Reading 07

It's always hard to know where to begin talking about a weekend camping at a festival. Do I write reviews about each of the bands I saw, in turn? Do I write about selected highlights, amusing anecdotes? I don't know.

I was out of bed at 5am on Thursday to go to Reading. It was still dark outside, but I could hear the sound of the pouring rain. The weather forecast has said Thursday would be dry. Trying to keep in mind that the bank holiday weekend was predicted to be dry and either way all I could do was make the best of it, I dressed and ran through in my head a kind of mental checklist of what I had packed. Had I packed enough? Had I packed too much? Should I take wellies, or would just my big black boots be good enough? Maybe I should take a pair of converse for if the weather turned hot...

Jon pulled up on my drive at almost exactly six and together we loaded my bag (complete with tent strapped to the outside) into the car. We were already struggling for space and still had to pick up Nick and his belongings. Out of three of us, I was the lightest packed with just one rucksack -- and a carrier bag full of cheap own-brand supermarket lager, to exchange for cold beer at the festival. I will allow exceptions for Jon and Nick however, as they did have smaller rucksacks than me -- but on the other hand, they have never spent a week hiking and camping in the Black Mountains. Predictably, Nick had the most stuff but was unable to carry it because he's hurt his wrist. That's a long story I don't even want to go into. Jon has been annoyed for weeks that because Nick had hurt himself he wouldn't be able to carry his own gear nor set up his own tent. Then again, Jon's friends call him "AJ" for "Angry Jon" so it's not surprising he was annoyed about it.

As ever, I fell asleep in the car almost immediately -- the back seats in Jon's car don't have the head rests, but I had thrown my pillow into the back with me when loading the bags, and was probably snoring before we'd even left town.

Because of my passenger-related narcolepsy, motorway services always seem bewildering to me. It's like waking up and immediately being walked into a shopping centre. I was slightly better prepared this time, because I'd woken up slightly earlier by Jon swearing -- he'd drunk too much water, was desperate to pee and we were at least 20 miles from the nearest services. Just the same, I'm always left with the feeling that I'm not sure if I am awake.

We eventually got to the festival site -- the journey having taken hours longer than it was supposed to because of roadworks, rush hour traffic and having to drive through the middle of the city. I presume Reading is a city, anyway.

Because of flooding to the festival site this year, the place where we were meant to park had been turned into a campsite, and instead we had to park in a different area on the other side of the river. This meant having to then catch a "shuttle" boat across the river -- queuing for hours for a boat journey that took no more than 5 minutes.

One of our friends and his girlfriend had gone on ahead up to Reading on Wednesday -- you can buy "early entry passes" for this when the tickets first go on sale -- and had already picked out a camping spot, and set up several tents. We'd been told that the two of them would be taking everyone's tents for this purpose, but considering there was only two of them and they were taking the train, we'd been doubtful how feasible or practical it would be for them to take something like ten tents. Privately, we also expressed doubts about how well they would have been able to save space for us -- or how good a spot they would have got at all.

We were more than pleased to find that reports of flooding to the Green campsite (the campsites are all colour-coded and numbered, I guess for ease in finding your tent later in the dark when pissed) had been grossly exaggerated -- the official festival site had said the Green campsite was unusable, but we saw only isolated patches of swamp. Rob did everyone proud, not only had he masterfully set up the tents he'd been given, but he had also saved plenty of room for our tents and a big space in the middle for us to sit around and have a campfire in.

Thursday is always a strange day. The plan is to arrive as early as possible, set up your tent in the shortest space of time, and then spend the rest of the day and night drinking and getting to know your neighbours...

And that's how I will leave Thursday for now -- with everyone finally arrived, sitting in the sun, waiting for Friday and the bands to begin...

They say that rock is dead, and they're probably right

Early tomorrow morning, we're packing up the car and setting off for Reading festival (even if it's no longer called just "Reading festival" and hasn't been for years). Right now, the wind is howling and the rain is lashing against the window. The campsites are so badly flooded in places they have now had to turn what was a car park into a campsite -- though fortunately the forecast for the weekend is reasonable. I remember last year the day before we went the weather was just like this -- strangely this year almost the whole summer has been like this. I expect we'll have a late summer in September, and hopefully then I'll be able to run off to Cornwall for a week's surfing.

