"Anywhere around here doing a Jazz night?"

Cardiff You'd think based on previous posts that I'm a bit obsessed with maps and signage. I suppose I am. We live in a time when get from place to place as quickly as possible is a priority. It's also pretty important even in leisure time so that you can get as much done in the little time that you're allowed. Once I'd found the information centre in Cardiff, I set about trying to decide what I wanted to do for the rest of the day and that evening. I had visions of find a concert with some star who doesn't come within a hairs breath of Liverpool. Not that night. I could see Jerome from Robson & Jerome playing Tommy Cooper in 'Jus Like That' if I wanted to, but something told me I was best going to the cinema. Which is what I'd end up doing and I'll talk about some other time. What about after. I glanced across the flyer boards. There were Ghost Tours, but not on that night. Tuesday seems not to be a golden night in Cardiff. My eyes eventually found their way to a flyer for a Jazz Cafe and that night there was a Trad Jazz band from Cardiff playing -- so the night could end to a Woody Allen accompanyment.

I asked the counter man who'd agreed with me about the signs in Cardiff about it. He said it would be a good night, that I should make it, pulled out a map and set about descibing where it was. Now remember by this point I was pretty hot and very bothered, but through my stinging sweat filled eyes it looked like the place was basically around the block. I thanked him for his help and left, deciding to do Cardiff Castle (again some other time). On my way to the cinema later, I passed a Cafe Cuba with an A-board outside advertising Salsa lessons (not with these feet) and World Music later on. Which gave me another more attractive choice. So I resloved to return there first after the film, see if anything was happening and if not visit the Jazz Club. Insert Fast Show reference here.

After the film, I staggered back to the city centre. The cinema had been far further away than I thought and after all the walking I'd done during the day my legs were pretty tired. What I should have done is cut my losses, gone back to my hotel room and tucked myself in to watch NY-LON. Instead I decided to follow the plan. I dragged myself up to the Cafe Cuba. The Salsa classes were still going on but turned out to be glorified line dancing and there was no where for a live band to go. So I realised I would be going Jazz. So I start walking again. For a bit.

Then I realise I can't remember what the map looked like or were the Jazz was. I tried to visualise the map in my head but it came out all smugged -- all I could remember was that it was on roughly the same block as the Information Centre. By now my feet and legs seemed to know no fear. There was pain, lots of pain, but they'd come to an agreement to take me were I wanted to go.

I found the centre a lot more easily than I had the last time. It was closed. I tried to see the Jazz flyer though the windows, but they had a jaunty yet annoying frosting to them, blanking out anything inside. It seemed like a good idea, since it looked from my memory that it was on the same block to walk around and hopefully bump into it. I went from corner to corner but there was nothing other than a slightly annoying looking wine bar with arrogant blue neon lighting. Widening the search I went into the cafe district. Like a Dickensian homeless urchin I passed warm restaurants filled with people all having fun. Now and then I dodged into admittedly empty pubs and asked if they knew if there was a Jazz night on. No one knew anything or if they did wanted to keep it quite lest a potential client for their wares disappeared into the night.

But I was disappearing into the night. A determination had set in. Even as minutes turned into half hours, as time marched on I knew I had to find the place. I had a vision in my head of what my only night in Cardiff would be like, all music and drinking and it was going to happen if I spent all night doing it.

Then I gave up.

I was sleepy and I could almost see the comfy bed at the hotel lying at the door waiting for my return. But I had to have one drink so I sloped into a place called 'Is it?' which was an odd question just waiting for someone to write 'I don't bloody know...' on the fascade. It had big couchs which I hoped I could disappear into, my creeping uncalled for depression and all. Here began the second most depressing beer of my life. The place was empty except for three people sitting in the window, out for a drink after work, glasses piled up. I sat on the couch behind and poured my Budvar into a glass. As I supped my way through I listened to the three friends talking. About work. I'm on holiday goddamit. Can't you people talk about something else? But their chatter was relentless, metaphorically pulling apart the office photocopyer and work colleagues with equal abandon as though Office Space had never happened. Eventually my beer disappeared and I left, ready for the long depressing walk back to the hotel.

