London Part II

“Yes, I'm particularly moved by this wall mural. It visually demonstrates the constant flux and evolution of the brand, as well as conveying a sense of a voyage, which is obviously the central theme of all the artwork here today. I think the fact that three artists from different backgrounds have collaborated on this mural is the perfect metaphor for the convergence of boundaries and the seamless flow between Eastern and Western cultures”.

Normally, this is the kind of pretenious art-snob wankery that I vehemently decry. You'll be surprised, therefore, to discover that it's being said by me. I'm at my brother's media briefing in a trendy art studio in Shoreditch, being interviewed by a Mongolian camera crew on my impressions of the artwork on display. Outwardly I'm doing my best to remain serious and debonair; inwardly I'm giggling like a schoolgirl at the thought of my ugly mug being broadcast all across Mongolia, from the shanties of Dalandzadgad to the shanties of Ulan Bator.

It all began when I arrived at the press conference in formal dress with a camera, and everyone automatically assumed I was a journalist. Suddenly my opinions were of worth, my thoughts coveted, my observations pertinent and measured. Gophers brought me ice cold beers from the fridge. Artists took me aside and said, “so, can you see what I'm doing here?” and “would you like me to tell you about my influences for this piece of work?”. When the Mongolians showed up and thrust a microphone in my face, I naturally went straight into bullshit mode. So this is what it feels like to be someone important.

My interview winds up just as my big brother Adam summons everybody into the centre of the room while he gives his official media briefing. Tall and authoritative, yet simultaneously witty and disarming, he's a proven master at working a crowd. “What we're basically trying to do is just showcase the brand's vibrant vision of contemporary Asia, and we want to give all of these young, bright artists a chance to work with some of the UK's leading artists”, he says, deftly sprinkling his charming and informal oration with the requisite management speak. He's got the assembled press gang hanging on his every word, and it's clear the artists have developed a rapport with him as well. He's certainly come a long way from the buck-toothed teenage punk who used to invite his mates around and hang me from a tree branch six feet off the ground by my underwear.

Adam and a few of his cronies have to depart for an official business dinner, so I meet up with my cousin Katie at a nearby pub. We quiz each other on the respective European holidays we've just returned from and I'm more than a little envious to discover that Katie had sunshine and twenty-five degree weather as her constant companions during her cruise down the Croatian coast. It remains to be seen whether my pair of jeans and grey sweater will survive the trauma of being worn by me on eight consecutive days; the result of my foolhardy decision not to pack any other warm clothes for our Central European jaunt.

We're in a pub called Filthy McNasty's, and if first impressions are anything to go by, the moniker has been well-earned. It's pretty much your stock-standard London corner pub with flower boxes in the windows, dark wooden panelling and the usual range of crappy foreign lagers on tap; it's the clientele that actually set this pub apart from the average after-work watering hole. A large, rough-looking bearded man sits at a table in the corner, enjoying a pint while his German shepherd lies by his feet, ready to tear out the barman's throat if he threatens to overcharge him. He's wearing a purple t-shirt that says “iPood” in Mac font on the front, below an icon of a man sitting on the toilet, slumped forward as if he's just given birth to a hippo. He's recently been joined by his girlfriend, a wafer-thin tattoo-and-piercing addict with dyed red hair and a glare that could strip the varnish off the walls.

On my way to the bathroom I get stuck behind a tiny bearded Welshman who could've been Gimli's stunt double in the Lord of the Rings series. He's on his way to the bathroom too, so I just follow along awkwardly behind him, no doubt creating the impression to the rest of the patrons that we're going into the bathroom together to perform a depraved act; something that I'm sure these pub toilets are no stranger to. As he opens the bathroom door he turns around to me and says something that his thick accent renders completely unintelligible, then lets forth a nervous chuckle. I just smile and nod, noting that it's entirely possible that I've just unwittingly agreed to touch him in a special place. I lock myself in a roach-infested cubicle until I can be certain he's left the vicinity.

“I vote we leave after this pint”, I tell Katie. I've had three anyways, and I'm going to need to get some food in me before my evening begins to nosedive. Just as I'm saying this, Adam texts with his new location. “Juno! Corner of Shoreditch High Street and something”. We're about to get up and leave when a haggard Nick Cave lookalike comes over to our table, gets down on his knees and begins frantically searching for something around our feet.
“Oh man, neither of you saw a cigarette on the floor, did you?”, he asks in a worried tone. “I must've dropped it somewhere around here”.
We reply that no we didn't, and so he gets back on his knees and continues scanning the floor for his missing smoke. iPood's dog looks on with keen interest while his master stuffs a bag of potato chips down his gob. We hastily make for the exit and deliberate over what's the best way to get to the corner of Shoreditch High Street and something.