Rhys who cancelled on me going to the gig last Sunday has also now decided he isn't coming to Reading, either. He says he's tired and doesn't feel all that well, and is claiming the only band he wants to see is Smashing Pumpkins, on Sunday night. There's no arguing with him, you can try and reason with him, you can try and tell him it won't be the same without him, you can tell him of all the fun you'll have, but he won't budge. He's meant to be going to some gig with Jon tonight, here's hoping he actually goes to this one -- there's no hope he'll change his mind about tomorrow, though, he's already sold his ticket.

As for Claire, there's nothing much to say there at this point. I'm trying not to get my hopes up for anything, but at the same time am keeping my fingers crossed and trying not to overthink it, because I do hardly know the girl.

Just the same, I'm going to be away now until Monday -- but will catch up with you all then. Declarations of love and money orders can all be sent to the usual address.

News day Wednesday

Japan recalls arm wrestling game

A Japanese arm wrestling game is being withdrawn from arcades across the country after three players broke their arms, company officials said.

Arm Spirit, which is distributed by Atlus, is to be removed from 150 game emporiums as "a precaution".

"We think that maybe some players get over-excited and twist their arms in an unnatural way," a spokesman said.

It might sound silly, but a friend of mine did that exact thing once. They report the machine "isn't even that strong", and quite so -- it's that bit about twisting the arm that's the problem.

James was arm wrestling people in the pub in that way that drunk boys do. For some reason, he was eventually pitted against some kid who thought he was all that but it was widely accepted James would beat. Unfortunately, the angles were wrong.

While the contender knelt on the floor and rested his arm on the table, James was leaning down and occasionally his arm would slip out from under him. Then suddenly it slipped once more, his arm twisted, and the pub went silent at the very-audible sound of a crack.

I think it was what is known as a spindle break, where the bone twisted in a spiral like a corkscrew to break, rather than just in a straight line. He was in plaster for about six months...

Musical Monday #24

Sunday was a very strange day. A couple of months back, my friend Rhys sent me a text message to tell me that Suicide Bid and Essex punk band The Filaments (whom after they split up helped form Suicide Bid) were playing a gig called the City Invasion tour. It was a kind of all-day indoor punk rock festival at the Astoria, in London.

I was taken by surprise as I'd not heard about it, and expected our friend Pete who is in both bands to have mentioned it first. Just the same, I booked my ticket -- being sure to only book one this time, to avoid the drama of trying to find someone to take my spare, and thought no more of it. In between booking the ticket and this weekend, Rhys has been on holiday for about four weeks so we hadn't had any opportunity to discuss arrangements for the day. When he returned on Saturday, we exchanged a few text messages regarding train times and how we were only really interested in seeing Pete's bands -- since there were several other bands also playing. I tried to ascertain an idea of running times from Pete and everything seemed fine.

Until Rhys sent me a message to say there was a change of plan: his ticket hadn't arrived. All the tickets for gigs he had been expecting and thought had arrived in reality hadn't -- he had a piece of paper relating to one gig to say they didn't have the tickets at that time, but nothing further. What he did to try and sort it out, I don't know -- but the upshot was, I was going on my own. And I didn't want to go on my own. Too late now to do anything about it, I figured I'd stick to the original plan -- watch Suicide Bid, watch the Filaments, then come home. The concert was also to be the final-ever UK show for NY hardcore punks Leftover Crack, but I knew nothing of them and wasn't too concerned about seeing them.

Sunday morning arrived with grey skies and torrential rain, and halfway thorugh walking to the station, I realised I didn't have my travelcard and had to return home for it and still hope to catch my train. So far, the day was shaping up well.

I arrived at the station just in time to see a "rail-replacement" bus leaving the car park. Due to Sunday engineering works, trains weren't running from my station and a sign advised passengers journeys could be delayed by an extra 30 minutes. I hadn't allowed for any of this, and if I didn't get to the gig for when Suicide Bid took to the stage at 4, I was going to very annoyed. For a change, luck was on my side, as another bus arrived soon after and with the connecting train I had made it to London for about 3.

At the gig I was left very much with a feeling of "what now?". I was there, but I was still very much on my own with nobody to talk to. Pete would be around somewhere, but I couldn't expect him to devote all his off-stage time to me and aside from this, it was very difficult to get a reception on my phone to try and send him a message to say I was in the venue.

The first band I saw (who I think were second or third on the bill) were called the Peacocks. At first, I didn't think too much of them -- they played well, but their music wasn't doing a lot for me. To their credit, they seemed to get better as they went on and I did end up enjoying their set. After they finished, I grabbed a beer from the bar, now my mood was improving, and decided to get closer to the stage for the next band. It wasn't long before I recognised it was Suicide Bid setting up for the their set -- though I resisted shouting out to Pete.

