The ballad of forgotten bed clothes
Football has been described as a religion. A way of life.
This week is an international break. I cannot worship at the shrine of Arsenal so I must seek the opium of the people elsewhere. So, I have time to explore spirituality in the bustle.
Two weeks now. New beginning, a fresh start. Hot air crowding out, kept grounded by buildings scraping upwards. Cold drip drops from flats high above plonk on to the brim of my scalp when I walk along the hills and up narrow shallow steep steps. A brief minute moment a day. Pause and reflect. Peculiar, but provides relief. Please don’t be shit.
Daoism
Writing in a Hong Kong Garden, an actual one. Not the Hong Kong Garden — the Chinese Takeaway in Chislewick High Street sung about by Siouxsie of Siouxsie and The Banshees. Great song. Some dodgy lyrics. In Hollywood Road Park. A business man in a suit is doing Tai Chi on his lunch break to my right. A park in the fengshui style. Water trickles, weird Carp fishes and turtles float and the open air sucks the angst out of the people trudging through the city’s hustle.
In this very park on the 26th January 1861, a British naval contingent plunged the Union Jack into the earth and declared Hong Kong their own.
A man across the pagoda has unbuttoned his shirt and his belly is visible. He is happy and nods at me. I wonder if he knows I am writing him into this. He is keeping constant eye contact. A world champion at staring contests.
Possession Point, they called it. Hollywood Road runs beside and is the hub of antiques and ancient trinkets in Hong Kong. Thin white porcelain with scenes of blue, rampant lions with sharp teeth and sitting Gods. In the 1870s a Chinese community was set up here, in the Sheung Wan area. At the crux of the community is the Man Mo Temple, built between 1847 and 1862.
Man Cheong is the God of Literature.
Mo Ti is the God of Martial Arts.
The Temple was a spiritual, intoxicating experience. A feeling not felt since I saw Radiohead live in Monza a few years ago. I bought three incense sticks, 10$. Some of the Chinese people there held a wad of about fifty. Wafting them around the dark room, smoke and the stench spreading from the embers of their tips. Slow burning. Incense lit on one of the many candles. Wanted to cough and had a headache. Incense induced.
Back in the park. My clothes smell of incense and oh ah now the man with his plump belly out has broken his gaze and is doing some Tai Chi. A respite from his intense gaze. Poking himself and slapping his legs to circulate the blood.
But a nice headache. The sharp end of the incense is pierced into a bowl of ash. The ash of old incense built up over time. Birth, Death, Rebirth. Cyclical.
I stroked Man’s long fingered hand which was holding a fat pen. To solicit good will and inspiration in writing. I don’t see myself fighting in any hand on hand combat any time soon so I decided against a stoke of Mo’s sword. As it were. At the shrines, worshippers offered bananas, satsumas, rice bowls, art and etchings, a pack of smoked almonds, some lemon lozenges, cash, a soft noodle dish in a lunchbox.
The temple was built in the 1870s, where the first thriving Chinese community around the time the Brits first arrived. Now it is squished between sky scrapers, an outpost to escape from the noises of Hong Kong: the market merchant’s roaring; the pneumatic drills bouncing loudly and the noise of horns and Doppler sirens.
A Daoist temple. Yin and Yang symbols were dotted on the vestments of statues throughout. Duality and contrast. Simply, the idea that if you want to eat the best slice of pizza, you must therefore also try the worst.
Maybe Illinois philosopher Kanye West makes a more convincing metaphor with his urbanised Daoism in the song Lost in the World. Yeezy-Yin-Yang lyrics: The duality of existence; Accept the negative, as without it, there is no positive;
Devil, angel
Heaven, hell
Now, forever
Freedom, Jail
Lies, Truth
War, Truce
Questions, Proof
Stress, Masseuse.
Without good, by definition, bad does not exist. The Tao Te Ching, the essential Daoist text says, among other things:
“…If you want to become full, let yourself be empty…
…If you want to be reborn, you must die…
…If you want everything, you must give up everything…”
The embrace of letting go.
So, now sitting here. After the spiritual experience. I started to think about Daoism. Since moving here, how has Daoism impacted me. I came up with this.
In order to remember, one must also forget.
I remembered to bring many things. My 5kg copy of Ulysses (I haven’t opened it to resume reading yet), photos of home, my face and beard oil, my retainer, 45 Berocca soluble tablets, a memory foam neck pillow and echinacea droplets and 14 pairs of socks and 15 underpants. I have used all my favourites and now I am forced to use the neglected ones. Always a sad occurrence. I need to do a wash.
So:
I remembered, but I also forgot.
The Forgotten Bed Clothes
“I loathed the chilly empire of my bed”
A line plucked from Cynthia Is Dead. A poem by Propertius, written in the last century BCE. Not much is known of Propertius. His muse was Cynthia. Much of his work was about her. An original romantic.
But the relationship grew sour like a fallen brown apple hidden in the grass. Rotten. He grew tired of the fickle Cynthia. His words, not mine.
