Fiendish plans to implement...
Hopefully some of these will bear fruit sooner rather than later. In the mean time, I'm very happy to be able to introduce you to my new blog based around writing my first novel. Cementum: The Creation of a Novel I look forward to reading your feedback and commentary and letting you know about the other plans. Take care of yourselves, Jack
10/04/2008
May you live in interesting times.
May you come to the attention of those in authority.
May you find what you are looking for.
All three send shivers up my spine. They are curses, but I’m not sure if there’s anything I’d quite enjoy more than all three, at the same time, and in full force. Though who knows? I’ve never been the sort of dude who has done overly well at getting what he wants, only what I need, two different things on many levels. But right now, this juncture in my life, the wants are starting to come into play, it’s scary as hell but equally as exciting and gratifying, that years of pushing forward with all the force I could give it is now coming to fruition and reaping some serious rewards.
Now I’m here, on Hong Kong Island, sat in a bar typing away, looking forward to getting some fine cashmere wool suits fitted tomorrow and hopefully attending the races. Reading, writing, absorbing and puncturing where I can the steely mist that surrounds a westerner in this hectic, ‘ex-imperial, jewl in the crown’ of a city. I’m learning quickly that my extra foot of height and apparent Anglo decent bring a level of respect on the high street, but in the club, bar, pub, which ever you may frequent, the respect seems to dissipate, but a level of curiosity remains. It’s an interesting position to be in, especially only a decade after the place was handed back to those Commies with a spectacular show of fireworks.
I probably hit about six or seven bars upon arrival, which seemingly took forever and was sprinkled with instances of hysterical laughter and absolute fear. My airline, Oasis, was reasonably pleasant. On boarding the plane it looked a little mucky, like the whole thing could have done with a deep clean, but my flights were cheap and it was actually a lot better than I was expecting, I had ample leg room and a whole isle to myself, so I was in a good mood, for a time. The takeoff felt as though we were flying out of our own atmosphere and on, into the dark of space, my hand shook slightly, the natives looked reasonably at peace but I’m used to a slightly smoother launch. My suspicions were seemingly confirmed though when a person (unsure whether ‘it’ was male or female) said over the speaker system:
“Please can all passengers by a window pull down their shutters as we will be flying into the Sun on this flight.”
HA. There’s that split second, that single moment when you think, ‘WHAT THE FUCK.’ Broken ‘engrish’ is always amusing, but on a wobbly flight with a budget airline, they have to be careful, especially for overly pale, slightly dehydrated Anglo-Celt types with an overactive imagination. I quickly recovered, had my in-flight meal, watched a terrible movie and tried to sleep as much as I could. The landing felt like the pilot had switched his engines off about 300ft in the air, but fuck it, ground is ground and if I’m alive at the end of it, it’s a successful landing.
I grabbed a bus over to where my hostel is, Tsim Tsa Shui, Hong Kong, in Mirador Mansions, which is basically a huge building filled with everything from my hostel to peoples homes to brick-a-brack stores, pharmacies, seven-elevens, and everything in between, you want it you got it pretty much, apart from a beer. I checked in, found my room, enjoyed a hot shower and went out on the prowl. After a bit of walking the only place I could find was an Irish pub called Murphies, absolutely fucking typical. 8000 miles, some money, fear, excitement, and sore feet later, I arrive in a pub basically the same as one, two minutes away from where I live in the UK. Not dampened by this event though I sank some Stella Artois, reasonably priced at about £3 a chalice, and moved on. Found the coast line, looked at the skyline of Hong Kong Island, was mightily impressed, walked a bit further, and began to get my teeth stuck into exactly what I wanted, some action, some local action, the only Anglo in a bar of 300 natives, standing about a foot taller with a belly full of beer I felt mighty, MIGHTTTYYY. I remember walking to the toilet at one point and a tiny Asian female didn’t see me and actually bounced off my chest about 3ft backwards and onto her arse, I couldn’t stop laughing, these god damo Commies.
I had a chat with some locals that spoke English, played a game or two of a variant of ‘bullshit’ that involves two set of five dice, two cups and lots of rules, I lost over and over but for no money, and surprisingly enough woke up with a set of the dice in my bed in the morning. Regardless I moved on, to a karaoke bar, where again I laughed heartily, roared and generally made myself known, but soon enough again it was time to move.
