Archie Andrews, Well Done You!

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 A couple of days ago, while I was in Singapore, I was walking through a mall as one invariably finds oneself doing, generally to take respite from the heat and humidity, but in this case it was to dodge the torrential downpour that had finally succumbed after two days of threatening clouds and a heavy atmosphere.  Where was I? Oh yes, now that we have the weather profile over with, let me continue: In this mall, there was a small pop up concession selling English language books, and upon closer inspection, they had a good selection of children’s books of which I used to love. These included modern day reprints of classic Ladybird books, Enid Blyton stories as well as the requisite, abridged versions of the Grimm Brothers and Hans Christian Anderson timeless tales.

Amongst these as well, I spotted a pile of Archie comic books, and got quite excited. These used to be a favourite of mine when I was younger, and I remember amassing a small collection, with some great plots, and lots of random information that has served me well in life. 2 things, of which I can remember, are: 1. How to spell ‘Mississippi’, and 2. Mink oil is a waterproof agent for boots. (yes, I do use mink oil on my shoes).

Anyway, I decided to pick up a couple of these comics to relive my youth. Upon returning to the hotel, I started to read one, and I was quite surprised how the comic has changed since I last read it. Overall, the characters are generally the same. Archie and Jughead remain best friends, as well as Betty and Veronica.  Archie is still caught in the perpetual love triangle between Betty and Veronica, and Reggie is still the self-centred narcissist. However, Miss Haggly, the history teacher at school seems to have retired, but there is no history replacement. There is now a driving instructor, and a host of other teaching staff that reflect the more modern educational options that seem to be in schools nowadays.

The characters themselves have also undergone some subtle transformations. Jughead still eats like a horse, but now, is also an accomplished chef, with supposedly a large repertoire of food related trivia. Archie is still a klutz, but where he used to only show interest in girls and his delicate image in the beat up jalopy (which is now a 90s banger, replacing the old classic which Mr Lodge should have probably bought over as a collector’s item), he also exhibits ambitions through daydreaming. Betty is still the nice girl-next-door, but somehow has also morphed into a feisty young lady, taking Veronica on in disagreements where she used to be a doormat. Even Veronica has changed for the better, exhibiting flashes of humanity and kindness.

Perhaps what is most noticeable are the references to the global financial crisis, and how the fictional community is affected by it, mirroring real life. Gone are the bake sales to raise money for school dances, instead the Riverdale kids are putting their heads together and scheming to drive locals to small businesses. The community is brought together to save a pet shelter affected by the cut in funding arising from decisions taken to combat the budget deficit. The small puns, gags and wordplay all revolve around political buzzwords on the economy that we are fed on a daily basis through the media. It’s only a matter of time before the cartoonists fit in a gag about falling off the fiscal cliff.

It is heartening to see that the symbols of my childhood that saw me into my teenage years are going strong. It is even more comforting to know that while there are references to popular culture, it generally eschews the media focused obsession with fame, talentless personalities, and the habit of excess touted by celebrity that is generally so vulgar, even more so in this time of austerity. That the teenagers of Riverdale are delivering the message of civic duty, honesty and friendship, it seems that Archie and the gang will carry on being a decent moral compass for kids in years to come.

Well done to the guys at Archie Comics. I look forward to introducing them to my kids if they continue in this vein.

Someone like who?

I started thinking of the past when I first heard this, and missed opportunities, but however much I tried to lament, I couldn't. That is because I don't have to find someone like you, because OH, I have you...

Happy New Year!

These are my engagement present.

OH proposed quite by surprise in Edinburgh, after we'd been to see the in-laws and skidding halfway down the A1 from the British border onwards that had no grit or salt on. After my crying and saying yes, our first stop was the homewares sale at John Lewis where we picked up lots of cheap bedding, then onto a long lunch at Martin Wisheart in Leith. Next stop, the airport, and we landed back in Switzerland just in time for a couple of episodes of Glee.