I, too, loathed the chilly empire of my bed. Aircon off, jungle canopy. Aircon on, Arctic Tundra. Cold was the wiser call. Cold and irritated in my sleep in my box room. Technicolour buses sloping down the hill. Their honey yellow lights flashing pendulously on the wall opposite. The large window perfectly in line with the top row of the double decker (Have to be careful in the morning)
I had a borrowed sheet and a borrowed duvet cover. Orange with little pink love hearts. Loveless.
I didn’t have a duvet. I presumed there would be a duvet. But when one presumes, one makes an arse of themselves. I forgot the bed clothes. Get stuffed.
It was on the list. But it was forgotten.
Bed clothes Ensemble
Pillow case & duvet cover. Both have a print on each side. The first side: a polka dot pattern of Arsenal crests. The other side is a view of the Clock End from behind the goal opposite. A bright green shining pitch. The fallow field system applied to the duvet. No side is shown more attention. Thinking of the duvet, missed the feeling of it on my skin and like a Proustian madeleine moment, was transported back:
A Shop, Subsequently Bulldozed.
April 2006. In London. A holiday with my family. A friend, Greg (still a friend, you will be happy to hear) was also in London with his family and was part of the surprise. Ninth birthday. Our tiny brains didn’t put two and two together. I was clueless but a meeting was arranged at the Charlie Chaplin Statue on a corner in Leicester Square. The Tramp leaning on a bendy stick. Tip his bowler. The surprise surprised successfully.
Celebration. Manoeuvred up narrow staircases up to the fourth floor near the Wan Chai corner in Chinatown. Bright red crispy shredded chicken, Wonton soup and Yuk Sung scooped into deep green lettuce leaves. Fish sauce fumes filled the air. Spinning Susan like a lazy DJ. What is Chinese food called in China? Just food? Dad organised a big cake, on the top written in orange icing Hapy Birtday. Football in Green Park, jumpers for goalposts, stars for floodlights, biting through the darkening smog. Mercurial boots for the birthday, blue with silver heel. Piccadilly Line escalator broken. Sprinted up it straight long strides for a young fella. Counting each leap. Don’t mess about.
Phwoosh Phwoom Phwaw.
Fist clenched with excitement. Came out into the night air. Day ended with a spectacular vomit.
Exit Through The Club Shop.
The women went home. Replaced by my octogenarian granddad. Arsenal fan. A main reason I supported them in the first place. We had tickets to the last North London Derby at Highbury. Out with the old. The new stadium was taking shape down the road and taking its place in the London skyline. You can see seven stadiums from the Eye. Three of us, three generations squeezed into a box room in a hotel in Islington. Free tea! Free soap! Free thin slippers! Go to sleep.
Big week. First-leg semi-final of the Champions League. Versus Villareal. Watched in a pub, downwind and could see the roars vibrating from the bubble of light around the ground. Kolo Toure front post. Muddle and a mess and a doink!
A squirrel ran on the pitch that night. A famous squirrel. Even has a twitter page. The next day we went to the stadium. Terraced housing running along the old façade. Herbert Chapman’s big bronze mug in marble halls. Highbury 1913–2006. 93 years at Highbury. Plum shirt, mum thought:
“Ah, suits your colouring, lovely”
Huge Clock. Vieira’s big boot. Pre-trophy drought, many polished trophies, dust hadn’t settled, yet. Make a face go wobbly like looking into the back of a spoon. Clip on a tele, edge of the box:
“Oh Charlie George who can hit’em”
Back of the onion sack. Skinny legs and floppy hair and blue collared loose yellow cotton. Blue cannon. Baboom. Keeper too slow, shot too fast. Knee slide. Fall on arse, arms outstretched. Two first names, one right foot — whack! Motionless, his team mates bring him to his feet, back from his euphoric death. Like Lazarus. Immortal.
In the club shop I could’ve got anything:
Alarm Clock, Whistle, Bobble Head, Calendar, Blowhorn, Umbrella, Money Box, Garden Bucket, Key ring, Winter Gloves, a Lock of Wenger’s Hair or I could’ve signed up for a turf slab of the Highbury Pitch. Expensive turf. Extra for a penalty spot or the centre circle.
No, none of that meaningless tripe. I went for the bed clothes. Tucked them proudly under my arm. Been with me ever since.
Avenell Road. The yellowed, aged Art Deco façade. We stood admiring, looking up. Meanwhile, Charlie George walked by in a duck down jacket. No joking here. This actually happened. He was wearing thick brown rimmed spectacles and had large side burns and less long locks. He nodded and walked on, bumping into a bin.
“Oh Charlie George who can bump’em”
Maybe he just hangs out around there. Brum Brum Brum…A street cleaner parked his compact street sweeper and approached and asked us if we heard of that squirrel that ran on the pitch the night before.
“Alright lads, yu uurd of that squiral that rahn ohn the pitchh?
Yes, we saw it in the paper, we said. Potential headlines:
Highbury Goes Nuts(?)
Gunner’s Tails Are Up(?)
How Much Woodwork Can A Woodchuck Whack?(?)
Hav a look at this, then.