We locate Adam and his cronies in Juno and they take us to a trendy nightclub in Camden, where Adam has convinced management that we should all be let in as VIPs. The club is an old converted theatre with a dance floor in front of the stage and private areas in elevated booths either side of the main floor. We're given a booth and a cooler full of beers; I help myself to one and drink it as I survey the large crowd on the dance floor and the quasi-emo rock band revving them up from the stage. I feel a bit like Abe Lincoln on this balcony, though I suspect there are no John Wilkes Booths in this crowd. Most of the adolescents on the floor are engaged in some curious social ritual that involves crashing into each other at high speeds, occasioning bouts of pushing and collar-grabbing between total strangers that look certain to turn into fist fights, but never quite do. It's most entertaining to watch from directly above – like multiple games of high-octane pinball over which you have no control.

The band are playing their part in the fracas by fuelling the crowd with their well-worn brand of high-energy emo rock. The lead singer - a young Jarvis Cocker wannabe - is careful not to take himself too seriously, fully aware of the shamless unoriginality of his three-chord tunes and angst-ridden diatribes. He's an affable young man who engages the crowd in friendly banter between each song.
“This next song is one I wrote for my girlfriend, just before she dumped me”, he confides in a well-rehearsed monotone. He then launches into a twee, love-struck ballad about the wonders of this young love he has found. Just when the tune appears to be dying a slow and soppy death, the lead guitarist unexpectedly launches into a furious discordant solo that gives way to the singer's screaming, visceral denouncement of his ex-girlfriend and a full summary of what a total and complete bitch she actually was. Even though he most certainly wrote the second part of the song after she dumped him, they're still the most honest lyrics rock music has produced since Scott Stapp famously crooned, “when you are with me, I'm free, I'm careless, I believe”.

I gaze transfixed at the scene below – a furious melange of pseudo-fights and group hook-ups – until the band members drag their sweat-drenched bodies off the stage. I return to the cooler to discover that all the beers have been plundered in the meantime.
“Go and see Kristian”, Adam advises me. “He's in the next room. He's got a bottle of vodka, and he doesn't need it”.
Kristian, who I met earlier at the media briefly, is sitting on the floor against the wall with a bottle of Smirnoff on his lap. Katie and one of Adam's colleagues are leaning on the balcony rail and generally not paying him much mind. He springs uneasily to his feet when he sees me enter.
“Max! Here, I have a shot of vodka for you”.
I look around to see where on earth he might be producing a shot glass from, and when I turn back to look at him he's coming at me with the bottle. Before I can do anything about it, he pushes my head back and pours one shot of vodka down my throat, and about five shots down the front of my shirt. A small commotion ensues as various onlookers attempt to save Kristian from spilling the lot, while I take the opportunity to sneak into the corner and suck on my sweet shirt fabric.

Camden High Street is still abuzz with drunken revellers as I stumble out of the club and breathe in the sooty London air. A reporter in a blue coat standing on the pavement approaches me and thrusts a microphone into my face.
“So Max, what would you say to allegations that you're a dickhead, and that your travel diary is puerile, derivative and unfunny?”
I have no time for such scurrilous gutter journalism, especially at this ungodly hour of the night. “Fargoffyacun”, I growl, lurching forward and aiming a right hook at his jaw. I miss and lose my balance, stumbling forward for a few steps before regaining my dignity, and all the customers in the kebab shop across the street wonder what on earth that guy was doing trying to punch himself.

There's a group of German package tourists having breakfast in the dining room when we finally arrive back at Adam's hotel, having endured a roundabout taxi ride through North London in an increasingly desperate search for an open KFC. There doesn't appear to be anything stopping us from chowing down with the Germans, so that's just what they do. As has now become a depressing reality in hotels all around the world, the orange juice glasses are ridiculously small, encouraging diners to drink less of it. I'm able to circumvent this problem by merely standing at the juice dispenser and filling, drinking, and refilling, occasionally taking time out to let Adam have a go while I stuff some of those little packet cheeses and crackers into my pockets. The Germans don't look particularly impressed, but then they never do, do they?

Adam has a spare single bed in his room which he has mercifully offered up to me for the weekend. It's my first night in a proper bed for a long time and I'm about to make the most of it when Adam re-emerges from the bathroom with two short glasses. “So, how about that whisky?”, he asks rhetorically, already reaching for his unopened bottle of duty free MacAllan.

How about it indeed?