Now, I don’t have the business cards with me I picked up whilst I was out, but I made a few friends, and have one for the club I was in, which I will be going back to, if I’m allowed in. I was reasonably sober until this point, the club wreaked of Hong Kong youth, fashion, exuberance and money, the cover was about £15 and that’s expensive for the UK, so it was definitely expensive for Hong Kong and probably even more so given the amazing exchange rate we’ve got here at the moment. Anyway, a gin and tonic and a quick chat with another native later and I got invited into a private function room by a little man in a suit, who clearly had too much energy. His name was Dominic, which in actual fact was his chosen Christian name, as the Mandarin names of the natives are basically impossible to pronounce for those of Western tongue they chose a secondary name in case they meet someone of my ilk, I met a Dom, Peter and Henry that night alone. Dom was partying with about 10 people in this private room, at the back of the club overlooking the rest, it was sound proofed with a glass front that let you see all the ‘prols’ outside. I was excited, especially when I saw the Cuban cigars being passed around and the bottles of Jonny Walker Blue Label on the glass topped marble tables.
I puffed away, talking in broken enlgish to the exquisite women in furs and the finely tailored guys, I was in jeans and a t-shirt from H&M but I guess they liked my newly George-Clooney-styled side parting – he’s bringing it back don’t you know? – Because they fucking lapped me up. Dom kept pouring more and more whiskey and I kept sipping it down, ‘GET DWUNK REESSSHHARRRR, YOU WRRRIIKE?’ he clearly was mental and I tried to explain to him that he probably wouldn’t like it if I got drunk. The owner of the club was in our booth now, who I had been introduced to, and I didn’t really feel like smashing all this glass on my first night in the town, so I tried to take it easy and continued to enjoy myself.
Then he appeared, the bad - Japanese, Chinese, Asian, whatever – guy out of the movies you always see, he had been in the room all along but I hadn’t noticed, he was bald, about 5.6”, sharply dressed, whiter than usual skin for his obvious Asian ancestry, and fucking-mean-eyes. I got a snap, although compared to me he still looks tanned, I fear to think how white I look here, anyway, I continued to point out to him that he looked like the ‘Asian bad-guy in the movies,’ to which he reacted particularly well considering I was, by this point, probably shouting it at his face with a hail of whisky and fine cigar flavoured spittle.
The hours passed, I continued to get increasingly drunk, Dom’s friends continued to get increasingly annoyed and then the club closed before any fireworks really kicked off. I don’t really remember getting home, some sort of taxicab ride, big, big teeth sticking out of his face as far as I remember, more dental hygiene, don’t say anything though, stick to the golden rule, don’t upset the locals too much, at least on your first night.
A hungover Saturday spent suit shopping and eating fine Asian cuisine followed, and a very pleasant Sunday spent enjoying the view, sipping white Russians, smoking countless cigarettes, reading my whole book in one sitting and fantastic dreams, one of the best nights I have had in a very long time, boy, I’m happy with my own company a little too much some times I fear. Then today, my first trip on the ferry, over to ridged dot in the ocean that is Hong Kong Island, quite an incredible place, I love how it’s on so many levels with walk ways and such, its like a gigantic hamster run or something, I just want a huge ball to roll around in now.
More to come, my first suit fitting and the horse races tomorrow if all goes to plan, which it must, then onto the book. I might blog once more whilst I’m out here but I want to concentrate on the book, sight seeing and some drinking from here on in.
Adieu maestro,
I’ll be seeing you again soon.
Love
Jack
26/11/2007
...And here it is
Finally started, a work in progress at the moment but I will endure to entertain. Take a look, it's actually quite ace. Jack
08/01/2007
Let us dare to be powerful
Howdy boys and girls.It’s been a long time since I’ve done any sort of decent update, for this I apologise immediately. It’s not as if I actually know of anybody that pays any close attention to breadontoast, especially not now after I’ve let it fall into this state of decay, but I thought I’d address the matter anyway.
Alas, I’ll give a brief update on were I am; right now. No longer roaming the ether of unemployment with booze acting as some sort of erroneous floatation device, I’m in fulltime employment and as a Copywriter no less. Getting to this stage was no easy task, let me remind you that I only listen to the Mess around; I very rarely take part in it.