As ever, Suicide Bid played a great set -- although it wasn't as long as I would have liked, the timings were quite strict. Everyone seemed on top form, and I was reassured to see Laila K from Sonic Boom Six was with them to do her guest vocals, especially for my favourite song "Like a Lion".

Things got even better after Suicide Bid, when it was announced next on the bill was none-other than Sonic Boom Six. They hadn't even been on the line-up I'd seen, so I was amazed and surprised and of course very happy, since they were a band I knew and liked. I don't own any of their releases, and only have a few downloaded, but I dig their work -- and would have been very excited had I known all along they were playing. Again, their set was excellent.

Pete found me after they finished and we talked for a short while, before he made his excuses and left -- and I was again just feeling a bit lonely. The music was good, and while I enjoy my independence and being able to just do things on my own, sometimes it does get a bit lonesome with nobody to share them with. From where I was stood near the bar, I noticed a cute girl also apparently on her own, preoccupied with her mobile phone.

This girl seemed to have something most of the people in the venue didn't. For a start, she looked like she was older than about 12 -- unlike a lot of the fans (I've no idea why this is), she also wasn't wearing studded leather or sporting an ostentatious Mohawk. I was reminded of how I met Fiona at Glastonbury, just seeing a girl on her on and asking her the time -- even though I knew perfectly well what the time was. I also remembered trying the same tactic at Reading festival last year, although on that occasion I didn't end up getting to know the girl as she'd quickly established she was waiting at the wrong stage. Just the same, I thought it might be worth a go.

Finding the courage to speak to her was another matter. I ran through all the possible scenarios in my head, that she'd be rude, that she'd refuse to tell me the time, that she'd make some stupid comment like "time you got a watch", but figured I'd be no worse off. Then there were other obstacles to overcome -- like I didn't want to talk to her if anyone else was standing too close. And I didn't want to interrupt her if she was engrossed in a text message conversation. Eventually, I picked my moment -- she didn't look too preoccupied to mind being disturbed, and she was relatively open. So I made my move.

Politely, I just asked her if she knew what time it was -- and she wasn't rude, or unhelpful, or sarcastic, she obligingly told me the time. To start a conversation I asked her if she knew when the Filaments were playing -- this, too, I already knew as Pete had told me they would be on next (after some band whose name I can't remember now) as another band hadn't yet turned up, so the Filaments were going on early. This was more or less the same thing the girl told me. And so not to push my luck, I thanked her and left it there -- and stood a little way away.

Naturally, with her on her own and me on my own, she moved closer to me and kept the conversation going. We talked about music and I mentioned knowing Pete, and she was a big fan of the Filaments. She also had an interesting accent I couldn't quite place, and a kind of sparkle in her eyes, but anyway. We talked about nothing for a while, and were getting on well -- until she made her excuses, and left. She said she wanted to outside for a fag, since I didn't smoke, I told her sure, I'd wait there for her. I figured this would give the opportunity to give me the slip if she wanted to -- she could just not come back, and there'd be no hard feelings. I could have gone with her, but thought she might be able to use some space and we weren't close enough for me to justify following her wherever she went.

She was gone way too long for a simple cigarette. I didn't really keep track of how long she had been gone, but eventually I gave up on her coming back. No hard feelings, she'd been nice to meet and pleasant company, but this was just how things go sometimes. I wandered off to use the toilet and grab another drink from the bar. To my surprise when I got back, she was waiting there for me. She seemed pleased to see me -- maybe she'd thought I had ditched her? -- and from then we spent the rest of the show in each other's company, including just hanging out with her while she had a quiet cigarette. We'd talk about bands, most of whom I didn't know, and during each set she'd frequently turn to me with a smile while they were playing to see what I thought of them, and compare our opinions.

I introduced her to Pete later in the evening -- she was a big fan of his bands after all, and remarked how he was every bit the great guy I'd told her was. As we walked away -- off to the bar to get another drink -- Pete called my name. I looked round, and he smiled at me and nodded his head, as if to say "She's nice".

The girl's name was Claire (probably still is, I'd say) and she was living in Hackney -- I'm also fairly sure she mentioned having moved from Canada ten years ago, though I will have to ask her about this again. Rather than go home after The Filaments played, I stayed until the end -- through English punks The Business, who seemed a bit nationalistic for my liking, though Pete assures me he doesn't think it goes beyond just being patriotic. I think today's partial deafness is the responsibility of hardcore punks Conflict and headline act Leftover Crack. Claire was a fan of both, and was particularly enthusiastic about Leftover Crack.

