Dill and Moron

I was so excited when, two months ago, I booked the best seats available at the Colston Hall (Bristol’s answer to the Apollo) to see Ireland’s finest, Dylan Moran play his new gig ‘What It Is’.

It was to be an early birthday present for Gareth and I was very excited by the prospect of an excuse for dinner at the nearby Thai restaurant which we’ve frequented many times and at which I have never strayed far from the Thai green curry. Occasionally I push the boat out and ask for pineapple in my Thai green curry, but I’m not about to go wasting the opportunity to have Thai green curry on some sort of silly noodle dish.

Dinner was great. We quickly necked a bottle of wine, like the truly romantic couple that we are, and then raced over to the hall. Oh how exciting, the balcony, I gushed, looking at our tickets. Last time we came here, with my mum and sister, we were in the pits for Lee Evans, (my fault, I thought he was still funny) and I fell asleep. At least in the balcony we might have a better view.

How wrong I was.

The porter man guided us up to our seats. ‘Over there. Back row.’ Back row? BACK ROW? The wine had kicked in. Gareth waited patiently at the side while I tried to wager better seats at a sold out gig. But seriously, back row? I booked ‘best seats available’ bloody ages ago, how can the back row of the balcony EVER be the best seats? We could not have been further away from Dylan.

I eventually gave up on the porter and we took our seats. What are the odds of Gareth spotting someone on the same row who he knew…or thought he knew.

Hey, Tom! He shouts.

Tom shouts back.

How’s Sarah? How’s the baby? Gareth calls as he mimes a big baby bump.

‘Tom’ mimes the baby bump back, a frown upon his brow.

Baby? he asks.

Nevermind! smiles Gareth, slumping back in his seat.

Who was that? I ask.

I don’t know.

An amazing stroke of luck, although he’d got the wrong person, both of the people, the wrong person and the person he actually was, were called Tom, so he got away with that much. It was just the baby bit that scuppered his chances of walking away looking cool.

Dylan was about the size of a pencil from where we were sitting and too far away to see any of his mannerisms or gestures.

I had no choice but to fall asleep.

And on Gareth’s other side, a dreadlocked nutjob who was also a little sleepy. Except he’d clearly consumed some hallucinogenic drugs before coming, as he, according to Gareth, I was asleep at the time, kept trying to catch things in his sleep and awoke with a look of complete surprise and confusion on his face.

So the highlight of our evening was not the part we paid £50 for. And Dylan Moran has gone down in my estimations for being too far away. Not exactly his fault, but I realised I don’t like big comedy venues. I miss Ginglik, the cosiness, the intimacy. I miss being on the front row. I miss Simon Amstel grilling me about my career, Jimmy Carr taking the piss out of my friends, I miss the comedians being so close I could, and often did, touch them.

I was irate when my mum told me she was recently at Ginglik for the Lenny Henry night and who should pop along to warm the audience up but Robin Williams.

I’m almost certain I wouldn’t sleep through that. Almost.

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Simply The Best

Dad neglected to tell me it was still the rainy season here, perhaps because he feared I wouldn’t come if I knew.

It was never more apparent than today, when we decided to hop skip over to Thailand for some snorkeling. No sooner had we anchored the boat in a beautiful bay did the sky turn black and the rain descend. We sat in our waterproofs, although I’m not sure why as there was no place to hide, and watched as out boat was tossed and turned in the ocean like a cork. Great fun. Almost, somehow, more fun than snorkeling.

Battling the weather conditions, we headed in land for supper. The skies cleared and it all became rather pleasant. May I recommend Ko Li Pe island to anyone who’s a stranger – it was beautiful.

As we trudged through the mud, past the half-squished dying catapillar being eaten alive by ants, left at the end of the mosquito ridden path (wait while father investigates the generator system – there's four generators, one in use, just FYI) past the ant hill while giant flying ants erupting out of it only to meet their end by the army of gleefully patient birds awaiting their flying ant dinner, left again at the horribly misplaced mobile phone tower slap bang in the middle of a centuries old village, housing fishermen and naked, chocolate brown skinned children playing in the dust, and you will arrive at Pooh’s Bar.

A bar not so dissimilar from the one my sister and her partner would run if they gave up London life and escaped to warmer climes. Easy reggae greets us, there’s dim lighting and low seating. Even Dad enjoyed himself as we ‘chilled out’ (he had to check it was th right terminology) sipped cocktails and watched the afternoon turn to evening.

Real life seemed a million and one miles away as we ordered our thai green curries (well, when in Rome) and got stuck in.

Maybe something about the ambiance, the mosquito poison running though my veins or the sunstroke playing with my mind, but I think of the 945,672 thai green curries I have tried, it was simply the best.