***

London is a city whose mood and appearance can swing upon the whim of the weather. Most days it is dark and grey under overcast, foreboding skies, but that only serves the make sunny days such as this all the more spectacular. The lukewarm autumn sun brings out a stunning vibrancy in the cityscape: rows of brick buildings glow a brilliant red; golden orange leaves flap about in the breeze and every park and public space is a sea of activity as Londoners enjoy the sun on their backs for what may be the only time in weeks. There's a buzz of optimism and anticipation that comes with scarved-up football fans – many of them fathers with young children – taking their kids to a Saturday afternoon game at a nearby ground. It puts me in mind of those blustery afternoons when my father would take me to Eden Park to watch that great Auckland side of the early '90s tear into whichever band of unfortunate provincials stood on their way that week.

When you fall off the horse, the best thing to do is get straight back on. It's a phrase that applies nicely to many facets of life – job hunting, surfing, women – but especially alcohol. That's why Adam and I are heading to Filthy McNasty's for a pie and a pint, thinking that's about as English as it gets on a Saturday afternoon.
“Sorry, kitchen's closed”, says the barman, who in keeping with the bar's unspoken mission statement, looks nasty.
“But it's Saturday afternoon?”
“Yeah, the cook is ill, can't possibly come in today”.
“You need a cook to heat a up a pie?”
“Look, there's no food today, alright? Can I get you a pint?”

We walk back towards the hotel and to a brasserie across the road that has a sunny beer garden on its roof. A sign next to the door says “Sorry! No hot lunches today”. Evidently they're suffering from a power outage, but do boast a fine array of cheese and crackers.
I can see Adam fast losing his patience with English hospitality.“What the fuck is wrong with this country? You can't get a fucking beer after midnight and you can't get a pie before six”. His frustration is understandable; he's come from Singapore, where you can get anything you want at any time of the day or night. And I mean anything.

Heads pounding, throats parched, we settle upon a pub on the next corner. It isn't serving food either, bien sur, but the barman points to the Dominos outlet across the road and invites us to bring in whatever we like. While Adam goes across to retrieve a pizza, the barman pours a couple of pints of filthy English muck that the locals call “Real Ale”. In keeping with tradition it is best consumed microwaved, and preferably in close proximity of a bucket. Okay, so I exaggerate, but the muddy aftertaste and worrying lack of fizz makes Real Ales difficult for the uninitiated drinker to stomach. Not only that, but the purists insist its alcohol content should never waver from 3.5% regardless of where and how it's brewed, effectively meaning that you couldn't even get a scarfie fresher drunk off it. Still, drinking it does mark you down as something of a beer conoisseur, which is an important impression to give when you're eating Domino's pizza in a dirty pub.

“They still ask about you when I go out to the office”, Adam says, referring to my former workmates at his beer company. I did an internship there in 2005 and will always have fond memories of it, partly because it's the only place I'll ever work that had a fridge full of beer opposite my cubicle. I was worried that my total lack of skills or knowledge in the field of marketing would put me at a disadvantage but as it happened my boss loved me – he was Indian and I was the only guy in the office who could talk cricket with him.
“Do you reckon they'd take me back?”, I ask out of curiosity.
“I dunno man, the guy they brought in after you was pretty good. He had the right qualifications and had his shit together, big time”.
“Yeah, but could he drink a half-yard of Guinness in twelve seconds?”

The launch party kicks off at around eight, and a steady flow of guests begin arriving shortly thereafter. I've brought my camera to the party, hoping to be mistaken for someone important again, but tonight it looks like I'll just have to be content with drinking the sponsor's delicious product and talking shit with friends. Hibbs and Katie arrive early and head over to acquaint themselves with the bar, and I'm also introduced to Adam's cousin Tommy. I haven't met him before, but he knows a bunch of guys I went to intermediate school. “It's a small country, eh”, I find myself saying for at least the hundredth time since leaving New Zealand.

The party is extremely well coordinated and a massive success. Its appeal is based on the live art: partygoers can actually watch the artists finishing off their paintings, while a live “art battle” takes place between rival street artists in another room. There's beatboxing, two DJs and a Thai rock band who move unblinkingly from cover versions of Coldplay to T Pain. It's hard to tell whether they're taking the piss, but they get away with it by virtue of their musicianship. Adam, who is in charge of generally schmoozing and rarking up the crowd, enlists Hibbs and I to perform a “yam seng”, a slightly more dramatic Chinese way of saying “cheers”. It's a simple ritual that involves holding one's glass to the air, and yelling “yaaaam!” at the top of one's voice for as long as one can before gasping for breath or passing out, concluding with “seng” and drinking heavily from one's vessel. Our yelling draws the attention of much of the crowd on the dance floor, who look puzzled until deducing that we're just drunken Kiwis and turning away again.