After the show ended, the two of us caught the tube together since she was just going a few stops further than me. We sat and talked and I was aware that with every station I was one closer to getting off and not seeing her again. I had to ask for her number, but what if she said no? What if she said she had a boyfriend? I'd come this far and was determined not to just let her disappear. We both agreed we'd had a great night and the other was good company, so I nervously asked her for her number. She readily accepted, saying we'd have to keep in touch, so took my phone and typed it in.

Then it was my stop. We hugged goodbye (as well as you can, sitting down) and kissed on the cheek -- I got off the train, waved goodbye and set off for home.

It was about 2 hours after the show ended and a £20 taxi fare lighter that I got home. I sent Claire a message just to say I was home and we'd have to meet up sometime soon. Naturally, there was no response last night -- but I expected her to be asleep. There was also nothing this morning. I considered that maybe she'd made up a number to get rid of me, or perhaps mistakenly got it wrong -- but with no way of knowing or of contacting her, resolved not to worry too much. And as before, if that was where it ended, to be glad to have met her at all.

As I sat checking my emails this morning and wondering about her, my phone buzzed with a text from her. I replied, but I'm trying not to be too eager -- we're agreeing that we should meet for a drink again soon, and I guess we will just see where it goes from there.

And just to bring things back to topic, I'm making Musical Monday special today with two songs by two different bands. I've already featured Suicide Bid in posts at least twice, so I'll pass them over today. Instead you get the Filaments iconic song Punk Unity, and Northern Skies by Sonic Boom Six.

Postcard-porn for wanderlust

On Thursday evening, I walked to the station from where I was working, over near London Bridge. I'd known it was possible and a reasonably straight-forward walk, but hadn't been clear where I needed to go -- so rather than get lost, I'd stuck to taking the tube. It's a shame my work there was only for a few days, as I also worked out where I would need to catch a bus from, should I not want to walk again. Either way, it was a warm and sunny evening, and as I walked across London Bridge I was struck by how much I love the city. Looking out along the Thames, a large battleship (or something that certainly looked like one) had just passed through Tower Bridge, so the bridge was in its iconic "open" position and tourists were taking pictures. Looking in the other direction, I could see the dome of St Paul's Cathedral -- and many more things besides. These picture-postcard sites don't get old for me, like standing in Trafalgar Square and seeing Big Ben between the buildings. And I wonder how I'd feel living in a city somewhere else in the world -- if I'd feel the same way about Toronto or Melbourne or Barcelona or Moscow or... wherever.

Fuelling my speculation and my desire for other countries, is Postcrossing -- or what I'm beginning to consider as a kind of postcard porn for my wanderlust.

This first postcard actually arrived weeks ago, and I've only just got around today to scanning it and uploading it. It seemed like it made more sense to do more than one a time. As you can probably tell, it is my farthest-travelled postcard to date -- having flown all the way from the city of Dunedin, New Zealand. The postcard tells me this city on the edge of the Pacific Ocean was settled by Scottish immigrants in the late 19th century. I'm also reliably informed by the sender Renae that the water in the centre of the picture is Otago Harbour, an old volcanic crater. I look at this, and I look at this place I'm living in, and something certainly seems missing...


Marking my third postcard from Finland, the sender Annina lives in the town of Vantaa, neighbouring Helsinki. Annina tells me about a recent heatwave and thunderstorm, and again I wonder if it's a universal thing to want to talk about the weather or if it's because I'm English? Either way, she tells me she also enjoys photography and took many pictures when she visited Ireland over the summer. When I messaged her to thank her for the card, I asked if there was anywhere I could see these pictures -- but I don't expect a reply.

The picture is entitled "Girl On The Sand", by Helene Schjerfbeck -- the advantage of "art" postcards is naturally it fuels my passion for art and exposes me to new artists I wouldn't necessarily have heard about otherwise. But it doesn't have the same postcard-porn appeal, especially when I haven't heard anything about where she lives -- so I've revised my profile to encourage people to indulge me. And even though I speak only English (and a little bit of French), I've said people can write to me in French, Spanish or Italian as well, since I love the sound of other languages and there's always Babel Fish.

