Strange and Unusual Men in Cars

The journey home from Tooting Bec. All is well in the world.

Walking up Upper Tooting Road tonight with my Dublin luggage and usual laptop bag. A car of drunks pulled up and asked if I wanted a lift. Three fifty-ish drunks. I think they were kidding. I was too tired to speak anyway so gave them a brief head shake. I was outside Tooting Bec's best Non-corner Corner shop going in to buy milk. I'm always glad I remember these things at 1am when coffee eight hours later can make or break a day.

I've been asked if I wanted to get into a car by strange men once before. I was about ten years old I think, living on an RAF estate in Chester. I was out on my bike with a friend and at the end of the road was a red Austin Marina. Two guys, one old one young asked us if we wanted to get in? At least we thought they said that. The memory is blurred but there were two of us so we both couldn't have been making it up. And I wasn't yet mental in those days.

Anyway, we were good kids. The police were called. Juliet Bravo and Reg from The Bill I think. We were separated for questioning and then an estate wide man-hunt was set up, looking for a dodgy red car. That's all I remember. Very exciting.

So yes, I said no to the drunks tonight. I'm still a good kid. Up to the taxi office instead where different old men drive around looking for people to get in. But at least these ones know where I live and make small talk if I want it and shut up if I don't. Passed the 90 year old lady bent double. I didn't even say hello this time. She has things on her mind.

Back to Streatham. Dull. Must look to move soon.

Gel sir?

There's only so much hair left on my head these days that soon a trip to the barber will be over, start to finish, in a little under two minutes. So while it lasts I find it's best to give it the attention it deserves. Attention yes, but I'm having trouble justifying to myself the £16 bill.

All I wanted was a quick trim. I went in, waited a few minutes reading a magazine, and then got into the chair. Fair enough, it was a mess. No shower this morning, a two hour wait in an airport, a one hour flight, another hour to work and a hassled day of cigarettes and coffee. Nobody facing those conditions is going to look like they just walked out of a salon. "Wash as well?" he asked. I knew what he meant. I had no choice. "Lean forward please."

This marked the first time anybody else has washed my hair since I was about 8 years old. A man in his late fifties began lathering my head. Soon, he had the hairdryer in my eyes. Then, a snip here and there before the clippers came out. That was it. Over. "£16 please". It costs £6 down the road.

Perhaps I'm not myself today. Perhaps it was the late onset of cheeriness that made me go for an impulse cut. But it needed doing before I went away, and now that I'm back it was time to toast being home. Look smart, the rest will follow.

Glad to be back. And at least the winner was a good bloke. Humble. That's scarce in these circles.

Dublin

I'm done in Dublin. Four days of poker reporting and a hotel intent on screwing up the room service. But I was free-rolling when it came to a hotel room, so what the hell if it took two days to find the hair dryer.

It'll be good to get out of here, to clear my head of work stress and get back to the misery of Streatham. that's where the real action is afterall, and whilst the Heineken slowly works its joy-riding way around my veins I can contemplate other things. Like National Novel Writing Month, which my good friend Barron, a Republican to the core, has persuaded me to join. 50,000 words in a month. Sometimes I have no idea.

But first it's back to the hotel with my girlfriend for roughly six hours of time flying fast before the airport and home. It's been an odd one. I had compliments from places I hadn't expected, but still felt my work was flat. But they'll be others. Bugger it. You should never expect to find magic in a place like this. the magic is getting out feeling fine.

Quick

I was the only person on the bus tonight. As I was walking to the bust stop I figured if there was still a bus at 1am then it must be down to some hard working, high-up official who had decided that no matter what the time, some nut job will want to get home. I’m thankful to that guy. Even though it meant deploying those drivers not fit to be seen out on the road in daylight.

Anyway, where was I? That'll do. Chipper feeling.

Adventures with Moon Face and Saucepan Man

It's getting cold these days at around midnight. Not that frosty cold that attacks your bones, but that first glimpse of what's to come. Hats and scarf soon. The idiot look.

Unusual, but it seems rush hour in Tooting is around this time, at least on a Saturday night. Cars lined up both ways with some pushing in from side roads and getting dodgy looks from the passing police with better things to do.

