End of an EA11R(a)?

I drove the Capp home last night to garage it indefinitely. Its MOT (due today) was shaping up to be costing n * window, where n is an uncomfortably large number. So, to put off the decision as to whether to sell it or fix it, I convinced a family friend to let me use his garage for a few weeks.

Anyway, this gives me the opportunty to wax lyrical and nostalgic about it.

I bought the Capp about 3 and a half years ago. I had never bought a car before and was walking through Marchmont one day when I saw it sitting there with a 'For Sale' sign in the back window. I marvelled at it: I knew what it was, but I'd never seen one in the metal before. It was tiny, red, 2-seater and convertible. A sort of MGB for the 90s. I had a garage check it out ("bit of an oil leak, but not a serious one. Some rust around the rear wheel arches you'd need to have looked at sooner or later") and the AA do a history check, and before I knew it I was gleefully handing £4500 over to its owner.

Oh, and somewhere over £1000 to an insurance company. Import + convertible + first car + driver under 25 = buckets o' cash. I argued with them: "It's only 657cc, for Christ's sake. It's electronically limited to 86 mph!", but nothing doing. If I wanted to drive it as opposed to stand on the pavement and look at it, that was that. By this point, my credit card was near-melted from the exertion.

I drove up to Dundee a couple of days later to show Finlay my new toy. It was raining cats and dogs, and not being entirely used to the feel of the car yet, I was taking it pretty easy. I picked him up. First roundabout; second gear; 15-20 mph. We came to the exit. I gently accelerated. There was a curiously slurping, humming noise from the back of the car. The rev counter leapt upwards, the turbo indicator lit up and suddenly we're pointing directly at the bollard on the exit's traffic island.

"So, rear-wheel drive does make a difference," I mused as I opposite locked our way out of the impending crash.

Once I got used to the tail-happy handling, I started to enjoy myself. It had plenty of grunt to help really hoof it along B-roads and loads of grip from the (relatively speaking) wide tires. On a sunny day, you could take the roof down and the worried exclamations of your passenger were sucked away into the wind. I drove all the way to Liverpool one November with the roof down, and despite suffering near-frostbitten lips and ice-encrusted eyes, loved the whole journey. I discovered that even in the pouring rain, hit 60 mph and the slipstream sucked most of the water over your head. Until it collected at the corners of the windscreen and began to drip directly into your face, but tcha! A small price to pay for the glory of hooning along with nothing to protect you in the event of rolling the car.

One notable journey up north for a camping trip (all of my kit was in someone else's car) saw me giving a lift to a chap from work that I rather selfishly didn't much want to talk to. When we set off, I handed him the map and told him: "Look for B-roads. If you can't find B-roads, those little white lines will do."

"The ones without numbers?"

"Yup. Them."

Incidents along the way included a near-death experience with a Volvo on a single track road; getting the Capp airborne for the first time and pulling over in a passing place to investigate a burning smell, only find the front left brake actually smoking.

So, Suzuki Cappuccino EA11R 1157, farewell. It was fun while it lasted, but you were a rather too expensive toy.

<sniff>

On Friday evening Josh, Jeff and I were provided for yet again at Devon's flat - Annabel's parents were visiting, and they needed a bunch of self-important egomaniacs to provide conversation. Or something. Off we trooped, with me declaring that afterwards "I might come out for one, but that's all."

Fast forward to Medina, approximately 2.30 am: everyone else has left apart from me and an old school friend that is roughly as drunk as I am. That's an 'old school-friend', not 'old-school friend'. What would an old-school friend be, I wonder? Someone that listens to a lot of happy hardcore, perhaps.

But I digress.

Friday evening's shenanigans did not provide a good platform from which to launch Saturday night's party at our flat, but we ploughed on regardless. The trip to shopping mall/hell that afternoon to get the booze was a little more sedate (and puffy-eyed) than usual, but by the evening things were comfortably heading towards party format.