In sending postcards, I have developed a fetish for Paperchase which I already loved for greeting cards, stationery, paper and all things such related -- but now I'm binging on their postcards. The trouble is, I have about five blank postcards ready to go but whenever I get a new person to send them to they always want to see tourist picture-postcards. These are in abundance in London, of course, and I've been finding some really good black and white shots -- but I still keep buying the others.

Am yet to receive a postcard from any wealthy girls living in beautiful, exciting places around the world who want to invite me to stay... No, I don't know what's going on there either -- you'd think it would be common.

News day Thursday -- updated

"Reckless drinking. Sex with total strangers. Many middle-class girls now see holidays as an excuse for behaviour they'd never dream of at home."

from Daily Mail.co.uk

Where are all these girls? I clearly go on holiday in the wrong places.


Update -- I posted this to begin with because it just amused me. But then I got to thinking about it. I really can't stand the Daily Mail and it's Conservative outrage at everything. For one thing, the hypocrisy of it makes me angry -- it's girls getting drunk and having sex with strangers? Unless the girls are getting drunk and having sex with each other (and now you mention it, I think I've seen that video) there are also boys having "sex with total strangers" -- but notice how that's not remarked on? I expect a headline reading "Boys get drunk on holiday and have sex with people they don't know" wouldn't surprise anyone, but it's still the same thing.

And for another thing, who the fuck's business is it anyway? As far as I'm concerned, so long as people are being careful and not spreading disease, and so long as it's consensual, then what's the big deal? It's infuriating to see this sad excuse for a rag fuelling old stereotypes and ideals -- that men should spread their seed as wide as possible, but women should be chaste and virginal. Interesting choice of words that they refer to them as "girls", isn't it? Makes you think of children, makes the readers think of their own daughters -- rather than if you said "women" you would think of adults, who are responsible for their own decisions and actions.

Notice how the paper is still stuck in maintaining the old class system? It's morally outraged that middle-class girls are doing these things, but they probably expect no less from those working-class girls who everyone knows are no better than they ought to be.

If someone wants to go on holiday and have sex with 100s of total strangers, even all at the same time, fine. Let them. As I say, so long as they are careful and it's consensual, it's the individual's right.

As for getting drunk... again, it's not worth the moral outrage. If the newspaper is genuinely concerned about excessive drinking or binge drinking, if it considers the strain this puts on the National Health Service, that is one thing -- but I see no evidence of this, for a start the paper seems only concerned about when it's "on holiday". Drinking is a problem for many adults, men and women alike, and regardless of how much money they earn, but any ramblings by me on that can be saved for another day.

Explaining the poem

Last night, I dreamed of a girl named Claire. I've blogged about her in the past -- we were friends when I was 17 or 18, and we had a shared love of poetry. It was her who first read me the poem The Lion for Real. I think perhaps she liked the sound of her own voice a little bit too much, but she so loved to read poetry out loud. I remember one night, the two of us alone in her bedroom, with a bottle of wine and reading poetry. Thinking back, a lot of the poetry she read me was her own writing -- which now seems slightly weird. Anyway. I was discussing in an email with a friend Allen Ginsberg's work, when I remembered the poem. Throughout my friendship with Claire, I had always wondered what the lion in the poem was supposed to symbolise -- and thought I'd appear stupid if I asked.

Much later, when Claire and I were no longer really friends any more, I told her I had always wondered but worried she'd think less of me for it. She was surprised. She had never given any thought to it, but at a guess would speculate maybe the lion was depression? This was a thought I'd had myself, but I didn't feel like it fitted properly -- why, if the lion was Ginsberg's depression, does he tell the lion "Terrible Presence! Eat me or die"? Claire supposed maybe he was saying to consume him entirely, or to leave him alone. Could be, but I still didn't feel it fitted. It would have been good enough for a literature essay if you could back it up with evidence, but it didn't sit right with me.

So while discussing Ginsberg I remembered the poem, and it being almost 10 years later, I know have access to everything in the world ever -- by way of the internet. Three brief searches discovered the meaning. The lion itself is not symbolic as such, but instead the poem is about Ginsberg's "visions".

Last night I dreamed that I met Claire in the street, randomly. She had the mini-speakers you get for a walkman, and it was set up on a wall next to her. I didn't ask what she was doing. Instead, I told her how I still loved the poem, and I could still hear her intonation when I read it. I told her how I had finally found out what the poem was about. She was confused, and didn't know why I would care.

Either way, it struck me recently that I blog about Musical Monday but never write about poems I love, and only very rarely books I have read, and rarer still films I have seen. I am going to try and do this more often -- and that's the story as to why yesterday was just a poem with no explanation, and what the poem means to me.