Then I turned a corner and found the Cafe Jazz. Painted in cream all over it shone like a beacon in the darkness. It was ten o'clock. I'd been looking for it for an hour and a half. I was late but here it was. I had to go in. Two enthusiasts on the door seemed suprised to see me. I looked across to the stage and it looked like the band were packing up.
"I'm not too late am I?" My voice was thick with desperation.
"Oh no -- the next set starts in a minute. That's be two quid since it's so late" My mind imagined an emphasis on those last few words.
I stepped through the cafe which was quieter than I imagined. It seemed new but was filled with people of an older generation, regulars. The few youngsters dotted about were family of the band. I sat at the bar, just as I imagined I would, and ordered a beer. The band began to play. And everything was perfect.

I stayed for half an hour. I still had to find the hotel and get a decent night's sleep. But the music was everything I imagined it would be, all bombast woodwind and deep gravelly voices. The only irritation was that the crowd didn't pay them much mind -- they chatted all the way through everything, as though the men in the straw hats with instruments in the corner were just a human jukebox. But they didn't seem to care -- the playing was the thing. As I left at 10:30, the enthusiasts who'd taken money said in that asking manner: "Going already?"
"Got to sleep.." I answered. The door clattered on my way out.

You're not going to believe ...

Spam While I was away in Cardiff, I recieved the following. It seems to be a fairly unbelievable offshoot of the Nigerian scam:

Hello

I am Miss Josephine Wright, 18 years old duagther to Mr.Kartikar Wright,My father was the chirman of Texaco Oil company in Monrovia Liberia.

My father happens to be a victim of the plot which claimed many life/souls in September 11, 2001 terrorist attack in America at the World Trade Center Towers in New York City at The Pentagon house in Washington.

On 12th august last year, the personal attorney to my late father called me and told me that,he have not given me this because of my age; when i asked him what he was talking about he brought a Will written by my late father and i was suprised about the content.It is about my Inheritance there in a bank which i will tell you later.

Please get in touch with me via my Email address to enable us discuss further on this matter,

Awaiting your response.

Best Regards,

Josephine Wright.

Deplorable. My email didn't appear in the 'To:' section of the email so its obviously a mass mailer. Lacks some scruples really.

Literal baggage

Cardiff All of the time I was away I had a paranoia about my bag, my Gap bag. In various situations for various reasons I had to leave it in places and for the time it was there I would worry about someone else putting their hand on it. Like a snail carries his home, it felt like my bit of home I was carrying about with me. So when I was in a little bookshop and had to leave it near the counter while I hunted for back issues of Sight & Sound upstairs I didn't know was going through downstairs. In Cardiff Castle when it felt wrong and too heavy to carry around the interior and I left it in what I can only descibe as the cloak hut, for much of the time I was walking around looking at the fabulous ceilings I was concerned that someone would be in the hut trying on the extra t-shirt I had with me. When I went out for the evening and left it in my hotel room, again I kept wondering if I'd left my hotel room door open (when I returned to my room on my last night in Paris it was unlocked). On each occasion I kept rationalising that I only had a walkman, some cds, extra clothing and some books and if they went it wouldn't be that big a deal. And on each occasion when I returned it was unguarded -- at the bookshop the owner was helping customers at the other end of the shop, at the castle no one seemed to be paying much attention to the hut and when I returned to the hotel room it still sat on the couch. Each time I knew I was being completely irrational. Then I wondered if that's what being a father was like and whether I'd learnt something good about myself.

'Oh yes, I got a phone caaall...'

TV In the event, the only time I brushed past one of the main reasons for going to Cardiff was in a really undernourished coffee shop near the castle. One of the baristas, a tall, loud theatrical man was loudly telling his colleagues and by proxy everyone else in the place that he'd received a call from Cardiff Casting asking if he wanted to do a few days on Doctor Who. Ironically he seemed only to be thinking about it. I would have left my job and home and moved to Cardiff just to walk past in the background. They'd apparently been looking at him because he was a particular height, weight and proportion. I took comfort in the fact that if he took the job he'd more than likely be encased in latex and wouldn't be seen anyway, sweating his way through the three days. I'm not bitter about these things you see.

'I'm back and it's about ...'

