen from the old Strathclyde/Lostock Arms axis.
It looks like wi-fi and the internet hasn't reached this town yet. I got five minuts into the librar/museum before it was slinging out time.
Where is everyone?
The Olde Man is the only place that hasn't changed. All the clubs have new names or are derelict The Jungle became Uropa, 5th Avenue became Jax, Hawthorns – IndieGo, and the Malt and Hops – Barristers.
Queens Park is still Queens Park.
Only on the way home do I regret not seeing people
Friday, 21 September 2007
Its been almost a week since I spoke to Nat, and also a week since she spoke to me too. Likewise with my mum, but its getting on for a fortnight.
Its kind of like that conceit from the Die Hard movies where Bruce Willis doesn't phone his wife.
Friday, almost weekend time. Some gig at Monkey Chews tonight, Fiona can't make it cos her boyf's parents are around, so I'll go on my own, watch the bands, lurk in the shadows and escape into the night. Not sure whether to start driving up tonight, or tomorrow morning, but I feel strangely obliged to go to this Bolton School Reunion thing tomorrow, although my feelings are similar to that I feel before NPL or Bowlie meets.
What happened to my friendships with the folk there, did I drift away, did I do something, of is it just in my head. Like when Lynsey Mop accused me of being a hermit and that's why she stopped speaking to me, when cause and effect work both ways, I became a hermit cos people stopped speaking to me.
I know how my mum feels, its a case of making that step of wandering round saying "Hi, how you doing, I'm Chris,". Its hard sometimes.
I got a feed for the podcast, its here
http://www.btpodshow.com/feeds/theindiepopprogram.xml
now what?
If you wait long enough there'll always be a webcomic about everything in your head,
This from xkcd
and this from Sinfest
Its kind of like that conceit from the Die Hard movies where Bruce Willis doesn't phone his wife.
Friday, almost weekend time. Some gig at Monkey Chews tonight, Fiona can't make it cos her boyf's parents are around, so I'll go on my own, watch the bands, lurk in the shadows and escape into the night. Not sure whether to start driving up tonight, or tomorrow morning, but I feel strangely obliged to go to this Bolton School Reunion thing tomorrow, although my feelings are similar to that I feel before NPL or Bowlie meets.
What happened to my friendships with the folk there, did I drift away, did I do something, of is it just in my head. Like when Lynsey Mop accused me of being a hermit and that's why she stopped speaking to me, when cause and effect work both ways, I became a hermit cos people stopped speaking to me.
I know how my mum feels, its a case of making that step of wandering round saying "Hi, how you doing, I'm Chris,". Its hard sometimes.
I got a feed for the podcast, its here
http://www.btpodshow.com/feeds/theindiepopprogram.xml
now what?
If you wait long enough there'll always be a webcomic about everything in your head,
This from xkcd
and this from Sinfest
Friday, 14 September 2007
oLD SKOOL
Still pouring through the manufacturing production line in my bedroom churning out CDs and packing, its thrilling stuff, but I got distracted by pictures of nekkit women again, could be the start of my next internet phenomenom.
Facebook tells me that next weekend there's a ten year reunion thing in Bolton, and it looks like a load of my mob are going. I seem to have lost touch with most of the guys from chool, apart from Timbo who I caught up with on MSN until the house intenet got cut off, Sapna who was around Glasgow and the late Big Tom. Facebook notwithstanding, I seem to have let them slip during the last ten years.
So I'll probly roll up to Bolton and put in an appearance, lurking in the shadows and leaving after a token round of hey how's it going. I have this nagging suspicion in the back of my head that I was a bully at school or at least a bore, who folk would chose not to stay in touch with, at least that explains all the non-replies on Facebook.
I thought I could just have a weekend on my own, chilling out doing what I wanna do instead of rushing up and down the country, but alas, next weekend is also a high end audio show which I ought to go to. Could it put pay to Bolton?
Facebook tells me that next weekend there's a ten year reunion thing in Bolton, and it looks like a load of my mob are going. I seem to have lost touch with most of the guys from chool, apart from Timbo who I caught up with on MSN until the house intenet got cut off, Sapna who was around Glasgow and the late Big Tom. Facebook notwithstanding, I seem to have let them slip during the last ten years.
So I'll probly roll up to Bolton and put in an appearance, lurking in the shadows and leaving after a token round of hey how's it going. I have this nagging suspicion in the back of my head that I was a bully at school or at least a bore, who folk would chose not to stay in touch with, at least that explains all the non-replies on Facebook.
I thought I could just have a weekend on my own, chilling out doing what I wanna do instead of rushing up and down the country, but alas, next weekend is also a high end audio show which I ought to go to. Could it put pay to Bolton?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)