The Wake

On my way home from downtown late one weekend night, I stepped off the bus near my flat to the sound of frighteningly serious chanting around the corner. I opted to investigate, and was astounded at the return. The organized chaos was coming from the Islamic Cultural Center of London, which was evidently a few blocks from my place. The large courtyard in-front of the building was filled with ceremoniously garbed Muslims, arms around shoulders, shouting in unison. I entered the yard and enquired about the cause of such excitement. It was none other than the annual holiday of Ashura. The meaning of this was explained to me but, unfortunately, I can’t recite it to you now, as it was over a week ago by now and I was well drunk at the time. I do recall enjoying the display, and the passion this holiday evoked.

Another brief anecdote of note involves my first trip to Camden; a Northern Borough of London known for it’s eccentricities via foreign foods, unique shops, and alternative lifestyles. I was set to meet a friend there outside the Camden Town tube stop. While waiting, I stood next to a severely bearded man of about 50. He was holding a sign that read, “Jesus is alive,” and stood on the most crowded of corners. There was a third in our party; a fellow sign holder, promoting an all you can eat buffet just down the road. We talked for over an hour. His name was Malcolm, and he was as intelligent a person as I’ve ever met. Fluent in Mandarin, he’d graduated with a degree in engineering. He’d been raised in China, and we spoke at length about the social reservations of Chinese people compared to other nationalities. He had great insight on the booming superpower, and pressure that’s placed on school children there. Our conversation was interrupted every 2 or 3 minutes by passer-bys unable to stomach Malcolm’s sign in silence. Some of the exchanges were humorous, others were deeply frightening. Tempers faired, but Malcolm always kept his cool. He wasn’t necessarily answering the questions, but he always had an answer; a true believer. I asked him if he knew of a pub where I could catch the Real Madrid vs. Athletico Madrid game that was soon to start. I shook his hand, wishing him the best of luck. It was apparent my acquaintance was lost.

I wandered for a while, and ended up in a second hand clothes store. They were half way through the new Kings of Leon album, “Because of the Times,” so I decided to shop for its remainder. Further down the road, I found a pub playing the match. The Oxford Arms, which has since become my pub of choice, was stuffed to the gills. Long story short, I ended up meeting a Nigerian fellow named Charles who was there with his friend Fernando. They’d both lived in London for sometime. Fernando was in opposition of both Madrid clubs, hailing from Northern Spain. He considered himself a Basque, and not from Spain at all. It’s an incredible division, and has led to deeply rooted hatred amongst certain Spanish League clubs. I was introduced to a few other extreme characters that evening. An Australian who lives above the pub, named Alex, was among them. In his early 20’s, he told me of a trip to the U.S. last summer. He was fascinated by the distinctions between states, and how they all had their own governments. We talked a great deal about Hip Hop and differences between its regions. Alex has a shaved head and told me about how he’d been constantly mistaken for a Mexican in California, and a Puerto Rican in NYC.

I returned to the Oxford Arms later that week for the ever important Tottenham vs Arsenal Carling Cup Semifinal. I wore my Tottenham, Aaron Lenon jersey, and my arrival was a mix of back slaps and smiles, with a smattering of muffled cursing and awkward eyes. There’s a deep seeded distain between these two North London clubs, especially since Tottenham hadn’t beaten Arsenal in 9 years. The Spurs were up 2 goals at half and spirits were high. I’d been bought a couple shots and a pint for my choice of attire, and because I was standing next to Charles, the loudest Spurs fan in the pub. Standing outside at half, we talked in a circle with a few other fans. One stuck out in particular. It was a man with leather Leopard print pants tucked into his knee-high, lace-up leather boots. He wore a Black leather jacket, with sewn on patches, and a cut off denim jacket over the top. He looked about 50 years old, a blue, pink, and yellow Mohawk a top his piercing covered head. He joined our circle, joking and talking casually about the match and his club, Newcastle. It was great to see how comfortable everyone was with his look, not a single double take from anyone. Also in our circle was Marco, who’d wandered over from a Men at Work concert down the block. He’d left mid-way through their set, after “Land Down Under,” of course. He is the Editor at an online site, music-news.com, which I’ve since started freelancing for. (Check out my reviews of The Metros live set at Turnmills night club, and The Blessing’s cd, “All Is Yes.” With more to come.) Anyways, Tottenham ended up winning 5-1. Bedlam ensued, and as I stumbled back to the tube stop, I began to wish I’d brought a jacket along. Visions of Greenstreet Hooliganesque scenes raced through my mind. I kept my eyes peeled for on rushers, and sped walked to the station. I escaped with mere verbal assaults thrown my way. Another successful night in London.