The Lion for Real

"Soyez muette pour moi, Idole contemplative..."

I came home and found a lion in my living room
Rushed out on the fire escape screaming Lion! Lion!
Two stenographers pulled their brunnette hair and banged the window shut
I hurried home to Patterson and stayed two days

Called up old Reichian analyst
who'd kicked me out of therapy for smoking marijuana
'It's happened' I panted 'There's a Lion in my living room'
'I'm afraid any discussion would have no value' he hung up

I went to my old boyfriend we got drunk with his girlfriend
I kissed him and announced I had a lion with a mad gleam in my eye
We wound up fighting on the floor I bit his eyebrow he kicked me out
I ended up masturbating in his jeep parked in the street moaning 'Lion.'

Found Joey my novelist friend and roared at him 'Lion!'
He looked at me interested and read me his spontaneous ignu high poetries
I listened for lions all I heard was Elephant Tiglon Hippogriff Unicorn
Ants
But figured he really understood me when we made it in Ignaz Wisdom's
bathroom.

But next day he sent me a leaf from his Smoky Mountain retreat
'I love you little Bo-Bo with your delicate golden lions
But there being no Self and No Bars therefore the Zoo of your dear Father
hath no lion
You said your mother was mad don't expect me to produce the Monster for
your Bridegroom.'

Confused dazed and exalted bethought me of real lion starved in his stink
in Harlem
Opened the door the room was filled with the bomb blast of his anger
He roaring hungrily at the plaster walls but nobody could hear outside
thru the window
My eye caught the edge of the red neighbor apartment building standing in
deafening stillness
We gazed at each other his implacable yellow eye in the red halo of fur
Waxed rhuemy on my own but he stopped roaring and bared a fang
greeting.
I turned my back and cooked broccoli for supper on an iron gas stove
boilt water and took a hot bath in the old tup under the sink board.

He didn't eat me, tho I regretted him starving in my presence.
Next week he wasted away a sick rug full of bones wheaten hair falling out
enraged and reddening eye as he lay aching huge hairy head on his paws
by the egg-crate bookcase filled up with thin volumes of Plato, & Buddha.

Sat by his side every night averting my eyes from his hungry motheaten
face
stopped eating myself he got weaker and roared at night while I had
nightmares
Eaten by lion in bookstore on Cosmic Campus, a lion myself starved by
Professor Kandisky, dying in a lion's flophouse circus,
I woke up mornings the lion still added dying on the floor--'Terrible
Presence!' I cried' Eat me or die!'

It got up that afternoon--walked to the door with its paw on the south wall to
steady its trembling body
Let out a soul-rending creak from the bottomless roof of his mouth
thundering from my floor to heaven heavier than a volcano at night in
Mexico
Pushed the door open and said in a gravelly voice "Not this time Baby--
but I will be back again."

Lion that eats my mind now for a decade knowing only your hunger
Not the bliss of your satisfaction O roar of the universe how am I chosen
In this life I have heard your promise I am ready to die I have served
Your starved and ancient Presence O Lord I wait in my room at your
Mercy.

Allen Ginsberg,
Paris, March 1958

I touch the fire and it freezes me

I had a revelation today.

After an in-depth discussion with a recruitment consultant where she gave me some brutally honest feedback from an interview I realised that I'm just not very interesting -- or else I am unable to project it.

Recent interview feedback has a recurring theme of "he's very nice, but..." and the but is usually along the lines of not being convinced I am right for that agency, or that account. Sounds reasonable enough, right? This week's interviewer went one step further and said I just wasn't upbeat or enthusiastic enough. How enthusiastic can you be about "British Sausage Week"? That probably means I'm in the wrong line of work. I've said before I might be too cynical for PR. That said, I would have done the job -- and done it well.

They had the nerve to suggest my previous freelance contracts haven't led to permanent jobs because perhaps I'm just not good enough. I already ask myself that time and time again, I really didn't need someone else suggesting it. But it is probably true -- that despite whatever interests and passions I have, I'm just not extroverted enough and with it, and just not exciting enough.

The evidence is all there -- it now makes so much sense. This explains why I sucked and ultimately failed as a journalist -- in particular why after months of interviews and work experience nobody would give me a job. If I had been confident or exciting enough, the qualifications and the shorthand wouldn't have mattered. After that, I decided that I quite enjoyed my day job and bar management, and again failed to get anywhere. Repeated interviews, assessments, training, meetings -- and absolutely nothing.

