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I prefer Lancashire to London
Meta: Could the person reading this apparently from the Maldives on Dhiraagu Internet Services, drop me a quick line and introduce yourself please? Thanks.
A French couchsurfer has been here for a couple of days for a conference at the Uni. He arrived on the same night as I was hosting our book group, and I was nervous about what I would do with him.
He turned up with a man he said he'd just met in the pub. I assumed he was a co-presenter at the conference but he literally was someone he'd just bumped into in the pub. We were halfway through our drunken discussion of anything but the book, but they both settled effortlessly, as we discussed Hollande's infidelity, fracking, borderline mentally ill flatmates and, most interestingly to me--as it's a career option with great appeal--fraud. It runs in the acquired family. I think I've mentioned before the time when Kirsty's Dad strolled out, acquitted of such a charge, from the Old Bailey. "That's a good job," he said to her. "Because I did it."
I told everyone of a night when some friends and I, the right side of a few pints, were collectively poring over the problem of how to garner a bit more cash, and were talking out loud, to see how it sounded, about getting a carousel fraud together--a very small one, way under the radar of HMRC--which would net us about £20K each for a couple of weeks' work.
Edward, a forensic accountant, told us of a couple of frauds going on now in Lancaster, and about a lucrative case his firm refused to take on, trying to trace and freeze the assets of someone who defrauded the Bank of Kazakhstan of between three and six billion dollars. One such property is a port in northern Russia known for its blind eye. "No, we didn't want that one. They'll just shoot you and pay the judge ten times his annual salary to record it as an accident."
On Sunday me old pal Keiran rang me to see if I was around. He went from pipe fitter to Philosophy lecturer and is now about to retire from a university in London. I'd never met his wife before. I was dog-tired, and stared at her for what I knew was an impolitely long time, arrested by her ineptly applied black eyeliner.
They're trying to decide where they'd like to spend their retirement. I suspect Keiran would like to come back here, but wifey isn't keen. "I know this sounds very Southern," she said, "but I'm from London and have lived in London all my life, and this 'Northern friendliness' you like and are recommending to me--it can sometimes come across as a bit intrusive or nosey. People start talking to you and you can't get rid of them."
Hearing the case for hardline Southern individualism stated so honestly was a surprise. "Well," I said, "you just learn techniques for telling them to go away. You can say something like 'Anyway, you'll have to excuse us--we're just grabbing an hour off between looking after the children', or something like that." Or you could try being friendly to strangers, perhaps? Living like that would send me mentally ill.
Here in Lancaster, though...
Next to me, at the bar. Mid, late forties? The loveliest hair: brown going on ginger in a longish bob; purple woollen crew neck jumper; inverted box pleat grey skirt, ending just above the knee; black tights and flatties. She's struggling to remember someone's drink.
I'll have a double (long pause)...er, Jack Daniels and Coke. She looks at me and says "I thought it was you next."
No, it was you. Although I was thinking of ordering while you remembered what you wanted.
--It was a senior moment.
You're too young to have those.
--No I'm not. You and me went to the same school.
Really? Did we? I went to --- High School.
--So did I. You'll be fifty this year then.
Yes, in March.
--Ha, well I'm younger than you then.
I look at ourselves in the mirror at the back of the bar and make a gesture like windscreen wipers between our two faces.
Well, I think that's obvious. What's your name?
--Doesn't matter. And your daughter's had orthodontic treatment. I'm a Dental Nurse.
Oh, you work with Mr --- then?
--Yes sometimes.
Blimey, there's no secrets round here are there?
--Not many. Anyway have a nice evening.
You're fucking gorgeous and I love that skirt and you've got beautiful hair. Yes, and yourself.
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looby, n.; pl. loobies. A lout; an awkward, stupid, clownish person
M / 61 / Bristol, "the most beautiful, interesting and distinguished city in England" -- John Betjeman [1961, source eludes me].
"Looby is a left-wing intellectual who is obsessed with a) women's clothes and b) tits." -- Joy of Bex.
WLTM literate woman, 40-65. Must have nice tits, a PhD, and an mdma factory in the shed, although the first on its own will do in the short term.
There are plenty of bastards who drink moderately. Of course, I don't consider them to be people. They are not our comrades.
Sergei Korovin, quoted in Pavel Krusanov, The Blue Book of the Alcoholic
I am here to change my life. I am here to force myself to change my life.
Chinese man I met during Freshers Week at Lancaster University, 2008
The more democratised art becomes, the more we recognise in it our own mediocrity.
James Meek
Tell me, why is it that even when we are enjoying music, for instance, or a beautiful evening, or a conversation in agreeable company, it all seems no more than a hint of some infinite felicity existing apart somewhere, rather than actual happiness – such, I mean, as we ourselves can really possess?
Turgenev, Fathers and Sons
I hate the iPod; I hate the idea that music is such a personal thing that you can just stick some earplugs in your ears and have an experience with music. Music is a social phenomenon.
Jeremy Wagner
La vie poetique has its pleasures, and readings--ideally a long way from home--are one of them. I can pretend to be George Szirtes.
George Szirtes
Using words well is a social virtue. Use 'fortuitous' once more to
mean 'fortunate' and you move an English word another step towards
the dustbin. If your mistake took hold, no-one who valued clarity
would be able to use the word again.
John Whale
One good thing about being a Marxist is that you don't have to pretend to like work.
Terry Eagleton, What Is A Novel?, Lancaster University, 1 Feb 2010
The working man is a fucking loser.
Mick, The Golden Lion, Lancaster, 21 Mar 2011
Rummage in my drawers
The Comfort of Strangers
23.1.16: Big clearout of the defunct and dormant and dull
16.1.19: Further pruning
If your comment box looks like this, I'm afraid I sometimes can't be bothered with all that palarver just to leave a comment.
63 mago
Another Angry Voice
the asshat lounge
Clutter From The Gutter
Crinklybee Defunct
Exile on Pain Street
Fat Man On A Keyboard
gairnet provides: press of blll
George Szirtes ditto
Infomaniac [NSFW]
Laudator Temporis Acti
Leeds's Singing Organ-Grinder
On The Rocks
The Most Difficult Thing Ever nothing since April
Quillette
Strange Flowers
Wonky Words
"Just sit still and listen" - woman to teenage girl at Elliott Carter weekend, London 2006
5:4Bristol New Music
Desiring Progress Collection of links only
NewMusicBox
Purposeful Listening (né The Rambler)
Resonance FM
Sequenza 21
Sound and Music
Talking Musicology defunct, but retained
