I went on my own. I mean, there were 15,000 other people there. But none of them were in my party. I was the only member of my party. There was too much cake.
I didn't mind being on my own. I didn't feel the urge to make small talk. I did make one remark to the person next to me. He misheard me, but realised what I'd said and began answering after I'd already begun repeating myself. You know how that goes.
I'd intended to use my solitude in a writerly way. I was planning to eavesdrop on various strangers, so I could pick up on some charming conversational idiosyncrasies. But I didn't really hear too much.
The only good thing that happened was a middle-class mother and young daughter reacting with the same wide-eyed awe at Jay Rodriguez with his shirt off. I might have been wearing the same excited expression too, but I couldn't see what I looked like, and I didn't want to ask the guy next to me. Not after the first fiasco.
I bought a scarf before the game. I wanted to display the team colours. I don't own any red and/or white clothing, so I was dressed all in drab blues and greys. The scarf really brightened me up. Also, it was cold. Scarves don't just demonstrate your footballing affiliation; they also keep your neck warm. That's why they're better than tattoos.
Also before the game, I wandered around Southampton to kill time. I grew up there, so it was like walking around a memory. I felt like I was in a dream. I don't have any specific fond memories of the city centre, so I was mostly looking at shops that I used to visit. One of the shopping centres I remember from my youth was boarded up. Another was literally being demolished as I looked at it. I don't know if it was a professional demolition crew. Their main tactic seemed to be spraying rubble with a hose.
As I looked at it, I couldn't help but think that - in a way - I was looking at myself. I was boarded up. I was crumbling to pieces. I wasn't the way I remembered. I was being hit by the hose.
Actually, I was being hit by the hose. I should have stood further back, really...
To tell you the truth, I didn't think that at the time. I only just thought it, because it seemed like the kind of thing someone might write about.
What I actually thought was: "AHUHUHUHU! HOAS IS WET! AHAHUUU!"
I also had some time on the train to look at the tendons in my hand. Are they tendons? The bits that move the fingers? They were pretty good.
I don't think I'll ever make it as a travelogue presenter. If you're telling people about a journey, you need to make your tale a journey itself. A narrative should give a sense of distance, progress and continuity. My account so far has flitted backwards and forwards with no rhyme or reason. That's no way to travel.
Though, to be fair, I did get the train, walk into town, walk to the stadium, buy my scarf, walk back into town, see a hose, walk back to the stadium, watch the game, walk back into town and then walk back to the station.
So perhaps my fractured account is accurate.
Fracturate.
I'll take notes next time.
***
Our path to work is flooded, so we have to get the bus. On the surface, I'm annoyed at the inconvenience, but the lower, lazier part of my brain is enjoying the comfort and convenience. I can shake my warm, dry head and claim that the weather has ruined my usual morning walk.
I get to seem active, without actually being active. That's the dream. I want people to think I do things without ever having to do them.
I mean, I could lie, I suppose. I could lie all the time. But I'm a man of principle (or so I'd like you to believe).
That's why the flooding is ideal. It's not my fault. I have no alternative but to get the bus. And I don't have to lie.
I'm getting fatter and poorer by the day, but I'm winning.
***
Lucy and I came up with the saucy phrase "joie de beavre" recently.
We were very pleased with it, but thought we'd better google check it.
We could invent it! We could!
Thomas Pynchon's not the original thinker you think he is, Slate.com!
I mean, he did come up with it first, so technically that makes him original. But we came up with it also. Linear time shouldn't have any bearing on plagiarism.
I'm never going to click on that review. It might weaken my legal claim. Good strip club names don't grow on trees. This is my livelihood we're talking about.
What about... uh...?
Melon Degenerates?
That sounds like Ellen DeGeneres, who's a famous comedian. It's a pun.
(I don't think I'll google that one.)
Who rules the smut-roost in Queens now, Pynchon?!
No comments:
Post a Comment