At the bus stop with nine minutes to wait a crowd was gathering, opposite the taxi rank and kebab shop, and a few steps along from the happy looking hidden house of tooting Bec. Two dozen people waiting for the bus.

The taxi driver did his usual three point turn in his white Toyota. He could make the turn in one move but he always plays the safety card, even with traffic coming at him from both directions, by shifting backwards and forwards as fast as he can.

Then there are the drunks, a couple tonight. One pulled faces at herself; another seemed to be having trouble keeping his head still. With six minutes left to wait he decided to dash across the road to buy veg. Sometimes the urge takes you and you have no choice but to go with it. So courgettes it would be for this brave warrior of the night.

But I’ll always find some kind of adventure on the way back to Streatham. I don’t even care if they aren’t really adventurous. But they are anyway. They keep the magic alive, even when I know the magic comes from elsewhere and that this stuff could probably be left alone.

But it was a good day. The Peter Pan park, conker hunting, conker smashing, and rowing the length of the Serpentine, even if each stroke took us slightly to the left. Either way we always get back to Tooting Bec.

Thursday's Dry Run

The bus home. It seemed earlier tonight, but it wasn't. Just there are more people out on a Thursday. The strong drinkers, out for a practice run on Thursday night before a maximum effort on Friday. They finish the 'dry' run at 11pm and head home, happy to dice with public transport.

The bus coincided with a last tube. Out of Tooting Bec came a line of men in suits. A long line of men, spaced exactly ten yards apart; a long line of men in black with white shirts and ties long forgotten. Some wobbled and faded off into a kebab shop. Others crossed over to the bus stop before changing plan and double backing to the taxi rank. The rest kept walking.

The taxis were doing good business. A driver got over cautious on a u-turn and, in a manoeuvre seen every night, five point turned his way back up Tooting Bec Road. The rest of us waited for the bus. One man shaking his head to get the voices out, but talking out loud to them nonetheless. Another younger guy, with his mobile phone on speakerphone speaking to a girl. In Polish. Basically, a normal night.

And for the first time I remember the driver was no lunatic, no member of the elite 'fuck you' driver corp reserved for late shifts by London Transport, the ones who show no fear to the drunks. Instead, a speedless crawl by an elderly driver. Perhaps he had loved ones waiting for him and felt finishing his shift alive would have it's good points? I know how he feels.

Friday tomorrow, or later today. What time is it?

The night shift

Another trip home from the magical Tooting Bec. The night shift of keeping the magic alive. There's normally an adventure to report, but perhaps nothing tonight. Just the usual people you'd expect to see late at night. People walking home, a couple here and there. A French couple tonight. From what I made out she was talking about spending time with him. That was nice. They were headed towards a kebab shop. It seemed out of character. But no, to the taxi office next door.

For me the night bus with the usual crowd. A comforting bunch. A mixture of the slightly drunk and the late commuters ready for bed.

These journeys seem to be all I blog about. Perhaps it's the safest thing I have. I feel chipper at this time of day, but it always follows that time when you say goodbye for the night. That bit is the difficult part, so I head out to find an adventure. This suits me fine. Keeping the magic going in Tooting Bec is important, like a Quixotic mission, armed with a cardboard sword and shield, out to defend all that's good from any hint of ill will and from any bad thoughts. It's enough to keep me heroic. And in cowards like me this is important.

Mushy

Walking past Tooting Bec's finest non-corner corner shop. Should I go in for supplies? Or just keep on walking? I couldn't think of anything, so passed a white man with dreadlocks looking pale and carrying some sort of coat at arms length as if something uninvited had pissed on it. Then passed the 90 year old woman, who I've seen many times before in Tooting Bec, bent double, neck bowed. I smiled at her. Maybe she recognised me? But when I smiled all I got was a look that said 'I've heard it before' and kept walking.

I made it to the junction with Trinity Road. A bus went past, the driver had opened his window and was making the universal 'wanker' sign at a taxi driver infront. This, it turned out, was also the last bus to Streatham. But nevermind. I was feeling too fine to want a wanker-driver. So I set off walking the half an hour road home.

Out came the Ipod. Coming with it six small satchets of tomato sauce half-inched from a day out today and a part-ingredient of a new sauce created with the addition of either salad cream or mustard. Good with chips.

