Seeing pictures taken by the New Cross Massive often makes me homesick and long to participate in one of those rose-tinted evenings down at one of the many agreeable boozers that are splattered throughout.
But yesterday evening was surprisingly reminiscent of a good Friday out. In fact, it was one.
While we were down the pub with some neighbours, a guy in a Michael Bolton t-shirt approached Michele at the bar. I checked with Tim’s sister that it really was “Michael Bolton” on the back of the shirt and she confirmed that it wasn’t a problem with my vision. Perplexed, and slightly concerned, I joined the conversation and he was introducing himself as someone who literally lives over the road from us. He seemed to be way too cool to like “no talent ass clowns” and so I was confused. This is America! He surely can’t be wearing that t-shirt ironically! It has Michael Bolton’s boat on it! That would be extreme irony. Maybe he’s a terrorist ?
We got talking and he turns out to be a geeky, analogue-synth-collecting, really nice guy, who lived in the UK for nine years, called Matt. We were slightly irritated to have not known him for so long and then he told us he was about to leave the area and move to Chicago. Arses!
Later that evening, I was watching War Games on TCM with Leo on my shoulder. Now I must have watched that film hundreds of times, literally, but it gets better every time I see it. It’s also the only film I’ve watched with both Humphrey and Leo on my shoulder. They both seemed to enjoy it.
Just before that bollocks bit at the end (with the tic-tac-toe and the voice synthesizer in the control room) there was a banging at the door. I ended up playing Dominoes with Tim, his cousin, and some bloke they met at a party over the road. Fortunately I eschewed the Jagermeister in favour of Carlo Rossi’s cheapest and so managed to stay reasonably coherent.
Then, when it was really bed-time, new friend Matt arrived at the porch and asked if I wanted to share some single Malts with him and his friend on his porch. Before he had time to admit it was a joke and that he didn’t really have any malts, I was over there. And he did! 15 year old Glenfiddich! He also makes his own homebrew! And, as it was beginning to seem like it couldn’t get any better, the other guy waiting on the porch turned out to be one of the only other people I know in the area: Kevin. He’s a hairy UNIX geek too and a thoroughly bloody nice chap. As you can imagine, we get on quite well.