alibongo

[alibongo]

MOVING DAY

Hey there. Been a while.

I’ve decided to move my blog over to a new page. I’ve had this one going for literally a decade, which I’m proud of, but decided a change was needed.

So the new one (which still has all of my old posts) is at:

alexcruden.wordpress.com

See you there!

[alibongo]

The Cinema

Going to the cinema is great isn’t it? Seeing the latest blockbuster on the big screen and getting absorbed into the world in front of you. Not only do you get to see a new film, but you get an experience. Brilliant, ain’t it?

Fucking wrong. I’ve decided that going to the cinema is terrible.

The main reason for this is other people. Other people are inherently awful and therefore being in any situation around other people is also awful.

In the cinema, this is compounded by the expectation for everyone to be quiet, so that everyone else can enjoy the movie undisturbed. This basically never happens.

I’ve had countless experiences of people chatting, rustling and chewing loudly, and fuck those people.

But then there was also the time I watched John Wick 2 and sat in front of two dudes, who said ‘woah!’ or ‘yeah!’ or ‘aahh!’ at every hint of action on screen. Ugh.

And last night, at Baby Driver (which is brilliant, by the way), the guy behind me had THE loudest laugh. I’m talking Gilbert Gottfried-style cackling at the smallest of things. And it would linger, long after jokes, to the point that I would not be able to hear the next couple of lines. UGHHHH.

I can’t exactly turn around to these people and say, “Could you enjoy the film a little less please? You’re ruining my experience.” They are just flawed people like you and I.

Well, not I. I am obviously perfect and never annoy anyone. Nu-uh.

My point is that people are just like that, and will always make noise without realising it, oblivious to the effects on others. And therein lies the problem with going to the cinema.

At this point, I would happily pay a couple of quid extra to watch the film with headphones on. I don’t think that would detract from the experience too much. Or at least, not nearly as much as someone rustling their bag of popcorn for the first half hour of Rogue One.

When (when) I am mega-rich and I want to go to the cinema (though you basically have to be mega-rich to go to the cinema in London anyway, amiright?), I will book out whole screens for me and my extensive entourage. And if any of them so much as breathe loudly, they will be murdered instantly.

[alibongo]

I did another painting, yo

I’ve finished another self-portrait! It’s taken me about 16 hours over 3 months or so. Oils on canvas paper, 14″ x 10″.

I know I look a bit big-headed by just doing another self-portrait, but it’s actually been super useful practice. After finishing my previous self-portrait (below left), I was really pleased, but felt like there was more I wanted to do with it. I’d originally been inspired by one of Van Gogh’s self-portraits and its interesting use of colour, and I’d wanted to attempt that in my own way. I think I achieved that to a degree in my first self-portrait, but also felt like the overall effect was quite tame and didn’t have much unique about it. I considered going over it, but worried about ruining it.

I ran it through a few image filters using an app called Prisma, and I really liked the way this particular filter (right) looked:

I liked the colour pallete and the contrast between the lights and darks. So I decided to just start again, to try and paint this browny-yellowy version. I could also use this opportunity to straighten out a few of the structural bits that I didn’t like in the first portrait.

My philosophy when it comes to painting, or anything creative, is that “suckin’ at something is the first step towards being sort of good at something” (Jake the dog, Adventure Time). I used to get frustrated if a painting didn’t instantly look right. Now, I’ve learned to accept that the first few hours of a painting look kind of dumb, but are a necessary part of the process that I need to push through. Plus I enjoy looking back at the hilarious first incarnations, such as this boss-eyed gem after one hour of work:

And here’s how it progressed after that:

I’m really happy with the final result. I think this looks much more like my actual face than my first self-portrait, and that the colours are much more interesting.

The process of this one was a lot easier too – on the last painting, I got half-way through before getting frustrated with the proportions, painting over most of the face and starting again. This time, I measured everything out from the start, and before each painting session, I used photoshop layers to check whether any parts looked wildly out of place or wonky. This is why, in the progress shots, my face seems to shift quite subtly each time.

I think this has given me a lot of confidence to attempt to paint something that isn’t my own bloody face, which I’m sick of staring at. Not sure what’s next yet though...