It would seem that given the above, PR wouldn't be a very sensible choice of career. An industry filled with gregarious and outgoing people, people who can above all sell themselves. It's no coincidence that the work I've had, I've been hired without an interview -- and although they always think I'm a nice person, I'm not good enough. I'm not the right person.

I've been complaining about a lack of dates, and how the dates I do have don't lead anywhere. I should have seen this before, it seems so obvious. If I was more interesting, if I was more outgoing, if I was more confident, I wouldn't even be needing to place or reply to dating ads. And those times when I get a date, it doesn't take a genius to work out why they don't want to see me again -- oh sure, there's nothing wrong with me, I'm a nice guy, I'm just not interesting or exciting enough. It explains why previous relationships have failed -- why a passionate affection for me just evaporates -- and why some don't ever get as far as actual relationships.

I wondered what went wrong with the girl named Christmas, why when I thought we had a rapport that she found someone else. I ask myself if -- with her and with others -- if I had shown more commitment if they might not have wanted me instead of the person they ended up with. But I know now that's not it -- I could have been telling them I wanted to see them, or was willing to move, or whatever it took to make it happen, and maybe that would have worked? But, really, it was that these other people always have what I lack.

I don't know where I go from here. For this blog, I think I'm going to stop writing about myself for a while. For my life... I don't know.

Interview feelings

Almost two years ago now, I was taking my driving test. I was taking my test over and over, and getting nowhere. I kept failing and felt like I was being failed for stupid things I couldn't have helped. Jon was in a similar situation, and when we would fail a test the other would come to the pub, and we'd drink and insult driving test examiners. We'd also discuss ways of trying to get an advantage. At one point, Jon was considering shaving his head. He planned to shave his head and when the examiner asked the usual question of "what would you normally be doing at this time?" he would explain how he had been out of work for a while, because he hadn't been well... And let a connection be made. In the end, he decided that implying a terminal illness just wasn't something to be taken lightly. He did pass in the end, without any implied sickness -- although he did claim to have recently been made redundant. He also gave me some tips on how to pass, such as making sure you constantly talk to the examiner so they are too distracted to pick you up for minor faults and so they don't think you are too nervous. A tall task for me, since as a rule with people I usually just prefer to stay quiet.

Just the same, after I saw it was not impossible and he had done it, I went out and passed my test myself -- taking his advice.

I still remember the feeling. We'd been driving around for however long, and had finally arrived back at the test centre. But we arrived back with one manoeuvre still to complete. I don't remember which I had already done, probably the three-point-turn in the road, but either way we got back and he asked me to stop. And then reverse into a parking space. I got this feeling in my stomach, and I just knew I had passed, or would pass if I could just complete this last task -- one that I had done thousands of times before, and could do almost with my eyes closed.

I came mere fractions away from screwing it up. The space I had to reverse into was up a slight incline, and with my nervousness and wanting to take it slow and do it right, I stalled the car twice. I knew what was resting on getting this right. Fortuna smiled on me, and I did complete it -- and I could have hugged the old bastard when he told me I had passed. If I had stalled the car a third time I would have failed my test again, having got so far.

About a year later, in a job interview I got that same feeling in my stomach. Halfway through an interview where I had found myself involved in a discussion with the interviewer about the significance and beauty of the green light on the dock in The Great Gatsby, I got that feeling and thought "I've got this job".

Maybe that was why I was so bitterly disappointed when I found out I hadn't got the job after all.

That was the first time I'd has an interview and really believed I had passed. The second time was a few months back, way the hell out in a place called Turnham Green, which I think is in South London. I'd stumbled into the interview, been surprised when I found out it was for a job and not with a recruitment consultant, but came away thinking I might just have blagged my way into some business-to-business tech PR job. Obviously, I didn't get the job. Although they never told me why, I could list the reasons they probably chose from.

Then more recently was the job in Brighton where the interviewer told me how much he liked me both as a person and as a candidate and how much he thought we had in common. Looking back, it seems unclear if he was asking me out for dinner or about to offer me a job. But in the end, he did neither. I just got a letter in the post one day, saying; "sorry, no". His reservations about me at the time he confessed were that I didn't already live in the area. I guess it was just a local job for local people.

So last week when I had a good interview, I didn't get my hopes up. I didn't tell anyone "I think I might have got this one", despite the funny feeling in my tummy. I've begun to learn it means nothing, and didn't want to look silly when they didn't give me the job. This was last Monday. They were supposed to let me know by Wednesday, but when I called my recruiter I was told they had liked the three or four candidates for the job too much to choose, and would make their decision by Monday instead.

