King Adz: Not so grim up north

What I like doing – in between the excitement and Boy's Own-type adventures that I put myself through in the name of documenting stuff – is to sit in my lovely black leather swivel chair covered with a sheepskin and relax in front of my iMac with a pair of headphones on and watch, listen, write, design and Photoshop. I used to sit around weeding all day acting like the slacker I am deep down, but these days, I’m addicted to work (four books, 30 plus films and countless magazine and newspaper features) - and cooking.

There’s always the thought of food lurking around, which has replaced the sex, drugs and debauchery. Too much food can still fuck you up, but not nearly as badly as the hard drugs and debauchery can. Sometimes living up north makes me want to take some well hard drugs though. For example, the other day I was in a supermarket in a small place called Heckmondwike buying some not-so-moody beef for the Sunday roast and the checkout guy starts talking to me.

"Baking?" he asks, looking at the plain flour I’m buying.

"Yorkshire puddings. Sunday Roast," I tell him.

"Ah, but can you get them to rise?" he asks with a smile.

"Yes, mate. And I’m not even from Yorkshire!"

"Oh, where are you from? Where were you born?"

"London."

"Oh! Me too. Which part?"

"Bromley."

"I was born in Brent. Quite near to you! We must have done something in our previous lives to upset the gods, to end up in a place like this!"

And that’s verbatim. Welcome to the North of England, a place like no other.

You can’t make this shit up and it’s the droplets of pure genius like this that makes it so different here.

But anyway, here’s the real story I wanted to tell about life up north:

There is this pool hall / arcade near me that is not your normal spot. No sir, it’s mental as anything as they sell the strongest skunk over the counter. I used to spend a fair bit of my time ensconced in there smoking copious amounts of their finest, chatting to the rude boys who run the place, trying to play Sega Rally and generally being stoned-to-the-bone as often as I could. It’s been a few years since I’ve been there but when I woke up this morning, I immediately thought about going down there. Don’t ask me why but I just knew it was time to go back there to see how it was doing.

As you might imagine, there's a bit of security to get through to get in to the place. But even though it’s been at least four years since I’ve shown my face there, I get buzzed in without any questions. On the door, I clock a large sign stating that the building is a no-smoking area. For a moment, I think that things have changed but as I walk in the smell of weed hits me smack in the schnozzer. I notice that the place has been gutted and expensively refurbished but when a ratty little guy bounces over, I know it’s still the same.

"What you after?" he asks.

"Nothing. I’ve not been around for a while and..." I trail off not really know what the fuck to say.

"Yeah, I know."

It must be said that there are some dodgy looking people hanging around. I’m not talking about the small clusters of bad boys playing the pinball and fruities but a couple sitting in one of the booths in front of the food bar. I keep catching the geezer's eye as he’s looking at me as if to say 'what the fuck are you doing here?'. I think he may have a point.

I look around and spot Street Fighter III and mooch over there. When I used to be a regular here, the place was always getting raided. One day, I came in after the Old Bill had just left and sat down with the owner and asked him how it was. He was laughing as he told me about the raid as the cops couldn’t find any weed. As he was telling me this, he walked over to the vending machine, unlocked it and pulled out the bottom drawer where the stock is kept. It’s full of weed.

"They didn’t bother looking in here!" he boasted, handing me a bag of the decent weed reserved for regulars.

Back to the now, I’m playing a few games of Street Fighter (not even getting to the second fight), some very dodgy Donkey Kong and a couple of games of Doctor Who pinball. I’m not a fan of the Doctor but love the pinball. Very French! The place is full of skunk smoke and I feel a bit of a buzz as I leave and make my way to the local supermarket to do my daily shop for food, printer ink and paper. It’s a nice day for a change and I’m feeling fine in the sunshine as I sling my wife’s car around Batley.

It’s in the fuck-off-not-so-super-dooper-market that the passively-smoked weed drops a gear and punches me in the kidneys. I’m blown like Capone as I weave about trying to find the right printer ink. I’m obviously not buying the bastard branded one, but which one is the right stores'-own brand to fit my shitty printer? Apparently printer ink costs more per gram than gold, which makes me angry up there in the electronics section of the fucking chain who shall not be named.

By the time I’ve got the right pack and stumbled down the travelator to the food hall, I’m properly fucked. I have calmed down a bit and completely forgotten about the price of printer ink. Off my tits indeed and it sure beats the usual meandering around looking at what I’m gonna cook for the meal. In fact, it’s one of the most enjoyable experiences I’ve had in a supermarket for a long time. I’m floating about like Cheech and Chong properly marvelling at things like drain unblocker and asparagus, hypnotised by the iced buns and the New York vanilla cheesecake. Then, I have to buy some ice cream and I can’t find the one we all like. After a proper search, I go for some organic shit that’s only £1.50, then make my way to the self-service checkout as there is no way I’m facing some till monkey as I’m starting to peak now. Gotta go gotta get outta this place...

You see, sometimes it’s not so grim up north…

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