It's dark, sort of warm, dirty and loud, and it's the street on the way to the tube at Leicester Square, on the first day in March. Andy stands in a phone box there, picks up the phone, for a moment not knowing what he is going to do, then a massive grin clambers over his features and he shouts into the receiver - it's a small place but we'll be welcome. He's on the phone to directory enquiries again, and you laugh. When other people did this, like when people did it to you when you briefly worked in the telephone exchange at Lincoln, you thought they were idiots. But now, standing in the clamour at 11:30, drunk and swaying in the serene calm that familiarity brings, it seems like a laugh, and you tell him he's an idiot.
Because it's his line of the moment, his greeting and his parting and his way to fill the gaps. There's a place in Soho that he knows, an all night drinking den underneath a sex shop on one of the main streets, where you tip the nod and they open the door, and you go down - always down - into a gloomy cellar, and buy cans over the counter, amid the drunken suits. Whenever the pubs chuck you out, Andy wants to take you there. His eyes light up and he nudges your elbow and says - I know a place. You tell him it's a dive and that nothing will get you to go. But someone else, someone less familiar always asks. And Andy puffs his chest out in mock self importance and says - it's a small place but we'll be welcome.
You move along the street. Gav and Andy are both burbling in your ear, making nonsense plans. Slowly the words filter through into your head and you look up to see Andys shiny face and Gavs nodding head, and it hits you that this is a great moment It's a perfect moment when everything seems to be right and to come together, like a perfectly composed snapshot in time. There are other people all around you, but in the photo they'd just be a blur, like it was necessary to have them there, the way it's necessary to know that life goes on around you, but the exact composition, the faces and the clothes weren't important, and the blur is just meant to signify a composite mass.
The laughter wells up inside you, you can't stop it, and it comes out like a machine gun. And they turn round and look at you strangely. Andy grabs you round the head and shouts - what are you doing, WHAT ARE YOU DOING, and you shout out, it's a small place, but we'll be welcome, and in this way you somehow get to the tube.
The tube is like it always is at this time, a display case, a cross section of all humanity. You stand somewhere at the centre of it, on the platform waiting, and you feel more inhibited and nervous down there. You manage to steal seats, and stare at the floor. You tumble out at the other end, and it doesn't feel so warm now. It always seems to you that the Holloway Road is designed as a wind tunnel, and you curse it. The three of you walk on down the road, and Andy veers toward the phone box again, but you pull him back, and tell him to button up his jacket as a vicious gust hits you. You bury your head into your collar, and dig your hands deeper into your pockets, and for a second it feels like you're on your own. But then you look up, and Gav is walking along, looking as if the elements couldn't touch him, and Andy is stumbling forward with his eyes half shut and his head down.
He peers out from under his eyes, and gives you his look which seems to say - oh you've caught me. It should be another one of those moments, a snapshot that you want to keep in your head, but the Holloway Road doesn't lend itself to that. Leicester Square is theatre, a place to suspend your disbelief, but here it's empty and open, the way things return to before you go to sleep, bleak normality. You move forward into the wind, towards the curry house. You step in, and the man says, we're closing. But Gav puts on his most normal voice and manner, just matter of fact, and asks if you can have a take away and a beer while you're waiting, and the man seems happy enough with that, so you take a place at the table and look at each other.
In the background, the radio is playing and there's a gentle voice coming out of it, just talking sense, the news. Andy looks over at it, for all the world as though something wonderful has been revealed to him and he looks back at you startled. You raise an eyebrow and he says - it's so soothing....so soothing. And it is - the voice is measured and soft, the voice of a favourite teacher at primary school, and you sit there and run your fingers through your hair, let it all wash over.
You pick up the curries and walk back home to the house in the square in Archway, and fall asleep into them. And when you wake up, it seems the three of you have the house to yourself, and it was all just clear blue skies.
Because it's his line of the moment, his greeting and his parting and his way to fill the gaps. There's a place in Soho that he knows, an all night drinking den underneath a sex shop on one of the main streets, where you tip the nod and they open the door, and you go down - always down - into a gloomy cellar, and buy cans over the counter, amid the drunken suits. Whenever the pubs chuck you out, Andy wants to take you there. His eyes light up and he nudges your elbow and says - I know a place. You tell him it's a dive and that nothing will get you to go. But someone else, someone less familiar always asks. And Andy puffs his chest out in mock self importance and says - it's a small place but we'll be welcome.
You move along the street. Gav and Andy are both burbling in your ear, making nonsense plans. Slowly the words filter through into your head and you look up to see Andys shiny face and Gavs nodding head, and it hits you that this is a great moment It's a perfect moment when everything seems to be right and to come together, like a perfectly composed snapshot in time. There are other people all around you, but in the photo they'd just be a blur, like it was necessary to have them there, the way it's necessary to know that life goes on around you, but the exact composition, the faces and the clothes weren't important, and the blur is just meant to signify a composite mass.
The laughter wells up inside you, you can't stop it, and it comes out like a machine gun. And they turn round and look at you strangely. Andy grabs you round the head and shouts - what are you doing, WHAT ARE YOU DOING, and you shout out, it's a small place, but we'll be welcome, and in this way you somehow get to the tube.
The tube is like it always is at this time, a display case, a cross section of all humanity. You stand somewhere at the centre of it, on the platform waiting, and you feel more inhibited and nervous down there. You manage to steal seats, and stare at the floor. You tumble out at the other end, and it doesn't feel so warm now. It always seems to you that the Holloway Road is designed as a wind tunnel, and you curse it. The three of you walk on down the road, and Andy veers toward the phone box again, but you pull him back, and tell him to button up his jacket as a vicious gust hits you. You bury your head into your collar, and dig your hands deeper into your pockets, and for a second it feels like you're on your own. But then you look up, and Gav is walking along, looking as if the elements couldn't touch him, and Andy is stumbling forward with his eyes half shut and his head down.
He peers out from under his eyes, and gives you his look which seems to say - oh you've caught me. It should be another one of those moments, a snapshot that you want to keep in your head, but the Holloway Road doesn't lend itself to that. Leicester Square is theatre, a place to suspend your disbelief, but here it's empty and open, the way things return to before you go to sleep, bleak normality. You move forward into the wind, towards the curry house. You step in, and the man says, we're closing. But Gav puts on his most normal voice and manner, just matter of fact, and asks if you can have a take away and a beer while you're waiting, and the man seems happy enough with that, so you take a place at the table and look at each other.
In the background, the radio is playing and there's a gentle voice coming out of it, just talking sense, the news. Andy looks over at it, for all the world as though something wonderful has been revealed to him and he looks back at you startled. You raise an eyebrow and he says - it's so soothing....so soothing. And it is - the voice is measured and soft, the voice of a favourite teacher at primary school, and you sit there and run your fingers through your hair, let it all wash over.
You pick up the curries and walk back home to the house in the square in Archway, and fall asleep into them. And when you wake up, it seems the three of you have the house to yourself, and it was all just clear blue skies.