Truth be told I’m currently sat on the Oxford tube (a trumped up bus service) heading into London at moderate speed for New Year’s eve, a night of drinking to be spent with the one known as Bevski. Ultimately it will be a silly, over expensive night out to end an all together overly expensive year, too much booze, too much money, not enough fun. The two aren’t always side by side – booze and money – holding hands and smiling, often they’re coupled against each others will in a disgusting arranged marriage that causes little joy and a whole lot of trouble. 2006 started with a bright spark which quickly turned into a damp squib. Prolonged months of dull work – a means to an end – that bore little fruit for the time and effort put in.
Never one to be dismayed by an unfulfilled Plan A however, I reverted to Plan B and quickly shot off to Acapulco. Chasing the dream of tequila fuelled nights, and days filled with sex and writing, I almost got what I wanted. From settling in over the first few days and discovering that, like most Anglo-Celts, my ability to consume Mescal tequila is only inhibited by my inability to control my basic motor-functions; the mind goes on but the body is unwilling, as the saying goes, I continued to solider on in the fashion that I have become accustomed to. Getting chased down the beach by angry locals, after a brief encounter with a man who appeared to have swallowed numerous basketballs, was a definite highlight; along with almost getting mauled and thrown 100ft to off a balcony by a giant Persian, who was protecting a group of naive Canadain girls.
All of this is documented here. My further travels through Los Angeles and Las Vegas did little but provide me with a vague insight into the American dream, I clawed at it myself ever-so-briefly whilst in Las Vegas, but came away a loser. I guess it’s just not in my blood, I’ll have another stab at it again someday, in a more prolonged and targeted fashion, this time around was rather sporadic in nature, which only resulted in heavy loses and a few fatalities along the way.
Then there as San Francisco, White Russians, beautiful ladies, calm days and lots of writing and one fateful answer from one very special person. In the situation that the world is in at the moment, San Fran can almost be seen as a haven in the daft empire that is America, it’s a place like none other I’ve visited and I will – without a doubt – go back there some day to try and recapture my youth and the three weeks I spent there in the summer of good ol’ ’06. My time in San Fran was so very special, I believe, because of my lack of booze, the turbulent emotional bullride that I had and then the final settling of scores and of the thick black sediment that had shrouded my heart for such a long time.
The dream always ends though folks, life manifests a monster that will drag you away kicking and screaming. Mine was a 40 hour trip which took me about 8000 miles and involved little sleep, lots of sweat and plenty of greasy food. A brief respite in the home counties saw me recuperate slightly and head straight down to London in search of a place to live and work. A week on a couch later and I’d found the spot, West Hampstead was the area, and it was nice. I say it was nice, not because I destroyed it or caused some sort of terrible plague on the area, but because after almost two months, far too much money spent and a clash of head and concrete here and there, I have had to move, to Oxford.
My time spent in London was a mysterious one. I’ve never really been one for squalor, people write in-depth about the shit-filled existences they choose to lead for a short period of time in order to gain some ‘perspective’. It’s not something I would ever do, as I’d be shit at it. I spend too much money all the time, I couldn’t live as a tramp; I simply couldn’t. Not because I’m some sort of flaky, inter-bread aristocrat, but because I believe my sharp cunning and strong willed nature wouldn’t let me. As soon as, for instance, my 30 day experiment started, I’d automatically think, ‘how can I get myself out of this situation, what do I need to do, where can I clean, where can I get housing, how can I go about returning to society and becoming a productive citizen?’ And after two days I’d be back where I was. Anyway, I’ve lost my point. Basically I spent far too much money doing all the average things I’ve always done. My excuse was that I didn’t have enough money to do anything else, but looking back on the amounts I spent, I quite easily could have been more productive, gained more insight and taken a step closer to finding that perfect aesthetic moment only urban modernity can bring.
The highlights of London however were genuine highlights, rather than just shit bleached a different colour. Speed dating was an interesting night out, after quelling the bully inside me and concluding that the activity was not just for numb-skulls and fuck-o’s I took part and had a great night. New people, new faces, drink and the prospect of sex, it doesn’t get much better as far as I’m concerned. After finding a romantic connection with a lady, who turned out to be a decade older than me, we emailed and talked briefly but I guess I didn’t push hard enough, or I pushed too hard, who the fuck knows? Fucking women. Hah! Anyway, another highlight was a night I spent with the French, living with two of the fuckers I had a reasonable chance of making friends with one, which I did, and in turn going out with them for drinks and banter, which I also did. The night started off well, a curry in the south eastern quarter of the city and then to a shit club where I was engulfed by a shit-avalanche from which I struggled to get free. Then to a pub, at around 4am I questioned the bar tender what time the pub shut, ‘6am’ he replied in a thick brummy accent, the stupidest of accents. I was reluctant to believe him but I took his word for truth and ordered in some more booze. As the sun rose my French flatmate, Lionel, decided he needed to leave, I guess the man playing jazz flute, dressed as a wizard, I was discussing the American Patriot act with was just too much.