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Weapons of Mass Destruction

So here I am in the epicenter of massage connoisseurs – the far East - Lang Kawi, Malaysia to be exact. You can ask for no better place to have a bad back or stiff limb.

Dad had found a masseuse so brilliant, he told me, that he now has her come direct to his flat. And so, slightly stiff from the flight and in need of a good rub down, we arranged for her to come. I expected the best.

I don’t like massages anymore. They are far too stressful.

She started with my feet. Ticklish. I could feel my whole body tense up as I tried to resist wriggling away.

She moved on to my calves, knees and thighs. Knees? Whoever decided the back of your knees needed massaging? Okay, so as my boyfriend regularly points out, I have very knobbly knees. Award winning, in fact. (Wootton County Primary end of term Knobbly Knee Competition – winner.) But there were times I thought she’d dislocate the poor buggers. I remained taut, my teeth clenched, my body rigid.

Finally, she moved onto my back – for about a minute. No point wasting time on my back when my ear lobes are clearly calling to her. Ear lobes? Really?

Then she started prodding my eyebrows and forehead, over and over again, prod prod prod went her stubbly little fingers. I’m thankful for my strong skull as there were times I thought she was trying to poke through my temples and unite her fingers inside my head.

Still tense.

She moves on to my arms. Write, to elbow, to armpit. All ticklish.

Finally it’s over and I’m more tense than before it began, only now I’m covered in oil and my temples hurt.

Still, it didn’t stop me going to another one when we got to Thailand.

This time it was a man doing me. Strong hands, no tickles. Much better. And he didn’t even touch my knees.

But then we made the almighty mistake of enjoying it so much we ordered another half an hour. Well, I don’t think he knew what to do with himself.

So he went for my temples. And my earlobes. And all his soothing, relaxing moves of the last hour were undone, prod by unnecessary prod.

A word to all masseuses out there – WHY? Why I ask you? Please refrain from touching the knee caps, temples and ear lobes ever again. It’s as necessary as mosquitoes and leaves me just as irate.

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Bible Bashing

What with only being in Bali for four days and Dad having to work most of them, I expected to have outings arranged for me. He does that kind of thing.

'Look here, meet so and so at 0700hrs, take a bus to this port and await instruction… '

So it was with my usual trepidation and longing to just be left alone in the sunshine with my notebook and my musings that I listened to my next itinerary. Be fooled for thinking you are on holiday, Kim, for you are under my command now.

To be fair to my pa, he’s always right. I can’t count the amount of times Dad has started a sentence with ‘and today you’ll be…’ and I’ve reverted to teenage angst and wallow, only to be surprised by an amazing day, usually accompanied with copious amounts of Moet and Chandon (they sponsor Dad’s boaty things) (and me) and dining in the company of kings. But that’s a story for another time.

This day was to start at the relatively late hour of 0800hrs (always military time with Bryan) whereupon I would have a breakfast it was too early for and be taken to meet some nieces of some men I did not know.

'I met them the other day,' Dad tells me, 'you’ll love them. Oh, just one thing. Don’t mention your religious stance. They are missionaries. '

Great. A day out with the god squad. Goodbye beach and my own investigations into local trappings and delicacies, hello bible class.

'So, you’re a writer?' Tina asks. 'People tell me I should write about what happened to me, she says. '

'Well, if it makes a good story, you should.'

'What is good?'

'Something people want to read,' I reply.

'Well,' she snaps, 'if you call a bus crash, eight of my friends dead, eight seriously injured and me unscratched because God saved me something people want to read, I guess it is a good story.'

Oh good, I’ve woken the beast.

Tina goes on to tell me at, as it so happens, the exact same time her bus crashed in South Africa, her sister in New Zealand felt an overwhelming desire to pray for her – thank goodness, or she would be as dead as her friends.

‘Are you sure it wasn’t the luck of where you were sitting?’ I hazard. In the crash, all the chairs had concertinaed, but Tina was on the back row.

‘No. It was God. But the doctor did say if I’d been one inch taller I’d have got a metal rod in my head.’

Right. Lucky God made you that height then.

‘God was trying to show me I didn’t need other humans. It could just be me and Him,’ she says confidently.

Crikey. He killed eight of your friends to get you all to himself?

‘I know’, she smiles, like someone ticking off their mischievous toddler, ‘I did ask if I could have at least one human in my life but he just wanted to know if I still believed in Him. I said, ‘Yes, God, I still believe in you, you old swine.’