He proudly showed us a poor-quality photo on a Nokia brick. It was a photo of a squirrel he had killed in his motorised sweeper earlier that day. He was trying to figure out if he had killed the squirrel. As if it was some kind of mighty coup. Looked for similarities between the Highbury squirrel and the pancaked squirrel. A sadistic, cruel man. But in answer to his question. I think it was the squirrel. Such is the tragedy of existence. Hubris got the best of the rodent.
The Star Diner, Islington.
A meal after Highbury. Waitress had a smoke pursed between her pink lipsticked lips, blonde curls tied loosely in a bun on the back of her crown, a ketchup stained apron.
Ello love, whatya havin?
The menu consisted only of numbers. Shouting to kitchen. Three Jermyns combined age of 132. Three number fives! Two bacon, two sausage, beans, eggs: fried, a portion of mushrooms. Wash down with a cup of cha. Lovely. Elbow grease and love thrown into every baked bean. Slapped down on the table.
I was back in Islington recently visiting my sister, Molly. She lives in Finsbury Park. Finsbury Park Underground Station has an official Arsenal shop and it is a Charlie George thunderfuck volley away from the Emirates. The Star Diner is still there. A bastion of the past.
Arsenal 1–1 Spurs
Gameday arrived. We met Liam Brady. Shook his hand.
Wellll, Billllll…..
We watched the game. Henry was rested, sat on the bench. Tottenham dominated. Salt and peppering Lehmann’s goal. The Big German putting his arse in front of everything. Gilberto and Eboue were down injured and the bastards didn’t kick it out (Although I find the act of kicking the ball out when an opposition rolls around in faux agony complete bollocks, it still riled me up at the time) Robbie Keane scored.
As a young fella, loving and hating both Robbie Keane and Thierry Henry mucked up my head. After Henry’s main de dieu incident in Paris, I threw a shoe at my sister after she said:
‘It’s only a game’
Tears seemed unnecessary and over the top to her.
Goal came just after half time. Robbie Keane set up by Edgar Davids. What do Edgar Davids, the three blind mice in Shrek and the Reservoir Dogs have in common? Sunny day. Henry off the bench, tucking in the plum and pulling his socks up to his lower groin. All fans licking lips. He equalised! Davids was sent off and a last few nervy minutes for Tottenham. Martin Jol and Wenger squared up for a straightener at one stage. Bubbling tensions like burnt milk. FT 1–1.
Tottenham still set for top four. Two games left with a four-point lead. Enter dodgy lasagne. It routed their first team’s bellies before a final day game versus West Ham. A Yossi Benayoun masterclass sunk the sickly guts of Spurs. Arsenal sealed top four with the final game at Highbury. Henry hat-trick versus a group of Wigan stayers. Kissed the penalty spot after his hat-trick goal. That’ll drive up the price of that wad of grass and mud in the club shop.
A chant I remember from the day (to the tune of When The Saints Go Marching In):
We won the League
We won the League
We won the League at that Shithole
We won the League at White Hart Lane.
Funnily enough, WHL has been torn down and built again. Opening soon and it is in the exact shape of a toilet bowl. Architects must be Arsenal boys.
Home, via Holyhead
Dad bought a new car from England. We were driving it home. Across England and over to Holyhead. Before we left the hotel. A group of ruffians pushed over a man’s Honda 500. And the police were called. I was reading Match Magazine and Grandad was doing a crossword. Dad was absent. I remember my legs shaking in fear as a policeman chased children around the lobby. I thought I’d be embroiled in the ruckus, a witness to the murder of a man’s motor. Luckily, we left the scene. In the new car. Drove for hours cross the county, late into the early morning. Ate sodden Wimpy chicken nuggets and Star Mix and Johnny Onion Rings. Dad, allergic to something, he didn’t know what. Smell of Petrol. As we boarded, the side to side motion disagreed with my innards. I was ill again. Not the joyous spew of a birthday, of running up from the depths of the Piccadilly line on a broken escalator. But due to that bastard of a Stena Sea Link from Holyhead. We used to receive offers from them, well into my teens. I would see them in the postbox and shudder and rip them up. Nope! Sick on Dad’s new car seats as we drove back towards home by the Red Lighthouse. That’ll teach him to try get a car on the cheap from the neighbours. Throughout this Odyssey, bookended by two vomits, the loyal bed clothes were with me the entire time. Sigh.
But onwards.
I bought a duvet. I have grown to like my love heart pillow and duvet cover. In IKEA, I saw a man with his shoes off and his laptop on his belly. Feet up on a poof, watching something. This man is what I aspire to be.
Ceiling gazing in my bed throughout the week. That was what kept swinging around in my head, like the buses around the corner under my flat. After interaction with the Gods of Man Mo Temple and watching my incense turn to ashes. Dust to dust. I have realised. Awoken from my past.
Rebirth. Somethings will be forgotten, but this leaves room for new life.
Whatever is born, begotten and dies.
Such is the life of a duvet.
Beginning, fresh start. There are plenty more duvets out there.
There is love in the letting go.
Now for some Mushroom Potage.