[alibongo]

Well, I’m an idiot

Here is a sequence of events which occured today, and which have led me to the conclusion that I am very stupid.

1. It was very warm last night, so I had my windows open. When I went to bed, I closed the blind. On my windowsill, I have two small plastic pots, one containing white spirit, which I use for painting.

When I woke up this morning, the blinds were being blown by a gentle wind, and knocking against the plastic pots. I think to myself, ‘I should move those or they might get knocked over. Or at the very least, I should raise the blinds so that this doesn’t happen.’ I am too lazy to move from my bed, so I end up deciding that it’s probably ok and that the wind isn’t that bad anyway.

2. I am about to get in the shower, when I hear a clattering of plastic pots come from somewhere behind me. It sounds like it came from Leo’s room though, so I thought he’d knocked something over. I think nothing more of it.

3. After my shower, I go back to my room to get dressed. I note to myself that the room smells a bit of white spirit. I look at my paintings and wonder if the heat and humidity is making them smell? Is that a thing? Anyway, I get dressed and think no more of it.

After doing some work I return to my room and think again how it really smells of white spirit. I wonder why, I think to myself again.

At lunch time I go to my room again to get something. A third time, I notice the smell, and only then do I see the plastic pot of white spirit lying on its side and the empty one on the floor. I quickly clean up the mess, but now my room smells like white spirit.

Good one, Alex.

[alibongo]

Renewing my passport

I renewed my passport this week. My old one was expiring a few days later, and I have a stag do to attend in Prague in March, so it needed to be done asap. Here are a few things I learned during the process.

It’s expensive. Putting the £75 for the new passport itself aside, I’d forgotten that I also needed to shell out for new photos. I expected maybe £3-4 for a set of 4 photos. I went to Snappy Snaps in Holborn, who wanted ten flippin’ quid for 4 photos. Outrageous. So I went to the post office, who wanted £6. Still outrageous, but the outrageousness of Snappy Snaps had made this seem like a bargain. For £6 you get 5 photos. I only needed two for my application, and really, when else do you need little photos of yourself? Why can’t they have a “2 photos for £2″ option? Ugh. Anyway, the machine didn’t give change and in my pockets I had a £10 note and exactly £5.95 in coins.

28 year old Alex looks nothing like 17 year old Alex.

Now, I don’t know if it’s the angle at which I’m holding my head in the first photo, or the excess Christmas chub that I’m harbouring in the second, but my face definitely seems to be a different shape. It’s more of an inverted egg shape on the left, whereas now I’m sporting a kind of circle-squished-at-the-sides look. My eyes look quite different – a bit softer, wonkier and less psychotic now. Also, the beard, which is in full-on patches mode at the time of my new photo (you can even see the little bald patch directly under my chin). The only bit that looks similar is my slightly slanted nose, but the old photo is so faded that it’s not that obvious. This might explain why I was held by passport control for ten minutes when returning from North Africa 14 months ago. I’ve been playing ‘Papers Please’ recently, and if the man on the right handed over the passport photo on the left, I would probably deny him entry to Arstotzka.

I am a dumbo. Every time I travel, I like flicking through my passport and looking at my old stamps from the past decade. My trips to Ecuador, India, Japan, New Zealand, Australia, Morocco and many other cool places all remembered there in stamp or sticker form. Good memories all crammed into a little book – it looked like a Paperchase design. The front cover was so worn out that the gold lettering and design was completely gone. Of course, you have to send your old passport back when you get your new one, and I did so without taking a photo of the pages, so they’re all gone forever! Great job! (EDIT: I just got my old passport back in the post!! I’m assuming HM Passport Office read this blog and felt sorry for me. They definitely weren’t just sending it back anyway)

It was mega fast. I sent off my application on Monday and the new one arrived on Friday afternoon! This is great as I’d worried it would take ages and I would have problems when it came to checking in for the trip to Prague in March. It says two to three weeks on the website, but I’m reminded of when I renewed my driving licence last spring and it took two months to arrive because of an admin error. This point is less exciting written down than it actually was in real life.

These are not grease spots.