It was clear she had quite a chummy, banterful relationship with God. She referred to any strayings from his path as being ‘led by the enemy.’ I know people who believe in God, quietly, but it was really quite baffling to meet someone my age, wearing the same kind of jewelry and clothes as I was, banging on so openly about their close relationship with religion.

There must be a level of solace and sanctuary in knowing that whatever you do, God is by your side. After some of these blogs, I know that even if there is a God, he is about as far from my side as He can possibly get. But I’ll still put a capital letter before God, Him and His, just in case he’s watching.

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Left to fester in Colchester

If ever I needed a sign from the gods that giving up my job, moving out of my home and away from great housemates Cordelia and Michael, and pesky cat Chairman Meow, and moving into a chapel with a man I didn’t even know a year ago today, then a week in Colchester was the clear as sky, smack in the face sign that they sent.

Colchester sucks. Or rather, it is as if someone has sucked the life right out of it. After one week working in the biggest business park I’d ever seen, living in the smallest Travel Lodge I’d ever seen, I was ready to tie my own noose.

When people hear that I work for the glossy women’s magazines they get so excited about the cloud of glamour they envisage me floating about on. Not so. Travel lodge, business park, Colchester. It doesn’t get much better.

Although, my room was en suite and I got my own kettle, which was most exciting. I set myself a challenege of spending as little as possible and so spent all week resisting the lures of the Little Chef next door (tempting thought it was) and instead being my own little chef with some noodles and sweet chilli sauce. It got boring. I missed the additions required to that recipe to make it a thai green curry.

I must save money – if I get invited out on some shindig I will recline, I promised myself. Needn’t have worried – the full time writers were obviously bored of the constant stream of shift workers passing through, like a one night stand, never sticking around long enough to learn their names, just in and out in a blink. So I was not invited anywhere and made it back to the lodge of my travels every evening in time for Paul O Grady – what a treat.

The highlight of my week was that Cesca, my long lost best friend now living in Sarf Afrikkka, called to tell me that Mike, my aforementioned former housemate, had proposed. About bloody time too. They’d been together so long I was beginning to wonder if I should nip in front of him and get to her first. I’m ever so excited. Oh! Just like the film – My Best Friend’s Wedding. Except I won’t be trying to woo the groom as - sorry Mike - Dermot Malhoney he ain’t.

So it was a week of highs and lows. High to hear of Cesca’s nuptials, low to live in Colchester. High to find inventive ways to make noodles less boring, low to live in Colchester. And so on and so on, my voice trailing off as you fall gently asleep, but don’t ever presume as sleep takes over that I am not still listing things that end with ‘low to live in Colchester’ because I am low to live in Colchester...

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The hunt is on

Have no fear, Gareth, you just so happen to be going out with the queen of house hunting, I assured him. Don’t you worry your pretty little head about it, I’ll do all the hunting, with pleasure.

And so began my hunt. By flat two, I was bored, frustrated and not at all enjoying myself as much as I had expected. How confusing. I’d done so much house hunting in my time, I was sure I loved it. I thought back… and back came the memories. Oh yes. House hunting with Mum is fun. House hunting with friends is fun. House hunting with Gareth might have been fun if I hadn’t relinquished him of his duties. Alone, it was boring, time consuming and uneventful.

With each new house, I tried desperately to imagine Gareth and I enjoying ourselves there. ‘It’s nice, but the kitchen is a bit tiny,’ I’d complain in my reports to Gareth. He didn’t really care. ‘As long as you’re happy,’ he said. Great. More pressure. He’ll happily move in somewhere rubbish as long as I tell him I’m happy, then I won’t be happy, then it’ll be all my fault for forcing an image of happiness upon myself and settling for a rubbish flat.

And so the hunt continued.

Then, late one evening, Gareth and I trudged through another estate agent’s website. Me, disgruntled and frustrated, him, keen and eager. Oh look, Gareth says, that’s an amazing flat. A converted chapel, and well below our price range.It’s a bit out of town, but let’s see it anyway, he suggests. So, we booked in for the next day and together – the first and only flat Gareth saw – we drove half way to Bath.

Oh. My. God. We found the one. Immediately in love with it before we’d even set foot inside just because the car parking spaces had head stones, I was jumping up and down in excitement as we waited for the agent. It just got better. The flat was beautiful. No, beautiful doesn’t do it justice. Charismatic, unusual, eccentric, each room is on a different floor, there is a walk-in wardrobe, there are beams (beams! I love beams!). There’s history. There’s huge church windows. There’s an immaculate kitchen and a bottle of champagne waiting for the winners. It’s the kind of flat that initiates conversation. The kind of flat we can show off. The kind of flat that featured in none other than Country Life. And anyone’s who’s anyone knows Country Life don’t feature anything but the most eccentric of abodes.

