I was up on the wrong side of 0800hrs this morning which is unusually late for me. Even at the weekends, my inability to sleep in is frustrating. The reason I was up that late is that I found myself caught up in what seemed to be a very lengthy dream involving being marooned in some giant shopping centre struggling to find the venue within that centre that I was supposed to be gigging in. I was in and out of that centre, cutting through squalid looking, guano-splattered train arches, asking any stranger I came upon “Where’s the comedy?”
One thing I remember clearly is that the entrance for this shopping centre was a dead ringer for the fitting rooms at Primark’s Wandsworth Town store where I bought a few soon-to-be-misshapen tops circa 2007-08.
I had a quick shower, blitzed through a breakfast of crackers and a decaf coffee (I don’t know if the Jacobs workers are still striking but buying a store’s own crackers is still problematic, so stocks are running low. Asda are well stocked for crackers but I find their brand very fragile and prone to breaking when buttering) before jumping on London’s worst bus, the 322, and coming here to the back-up café.
I’ve secured, for now, a four-seater. There was only one free single seater when I got here and next to them were sat a couple and their dog. These guys are regulars, Italians, with a couple of them working at the Co-Op a couple of doors away. I’m not a fan of animals inside eateries and Nostril Flarer is prone to stroking dogs before serving food and beverages, without washing his hands. That, in my book, is not the kind of behaviour you want to see in these places.
The place is already filling up with young middle class mums and their giant buggies. Sometimes I feel these people are beyond parody. They arrive and demand all manner of things for their regal progeny, unlike working class parents who just seem to get on with it. In THE café for instance, I’ve yet, in my 22 years there, seen a Portuguese mum crowbar her giant buggy into some space, cutting off the gangways for the waiters. They leave their buggies where they’re supposed to, by the door, but in recent years, as SW8 changes and these new young, better-heeled mums descended on the area, the behaviours within the café changed. The buggies aren’t left at the door, the toddlers need a high chair (which is fair enough) and all you hear is incessant chat about their special children. The Portuguese mums on the other hand just gossip, leave their kids to it with their chocolate milk drinks and pop out every ten minutes for another cigarette (they love a cigarette in SW8). Two different worlds. For me, these people give the place a vibe every bit as dull as the overpriced high street chain coffees they love to buy.
Muscular Madeiran, who from what I remember is struggling for access to his kid and has another girlfriend and step-child, is flirting with a couple of female customers in that deep voice of his. He tells them all about the way his day here is structured, the breaks, the time of the breaks, and how tired he is. He’s already had, he claims, three double espressos this week. He won’t be sleeping tonight, I should imagine.
His stint here reminds me of the time Jimmy Smits replaced David Caruso in NYPD Blue in 1994 (’95 in the UK). There’s no denying Smits is a far superior actor to the now retired Caruso, but with regards to Caruso, I maintain to this day I have never seen a better TV drama performance than the 26 episodes he starred in of NYPD Blue. He was a limited actor but that worked for his character Detective John Kelly. I can’t tell you how much of an impact his departure from that show had on my life. Seriously, I knew I had to be a writer because of that show. It was so good, for its entire first year run when it aired on a Saturday night on Channel 4, I stopped going out, and also recorded the show to watch it back. I’d never seen anything as good as it (apart from ‘Kid Cop’, the US police procedural which co-starred myself and Victoria Principal, running from 1980 to ’92 and which existed entirely in my own imagination). The show, NYPD Blue that is, never recovered from Caruso’s acrimonious departure. Similarly, Double Denim’s absence here is felt. His personality is more limited than Muscular Madeiran’s, but he made this place his own. He was a temperamental, heavily-fragranced force of nature.
I’ve noticed here that I have a tendency to stir right-handed, whereas for over two decades in THE café, I’ve always gone with the sinister hand. I’m not sure why that is. Also, as you’ll see below, they give you normal sized spoons here as the glasses, technically, aren’t tall. Still, I think they’re big enough to merit a tall spoon. Stirring through the milk with a normal sized spoon feels a little inelegant to me.
I have a gig in my old manor tonight, Stockwell, although the venue pushes itself as Brixton. I can understand why. Social-media wise, Stockwell offers nothing while Brixton, with its relentless wave of gentrifiers, at least knows how to get behind its events. I’ll be doing some light rehearsals late afternoon but I’ve pretty much nailed the shorter variation of my new set for tonight’s show.
Star Wars Football wise, last night saw strugglers Alderran make it two games unbeaten under their new manager after a goalless draw with fifth-placed Tattooine. The team from the sandy planet will be concerned that following last season’s outstanding start, they’ve reverted to type and made a slow start. While their unbeaten run now stretches to 27 in the league (a record), Tattooine have only picked up 7 points from their 5 games this season. They are drawing far too many games.
In other Star Wars Football news, the transfer window closes shortly. Apex Overlook, in bottom place and likely to be looking for a new manager soon, are rumoured to be on the cusp of unveiling a trio of new signings, with Hoth’s Buckingham, Tattooine’s wantaway Admiral Ackbar and Rebels’ reserve Wookie all thought to be on their way to the struggling outfit.
There’s a nice touch at the end when a regular here, an 80-something man with a job-ending neck tattoo and rave-era pimp stick, comes back in and asks Muscular Madeiran to tie one of his shoe laces that’s come loose as he can’t bend down. I wonder if I survive for another few decades if I’m glimpsing some future staging post in my life. The Muscular one did a nice thing there. That’s community.
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