168 Hours

I'd never sat still for so long. It had always struck me as unproductive and lazy, and that would permeate my thoughts with a sense of time wasted, existence literally draining away; of things being undone and things being unseen and unlived. I made to-do lists on a daily basis and would find myself lost and aimless once I'd crossed all the items off. But this time I had license to do nothing, recovering from an operation. Take it all as part of the experience.

For the first day as the anaesthetic wore off I seemed to be growing quite fond of watching TV. For maybe the first time I didn't feel guilty about wasting my time. It was at around the 72-hour mark when a flash of genius came to me; that I'd stay put for 168-hours, one whole week. That was the target, and I didn't know I could even achieve it, having itchy feet and a vagabondish tendency that had been a blessing and a curse for my adult life so far. I find it hard to sit still, there's that certain something forever stirring. But I am an achiever and once I've got a scheme in mind, I'll follow it all the way through.

Once I did leave the house it was the little things that came right to the fore. The breeze that blows natural and washes across your bare arms, the sunlight burning the retinas, the rumble of the double-deckers buses rattling by and the noise of life fumbling all around. Such a simple thing as walking along to the shop became a big event and felt like so, or moreso. I'd wanted nothing to do with the outside world during my self-imposed exile, going so far as to keep the curtains drawn at all times, and I hadn't given a second thought to what was going on out there at all. Why bother? It became me versus them; me in my ivory tower relaxing, catching up on TV and having a wail of a time as friends stopped in to say hello and wish well; and them, rushing and crushed by the bustling of the street and the noise. My world, and the rest of the world. Just the sound of it all I wanted to avoid. I worried it'd drive me mad, and more mad than spending 168 straight hours on the soft red sofa.

I like soft fabric sofas but that sagging sofa sagged more. The level of comfort was off the chart. I settled down into it and the sides came up around me. Like a birth in reverse with fabric. My eyes burnt out from the combination of screen and white paper anyway. The sounds from the town centre streets were unavoidable. The smell of alcohol crept off the night people and up into the windows along with their incessant drunk bullshit talk of meaninglessness. Only the red cushions to comfort me for long stretches of time, no women coming by or much conversation with working housemates. The giant factory-floor clock behind the sofa loud, but louder and louder on silent Sundays at 3am. It provided the heartbeat I never felt...

Hours stacked upon hours. The screen fizzled and buzzed and so did I. My mind and the TV became one, and we shared our knowledge. I pointed and shouted when the time came. Cabin fever crept up like ivy and it all seemed so impossible. I was compelled to move, but didn't, and then it got easier then from there. I found a second wind, much stronger than the first, and faced forward. Once the thought had passed through my mind it disappeared on the other side, as a car passing by and sliding away in the rear view mirror would. And going downhill with no accelerator, but a clear view all the way to the 168 mark. An open road.

At the Routemasters Cafe

On the channel ferry crossing and our driver has given me the golden ticket; a voucher which provides entrance to the exclusive drivers cafe and lounge. “Cheap breakfast, free tea...” he sells it to me. An opportunity to go deep undercover so naturally I'm skeptical; however will I pass for a truck driver? I'm slim and I've got mud on my jeans. They are all wearing shorts with a podge about them. I'm quite clearly a roadie, not a driver.

Up at the lounge I nervously stroll in and find no resistance, which eases my worry. 'Adopt the long-drive vibe,' I'm telling myself and hand over the ticket for a meal. Magic words stream from the counter guys mouth: “how many hash browns?” Don't mind if I do! The meal is less than half the price than that in the public cafe downstairs.

Upon taking a seat at one of the many formica tables and settling into a couple of bites of an early warm breakfast, I find the scene to be sullen and silent. All the drivers are practically asleep with their faces hung low towards their plates and both their elbows resting on the tables. They sit on their own, or in the occasional pair, and they do not converse. It's a strange world, being on the road; a world of long, late nights and long, late drives; endless stops at awful service stations with a collection of smelly socks burning a hole in the backpack. These guys understand that pain. We're all desperately trying to hold onto humanity, but are moving too much and too quickly to keep a tight enough grip. Our main concerns; where is the next laundrette and how many hours of sleep can I manage today?

In fact, the drivers lounge is less exciting than I'd thought it would be. What about it had enraptured me so anyway? I meet no-one and am offered no road stories by other creepy loners, much to my dissappointment. Here we all are, living out our private lives in public, and waiting for the next stint to take us that little bit closer (or further away?) from where we are headed. Destination is everything, and destination changes constantly, almost daily. How are we to cope with life on the road? I worry that I'll become to aquainted with this life and then staying home will become impossible; that the bug will develop into an itch and home-life will never be quite the same again. A first world problem, I know, but a problem nonetheless.

