Hello, greetings, bonjour, what’s happening.
It’s Friday. What does that mean? Not much to me. I stopped looking forward to weekends (and bank holidays) a long time ago. Maybe if I was working an ordinary job, I’d be chomping at the bit, right now. But I’m not, but if you are, sick. I’m cool, though.
Speaking of jobs, this week’s offering is another story from Make Your Own Bed and Hope for the Best. Based on when I worked at HMV at Gatwick Airport. I mentioned last week, that I’d hit a block with this show. I started writing the third part this week but didn’t get very far. I’m still very much in that this isn’t working phase. I’m loosing heart but will kick-on.
I’ve got a habit of getting stuck into something and then just letting it go. Even when it’s quite far down the line. I’ve done t so many times. I was learning to drive, when I was around 18. Got as far as gearing up to take the test, missed a couple of lessons then just, sort of, gradually, stopped. It’s like I go numb to any feelings about it – then sometime later, I get a delayed onslaught of negativity.
These are things I’ve noticed happening over time. So now, I’m trying to read the signs early on, so I can counteract it, which normally involves just keeping it going, even it’s in tiny amounts. A mate of mine, Physics B, once told me about this Jerry Seinfeld strategy, of just viewing it all as a chain; as long as you’re doing something each day, you’re keeping the chain going. I’m having mixed results.
Whilst my gym visits have fallen by the wayside, at least I can say I’ve kept Lager Time going (and I’m keeping the show going) It’s been over six months, now and give or take a few weeks, I’ve been consistent with it. So well done me and large up all of you who have read, or listened, or shared; thankyou.
For lots of us that do this kind of thing; freelance creatives or whatever, COVID cancelled loads of our work and forced a lot of us to re-think what we’re doing. I was no exception. With technology, I’m quite often slow to adapt; rarely short of ideas but know-how and execution lags why behind, and I often loose heart because of it. Despite that, I made this list, around April 2020 of things I thought I could do to grow and adapt; I caled it the Level-Up list. The end-point was for me to be able to produce by own content: video’s, music, audio, images, books etc. So I took a bunch of Udemy courses and tried to learn a few things. If you’re familiar with my work about education, or even the stuff I’ve been sharing on here, then you may realise how un-academic I am.
It’s a journey I’m still on and it’s frustrating, as with lots of it, like video, I’m still very much at the beginner stage and I do lose heart, from time-to-time. It’s taking a long time to get where I want to go but I am making progress; just very slowly.
I’ve got the Substack up and running, a self-produced music EP, two-thirds recorded, I’m not far off filming a couple of simple point-and-shoot poetry videos and I’m getting better at recording audio. Tortoise and the hare, mate.
Speaking of levelling-up, I made this little introduction to the audio, what do you think? It’s another step towards stepping-up. Onwards and upwards. Well, that’s the ideal trajectory. As per above, it’s thinking about moving onward and upwards, move onwards with excitement, hit an obstacle, fall over, lie on the ground for hours full of self-loathing, days, weeks, then get back up, re-trace my steps, start again, overcome said hurdle, get excited again, find another hurdle, rinse, wash, repeat. Enjoy the story.
As ever, if you’ve listened or read and got this far, thankyou. If you like it, give it a subscribe. Enjoy the bank holiday, same time next week?
HMV
Despite the redundancy and loosing the apprenticeship: getting the Golum eyes and spanking most of the payout dough on clothes and booze, being skint, unemployed, having to go through the humiliation of signing-on, not hearing back from most jobs, flopping the few job interviews that I had, no qualifications, feeling generally quite useless and that I had no tangible skills to offer anyone and no girlfriend to speak of, life was alright. Honestly. I had a roof, a good family, a few mates and I had music.
I was enjoying MCing more and more, I loved writing lyrics and raping them over beats and had started running drum and bass and garage nights in this local club in Horley, called the Liquid Lounge, with my mate Mick from college, where I’d MC. We had no idea what we were doing but we did it anyway.
The owner of the club was looking for a regular DJ, so I got my brothers mate, Dean to come down with his mate Nigel, as they were doing a lot of weddings and parties back then.
Dean worked at HMV in Gatwick, I mentioned I was looking for a job, they had a job going, so through a blatant case of nepotism and crony capitalism, I landed myself a job there.
For a retail shop, the money was good, and I cashed in on the 30% discount; got the Gollum eyes trebling my music collection, within weeks. I’d also started to read books and the discount extended to waterstones, it was a touch and I remember buying my first Michal Moore book there. I was working with people my own age, with similar interests, and it was music. I felt like I’d landed on my feet.
Pretty much everyone in my family had worked at the airport at some point. I could walk there from home, which was handy for those 5am starts when transport was limited. Pretty grim in the winter though, dark and cold outside, walking down that infamous alleyway where the street light didn’t work, so it was pitch black, only to arrive in the airport like you’d never left, like it never slept.
Super bright strip lights hurting my eyes, air-con choking my lungs, constant announcements, brutal early shifts and killer lates, stomach aches from too much caffeine and night and day cells in constant conflict, as I my body clock was always confused. The manager was a wanker too, he made passive aggression into an artform, always spoke to me like I was thick.
But aside from that I liked it. I was working with music. All that retail customer service stuff was bollox but at least I was doing something where I had a little bit of knowledge that I could contribute. I enjoyed recommending things to customers and I was learning lots, new artsts, old bands, making mates and having a laugh.
The airport employed thousands of people and you’d get friendly with the other staff there. Other retail bods, security, baggie handling. Even the old Bill with their machine guns. You could get things at the airport, loads of little under the counter deals were going on. We’d call it the North terminal crime syndicate, got myself a pair of Nikes one time for £20 cash. Lots of the local bars would run airport nights, you’d flash your pass and get discounted drinks, it was sick.
I was in charge of the dance-music section and felt especially proud when I organised it into subgenres: deep-house, funky-house, tech-house, drum and bass, garage, breakbeat, big beat and would get stumped by curve balls like the Prodigy and the Chemical brothers. What section do I put them in. I got to order stuff, I took pride in it. Sometimes I’d have to open and close the shop and cash up the tills and I liked the responsibility. Of course I made a few mistakes and got in trouble once or twice but I still preferred it to Zepher.
I’d started this music promotion course down in Brighton, which I got on by chance, just being in a record shop one day when there the course leaders were giving out flyers. I was too old but they let me join in, I just did’nt get the qualification. We were working on putting an event on at the Ocean rooms, which was big club back then. I’d work the early shifts without a break, burn it over to the station and get a train down there and make it just in time for the afternoon session. And in-between all of that, minus the boozing and smoking, trips to clubs in London andand Brighton, and a surprise FA Cup Final for Millwall, I was still writing lots of lyrics. And Working life was alright.
But deep down I knew it couldn’t last. The money was good and I was becoming comfortable, which I’d never felt before but I knew that it was dangerous. The airport was full of older-bods who had potential but never amounted to much. They swapped that potential for resentment and would sit in the pubs boring the rest of us to death about how they could’ve made it, in whatever capacity. I had this gut feeling that I’d have to leave the area. I didn’t know how, why or what I’d do, I just knew.