The party itself was pretty much the same idea as last time, except that I A) managed to avoid worrying about the lack of people pre-10 pm, and B) failed (was I really trying? Nah, to be honest) to get...friendly with anyone. Perhaps we're getting older; everyone was very well behaved and even the limbo dancing and indoor snowboarding/pull-ups were terribly well mannered, if blind drunk. Everything tooled along nicely until we had to eject a couple of randoms that had enthusiastically shower-gelled the bathroom, but by then - 5 am or so, and more or less daylit - the party fervour was winding down.

On Sunday, after Irn Bru and Dixy Chicken (mmm Dixy Chicken. Cliché licking good), we all wandered to the Meadows, looking for a friend of ours supposed to be visiting from the Netherlands, but to no avail. I spent the rest of Sunday studiously avoiding the mountains of empty bottles and cigarette ash littering the flat, then capitulating around midnight (I'd finally recovered some energy) and doing a bit of half-hearted tidying up.

Rock and roll, folks. Rock and roll. A good party and a day of procrastination: a classic weekend. Hopefully Josh'll have some pictures up soon.

P.S. "...terribly well mannered, if blind drunk"; or, in Antonio's case, "...terribly well mannered, if DRUNK AND STONED." His emphasis, not mine.

I got a haircut this morning. Set the alarm especially for it; even had some breakfast because I got up so early. Conversation between me and hairdresser:

Hairdresser: "Is this the first time you've been here?"
Roquefort Files: "No, no. I got a terrible mullet type haircut from the place I normally go, so I tried this one instead. They guy was really good, so I thought I'd come back."
H: "So, how do you want it cut?"

<cue brief discussion about how to cut my hair. Several anti-mullet comments are made.>

My hair is duly cut, and the hairdresser holds up a mirror so I can see the back.

It's another fucking mullet.

Saturday evening:

we're sitting around the kitchen table. On it are bottles of:

• Jim Beam
  
• Talisker
  
• Jose Cuervo Clasico
  
• Smirnoff Black
  
• stagnant Cinzano Bianco
  

Ye party has verily started. Rob Roys and Manhattans have been bravely drunk by all, Tequila Sunrises have nauseated Josh by their mere proximity and Vodka Sours have been gamely sunk. Ally and Sam have arrived, wearing the mandated suits. It always seems to happen that whenever we attempt to go out, the only way to guarantee that the shit will be unquestionably good is to dress up. Seriously; witness Hat Night. Witness the legendary Hat/Comedy Facial Hair Party. Witness Vegas.

I think you begin to understand now.

Josh and Jeff are wearing the regulation black; I'm wearing a somewhat ridiculous blue pinstripe suit that I bought in a charity shop (for an 80s party), worth all of £20. In fact, the trousers I loan Jeff cost more than my entire outfit. Nice.

We go out. This is roughly where my concrete memory of the event starts to crumble. The plan had been to hit George Street and laugh heartily and knowingly at all of the people that wear suits as a matter of course to go out on a Saturday night. Instead, we hit George Street and uninentionally enjoy ourselves in a wholly un-ironic way.

I bump into Jacqui (ex-Gladiator of Crimbo Riverdance fame/shame); much shouty conversation ensues. Jeff leaves sometime between 9 and 11 pm to meet Devon, Annabel and Annabel's parents, Ally and Sam call it a night sometime later and Josh and I end up being towed along in the wake of what he assures me was an entire female hockey team.

Around 2 am, blasted out of my mind and in danger of losing my shit completely in a stupidly busy George Street yah den, we get the hell out and stagger home. Happy Gilmore is on the telly and complements a chow mein Pot Noodle admirably. Mission accomplished.

Saturday afternoon:

we're sitting around the kitchen table. Precisely nothing is happening. The chat turns to the (cocktail) party we're having next weekend. Eyes swivel towards the flat booze stash - largely the dregs from the last party - consisting of:

• half a bottle of stagnant Cinzano Bianco
  
• a £3.99 bottle of Tesco-brand dry sherry for use in stir fries
  
• a mercifully unopened bottle of cheap white wine
  
• a rather more respectable bottle of red (i.e. actually has the name of its grape variety written on the front)
  

The classic Cinzano Cocktail Book (1980) is retrieved from the pile of cookery books. To be honest, it's near the top. We idly flick through it. Momentum is gathering. Josh muses: "If we got some tequila, we could make Tequila Sunrises. Er, and we'd need orange juice too." We recall that Josh has a bottle of rather potent vodka hidden somewhere in his room. Foolishly, he adds: "I've got a bottle of Jim Beam as well."

