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| _____________________________________________________________________________________________________________ |
Why We Should Be Grateful For
The Commonwealth
by A S H Smyth
Monday, December 17, 2007
I woke up this morning (duh-duh dar de-de duh!) and clutched my head.
This is, I admit, relatively usual procedure.
With the eye that wasn’t occupied, squinting irrationally against the
pain, I looked around the room, and took in the scatter of books, DVDs,
tea mugs, and the piles of laundry – one for clean, one for dirty, one for
miscellaneous. This also is pretty standard.
But they were not mine, and this was not my room. That was
unexpected.
I had absolutely no idea where I was, a situation which is all very well
for bragging anecdotes, but actually pretty unpleasant, not least
because it is synonymous with a splitting headache and a mouth liked a
used ashtray.
As if to flesh out the pounding in my skull – and perhaps with malevolent
irony – some comedian put on ‘There There’ (Radiohead, Hail to the
Thief) at full blast in a nearby room. I had two options:
1) Get up and find out where the hell I was and how I got there
2) Die
I took option 1, mostly because I have in mind something rather grander
for option 2 (when the time comes, you understand), involving last-
minute witticisms and thronging crowds.
I stumbled into a living room which, like the bedroom next door, gave
every indication that its inhabitants firmly believe marijuana counts as
one of your five fruit and veg per day.
‘Morning,’ I said, astutely, not wishing to be out-done by stoners.
‘Strewth, mate, it’s 2 in the avo.’
I was in a houseful of Aussies and Canadians, in Leyton (naturally, I’d
assumed it was Putney). They were all strangers to me. I think the one
who looked a bit like Gary Busey might have been called Gez; but then
that’s the kind of name you’d give an Aussie if you had to guess, isn’t it?
One kept switching the channels. One played online poker. Few had
been to bed at all it seemed. Over a cup of tea, I pieced together as
much of the story as I could without actually using the phrase ‘Who are
you and why am I here?’ Which is to say, very little.
I went to the movies with Rupert. This much I recall. Then we had
coffee. Then a beer. Then I went to catch up with Jonah and Chris:
that was Soho. We drank Guinnesses in a pub called The George, on the
corner of Wardour St and D’Arblay St. Jonny phoned and said it sounded
gay. Then he turned up with Dan, just as we were being thrown out
anyway. So we went to a bar which cost £5 to get into. Jonny is in
banking now, and presumably thinks this kind of thing is normal. It was, I
assume, also his idea that we start on a course of Vodka and Red Bull.
Hereafter, it’s all blank.
No, one thing. I remember, somewhere, a parked pick-up truck, or ‘ute’
as its occupants persisted in calling it.
There is then a blur of buses and the usual ‘this is London?’ feeling I get
when people invite you over for dinner ‘in town’ and you discover they
actually live in Essex.
I’d offer to cut the long story short, but that’s all I got. Here were four
(?) people who didn’t know me from Adam, but were willing – I assume,
unless I paid them – to take a staggering drunk to their house and give
him a bed to sleep on. Amazing.
So… yeah, the Commonwealth. It may seem annoying being lumbered
with nominal leadership obligations concerning an arbitrary collection of 2
billion people across the globe, and having to monitor elections in Tin Pot
Little African Countries whose natural resources we’re not even allowed
loot and pillage any more. Probably costs us a bit, too.
But if it means London will always be full of warm-spirited folk who speak
my language and will give me somewhere to sleep, then I’m all for it.
Long may it last.
© lizardmagazine.com, 2007
Also by A S H Smyth:
The Commonwealth
by A S H Smyth
Monday, December 17, 2007
I woke up this morning (duh-duh dar de-de duh!) and clutched my head.
This is, I admit, relatively usual procedure.
With the eye that wasn’t occupied, squinting irrationally against the
pain, I looked around the room, and took in the scatter of books, DVDs,
tea mugs, and the piles of laundry – one for clean, one for dirty, one for
miscellaneous. This also is pretty standard.
But they were not mine, and this was not my room. That was
unexpected.
I had absolutely no idea where I was, a situation which is all very well
for bragging anecdotes, but actually pretty unpleasant, not least
because it is synonymous with a splitting headache and a mouth liked a
used ashtray.
As if to flesh out the pounding in my skull – and perhaps with malevolent
irony – some comedian put on ‘There There’ (Radiohead, Hail to the
Thief) at full blast in a nearby room. I had two options:
1) Get up and find out where the hell I was and how I got there
2) Die
I took option 1, mostly because I have in mind something rather grander
for option 2 (when the time comes, you understand), involving last-
minute witticisms and thronging crowds.
I stumbled into a living room which, like the bedroom next door, gave
every indication that its inhabitants firmly believe marijuana counts as
one of your five fruit and veg per day.
‘Morning,’ I said, astutely, not wishing to be out-done by stoners.
‘Strewth, mate, it’s 2 in the avo.’
I was in a houseful of Aussies and Canadians, in Leyton (naturally, I’d
assumed it was Putney). They were all strangers to me. I think the one
who looked a bit like Gary Busey might have been called Gez; but then
that’s the kind of name you’d give an Aussie if you had to guess, isn’t it?
One kept switching the channels. One played online poker. Few had
been to bed at all it seemed. Over a cup of tea, I pieced together as
much of the story as I could without actually using the phrase ‘Who are
you and why am I here?’ Which is to say, very little.
I went to the movies with Rupert. This much I recall. Then we had
coffee. Then a beer. Then I went to catch up with Jonah and Chris:
that was Soho. We drank Guinnesses in a pub called The George, on the
corner of Wardour St and D’Arblay St. Jonny phoned and said it sounded
gay. Then he turned up with Dan, just as we were being thrown out
anyway. So we went to a bar which cost £5 to get into. Jonny is in
banking now, and presumably thinks this kind of thing is normal. It was, I
assume, also his idea that we start on a course of Vodka and Red Bull.
Hereafter, it’s all blank.
No, one thing. I remember, somewhere, a parked pick-up truck, or ‘ute’
as its occupants persisted in calling it.
There is then a blur of buses and the usual ‘this is London?’ feeling I get
when people invite you over for dinner ‘in town’ and you discover they
actually live in Essex.
I’d offer to cut the long story short, but that’s all I got. Here were four
(?) people who didn’t know me from Adam, but were willing – I assume,
unless I paid them – to take a staggering drunk to their house and give
him a bed to sleep on. Amazing.
So… yeah, the Commonwealth. It may seem annoying being lumbered
with nominal leadership obligations concerning an arbitrary collection of 2
billion people across the globe, and having to monitor elections in Tin Pot
Little African Countries whose natural resources we’re not even allowed
loot and pillage any more. Probably costs us a bit, too.
But if it means London will always be full of warm-spirited folk who speak
my language and will give me somewhere to sleep, then I’m all for it.
Long may it last.
© lizardmagazine.com, 2007
Also by A S H Smyth:
|
