haonowshaokao

Ok, ok, everyone calm down.
I don’t want to be getting everyone paranoid.
No personal attack was intended.
Very sorry for any offense caused.
But if you read down it was about ME really.

But… really… give a shit?

This week, like every other week, we said goodbye to yet another member of the Blind Eye regulars gang. Carolina and her ass have left us for good and shipped off to Rio, where they plan to lie in the sun while we shiver in sub-arctic temperatures. To celebrate we decided to go to U Houdku and eat gulaš, then get onto the roof of our flat and set off a gigantic firework. It turned out to be an army flare and a bit of a shit one at that, but at least we made it to the roof. One day somebody’s going to fall off that ladder and die.
I hope it’s not me.

The Bulgarian woman from the shop downstairs is trying to get me to teach English to her son. I said yes, not because I particularly want the work but because it seemed impolite not to. Especially as it had taken ten minutes for her to communicate to me the salient points of her proposal. Her English is even worse than my Czech. She is lovely though – “Ciao Jamesei” every time I go in there to buy 4 rolls, two eggs and a packet of petra lights. I feel so very very guilty when I go to the other shop with the miserable suspicious Vietnamese woman, though I really have to if I want to buy anything I don’t know the word for.
Her son isn’t so keen though. He’s a fourteen year old basketball kid with near perfect English and a bizarre Eastern European undercut on his head. I could tell when we were talking about it that he would rather be shooting some hoops than learning about the present subjunctive. But I went along there today at the allotted time anyway and was thankful that he hadn’t turned up. So I bought 4 rolls instead.

There’s an archived article about the velvet revolution on The Guardian website today. Not of interest to most, sadly, so I have investigated the mysterious art of lj cuts for the first time.

Continue reading →

Matthew’s birthday was a cornucopia of comedy. Moreorless everybody switched genders for the evening and generally lost all their qualms about going completely screaming-slut-crazy.
I was going to go into detail, but really shouldn’t. I want to be honest with this and write what goes on, but I know people I know will read it and it’s starting to feel less like a weblog and more like a gossip server. I’m sorry to be a cunt about it, but there you go. It’s getting to the point where I’m having to consider everything I write down and whether I can or not, and that’s utter shit.
I’ve been castigated roundly for writing a few things on here and I see the complainants points. While I’d say I haven’t written anything controversial on here it’s all a matter of your standpoint.
What I always say is that to write you have to first be used to exposing yourself to the world and then mercilessly use other people’s lives, other people’s joy and despair, recycle and suck dry. Cut and paste. Why? Because that’s just how it works. I’d prefer to be honest about it, really.
The problem is that although I like to think of myself as self-reliant, my life naturally is entangled with that of others. So when the keys are pressed and the words uploaded, it’s unfortunately a censored version that makes it to your screen. Why? Because I’m a pussy? Maybe. I’ll let you judge on that one. But now I’ve got a tinge of caution in my mind I don’t feel free to change that.
The things I can’t say are the most interesting things.
So, what do I do? Write about boring shit? Or just write about writing, like I’m doing here? The first and last refuge of the subject-starved. If I could separate the feeling, the philosophy, the ideas from the events, would that be a solution? I can answer that one. No. I’m not up for writing coded riddles and enigmas, bad poetry all of it. Honesty isn’t all, but playing games to hide it is at best pointless.
What do I do then? Hm.
Ideas are welcome, as ever. Though (with the greatest of respect) I’m not expecting anyone to blow my mind with some great solution. It may be symptomatic that I am writing all this instead of just thinking it.
Here’s something funny, anyway:

Power is back.
Have been taking hot baths, burning CDs, leaving lights on.
Who could resist?
Tomorrow is Matthew’s birthday party at the ‘eye so everyone has to come in drag. It won’t be particularly impressive. Everyone is living out of a backpack. I personally own only one pair of trousers I can wear out.
Still, we can all swap.
I’m going to stay in tonight because last Thursday I was hungover and slurred through two conversation classes. If I do that again I may get sacked. Which is bad.
Ah well, think I’ll go get some KF.

