High Society

Try as I might, the lure of the evil (and it is evil) weed keeps tapping me on the shoulder and insisting we should get back together. At first it was easy to ignore - remembering all the negatives is a synch when you first split up - but slowly and inevitably the good times start to paw gently at your mind, seductively rubbing themselves up and down your brain. As familiar and comfortable as an old pet. Wouldn't you choose to bring a favourite family pet back to life if you could? This was my weak-minded reasoning and besides, if the old adage is to be believed, the grass is always greener - but I just had to be sure.

This is how I found myself in Kensington Market, the Toronto version - and a more different version you couldn't hope to see. Whereas London's Kensington is synonymous with wealth and sophistication, Toronto's Kensington's main claim to fame is that it is, more or less, the puckered anus of the city. Toronto is the financial hub of Canada and as such enjoys affluence and culture in equal measure, but as with every city there are pockets of iniquity and Kensington Market was less a pocket and more a canyon. Poverty and hopelessness permeated every pore of the place and gaunt spectral faces glared out of dark doorways wherever you went - some were after your money, but most just seemed curious or stoned. The looks are remarkably similar so it was difficult to tell. Funnily enough the place reminded me very much of certain parts of Streatham or Clapham North, the difference being that Kensington Market was eerily quiet. Life here was still chugging along fairly normally and the evidence of that could be seen in the presence of cafes, bars and shops, but those sitting in them appeared glum about something and weren't really talking to each other, choosing instead to stare at me and my travelling companion (a Scot called Luke) as a welcome distraction. God, I'm depressing myself writing this, but I swear it's exactly what it felt like. A strange foreboding sat over the area as though it were cursed and it genuinely made you feel uncomfortable. These may not be the ideal conditions for life to flourish, but as such they were the crucial components that make up places people go to look for stuff you shouldn't be looking for - this was the place I could find evil.

So we set off to the number one haunt of the soon-to-be or already wasted, a cafe in the middle of all this destitution called the Hot Box Cafe. This is a strange one - a cafe right in the centre of town (albeit off the beaten track) where you can go and freely indulge yourself in the same way that hippies have for decades. They're not allowed to sell it there, but you can smoke to your heart (and lungs) content all day long and enjoy a couple of budget comedians slowly getting more paranoid as the heavy smoke in the room starts to passively work its magic. Looking around it strikes me that wherever you go in the Western world, stoners are always made up of the same two types of people. One who confidently embraces all that goes with the Bob Marley, crusty, reggae-based culture and the other (that I'd probably ascribe myself to) who occasionally finds themselves in unfamiliar surroundings nodding to the music, but really looking for an excuse to get it and get out as quickly as possible. Hot Box is no exception to these 'types' and a couple of prime examples were weaving in and out of the plumes of smoke as I entered. The crusty type was about as archetypal as you could possibly imagine. We'll start with the clothes. Every single article was shredded. I don't mean that there was (as is the want of many of today's youth) the occasional smear or tear in the knee or pocket, I mean every garment the guy had on was torn as if he'd had a cartoon-like encounter with a particularly vicious dog. The material flew about him like dirty ribbons making it look a lot like a home-made Halloween outfit and the overall effect was appropriately ghastly. Not that anyone could doubt the chap's commitment to the crusty cause after seeing his fashion sense, but an irrefutable aspect of the subculture - as important as the strange sickly lavender smell that accompanies them or the obligatory dog on a bit of string - is facial hair, and this crustacean did not disappoint. Add a dash of dirty skin covered in inexplicable whelps and a sprinkle of confidence which far exceeds that which it should be given his appearance and, more importantly, the amount of mind-bending substances he was clearly on and you have the epitome of the crusty encapsulated in one being. In short, if you bottled it and wore the man's essence you shouldn't be surprised if you fell foul to the busy hooves of excited antler-clad mammals.