Gareth plays it cool, moseying from room to room and asking professional questions. Who cares about council tax, GIVE ME THIS FLAT! I want to hug the agent. We have found the flat. The One. I have never been so excited in all my life.

I’ve never wanted to live with a boyfriend before. I came close once, with my longest term boyfriend, Lewis. He wanted to within about a week of the relationship, or course, for I am a wonderful cook. But something held me back. ‘We’ll get a red colander,’ he promised. It wasn’t enough. I promised myself I wouldn’t live with just any old boyfriend, only a very special one. Only the One.

I’ve changed my stance now. I’ve realised you just don’t know who the One is. But I do know that Gareth is without a doubt the One Right Now (a less well known search) and that he’s going to be really fun to live with. Just as long as my moving-in present isn’t a red colander.

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The mother of all protests.

Not so long ago my sister, Tammi, was hit with the news that seven years of blood, sweat and tears, turning a pokey snooker club into ''one of London’s coolest bars'' (Time Out) would be met by the council’s decision to fill her underground rhapsody of Bohemia with cement.

Determined not to go down without a fight, Tammi and Colin, her partner in crime and management, set about inviting every Tom, Dick and Harry to a 2 hour protest on top of their club.

A protest? Oh god. I hate that sort of thing. Will there be a lot of naked hippies with their boobs around their ankles? Do I have to chain myself to a tree? Come on Kim, this is your sister we’re talking about, you will chain yourself to whatever she wants and you will not be cynical or disparaging. For once.

Well, I should have known better. I should have known there would be no chains, no hippies (well, a few) and no chanting.

Instead there was ska music, there was Earl Orkin, there was free booze and free hotdogs. There was a warmth in the crowd which I’ve come to expect from any crowd associated with Ginglik. It’s a rather special place, you see. Through their charm and welcoming nature, Tammi and Colin have provided west London with more than just a bar. Once people stumble upon it, they never go back to the Walkabout. It’s a gem of a place, thrown in amongst the one-pound shops, dirt and grime of Shepherd’s Bush and I’m proud to know the owners.

More than proud. When I’m talking to people there I can’t wait to crowbar into the conversation that I’m Tammi’s sister. 'Are you?' they exclaim, showering Tammi, via me, with compliments about the wonder of Ginglik. The power of their words is explosive.

What is Ginglik? People ask me, is it because Colin is ginger? Does Tammi lick him? Tempting as it is to let people think this, I explain that it means Explosive Power. Then I tell them I’m Tammi’s sister and perhaps they should buy me a drink.

As my wonderful and slightly tipsy brother, Jae, and I took over the free bar, handing out beer and hotdogs to all and sundry, a disheveled, toothless man in an inside-out jumper stumbled over to me.

‘Is this a free bar?’ he slurs.

‘Sure, beer or wine?’ I ask cheerfully. His eyes widen in amazement.

‘And free food?’ he says, literally salivating.

‘Yup.’

He turns around, waves his arms frantically then turns back to me.

‘Well I’ll have a beer then!’ he says, all his dreams coming true at once. Within seconds his entourage of fellow homeless hobo’s have arrived to pillage all they can. What a lucky day for them. There they were, picking apple cores off the dirty streets of Shepherd’s Bush (probably) and drinking 12p lager from Tesco, when the sound of live ska lured them to the green. A free bar, free food…. Tammi looks on, her temper brewing. She doesn’t want that kind of riffraff in here. It’s not like they care about Ginglik.

How about a written test, I suggest to Jae. If they know what Ginglik is, and ten other difficult questions, they can stay.

My idea falls flat and instead, long after the protest has finished and all the middle class people have descended to the night club to start paying for their drinks, the hobo’s are still milling around, toasting hot dog buns (all we had left) on the BBQ and filling them with ketchup.

Oh well. I’ve seen Trading Places. Maybe one of them is a secret millionaire and our generosity will be repayed when he buys Hammersmith and Fulham council and reissues the Ginglik lease. Because, in the greater scheme of things, that’s all that matters.

Gareth told me that if I got a good enough shot of the evening, he’d put it out to the papers. ‘Get high,’ he said, not suggesting I have a sneaky spliff with the hobos, but suggesting I climb a tree to get my good shot. I dutifully climbed. I was so overwhelmed by the warmth of the crowd, dancing, waving placards, cheering and smiling in the evening sunshine, that I was almost moved to crowd surf over the permeating love.

So now I like protests. I think I’ll start protesting more things. Anyone got any trees that need saving? Chain me up. But please supply free beer. Me and the hobos would expect nothing less.

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