Thursday, July 22, 2010
Went to a bar called The Ship tonight to see a mate.
It's on the banks of the river, slap bang in the middle of Wandsworth.
I am having issues at the moment, in the terms of mind fuckery, which is putting strain on everything. Tonight, however, I felt especially foreign and especially incomprehensible.
Vulnerable and out of place.
Wearing socks with my heels. Because wearing takkies is just not me. And now wear socks with my heels, I mean what the fuck?
I need space to adjust, but I need someone to care for me. God it's hard.
I decided to take a bus straight from work to Wandsworth. This in itself was a whole procedure. Actually had to open the PDF on my Mac and scan, with the help of a British colleague, as to exactly where it stops, as its final destination was Tooting.
Wanted to make sure I got off waaaay before then.
The problem with buses is that it seems to tell you each and every stop, and yet it lies. No, it wasn't 8 stops to Wandsworth Town, it was in fact 12.
Slide around the bus, as the driver decides to break at every conceivable stone in the fucking road, and eventually ask him to just tell me when we get to Wandsworth, now haggled and bruised.
About to step off the bus when I see two very very very scary looking chav mothers standing on the pavement.
Chavs, like Vicky Pollard, usually make me howl with laughter. These chavs sent shivers up my spine, to the point where I decided to remain on the bus. Broad daylight, people around, I opted for the next station.
Why? I'll try to describe it. The one, with greasy long blonde hair, was scowling into the window. She might've been around 16, no more no less. She was sucking on a fag, while her three children. THREE kids were milling about her. She looked like she wanted to pick a fight with passersby, she had that, 'I want to claw your eyes out mate' look.
The smallest child had a mullet. He might've been 9 months old, it's hard to tell.
The second and third were kind of standing there. The chav herself is standing next to her mate, ALSO with three kids.
You can't make this shit up.
The mate is also 16, lights up a smoke. I couldn't help staring. From the safety of behind the window. They were absolutely terrifying. They had this look which made me suddenly realise why Britain doesn't dare do anything about its delinquent teenage nation. This, in a picture, was why.
It has to be said that the smell on this Tooting bus made the image that much more surreal.
Go to The Ship; sink a few ciders.
Come home at a reasonable hour and wait for the bus. In a sort of dark area, under a bridge. Suddenly, out of a pub, bursts another two chavs having a full on fucking barney on the street. Screaming at each other, one with crutch in hand, (but still walking like a normal person), bright pink velvet tracksuit, herself with a backside the size of a bus.
I would feel sorry for them, if they won't so flipping insane.
They're sca-reaming at each other colourfully - 'fuck you, fuck off, your muvva's a c&nt,' sort of dialogue, and I'm standing a few meters away staring at the sky begging the universe to send a bus to swallow me up before they reach me.
No such luck, they're having a cat fight right next to me. Me in corporate wear, Mac on back, heels and socks, pretending I can't hear them. The one chav has a child who was crying and asking in between hysterical sobbing, 'Why are you fighting with Aunty Trace, Mummay?'
Mother turns to the daughter and says, 'I told you not to geh involved! Trace is just pouring her frustrations out on me, I'd 'ad enough. Fuckit.'
It was hectic and horribly sad.
By the time I got home to my temporary flat in Earls Court, I lay down and had my first cry.
Been here just over a week. I suppose it was due. The chavs made me do it.