At The Market

At the market and it’s raining an annoying and thin rain. Through the rusty, battered stalls I wander slowly, humming to myself and feeling good. Why let rain ruin my shopping trip for nothing? From the butcher’s van I hear the guy with the microphone up-selling his wares: “There’s eight, there’s ten, twelve, fourteen, there’s sixteen pounds worth for a fiver.”

“That sounds good. I’ll take it.”

“I don’t blame ya.”

There’s not actually anything on my shopping list. I’m just scraping around a stall of second hand nonsense and stumble upon the figure of a white ghost. It’s plastic and it’s total trash. I turn on the switch and watch as it morphs from one colour shade to another. Yep, it’s another piece of useless junk that I want. I lean over to ask the stall holder how much it’s gonna cost.

“Don’t worry about it. You can have it. Things like that I just...I give them away.”

I’m going to get it for free, but can’t accept that straight off. “How does that work for business then?” I ask him, wanting to know how he pays rent on the stall if he doesn’t accept money as payment.

He laughs. “Well, consider it my good deed for the day.” I’ve not seen that guy and his stall of general tat since, so I guess he did one too many good deeds, and gave away one too many items for free. Generally, the market is made up of the same twenty stalls, all of which I recognise as regulars. There is something to say for the generosity of complete strangers; when small acts of kindness are performed simply because they can be.

The idea of doing a good deed everyday stuck with me, and I actively tried to do the same for weeks afterwards. I’d pushed wheelchair users along, handed out liberated food at a festival, bought rounds, shared dope, given out guitar strings, returned a lost passport and caught a lady when she fell backwards down the stairs at the train station – and that was all in the first week of consciously trying to do good deeds. To do these things – totally selflessly – had actually left me with a sense of pride and made life seem so much more worthwhile, considering the tininess of some of the acts I’d performed.

So, don’t seek to do good deeds, but let them come to you, and follow them through. It’ll be good for you; for the soul and the mind and your place on this planet living this life.

At The Cafe

In the Cafe at the end of my road and I’m jet-lagged to hell. I can barely comprehend what time it is, how tired I am or even where I am. Peace and quiet seem so appealing as I huddle over breakfast at the corner table. Elvis’ ‘Suspicious Minds’ comes over the stereo, sounding through the luminous jackets and elderly guys arguing amongst themselves. The counter lady, Cathy, dressed in a green and white striped apron, joins as Elvis sings the first line: “We’re caught in a trap.”

She looks over at a big guy tucking into a fresh omelette. He smiles, still chewing, and sings the next line back to her: “We can’t walk out.” She smiles. Maybe something is going on between the two?

Suddenly, on Cathy’s ok-go, half the cafe sings the next line, all jovial and gleeful: “Because I love you too much baby!” I can’t help but grin, which eases the pain I’m in. Soon enough – a couple of lines later – the whole place is singing and tapping their cutlery out-of-time on the tables. It’s quite the change from the usual blank stares and slurping from tea cups in-between the grating silence, and it’s more than welcomed by the clientele.

The singing isn’t exactly harmonious, but it sure makes the day feel more in harmony. A little comfort through humour and the world seems back up the right way.

Busy Busy

For two long years I was totally unemployed, and unemployable. I spent most of my time at home alone pondering existence, wondering why life seemed to be passing me by so quickly, ignoring any action or interest to be found outside of my four small walls. I was probably depressed. I hardly exercised. I smoked too much. I had hit a rut.

      Then came the invite to start driving my friends band on tour. I'd always wanted to tour, and had gotten a couple of short trips under my belt before accepting their offer. I had always thought that my life would come to life once I got on the road and started chewing up some miles, meeting some people, staying out late and seeing some places I'd never seen before. It was like my whole life was on pause, ready and waiting to go out on the road. I adapted quickly to the sporadic touring the band was doing, retiring home every few days or weeks to rest up and contemplate my experience. I had that time to let it sink in, and to deal with this new everything in my own way; by writing it down and by thinking it over.

      That band now seems to be doing more and more successfully. We just got back from a six-day trip round Germany where every gig was sold out and every audience member there to hear them. We're just wrapping up a two-week UK tour which has been pretty much the same. It seems there is no bounds to their meteoric rise to being a successful indie band. I think back fondly to those first few shows, where we'd arrive early and visit a couple of sights in the city before calmly heading over to the gig. Trying to sleep in a freezing cold van was hell at the time, but seems romantic and part of our initial hardship now. Driving all through the night, a coffee cup perched firmly on the dashboard was taxing then, but sounds like bliss now.

      Now things seem to be moving so fast I can't get a moment to reflect and to understand what is happening. By the time I get back to my room proper we'll have been away for three and a half months solid, with only two days off and five travelling days. It's a crazy schedule we are keeping, but, as I keep telling people it makes up for doing nothing for those two years before that. I just wish I had some time to reflect and soak it up along the way. It's all I can do to keep an up-to-date journal.