Very Gay Indeed, as OH put it.

Happy New Year everyone. More shenanigans to follow.

Friday Pop Tarts

Back a couple of months ago, my youngest sister came to visit and we headed out to the Atlantic Coast of France to stay with some friend on an island. This song by Blondie turned out to be the soundtrack of the summer.

A few months later in NY, I managed to take a picture of where this video was supposedly recorded:



Happy Friday all!

How did we end up like this? (pt. 4)

We walk to the pub hand in hand. I’m painfully aware that some glances are thrown our way but he seems to be oblivious to it. He’s joking with me, light hearted comments, friendly jibes. I’ve got my heart caught in my throat and can only make monosyllabic replies, nodding nervously.

Finally we arrive at our destination. It is quiet with only another table of punters. I find a table in a corner while he heads off to the bar and returns with 2 pints and a packet of crisps. He starts talking earnestly.

He tells me between sips and crisps that he’d always felt in awe of me. I was running around the world, closing deals worth millions. He’d been writing music, hoping for a lucky break. Despite the differences we’d kept in touch, I’d attended his every gig, he’d be there for my birthday bashes and dinner parties. I look him in the eye and tell him that he’s kept me enthralled despite all the fuck ups. He laughs at me, and sneaks a kiss.

The door opens and we look up. It’s Estella. She looks over and sees us, a barely perceptible frown before her trademark toothy smile.

‘Hi, didn’t expect you here.’ She says she’s waiting for a friend. He offers her a seat and she takes it. We exchange kisses and discuss the previous night’s gig again. After a bit he stands up asks us if we want more drinks as he’s heading to the toilet. I hand him some money as it’s my round, and we put in our order. As soon as he’s out of earshot Estella turns to me.

‘I saw you both last night,’ she begins, ‘I saw you kissing.’ It’s a statement, not a question. In clipped sentences, she reveals that they’d both started sleeping together a few months back and she’d fallen for him. She ends by saying ‘It’s just that I could never imagine competing with someone of the opposite sex.’

He returns a couple of minutes later with three drinks and another packet of crisps. He hands me the change and drops some coins on the table. He sits down and caresses my knee. At this I stiffen in my seat and make my excuses that I need the toilet.

In the bathroom I turn on the cold tap and splash water on my face. How could I be so stupid not to have read her body language towards him? Could I reconcile myself with all this? He’d always been impulsive, but had he thought this through? The image he’d be saddled with; everything was happening too fast.

I open the door of the bathroom and wonder what to do, with the knowledge that any action I take would result in someone being hurt. My eye catches a fire escape door. It’s unbolted and ajar. Thankful I’d kept my coat on, I step through the doorway and into the night.

I've been hurt before, I know how to deal with it.

***

(Three years later)

I’m in a cafe and I’ve just sat down at a table with a precariously balanced cup on an oddly shaped saucer. As I open my laptop and wait for it to fire up, I look up and am surprised to see him at the counter. He waves and approaches me, a shy smile, that shy smile. I invite him to sit down, close the laptop and put it away. The conversation starts out stacatto, but eventually we settle into our old banter pattern. We talk for a long time. I ask him about Estella and he tells me that ended it that night we were in the pub. He apologises for not telling me sooner, tells me he meant to break it off with her before, how he was now honest with himself, how he’s missed me since that night but never had the courage to call, believing that he’d screwed up.

Coffee turns into a beer, and the afternoon turns into night as we catch up over the last three years. Soon the bars are closing and we’re standing at the doorway, shifting uncomfortably, not knowing how to pick up where we left off. He invites me back to his for another drink, and I accept. We walk through the streets and the city shuts down bit by bit. Soon, we’re back at one end of the park near where he lives, and he suggests a detour. We walk through the park and we happen upon the spot where we’d faux wrestled in the leaves three years previously. He turns to me.

‘I want to make this right this time,’ he says, and kisses me. His lips, his touch, his smell: tobacco, late summer, the cologne I’d bought him, a hint of beer.