I decided a race was in order, styled around Phileas Fog’s around the world in 80 days. He would leave 30 minutes before me and take the bus, I would take the tube when it opened – around 6am – and the winner would be the first to arrive at the flat. At 6:30am I was leaving the pub and received a txt that he had won. ‘Fuck it then’, I though, I could do what I wanted with the rest of the day. I decided a trip to Buckingham palace would be nice, even though there was a reasonably high risk of getting shot and fatally wounded. When I arrived I had a brief chat with some San Franciscans, had a staring competition with a guard who definitely wasn’t staring back, and soaked up the atmosphere before I shot over to the Houses of Parliament. After a brief argument with some hippy swine who was protesting against depleted uranium shells not much happening around there on a Sunday I thought to myself. Not that I’m for depleted uranium, it’s just the fuckers were using a picture of a Harlequin babies (google image search those exact two words if you doubt me), which as horrific as it is, is just a natural birth defect and actually has nothing to do with Uranium. The hippy didn’t seem to realise this, and having just crawled out from his deflated tent and drinking his morning coffee probably wasn’t up to much of an argument with a man who had been drinking hard for about 16 hours previously, and was also now hardened by the bitter morning air. Anyway, I finally decided to go to Sunday mass at West Minster Cathedral after kicking up a fuss and not really getting anywhere.
It was a pleasant experience on the whole, I couldn’t help but feel how it was all quite hocus-pocus, magic, flying with the faries bullshit. The hour and a half mass failed to move me, not because, I don’t think, I was terribly hungover and briefly fell asleep, but because as magnificent as the building was, and as glorious as the choir sang, it was all very creepy, it had a film of shit coating the whole thing that just failed to move. I did however, decide that a confessional was in order. After queuing for about 15 minutes I had had enough time to decide just what main sins I was going to confess for, that I had committed over the 12 year period that I hadn’t been to confessional. I entered, knelt down and spoke the words, ‘bless me father for I have sinned, it has been 12 years since my last confession’ the priest replied and said ‘welcome back to the church my son, what would you like to confess’ or something along those lines.
Now, what happened next killed any belief in the church I had left, or wanted to regain. I said that I had lost my faith in God and was wondering how I would regain that faith, the priest simply answered ‘would you no like to talk about the relationships you’ve had with people over the last 12 years?’ I recoiled in shock, I thought ‘fuck you slimeball’, he just entered a shitticane of epic proportions. But I was in a confessional booth so I kept my nerve and said ‘no I’d just like to figure out how to find God again’ to which he replied ‘say an act of contrition and 3 our fathers’.
What a crock of fuck. I was deeply angered by this fucker, like someone had shit in my cereal or dipped my toast in piss. No interest in helping me find God, just wanting to hear my tails of romping throughout the years. Fucking clown shoes I tell you. Fuck the church.
Anyway, again moving off the point. London was a great 2 months and although I got little writing done, in terms of my book, I did get published a few times and built up a good base of contacts that will hopefully bare fruit in the New Year. The obvious other highlight was getting to spend an increased amount of time with my best friends, Jen, Bevski and Lane… you’re alright guys.
Now, one final point I want to raise, I’m starting a blog, an official blog with meaning and purpose rather than just inane ramblings and updates on my somewhat underwhelming life. It will tackle the subject of hedonism and technology in the 21st century and how the two are becoming one. Material possessions have always been a heavy prerequisite for a good hedonistic lifestyle along with an abundance of consumables, technology now provides both in all arenas, in every aspect of everyone’s lives, and now the super rich are taking hold and making their lives technologically sound and hedonistically marvellous. I’ve wanted an area relatively untouched to explore over time in the only way I know, though empiricism, I might try and get a bit of academic study in there as well though, and now I’ve found it, keep an eye out.
Coldgintimes.typepad.com is the blog address. Hopefully I’ll have it fully functional, and fully fucked soon enough.
If you’ve got this far you’re very patient, I look forward to adding more all over the Internet very soon. Updates will follow.
Your friend
Jack.