It's a dark path and I'm not one to brag about any comfort with gloom, so I started singing to forewarn any potential muggers that they could, in fact, be dealing with someone far stranger than them. I also had on a home made sticker-badge with four stars on it and the word 'Steve is cool' scribbled on it. Any mugger would know I was not to be messed with.

So I kept walking, with the chipperish mood that comes with these times. All that broke the calm was occasional looks behind me to check that my own shadow was just that. Otherwise, an uneventful trip. A good trip. A good day before a long one tomorrow.

A doughnut, a taxi and the usual suspects

A half squished glazed doughnut for the trip home tonight. One of the late trips. The taxi kind. But a circle of sugary fun is always good, keeping the blood on high alert long enough to keep your senses on the short walk to the taxi office.

The car was waiting, of course, with one of my three regular drivers ready to take the wheel. Into the back and we're away. Unusually the excitement wasn't in Tooting tonight, but more at the Streatham end. Something happens when you cross the reailway line on Tooting Bec Road. Wandsworth gives way to Lambeth ('Welcome to the New Millenium in Lambeth' as the signs say). But like milk turning lumpy, the atmosphere flips, becoming less friendly, with less magic and more police.

Which is pretty much what the revellers found on Streatham High Road tonight at 1.30am. As the taxi pulled into traffic a police van made the flashing 30 yard journey from the station to the pub opposite, where one guy held back another, and two officers manacled a girl with red trousers and a red face. The smeared kind. The long worn alcohol face that appears the same from any distance after too many hours of the fun turned up to a level higher than the mind can handle.

She was screaming, which made good entertainment for the locals craning their necks out of windows, hangin on from high up, leaning slightly too far, perhaps smoking cigarettes.

For us though it was out of here. Up the hill before the sharp left to home. Only tonight he missed it. A quick reverse and onto my street. I saw a black cat on the road as we turned, and yelled out as I thought we'd hit it. But gee, these guys are professionals. He'd seen it. The cat had seen us. No bad luck. The opposite really. Earlier melancholy turned to chipperness. The cat probably felt the same way too.

Saturday

Absolutely bugger all to blog about. This is new.

I could mention the small bets on West Ham and Spurs today. But that would be all. No insight. Just impulse bets with no reasoning.

Then there’s the dismal ‘drama-documentary’ I spent three hours watching about Dresden this afternoon. Rubbish from start to finish. And it was Channel 4. They’re supposed to be groundbreaking. Instead they went for stereotypes and villains. Anyone can do that.

I could mention the Zidane film we went to see yesterday, but that was one of the highlights of a bad week, so I’m keeping that for myself.

I have interviews to prepare, for Phil Laak and Antonio Esfandiari on Monday. I could almost like Laak; but I’m not sure about Esfandiari. And in the meantime I may have offended one of the few Muslim players to make a good living from poker.

I could mention the duty free cigarettes from Austria and the slight shame I felt buying them. I could mention the misery of knowing it’s my week to vacuum the house and I really can’t be bothered. Or the fact that I haven’t been food shopping for over ten days but somehow I’ve managed to stay alive.

I could mention that Tranmere Rovers lost last night to a team I’ve hated for years. And that our season is effectively over, despite that promising start. And I could mention how good it is to actually care for a change. There’s not much else to mention. The days go by fast.

The Trusted Routine

The only adventurous part of the trip home from Tooting Bec tonight was the speed the bus driver reached on Tooting Bec Road. I had him pushing sixty. It may have been less. Either way the ease at which he handled the corners, at speed, and between parked cars, would be enough to bring a tear to any London Transport head's eye. And not just the legal department.

So yes, nothing much, and all to the soundtrack provided by Britney Spears. It's a secret shame, I like two Britney Spears songs and one just happened to pop up as the bus arrived. And i should be grateful that the bus arrived in teh first place. There's no real right to expect a bus at 1am. But maybe this is the start of another run of good luck.

Today was better than yesterday, which came with a good chunk of post-Austrian angst. It'd been a tough five days. I'm not keen on Austria. The atmosphere, the look of the place and miserable people. It brought out the temper in me. I warned my colleague about this. He took it well. The transport, the bill, the lumpy bed. The lift that didn't work, the stairs I couldnt find. The black and white women serving breakfast. The cold war clothes. I felt like they'd ask us to pay in silk stockings and American cigarettes.