Looking at the first page of my new passport, I saw that there were some round, translucent spots on it. It really looked like someone had dripped grease on it accidentally and I was convinced that this was the case. Leo claimed that his passport doesn’t have this, which convinced me even more. But then I found out that it’s a new ‘security feature’, apparently. We think that the person putting together the prototype for this design was eating a greasy kebab and accidentally dripped on it but didn’t notice. When they were later asked by their boss why there were grease spots on their new protoype passport design, they had to claim it was a security feature or risk losing their job.

[alibongo]

Putting the ‘anger’ in Pret a Manger

It is a time of great uncertainty, what with Brexit, Trump, etc. But arguably the most confusing recent development is the decision by my local Pret a Manger to operate a two-queue system for their tills.

It's as confusing as it sounds. In front of the checkout, there is a little island shelf thing, with bags of snacks for you to grab on impulse. On the side of the shelf there is a sign which says 'Please queue both sides!' The two queues don't go to different places, they are for the same four or five tills.

This creates chaos and the person who decided this sign was a good idea is a sadist/massive troll. If there are two queues, who goes first?! The cashiers don't indicate who is next, they just shout 'who's next please?' and it's a bloody good question.

Here are four scenarios that have happened to me when I try to pay in this Pret.

A singular queue of five people has formed in one of the lanes. Good. I join the back. Moments later, some swaggering, dick-swinging man in a suit sees the sign and decides that he is the only person smart enough to join the queue with no people. He goes straight to the front of the line and gets served immediately.

A singular queue of four people has formed in one of the lanes. I step into the empty lane (filling the role of swaggering, dick-swinging man) but immediately feel the glares of the other queue burning into the back of my skull. The shame is too much, so I pretend that I've forgotten something, go and look at the fridges for a bit, then join the queue at the back. Someone else with less shame than I joins the empty queue and gets served immediately, despite my glares.

Neither lane has a queue, but all the cashiers are serving someone. I join the right hand lane and wait my turn. A lady joins the left hand lane and waits her turn. A cashier becomes free on one of the left hand tills and the lady goes first! Without even a look to me!

One lane has one person in it. I join the empty lane. A till becomes available, so I signal to the guy in the other lane and say, "you were first", and he gets served. This was a good outcome, but me opening my mouth to indicate that he was first could have been avoided if there was one fucking queue.

[alibongo]

Painting

Hello! I know, I know, I haven’t blogged in a while. Sorry about that. I have been writing, but not posting it here. I’m sure I’ll post some stuff soon though.

In the mean time, here’s another recent creative project that I’ve worked on:

I started this painting back in June. I don’t know what it is about me painting old, Asian men, but it just seems to keep happening. Usually, I start by going onto Flickr and searching for portraits, then just scrolling through until one takes my fancy. They just always happen to be old, Asian men.

This is oil paint on an A4 sheet of canvas paper.

I actually took a long break from working on it after the second picture. I wasn’t happy with how the scarf was looking and so I got disheartened. His face stayed as that weird, smooth mixture of shapes for a good month, if not longer, before I tried his face again.

After the third picture, I was super proud of how it looked. I took photos and sent them to friends because I was so pleased, and I got a lot of positive feedback. I was still not completely happy with the scarf, but didn’t know what to do about it. I thought the face could use a couple of extra touches but otherwise it was basically there.

Once I’d started adding the ‘extra touches’ I realised that it was looking even better than before. I spent an hour or so, every other night for a couple of weeks adding to the face until I was really happy and didn’t want to alter it any more. The scarf stayed the same and still bugged me but I couldn’t work out why. I asked Leo (my flatmate, who I did Fine Art with in school) what he thought, and he correctly identified that the scarf was too bright and jumped forward from the face. It was also too detailed. So I started the scarf again, trying to make the details more vague and the colour a bit darker. I think I caught it in the end, and I’m really chuffed with the end result.

Also, I did a face swap with him, with hilarious consequences:

[alibongo]

Greetings card paranoia

During the week, a card was passed around at work for my manager’s birthday. I signed it with a ‘Happy birthday! Have a lovely day! Alex x’ and passed it on.