Billy Bragg Live at Greyfriars Bus Station

As I took the escalator into our beloved bus station today I imagined Billy Bragg playing a gig in there one day. I let myself run with the fantasy; quickly deciding where the stage would be, what the crowd would look like and even the songs he would play. I could already hear his familiar reverberated Essex vocal delivery and the aggressive down-stroke guitar playing, and it sounded like heaven. Greyfriars is probably the only place in town where you ever hear people sing, and they’re never singing Billy Bragg songs; they’re singing generic pop with lyrics that would fail to engage even the most culturally-stunted among us. I guess that says something about the town. Billy Bragg could come and help us out.

                Greyfriars has a long history of smelling like urine and resembling the “jaws of hell,” as one architect put it. Its past has been blighted by stalactites dripping from the ceiling, of the car park alongside being too dangerous to use and as a building that is utterly useless to anyone with a wheelchair. "It is an ugly, malevolent building brimming with inner hostility and low aspiration," an ex-Northamptonite so perfectly put it. It certainly does feel hostile, perhaps because the roof covers and engulfs the building in a constant shade of darkness. And the low aspiration? That's just Northampton for you, the go-nowhere town all go-nowhere towns look towards. These are all truths, but Greyfriars is our bus station and I'll be sad to see it go when the new North Gate bus station opens later in the year.

                What will go in its empty space has not yet been decided, but we can trust our Borough Council to fuck up again so brilliantly that the next building will cut just as many corners and be just as much of behemoth as Greyfriars currently is. That said, the place needs to go; it only serves to damn the town now. People have a bad opinion of it. You rarely see anyone smile in there.

                So why Billy Bragg? Since day one he has supported and celebrated British-ness and so has become an icon and symbol of this country – he is a jewel. All through his thirty-plus years of service he has encouraged people to think, to engage and to share information. No doubt he’s been through Greyfriars at one point or other when he ran round East Northamptonshire getting Riff-Raff together. The people passing through Greyfriars on any given afternoon could do with something to engage with and something to think about; something way above and beyond whether the number 7 will be late or whether 50p Lil will corner them into given her a cigarette and dribbling on their shoes.

                In an age of bands playing sessions in any and all manner of strange venues Billy Bragg has been doing just that for many years; standing on plastic chairs to sing at miner’s benefits and at punk garden parties. Greyfriars would be perfect. How about it Bill? Make a decision and come down to play the closing party. Please, I beg of you, save us from ourselves for a few moments and help us to celebrate yet another fuck-up by the borough council.

Beerwolf Books, Falmouth - "We sell books and beer"

A quiet moment. Taken from their website.

Beerwolf Books in Falmouth is a bit hidden away. If you keep your eyes peeled you may see notice it tucked up a side alley off Market Street, but you'd be more likely to miss it. I wandered past, caught sight of the signage and had to stop to do a double take. I came back later; passing the smokers at the front door, ascending the staircase, noting the book shop, ordering half a Flensburger and sitting down to people watch in quiet.

     It's a cavernous space - which is made all the more strange because it is on the top floor. All the exposed beams, the ancient, rickety chairs and the bare-naked floorboards perhaps help this feeling of space along? One bench was so ancient and so rickety that the seat aimed down and I kept slipping forward. Oh, the charm of the place! Between the creaks and the hushed mid-afternoon chatting I was already in love with the place. And I hadn't yet checked out the books. I'd already spent too much so only had a quick browse so as to not be too tempted, though the prices were more than acceptable. A good selection; though maybe too predictable? The framed posters of Bukowski, Ginsberg and Crumb around the bar looked great - were great - but are safe now; they are accepted as an 'alternative canon.' I'd have preferred framed shots of Gorky, Selvon and Stevie Smith; the real alternative. The girl on the table opposite looked so happy to be in a bookshop with a drink that she pulled out her notebook and scribbled three whole pages straight off. Brilliant.

     I came back on the Saturday night to find the place packed, with people practically queuing for table space to play cards. We sat down to play too, but found our pack had only 47 cards, each one of which showed the signs of many hours manhandling. The room was warm and cosy, whilst outside it rained heavily. The vibe was friendly and bashful, all waves and smiles and eyes. I sat against the wall to look around - evidently the evening clientele were almost exclusively twenty-somethings.

     "Have you noticed the action figures? asked Joe, pointing up at the rafters and above the bar. I hadn't, but once I looked I could see more and more. A nice touch. The atmosphere stayed cosy, even without an open fire, and as I sat back it dawned on me that I may be in one of the greatest pubs ever. Beer and books - a good combination, in moderation. A traditional pub with a modern and forward-thinking glint in its eye.