I knew they liked me. They;d made a point of saying they liked me, and particularly liked that I was a photographer -- since the job would involve to some degree an eye for photographs and some uploading/maintenance of them.

On Monday my recruiter was out of the office. She was difficult to get hold of today, but eventually I was told "sorry, no". Despite apparently being their favourite candidate, late last week I'm told they were told about someone who had recently been made redundant, and on interviewing her, she was hired right away.

Sometimes I feel with each progressive interview I'm a little closer to that elusive permanent job that would give me the opportunity to move and really start my own life. But so often they already know who they are going to hire before the interviews, and you might be the best person they see but you are just told you don't have the right chemistry, or aren't quite the right "fit" for the team.

And never again will I ever speculate I think I might have got the job, because I know it's just not true -- and never, ever to believe a good feeling.

summer. green and red

After the non-event that was my ebay auction for my art -- which I ended early, so as to avoid any winning bidders of £1 -- I have taken DelightfulJen's advice and listed it on Etsy instead. The advantages of Etsy being that it's not an auction, and the item will be listed until someone sees fit to buy it. Naturally, there hasn't been any interest yet and I'm not optimistic that anyone will stumble onto it and decide they want it -- any more than they did on Ebay.

I have also returned to the Britart to try and promote my art. I ran into some confusion first of all trying to make sure my selected images for submission were all 72dpi and 400 pixels. I don't know if that's meant to be 400pixels in height or width, I'm still not convinced I have it right, either. I also spoke some time ago of having to write a brief biography for the site. They require a short paragraph about [my] art practice along with a brief CV or biography. Considering I work in marketing and enjoy few things more than being left alone to write, I've found it quite difficult to write some kind of bio about myself. I include what I have so far, but am troubled that what I have written to date might just be considered as the "short paragraph". There's not much you can write about my photography "practice".

[Jay] is a fiercely independent photographer whose work spans from the Essex coast to the Moab desert.
Having studied photography at the University of Utah, [Jay] later trained as a journalist, before moving into public relations. Contrastingly, [Jay]'s work commonly features people as incidental to the places, if at all.
Often shot on quite basic equipment, the pictures approach scenes simply, and are remarkable for features like light, contrast or just a captured moment.

Clearly it needs more to it -- but at this point, I don't know what -- so feedback/suggestions are encouraged. There isn't really anything else to say by way of biography. I'm not expecting anything to come from this either, they will be overrun by real artists wanting to promote their work, but all I can do is try. I never expect to make a living out of this -- I was considering for a moment saying I wouldn't want to, but on second thoughts if I could make a living just by travelling and taking pictures, I think I'd take that over commuting into the city.

Thinking about promoting myself -- in a vaguely related way -- it occurred to me the other day that I haven't had a date in so long. I'm trying to think of the last one, and I think it might have been taking Luisa the mullet-haired Italian hottie to the ski&snowboard show in London. Last October. Has that really been it? Even that I don't think was really a date. I almost went on a date with Electro Girl, but I think I had a lucky escape with that one. Fairly recently, I was vaguely corresponding with a young lady who told me she was an artist -- but something didn't sit right with me about her. She claimed to be away in Benin, in Africa, at the time -- I didn't ever clarify whether she was talking about the Benin region of Nigeria or the Republic of Benin. Her emails always seemed very stunted, and hardly conversational however hard I tried -- I wondered if English might not be her first language, but in the end I decided I didn't like her attitude. She seemed to demand I be on instant messenger at a certain time each day, and didn't seem to get that I had to work. In the end, I set up gmail to automatically trash her messages unread. Maybe I was too hasty, but I was expecting any day some story about how she needed someone to look after her parents' fortune...

I repeatedly assert that I don't think online is going to be any kind of constructive way to meet someone -- placing personal ads is going to have very limited success when there's a thousand others just like it. I guess my freelance work is a good way to meet people -- I meet lots of new people, but aren't necessarily tied down to staying at one workplace so there's no worry about constantly having to see each other at work every day. Volunteering is also good, although I am wondering if it might not be a deliberate action on the part of the group not to put girls alone in cars with men they don't know.

It's not keeping me awake nights, but it would be nice to have someone to take to the open air theatre in Regent's Park on a summer's night or to talk on the phone to or show her my favourite bars and any number of other things. It would probably come easier if I was getting to just travel and take pictures...