I'm having so much fun that at some time around 2, I look around me and discover that just about everyone else has left. It appears that I've consumed an injudicious amount of the sponsor's delicious product, but it's not enough to keep me from joining Adam, Tommy and Hibbs in the van. Our next venue is a jazz club of which I can remember little, except that it is packed well beyond capacity, so much so that most of the beer in my bottle is lost before ever making it to my lips. Which is probably a good thing at this stage.
“Hey there”, says a fair-skinned brunette below me and to my right at the bar. “You're cute”.
“Thanks. You're not too bad”.
“What do you do?”
Christ, she doesn't muck around does she. I wasn't expecting that for an opening gambit. “Ummm, errr, I'm a writer”. That's only a half-lie, I figure.
“Really? Who do you write for?”
“Errr, ya know, mainly freelance stuff”.
“Freelance? What kind of stuff do you write about?”
“Ahhh, uh, travel, mainly travel writing”. This is hard.
“Who have you written for, then?”
This time I've got nothing for her but a long awkward silence. “You don't have a job, do you?”, she says, with a discernable tone of disgust in her voice.
“No, I don't”.

SMACK.

For a moment my whole field of vision goes white and sparkly. My beer evades my grasp and drops to the floor. It takes me a few seconds to realise what's happened, and all the while she just stares at me blankly. The bitch! She's slapped me, with all her might, right across my left cheek.
“That wasn't very nice!”, I protest.
“Mate, I'm so, so sorry, I really am”.
“That was totally uncalled for!”. Don't get me wrong, I've been slapped by girls lots of times before. This time was different though; this time I didn't deserve it. Bloody English girls, with their airs and graces and ulterior motives. I yearn for a good simple Dunedin girl, where the only question you ever get asked is “Speight's or Mac's Gold?”

I crouch down and rummage around on the floor in search of my beer bottle, but it's been swept away by the sea of feet swarming around me. When I stand back upright again a large black man, who I vaguely remember from earlier as being the bouncer, has his hand on my shoulder.
“I think it's time to go home, son”.
Yes, I think it is.

Next thing I know I'm waking up on top of Adam's spare hotel bed, fully clothed, my cellphone still clutched tightly in my right hand. The alarm clock says 7.08am. Adam and Tommy are seated on two chairs facing each other, drinking whisky. I shuffle past them to the bathroom, take a five-minute-long piss, shuffle back past them and get into the bed.
“How 'bout that whisky?”, Adam asks optimistically.
“Fuck off”.

***

When you fall off the horse, the best thing to do is get straight back on. I heeded that advice yesterday and unfortunately I'm heeding it again today. I'm at a bistro on Shoreditch High Street with Adam, Tommy and his girlfriend, and the second bottle of champagne has just been popped. My liver is screaming for mercy – if this were a cartoon it would've already bored its way out of my body, suitcase in hand, and run off down the street – but still Adam gleefully refills my glass.
“What time is your flight back to Singapore?”, I ask.
“About six”, he responds casually.
“Hadn't you better take it easy then?”
“Nah”.
“The way I see it, we're only hear for a given amount of time”, Tommy chimes in. “It's not like we're ever gonna save much money living in London. You may as well just spend it all and have a good time”.

I can see why so many Kiwis arrive on English shores and plunge headlong into a world of hedonism and excess, from which some of them never recover. It's such a novel idea to come from our little corner of the world and be able to spend an entire weekend pubbing, clubbing, partying and then finish it with a champagne brunch in a swanky restaurant. A Sunday session back home is by no means unheard of, but it usually just involves a dozen Tasman Bitters and maybe a funnel, if someone's got one lying around.

But the out-of-control partying is just one facet of London life, I think to myself after farewelling Adam with a final couple of whisky shots and making my way into the warped, bizarre world of the London Underground. It's a big scary city and one that can easily drag you down if you can't tread water fast enough. Life moves at a scarcely believable pace that takes some adjusting to. I've been here for two months on and off and still feel like an outsider looking in; unable to relate to these automatons whizzing past me. Talk on the street is of jobs and livelihoods being lost to the financial meltdown, but it feels like it's all happening in different world to mine. They're losing jobs, and I can't find one. There's only so much partying I can do before my hard-earned library money runs out and I'm faced with the prospect of having to be one of those Kiwis who busks on a filthy street corner just to be able to pay his way home. Then I'd really be in trouble, because I'd have to nick a guitar first.

I'm starting to think the bouncer in the pub last night was right. Maybe it is time to go home.