The gap on the living room wall

Went off to the Hoxton Pony to see Luke Haines play his art experiment album that I was smart enough to not pay £75 for.  The crowd was an uncomfortable mixture of Shoreditch arses and the Haines travelling contingent of dangerous loners.  While we stood through the terrible support act I noted with approval that the little hairy chap next to me had a disproportionately attractive girlfriend.  They then had a blazing row which ended with her saying "For Christ's sake! You're about to see your favourite artist in the world and you're still a miserable fucking bastard!" and stomping off.  Ah, I thought, one of my own.  I tried to cheer him up with a cheerful "My girlfriend does that too!" but he just looked sad and chewed his lip.  Getting into the zone for the gig, I guess.

The new songs were about pretty standard Haines stuff.  Enoch Powell, Alan Vega and - to the consternation of spiritual Geordie Webby - the Angel of the North.  More unusual was the raffle ticket we were handed on entry which offered the chance to win a portrait of Haines, to be painted by Mrs Haines during the performance.

We stood behind the easel and scoffed through the early stages.  By the last song, and four lagers later, we were both gagging to win it.  I'd worked out the perfect spot for it to sit on the wall in the living room.  But it wasn't to be, so this was as near as we got.

2011: the year so far

I appreciate that this isn't an earth-shattering insight, but going back to work in January really is a sharp kick in the nuts.

On Tuesday the alarm jolted me awake and, in the first few seconds of confusion, my brain instantly filled to the brim with a to-do list of things I should have to-done way back in the 2010 stone age.  I reeled out of the flat while it was still dark and arrived at my desk in a state of confusion and near-tearful denial that the holiday was over.  All around me people rubbed their eyes and goggled at their inboxes as the last few vapours of festive contentment were sucked into the air-conditioning.  I solemnly placed my two Christmas cards into the recycling bin and turned off my out-of-office message.

So it's now 2011.  In May I turn 30 and this blog will descend into even more morbid ravings than usual.  I might get married at some point, although progress has not advanced beyond the decision to include a blender on the wedding list.  Everything else, from the religious denomination of the ceremony onwards, is up for grabs.

At least there will also be a few internationally significant significant anniversaries to look forward to.  400 years since the King James Bible was published.  100 years since the Titanic sank.  2 years since this blog began - brace yourself for the commemorative mugs and tea towels.  So it isn't all bad, and I'm trying to get as many treats in the diary as possible to drag me through the January murk.  Pulp at Hyde Park in the summer is simply too exciting to get my head around yet, but in the meantime I've just bought tickets to see The Streets in March.  I'm going in with fairly low expectations but it should be ok.  After all, they might play this one:

Charlie, 1994 - ?

I'm back in London after spending the Christmas week in Nottingham with my family.  Everyone was on sterling form except for the smallest, hairiest member of the tribe.  It seems that, on the brink of his 17th birthday (or, if you will, his 112th human birthday), Charlie the Lakeland Terrier may have scoffed his last leftover turkey.

This prediction has been floated for the past few years but he's consistently proved the doubters wrong and reclaimed his Christmas antlers.  See his look of triumph last year:

But this year it was tacitally understood that the antlers would not be coming out.  He's just too doddery and uncomprehending.  He now resembles one of the bomb-blasted ravers you sometimes see staggering around on a Sunday morning trying to find their way home.  As he stumbles through the house on bandy and unsteady legs he'll often just stop and lean against a wall, his milky eyes staring at nothing in particular.  His hearing has gone, he flinches when touched and his continence is no longer impeccable.  And yet, on a good day, the squeak of a rubber toy or the sound of a fridge door opening can still reactivate his energetic and perpetually starving former self.

He joined the family after a long and no doubt tedious campaign by me and my brother.  We'll walk it, we'll feed it, you won't need to do ANYTHING, please please please please.  My parents are clever people and they know their sons, so I hope it wasn't too much of a surprise for my mother when she subsequently found herself marching a sleepy dog up and down the local hedgerows while her horrible children festered in bed every morning. 

As a young pup he had a complicated friendship with the incumbent pet, a snooty cat called Flossie.  She probably didn't predict that this ignorable furball would soon grow into something specifically bred for the purpose of chasing things such as cats.  Fortunately, she had broken him psychologically by then.  They had individual baskets but it was common to find her stretched full length across his while he lay on the cold floor nearby, looking hurt and slightly ashamed of himself.

Playful chases were often ended by feline claws whacking canine nose.  Charlie has, to date, chased hundreds of creatures and failed to catch a single one.  Shrews, frogs, birds, squirrels, cats, other dogs, horses and motorbikes have all been targetted to no avail.  He was once found in the garden enthusiastically plucking a deceased wood pigeon, but cause of death was later established as air rifle-related - not his MO.  Plus the cat gave him an alibi.

That he has lasted to the age he has is a testament to the efforts of my parents to control his diet.  His insane greed has long been a source of wonder and grudging admiration.  On two separate Christmas days he was found panting on my bedroom floor surrounded by scraps of orange foil, stomach horribly distended.  That's what happens when a small dog eats an entire Chocolate Orange.  One visitor had a sandwich snatched from a hand left lolling over the arm of a sofa . If he is not able to steal, he begs.  Not in an "Excuse me guv, got a spare sandwich?" way, but in a woof. woof. Woof. WOof. WOOf. WOOF! WOOF! WOOF! way.  Which is actually very effective.

Charlie may have been an ineffective chaser, a failed killer, a thief and a noisy irritant but he has been a sterling dog.  Cheerful, friendly, amusing and good-natured - you can't ask for much more.  He will leave a massive hole when he goes, but the gusto with which he hoovered up his bowl of turkey and stuffing makes me think he's got a little way to go yet.  The 2011 Chocolate Orange is not yet completely safe.