Foz enlisted the depressed and jobless to assist the re-cleaning of the studio using a masterfully worded email of guilt. Yes re-cleaning. We’d cleaned it before but with the insane chaos of the show build up it all went downhill. We’re just a filthy lot really. Obviously we were only too happy to go back to college and cling viciously to the dregs of our MA (sob). How pathetic we are. No we really are. Came in just in time to polish one table and watch Foz running around recklessly throwing out everything within arms reach. As per his insane mind set of ‘everything-these-bastard-students-have-left-here-must-go’anything he could see was demolished. Even things he did not see were demolished. Much like Godzilla, Fozilla rampaged through the studio causing as much damage and mess as we were attempting to tidy. Skyscraper frames that once towered high about the midget Mexicans lil’ head in the back room were sent crashing to the floor by Fozilla.
“Eeeeaaarrrrrghhhh!” say Fozilla. Grab frame quick oshi! Out to grab frame but frame crash down on floor of Tokyo. What do Fozilla now? Toshio Ah! Megami sama (Oh! My Goodness) Mikazuki toshiba haratoga! Aeeeeiiiii!! “Refresh yourself!!”
Kisama, “You Bastard!” Aeeeeiiiii!! “We cannot beat off the monster help us!”
We scatter like bugs
“Aiiiiiee Aaaah Fozjira coming!” Run Mizuyaki minimara hamata!! Eaaarrrrghh!!
Glass everywhere. Shards flying. Fozjira runs around. (Fozjira was also wearing sandals, running through the shattered glass.)
We scavenged through the rest of the studio, picking the carcass of the remains of previous generations of students: Left over art supplies, frames, mint condition watercolor paper and redundant portfolios (Alex’s, which I’ve staked if he doesn’t comes back. Not the work, mind, just the sleeves and case)
Raffled off the best of the goodies (contestant ‘my-name-is-Mike’ won) and tried to convince Georgina and her broken finger that she could easily supply baby GAP for their entire summer collection with the amount of T-shirts she’d printed.
Foz ran off for a tryst with Dan in the dark seductive womb of the photography dungeon. Possibly the most romantic place in college, many a passionate embrace in secret it has witnessed there no doubt. After he ran off, we too ran off to the pub. No, I’m sorry. I lie. I made it sounds like we wanted to leave. It isn’t true. Security forced us to depart. Left to our own devices we’d probably have pottered around till 8. Foz & Dan with his grabable bottom join us in the pub shortly. We have an intense and impassioned debate about
“What constitutes a hippie?”
Do they have to abide by the 70’s versions or can you have contemporary hippies? (i.e Riddhi? Onnalin?) Woodstock days have passed. Gone are the flakey doodes wearing batik, all-organic clothes, ‘jamming’ on acoustic guitars made of rubber bands and empty boxes and saying…
“You gotta love everyone maaan. This is my friend Dave. He’s a tramp I found under the bridge. Check out his vibes doode. They’re awesome maaan……woooah can you feel it?? We’re like, not going to bathe for like, 3 months maaan. All the water we don’t use will save 5 dolphins.”
Now we have Glastonbury. The place where flakey, glamorous, rich people and wannabe grubby ‘bands’ (f*****g ‘bands’) tramp through knee-high sludge of condoms and empty plastic bottles in designer organic wellies, snorting pricey non-organic powders as opposed to smoking on a couch somewhere and professing ‘free love for all’. They still want to save 5 dolphins though, but can’t be bothered really (neither could the hippies).
“Can’t we just like, do some coke?”
“This Crabtree and Evelyn scrub you bought is so amazing. It’s totally organic. But we don’t really have a loo in our tent. Have you seen our tent? All organic, cost me a fortune”
The two seem largely the same to me. Hippies might have professed to hate capitalism but they were just lazy, smelly, organic obsessed slackers permanently attending music fests. The Glastonbury lot also seem to perpetually attend music fests, do non-organic drugs and drone on about organic everything else. The difference being that they’re avid consumers, openly capitalist and bathe far more frequently (not at Glastonbury though) Apparently I’m wrong. Dan undresses Foz with his eyes as we discuss why men shouldn’t wear Speedos (my father *shudder*) and never ever wear a G- string (NOT my father, thank god). As soon as Mike, Bruna, Anna, leave all the sex & potty talk ceases immediately and we have the most coherent, relatively non-sexual drunken conversation I’ve had in the past year. It was actually about art (the horror) and illustration (ohmahgawdmen!) and photography (like, what the…?) Although at one point, am told by Dan that he’s surprised I’m not a bigger slut and by Foz that I’d make a great one night stand. Not sure in what light to view this rather vague statement of confidence. I think I’m hanging around too many boys. Dan and I try hard to coax Foz into staying for another drink but he demurs like a light weight wimp. Work whine whine, wife whine whine, my life outside this pub whine whine etc. Dan throws a massive strop immediately.
“Your wife your wife!! Always your wife! Thats all you care about! I give and I give but it means nothing to you doesn’t it??? I hate you!!” *sob sob* “Baby, why must you do this every time?? You know how I feel about you…..the missus is the missus, what would people say? We’ve been over this honey…. you said you understood about my wife!” “Well things have changed. I’ve changed. I’m not going to be your photography bimbo anymore, thats all I am to you isn’t it?? Just some quickie in the committee meeting??? ” “…..But I have a big job to do tomorrow, darling, listen to me…” “Fine! Fine!! I’m going to the loo! But one day I won’t come back!” *SOB*
Foz and I scarpered away quickly before Dan got back from the loo. I nod my head and tut in sympathy as I console Foz on the way to the tube. Relationships can be so complicated sometimes.