At around this exact moment, what I call ‘Greetings card paranoia’ began to settle in. It happens every time I sign any kind of card. Seconds later, I begin to worry that I signed completely the wrong thing, or spelt the person's name incorrectly, or accidentally wrote something offensive. I worry that I've accidentally written 'Sad to see you go!' in a birthday card, or called them Phil even though I don’t know any Phils, or that this was the exact moment that my dormant tourettes syndrome decided to emerge and I've accidentally written ‘FUCK SHIT TITS x’. There is absolutely no reason why any of these things would have happened… but imagine if they did.

In the case of an office card, I can check before it is handed over and put my mind at rest (or replace the card if any of my scenarios have happened). But if the card is just from me, often is the case that the paranoia kicks in at the exact moment that I seal the envelope. The worry then plagues me as I go to the postbox, put it in and then wait to hear if the recipient is very upset with me. After a week or so, I can safely assume that if I accidentally swore in that person's birthday card I would know about it.

[alibongo]

Coffee regular

On the ground floor of the building where I work, there is a little Costa. It’s subsidised by my company, so everything is really cheap. Every morning I pop in to get some breakfast and a coffee.

It’s handy because I hadn’t quite figured out my breakfast routine until recently. I can’t eat it at home because I always get out of bed about fifteen minutes before I have to leave. In the office, the facilities team get touchy about people leaving food on their desks, so taking in a box of cereal wouldn’t go down well. Plus we have to bring our own milk and there aren’t any communal bowls, so that would be a pain in the arse. Eventually, I found that this Costa does small, cheap pots of granola, yoghurt and fruit, so I started buying one of those each morning as well as a white americano to kickstart my day.

This past month or so, I’ve been working on a difficult project. I have tight deadlines and complicated processes that I don’t know how to handle. It’s stressful enough by itself, but I've found that it’s much worse when I’m pumped with caffeine from my morning coffee. I get high anxiety and a feeling of impending doom, which isn’t ideal to be honest. I decided that I needed to cut down on the americanos.

The following morning, I picked up my granola and stood in the queue. I felt really knackered after quite a late night; the kind of knackered that only a coffee would sort out. I counted out my money for both the breakfast and the drink. As I shuffled forward, I reminded myself, “no, I need to stay away from coffee. Get the breakfast and then down lots of cold water and have a strong tea.” I nodded to myself and pushed some of the coins back in my pocket.

Near the front of the queue, I noticed that the barista was taking a long time with another customer’s order. Eventually, he turned around with some drinks. The guy paid, but then walked away without picking up one of the drinks. I approached the till.

“White americano, right?” the barista said, pushing forward the drink.

Now that’s some sterling customer service. He’d seen me coming, remembered my usual order and made it before I even got to the counter. However, today I did not want that drink. But was I going to say “cheers mate, but not today, go ahead and pour that away”? Of course not.

“Great, thanks,” I said, and fished the coins back out of my pocket. I would be buying a coffee against my will today.

The next day, I went back. I kept a keen eye on the barista, so that when he saw me, I could make some kind of gesture or facial expression to say, “not today thanks!” But while he worked, he was chatting to a couple of girls. I joined the queue of five people, granola in hand and watched him.

“Yeah, I know everyone’s orders!” he said to the girls. He then pointed at each person in the queue. “Latte, flat white, latte, espresso and a white americano!”

Everyone in the queue and the two girls looked suitably impressed with his memory. I stood at the back and grumbled. 

From that point I knew that if I wanted my cheap, handy breakfast, I would either have to say something to him, or be permanently forced into buying coffees that I didn’t want. I’m not one for confrontation, so forced coffees it is.

[alibongo]

Probably the highlight of my holiday in Morocco. Yes those are goats 🐐

[alibongo]

TOPICAL: Plastic Bags

This week, legislation has been introduced in England for large shops to charge 5p for single use plastic carrier bags. No biggy really: Wales, Scotland and Northern Ireland have had it for ages.

On the way home from work on Monday night, I needed a few bits. GRAPES BREAD MILK AND PASTA, I recited to myself so much that it stuck in my head for ages after leaving the shop.