Jeff, also foolishly, but getting caught up in the inexorable progression towards boozing, says: "I've got some Talisker. What could we make?"

"Er. A Rob Roy, apparently. And we can make Manhattans with the Jim Beam."

"What are they, then?"

"Ah, basically whisky and vermouth."

<group pause>

"That sounds disgusting. Let's get some ice and make a night of it."

Easter PIE.

After last Saturday's eye-wateringly expensive property destruction debacle, I made a conscious effort to have an extremely boring weekend. I made special efforts to seek out tedium and monotony wherever I could find it. I particularly avoided excitement A) in the vicinity of breakable, expensive items and B) at altitude.

I tried on Friday to organise a Mafia trip to see Shaun of the Dead at the cinema. Physical risk assessment: low. Lots of sitting down (nice and close to the ground) in a sturdy chair, with sudden movements kept to a minimum. More importantly, no windows in a cinema. Financial risks: I'm still repaying the loan for the last gallon of Odeon coke I bought. No popcorn for me, then.

Anyway, the Mafia failed to materialise, so I tagged along with some workmates instead. The film was great, and thankfully, no windows were broken.

On Saturday I mainly faffed. Indulged in a bit of bass faffing; had a coffee with Ali; cooked tea for Jeff and I; watched Once Upon A Time In Mexico. A truly middling day in both concept and execution. Still no more windows broken.

Devon organised (my God, how many times have I typed that? It's about time the three amigos got ourselves a flat worthy of entertaining so we can host our part of the Mafia social calendar) a vaguely Easter-flavoured brunch on Sunday. We sauntered down for 2 pm, stuffed ourselves lethargic with a goodly selection of pie (and quiche - the pie that dare not speak its name) and had a pint in a very local pub. Later on, The O.C. provided the impetus to cobble together some semi-White Russians from vanilla vodka and some odd chocolatey liqueur that made the milk curdle. Ah well; you win some, you lose some, and you drink the results regardless. It actually tasted rather nice, and the emulsion-like appearance was, at least briefly, intriguing to look at.

The Chunky Russians were sufficiently potent (I kept mine away from naked flames, just in case) to propel Annabel and I out of the flat around 9 pm to have a few drinks. Which we did; a couple of pints later, we called it a night and went our separate ways. I walked home on the outside edge of the pavement, as far away from the windows as I could manage without presenting an irresistable target to night bus drivers.

Bass Instincts.

Davis (aka Davide and Sparky), a member of Chris' late band Coba Fynn, is getting married. The wedding features what would have been a CF reunion gig - God know why he wants to perform at his own wedding, but there you go - except that Chris can't make it across. Chris was CF's guitarist and Neil their bassist, so Neil has changed over to the 6-string for the gig.

You can see where this is going, can't you? I quote first myself:

My bass skillz are rather crap but I'd be happy to at least have a go at the tunes you want to play, and then let you know if I'd be worth laughing at at a full-on band practise.

and then Davis:

Thanks for agreeing to play with the band - I'm sure your bass skills will be absolutely fine!

You see the logical inconsistency here? Me too. The countdown starts here: T minus 5 weeks to actually learn to play with some degree of consistency and skill.

For once, I'd be happy to be playing the pipes at a wedding!

A few oh-so-hilarious photos of Saturday night's destruction.

Oh, sweet mother of God:

"Just got a call from the guy from the restaurant - apparently he is having the window fixed and can you call him before 6.30?

"He said that the whole thing comes to around £600! Argued a bit with him but he said it was the cheapest he could get. Then suggested he could put it on insurance though he seemed not to understand this."

I am lost for words. Actually, I am lost for non-sweary words.

Big weekend. Big, big weekend.