The other type, well, is me. Far less fun to describe, I'm afraid, but take it from me, I wasn't the only me in that cafe. There were many other charlatans about, bobbing to Bob and trying not to look as awkwardly out of place as we all knew we did, and together with all the other mes I felt comforted. I knew there were at least a dozen other pairs of clenched buttocks in the room and it felt good to know that we all clenched in unison for the greater good. The end of the story is a bit of an anti-climax, I'm sorry to say. An enormous-breasted woman in the Hot Box told us that due to strict laws we couldn't buy anything in there, but pointed us straight to where we could, and like that it was over. I suppose the point of this posting was to describe to you an odd little arm of Toronto called Kensington Market. An idiosyncratic abnormality that I think would be rife with crime, if only it could be bothered.

No comments last week means no praise owed from me. Come on, people, I thought we had a deal? Oh, how can I stay mad at you? Goodbye.

Hold that thought

It strikes me that there are two types of people in this world - one with manners and one haplessly going about life entirely oblivious to the plights of others. Self-absorbed to a point where everything their body excretes is greeted with an appreciative smile, sniff or, dare I say it, lick. Maybe I've gone a bit far there, but I think you get the picture. This egoism can manifest itself in no crueller and selfish act than that which befell me first thing this morning.

Getting up late today meant that everything was a rush and it's in these conditions that you sometimes get the feeling your environment is all-knowing and purposefully hindering any potential progress. I know it's easy to feel conspiratorial about life and I've always been told to stop acting like everyone and everything's out to get me, but if I was looking for evidence to back up my paranoid tendencies, this morning had it by the lorry-load. First of all I was too late for the shower. Because of indulging myself a little too much after the alarm had actually gone off, I opened my bedroom door to the sight of the shower door closing for business - at least temporarily. This was made doubly frustrating cos of the fact I would be in there for less than five mins, but since I was now waiting for a girl to wash her bits, it was anyone's guess how long the wait could be. Depends on how soiled the bits are, I suppose. Grumbling something about women's bits, I walked past the other bathroom and, seeing how the morning was going up to now, wasn't that surprised to see it was still out of order (no water - said it would be fixed two days ago - anger levels rising) and lurched on towards the kitchen, making sure my soft pink foot stepped on the biggest and sharpest piece of glass in the vicinity. I don't think giving it the term, 'piece of glass', does it the justice it deserves - feeling as it did like a purpose-built police stinger or prison shank as it sunk deeper and deeper inside me. Being first thing, I didn't think a girly scream (which I was so desperate to make) would have been altogether welcome by the other members of the flat, so I had to satiate myself with a bit lip and a wide-eyed and discombobulated stare towards the Lord. At least now I was properly awake.

Squeezing the shank out of my foot proved to be a lot more satisfying than the act of squeezing it in and brought to mind John Hurt's seminal scene in Alien, which made the whole thing rather more jolly than a tetanus-inducing injury probably should be. What wasn't jolly was the pain - as throbbing and relentless as Euro-techno - and it meant that the rest of my morning chores had to be conducted by a hobbling and muttering Golem-like creature who had now taken my place. It was at this point I realised I hadn't had the forethought to take my rolls out of the freezer for making today's lunch and they were, as is consistent with the function of a freezer, frozen. Painfully aware of how late all this general hubbub was making me for my very important position of photocopying bitch at the Ministry, I decided to utilise brute force and a knife to prise open the oyster-like lips of the wholemeal baps, which had until now been reluctant to budge. Unfortunately the budging incurred a further penalty as the knife slipped comfortably into the web of thumb and forefinger and became my latest reason to gaze skyward mouthing the word, 'why?'.

Finally the roll was made and - although it did resemble something Jack the Ripper had just pulled out of an East-end prossie - finishing this and hearing the bathroom click open down the hall filled me with hope that the nightmare may soon be over. And by all accounts, except for a brief incident with this one very powerful jet of water nearly claiming a nipple trophy, things ran relatively smoothly up until the point I was - already 10 mins late and facing a 15 min walk - ready to leave the flat. Then came the point of this posting. The reason all this made it to the blog is because of the actions of one horribly selfish bitch who wilfully committed a sin. A mindless and thoughtless act which was enough to make me dry heave in rage and question the very existence of human compassion. As I opened the door of the flat I saw that the lift doors were open and a young girl - who had definitely seen me - was just entering. Wincing and gasping after the morning from hell, I limped toward the door with pace, but confident that no-one would be so churlish as to allow the doors to close in my face, when, before I could process the outrage being enacted in front of my very eyes, the doors closed and the lift clunked away leaving me with the rage-induced dry heaves, as discussed. She didn't hold the lift.

