Yin and Yang Tuesday, piano fantasy, quivering jaw of '89 and PC blowout
A Tuesday of two halves
It’s Tuesday, which means I’m in the back-up café. Strangely, this week, I’ve welcomed the change of scenery.
Double Denim, the ill-tempered Italian barista, brings over my latte. He asks if I want a glass of water. I don’t, not really, but it’s a nice gesture, so I say “Yes.” He doesn’t bring it over though.
He’s playing with me, I think.
Music-wise, there’s some cocktail bar piano playing. I always loved this kind of stuff. One of many fantasies I had, along with being able to vault over railings and ducking under ‘Police: Do Not Cross’ tape (in the rain), was to be able to play the piano to a high enough standard to be able to perform in late night bars, a big brandy glass on top of the (white) piano stuffed with notes. I do like my Jazz. I spent the nineties listening to Jazz FM, or JFM, as it was briefly known in the 90s.
Facially though, I’ve got a very inexpressive face that leaves me very short of looking like a muso. You have to feel the music, surely, if you’re playing? I’m not sure I could pull that off. If there’s an instrument out there where I think my limited range of facials, at a stretch, might work, it’s the bass guitar. Those guys, facially, tend to be limited. At best, you might detect some minor lip tremor, a little nostril flare, as they get into the notes they’re tapping out.
I had a friend, Duncan. A West Ham fan from Norbury. He turned up, underachieving after leaving Leeds University, to work in Woolworths in early ’89 during my Saturday Boy days in the Clapham Junction store. Still my greatest days. An awful job but a wonderful time. Duncan and I were friends until the mid-90s before we lost touch. He was the first COE guy I ever met. And the only guy I ever knew to drive a Fiat 126, the smallest vehicle I’ve ever been in. Having only gone to Catholic schools, I was shocked to know my first non-Catholic.
Despite Duncan being six years older than me, which when you’re a kid can be a big deal, a great friendship was cemented in September ’89 when I tipped him off that Woolies friends had order him a Kissagram for his birthday. The staff suspected I’d told Duncan but were never able to prove it. Duncan never forgot the heat I took for him that day. I’ve digressed, anyway. As I often do. Duncan would’ve made a great bass player. He had this incredible twitching jaw whenever he got stressed. Which was pretty much every single day I saw him. He’d colour, and then the jaw would start quivering. A facial tic I’ve always coveted.
Duncan was too brave for his own good. That Woolworths store was always full of shop lifters. The last Saturday before Christmas Eve in 1989, I had to step outside the store to pull him out of from within a baying mob that had circled him as he grappled with a kid who’d stolen something. The kid had headbutted him under the chin as Duncan tried to hold him, splitting his chin and drawing considerable blood. I remember our spineless store manager had sent me out to pull Duncan out the fire, which I did, without hesitation, but looking back, the situation could’ve easily turned out worse and there’s no doubt the manager had exploited my tender years.
Briefly, back to the jazz. My friend from the café, Future Me, the west country Octogenarian, is a big jazz fan. He was telling me yesterday he was taking a wonder into town to see what music he could catch. He’s a regular at Ronnie Scott’s. I’ve never been. Like I said on today’s paid post – see earlier - I’m not a bucket list guy, but if I were, I think Ronnie Scott’s would’ve been on that list.
I’d spent yesterday afternoon editing a new episode of my historical football podcast When Shorts Were Short, which is out later today. Look out for that. It’ll be free to Patreon supporters and everyone else can have it for a small one-off charge, which I think is fair. Creators need to be paid. The old refrain. We have rent and bills to pay and I also need to start covering the big costs I’m incurring travelling to gigs in and outside London. I’m sitting on 40 unedited big episodes of the show with big name guests and also, lesser-known guests who deserve their work to be better known. If today’s episode is a download success, then I’ll start releasing the shows. But the era of free work is over.
Following yesterday’s editing session, I then spent an hour paring back my set for gigs last night, two short spots, before setting off for a 5.5k run during which I ran through the newly trimmed set four times. I’m actually enjoying the challenge of knowing where to trim or expand sets to fit on whatever the requirements of a night are. It’s a skill and one that I can now say I have. It’s interesting how the more you gig, you’re picking up these skills without being fully aware that you are.
Both gigs last night were poorly attended. It’s just the way with a lot of comedy in London right now. It’s disheartening but what can you do? I felt a bit rusty at my first spot in Dalston, missing a line, which I revisited right away, but it only worked if it had gone where it needed to go.