The night is spent talking, touching, kissing, making up for lost time.

Next morning, I get up to leave. He reaches out across the bed and grabs me in a hug. We kiss. It feels good.

‘Call me later,’ he says.

I don’t know why, but I never do.

***

(Another four years later...)

I open up the large pack of forwarded post. I sift through the bills and flyers when a cream envelope catches my eye. I discard the rest on to the table and place the envelope on the side and pour myself a glass of wine. I sit down and look at the envelope, my old address scrawled in his unmistakable hand.

I catch my breath as I open the envelope. The postmark indicates last Monday’s date. Out falls a wedding invitation. I read through the invite; it’s taking place in 2 months. He’s marrying someone rather well known. I struggle to comprehend what they’d have in common, why he’d do this.

I turn the invite over. He’s written something on it.

Please be my reason to say no. 07xxx-xxx-xxx

I take a large gulp of wine and light a cigarette. I tear the invitation into little pieces and deposit it in the composting bin that’s filled with vegetable peelings and other organic matter.

I cry silently in bed that night.

***

This morning I wake up and sit on the edge of bed, gathering my senses before I head to the bathroom for a shower. The boyfriend rolls over and reaches out to me for a hug and I oblige. He whispers to me, half asleep, ‘I love you,’

I get up and have a shower. Later I’m on my way to work with a coffee in one hand, my mobile in the other. I scroll down to his name and number and look at it for a while. He’s getting married today; I’m tempted to press the dial button to hear his voice, to wish him well.

Instead, I hit delete.

Enough now, I tell myself, enough.

How did we end up like this? (pt. 3)

The breeze picks up to a strong wind and whips the leaves on the pavement into a frenzy. We head into the park, a longer route to the pub since we decide the need to walk a bit before deserving of a few pints.

Dusk is settling in early as daylight saving has kicked in the week before. A couple of dogs and their owners are walking through the park, their paths cross and they sniff each other intently. He laughs at the spectacle when one of the dogs, a Golden Retriever looks over and cocks its head. A few moments later the Retriever has lost interest in the other dog, a poodle, and scrambles over to the foot of a tree.

We carry on walking and suddenly, the park lights come on. The wind has died down, and the topic of conversation shifts from assignments to mutual friends. I start kicking the settled leaves and skip through a pile of them. Without warning, I’m tackled from the side and I find myself winded as I collapse into the leaves and onto the ground. I hear him laughing as he approaches, and I see him with an armful of leaves scooped off the ground. He throws them over me as I’m lying there, spread out, playing dead.

I kick out as he laughs again and he lets out a yelp of pain. I must have aimed right and struck him. Moments later I feel a thud beside me as he falls into the leaves, gripping his shin.

‘Ouch!’ he cries out, and I laugh, still semi-covered in leaves. I try and brush the leaves off my face; they’re slightly damp and I can feel the moisture on my face. Still lying there, I get a fit of the giggles and start to laugh uncontrollably. Suddenly he turns over and straddles me, I put up my arms to push him off but he’s quicker than I am and grabs both my wrists. Pinning me to the ground, he leans in and kisses me.

This time I don’t hesitate: I kiss back. It is soft and lingering, tentative, unknowing of the boundary we have just stepped over by this reciprocated embrace. I catch his scent: tobacco, Acqua di Parma cologne (a birthday present I got him a few months back), wet leaves, damp ground. The kiss seems like an eternity, and I want to be lost in it.

Nearby, a set of church bells sounds out. 4 pm. The spell is broken. He looks down at me, smiling that smile. He leans in to peck me on the forehead, gets up, then holds out a hand to help me up. I take his hand and he pulls me up. I stand level with him and watch him grinning as he picks stray leaves out of my hair.