Although often tempted, I have never knowingly allowed the doors to shut on my fellow man. I think it might be more about guilt than blatant manners in my case, but the end result still remains the same - the doors will stay open on my watch. You need to understand how crappy the lifts are in my block to appreciate what an unprecedented boon it was seeing one open in front of my flat and to feel the abject disappointment I did when I was left high and dry - but on top of the earlier horrors I reckon you can understand. After wishing several varied, and some rather creatively accomplished, deaths on her, her family and pets, I got to thinking how much better this world would be if we all just held the lift for one another. Indeed, I envisage a world free of the 'close the door quicker' button and of people around the world holding lifts in unison as a mark of unity and even world peace. Did not Jesus hold the doors for the lepers? Did not England's Rose facilitate the access of hundreds of Cambodian mine victims to open lifts? Nope - but imagine if they had. Mmm - just imagine...

I can't see that the lift issue can possibly escape Comic Relief's attention now, especially after this emotional journey. Expect to see a tearful Nick Knowles ushering a bunch of chattering and laughing African children into an open lift with a knowing and thoughtful glance to the camera. Gives me goose-bumps just thinking about it. Yep. Anyway, that's today's life lesson over - I hope we've all learnt something. Thanks to two contributors on the comments side - both were anonymous, so I can't thank you by name, but rest assured, you have a special place in my heart.

All These Things That I Did

I think I may have a problem, readers. Those of you who made it to my 30th birthday party may already have an idea about this affliction and those of you who have only known me since I've been out here in Canada will definitely know. I'm a karaoke addict - a karaolic, if you will. I just can't seem to stop myself and it's getting out of hand. On more than one occasion I've found myself singing in karaoke bars on my own having ditched the people I was out with in favour of pursuing my dirty little habit. And what's worse, the more I feed this habit, the less I can do without it. (Look there's a pic of me singing some random sent me from Friday night - helps illustrate the problem, don't you think? - Reckon I can get a better one than that though, I just need time)

But maybe it's not such a bad thing. I'm not hurting anyone directly with my addiction - although I have murdered one or two songs along the way. Last Friday (and every Friday, as you ask) I was at my regular karaoke bar, but thankfully I wasn't alone this time. Apart from Len, the owner of the equipment and MC for the night - that's his name - I know Len's name - I was with my flatmates, who have, gamely and sometimes even willingly, been along a couple of times to watch and even take part sometimes. Everything was going according to plan until that fifth pitcher, then it all began to unravel. Looking through the song books I came across the Trouser-snake himself and, head swimming with beer and ill-conceived confidence, I thought to myself, 'What can this multi award-winning superstar do that I can't?'. It turns out the most important advantage JT has over AM is that he can sing. And so it was that I marched purposefully up to the mic just as the intro of Like I Love You riffed out in the fairly packed bar and, grabbing said mic, began to wind and grind in a manner I believed appropriate to contemporary rhythm and blues.

I'm not sure if you've all seen that episode of I'm Alan Partridge when, on Valentine's Day, he decides to serenade his date for the evening with a rendition of Close To You by The Carpenters, but if you have, then you'll have a pretty good idea of how this story ends. Badly. About a verse in and having already attempted the very high, '...sing a song for me...', to an open-mouthed and utterly silent audience, I gingerly replaced the mic in its stand and yelled in Len's ear that this must end immediately. I was drunk, but not drunk enough not to feel the shame of shirking off the stage to the boos and occasional, 'you stink!' of strangers and non-strangers alike. It was just 'too high', to quote the Partridge, but I have to say, at least I knew to give it up when I did, thus avoiding serious injury to anything other than my dignity.

But just like the true alcoholic won't let several incidents of finding themselves waking up trousers down, bent over the lav with Fido lapping at their bumhole stop them from doing what they feel compelled to, I got back on that horse shortly afterwards and belted out a distinctly average version of All These Things That I've Done by The Killers. Hoorah! Unlike the alcoholics though, I did learn a lesson last Friday - no more Timberlake for me. But hey, it's just Justin.

