Saturday, October 08, 2005
After party at 3 Church Walk
The late bar was packed enough, but now we’re in a 3 bedroom apartment across the street from, as the name suggests, a church. Three hours of dancing has me tired and thirsty as hell, but the only thing to drink here is some awful looking Welsh beer and suspicious looking orange juice in a pitcher. As usual, we’re huddled in a small group, only talking to those that come over to talk to us.
An American chap is chatting one of the girls up. As he does so, he casually pulls off his sweater and rotates his shoulders while squeezing his biceps ever so slightly and sneaking in a sniff of the armpit. I think he looks like yet another Ivy league sonofabitch, but then again I could just be jealous because no one here has ever heard of my university. As I scowl, a voice from below interrupts my thoughts:
“Why is it, when you ask an American where he’s from, he always tells you the state; like we’re supposed to know where it is?”
I don’t know how to respond when she makes a gibe about Americans, as I never know if she considers me one of them, or as an outsider. The booze isn’t helping the tone of the question. I shrug.
The chatter of the room grows louder as more and more people pack in. Jesus I’m thirsty. He would probably understand- being nailed to a cross and given nothing to drink – forced to die of thirst out in the open, for all to see.
The two below me are talking, but my hearing at parties isn’t so great, and so I just scan the room. Maybe it’s time to leave?
They say something and both look at me. She leans closer and says something, but I missed it.
“What was that?”
“We were just talking about it… you know how you don’t drink. Why not? Do you just not like the taste of it?”
The million dollar question. I’d already heard it not five hours ago and have had to stumble with an answer several times since I arrived in Oxford.
I look at her face, and suddenly I can see where life is going. I already know how this will end.
Must there be any point to a conviction? Any time I try and pin it down, it never does make much sense, so explanations always fall flat. When I was alone, I actually consider giving in – having a drink, and calling it a day. But suddenly, in the presence of others, I find myself compelled to maintain my conviction.
“It’s hard to explain” is all I say, but I know it’s never enough. “Actually, I’m going to get out of here.”
The crowd parts quicker than the legs of a teenager from Beverley as I make my way through. I feel the apartment will me to leave as the front door opens and the cold October night slaps my sober face.
An American chap is chatting one of the girls up. As he does so, he casually pulls off his sweater and rotates his shoulders while squeezing his biceps ever so slightly and sneaking in a sniff of the armpit. I think he looks like yet another Ivy league sonofabitch, but then again I could just be jealous because no one here has ever heard of my university. As I scowl, a voice from below interrupts my thoughts:
“Why is it, when you ask an American where he’s from, he always tells you the state; like we’re supposed to know where it is?”
I don’t know how to respond when she makes a gibe about Americans, as I never know if she considers me one of them, or as an outsider. The booze isn’t helping the tone of the question. I shrug.
The chatter of the room grows louder as more and more people pack in. Jesus I’m thirsty. He would probably understand- being nailed to a cross and given nothing to drink – forced to die of thirst out in the open, for all to see.
The two below me are talking, but my hearing at parties isn’t so great, and so I just scan the room. Maybe it’s time to leave?
They say something and both look at me. She leans closer and says something, but I missed it.
“What was that?”
“We were just talking about it… you know how you don’t drink. Why not? Do you just not like the taste of it?”
The million dollar question. I’d already heard it not five hours ago and have had to stumble with an answer several times since I arrived in Oxford.
I look at her face, and suddenly I can see where life is going. I already know how this will end.
Must there be any point to a conviction? Any time I try and pin it down, it never does make much sense, so explanations always fall flat. When I was alone, I actually consider giving in – having a drink, and calling it a day. But suddenly, in the presence of others, I find myself compelled to maintain my conviction.
“It’s hard to explain” is all I say, but I know it’s never enough. “Actually, I’m going to get out of here.”
The crowd parts quicker than the legs of a teenager from Beverley as I make my way through. I feel the apartment will me to leave as the front door opens and the cold October night slaps my sober face.
Good lord
About 10 this morning I decided to go for a run in the large park next to St. Antony's. As I was running, I saw a odd-looking man pushing a baby carriage a little way up the path. I suddenly had an idea as to who it might be, but dismissed it quickly as wishful thinking.
As I got closer and closer, I noted the slightly spiky hair and rock-star clothing. I began to pass the person, and he turned and looked at me. He had on a pair of those great big pilot's sunglasses, but his slightly disfigured left eye was still partially visible. I've seen enough pictures of him, and seen him twice live, so I can safely say that it was Thom Yorke.
I nearly had a heart attack, and it was hard to overcome the teenage-era desire to stop in my tracks and demand that he sign my head or something. Instead I smiled back at him and continued on at the same pace. On my second lap I passed him again, and this time was sure that it was him. Funny enough, no one else in the park seemed to notice.
I knew Thom lived in Oxford, but I never expected to actually run into him. Interesting times, I'm going to see Jeffrey Sachs speak on Sunday. Maybe Bono is with him. Maybe I'll run into him on my next run.
I did a little research, and found that Thom has two children... but the second was born a few years ago, which begs the question: who the hell was in the baby carriage?
As I got closer and closer, I noted the slightly spiky hair and rock-star clothing. I began to pass the person, and he turned and looked at me. He had on a pair of those great big pilot's sunglasses, but his slightly disfigured left eye was still partially visible. I've seen enough pictures of him, and seen him twice live, so I can safely say that it was Thom Yorke.
I nearly had a heart attack, and it was hard to overcome the teenage-era desire to stop in my tracks and demand that he sign my head or something. Instead I smiled back at him and continued on at the same pace. On my second lap I passed him again, and this time was sure that it was him. Funny enough, no one else in the park seemed to notice.
I knew Thom lived in Oxford, but I never expected to actually run into him. Interesting times, I'm going to see Jeffrey Sachs speak on Sunday. Maybe Bono is with him. Maybe I'll run into him on my next run.
I did a little research, and found that Thom has two children... but the second was born a few years ago, which begs the question: who the hell was in the baby carriage?