I’d gone on stage very early as I needed to get to the second gig in Farringdon. The MC had offered me the opening spot, generously, but following Friday’s disaster, it’ll be a while before I open anything again. Going on right after me at the Dalston gig was this female comic whose stuff I really like. I’m not yet convinced she knows how good she can be, and she was on real form last night. Soon as she was done, I hurried off to try and work out how to get to Farringdon, which wasn’t without its usual orienteering problems and somehow, I managed to tear my jacket along the way.
The second gig was similarly dead. “Intimate” as the nice host put it to me. He gave me a choice to drop out. I wasn’t going to do that, to him or to myself. I’d committed to the night. It’s a curious one as this particular gig, having done it three times now, puts together strong line ups. Clearly they can draw quality acts in. I suspect if they made a push on their promoting, they’d really get somewhere with the night. But we’ve all got lives outside of this (I’m not sure that’s true of me, actually) and the demands of putting a night together, the admin involved, having done it myself in the past, I don’t think anyone enjoys that.
I enjoyed seeing this young male comic, Spanish I think, doing his stuff last night. It was very ‘young’ material as you would expect of someone so youthful, and it might get him into trouble on certain nights. But, maybe because of the Spanish thing, I could see a bit of my younger self in him. He was engaging. There’s something there and some of these kids, if they stick at it, could be comedy monsters by the time they’re 30. Hopefully while remaining decent. It was interesting because there was only one punter, an absolute pain as is often the way, an EXTROVERT who seemed to think he was one of the acts and was interrupting everyone’s set. Everyone else by the time I got there last night was a comic, I noted the looks on some of the comics while this kid was up on stage and it was a mixture of “Oh my God, this kid’s going to get himself into trouble on bigger nights with this stuff,” but at the same time, he was that engaging, he was drawing big smiles and chuckles out of the older acts. At that age, the fearlessness is admirable.
The night was closed by this London-based American comic. He won’t remember me but we’d gigged together when I was previously on the circuit in the early 2010s. We both had darker hair back then. He’s outstanding. Stand-up is ingrained in North American culture and when you see a quality US comic, it’s hard to compete against these guys. He sat on a stool and gave us an accomplished 10-minute set. On a night where aggregate-wise, I’d done two gigs in front of about four actual punters, it was invaluable to be able to watch someone of this quality in action. I appreciated too the attention he paid to myself and the other acts in action in the second half of the show. Nothing remotely big time about him. You can be very good at what you do and not be a dick. There is the lesson for all the dicks out there, and sadly, there’s a few on the circuit.
Double Denim sees my empty tall glass and walks right past without asking me if I want my customary second coffee. He’s letting me know, sure, I can have another coffee. I will get another coffee.
But only when he wants me to.
As he breezes past me in his tight jeans, I find myself wondering what the likes of Phil Collins and The Mullet are doing on their day off. Since 2019, the café has curiously taken to closing on a Tuesday. I’ve sometimes speculated why the Tuesday? Is this the day in Portugal when businesses close down? I’m old enough to remember even the big stores like Woolworths closing half days on Wednesday, which even then, felt odd to me. Still, despite having to contend with the brooding presence of Double Denim, at least Tuesdays have improved for me since I found this back-up café back in the summer. Before that, Tuesdays had been a huge problem for me.
I need my routine. Without it, I fall apart. I really do. Which is strange in itself, because the big failing in my life was lacking the discipline to stick out nine-to- five work because I couldn’t handle the routine of the office life. I don’t lead an exciting life, but I’ve always drawn the line at being bored in an office and latterly, line managed by some younger person. No amount of money will ever be enough to instil that discipline and/or inclination in me. It’s just not there. You could tell me, “Stick this out for this long and you’ll have a house,” and it’s still not happening. I’m just not built for The Man and I will not allow The Man to buy my time.
A few WhatsApp exchanges with my sibling on the other side of the world mainly concern Liverpool’s stuttering form this season, which surprises neither of us. The signs were there since the opening day draw with Fulham. I did feel last season that losing out on the title and the Champions League in the space of seven days would catch up mentally with the team. None of the great Liverpool sides of my childhood, the cut-off point being the Souness departure in ’84 (still the greatest British midfielder and leader I’ve seen – Liverpool took decades to recover from his loss) would’ve failed to secure those two trophies and I do feel that when the Klopp era is over, undeniably great manager though he is, you could argue, strongly, that his Liverpool side has underachieved. Sure, he’s up against an extraordinary Manchester City side, but the City side that retained the title last season wasn’t at the level of Guardiola’s 2017-19 vintage. That City side were vulnerable and should’ve been usurped.