I’m confused about this. I thought we were just friends. What do I do now? Can I touch him? Can I kiss him? Why is he being so intimate? I want answers, I want clarification. I have been in love with the idea of him for such a long time I’m not sure if I’m dreaming it. The straight man and the gay friend, standing in the middle of a darkened park, electric intimacy charging the atmosphere around us. He kisses me again.

‘I told you I was drunk last night,’ he begins as we continue walking at a slow pace, he takes a deep breath, ‘I was drunk last night but I knew what I was doing. I’m only sorry that I wasn’t fully coherent when I chose the moment.’ He reaches out to hold my hand, and I accept shyly. It feels nice and warm, and it feels that all my Christmases have come at once.

(To be continued...)

How did we end up like this? (pt. 2)

The shrill electronic beeping of my phone wakes me from the dreamless sleep that I fell into as soon as I got home. I turn over, pick up the phone and the ringing stops. I look and see that its 10am; I've only had 4 hours of sleep. Grabbing the glass by the side of my bed, I take a big gulp of water. I sit up, rub the sleep out of my eyes and head into the bathroom for a shower.

10 minutes later I'm standing in my room naked, choosing a T-shirt from the pile of unfolded laundry in the corner. My phone alerts me to a text message. I pull on my jeans and sit on the bed, flies still unbuttoned as I grab my phone and check the message.

I'm feeling like death. Come over?

I smile despite myself, and finish dressing. I type back: On my way. Breakfast?

Almost immediately: Hair of the dog.

Soon I'm standing in his kitchen, mixing up some bloody marys and stirring up some scrambled eggs. I've done this hundreds of times, always at his beck and call, playing the role of the caring friend, never expecting anything in return. This time however my heart is racing as I don't know what to expect from him after the events of last night.

He comes into the kitchen, freshly washed, in jeans and a plain white T-shirt. My heart skips a beat at the sight of him, even though he looks rough with bloodshot eyes. He comes up beside me and turns the heat under the pan of eggs off, grabs the tops of my arms and turns me towards him. He looks into my eyes for a while, searching, then envelops me in a big hug.

'Sorry I got so wasted, mate," he says to me, still hugging. I tentatively pat him on the back, remembering the feel of his lips and disappointed it was only a drunken kiss. I smell him: tobacco, fresh laundry, mint shower gel. He pushes me away, looks at me and smiles that smile again. 'Let's eat, I'm ravenous!' The silence is broken as he grabs plates off the draining board and grabs the toast from the toaster on the way. I pick up the pan, pop it onto a tray and load the bloody marys onto it and head into the other room. The TV turned on, we eat and watch the news. War, suffering, politics, a music channel, the banal shopping TV selling crap, a comedy from the early 90's. He points the remote at the TV, turns it off, and aims another remote at the hi-fi and some music comes on instead as plates are stacked back on to the tray.

'Man, I wish I could sing this beautifully,' he says, slouched on the sofa. Summertime is playing, a duet by Billie Holliday and Louis Armstrong. Its approaching winter outside, the leaves are falling as the wind shakes them from the branches. We discuss the previous night's performance, and the reaction of the crowds. He's still riding on the wave of euphoria and I smile at the passion in which he relives the performance. A couple of hours pass as we're just slumped there, chilling out with an eclectic array of music from his extensive library playing as a soundtrack to our banter.

Soon we decide that a walk would do us some good, and we decide to head for the pub to have a few pints by the old fireplace available, along with a few cigarettes. He heads into his room to get a jumper and a jacket. I casually loop my scarf on as he comes back. I turn to grab my jacket and suddenly feel him grabbing my waist and turning me back to face him.

'Hey, I was drunk last night,' he says to me, winking, still holding on to me. The straight man with the gay friend, the balance of power clearly in his favour as we're standing too close to each other for normal, friendly comfort. My heart is pounding.

'I... I know,' I stammer, unsure of what is going on.

'Friends?' He looks at me, that puppy-dog look.

'Sure,' I reply. I throw in a wink which I hope looks cheeky for good measure. He lets go of me.

We head out of the door.

(To be continued...)