To end with here are some things that are uniquely North American which I have seen or tried recently:

A postman's title over here is letter carrier.

Corndogs look like a little penis covered in an enormous battered foreskin and taste like cheap pate covered in an enormous battered foreskin.

The Red Bull ads out here have to say, for legal reasons, that it doesn't actually give you wings.

Root beer tastes like TCP, but has no healing properties whatsoever.

Goodnight.

(PS, as always, thanks goes to those who commented on my last post, and this week I'm tipping my hat to Daws and Stoxsie. Thanks guys and that's a bloody good idea, Daws.)

Tongue Lashing

Isn't it funny, the English accent? Well, actually, I didn't used to think so, but apparently - and unequivocally in the minds of the wobbly lady managers I'm currently working with - there's really nothing funnier. 'I love all the little phrases', she often chuckles as though I was a little English lepricorn she'd caught (I know that doesn't quite work, but I can't think of an English equivalent - an imp? Actually, I think they're German) and having tamed me was reaping her rewards by having me tell her impossible tales in a little squeaky voice. Truth is, one of these 'phrases' was me telling her I was doing a 'reccy' in Montreal for a friend, but I'm pretty sure that's an American term, not that it made a blind bit of difference to the wobbly ones.

It has to be said though, the English accent is a definite boon over here. Just paying for shopping can sometimes bring about a kind of hushed awe as the locals drink in their language, but said in the way God and my Mum intended. That's right, I'm saying I speak the Lord-approved version of English and let's face it, any kind of Americanisation of the mother tongue, no matter how renowned the author or faultless the reputation of the brainbox, makes you consider that that individual has possibly, at one stage or another, shrieked 'Yee-ha!' without irony - and that simply won't do.

Aside from her passion for accents, my pork scratching of a manager lurches around the place with all the urgency of an adolescent undead. Sometimes there are bursts of flare (equating to a 'mental' hand gesture or slightly wider-eyed stare) which are nonchalantly explained as her 'marching to the beat of a different drum' (although I think it's more likely to be ice cream van music) and for these I have to force a cheekbone straining smile or fake laugh. Always painful. Along with Fatty-Fat-Fat there's a Chinese woman called Cindy who is just unbelievably useless. I've never seen anyone make such a meal out of every small task she's given and on top of that she also laughs uncontrollably whenever I speak. 'You know why?' she asks all the bastard time. 'It's cos of your accent!'. Now I may be wrong, but if I was to laugh at her fairly thick Chinese accent all the time, wouldn't that be racism? Again I'll help - yes, it would. Anyway, just wanted a quick rant as I never get the chance to at work. No-one gossips there, and I feel like I'm bursting to slag people off - thank God for you, blog. Ahh, that's better.

So think of me as you go about your lives spared of the necessity to repeat yourselves, leap through linguistic hoops for open-mouthed colonials and hear endless mentionings of the name Hugh Grant. Bollocks to your sympathy, I'm like a sodding celebrity out here, just without the money, women or fame! Yee-ha!

The next subject of this week's posting is that of the mad staring eyes. You know the syndrome, you've all seen the phenomenon before, I'm sure, so I'll spare you the description and, let's face it, it's fairly self explanitory, but whenever I'm faced with it, it always leaves me dumbstruck. Where does this rabbit in the headlights condition come from? Is it a stigmatism? Is it a life-long condition that meant they were mad and staring as babies? Is there any cure? Do they realise it's happening? Do they see dead people? I ask all these questions and bring up the subject cos I have a MSE sufferer in my department and frankly I find it fascinating. During conversations with her I find myself refraining from blinking almost in competition, but she always wins the stare down. One advantage to the condition, I suppose. I can't get anywhere near before tears well up in my eyes - are their's dustproof? Anyway, if anyone knows anything official about MSE do let me know.

Finally, I thought I'd send a quick thank you to those good enough to leave a comment on the last posting. Now Olly, Ruth and Craig, you're immortalised on my ramblings - hoorah! Keep it up, and if you want a mention, you know what to do. One last thing, for all those who want to see the photos from the Pride parade and super-gay weekend from a couple of weeks back, I've made them into an album and put it on my Facebook page. Bye then.