Life I'm back from Cardiff then, feet aching, head aching, eyes itching and I've got the sniffles. How come whenever I go on what's supposed to be a relaxing holiday I come back in worse shape than when I left? It's probably because I try to cram in more than I should in as little time than is allowed (see also Paris and Nottingham). It was an exciting time, many things happened and I'm going to try and tell you as much as I can. The first thing which struck me as I left Cardiff Central railway station on Tuesday morning was how familiar everything was. The signs are in both English and Welsh, a law passed about twelve years ago to reinvigorate what was a dying language. But the first shop I saw was a Londis, and beyond that a WH Smith. I don't know what I was expecting being on the same mass of land, but I don't think I was expecting that. As I walked around the city centre, it seemed like most others - all of the usual high street suspects were there, if not always in the same order. There are the massive shopping precincts and small markets. I just suppose I was expecting something other. But then it became clear that Cardiff is a city which has treasures underneath and in corners, and finding them was part of the fun. If my own senses and keen eye for idiocy didn't get in the way.

Problem #1. None of the various maps and bits and bobs which I'd download and printed matched each other to some degree or else didn't bare any relation to the city centre as I was experiencing it. Something which I would encounter time and again over the following forty or so hours would be that nothing seemed to make any sense -- in places streets would double back on themselves like an Escher drawing and at other time it even felt like they were moving around. Which sounds crazy, but on more than one occasion I'd spend a good twenty minutes to half an hour walking to a place then hours later of the next day, I'd go a slightly different way and I'd be there in five minutes. How can they be so geographically so different unless they were moving around. Some of you might wonder if it was more to do with me having a lack of a sense of direction, but that brings me to ...

Problem #2: The street signs openly and at times flagrantly contradict each other. The first thing a tourist might naturally do stepping into a city centre for the first time would be to go to the tourist information office. Outside the station is a sign with 'Information Centre' on point towards the middle of town (why everywhere can't be like Leeds and have a T.I. at the station saving everyone some excitement I'm not sure but I digress). I follow the sign until I find another and then another then another - then another. Although this was a good way to see the city centre it was becoming abundantly clear that I was walking around in circles and not getting very far very fast. It came to a head when I walked down a street in the what I later learnt was the café district and found a sign point in the direction I'd just come, which another sign in fact had told me to go. If I had no common sense, if I'd just mindlessly been following the instructions of those signs I could have been walking back and forth in front of that coffee shop all day. So I stopped someone and asked, and she said it might be at the back of a nearby building which it was. As I entered, probably looking a bit bedraggled, I told the clerk that they were difficult to find. He put his head down and sniff and said something along the lines of 'Yup' seemingly as powerless as I was to affect change. Then he sold me another map which felt like just another other version of the truth.

Cardiff: The Movie

Meme

He's going on a journey.
Into the unknown.
Alone.
Except for his Gap bag.
And some spare underwear.

[Well I tried!]

'I thank the lord I'm...'

Life My bags are packed, I'm ready to go. Here is the plan for the Cardiff trip. Shopping on day one, culture on day two. Looking through stores just seems easier when you're slighty hazy (and I will be after getting up at a shocking 5 am) and hopefully I'll absorb the historical aspects of Cardiff Castle more after a night's sleep. See you when I get back.

'What next?'

Life Last day of work today before a week's holiday. This particular period between vacations has felt particularly hard for some reason -- I have a theory that my entire being shuts down during Summer which means that I never get anything done, co-herent thought goes out of the window and I basically batten down the hatches until the cool weather returns. Hence the rather variable quality of the weblog because once I get home, I've watched a dvd and I come online the last thing I have the energy or inspiration for it writing these words. But the evening's are getting cooler so expect some choicer words now. Also to the surprise of some of the people reading this I'll be visiting Cardiff in Wales for a few days next week (shamelessly because it's were they're film the new Doctor Who) so if anyone has any ideas for great places to visit, let me know -- I'm particularly wanting a nice restaurant or live music venue for when I'm at a loose end in the evening.

Erm ... or right ... so this is it ...

Life There goes the bank holiday then. Oh look -- there's September on the horizon, then October and look what happens at the end of that. With the now named Beatles Matthew Street Festival happening in the city this weekend, I couldn't not stay at home and watch two solid days of sport on tv then hang around listlessly for another day watching Hitcock's adaptation of Rebecca then Soderbergh's sex, lies and videotape. Every year I end up having to decide whether to go into town, fight the crowds in the pubs, watch the cover bands and come home slightly disappointed or not. This year, having booked a couple of days in Cardiff in September and with my usual Manchester trip next week I decided to have a quiet day in. I think I may be weird. But not as weird as James Spader in the first half of sex, lies.