Just to clarify, the Orwellian dystopia I described yesterday with the Perivale Police Pound – we were not getting back a bike that had been wrongly parked or left untaxed. We were getting back a bike that had been stolen, and recovered by the police. Hooray for the police for finding it. But the problem is, once you’re in that desperate shithole, all the staff immediately assume you have transgressed. And even a minor transgression that has cost you a large amount of money – that’s enough for all the people that work there to scale you down in status to the lowest possible tier of humanity. I wouldn’t write so baldly about it if it had been my bike, or my money. I’d worry that my perspective was being skewed by my personal discomfort or financial loss. But because I was just there as a friend and observer I felt the full brunt of the bad thinking here. There is no kindness or humour in that place towards the people that come in from outside, no matter their circumstances, no matter why their vehicle ended up there. It’s a hard unkind place. They could go about it differently.
And they are printing money there. Every few minutes another tow truck goes in with another vehicle. Minimum £130. Likely much more. And lots and lots of lovely tasty tears : “mmmmm yes cry little hewmann cry. We likey taste of hewmann crytears.” We watched the trucks coming in and out for hours ferrying misery. Dark dark place.
Whoever had taken Brian’s bike had jammed a screwdriver into the ignition, and completely fucked it so we ran the gauntlet of recovery vultures that sit already engorged but greedy at the gate (£130 to get it back to Chelsea ha ha ha). We ended up down the road and I rang the RAC. Membership is on my bank account. It’s free but very very slow. We got there before 7. It was after midnight by the time we got home, and the foul energy of that place is still clinging to me now.
I’ve been sad all day. For absolutely no reason. Occasionally tearful. God, I’m way too sensitive. I eventually sat in the car and chanted for ages, which took the edge off and means the car is resonating nicely now. I’m partly blaming the pound, partly blaming the full moon. They always pull at me for crazy or for sad.
Now I’m home and I’m already in my dressing gown. I just played Moby’s album “Everything is Wrong”, which I haven’t even thought of since I was an angsty 20. This evening you’re getting the emo version of me. But that emo version of me is about to watch the football…
Oops and there’s Phil on a Volkswagen advert. Part of me is thrown off kilter because yesterday I turned down the first audition I’ve ever turned down in favour of a dayjob. Just an oil commercial. But after years of bloodshed I don’t like that the focus has temporarily shifted to guaranteed money over rolling the dice for my vocation. I did just do some lovely fringey work with The Factory so maybe it’s okay to chase Mammon. I’m going to spend some of my earnings on a stunt horse riding course, and some more on workshops. I might even have enough to suck it up and do something interesting and low budget on the fringe for a bit and remind people I exist. Work breeds work etc, even if you’re usually unwilling to work for peanuts.
Or maybe it’s time to make something mine that I give a shit about and that speaks to my ideals, smash the crap out of it, and have to change my Facebook profile name to stop the endless job offers and marriage proposals…