Friday night started off gently enough. I went to see Zatoichi with Kate, and then headed to Cloisters for a quick pint before a party at Michelle's flat. There was Kahlua - lots of Kahlua - and hence much terrible chat from your inebriated host. I spent the latter part of the evening (after Kate had gone home, fortunately enough) faced by a worryingly Shallow Grave netball team, explaining (again) how we had met. They had some fun skewering me with nudge-nudge wink-wink comments, and I had some fun getting drunk while they did so. A pretty standard evening then, and a nice warm up for the main event.

On Saturday - actually, I can't for the life of me remember what happened during the day on Saturday. I suspect I had a bit of a bass practise and perhaps drank a cup of tea. Pretty humdrum stuff. There may have been a low-grade hangover. That evening, however, was when the fun really started.

It was Sam's birthday on the Sunday, and so he and Ally had organised a bash round at their flat in Marchmont. Our itinerant German friend Louise was visiting with a friend of hers, so the Mafia assembled at our flat about 8 and then hauled our skipload of booze along to Ally's. Picture the scene: the party's going well; cocktails are being experimented with; everyone's getting along famously and someone's just opened the kitchen window so they can scale the scaffolding behind the flat.

Erk.

It wasn't me what started it, but it turns out that climbing scaffolding is a whole lot of fun. So much so, in fact, that the front window is quickly opened to reveal the awesome six-storey majesty of more scaffolding at the front of the block. Cue much tremendously ill-advised (I mean this really is a spectacularly bad idea. Stay away from scaffolding, kids. Especially if you're trying not to spill your drink) climbing about and admiring the view from fifty feet up.

Eventually the scaffold-fever died down and we settled into a safer, let's-party-indoors groove. Jeff, Josh and I called it a night at around 6.30 am, and staggered off back home with some friendly, matey, knockabout hijinks along the way. You know, the kind of stuff fifteen year-olds like. Jeff dumps me over a low wall into a garden, I try to insert him into a hedge. That kind of thing.

I stop to tie my shoelace at one point. Three attempts later, I've more or less managed to do it up. Jeff is standing nearby and I suspect he's going to push me over while I'm crouching to get to my shoe. I give him a playful nudge to preempt him. He staggers slightly backwards.

Into the window of the Dragon Way takeaway.

Which breaks.

Suddenly, no-one is laughing. Apart from me, and I just can't stop. We stare, respectively aghast and doubled over in laughter. The newsagent next door comes out to see what's going on, and helpfully offers to call the police. Josh calls the Dragon Way's number so we can leave a message to explain what happened and we hear the takeaway's phone ringing through the ex-window, floating over the fake plastic plants that are now covered in pretty shards of sparkly glass.

I cannot stop laughing. I offer to leave a message. This consists of a full minute of my helpless guffawing. Jeff takes the phone off me and more soberly recounts what happened, and leaves our details.

We wait for the police to turn up. Josh leaves, because he's A) bored and B) cold. We wait some more. We decide that maybe, because we are also bored and cold, we may as well leave the police to deal with it. Just as we're wandering off, the 5-0 arrive, and we walk back to meet them. Both of the cops are nice guys, and optimistically opine that perhaps the Triads we've just mortally offended will just claim it on their insurance. They take our details, and call them in to check we're not wanted drug dealers or kiddy fiddlers. Jeff comes up clean, but as my friendly neighbourhood bobby waits, his radio crackles: "Advise, we have a possible on Houston K, 4/10/69. Outstanding warrant for <static>". The cop takes one look at me, suppresses his laughter and says "Er, no. I don't think it's him".

We leave. I go to bed at 7.30 am. It's a lovely morning.

On Sunday I had what might be considered to be a very bad hangover. I dealt with this by watching, at a conservative estimate, three hours of The O.C., taped by Josh while I was in France. One of Jeff's fellow postgrads had a party that evening, and so we gamely trundled along with a case of mini Buds - dinky 200ml bottles (let's face it, any larger and I suspect there may have been some alcohol-related health problems coming our way) - and spent much of the evening trying to focus on something actually in the room.

I'm still trying to focus at the moment. It seems to be getting easier.