Insolent, indolent, ignorant, aggressive, surly, arrogant, monosyllabic. These are just some of the more polite adjectives to describe London club doormen that Phil W and I have encountered on our recent trips to the nation's capital in search of musical entertainment.
PW's treatment at the hands of a real jobsworth of the species at the recent Steven Wilson gig you may have read about already, and last night it was my turn to suffer at the hands of a bloke with a thousand yard stare and a bad attitude. I had been given a press pass to go and take pics and compile a review of a gig by 70s obscure proggers Cressida (it's ok, I don't expect you to have heard of them), and I printed off a confirmation email from the band in anticipation of there being a right twat on the door. There was.
Arriving at the charming pit that is Camden Underworld I presented the email to Mr Vacant Eyes behind the reinforced glass of the ticket booth. The conversation went something like this:
Moi: Hi. I should be on the guest list, or there should be a ticket for me?
Mr Vacant Eyes: Giving a cursory glance both at my printed email and at his bit of paper with some names typed on it.."No mate, you're not on here"
Moi: Are you sure? Read the email, it says I've been granted a press pass.
Mr VE: Ignoring the email..."No, you ain't here"
Moi: Wanting to say "Read the bloody thing", but being aware I'm surrounded by three house goons sharing one brain cell and who are all built like brick outhouses, decide that discretion is the better side of being dumped on the pavement...."Can't you get one of the band or the promoter up here to sort it out?"
Mr VE: "No, we're the venue, don't have anything to do with the band, not my problem mate." By now another noob had appeared behind the glass, obviously Twatboy's immediate boss. He had the dead eyes of a killer. We'll call him Nutjob.
Nutjob: "We can't talk to the band." Followed by a hard stare.
Moi: "Right, I suppose I'll have to pay then. I'll be back"
Now inside the venue I seek the assistance of the promoter who was a good guy (thank God). "They made you pay? That's ridiculous, I put a small pile of tickets up there, one of them has your name on it." With that we both went back upstairs to the ticket office, the promo guy, after some nice dressing down of Twatboy and his boss points out the pile of tickets to Twatboy, who grunts something unintelligible, hands me my ticket and stares at me blankly.
Moi: "Well, let's have my money back then."
With an almost comical reluctance and more semi-audible grunting he hands me back my cash. In the interests of etiquette did I say "Thank you"? No, I didn't.
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Speaking of slack-jawed imbecility, I had to laugh at an incident on the way to office slavery the other day. Walking along the busy main road into town, where the traffic was crawling to a standstill, I see a youngish chavvy looking bloke crossing the road, weaving between the now almost stationery traffic, followed about ten yards behind by his naturally overweight girlfriend, who although giving the appearance of looking where she was going, walked straight into the side of a car. This was followed by her making a noise that may be similar to a gurgling Orangutan, not that I would want to insult the Asian ape species. I think this strange guttural noise was Britney laughing at her own dumbfuckery. I too was laughing, hopefully like a homosapien.......that's sapien, you at the back.
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Another quantum slice of life on my daily perambulation last week was hearing a dying example of local dialect. Now only spoken by those 50 years old upwards, a "real" Shoesville accent is a charming (non-sarcastic definition) mix of Yokel (East Anglian variety) and a soupçon of Midlands Brummy tinge, with liberal use of phrases like "me duck". They also "goo" to places.
Those younger than 50 born and raised here now talk in that ubiqui'ous Estuary English, glo''all stops aplenty. Listening to say, any 25 year old, who was born somewhere south of Leicester but outside of London, it's hard to pinpoint their birthplace as you can now barely tell from their accents. Is that good or bad? I've no idea.
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Jeremy Clarkson, professional oaf and a bit of a twat, but funny all the same, or the end of Western Civilisation as we know it? Depends whether or not the recipient of his wit and wisdom has had a complete sense of humour bypass. There was some woman from Unison on the news commenting on Mr C's controversial statements that had you turned on halfway into her diatribe you would have been under the impression that Clarkson had denied the Holocaust. And she had a face like a slapped camel's arse.
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Apparently Mr Hall can now hand out detentions. That's "Evil" that is....;)
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