Still no power.
I feel like I’ve got the blitz spirit or something not dissimilar.
There’s something reasonably appealing about lying in bed listening to the world service on your walkman while reading ‘Little Dorrit’ by candlelight. It brings the story into a more immediate setting. The inability to focus too long in the flickering light and the godawful fucking cold do diminish the fun a little, leading me to conclude that the sooner the wonders of nineteenth century technology are restored – the better.
A shame, then, that tomorrow is a bank holiday.

I walked into the Blind Eye last night to find somebody’s birthday party in full swing, had a swift pint and left to go home and listen to music, write, copy CDs, all the fun of the night in, you could say.
On arriving at the house I decided to test out my new printer, plugged it into the computer and… nothing. So I pulled the plug out and it exploded. The power is still off eighteen hours later and since the only person who knows how to get it fixed or even speaks Czech (Jacques) is away until Tuesday… well, there’s going to have to be some serious candles / cold food / reading / generally staying out and getting pissed to avoid the dark dark flat.
While I’m complaining, I should mention three days ago when my damn shitty IKEA bed decided to finally collapse on the floor with me on top of it, in the middle of the night. And then there’s the mysterious dripping ceiling.
I am hiding in the Planet@ internet cafe.

Free Mondays at the Roxy Club are essential, especially when Orbith is playing.
So that was last night, and all very good too.

Yesterday I went for an interview at a film production company here in Prague. The story goes like this: two well paid phone sales guys wrote a script in a “lock stock and two smoking barrels” style and decided to make it, financed through….
yup, telesales.
The company employs legions of people to be ‘associate producers.’ The job of an ‘associate producer’ is to phone up businessmen in England / Germany and read out a prepared script asking them to buy into this lousy film.
When they’ve made enough money, one of these useless clots is going to buy in some film stars and attempt to actually direct this film himself, though he has no experience and knows nothing about the business. This will probably never happen as the staff are constantly leaving, despite getting a good wage. Meanwhile, the “associate producer,” an annoying american dick with a black ponytail and goatee who sexually harasses the female staff, orders everyone about and makes their lives a misery.
I was offered the job, but I won’t call back as I would hate working there even more than starving in the gutter.

Additional: their website – http://www.yearofthesnake.net

Boring week. I have been tearing myself away from the pub so I can do some writing and stuff. I am also now the only single straight man in the house, a nice position to be in, I’d like to think. But maybe it isn’t.
Give a shit.

Last night was Halloween, so me and Hamish trammed over to Andel where we bought Jason hockey masks. We then combined these with black clothes, hats and gloves for a low budget, unimaginative costume and completed it by walking around staring at people and not talking.
We were due to go to the Blaq Mummy Masky, but it was 100 crowns to get in and we are all utterly skint right now, so we just hopped along to the Blind Eye, where the party was in full swing. Everyone was in costume, and good ones too. Props to the staff for the decorations, don’t know where they got the dry ice from but there was a lot of it. Feel like I should hand out some awards for the customers. So I will.
Most fucked up costume idea: A joint award to Lisa and Caroline, who were respectively a laboratory bunny (good facial veins and carrots in handbag a nice touch) and a Mexican wrestler called “El Muerto Madre” (dead baby made from tights a nice touch, especially its matching mask and underpants.)
Most unusual costume idea: Tim’s gay IRA man comes a close second, but Caroline’s friend (name unknown) runs away with the prize as “Professor Chickenbones,” allegedly a character from The Simpsons, but a survey of the bar revealed that nobody had ever heard of him. Immaculately carried off, nevertheless.
No costume: Jerimiah, Becker, ten or so bemused Czechs.
Believability award: Noah and Austin, respectively a devil and a human fly. Both costumes a little too convincing.
Most Ridiculous accident: Ales, for managing to cover his hair with bright red hairspray and set it on fire with a candle, making the room smell of burned hair for half an hour or so.
Special Award: Nicky, for being the one to finally burst the eye-shaped pinyata. I managed to miss it entirely and had to hang my head in shame. Did get it on the rebound though. Inside were sweets and condoms, all grabbed by a thousand hands from nowhere.
Disgraceful drunken state: Paul. Easy with the drinking, seriously.
But the overall award goes to: Chris, of course. What he was supposed to be, other than a woman of some variety, is a mystery. Still, amazing job with the whole get-up, though I know he gets a lot of practice dressing up anyway.