The glass of water I didn’t want, but accepted, originally, has finally arrived an hour and a half after I said ‘Yes’ to it.
“Thank you,” I say to Double Denim.
“Anytime,” he tells me, Bela Lugosi-like, making it sound like a threat.
‘Anytime’ was accurate, I suppose, as we’d agreed I’d take the glass of water ninety minutes ago.
Let’s close with some tall glass delivery analysis:
Double Denim’s left hand was too high up on the glass. I made a mental note not to drink from that side of the glass. When Covid returns this winter, as it’s already showing us it will, that style of delivery, could be a potential transmission point.
I note too that Double Denim’s ripped jeans include a tear high up on the upper left thigh. He's too old for this look, and also, being Mediterranean, the body hair coverage is slightly higher than the average hairless British male. I spot some curly leg hair, sprouting through the tear like some overlooked weeds. I feel my jaw twitch at that moment and I think once more of Duncan and his wonderful quivering jaw.
I leave the café having noted the back-up café also offers reward cards. I’m disappointed I had to ask them to give me one. It’s a distinctive deep yolk in colour and crossed off with a green marker – there’s no stamp – it gives the card a Brazil/Norwich-like look. This time, curiously/generously, you only have to buy 7 coffees to get the next one free, so given my once-weekly visit, I should be cashing in once a month.
I remember being at the café around 2017 and noting they’d introduced the reward cards. It disappointed me too back then that I’d had to ask for them. They should be offered to regular customers, though in this case, I’m just a Tuesday customer.
Their coffees have gone up 20p a pop in the last week, though that’s still reasonable. Or maybe Double Denim charged me more because I was nursing the lattes today? That was only because I was having such a productive morning. Maybe he invoked a beverage-nursing tax on me? Generously, or forgetfully, as is more likely, he stamped my card for ‘yesterday’s coffees’ too, completely forgetting I’m the ‘Tuesday Guy’.
I’m worried now that when in the café, THE café, I will pull out the wrong reward card and the café will have clear evidence that I am moonlighting at an alternative café/coffee love interest now. It’s their fault, closing on Tuesdays. What do you expect me to do? Stay in on a Tuesday as I have done every Tuesday since they started closing down in 2019?
Footnote 1
I tipped the back-up café 26p today. I worry Double Denim has an ear for tipping audio and could tell I’d dropped in 3 x 2ps into his box. Maybe he gets my glass swabbed for DNA and notes the only 2ps in today’s tip collection, and he starts to build up a picture of what kind of character I am.
Footnote 2
Arriving home, the desktop PC had decided to stop working. Newly rebuilt, it’s the work of one of my oldest friends. This involved badgering him on WhatsApp for the 1000th or so time in the last 25 years to try and find a fix. Was it the monitor? Was it the PC? The SSD card? I found myself opening the PC unit for the first time and feeling very masculine, as I always do, when doing something manual. Three hours later, unresolved, clearly the PC has died. The electrics here, which are s***, destroyed my friend’s PSU, which he replaced of his own accord, and it may be that has died too now.
What’s really frustrated me today is I had a brilliant morning. I had a decent evening last night, getting back into the groove with last night’s two shows. I have picked up big spots today, though money means I’m having to drop one of two trips out of London for gigs, in light of having one paid gig cancelled this week, and now the likelihood is that I’m going to have to fork out on a new part or parts for the PC.
The football show, which was meant to be out today, now sits incomplete on my inaccessible desktop PC. I could’ve done with a quiet night in, exhausted that I am, perhaps enjoying the new episode making a few sales and seeing if listeners will back the work.
This is one of only two free nights this week and now I’ve lost it. Yes, my friend is doing me a favour coming over but I know my body’s really feeling it right now. Clearly, I can’t continue doing the hours I do now with the years creeping up on me. I’ve got gigs on 5 nights this week, not to mention a very early start tomorrow. These moments, the setbacks do me considerable harm. It’s that accumulation of small negative moments that make me feel sometimes life is conspiring against me when my endeavours deserve better.
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