While in the queue at the supermarket, I remembered that I would have to pay for a bag if I wanted one. I decided that I would go without, not out of any kind of principle, but because the shop is a two minute walk from my flat, I was only buying four items and have approximately 70,000 plastic bags stowed in a cupboard in my kitchen. Plus, if you save the pennies, the pounds look after themselves, and lawd knows I could do with saving some pounds.

So when I was at the till and the guy asked if I wanted a 5p plastic bag, I defiantly said no thanks. I picked up the plastic grape box-thing with my left hand, placed the loaf of bread on top, looped a middle finger through the handle on the milk and then used my right hand to grab the bag of pasta.

“You have a back-pack,” the till-man correctly observed. Sure, I could have put some of it into my bag, but I was too deep into this now. I left the shop carrying the four items in the very specific arrangement, like a shitty Buckaroo. 

And things were fine. My items weren’t precariously balanced or at risk of toppling, unless someone bumped into me. My left hand was beginning to ache through hanging a two litre bottle of milk from one solitary finger. I seemed to get a couple of sideways glances from people who were probably thinking, “come on, mate, it’s only 5p”. It’s not that, I wanted to say; I don’t need a bag! Look at how sturdy I am!

Things weren’t so simple for long. I reached the front door of my building and realised that I needed my key, which was buried deep in my left-thigh pocket. It’s fine, I told myself, I definitely do not regret forgoing a bag. I contorted myself to dip a couple of fingers on my right hand into the pocket and fish out my keyring.

Inside, still holding all of my shopping but now my keys as well, I saw a package addressed to us in the reception area – about the size of an A4 piece of paper but about an inch thick. I managed to wrap my final finger around it and add it to the load I was carrying. Every part of my hands was full with something and this mule felt like it was about to explode (I’ve never played Buckaroo).

It’s FINE, I kept saying to myself. I am FINE with all of my choices and my hands are NOT cramping up.

I arrived in the flat and clattered everything onto the kitchen counter, my hands now curled into permanent claw shapes. I shoved a few plastic bags into my rucksack for next time.

[alibongo]

Spent my Sunday afternoon painting some Asian bloke

[alibongo]

Disc world

I’m moving this weekend, for the seventh time in as many years. I don’t mind moving; I don’t have much stuff so it’s a straightforward process. Plus, I get to exercise the freakishly organised part of myself.

The worst part is my DVD collection. I must have about 150 DVDs, all in their cases. That shit built up exponentially between about 2004 and 2010. During that time I would buy every TV show or movie that I even vaguely liked. Getting discount in Blockbuster didn’t exactly help the situation. The pride in my collection swelled with no regard for future Alex and his “moving”. 

Transporting my collection to a new home has therefore always been a nightmare. When moving between university and home I would stuff them into a giant cardboard box, which was always the heaviest by a long way. When moving across London on public transport in 2013, I had to borrow a massive suitcase from my flatmate and struggle with that on the train.

Not this time, I thought to myself on Monday. I pulled all of my DVDs from their shelves and began the purge.

I made a “keeping, no questions asked” pile: all seasons of Curb Your Enthusiasm (my favourite show); Band of Brothers boxset (my dad’s favourite); Star Wars boxset (duh); and many others.

I made a “get rid” pile: Little Miss Sunshine (I have two copies for some reason); Deadfall (bad Nicolas Cage film and the disc doesn’t work anyway); Scary Movie 3 (what was I thinking?); Hot Fuzz (I love this film but if I want to watch it, there is a 76% chance that it’s on ITV2); and many others.

The middle ground was so much more difficult. I made the following piles:

– On Netflix so probably don’t need to keep – Not on Netflix but probably won’t ever watch again anyway – Not on Netflix but probably won’t ever watch again anyway but want to keep for some reason

These piles didn’t make things easier, so I further sorted the “On Netflix” pile. I asked the question, “If I chucked this DVD and the film was later removed from Netflix, how would I feel?” and made two piles: “super sad” and “ehhhh I’ll survive”.

I tried assigning point values to each disc: 1 point if it’s in a nice box, 1 if I have watched it multiple times, 1 if I currently feel the urge to rewatch... etc. etc. The bullshit reasoning knew no bounds. 

I needed a wee, so I left my piles of DVD boxes and had a few minutes to think.

