To the Asylum

ABCTales.com held the third meeting for the group at in central London last night (May 21st 2001). Located in an relaxing basement bar/cafeteria called The Asylum, just off Tottenham Court Road, the fifty who turned up were treated to a brilliant night of poetry, stories, songs and games that really captured an ambience of fun and creativity.

I had been to a few readings before, but not with ABCTales. Robert Rankin was going to be speaking, and as a big fan of his writing, my anticipation for the night had been building up all weekend. Would my belief that Hugo Rune was based on myself hold true? Or was I the floating camel? It was one of the two, and tonight would be my chance to find out.

As usual with my ventures into London, to places new and hidden, the evening almost didn't happen for myself and the two flatmates who had foolishly entrusted me to get them to the church on time. Or the Cafeteria. Something like that.

Directions had been given. Maps were sourced throughout the day on my computer, pinpointing exactly where the venue was. I even memorised the address. Arriving at Tottenham Court Road Station at 7.15, having enjoyed a journey with Douglas Coupland (or at least, one of his novels) the next step was to meet my two friends. At this point, I would like to state that they are not my only two friends. I do have another.

The first friend was the easist to find. Cunningly he had been travelling right next to me for the previous fifty minutes from Surrey into London. My cunning was grander - I had my book, I could ignore him. This is how I treat my friends. This is why I have three friends. And four of them I don't like. Mild panic, a bit like the anxiety where you can't exactly remember how to make omlettes, but you're the chef at Le Omlette, known for the amazing omlettes served there, set in, when the third of our trio was nowhere to be seen. Only 162 seconds had to pass before the clouds parted, and an almost holy spotlight shone down from upon the heavens illuminating the conclusion of our triangle, the chosen one, Spaghetti Si, poet, spaghetti eater, and much to both of our misfortunes, my friend. Then came the voices, like a thousand Pauline Quirks in terrible harmony - "Get him to the Asylum."

It was only the incident on the way home later that evening that I realised they meant an actual sanitarium.

Maybe on this night fate was a double-edged sword going by the name of Donald. Donald was the name of my grandfather. When I found this out at the tender age of 6, my mind already flooded with cartoons, I could picture him only as Donald Duck, which is why I never attended his funeral. A funeral for a duck - absurd. Strange then, that ducks should go on to play such an important part in my life, but that is another story altogether.

Five minutes. Tottenham Court Road is five minutes away from the Asylum Cafeteria. I had my two troops assembled and in-line by 7.20. We arrived at 7.57. A five minute journey took us thirty seven bundles of sixty seconds. Such confidence I had in the location of the Asylum that I led my two comrades on a journey that Odysseus would be proud of. A journey in the wrong direction. Directions were asked, directions were misunderstood. Wrong turns, long roads - we were getting nowhere, slowly. After fifteen minutes the calls came out for surrender, to give in and go to the pub.

I would not let that happen.

Happily, I will admit it was a matter of pride. I was not going to have this evening wasted. I was not going to give in. I was not going to take the easy option. Fifteen minutes were granted me before mutiny changed from theory to practice. Several more wrong turns, and my resilience was given up. One last road, turning off Tottenham Court Road. Groups of people at the end of the road having fun. A crane. A flame. A pigeon named Larry. I had marched on ahead, but when I saw the sign for Rathbone Place, when I heard the hub-ub coming from below like the steam from the New York sewers in winter gracing the streets like willo-the-wisps of the big apple, I afforded myself one of the smuggest, and most relieved grins that I had in a while (and unfortunately ruining my promise to never be smug again in the process).

I had led my disciples to the promised land, and god himself (Robert Rankin) would speak unto us and give ten commandments, or at least a tall story. Having actually heard and met Robert Rankin, I can only wonder what a pub-dwelling carpenter with a penchant for the sublimely absurd would offer as ten commandments.

With money at the ready as a way to bribe ourselves into the establishment (£4.50 bought off the lady at the door) we began a night that would have many interesting consequences.

Coming next...
Inside the Asylum...and that night, a more apt name it could not have been...