But enough of that. No more Austria. And bus rides from Tooting Bec mean one thing. That life is getting back to normal. Getting home late to finding nothing on the telly. And going to bed at a stupid hour. There's only one more thing to do. To hang out of the window without safety ropes and have a cigarette.

Welcome to Austria. Please smoke these.

There must be another Vienna somewhere. There must be two. The one we went to was too Eastern-bloc to be part of Europe. It's the only country I've been to which gave me the impression that encouraging smoking had government funding. You can smoke anywhere. Lifts, toilets, in public.

There were things to get used to over the five days. First, the sense of having no idea where you are in relation to the world. No clue of north or south, safe or dangerous. Worse than this was the strong belief that the taxi drivers new this too. The same trip from Vienna to Baden ranged from between €50 and €80.

This includes when the driver gets lost. The first trip back involved the driver asking for directions twice. Then asking us in German where the hell this hotel stood. Using the German I could remember I repeated the address and asked for a cup of coffee with milk. He drove on looking for a place to dump us.

The last night's driver was best. Heading home late we tried to sleep off the journey. It's the only way to block out the German radio music - men with moustaches playing keyboards. This plan was ruined by the Baden driver who seemed unfamiliar with this Vienna place. He woke me up to say something. My 'ja ja's' were met with more German. My 'Ich spreche kein deutsch' was also met with more German, only this time it sounded harsh. The fucker was arguing with me. He asked if I had a map. I did, but wouldn't find it until I was back in the hotel several hours later. He seemed annoyed at this and blamed me for not knowing where we were going - a task traditionally entrusted to the man behind the wheel.

More attacks as we pulled over to ask for directions. Surprisingly few people about the town at 4.30am. I was stuck for local dialect and decided if he went on I'd just shout back in English. But it was at this stage I realised he was just worried, not mad, and lost. The reputation of his country was at stake. I made reassuring sounds whilst trying to hold back laughter.

We found the hotel. Eventually. After asking twice and then having a guy in his car lead the way. Ironically it was this taxi man who took the shortest route. The others who knew their way managed to add €20 to the trip.

But enough of Austria. I didn't like it. But it'll be a year at least before I go back. I have a theory that the further East you go from the UK the further behind the times they are. Room service for example. Grey buildings. Coffee. But this theory falls flat as it makes Wales the most advanced civilisation in the world. I'm from Wales. I know this not to be true. Bit of a bigoted theory. It needs work.

I'm back though. Nothing could stop that. Not even a lightening strike on the plane. Just a flash and a bang and reassuring words from the BA pilot. It takes more than a few million volts to make me run away.

We've come to Austria by mistake...

The hotel in Vienna was a terrible mistake. I’ll take the blame for permission to talk about it. Hotel Donauwaltzer. To begin with it was miles away from Baden. I’m convinced Baden is only 10 miles from the capital, but taxis charge €70 for the trip there and back. Then there’s the wireless.

Wireless is essential for these trips. For work, but mainly for keeping in touch with home. Austria has wireless. It’s just no one has told them.

When I asked at the hotel whether they had wireless the young guy behind the desk said yes. Great. In the room though there was nothing. ‘Don’t worry’, he said, ‘it works downstairs in the restaurant’. Terrific. This would do.

By the time I got downstairs a new man had taken over and he was unused to questions. He’s also never heard of wireless and began to vehemently deny that the hotel had it. I tried it. They did. Only I needed the password.

‘No, there is no wireless’.

‘Sir, hi. Yes there is, I can see it. I just need the password’. No sorry.

‘There is!’

Now he began asking colleagues, who until now had ignored me. I was beginning to think I didn’t exist. Someone found a code though, on the modem of all places, I’ll try that. It worked. Thanks for your help.

Then there was ironing. I had shirts to wear. The same guy was on the desk, only this time he was sleeping. Time to wake the fucker up. Sorry there is no iron in the entire building. He actually said ‘entire’. The answer was like a stock one, as if he’d been so used to police raids and his employers ordered him to deny the existence of anything. Now I was beginning to think this guy didn’t exist either.