How did we end up like this? (pt.1)

I remember it well: A new shirt, light blue and white stripes, tailored in the manner of a dress shirt. Paired with dark jeans and some vintage (well, second hand really) cowboy boots, I looked the part. After all, I was making an effort for him since I was there in support.

Fast forward.

It was a roaring success. The crowds went wild, and they performed another two encores. Soon it had to end as the next act was about to come on. The headliners may have been divas, but they were professional and kept good time on their scheduled appearances. I went round to the back and waved at Mac, the security guy. A curt nod and a hint of a grin, he let me through. The band were high-fiving each other, the atmosphere electrically euphoric that even I started to feel like I was on speed. Some groupies were hanging around, cigarettes dangling from their lips and passing the different bottles of spirits around after taking a swig.

Then, the group parted and he was there with his arm around Estella, the other clutching a bottle of Jack Daniels, grinning and shaking his head in disbelief at the gig he'd just played. Spotting me, he turns to peck Estella on the cheek and untangles himself, walks over and gives me a long hug.

'Thanks so much for being here, mate. You have no idea how happy I am to see you,' I give him a half hug back. As he holds on, I catch a waft of him: sweat, tobacco, whiskey and the odd scent of hair pomade thrown in for good measure. After he releases me, the troops are rounded up and we pile into a club a few streets away.

Much later, I'm taking a break from the loud music and mass of gyrating bodies. I head outside and take a sip on a coke, fumbling for my cigarettes. The pack is slightly squashed and the fag I manage to extract is misshapen. Straightening it out, I hold it between my lips while I pat down my pockets to find my lighter. I hear a 'click' and look up, he's holding out a lighter to me, the flame dancing precariously in the night breeze. Its my lighter.

'You left this inside. Thought you might need it,' he grins as I lean in to light my cigarette. 'Mind if I have one?' I hand the pack to him and he fumbles drunkenly so I help him and pull one out, straighten it, and spark the lighter for him. He takes long drag, then puts an arm around me and says he wants to walk up to the concert arena.

We stumble back along the few streets where we started out from. There are street cleaners with their vehicles sweeping up the debris left behind by the crowd that were queueing to get in. The crunch of broken glass, the swish of the brooms, the whiring of the high-pressured water jet. We talk about nothing in particular and by the time we walk round to the front, the billboard lights are still on, flickering. One arm still around me, he points at the band's name up there and giggles with childish delight. Turning to face me, he tries to look serious but its proving difficult after the amount he's had to drink.

'I did this for you,' he slurs. I take a deep breath and look at him quizzically. 'Now, with this, am I good enough?' I am caught unawares. I never thought that he'd feel this way. For me, being his friend was enough despite knowing our worlds were diametric opposites. I refocus and look at him, and he leans in to kiss me. For a few moments I don't know how to react as his lips are searching, his tongue gently probing, then I reciprocate. I taste him, the cigarette smoke, the whiskey, the bitter, numbing traces of the cocaine they'd been doing.

A few minutes later he stiffens and pushes me away. My mind is in a whir. Maybe he's realised he's made a mistake, but then I see the unmistakable flinch indicating nausea. Just, but only just, he swings away and vomits. Some of it hits the pavement, splatters onto my jeans and the second hand shoes. He's bent over, and I pat him on the back to try and ease the ordeal. When he's finished, I flag a taxi and manage to bundle him in and get him home. It's a bit more challenging when we arrive as he's almost comatose. I manage, and soon he's in bed. Heading to the bathroom, I sponge off the bits of sick on me. I leave a note on the table and step out into the cold night.

'Am I good enough now?' his words ring in my head. A smile is playing on the corner of my lips as I light up another cigarette. My mobile phone goes off. It is my boss who is abroad and wants to know if I've done the due diligence on the American company we're expecting to do a big sales deal with.

With a sigh, I give him the information and end the conversation. I walk home through the quiet, leafy streets. The birds are stirring.

(To be continued...)