When I re-entered the room, I described to Leo what each pile was in the hope of gaining a better understanding by saying each one out loud. I told him that I was going to imagine snapping each disc in two and then monitor my reaction.

Big Train series one and two: “Ohh... oh well...” Chuck. I’m Alan Partridge series two: “Noooo!” Keep (mainly for the DVD menu). Mighty Boosh series one: “oouuuaargh I don’t know!”

Further confusion.

I’d spent about an hour sorting and was sat on the floor with my head in my hands.

“Why don’t you just buy one of those DVD wallets?” Leo asked. “Then you could keep all of them and it would be much easier to carry.”

I sat in stunned silence. I should have thought of that. Seven years ago.

[alibongo]

Cabbie agony

I watched Very British Problems on Channel 4. It was alright, basically just lots of famous people saying “isn’t it horrible when you have to interact with people?”.

There was quite a lot of talk on the show about interacting with cab drivers and how nobody likes to do it. It gave me a terrible flashback to my worst cab moment ever.

I was about 16 and had just finished a shift at Gamestation. The store didn’t close until 10 and I was usually working after school on Fridays. Home was about a mile and a half away and at 10pm I was usually too knackered to attempt the walk; often my dad would pick me up, but if he couldn’t, he would pay for a cab for me.

So this one time, the cab arrived, I hopped in and gave him the address of my house, which was at the very top of a hill.

After a second or so I let out some kind of knackered sigh/groan thing, partially to indicate that I’m tired and didn’t really want to talk. But it didn’t work.

“It’s tough at the top, isn’t it?” the cab driver asked.

I didn’t really know what he meant, but said “yeah”. A few more seconds passed and I rolled his question around my mind. Was he being sarcastic or something? I know Gamestation isn’t the most glamorous place to work, so it couldn’t really be described as ‘the top’ of anything. I felt like I had to justify myself to show that actually, yes, it can be tough.

“Well, you know, it’s only part time, but I am doing my A-Levels at the moment too. Just a bit of money on the side.”

The cabbie kept silent at this.

“I mean, sure, it’s not the most amazing job in the world, but I enjoy it. Lots of nice people there and I can rent movies for free.”

Still silence. Why was he not responding??

“But yeah, it can be tough. I finish school in Stratford at 4 and head straight here, so I’m knackered.”

No response. Had I shamed him for his ignorant question? It was a weird question. 

“It’s tough at the top, isn’t it?” Why did he ask that? Tough at the top...

Then it hit me like an elbow in the stomach. He hadn’t asked that at all. He’d asked, “it’s up at the top, isn’t it?”, referring to the location of my address on the hill.

I kept silent, maybe cleared my throat.

“Yes, it’s the one right at the top of the hill. Thanks.”

We didn’t speak for the rest of the journey.

[alibongo]

This was on my road. The sign says "Cosy one bedroom self contained home with great transport links. Up and coming area £100p/w." (at New Cross Road)

[alibongo]

Big spender

I don’t know why, but I’ve grown to see Muller Crunch Corners as some kind of wild luxury item that only rich people can buy.

I realised recently that when I think about buying one of these delicious yoghurts, I have some kind of micro, subconscious thought which tells me, “I’m not made of money.”

In fact, I remember being in a supermarket recently and thinking, “God, I can’t wait until I earn enough money to buy Crunch Corners.”

It’s not happened consciously. It must just be through years of living frugally. I’ve gradually learnt to question any non-essential items and weigh up their price point. Somehow, Crunch Corners, at £3 a pack, got permanently stuck in the ‘cannot afford’ category.

Having realised this, I went to Sainsburys, and Crunch Corners were on offer for £2. It was a sign. I just ate one of the banana yoghurt ones with the chocolate corn flakes and I felt like a fuckin’ king.

I should mention at this point that I managed to justify spending £800 on a Macbook last week. That’s FINE, obviously. Three pounds for a yoghurt though? What am I, a lord?

[alibongo]

I got a variety of coloured candles from IKEA the other day. I pretty much only bought them because the candle bit smelled so nice. The candles don't actually smell like anything when they burn. Now that I think of it, that smell was probably just sprayed into the room make me buy them. Anyway, ignore my weird nik-nak fingers.