The hotel leaflet said laundry service. It also said mini-bar and wireless. I figured I’d ask the new guy on the desk for an iron in the morning. Then iron the night shift’s face the next day. In the meantime I had only Cheers on TV. In German. Nobody knew my name there. Nobody seemed to know anything.

Argh Vienna

I never liked that song. Reminds me of bed at 7pm. How old am I now? Anyway, I'm in Vienna. The map I looked at showed Baden as being about three inches away. Didn't seem far. In reality it's €70 away in a taxi. Belts will have to be tightened. No money for food.

Getting here was okay, thanks to some hideous overspending on my part in alliance with a British Airways ticket. BA are like the BBC of airlines. Incredibly polite, and with a tone of voice designed to send you to sleep happy, and not at all concerned about the potential disaster that lies ahead.

I'm a nervous flyer. Have I mentioned this? Not so much anymore but still enough to keep awake on a short-haul flight. A baseball player named Bill Lee once wrote about a teammate who was only happy flying if he talked him through the whole process. Whilst the rest of the team tucked into margheritas, he would be muttering to himself "a little more power... easy on the flaps... left a bit... adjust the trim..." that sort of thing. I'm a little like that on landing. Talking myself through the noises as the ground comes hurtling up.

But it turns out the taxi's are more cause for concern, and not just because of the price. The lady who drove us from the airport to the hotel was in the midst of some paperwork it seemed, which she was happy to finish as we swept along the autbahn at 80 mph. She drove with a pen in one hand, her mobile in the other, perhaps steering with her knees. It ruled out general chit-chat in favour of prayer and a new found love of God.

But we got here alright, wherever the hell that is. I think this is the red light district of Vienna. Hard to find food but a peep show s never far away. Not my scene, but food is. And these trips bring famine with the cigarettes. Must be careful.

So yes, another EPT. This time without my girlfriend which makes it a lonely one. The drunks are yelling outside the hotel window and hotel staff look mean. But the usual crowd are here, like a roadshow, popping up in places you've never been before. And PokerStars do a good spread, and their people are nice. Like Conrad, who I'm under orders to say is a bit posh and has a lot of kids. I'll be racing him to the airport on Wednesday to get home fast.

Cheap Taxi Big Tip

Here we are again. Another trip away. One trip ends, a brief period of less stress follows, then another trip pops up. So be it. What the hell. They'll be cigarettes. But it still doesn't get rid of that stretching sensation in my stomach, like being taken away from somewhere you're supposed to be. A giraffe on the tube. After-dinner sprouts. It doesnt seem right.

So a late trip home from Tooting Bec. Outside Tooting Bec best non-corner corner shop there was a lot of noise tonight. Some towns boast of being 24 hour places. London isn't. Neither is Las Vegas for that matter (no Bran Flakes beyond 1am), but Tooting Bec at least has a go.

And a late finish brings up that agonising decision. No night bus, so either a 30 minute walk or a taxi home. I've just been given a payrise. Taxi it was.

Like walking was ever an option. And the taxi company know me by sight now. The driver said hello and set off driving without instruction tonight. When I thought he was about to miss the turning I spoke out. He seemed dissapointed I'd interrupted. Then, so did I. Damn. And the fare was a quid less than it ever has been before. I tipped big.

Where was I? Yes, away again. And I'm feeling too splendid for any real kind of blog post. The start-middle-end type. And this isn't misery, it's love sickness. And if that's what it is I can't feel too bad.

Don't stop - it's here somewhere

A clear night tonight, with a full moon making it cold too. Clear maybe but this didn't stop me getting lost on the way home from Tooting Bec. It always happens with the car. I set out in the general direction of home, get cocky, and end up speeding the other way wondering where the hell it all went wrong.

Of course that precious male gene is weaved into this pattern. That of feeling no need to ask directions. It's not that I feel lesser for doing this, just that it always seems more fun to try and work it out myself. This I did. Intending to refuel the hire car in Streatham, instead the closest I managed was three miles away in Balham. Ah, what the hell...

The car goes back tomorrow, after three great days that cover a trip I'm keeping in my head for now. Life picks up again where it left off. Then away again on Friday. It never stops. I'm looking for more clear weather and a quicker trip home.